[32]Fitzwater: son of water. A striking instance of the compatibility of theserious punwith the expression of the profoundest sorrows. Grief, as well as joy, finds ease in thus playing with a word. Old John of Gaunt in Shakspeare thus descants on hisname: “Gaunt, and gaunt indeed;” to a long string of conceits, which no one has ever yet felt as ridiculous. The poet Wither thus, in a mournful review of the declining estate of his family, says with deepest nature:—The very name of Wither shows decay.[33]Also cruelly slain by the poisoning John.[34]i. e. of peace; which this monstrous act of John’s in this play comes to counteract, in the same way as the discovered Death of Prince Arthur is like to break the composition of the King with his Barons in Shakspeare’s Play.[35]The Dauphin of France, whom they had called in, as in Shakspeare’s Play.
[32]Fitzwater: son of water. A striking instance of the compatibility of theserious punwith the expression of the profoundest sorrows. Grief, as well as joy, finds ease in thus playing with a word. Old John of Gaunt in Shakspeare thus descants on hisname: “Gaunt, and gaunt indeed;” to a long string of conceits, which no one has ever yet felt as ridiculous. The poet Wither thus, in a mournful review of the declining estate of his family, says with deepest nature:—
The very name of Wither shows decay.
The very name of Wither shows decay.
The very name of Wither shows decay.
[33]Also cruelly slain by the poisoning John.
[34]i. e. of peace; which this monstrous act of John’s in this play comes to counteract, in the same way as the discovered Death of Prince Arthur is like to break the composition of the King with his Barons in Shakspeare’s Play.
[35]The Dauphin of France, whom they had called in, as in Shakspeare’s Play.
“Constable’s Miscellanyoforiginal and selected Publications” is proposed to consist of various works on important and popular subjects, with the view of supplying certain chasms in the existing stock of useful knowledge; and each author or subject is to be kept separate, so as to enable purchasers to acquire all the numbers, or volumes, of each book, distinct from the others. The undertaking commenced in the first week of the new year, 1827, with the first number of Captain Basil Hall’s voyage to Loo-Choo, and the complete volume of that work was published at the same time.
“Early Metrical Tales,including the History of Sir Egeir, Sir Gryme, and Sir Gray-Steill.” Edinb. 1826. sm. 8vo. 9s.(175 copies printed.) The most remarkable poem in this elegant volume is the rare Scottish romance, named in the title-page, which, according to its present editor, “would seem, along with the poems of sirDavid Lindsay, and the histories of Robert the Bruce, and of sir William Wallace, to have formed the standard productions of the vernacular literature of the country.” In proof of this he adduces several authorities; “and yet it is remarkable enough, that every ancient copy should have hitherto eluded the most active and unremitting research.” The earliest printed edition is presumed to have issued from the press of Thomas Bassandyne, “the first printer of the sacred Scriptures in Scotland.” An inventory of his goods, dated 18th October, 1577, contains an item of three hundred “Gray Steillis,” valued at the “peceVId.summa £VII.x. o.” Its editor would willingly give the sum-total of these three hundred copies for “oneof the saidGray-Steillis, were he so fortunate as to meet with it.” He instances subsequent editions, but the only copy he could discover was printed at Aberdeen in 1711, by James Nicol, printer to the town and university; and respecting this, which, though of so recent date, is at present unique, “the editor’s best acknowledgments are due to his friend, Mr. Douce, for the kind manner in which he favoured him with the loan of the volume, for the purpose of republication.” On the 17th of April, 1497, when James IV. was at Stirling: there is an entry in the treasurer’s accounts, “Item, that samyn day to twa Sachelaris thatsang Gray Steilto the King,IXs.” In MS. collections made at Aberdeen in 1627, called a “Booke for the Lute,” by Robert Gordon, is theairof “Gray-Steel;” and a satirical poem in Scottish rhyme on the marquis of Argyle, printed in 1686, is “appointed to be sung accordingto the tuneof old Gray Steel.” These evidences that the poem was sung, manifest its popularity. There are conjectures as to who the person denominated Sir Gray Steel really was, but the point is undetermined.
In this volume there are thirteen poems. 1.Sir Gray-Steillabove spoken of. 2.The Tales of the Priests of Peblis, wherein the three priests of Peebles, having met to regale on St. Bride’s day, agree, each in turn, to relate a story. 3.Ane Godlie Dreame, by lady Culross. 4.History of a Lord and his three Sons, much resembling the story of Fortunatus. 5.The Ring of the Roy Robert, the printed copies of which have been modernized and corrupted. 6.King Estmere, an old romantic tale. 7.The Battle of Harlaw, considered by its present editor “as the original of rather a numerous class of Scotish historical ballads.” 8.Lichtoun’s Dreme, printed for the first time from the Bannatyne MS. 1568. 9.The Murning Maiden, a poem “written in the Augustan age of Scotish poetry.” 10.The Epistill of the Hermeit of Alareit, a satire on the Grey Friers, by Alexander earl of Glencairn. 11.Roswall and Lillian, a “pleasant history,” (chanted even of late in Edinburgh,) from the earliest edition discovered, printed in 1663, of which the only copy known is in the Advocates’ Library, from the Roxburghe sale. 12.Poem by Glassinberry, a name for the first time introduced into the list of early Scotish poets, and the poem itself printed from “Gray’s MS.” 13.Sir John Barleycorn, from a stall-copy printed in 1781, with a few corrections, concerning which piece it is remarked, that Burns’s version “cannot be said to have greatly improved it.” There is a vignette to this ballad, “designed and etched by the ingenious young artist, W. Geikie,” of Edinburgh, from whence I take the liberty tocuta figure, not for the purpose of conveying an idea of this “Allan-a-Maut,” who is surrounded with like “good” company by Mr. Geikie’s meritorious pencil, but to extend the knowledge of Mr. Geikie’s name, who is perfectly unknown to me, except through the singleprintI refer to, which compels me to express warm admiration of his correct feeling, and assured talent.
Sir John Barleycorn (presumably)
Besides Mr. Geikie’s beautifuletching, there is a frontispiece by W. H. Lizars from a design by Mr. C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe, and a portrait of Alexander earl of Eglintoune 1670, also by Mr. Lizars, from a curiously illuminated parchment in the possession of the present earl.
SAYING NOT MEANING.By William Basil Wake.For the Table Book.Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,When, opening his toothpick-case, one said,“It was not until lately that I knewThatanchovieson terrâ firmâ grew.”“Grew!” cried the other, “yes, theygrow, indeed,Like other fish, but not upon the land;You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,Or in the Strand!”“Why, sir,” return’d the irritated other,“My brother,When at Calcutta,Beheld them bonâ fide growing;He wouldn’t utterA lie for love or money, sir; so inThis matter you are thoroughly mistaken.”“Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no creditTo the assertion—none e’er saw or read it;Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken.”“Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you arePerverse—in short—”“Sir,” said the other, sucking his cigar,And then his port—“If youwillsay impossibles are true,You may affirm just any thing you please—That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!Only you must notforceme to believeWhat’s propagated merely to deceive.”“Then you force me to say, sir, you’re a fool,”Return’d the bragger.Language like this no man can suffer cool;It made the listener stagger;So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,“The travellerliedWho had the impudence to tell it you.”“Zounds! then d’ye mean to swear before my faceThat anchovies don’t grow like cloves and mace?”“I do!”Disputants often after hot debatesLeave the contention as they found it—bone,And take to duelling, or thumpingtêtes;Thinking, by strength of artery, to atoneFor strength of argument; and he who wincesFrom force of words, with force of arms convinces!With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading(Their hearts already loaded) serv’d to showIt might be better they shook hands—but no;When each opines himself, though frighten’d, right,Each is, in courtesy, oblig’d to fight!And theydidfight: from six full measured pacesThe unbeliever pull’d his trigger first;And fearing, from the braggart’s ugly faces,The whizzing lead had whizz’d its very worst,Ran up, and with aduelistictear,(His ire evanishing like morning vapours,)Foundhimpossess’d of one remaining ear,Who, in a manner sudden and uncouth,Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth:For, while the surgeon was applying lint,He, wriggling, cried—“The deuce is in’t—Sir! I meant—capers!”
Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,When, opening his toothpick-case, one said,“It was not until lately that I knewThatanchovieson terrâ firmâ grew.”“Grew!” cried the other, “yes, theygrow, indeed,Like other fish, but not upon the land;You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,Or in the Strand!”“Why, sir,” return’d the irritated other,“My brother,When at Calcutta,Beheld them bonâ fide growing;He wouldn’t utterA lie for love or money, sir; so inThis matter you are thoroughly mistaken.”“Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no creditTo the assertion—none e’er saw or read it;Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken.”“Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you arePerverse—in short—”“Sir,” said the other, sucking his cigar,And then his port—“If youwillsay impossibles are true,You may affirm just any thing you please—That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!Only you must notforceme to believeWhat’s propagated merely to deceive.”“Then you force me to say, sir, you’re a fool,”Return’d the bragger.Language like this no man can suffer cool;It made the listener stagger;So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,“The travellerliedWho had the impudence to tell it you.”“Zounds! then d’ye mean to swear before my faceThat anchovies don’t grow like cloves and mace?”“I do!”Disputants often after hot debatesLeave the contention as they found it—bone,And take to duelling, or thumpingtêtes;Thinking, by strength of artery, to atoneFor strength of argument; and he who wincesFrom force of words, with force of arms convinces!With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading(Their hearts already loaded) serv’d to showIt might be better they shook hands—but no;When each opines himself, though frighten’d, right,Each is, in courtesy, oblig’d to fight!And theydidfight: from six full measured pacesThe unbeliever pull’d his trigger first;And fearing, from the braggart’s ugly faces,The whizzing lead had whizz’d its very worst,Ran up, and with aduelistictear,(His ire evanishing like morning vapours,)Foundhimpossess’d of one remaining ear,Who, in a manner sudden and uncouth,Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth:For, while the surgeon was applying lint,He, wriggling, cried—“The deuce is in’t—Sir! I meant—capers!”
Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,When, opening his toothpick-case, one said,“It was not until lately that I knewThatanchovieson terrâ firmâ grew.”“Grew!” cried the other, “yes, theygrow, indeed,Like other fish, but not upon the land;You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,Or in the Strand!”
“Why, sir,” return’d the irritated other,“My brother,When at Calcutta,Beheld them bonâ fide growing;He wouldn’t utterA lie for love or money, sir; so inThis matter you are thoroughly mistaken.”“Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no creditTo the assertion—none e’er saw or read it;Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken.”
“Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you arePerverse—in short—”“Sir,” said the other, sucking his cigar,And then his port—“If youwillsay impossibles are true,You may affirm just any thing you please—That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!Only you must notforceme to believeWhat’s propagated merely to deceive.”
“Then you force me to say, sir, you’re a fool,”Return’d the bragger.Language like this no man can suffer cool;It made the listener stagger;So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,“The travellerliedWho had the impudence to tell it you.”“Zounds! then d’ye mean to swear before my faceThat anchovies don’t grow like cloves and mace?”“I do!”
Disputants often after hot debatesLeave the contention as they found it—bone,And take to duelling, or thumpingtêtes;Thinking, by strength of artery, to atoneFor strength of argument; and he who wincesFrom force of words, with force of arms convinces!
With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading(Their hearts already loaded) serv’d to showIt might be better they shook hands—but no;When each opines himself, though frighten’d, right,Each is, in courtesy, oblig’d to fight!And theydidfight: from six full measured pacesThe unbeliever pull’d his trigger first;And fearing, from the braggart’s ugly faces,The whizzing lead had whizz’d its very worst,Ran up, and with aduelistictear,(His ire evanishing like morning vapours,)Foundhimpossess’d of one remaining ear,Who, in a manner sudden and uncouth,Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth:For, while the surgeon was applying lint,He, wriggling, cried—“The deuce is in’t—Sir! I meant—capers!”
Our old gentleman, in order to be exclusively himself, must be either a widower or a bachelor. Suppose the former. We do not mention his precise age, which would be invidious;—nor whether he wears his own hair or a wig; which would be wanting in universality. If a wig, it is a compromise between the more modern scratch and the departed glory of the toupee. If his own hair, it is white, in spite of his favourite grandson, who used to get on the chair behind him, and pull the silver hairs out, ten years ago. If he is bald at top, the hair-dresser, hovering and breathing about him like a second youth, takes care to give the bald place as much powder as the covered; in order that he may convey, to the sensorium within, a pleasing indistinctness of idea respecting the exact limits of skin and hair. He is very clean and neat; and in warm weather is proud of opening his waistcoat half way down, and letting so much of his frill be seen; in order to show his hardiness as well as taste. His watch and shirt-buttons are of the best; and he does not care if he has two rings on a finger. If his watch ever failed him at the club or coffee-house, he would take a walk every day to the nearest clock of good character, purely to keep it right. He has a cane at home, but seldom uses it, on finding it out of fashion with his elderly juniors. He has a small cocked hat for gala days, which he lifts higher from his head than the round one, when made a bow to. In his pockets are two handkerchiefs, (one for the neck at night-time,) his spectacles, and his pocket-book. The pocket-book, among other things, contains a receipt for a cough, and some verses cut out of an odd sheet of an old magazine, on the lovely duchess of A.,beginning—
When beauteous Mira walks the plain.
When beauteous Mira walks the plain.
When beauteous Mira walks the plain.
He intends this for a common-place book which he keeps, consisting of passages in verse and prose cut out of newspapers and magazines, and pasted in columns; someof them rather gay. His principal other books are Shakspeare’s Plays and Milton’s Paradise Lost; the Spectator, the History of England; the works of Lady M. W. Montague, Pope, and Churchill; Middleton’s Geography, the Gentleman’s Magazine; Sir John Sinclair on Longevity; several plays with portraits in character; Account of Elizabeth Canning, Memoirs of George Ann Bellamy, Poetical Amusements at Bath-Easton, Blair’s Works, Elegant Extracts; Junius as originally published; a few pamphlets on the American War and Lord George Gordon, &c. and one on the French Revolution. In his sitting rooms are some engravings from Hogarth and Sir Joshua; an engraved portrait of the Marquis of Granby; ditto of M. le Comte de Grasse surrendering to Admiral Rodney; a humorous piece after Penny; and a portrait of himself, painted by Sir Joshua. His wife’s portrait is in his chamber, looking upon his bed. She is a little girl, stepping forward with a smile and a pointed toe, as if going to dance. He lost her when she was sixty.
The Old Gentleman is an early riser, because he intends to live at least twenty years longer. He continues to take tea for breakfast, in spite of what is said against its nervous effects; having been satisfied on that point some years ago by Dr. Johnson’s criticism on Hanway, and a great liking for tea previously. His china cups and saucers have been broken since his wife’s death, all but one, which is religiously kept for his use. He passes his morning in walking or riding, looking in at auctions, looking after his India bonds or some such money securities, furthering some subscription set on foot by his excellent friend sir John, or cheapening a new old print for his portfolio. He also hears of the newspapers; not caring to see them till after dinner at the coffee-house. He may also cheapen a fish or so; the fishmonger soliciting his doubting eye as he passes, with a profound bow of recognition. He eats a pear before dinner.
His dinner at the coffee-house is served up to him at the accustomed hour, in the old accustomed way, and by the accustomed waiter. If William did not bring it, the fish would be sure to be stale, and the flesh new. He eats no tart; or if he ventures on a little, takes cheese with it. You might as soon attempt to persuade him out of his senses, as that cheese is not good for digestion. He takes port; and if he has drank more than usual, and in a more private place, may be induced by some respectful inquiries respecting the old style of music, to sing a song composed by Mr. Oswald or Mr. Lampe, suchas—
Chloe, by that borrowed kiss,
Chloe, by that borrowed kiss,
Chloe, by that borrowed kiss,
or
Come, gentle god of soft repose;
Come, gentle god of soft repose;
Come, gentle god of soft repose;
or his wife’s favourite ballad,beginning—
At Upton on the HillThere lived a happy pair.
At Upton on the HillThere lived a happy pair.
At Upton on the HillThere lived a happy pair.
Of course, no such exploit can take place in the coffee-room; but he will canvass the theory of that matter there with you, or discuss the weather, or the markets, or the theatres, or the merits of “my lord North” or “my lord Rockingham;” for he rarely says simply, lord; it is generally “my lord,” trippingly and genteelly off the tongue. If alone after dinner, his great delight is the newspaper; which he prepares to read by wiping his spectacles, carefully adjusting them on his eyes, and drawing the candle close to him, so as to stand sideways betwixt his ocular aim and the small type. He then holds the paper at arm’s length, and dropping his eyelids half down and his mouth half open, takes cognizance of the day’s information. If he leaves off, it is only when the door is opened by a new comer, or when he suspects somebody is over-anxious to get the paper out of his hand. On these occasions, he gives an important hem! or so; and resumes.
In the evening, our Old Gentleman is fond of going to the theatre, or of having a game of cards. If he enjoy the latter at his own house or lodgings, he likes to play with some friends whom he has known for many years; but an elderly stranger may be introduced, if quiet and scientific; and the privilege is extended to younger men of letters; who, if ill players, are good losers. Not that he is a miser; but to win money at cards is like proving his victory by getting the baggage; and to win of a younger man is a substitute for his not being able to beat him at rackets. He breaks up early, whether at home or abroad.
At the theatre, he likes a front row in the pit. He comes early, if he can do so without getting into a squeeze, and sits patiently waiting for the drawing up of the curtain, with his hands placidly lying one over the other on the top of his stick. He generously admires some of the best performers, but thinks them far inferior to Garrick, Woodward, and Clive. During splendid scenes, he is anxious that the little boy should see.
He has been induced to look in at Vauxhall again, but likes it still less than he did years back, and cannot bear it in comparison with Ranelagh. He thinks every thing looks poor, flaring, and jaded. “Ah!” says he, with a sort of triumphant sigh, “Ranelagh was a noble place! Such taste, such elegance, such beauty! There was the duchess of A. the finest woman in England, sir; and Mrs. L., a mighty fine creature; and lady Susan what’s her name, that had that unfortunate affair with sir Charles. Sir, they came swimming by you like the swans.”
The Old Gentleman is very particular in having his slippers ready for him at the fire, when he comes home. He is also extremely choice in his snuff, and delights to get a fresh box-full at Gliddon’s, in King-street, in his way to the theatre. His box is a curiosity from India. He calls favourite young ladies by their Christian names, however slightly acquainted with them; and has a privilege also of saluting all brides, mothers, and indeed every species of lady on the least holiday occasion. If the husband for instance has met with a piece of luck, he instantly moves forward, and gravely kisses the wife on the cheek. The wife then says, “My niece, sir, from the country;” and he kisses the niece. The niece, seeing her cousin biting her lips at the joke, says, “My cousin Harriet, sir;” and he kisses the cousin. He never recollects such weather, except during the great frost, or when he rode down with Jack Skrimshire to Newmarket. He grows young again in his little grand-children, especially the one which he thinks most like himself; which is the handsomest. Yet he likes best perhaps the one most resembling his wife; and will sit with him on his lap, holding his hand in silence, for a quarter of an hour together. He plays most tricks with the former, and makes him sneeze. He asks little boys in general who was the father of Zebedee’s children. If his grandsons are at school, he often goes to see them; and makes them blush by telling the master or the upper-scholars, that they are fine boys, and of a precocious genius. He is much struck when an old acquaintance dies, but adds that he lived too fast; and that poor Bob was a sad dog in his youth; “a very sad dog, sir, mightily set upon a short life and a merry one.”
When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for whole evenings, and say little or nothing; but informs you, that there is Mrs. Jones (the housekeeper),—“She’lltalk.”—Indicator.
A HAPPY MEETING.And doth not a meeting like this make amendsFor all the long years I’ve been wand’ring away?To see thus around me my youth’s early friends,As smiling and kind as in that happy day!Though haply o’er some of your brows, as o’er mine,The snow-fall of time may be stealing—what thenLike Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,We’ll wear the gay tinge of youth’s roses again.What soften’d remembrances come o’er the heart,In gazing on those we’ve been lost to so long!The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were partStill round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,So many a feeling, that long seem’d effaced,The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light.And thus, as in memory’s bark, we shall glideTo visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,Tho’ oft we may see, looking down on the tide,The wreck of full many a hope shining through—Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowersThat once made a garden of all the gay shore,Deceiv’d for a moment, we’ll think them still ours,And breath the fresh air of life’s morning once moreSo brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,For want of some heart that could echo it near.Ah! well may we hope, when this short life is gone,To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast’ning on,Is all we enjoy of each other in this.But come—the more rare such delights to the heart,The more we should welcome, and bless them the more—They’re ours when we meet—they’re lost when we part,Like birds that bring summer, and fly when ’tis o’er,Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,Let Sympathy pledge us, thro’ pleasure thro’ pain,That fast as a feeling but touches one link,Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.
And doth not a meeting like this make amendsFor all the long years I’ve been wand’ring away?To see thus around me my youth’s early friends,As smiling and kind as in that happy day!Though haply o’er some of your brows, as o’er mine,The snow-fall of time may be stealing—what thenLike Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,We’ll wear the gay tinge of youth’s roses again.What soften’d remembrances come o’er the heart,In gazing on those we’ve been lost to so long!The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were partStill round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,So many a feeling, that long seem’d effaced,The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light.And thus, as in memory’s bark, we shall glideTo visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,Tho’ oft we may see, looking down on the tide,The wreck of full many a hope shining through—Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowersThat once made a garden of all the gay shore,Deceiv’d for a moment, we’ll think them still ours,And breath the fresh air of life’s morning once moreSo brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,For want of some heart that could echo it near.Ah! well may we hope, when this short life is gone,To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast’ning on,Is all we enjoy of each other in this.But come—the more rare such delights to the heart,The more we should welcome, and bless them the more—They’re ours when we meet—they’re lost when we part,Like birds that bring summer, and fly when ’tis o’er,Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,Let Sympathy pledge us, thro’ pleasure thro’ pain,That fast as a feeling but touches one link,Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.
And doth not a meeting like this make amendsFor all the long years I’ve been wand’ring away?To see thus around me my youth’s early friends,As smiling and kind as in that happy day!Though haply o’er some of your brows, as o’er mine,The snow-fall of time may be stealing—what thenLike Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,We’ll wear the gay tinge of youth’s roses again.
What soften’d remembrances come o’er the heart,In gazing on those we’ve been lost to so long!The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were partStill round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,So many a feeling, that long seem’d effaced,The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light.
And thus, as in memory’s bark, we shall glideTo visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,Tho’ oft we may see, looking down on the tide,The wreck of full many a hope shining through—Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowersThat once made a garden of all the gay shore,Deceiv’d for a moment, we’ll think them still ours,And breath the fresh air of life’s morning once more
So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,For want of some heart that could echo it near.Ah! well may we hope, when this short life is gone,To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast’ning on,Is all we enjoy of each other in this.
But come—the more rare such delights to the heart,The more we should welcome, and bless them the more—They’re ours when we meet—they’re lost when we part,Like birds that bring summer, and fly when ’tis o’er,Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,Let Sympathy pledge us, thro’ pleasure thro’ pain,That fast as a feeling but touches one link,Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.
Lines to his CousinON THE NEW YEAR,By a Westminster Boy.Time rolls away! another yearHas rolled off with him; hence ’tis clearHis lordship keeps his carriageA single man, no doubt;—and thusEnjoys himself without the fussAnd great expense of marriage.His wheel still rolls (and like the riverWhich Horace mentions) still for everVolvitur et volvetur.In vain yourun against him; placeyour fleetest filly in the race,—Here’s ten to one he’ll beat her.Of all he sees, he takes a tithe,With that tremendous sweeping scythe,Which he keeps always going;While every step he takes, alas!Too plainly proves thatflesh is grass,When he sets out amowing.And though his hungry ravenous mawIs crammed with food, both dress’d and raw,I’ll wager any betting,His appetite has ever beenJust like his scythe, sharp-set and keen,Which never wantedwhetting.Could you but see the mighty treatPrepared, when he sits down to eatHis breakfast or his dinner,—ah,Not vegetable—flesh,—alone,But timber, houses, iron, stone,He eats the very china.When maidens pray that he will spareTheir teeth, complexion, or their hair,Alas! he’ll never hear ’em;Grey locks and wrinkles hourly show,What Ovid told us years ago,Ut Tempus edax rerum!In vain, my dearest girl, you choose(Your face to wash) Olympic dews;In vain you paint or rouge it;He’ll play such havoc with your youth,That ten years hence you’ll say with truthAh Edward!—Tempus fugit!The glass he carries in his handHas ruin in each grain of sand;But what I most deplore is,He breaks the links of friendship’s chain,And barters youthful love for gain:Oh, Tempora! oh, Mores!One sole exception you shall find,(Unius generisof its kind,)Wherever fate may steer us;Tho’ wide his universal range,Time has no power the heart to changeOf yourAmicus Verus.Bath Herald.
Time rolls away! another yearHas rolled off with him; hence ’tis clearHis lordship keeps his carriageA single man, no doubt;—and thusEnjoys himself without the fussAnd great expense of marriage.His wheel still rolls (and like the riverWhich Horace mentions) still for everVolvitur et volvetur.In vain yourun against him; placeyour fleetest filly in the race,—Here’s ten to one he’ll beat her.Of all he sees, he takes a tithe,With that tremendous sweeping scythe,Which he keeps always going;While every step he takes, alas!Too plainly proves thatflesh is grass,When he sets out amowing.And though his hungry ravenous mawIs crammed with food, both dress’d and raw,I’ll wager any betting,His appetite has ever beenJust like his scythe, sharp-set and keen,Which never wantedwhetting.Could you but see the mighty treatPrepared, when he sits down to eatHis breakfast or his dinner,—ah,Not vegetable—flesh,—alone,But timber, houses, iron, stone,He eats the very china.When maidens pray that he will spareTheir teeth, complexion, or their hair,Alas! he’ll never hear ’em;Grey locks and wrinkles hourly show,What Ovid told us years ago,Ut Tempus edax rerum!In vain, my dearest girl, you choose(Your face to wash) Olympic dews;In vain you paint or rouge it;He’ll play such havoc with your youth,That ten years hence you’ll say with truthAh Edward!—Tempus fugit!The glass he carries in his handHas ruin in each grain of sand;But what I most deplore is,He breaks the links of friendship’s chain,And barters youthful love for gain:Oh, Tempora! oh, Mores!One sole exception you shall find,(Unius generisof its kind,)Wherever fate may steer us;Tho’ wide his universal range,Time has no power the heart to changeOf yourAmicus Verus.
Time rolls away! another yearHas rolled off with him; hence ’tis clearHis lordship keeps his carriageA single man, no doubt;—and thusEnjoys himself without the fussAnd great expense of marriage.
His wheel still rolls (and like the riverWhich Horace mentions) still for everVolvitur et volvetur.In vain yourun against him; placeyour fleetest filly in the race,—Here’s ten to one he’ll beat her.
Of all he sees, he takes a tithe,With that tremendous sweeping scythe,Which he keeps always going;While every step he takes, alas!Too plainly proves thatflesh is grass,When he sets out amowing.
And though his hungry ravenous mawIs crammed with food, both dress’d and raw,I’ll wager any betting,His appetite has ever beenJust like his scythe, sharp-set and keen,Which never wantedwhetting.
Could you but see the mighty treatPrepared, when he sits down to eatHis breakfast or his dinner,—ah,Not vegetable—flesh,—alone,But timber, houses, iron, stone,He eats the very china.
When maidens pray that he will spareTheir teeth, complexion, or their hair,Alas! he’ll never hear ’em;Grey locks and wrinkles hourly show,What Ovid told us years ago,Ut Tempus edax rerum!
In vain, my dearest girl, you choose(Your face to wash) Olympic dews;In vain you paint or rouge it;He’ll play such havoc with your youth,That ten years hence you’ll say with truthAh Edward!—Tempus fugit!
The glass he carries in his handHas ruin in each grain of sand;But what I most deplore is,He breaks the links of friendship’s chain,And barters youthful love for gain:Oh, Tempora! oh, Mores!
One sole exception you shall find,(Unius generisof its kind,)Wherever fate may steer us;Tho’ wide his universal range,Time has no power the heart to changeOf yourAmicus Verus.
Bath Herald.
Germany, which embraces a population of thirty-six millions of people, has twenty-two universities. The following table contains their names according to the order of their foundation, and the number of professors and students:
Of this number six belong to Prussia, three to Bavaria, two to the Austrian States, two to the Grand Duchy of Baden, two to the Electorate of Hesse-Cassel, and one to each of the following states—Saxony, Wurtemberg, Denmark, Hanover, the Grand Duchies of Mecklenbergh-Schweren and of Saxe-Weimar, and Switzerland. The total number of professors is 1055, embracing not only the ordinary and extraordinary professors, but also the private lecturers, whose courses of reading are announced in the half-yearly programmes. Catholic Germany, which reckons nineteen millions of inhabitants, has only six universities; while Protestant Germany, for seventeen millions of inhabitants, has seventeen. Of the students there are 149 for every 250,000 in the Protestant states, while there are only 68 for the same number in the Catholic states. It must, however, be mentioned, that this estimate does not take in those Catholic ecclesiastics who do not pursue their studies in the universities, but in private seminaries.—The universities of Paderborn and Munster, both belonging to Prussia, and which had only two faculties, those of theology and philosophy, were suppressed; the first in 1818, and the second in 1819; but that of Munster has been reestablished, with the three faculties of theology, philosophy, and medicine.
Colley Cibber’s youngest Daughter.
Colley Cibber’s youngest Daughter.
Last of her sire in dotage—she was usedBy him, as children use a fav’rite toy;Indulg’d, neglected, fondled, and abus’d,As quick affection of capricious joy,Or sudden humour of dislike dictated:Thoughtlessly rear’d, she led a thoughtless life;And she so well beloved became most hated:A helpless mother, and a wife unblest,She pass’d precocious womanhood in strife;Or, in strange hiding-places, without rest;Or, wand’ring in disquietude for bread:Her father’s curse—himself first cause of allThat caused his ban—sunk her in deeper thrall,Stifling her heart, till sorrow and herself were dead.*
Last of her sire in dotage—she was usedBy him, as children use a fav’rite toy;Indulg’d, neglected, fondled, and abus’d,As quick affection of capricious joy,Or sudden humour of dislike dictated:Thoughtlessly rear’d, she led a thoughtless life;And she so well beloved became most hated:A helpless mother, and a wife unblest,She pass’d precocious womanhood in strife;Or, in strange hiding-places, without rest;Or, wand’ring in disquietude for bread:Her father’s curse—himself first cause of allThat caused his ban—sunk her in deeper thrall,Stifling her heart, till sorrow and herself were dead.
Last of her sire in dotage—she was usedBy him, as children use a fav’rite toy;Indulg’d, neglected, fondled, and abus’d,As quick affection of capricious joy,Or sudden humour of dislike dictated:Thoughtlessly rear’d, she led a thoughtless life;And she so well beloved became most hated:A helpless mother, and a wife unblest,She pass’d precocious womanhood in strife;Or, in strange hiding-places, without rest;Or, wand’ring in disquietude for bread:Her father’s curse—himself first cause of allThat caused his ban—sunk her in deeper thrall,Stifling her heart, till sorrow and herself were dead.
*
“The Life of Mrs. Charlotte Charke,youngest daughter of Colley Cibber, Esq. written by herself,” is a curious narrative of remarkable vicissitudes. She dedicates it to herself, and aptly concludes her dedication by saying, “Permit me, madam, to subscribe myself, for the future, what I ought to have been some years ago, your real friend, and humble servant,Charlotte Charke.”
In the “Introduction” to the recent reprint of this singular work, it is well observed, that “her Life will serve to show what very strange creaturesmayexist, and the endless diversity of habits, tastes, and inclinations, which may spring up spontaneously,like weeds, in the hot-bed of corrupt civilization.” She was born when Mrs. Cibber was forty-five years old, and when both her father and mother had ceased to expect an addition to their family: the result was that Charlotte Cibber was a spoiled child. She married Mr. Richard Charke, an eminent violin player, of dissolute habits; and, after a course of levities, consequent upon the early recklessness of her parents, she was repudiated by her father. When she wrote her life, she was in great penury: it was published in eight numbers, at three-pence each. In the last, which appeared on the 19th of April, 1755, she feelingly deplores the failure of her attempts to obtain forgiveness of her father, and says, “I cannot recollect any crime I have been guilty of that is unpardonable.” After intimating a design to open an oratorical academy, for the instruction of persons going on the stage, she mentions her intention to publish “Mr. Dumont’s history, the first number of which will shortly make its appearance.” This was a novel she was then writing, which a bookseller treated with her for, in company with Mr. Samuel Whyte of Dublin, who thus describes her distressedsituation:—
“Cibber the elder had a daughter named Charlotte, who also took to the stage; her subsequent life was one continued series of misfortune, afflictions, and distress, which she sometimes contrived a little to alleviate by the productions of her pen. About the year 1755, she had worked up a novel for the press, which the writer accompanied his friend the bookseller to hear read; she was at this time a widow, having been married to one Charke a musician, long since dead. Her habitation was a wretched thatched hovel, situated on the way to Islington in the purlieus of Clerkenwell Bridewell, not very distant from the New River Head, where at that time it was usual for the scavengers to leave the cleansings of the streets, &c. The night preceding a heavy rain had fallen, which rendered this extraordinary seat of the muses almost inaccessible, so that in our approach we got our white stockings enveloped with mud up to the very calves, which furnished an appearance much in the present fashionable style of half-boots. We knocked at the door, (not attempting to pull the latch string,) which was opened by a tall, meagre, ragged figure, with a blue apron, indicating, what else we might have doubted, the feminine gender,—a perfect model for the copper captain’s tattered landlady; that deplorable exhibition of the fair sex, in the comedy of Rule-a-Wife. She with a torpid voice and hungry smile desired us to walk in. The first object that presented itself was a dresser, clean, it must be confessed, and furnished with three or four coarse delf plates, two brown platters, and underneath an earthen pipkin and a black pitcher with a snip out of it. To the right we perceived and bowed to the mistress of the mansion sitting on a maimed chair under the mantle-piece, by a fire, merely sufficient to put us in mind of starving. On one hob sat a monkey, which by way of welcome chattered at our going in; on the other a tabby cat, of melancholy aspect! and at our author’s feet on the flounce of her dingy petticoat reclined a dog, almost a skeleton! he raised his shagged head, and, eagerly staring with his bleared eyes, saluted us with a snarl. ‘Have done, Fidele! these are friends.’ The tone of her voice was not harsh; it had something in it humbled and disconsolate; a mingled effort of authority and pleasure.—Poor soul! few were her visitors of that description—no wonder the creature barked!.—A magpie perched on the top ring of her chair, not an uncomely ornament! and on her lap was placed a mutilated pair of bellows, the pipe was gone, an advantage in their present office, they served as a succedaneum for a writing-desk, on which lay displayed her hopes and treasure, the manuscript of her novel. Her ink-stand was a broken tea-cup, the pen worn to a stump; she had but one! a rough deal board with three hobbling supporters was brought for our convenience, on which, without farther ceremony, we contrived to sit down and entered upon business:—the work was read, remarks made, alterations agreed to, and thirty guineas demanded for the copy. The squalid handmaiden, who had been an attentive listener, stretched forward her tawny length of neck with an eye of anxious expectation!—The bookseller offered five!—Our authoress did not appear hurt; disappointments had rendered her mind callous; however, some altercation ensued. This was the writer’s first initiation into the mysteries of bibliopolism and the state of authorcraft. He, seeing both sides pertinacious, at length interposed, and at his instance the wary haberdasher of literature doubled his first proposal, with this saving proviso, that his friend present would pay a moiety and run one half the risk; which was agreed to. Thus matters were accommodated, seemingly to the satisfaction of all parties; the lady’s original stipulation of fifty copies for herself being previouslyacceded to. Such is the story of the once-admired daughter of Colley Cibber, Poet Laureate and patentee of Drury-lane, who was born in affluence and educated with care and tenderness, her servants in livery, and a splendid equipage at her command, with swarms of time-serving sycophants officiously buzzing in her train; yet, unmindful of her advantages and improvident in her pursuits, she finished the career of her miserable existence on adunghill.”[36]
Mr. Whyte’s account of the “reading the manuscript,” a subject worthy of Wilkie’s pencil, is designed to be illustrated by theengravingat the head of this article. Of Mrs. Charke, after that interview, nothing further is known, except that she kept a public-house, at Islington, and is said to have died on the 6th of April,1760.[37]Her brother Theophilus was wrecked, and perished on his way to Dublin, in October, 1758; her father died on the 12th of December, in the year preceding. Her singular “Narrative” is printed verbatim in the seventh volume of “Autobiography,” with the life of the late “Mary Robinson,” who was also an actress, and also wrote her own “Memoirs.”
[36]Whyte’s Collection of Poems, second edition. Dublin, 1792.[37]Biog. Dram.
[36]Whyte’s Collection of Poems, second edition. Dublin, 1792.
[37]Biog. Dram.
To the Editor.
Dear Sir,—A friend of mine, who resided for some years on the borders, used to amuse himself by collecting old ballads, printed on halfpenny sheets, and hawked up and down by itinerant minstrels. In his common-place book I found one, entitled “The Outlandish Knight,” evidently, from the style, of considerable antiquity, which appears to have escaped the notice of Percy, and other collectors. Since then I have met with a printed one, from the popular press of Mr. Pitts, the six-yards-for-a-penny song-publisher, who informs me that he has printed it “ever since he was a printer, and that Mr. Marshall, his predecessor, printed it before him.” The ballad has not improved by circulating amongst Mr. Pitts’s friends; for the heroine, who has no name given her in my friend’s copy, is in Mr. Pitts’s called “Polly;” and there are expressionscontra bonos mores. These I have expunged; and, to render the ballad more complete, added a few stanzas, wherein I have endeavoured to preserve the simplicity of the original, of which I doubt if a correct copy could now be obtained. As it is, it is at the service of yourTable Book.
The hero of the ballad appears to be of somewhat the same class as the hero of the German ballad, the “Water King,” and in some particulars resembles the ballad of the “Overcourteous Knight,” in Percy’s Reliques.
I am, dear sir, &c.— — —
Grange-road, Bermondsey, Jan. 8, 1827.
The Outlandish Knight.——————“Six go true,Theseventhaskew.”Der Freischutz Travestie.
——————“Six go true,Theseventhaskew.”
——————“Six go true,Theseventhaskew.”
Der Freischutz Travestie.