MY POCKET-BOOK.

“Al maner Mynstralcye,“That any man kan specifye,****“And many unkouth notys new,“Offe swiche folke als lovid trewe.”John Lidgate.

“Al maner Mynstralcye,“That any man kan specifye,****“And many unkouth notys new,“Offe swiche folke als lovid trewe.”

John Lidgate.

O loud howls the wind o’er the blue, blue deep,And loud on the shore the dashing waves sweep,And merk is the night by land and by sea,And woe to the stranger that’s out on the lea.Closed fast is the gate of the prioryhall,[360]Unscathed stand the towers of thecastle[361]so tall,High flare the flames on the hearth-stane so wide,But woe to the stranger that crosses the tide.Hark! hark! at the portal who’s voice is so bold—It cannot be open’d for silver or gold—The foeman is near with his harrying brand,And brent are the homes of Northumberland.I’m no foeman, no Scot, in sooth now to say,But a minstral who weareth the peaceful lay;Wynken de Mowbray the Prior doth know,Then open the gate, for the north winds blow.Who hath not heard De Mowbray’s song?The softest harp in the minstrel throng;O many a true love tale can he sing,And touch the heart with his melting string.Now while the welkin with tempest raves,And the angry ocean maddens his waves,Around the hearth-stane we’ll listen to thee,And beguile the long night with minstralcye.O sweet and wild is the harper’s strain,As its magic steals o’er the raptur’d brain,And hush’d is the crowd of hearers all,As thronged they sit in the priory hall.“O what is sweeter and softer than thou“Heather-bell on the mountain brow?“And what is more pure than the sparkling dew“That kisses that heather-bell so blue?“Yes! far far sweeter and purer is she,“The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.“What is more sweet in the leafy grove“Than the nightingale’s plaintive song of love?“And what is more gay than the lark of spring,“As he carrols lightly on heaven-bent wing?“O yes, more sweet and more gay is she,“The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.“Her raven-tresses in ringlets flow,“Her step is more light than the forest doe,“Her dark eyes shine ’neath their silken lash,“Like the bright but lambent light’ning flash“Of a summer eve, as noiseless it plays“’Midst a million stars of yet softer rays.“The beauteous Eltha’s evening song“Is wafted o’er the swelling wave,“And it catches the ear, as it steals along,“Of wondering seamen, while billows lave“In gentle murmurs his vessel’s prow,“As he voyages to where the cedars grow.“A shallop is riding upon the sea,“With her broad sail furl’d to the mast;“A pennon brave floats fair and free“On the breeze, as it whispers past:“And who is that stranger of lofty mien“Who is rock’d on the salt, salt tide?“———He is from a foreign land I ween,“A stranger of meikle pride.“He has heard the beauteous Eltha’s notes“Borne far on the eventide breeze,“Like the eastern perfume that distant floats“O’er the silver surfac’d seas.“The stranger hath seen dark Eltha’s eye,“As it glanc’d o’er the wave so green;“And mark’d her tresses of raven-dye,“(More beauteous than golden sheen,)“Interwoven with sea-flowers of whiten’d hue,“Such flowers as never in garden grew,“But pluck’d from the caverns of ocean deep“By the last stormy waves’ fast rushing sweep,“And left on the strand as a tribute to thee,“Thou dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.“The stranger lov’d dark Eltha’s lay,“And he lov’d her bright, bright eye;“And he sued for the love of that maiden gay,“As she wander’d the ocean nigh.“He gain’d her love, for his form had grace,“And stately was his stride;“His gentlesse show’d him of noble race,“Tho’ roaming on billows wide:—“But fair skims the breeze o’er the placid sea,“And the stranger must hie to a far countrie.“Dark Eltha still sings but her song is slow,“And the west wind catches its mournful“The mariners wonder the changed lay,“As their slothful barks calm lingering stay:“The songstress’ cheek is wan and pale,“And her tresses neglected float on the gale;“The sea flower is thrown on its rocky bed,“The once gay Eltha’s peace is fled,“The eye of the Maiden is dark and bright,“But it rivals no more the diamond’s light.“Now many a day thou hast gaz’d o’er the sea“For the bark of thy lover in vain,“And many a storm thou hast shudder’d to see“Spread its wings o’er the anger’d main:“—Is he faithless the stranger?—forgetful of thee?“Thou beauteous Maiden of the Sea.“On many a whiten’d sail hast thou gaz’d,“Till the lazy breeze bore it on,“But they pass, and thy weary eyes are glaz’d,“As they trace the bark just gone:“None have the pennon, so free and fair,“As the stranger ship which once tarried there.“On yon tall cliff to whose broken base“Loud surging waves for ever race,“A form is bent o’er the fearful height,“So eager, that a feather’s weight“Would cast its poised balance o’er,“And leave a mangled corse on the shore.“——-’Tis Eltha’s form, that with eager glance,“Scans the wide world of waves, as they dance,“Uprais’d by the sigh of the east wind chill,“Which wafts to the ear the scream so shrill“Of the whirling sea mews, as landward they fly,“—To seamen a mark that the storm is nigh.“And what is yon distant speck on the sea,“That seems but a floating beam,“Save that a pennon fair and free“Waves in the sun’s bright gleam?“A bark is driven with rapid sail,“Its pennon far spread on the moaning gale,“A foamy track at its angry keel,“And the billows around it maddening reel;“The white fring’d surges dash over its prow“As its masts to the pressing canvass bow—“But O with rapid, fiend-like, haste,“The breeze rolls o’er the watery waste,“And louder is heard the deaf’ning roar“Of the waves dashing fierce on the trembling shore,“Ten thousand eddying billows recede,“And return again with an arrow’s speed,“Till the flaky foam on the wind is spread,“Far, far above their ocean bed,“And boom o’er the cliff where Eltha’s form“Is seen to await the deadly storm.“Keep to the wind with a taughten’dsheet,[362]“Thou bark from a stranger land,“No daring northern pilot would meet“A storm like this near the strand;“No kindly haven of shelter is here,“Then whilst thou may,—to seaward steer;“But thou com’st, with a wide and flowing sail,“To a rock bound coast in an eastern gale,“Thou wilt see the danger around thee at last,“When the hour of safety for ever is past;“——And O it is past, thou art now embay’d,“And around thee gathers the evening shade,“Thy last sun has set in a red, red sky,“Thy last Vesper hymn is the fearful cry“Of the ominous sea bird shrieking on high.“The night and the storm have hidden from view“The fated ship and her gallant crew,“And the last sight seen on the foamy sea“Was a pennon broad streaming fair and free.********“The morrow is come and the storm is o’er,“And the billows more slowly dash,“But shatter’d timbers are spread on the shore“Beyond the ebb-waves’ wash:“Still are the hearts of the gallant band“Which erst did beat so true;“They’ll never more see their fatherland,“Where their playful childhood grew.“And on a shelving rock is seen,“Enwrapp’d in a shroud of sea-weed green,“A noble corse, whose marble brow“Is cluster’d with locks of auburn hue;“And even in death, his manly form“Seems to mock the rage of the northern storm.“In his hand is clasp’d a jewel rare“Enshrining a lock of black, black hair:“And on his cold breast, near his heart, is display’d“A golden gift of the dark-ey’d maid.“The lovely Eltha’s smiles are fled,“And she wildly looks o’er the ocean-bed“With sunken glance and a pale, pale cheek,“And her once bounding step is slow and weak;“On the wave she launches the blue sea-shell“Which swims for a moment then sinks in the swell“And wilder’d she bends o’er the chrystal billow“As it eddying whirls to its coral pillow:“She fancys a faëry bark is sped“To bring her cold love from the land of the dead;“But no tears on her sunken eye-lids quiver,“Her reason is fled for ever!—for ever!—”De Mowbray’s soft harp ceas’d the mournful strainBut awaken’d the broken notes once again,like the throb of the heart strings when dying they sever,They stop—thrill—stop—and are silent for ever.

O loud howls the wind o’er the blue, blue deep,And loud on the shore the dashing waves sweep,And merk is the night by land and by sea,And woe to the stranger that’s out on the lea.

Closed fast is the gate of the prioryhall,[360]Unscathed stand the towers of thecastle[361]so tall,High flare the flames on the hearth-stane so wide,But woe to the stranger that crosses the tide.

Hark! hark! at the portal who’s voice is so bold—It cannot be open’d for silver or gold—The foeman is near with his harrying brand,And brent are the homes of Northumberland.

I’m no foeman, no Scot, in sooth now to say,But a minstral who weareth the peaceful lay;Wynken de Mowbray the Prior doth know,Then open the gate, for the north winds blow.

Who hath not heard De Mowbray’s song?The softest harp in the minstrel throng;O many a true love tale can he sing,And touch the heart with his melting string.

Now while the welkin with tempest raves,And the angry ocean maddens his waves,Around the hearth-stane we’ll listen to thee,And beguile the long night with minstralcye.

O sweet and wild is the harper’s strain,As its magic steals o’er the raptur’d brain,And hush’d is the crowd of hearers all,As thronged they sit in the priory hall.

“O what is sweeter and softer than thou“Heather-bell on the mountain brow?“And what is more pure than the sparkling dew“That kisses that heather-bell so blue?“Yes! far far sweeter and purer is she,“The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.

“What is more sweet in the leafy grove“Than the nightingale’s plaintive song of love?“And what is more gay than the lark of spring,“As he carrols lightly on heaven-bent wing?“O yes, more sweet and more gay is she,“The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.

“Her raven-tresses in ringlets flow,“Her step is more light than the forest doe,“Her dark eyes shine ’neath their silken lash,“Like the bright but lambent light’ning flash“Of a summer eve, as noiseless it plays“’Midst a million stars of yet softer rays.

“The beauteous Eltha’s evening song“Is wafted o’er the swelling wave,“And it catches the ear, as it steals along,“Of wondering seamen, while billows lave“In gentle murmurs his vessel’s prow,“As he voyages to where the cedars grow.

“A shallop is riding upon the sea,“With her broad sail furl’d to the mast;“A pennon brave floats fair and free“On the breeze, as it whispers past:

“And who is that stranger of lofty mien“Who is rock’d on the salt, salt tide?“———He is from a foreign land I ween,“A stranger of meikle pride.

“He has heard the beauteous Eltha’s notes“Borne far on the eventide breeze,“Like the eastern perfume that distant floats“O’er the silver surfac’d seas.

“The stranger hath seen dark Eltha’s eye,“As it glanc’d o’er the wave so green;“And mark’d her tresses of raven-dye,“(More beauteous than golden sheen,)“Interwoven with sea-flowers of whiten’d hue,“Such flowers as never in garden grew,“But pluck’d from the caverns of ocean deep“By the last stormy waves’ fast rushing sweep,“And left on the strand as a tribute to thee,“Thou dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.

“The stranger lov’d dark Eltha’s lay,“And he lov’d her bright, bright eye;“And he sued for the love of that maiden gay,“As she wander’d the ocean nigh.

“He gain’d her love, for his form had grace,“And stately was his stride;“His gentlesse show’d him of noble race,“Tho’ roaming on billows wide:—“But fair skims the breeze o’er the placid sea,“And the stranger must hie to a far countrie.

“Dark Eltha still sings but her song is slow,“And the west wind catches its mournful“The mariners wonder the changed lay,“As their slothful barks calm lingering stay:“The songstress’ cheek is wan and pale,“And her tresses neglected float on the gale;“The sea flower is thrown on its rocky bed,“The once gay Eltha’s peace is fled,“The eye of the Maiden is dark and bright,“But it rivals no more the diamond’s light.

“Now many a day thou hast gaz’d o’er the sea“For the bark of thy lover in vain,“And many a storm thou hast shudder’d to see“Spread its wings o’er the anger’d main:“—Is he faithless the stranger?—forgetful of thee?“Thou beauteous Maiden of the Sea.

“On many a whiten’d sail hast thou gaz’d,“Till the lazy breeze bore it on,“But they pass, and thy weary eyes are glaz’d,“As they trace the bark just gone:“None have the pennon, so free and fair,“As the stranger ship which once tarried there.

“On yon tall cliff to whose broken base“Loud surging waves for ever race,“A form is bent o’er the fearful height,“So eager, that a feather’s weight“Would cast its poised balance o’er,“And leave a mangled corse on the shore.

“——-’Tis Eltha’s form, that with eager glance,“Scans the wide world of waves, as they dance,“Uprais’d by the sigh of the east wind chill,“Which wafts to the ear the scream so shrill“Of the whirling sea mews, as landward they fly,“—To seamen a mark that the storm is nigh.

“And what is yon distant speck on the sea,“That seems but a floating beam,“Save that a pennon fair and free“Waves in the sun’s bright gleam?

“A bark is driven with rapid sail,“Its pennon far spread on the moaning gale,“A foamy track at its angry keel,“And the billows around it maddening reel;“The white fring’d surges dash over its prow“As its masts to the pressing canvass bow—

“But O with rapid, fiend-like, haste,“The breeze rolls o’er the watery waste,“And louder is heard the deaf’ning roar“Of the waves dashing fierce on the trembling shore,“Ten thousand eddying billows recede,“And return again with an arrow’s speed,“Till the flaky foam on the wind is spread,“Far, far above their ocean bed,“And boom o’er the cliff where Eltha’s form“Is seen to await the deadly storm.

“Keep to the wind with a taughten’dsheet,[362]“Thou bark from a stranger land,“No daring northern pilot would meet“A storm like this near the strand;“No kindly haven of shelter is here,“Then whilst thou may,—to seaward steer;“But thou com’st, with a wide and flowing sail,“To a rock bound coast in an eastern gale,“Thou wilt see the danger around thee at last,“When the hour of safety for ever is past;

“——And O it is past, thou art now embay’d,“And around thee gathers the evening shade,“Thy last sun has set in a red, red sky,“Thy last Vesper hymn is the fearful cry“Of the ominous sea bird shrieking on high.“The night and the storm have hidden from view“The fated ship and her gallant crew,“And the last sight seen on the foamy sea“Was a pennon broad streaming fair and free.********“The morrow is come and the storm is o’er,“And the billows more slowly dash,“But shatter’d timbers are spread on the shore“Beyond the ebb-waves’ wash:“Still are the hearts of the gallant band“Which erst did beat so true;“They’ll never more see their fatherland,“Where their playful childhood grew.

“And on a shelving rock is seen,“Enwrapp’d in a shroud of sea-weed green,“A noble corse, whose marble brow“Is cluster’d with locks of auburn hue;“And even in death, his manly form“Seems to mock the rage of the northern storm.“In his hand is clasp’d a jewel rare“Enshrining a lock of black, black hair:“And on his cold breast, near his heart, is display’d“A golden gift of the dark-ey’d maid.

“The lovely Eltha’s smiles are fled,“And she wildly looks o’er the ocean-bed“With sunken glance and a pale, pale cheek,“And her once bounding step is slow and weak;“On the wave she launches the blue sea-shell“Which swims for a moment then sinks in the swell“And wilder’d she bends o’er the chrystal billow“As it eddying whirls to its coral pillow:“She fancys a faëry bark is sped“To bring her cold love from the land of the dead;“But no tears on her sunken eye-lids quiver,“Her reason is fled for ever!—for ever!—”

De Mowbray’s soft harp ceas’d the mournful strainBut awaken’d the broken notes once again,like the throb of the heart strings when dying they sever,They stop—thrill—stop—and are silent for ever.

Alpha.

September, 1827.

[360,361]Tynemouth castle and priory, which stand together on a bleak promontory.[362]Keep to the wind, &c. This line is a technical description of the sails of a vessel when contending against the wind.—αλφα.

[360,361]Tynemouth castle and priory, which stand together on a bleak promontory.

[362]Keep to the wind, &c. This line is a technical description of the sails of a vessel when contending against the wind.—αλφα.

For the Table Book.

I crave good Mr. DuB——’spardon for my “flat burglary” with regard to the title of the present little paper. It is very far from my intention to endeavour in any way to place myself in competition with that great satirical genius, of whose very superior talents and brilliant wit I am pleased to be thus afforded an opportunity of avowing myself an ardent admirer: but as this title suits my purpose, I must entreat his permission to appropriate it, and merely remind him of the poet Puff’s excuse on a somewhat similar occasion—“All that can be said is—that two people happened to hit upon the same thought, (title,) and Shakspeare (DuB——) made use of it first, that is all.”

Pocket-books (as implied by their name) were originally intended asportablereceptacles for our different memoranda, remarks and communications. But now it is no longer honoured by an immediate attendance on our person; its station at present is confined to the bureau, desk, or private drawer. What man who can boast of beingd’un assez bon airwould consent to injure his exquisiteadonisationof coat, by wearing a pocket-book inhisside-breast pocket, and thus ungratefully frustrate all poor Mr. Stultz’s efforts at an exact and perfectfit. The ladies, for some reason, concerning which I do not so much as venture even a surmise, (for Heaven forefend that I should attempt to dive into these sacred mysteries, or, as “Uncle Selby” would call them,femalities,) have entirely given up the use of pockets, therefore I would advise that memorandum-books destined for the use of the fair sex should in future be styled—reticule-books.

Old pocket-books are like some old ladies’ chests of drawers—delightful things to rummage and recur to. Looking over an old pocket-book is like revisiting scenes of past happiness after a lapse of years. Recollections and associations of both a painful and pleasurable nature are vividly recalled, or forcibly present themselves to our mind. Treasured letters, private remarks, favourite quotations, dates of days spent in peculiar enjoyment, all these meet our eye, and rise up like the shadows of those past realities connected with them, whose memory they are intended to perpetuate to us.

——Pocket-books are indexes to their owner’s mind—were it an allowable action to inspect another’s pocket-book, we might form a tolerably shrewd guess at the character and disposition of its possessor. On picking up a lost pocket-book by chance in the streets, one can be at no loss to divine the quality of its former proprietor. A large rusty black leather pocket-book, looking more like a portmanteau than a memorandum book, stuffed with papers half printed, half written, blank stamp receipts, churchwarden’s orders and directions, long lists of parishioners, with a small ink-horn in one corner—denotes the property of a tax-gatherer. The servant-maid’s is an old greasy red morocco one—in the blank leaf is written in straggling characters reaching from the top of one side to the bottom of theother—

Sarah Price her book,God give her grace therein to look.

In the part designated “cash account” are various items, for the most part concerning tea, sugar, and ribbon. Among the memoranda are the following:—“Spent last Easter Monday was a twel’month with Tom Hadley, at Greenwich—in great hopes I shall get leave to go again this year. My next wages comes due 4th August, 18—. Jane Thompson says she pays only 4s. for the bestsowtchongtea; and I pay 4s. 6d.—to speak to Mr. Ilford the grocer about it.”—The pockets are crammed full of songs and ballads, of which her favourites are “Black eyed Susan,” “Auld Robin Gray,” and “Lord William and Fair Margaret.” Perhaps a letter from Tom Hadley, an old silver coin, his gift, and a lucky penny with a hole in it.—The young lady’s is elegantly bound in red and gilt. In the blank leaf is written in a little niminy piminy hand-writing—“To my sweet friend Ellen Woodmere, from her affectionate Maria Tillotson.” Quotations from Pope, Young, Thomson, Lord Byron, and Tom Moore, occupy the blank pages—“Memoranda. June 16th saw Mrs. Siddons riding in her chariot in Hyde Park. Mem. Wonder why pa’ won’t let me read dear lord Byron’s new work the ‘Don Juan’—there must be something odd in it. Mem. To remember and ask Maria what she paid a yard for that beautiful lace round her collar. Mem. What a horrid wretch that Robespierre must have been! I’m glad he was killed himself at last. Mem. To tell pa’ that it is quite impossible for me to go to the ball next Tuesday without a new lutstring dress. Mem. How I wish I had been Joan of Arc!—But I would not have put on the men’s clothes again in prison—Iwonder why she did so—How silly!”—In the pockets are some of her dear Maria’s letters—a loose leaf torn out of sir Charles Grandison describing Miss Harriet Byron’s dress at the masquerade—and several copies of verses and sonnets, the productions of some of her former schoolfellows.

The old bachelor’s pocket-book is of russia leather, glossy with use, yet still retaining its grateful and long-enduring odour. The memoranda chiefly consist of the dates of those days on which he had seen or spoken to remarkable or celebrated people. Opposite the prognostics concerning weather, which he has since found incorrect, are to be seen the words: “No such thing”—“Pshaw, the fellow talks about what he does not understand”—“Absurd folly,” &c.—In the pockets are sundry square scraps of paper cut out at different periods from old newspapers—a copy of “The Means to be used for the recovery of personsapparentlydrowned”—a watch-paper cut out for him by his little grand-niece—and, (wrapped up in several folds of silver paper,) a long ringlet of auburn hair with its wavy drop, and springy relapse as you hold it at full-length between your finger and thumb. Among the leaves is a small sprig of jasmin whichshehad worn inherbosom a whole evening at a party, and which he had gently possessed himself of, on taking leave of her for thenight.——

M. H.

That venerable people—who were the ancients to those whom we call the ancients—the wise Egyptians, in the disposition which they allotted to the genders of their nouns, paid a singular and delicate compliment to the fair sex. In the four elements, beginning with water, they appointed the ocean, as a rough boisterous existence, to the male sex; but streams and fountains they left to the more gentle females. As to earth, they made rocks and stones male; but arable and meadow lands female. Air they divided thus: to the masculine gender, rough winds and hurricanes of every kind; to the female, the sky and the zephyrs. Fire, when of a consuming nature, they made male, but artificial and harmless flames they rendered feminine.

To the Reader.

In the present volume has been commenced, and will be concluded, a series of Articles under this title, which to some readers may not have been sufficiently attractive. It is therefore now re-stated, that they present very curious particulars concerning the extent to which the ancients were acquainted with several popular systems and theories, usually supposed to have originated in modern times.

Sir Isaac Newton’s Theory of Colours appears, by the succeeding paper, to have been imagined above two thousand years ago. The History of Ancient Philosophy is pregnant with similar instances of discrimination. It is hoped that this may justify the present attempt to familiarize the reader with the knowledge of the Ancients in various branches of Natural Philosophy, and the Elements of the Human Mind. Succeeding papers will be found to relate to their acquaintance with the Motion of the Earth—the Antipodes—Planetary Revolutions—Comets—the Moon—Air—Air-guns—Thunder—Earthquakes—the Magnet—the Tides—the Circulation of the Blood—Chirurgery—Chemistry—Malleability of Glass—Painting on Glass—Gunpowder—the Sexes of Plants—the Pendulum—Light—Perspective—the Quadrature of the Circle—Burning Glasses—the Precession of the Equinoxes—Mechanics—Architecture—Sculpture—Painting—Music, &c.

That wonderful theory, whereby is investigated and distinguished from one another the variety of colours that constitute the uniform appearance, called light, establishes the glory of sir Isaac Newton, and is an eternal monument of his extraordinary sagacity. Its discovery was reserved for an age when philosophy had arrived at its fullest maturity; and yet it is to be found in the writings of some of the most eminent men of ancient times.

Pythagoras, and his disciples after him, entertained sufficiently just conceptions of the formation of colours. They taught that “they resulted solely from the different modification of reflected light;” or, as a modern author, in explaining the sentiments of the Pythagoreans, expresses it,“light reflecting itself with more or less vivacity, forms by that means our different sensations of colour.” The same philosophers, “in assigning the reason of the difference of colours, ascribe it to a mixture of the elements of light; and divesting the atoms, or small particles of light, of all manner of colour, impute every sensation of that kind to the motions excited in our organs of sight.”

The disciples of Plato contributed not a little to the advancement of optics, by the important discovery they made, that light emits itself in straight lines, and that the angle of incidence is always equal to the angle of reflection.

Plato terms colours “the effect of light transmitted from bodies, the small particles of which were adapted to the organ of sight.” This seems precisely what sir Isaac Newton teaches in his “Optics,” viz. that “the different sensations of each particular colour are excited in us by the difference of size in those small particles of light which form the several rays; those small particles occasioning different images of colour, as the vibration is more or less lively, with which they strike our sense.” But theancientphilosopher went further. He entered into a detail of the composition of colours; and inquired into “the visible effects that must arise from a mixture of the different rays of which light itself is composed.” He advances, however, that “it is not in the power of man exactly to determine what the proportion of this mixture should be in certain colours.” This sufficiently shows, that he had an idea of this theory, though he judged it almost impossible to unfold it. He says, that “should any one arrive at the knowledge of this proportion, he ought not to hazard the discovery of it, since it would be impossible to demonstrate it by clear and convincing proofs:” and yet he thought “certain rules might be laid down respecting this subject, if in following and imitating nature we could arrive at the art of forming a diversity of colours, by the combined intermixture of others.”

It is to be remarked, that Plato adds what may be regarded as constituting the noblest tribute that can be offered in praise of sir Isaac Newton; “Yea, should ever any one,” exclaims that fine genius of antiquity, “attempt by curious research to account for this admirable mechanism, he will, in doing so, but manifest how entirely ignorant he is of the difference between divine and human power. It is true, that God can intermingle those things one with another, and then sever them at his pleasure, because he is, at the same time, all-knowing and all-powerful; but there is no man now exists, nor ever will perhaps, who shall ever be able to accomplish things so very difficult.”

What an eulogium is this from the pen of Plato! How glorious is he who has successfully accomplished what appeared impracticable to the prince of ancient philosophers! Yet what elevation of genius, what piercing penetration into the most intimate secrets of nature, displays itself in these passages concerning the nature and theory of colours, at a time when Greek philosophy was in its infancy!

Although the system of Descartes, respecting the propagation of light in an instant, has been discarded since Cassini discovered that its motion is progressive; yet it may not be amiss to show from whence he obtained the idea. His opinion was, that light is the mere action of a subtile matter upon the organs of sight. This subtile matter he supposes to fill all that space which lies between the sun and us; and that the particle of it, which is next to the sun, receiving thence an impulse, instantaneously communicates it to all the rest, between the sun and the organ of sight. To evidence this, Descartes introduces the comparison of a stick; which, by reason of the continuity of its parts, cannot in any degree be moved lengthways at one end, without instantaneously being put into the same degree of motion at the other end. Whoever will be at the pains to read, attentively, what Aristotle hath written concerning light, will perceive that he defines it to be the action of a subtile, pure, and homogeneous matter. Philoponus, explaining the manner in which this action was performed, makes use of the instance of a long string, which being pulled at one end, will instantaneously be moved at the other: he resembles the sun, to the man who quills the string; the subtile matter, to the string itself; and the instantaneous action of the one, to the movement of the other. Simplicius, in his commentary upon this passage of Aristotle, expressly employs the motion of a stick, to intimate how light, acted upon by the sun, may instantaneously impress the organs of sight. This comparison of a stick seems to have been made use of first, by Chrysippus—lastly, by Descartes.

For the Table Book.

Willey Walker, a well-known Durham character, who has discovered a new solar system different from all others, is a beadsman of the cathedral; or, as the impudent boys call a person of his rank, from the dress he wears, “a blue mouse.” It is Willey’s business to toll the curfew: but to our story. In Durham there are two clocks, which, if I may so express myself, are bothofficialones; viz. the cathedral clock, and the gaol or county clock. The admirers of each are about equal: some of the inhabitants regulating their movements by one, and some by the other. Three or four years ago it happened, during the middle of the winter, that the two clocks varied considerably; there wasonlythree quarters of an hour’s difference between them. The citizens cared very little about thisslightdiscrepancy, but it was not at all relished by the guard of the London and Edinburgh mail, who spoke on the subject to the late John Bolton, the regulator of the county clock. John immediately posted off to the cathedral, where he met Willey Walker, and the following dialogue is said to have passed between them.

Bolton.Willey, why doa’nt ye keep t’ abba clock reet—there’s a bit difference between it and mine?

Willey.Why doa’nt ye keep yours so—it never gans reet?

Bolton.Mine’s set by the sun, Willey! (Bolton was an astronomer.)

Willey.By the sun! Whew! whew! whew! Why, are ye turned fule? Nebody would think ye out else! and ye pretend to be an astronomer, and set clocks by ’t’ sun in thiswindyweather!—ther’s ne depending on it: the winds, man, blaw sa, they whisk the sun about like a whirligig!

Bolton, petrified by the outpouring of Willey’s astronomical knowledge, made no answer.

Bolton was a very eccentric character, and a great natural genius: from a very obscure origin he rose to considerable provincial celebrity. Such was his contempt of London artists, that he described himself on his sign as being “from Chester-le-Street, not London.” He was an indefatigable collector of curiosities; and had a valuable museum, which most strangers visited. His advertisements were curious compositions, often in doggerel verse. He was a good astronomer and a believer in astrology. He is interred in Elvet church-yard: a plain stone marks the place, with the following elegant inscription from the classic pen of veterinary doctor Marshall. I give it as pointed.

Ingenious artist! few thy skill surpastIn works of art. Yet death has beat at last.Tho’ conquer’d. Yet thy deeds will ever shine,Time cant destroy a genius large as thine!

Bolton built some excellent organs and turret clocks. For one of the latter, which he made for North Shields, he used to say, he was not paid: and the following notice in his shop, in large characters, informed his customers of the fact—“North Shields clock never paid for!”

R. I. P.Preb. Butt.

The following lines, written in the year 1609, are said, in the “Notes of a Bookworm,” to have induced Butler to pursue their manner in his “Hudibras.”

Dialogue.Glutton.My belly I do deify.Echo.Fie!Gl.Who curbs his appetite’s a fool.Echo.Ah! fool!Gl.I do not like this abstinence.Echo.Hence!Gl.My joy’s a feast, my wish is wine.Echo.Swine.Gl.We epicures are happy truly.Echo.You lie.Gl.May I not, Echo, eat my fill?Echo.Ill.Gl.Will it hurt me if I drink too much?Echo.Much.Gl.Thou mock’st me, nymph, I’ll not believe it.Echo.Believe it.Gl.Do’st thou condemn, then, what I do?Echo.I do.Gl.Is it that which brings infirmities?Echo.It is.Gl.Then, sweetest Temperance, I’ll love thee.Echo.I love thee.Gl.If all be true which thou dost tell.To gluttony I bid farewell.Echo.Farewell!

Dialogue.

Glutton.My belly I do deify.Echo.Fie!Gl.Who curbs his appetite’s a fool.Echo.Ah! fool!Gl.I do not like this abstinence.Echo.Hence!Gl.My joy’s a feast, my wish is wine.Echo.Swine.Gl.We epicures are happy truly.Echo.You lie.Gl.May I not, Echo, eat my fill?Echo.Ill.Gl.Will it hurt me if I drink too much?Echo.Much.Gl.Thou mock’st me, nymph, I’ll not believe it.Echo.Believe it.Gl.Do’st thou condemn, then, what I do?Echo.I do.Gl.Is it that which brings infirmities?Echo.It is.Gl.Then, sweetest Temperance, I’ll love thee.Echo.I love thee.Gl.If all be true which thou dost tell.To gluttony I bid farewell.Echo.Farewell!

To the Editor.

Sir,—The following short matter-of-fact narrative, if inserted in your widely circulated miscellany, may in some degree tend to lessen the number of dramatic aspirants, and afford a little amusement to your readers.

I was, at the age of sixteen, apprenticed to a surgeon, and had served but two years of my apprenticeship, when I began to conceive that I had talents for something superior to the profession I had embraced. I imagined that literature was my forte; and accordingly I tried my skill in the composition of a tale, wherein I was so far successful, as to obtain its insertion in a “periodical” of the day. This was succeeded by others; some of which were rejected, and some inserted. In a short time, however, I perceived that I had gained but little fame, and certainly no profit. I therefore determined to attempt dramatic writing, by which I imagined that I should acquire both fame and fortune. Accordingly, after much trouble, I concocted a plot, and in three months completed a farce! I submitted it to my friends, all of whom declared it to be “an excellent thing;” and that if merit met with its due reward, my piece would certainly be brought out. Flattered and encouraged by their good opinion, I offered it, with confidence of success, to the proprietors of Drury-lane theatre. In the space of a week, however, my piece was returned, with a polite note, informing me, that it was “not in any way calculated for representation atthattheatre.” I concluded that it could not have been read; and having consoled myself with that idea, I transmitted it to the rival theatre. One morning, after the lapse of a few days, my hopes were clouded by a neat parcel, which I found to contain my manuscript, with the same polite but cutting refusal, added to which was an assurance, “that it had been read most attentively.” I inwardly execrated the Covent Garden “reader” for a fool, and determined to persevere. At the suggestion of my friends I made numerous alterations, and submitted my farce to the manager of the Haymarket theatre, relying upon his liberality; but, after the usual delay of a week, it was again returned. At the Lyceum it also met with a similar fate. I was much hurt by these rejections, yet determined to persevere. The minor theatres remained for me, and I applied to the manager of one of these establishments, who, in the course of time, assured me, that my piece should certainly be produced. I was delighted at the brilliant prospects whichseemedto open to me, and Ifanciedthat I was fast approaching the summit of my ambition. Three tedious months ensued before I was summoned to attend the rehearsal; but I was then much pleased at the pains the actors appeared to have taken in acquiring their parts. The wished-for night arrived. I never dreamed of failure; and I invited a few of my select friends to witness its first representation—it was the last: for, notwithstanding the exertions of the performers, and the applause of my worthy friends, so unanimous was the hostility of the audience, that my piece was damned!—damned, too, at aminortheatre! I attributed its failure entirely to the depraved taste of the audience. I was disgusted; and resolved, from that time, never more to waste my talents in endeavouring to amuse an unappreciating and ungrateful public. I have been firm to that resolution. I relinquished the making up of plays for the more profitable occupation of making up prescriptions, and am now living in comfort upon the produce of my profession.

Auctor.

A few years ago a sign of one of the Durham inns was removed, and sent to Chester-le-Street, by way of a frolic. It was generally supposed that the feat was achieved by some of the legal students then in that city; and a respectable attorney there was so fully persuaded of it, that he immediately began to make inquiries corroborative of his suspicions. The circumstances drew forth the following epigram from our friend T. Q. M., which has never appeared in print.

From one of our inns was a sign taken down.And sent by some wags to a neighbouring town.To a limb of the law the freak caus’d much vexation,And he went through the streets making wild lamentation;And breathing revenge on the frolicsome sparks,Who, he had not a doubt, were the “gentlemenclerks.”[363]From theprophetsmethinks we may inference drawTo prove howperversewas this man of thelaw.For we find it inscrib’d in the pages divine—“Aperversegeneration looks aftera sign!”

[363]A favourite expression of the legal gentleman alluded to.

The whole early part of the Roman history is very problematical. It is hardly possible to suppose the Romans could have made so conspicuous a figure in Italy, and not be noticed by Herodotus, who finished his history in Magna Græcia. Neither is Rome mentioned by Aristotle, though he particularly describes the government of Carthage. Livy, a writer by no means void of national prejudice, expressly says, they had never heard of Alexander; and here we surely may say in the words of the poet,

“Not to know him, argues themselves unknown.”

Pliny, it is true, quotes a passage of Theophrastus, to show that a certain Greek writer, named Clitarchus, mentions an embassy from the Romans to Alexander; but this can never be set against the authority of Livy, especially as Quintilian gives no very favourable opinion of the veracity of the Greek historian in these words,—“Clitarchi, probatur ingenium, fidesinfamatur.”[364]

[364]H. J. Pye.

When the Utopia of sir Thomas More was first published, it occasioned a pleasant mistake. This political romance represents a perfect, but visionary republic, in an island supposed to have been newly discovered in America. As this was the age of discovery, (says Granger,) the learned Budæus, and others, took it for a genuine history; and considered it as highly expedient, that missionaries should be sent thither, in order to convert so wise a nation to Christianity.

A patent passed the great seal in the fifteenth year of James I., which is to be found in Rymer, “to allow to Mary Middlemore, one of the maydes of honor to our deerest consort queen Anne, (of Denmark,) and her deputies, power and authority, to enter into the abbies of Saint Albans, Glassenbury, Saint Edmundsbury, and Ramsay, and into all lands, houses, and places, within a mile, belonging to said abbies;” there to dig, and search after treasure, supposed to be hidden in such places.

By a Lady.

If any human being was free from personal vanity it must have been the second duchess d’Orleans, Charlotte Elizabeth of Bavaria. In one of her letters, (dated 9th August, 1718,) she says, “I must certainly be monstrously ugly. I never had a good feature. My eyes are small, my nose short and thick, my lips broad and thin. These are not materials to form a beautiful face. Then I have flabby, lank cheeks, and long features, which suit ill with my low stature. My waist and my legs are equally clumsy. Undoubtedly I must appear to be an odious little wretch; and had I not a tolerably good character, no creature could enduer me. I am sure a person must be a conjuror to judge by my eyes that I have a grain of wit.”

The following singular circumstance is related by Dr. Whitaker in his History ofCraven:—

Gilbert Plumpton, in the 21 of Henry II., committed something like an Irish marriage with the heiress of Richard Warelwas, and thereby incurred the displeasure of Ranulph de Glanville, great justiciary, who meant to have married her to a dependant of his own. Plumpton was in consequence indicted and convicted of a rape at Worcester; but at the very moment when the rope was fixed, and the executioner was drawing the culprit up to the gallows, Baldwin, bishop of Worcester, running to the place, forbade the officer of justice, in the name of the Almighty, to proceed: and thus saved the criminal’s life.

A polite behaviour can never be long maintained without a real wish to please; and such a wish is a proof of good-nature. No ill-natured man can be long well-bred. No good-natured man, however unpolished in his manners, can ever be essentially ill-bred. From an absurd prejudice with regard to good-nature, some people affect to substitute good temper for it; but no qualities can be more distinct: many good-tempered people, as well as many fools, are very ill-natured; and many men of first-rate genius—with which perhaps entire good temper is incompatible—are perfectly good-natured.

The Viscount de Chateaubriand gratefully memorializes his respect for the virtue of a distressed family in London by the following touching narrative prefixed to his Indian tale, entitled “TheNatchez:”—

When I quitted England in 1800 to return to France, under a fictitious name, I durst not encumber myself with too much baggage. I left, therefore, most of my manuscripts in London. Among these manuscripts was that ofThe Natchez, no other part of which I brought to Paris butRené,Atala, and some passages descriptive of America.

Fourteen years elapsed before the communication with Great Britain was renewed. At the first moment of the Restoration I scarcely thought of my papers; and if I had, how was I to find them again? They had been left locked up in a trunk with an Englishwoman, in whose house I had lodged in London. I had forgotten the name of this woman; the name of the street and the number of the house had likewise escaped my memory.

In consequence of some vague and even contradictory information which I transmitted to London, Messrs. de Thuisy took the trouble to make inquiries, which they prosecuted with a zeal and perseverance rarely equalled. With infinite pains they at length discovered the house where I resided at the west end of the town; but my landlady had been dead several years, and no one knew what had become of her children. Pursuing, however, the clue which they had obtained, Messrs. de Thuisy, after many fruitless excursions, at last found out her family in a village several miles from London.

Had they kept all this time the trunk of an emigrant, a trunk full of old papers, which could scarcely be deciphered? Might they not have consigned to the flames such a useless heap of French manuscripts? On the other hand, if my name, bursting from its obscurity, had attracted, in the London journals, the notice of the children of my former landlady, might they not have been disposed to make what profit they could of those papers, which would then acquire a certain value?

Nothing of the kind had happened. The manuscripts had been preserved, the trunk had not even been opened. A religious fidelity had been shown by an unfortunate family towards a child of misfortune. I had committed with simplicity the result of the labours of part of my life to the honesty of a foreign trustee, and my treasure was restored to me with the same simplicity. I know not that I ever met with any thing in my life which touched me more than the honesty and integrity of this poor English family.

For the Table Book.

Abraham Cann, the Devonshire champion, and his brother wrestlers of that county, are objected to for their play with the foot, called “showing a toe” in Devonshire; or, to speak plainly, “kicking.” Perhaps neither the objectors, nor Abraham and his fellow-countrymen, are aware, that the Devonshire custom was also the custom of the Greeks, in the same sport, three thousand years ago. The English reader may derive proof of this from Pope’s translation of Homer’s account of the wrestling match at the funeral of Patroclus, between Ulysses and Ajax, for prizes offered byAchilles:—

Back to Index Next