Necromancy.

Let me contemplate;With holy wonder season my access,And by degrees approach the sanctuaryOf unmatch’d beauty, set in grace and goodness.Amongst the daughters of men I have not foundA more Catholical aspect. That eyeDoth promise single life, and meek obedience.Upon those lips (the sweet fresh buds of youth)The holy dew of prayer lies, like pearlDropt from the opening eyelids of the mornUpon the bashful rose. How beauteouslyA gentle fast (not rigorously imposed)Would look upon that cheek; and how delightfulThe courteous physic of a tender penance,(Whose utmost cruelty should not exceedThe first fear of a bride), to beat down frailty!

[From the “Virgin Widow,” a Comedy, 1649; the only production, in that kind, of Francis Quarles, Author of the Emblems.]

Song.

How blest are they that waste their weary hoursIn solemn groves and solitary bowers,Where neither eye nor earCan see or hearThe frantic mirthAnd false delights of frolic earth;Where they may sit, and pant,And breathe their pursy souls;Where neither grief consumes, nor griping wantAfflicts, nor sullen care controuls.Away, false joys; ye murther where ye kiss!There is no heaven to that, no life to this.

[From “Adrasta,” a Tragi-comedy, by John Jones, 1635.]

Dirge.

Die, die, ah die!We all must die:’Tis Fate’s decree;Then ask not why.When we were framed, the Fates consultedlyDid make this law, that all things born should die.Yet Nature strove,And did denyWe should be slavesTo Destiny.At which, they heaptSuch misery;That Nature’s selfDid wish to die:And thank their goodness, that they would foreseeTo end our cares with such a mild decree.

Another.

Come, Lovers, bring your cares,Bring sigh-perfumed sweets;Bedew the grave with tears,Where Death with Virtue meets.Sigh for the hapless hour,That knit two hearts in one;And only gave Love powerTo die, when ’twas begun.

[From “Tancred and Gismund,” acted before the Court by the Gentlemen of the Inner Temple, 1591.]

A Messenger brings to Gismund a cup from the King her Father, enclosing the heart of her Lord, whom she had espoused without his sanction.

Mess.Thy father, O Queen, here in this cup hath sentThe thing to joy and comfort thee withal,Which thou lovedst best: ev’n as thou wast contentTo comfort him with his best joy of all.Gis.I thank my father, and thee, gentle Squire;For this thy travail; take thou for thy painsThis bracelet, and commend me to the King.****So, now is come the long-expected hour,The fatal hour I have so looked for.Now hath my father satisfied his thirstWith guiltless blood, which he so coveted.What brings this cup? aye me, I thought no less;It is my Earl’s, my County’s pierced heart.Dear heart, too dearly hast thou bought my love.Extremely rated at too high a price.Ah my dear heart, sweet wast thou in thy life,But in thy death thou provest passing sweet.A fitter hearse than this of beaten goldCould not be lotted to so good a heart.My father therefore well provided thusTo close and wrap thee up in massy goldAnd therewithal to send thee unto me,To whom of duty thou dost best belong.My father hath in all his life bewrayedA princely care and tender love to me,But this surpasseth, in his latter daysTo send me this mine own dear heart to me.Wert not thou mine, dear heart, whilst that my loveDanced and play’d upon thy golden strings?Art thou not mine, dear heart, now that my loveIs fled to heaven, and got him golden wings?Thou art mine own, and still mine own shall be,Therefore my father sendeth thee to me.Ah pleasant harbourer of my heart’s thought!Ah sweet delight, the quickener of my soul!Seven times accursed be the hand that wroughtThee this despite, to mangle thee so foulYet in this wound I see my own true love,And in this wound thy magnanimity,And in this wound I see thy constancy.Go, gentle heart, go rest thee in thy tomb;Receive this token as thy last farewell.She kisseth it.Thy own true heart anon will follow thee,Which panting hasteth for thy company.Thus hast thou run, poor heart, thy mortal race,And rid thy life from fickle fortune’s snares,Thus hast thou lost this world and worldly cares,And of thy foe, to honour thee withal,Receiv’d a golden grave to thy desert.Nothing doth want to thy just funeral,But my salt tears to wash thy bloody wound;Which to the end thou mightst receive, behold,My father sends thee in this cup of gold:And thou shalt have them; though I was resolvedTo shed no tears; but with a cheerful faceOnce did I think to wet thy funeralOnly with blood, and with no weeping eye.This done, my soul forthwith shall fly to thee;For therefore did my father send thee me.

****

So, now is come the long-expected hour,The fatal hour I have so looked for.Now hath my father satisfied his thirstWith guiltless blood, which he so coveted.What brings this cup? aye me, I thought no less;It is my Earl’s, my County’s pierced heart.Dear heart, too dearly hast thou bought my love.Extremely rated at too high a price.Ah my dear heart, sweet wast thou in thy life,But in thy death thou provest passing sweet.A fitter hearse than this of beaten goldCould not be lotted to so good a heart.My father therefore well provided thusTo close and wrap thee up in massy goldAnd therewithal to send thee unto me,To whom of duty thou dost best belong.My father hath in all his life bewrayedA princely care and tender love to me,But this surpasseth, in his latter daysTo send me this mine own dear heart to me.Wert not thou mine, dear heart, whilst that my loveDanced and play’d upon thy golden strings?Art thou not mine, dear heart, now that my loveIs fled to heaven, and got him golden wings?Thou art mine own, and still mine own shall be,Therefore my father sendeth thee to me.Ah pleasant harbourer of my heart’s thought!Ah sweet delight, the quickener of my soul!Seven times accursed be the hand that wroughtThee this despite, to mangle thee so foulYet in this wound I see my own true love,And in this wound thy magnanimity,And in this wound I see thy constancy.Go, gentle heart, go rest thee in thy tomb;Receive this token as thy last farewell.She kisseth it.Thy own true heart anon will follow thee,Which panting hasteth for thy company.Thus hast thou run, poor heart, thy mortal race,And rid thy life from fickle fortune’s snares,Thus hast thou lost this world and worldly cares,And of thy foe, to honour thee withal,Receiv’d a golden grave to thy desert.Nothing doth want to thy just funeral,But my salt tears to wash thy bloody wound;Which to the end thou mightst receive, behold,My father sends thee in this cup of gold:And thou shalt have them; though I was resolvedTo shed no tears; but with a cheerful faceOnce did I think to wet thy funeralOnly with blood, and with no weeping eye.This done, my soul forthwith shall fly to thee;For therefore did my father send thee me.

Nearly a century after the date of this Drama, Dryden produced his admirable version of the same story from Boccacio. The speech here extracted may be compared with the corresponding passage in the Sigismonda and Guiscardo, with no disadvantage to the elder performance. It is quite as weighty, as pointed, and as passionate.

C. L.

The dean of the cathedral of Badajos was more learned than all the doctors of Salamanca, Coimbra, and Alcala, united; he understood all languages, living and dead, and was perfect master of every science divine and human, except that, unfortunately, he had no knowledge of magic. He was inconsolable when he reflected on his ignorance in that sublime art, till he was told that a very able magician resided in the suburbs of Toledo, named don Torribio. He immediately saddled his mule, departed for Toledo, and alighted at the door of no very superb dwelling, the habitation of that great man.

“Most reverend magician,” said he, addressing himself to the sage, “I am the dean of Badajos. The learned men of Spain all allow me to be their superior; but I am come to request from you a much greater honour, that of becoming your pupil. Deign to initiate me in the mysteries of your art, and doubt not but you shall receive a grateful acknowledgment, suitable to the benefit conferred, and your own extraordinary merit.”

Don Torribio was not very polite, though he valued himself on being intimately acquainted with the highest company below. He told the dean he was welcome to seek elsewhere for a master; for that, for his part, he was weary of an occupation which produced nothing but compliments and promises, and that he should but dishonour the occult sciences by prostituting them to the ungrateful.

“To the ungrateful!” exclaimed the dean: “has then the great don Torribio met with persons who have proved ungrateful? And can he so far mistakemeas to rank me with such monsters?” He then repeated all the maxims and apophthegms which he had read on the subject of gratitude, and every refined sentiment his memory could furnish. In short, he talked so well, that the conjuror, after having considered a moment, confessed he could refuse nothing to a man of such abilities, and so ready at pertinent quotations.

“Jacintha,” said don Torribio to his old woman, “lay down two partridges to the fire. I hope my friend the dean will do me the honour to sup with me to night.” At the same time he took him by the hand and led him into the cabinet; when here, he touched his forehead, uttering three mysterious words, which the reader will please to remember, “Ortobolan,Pistafrier,Onagriouf.” Then, without further preparation, he began to explain, with all possible perspicuity, the introductory elements of his profound science. The new disciple listened with an attention which scarcely permitted him to breathe; when, on a sudden, Jacintha entered, followed by a little old man in monstrous boots, and covered with mud up to the neck, who desired to speak with the dean on very important business. This was the postilion of his uncle, the bishop of Badajos, who had been sent express after him, and who had galloped without ceasing quite to Toledo, before he could overtake him. He came to bring him information that, some hours after his departure, his grace had been attacked by so violent an apoplexy that the most terrible consequences were to be apprehended. The dean heartily, that isinwardly, (so as to occasion no scandal,) execrated the disorder, the patient,and the courier, who had certainly all three chosen the most impertinent time possible. He dismissed the postilion, bidding him make haste back to Badajos, whither he would presently follow him; and instantly returned to his lesson, as if there were no such things as either uncles or apoplexies.

A few days afterwards the dean again received news from Badajos: but this was worth hearing. The principal chanter, and two old canons, came to inform him that his uncle, the right reverend bishop, had been taken to heaven to receive the reward of his piety; and the chapter, canonically assembled, had chosen him to fill the vacant bishopric, and humbly requested he would console, by his presence, the afflicted church of Badajos, now become his spiritual bride.

Don Torribio, who was present at this harangue, endeavoured to derive advantage from what he had learned; and taking aside the new bishop, after having paid him a well-turned compliment on his promotion, proceeded to inform him that he had a son, named Benjamin, possessed of much ingenuity, and good inclination, but in whom he had never perceived either taste or talent for the occult sciences. He had, therefore, he said, advised him to turn his thoughts towards the church, and he had now, he thanked heaven, the satisfaction to hear him commended as one of the most deserving divines among all the clergy of Toledo. He therefore took the liberty, most humbly, to request his grace to bestow on don Benjamin the deanery of Badajos, which he could not retain together with his bishopric.

“I am very unfortunate,” replied the prelate, apparently somewhat embarrassed; “you will, I hope, do me the justice to believe that nothing could give me so great a pleasure as to oblige you in every request; but the truth is, I have a cousin to whom I am heir, an old ecclesiastic, who is good for nothing but to be a dean, and if I do not bestow on him this benefice, I must embroil myself with my family, which would be far from agreeable. But,” continued he, in an affectionate manner, “will you not accompany me to Badajos? Can you be so cruel as to forsake me at a moment when it is in my power to be of service to you? Be persuaded, my honoured master, we will go together. Think of nothing but the improvement of your pupil, and leave me to provide for don Benjamin; nor doubt, but sooner or later, I will do more for him than you expect. A paltry deanery in the remotest part of Estremadura is not a benefice suitable to the son of such a man as yourself.”

The canon law would, no doubt, have construed the prelate’s offer into simony. The proposal however was accepted, nor was any scruple made by either of these two very intelligent persons. Don Torribio followed his illustrious pupil to Badajos, where he had an elegant apartment assigned him in the episcopal palace; and was treated with the utmost respect by the diocese as the favourite of his grace, and a kind of grand vicar. Under the tuition of so able a master the bishop of Badajos made a rapid progress in the occult sciences. At first he gave himself up to them, with an ardour which might appear excessive; but this intemperance grew by degrees more moderate, and he pursued them with so much prudence that his magical studies never interfered with the duties of his diocese. He was well convinced of the truth of a maxim, very important to be remembered by ecclesiastics, whether addicted to sorcery, or only philosophers and admirers of literature—that it is not sufficient to assist at learned nocturnal meetings, or adorn the mind with embellishments of human science, but that it is also the duty of divines to point out to others the way to heaven, and plant in the minds of their hearers, wholesome doctrine and Christian morality. Regulating his conduct by these commendable principles, this learned prelate was celebrated throughout Christendom for his merit and piety: and, “when he least expected such an honour,” was promoted to the archbishopric of Compostella. The people and clergy of Badajos lamented, as may be supposed, an event by which they were deprived of so worthy a pastor; and the canons of the cathedral, to testify their respect, unanimously conferred on him the honour of nominating his successor.

Don Torribio did not neglect so alluring an opportunity to provide for his son. He requested the bishopric of the new archbishop, and wasrefusedwith all imaginable politeness. He had, he said, the greatest veneration for his old master, and was both sorry and ashamed it was “not in his power” to grant a thing which appeared so very a trifle, but, in fact, don Ferdinand de Lara, constable of Castile, had asked the bishopric for his natural son; and though he had never seen that nobleman, he had, he said, some secret, important, and what was more, very ancient obligations to him. It was therefore an indispensable duty to prefer an old benefactor to a new oneBut don Torribio ought not to be discouraged at this proof of his justice; as he might learn by that, whathehad to expect when his turn arrived, which should certainly be the first opportunity. This anecdote concerning the ancient obligations of the archbishop, the magician had the goodness to believe, and rejoiced, as much as he was able, that his interests were sacrificed to those of don Ferdinand.

Nothing was now thought of but preparations for their departure to Compostella, where they were to reside. These, however, were scarcely worth the trouble, considering the short time they were destined to remain there; for at the end of a few months one of the pope’s chamberlains arrived, who brought the archbishop a cardinal’s cap, with an epistle conceived in the most respectful terms, in which his holiness invited him to assist, by his counsel, in the government of the Christian world; permitting him at the same time to dispose of his mitre in favour of whom he pleased. Don Torribio was not at Compostella when the courier of the holy father arrived. He had been to see his son, who still continued a priest in a small parish at Toledo. But he presently returned, and was not put to the trouble of asking for the vacant archbishopric. The prelate ran to meet him with open arms, “My dear master,” said he, “I have two pieces of good news to relate at once. Your disciple is created a cardinal, and your son shall—shortly—be advanced to the same dignity. I had intended in the mean time to bestow upon him the archbishopric of Compostella, but, unfortunately for him, and for me, my mother, whom we left at Badajos, has, during your absence, written me a cruel letter, by which all my measures have been disconcerted. She will not be pacified unless I appoint for my successor the archdeacon of my former church, don Pablas de Salazar, her intimate friend and confessor. She tells me it will “occasion her death” if she should not be able to obtain preferment for her dear father in God. Shall I be the death of my mother?”

Don Torribio was not a person who could incite or urge his friend to be guilty of parricide, nor did he indulge himself in the least resentment against the mother of the prelate. To say the truth, however, this mother was a good kind of woman, nearly superannuated. She lived quietly with her cat and her maid servant, and scarcely knew the name of her confessor. Was it likely, then, that she had procured don Pablas his archbishopric? Was it notmorethan probable that he was indebted for it to a Gallician lady, his cousin, at once devout and handsome, in whose company his grace the archbishop had frequently been edified during his residence at Compostella? Be this as it may, don Torribio followed his eminence to Rome. Scarcely had he arrived at that city ere the pope died. The conclave met—all the voices of the sacred college were in favour of the Spanish cardinal. Behold him therefore pope.

Immediately after the ceremony of his exaltation, don Torribio, admitted to a secret audience, wept with joy while he kissed the feet of his dear pupil. He modestly represented his long and faithful services, reminded his holiness of those inviolable promises which he had renewed before he entered the conclave, and instead of demanding the vacant hat for don Benjamin, finished with most exemplary moderation by renouncing every ambitious hope. He and his son, he said, would both esteem themselves too happy if his holiness would bestow on them, together with his benediction, the smallest temporal benefice; such as an annuity for life, sufficient for the few wants of an ecclesiastic and a philosopher.

During this harangue the sovereign pontiff considered within himself how to dispose of his preceptor. He reflected he was no longer necessary; that he already knew as much of magic as was sufficient for a pope. After weighing every circumstance, his holiness concluded that don Torribio was not only an useless, but atroublesomepedant; and this point determined, he replied in the following words:

“We have learned, with concern, that under the pretext of cultivating the occult sciences, you maintain a horrible intercourse with the spirit of darkness and deceit; we therefore exhort you, as a father, to expiate your crime by a repentance proportionable to its enormity. Moreover, we enjoin you to depart from the territories of the church within three days, under penalty of being delivered over to the secular arm, and its merciless flames.”

Don Torribio, without being alarmed, immediately repeated the three mysterious words which the reader was desired to remember; and going to a window, cried out with all his force, “Jacintha, you need spit but one partridge; for my friend, the dean, willnotsup here to-night.”

This was a thunderbolt to the imaginary pope. He immediately recovered from thetrance, into which he had been thrown by the three mysterious words. He perceived that, instead of being in the vatican, he was still at Toledo, in the closet of don Torribio; and he saw, by the clock, it was not a complete hour since he entered that fatal cabinet, where he had been entertained by such pleasant dreams.

In that short time the dean of Badajos had imagined himself a magician, a bishop, a cardinal, and a pope; and he found at last that he was only a dupe and a knave. All was illusion, except the proofs he had given of his deceitful and evil heart. He instantly departed, without speaking a single word, and finding his mule where he had left her, returned to Badajos.

Phrenology.For the Table Book.“You look but on theoutsideof affairs.”King John.

For the Table Book.

“You look but on theoutsideof affairs.”

King John.

Oh! why do we wake from the alchymist’s dreamTo relapse to the visions of Doctor Spurzheim?And why from the heights of philosophy fall,For the profitless plans of Phrenology Gall?To what do they tend?What interest befriend?By disclosing all vices, we burn away shame,And virtuous endeavourIs fruitless for ever,If it lose the reward that self-teaching may claim.On their skulls let the cold-blooded theorists seekIndications of soul, which we read on the cheek;In the glance—in the smile—in the bend of the browWe dare not tell when, and we cannot tell how.More pleasing our task,No precepts we ask;’Tis the tact, ’tis the instinct, kind Nature has lent,For the guide and direction of sympathy meant.And altho’ in our cause no learn’d lecturer proses,We reach the same end, thro’ a path strew’d with roses.’Twixt the head and the hand, be the contact allow’d,Of the road thro’ the eye to the heart we are proud.When we feel like the brutes, like the brutes we may show it,But no lumps on the head mark the artist or poet.The gradations of genius you never can find,Since no matter can mark the refinements of mind.’Tis the coarser perceptions alone that you trace,But what swells in the heart must be read in the face.That index of feeling, that key to the soul,No art can disguise, no reserve can control.’Tis the Pharos of love, tost on oceans of doubt,’Tis the Beal-fire of rage—when good senseputs about.As the passions may paint it—a heaven or a hell.And ’tis always astudy—notmodelas well.

On their skulls let the cold-blooded theorists seekIndications of soul, which we read on the cheek;In the glance—in the smile—in the bend of the browWe dare not tell when, and we cannot tell how.More pleasing our task,No precepts we ask;’Tis the tact, ’tis the instinct, kind Nature has lent,For the guide and direction of sympathy meant.And altho’ in our cause no learn’d lecturer proses,We reach the same end, thro’ a path strew’d with roses.’Twixt the head and the hand, be the contact allow’d,Of the road thro’ the eye to the heart we are proud.When we feel like the brutes, like the brutes we may show it,But no lumps on the head mark the artist or poet.The gradations of genius you never can find,Since no matter can mark the refinements of mind.’Tis the coarser perceptions alone that you trace,But what swells in the heart must be read in the face.That index of feeling, that key to the soul,No art can disguise, no reserve can control.’Tis the Pharos of love, tost on oceans of doubt,’Tis the Beal-fire of rage—when good senseputs about.As the passions may paint it—a heaven or a hell.And ’tis always astudy—notmodelas well.

TO THE RHONEFor the Table Book.Thou art like our existence, and thy waves,Illustrious river! seem the very typeOf those events which drive us to our graves,Or rudely place us in misfortune’s gripe!Thou art an emblem of our changeful state,Smooth when the summer magnifies thy charms.But rough and cheerless when the winds createRebellion, and remorseless winter armsThe elements with ruin! In thy courseThe ups and downs of fortune we may trace—One wave submitting to another’s force,The boldest always foremost in the race:And thus it is with life—sometimes its calmIs pregnant with enjoyment’s sweetest balm;At other times, its tempests drive us downThe steep of desolation, while the frownOf malice haunts us, till the friendlier tombProtects the victim she would fain consume!B. W. R.Upper Park Terrace.

For the Table Book.

Thou art like our existence, and thy waves,Illustrious river! seem the very typeOf those events which drive us to our graves,Or rudely place us in misfortune’s gripe!Thou art an emblem of our changeful state,Smooth when the summer magnifies thy charms.But rough and cheerless when the winds createRebellion, and remorseless winter armsThe elements with ruin! In thy courseThe ups and downs of fortune we may trace—One wave submitting to another’s force,The boldest always foremost in the race:And thus it is with life—sometimes its calmIs pregnant with enjoyment’s sweetest balm;At other times, its tempests drive us downThe steep of desolation, while the frownOf malice haunts us, till the friendlier tombProtects the victim she would fain consume!

B. W. R.

Upper Park Terrace.

Would a man wish to offend his friends?—let him give them advice.

Would a lover know the surest method by which to lose his mistress?—let him give her advice.

Would a courtier terminate his sovereign’s partiality?—let him offer advice.

In short, are we desirous to be universally hated, avoided, and despised, the means are always in our power.—We have butto advise, and the consequences are infallible.

The friendship of two young ladies though apparently founded on the rock of eternal attachment, terminated in the following manner: “My dearest girl, I do not think your figure well suited for dancing; and, as a sincere friend of yours, Iadviseyou to refrain from it in future.” The other naturally affected by such amarkof sincerity, replied, “I feel very much obliged to you, my dear, for youradvice; this proof of your friendship demands some return: I would sincerely recommend you to relinquish your singing, as some of your upper notes resemble the melodious squeaking of the feline race.”

Theadviceof neither was followed—the one continued to sing, and the other to dance—and they never met but as enemies.

Tommy Sly, of Durham.

For the Table Book.

Tommy Sly, whoseportraitis above, is a well-known eccentric character in the city of Durham, where he has been a resident in the poor-house for a number of years. We know not whether his parents were rich or poor, where he was born, or how he spent his early years—all is alike “a mystery;” and all that can be said of him is, that he is “daft.” Exactly in appearance as he is represented in theengraving,—he dresses in a coat of many colours, attends the neighbouring villages with spice, sometimes parades the streets of Durham with “pipe-clay for the lasses,” and on “gala days” wanders up and down with a cockade in his hat, beating the city drum, which is good-naturedly lent him by the corporation. Tommy, as worthless and insignificant as he seems, is nevertheless “put out to use:” his name has often served as a signature to satirical effusions; and at election times he has been occasionally employed by the Whigs to take the distinguished lead of some grand Tory procession, and thereby render it ridiculous; and by way of retaliation, he has been hired by the Tories to do the same kind office for the Whigs. He is easily bought or sold, for he will do any thing for a few halfpence. To sum up Tommy’s character, we may say with truth, that he is a harmless and inoffensive man; and if the reader of this brief sketch should ever happen to be in Durham, and have a few halfpence to spare, he cannot bestow his charity better than by giving it to the “Custos Rotulorum” of the place—as Mr. Humble once ludicrously called him—poorTommy Sly.

Ex Dunelmensis.

The following particulars from a paper before me, in the hand-writing of Mr. Gell, were addressed to his “personal representative” for instruction, in his absence, during a temporary retirement from official duty in August, 1810.

The abbey-church of Westminster may be safely pronounced the most interesting ecclesiastical structure in this kingdom. Considered as a building, its architecture, rich in the varieties of successive ages, and marked by some of the most prominent beauties and peculiarities of the pointed style, affords an extensive field of gratification to the artist and the antiquary. Rising in solemn magnificence amidst the palaces and dignified structures connected with the seat of imperial government, it forms a distinguishing feature in the metropolis of England. Its history, as connected with a great monastic establishment, immediately under the notice of our ancient monarchs, and much favoured by their patronage, abounds in important and curious particulars.

But this edifice has still a stronger claim to notice—it has been adopted as a national structure, and held forward as an object of national pride. Whilst contemplating these venerable walls, or exploring the long aisles and enriched chapels, the interest is not confined to the customary recollections of sacerdotal pomp: ceremonies of more impressive interest, and of the greatest public importance, claim a priority of attention. The grandeur of architectural display in this building is viewed with additional reverence, when we remember that the same magnificence of effect has imparted increased solemnity to the coronation of our kings, from the era of the Norman conquest.

At a very early period, this abbey-church was selected as a place of burial for the English monarchs; and the antiquary and the student of history view their monuments as melancholy, but most estimable sources of intelligence and delight. In the vicinity of the ashes of royalty, a grateful and judicious nation has placed the remains of such of her sons as have been most eminent for patriotic worth, for valour, or for talent; and sculptors, almost from the earliest period in which their art was exercised by natives of England, down to the present time, have here exerted their best efforts, in commemoration of those thus celebrated for virtue, for energy, or for intellectualpower.[82]

[82]Mr. Brayley; in Neale’s Hist. and Antiq. of Westminster Abbey.

Written byWilliam Leathart,Llywydd.

Sung at the Second Anniversary of the Society ofUndeb Cymry, St. David’s Day, 1825.

Air—Pen Rhaw.I.If bards tell true, and hist’ry’s pageIs right,—why, then, I would engageTo tell you all about the age,When Cæsar used to speak;When dandy Britons painted,—wereDress’d in the skin of wolf or bear,Or in their own, if none were there,Before they woreTHE LEEK.Ere Alfred hung in the highway,His chains of gold by night or day;And never had them stol’n away,His subjects were so meek.When wolves they danc’d o’er field and fen;When austereDruidsroasted men;—But that was only now and then,Ere Welshmen woreTHE LEEK.II.Like all good things—this could not last,AndSaxongents, as friends, were ask’d,Our Pictish foes to drive them pastThe wall:—then home to seek,Instead of home, the cunning chapsResolv’d to stop and dish the APs,Now here they are, and in their capsTo day they wearTHE LEEK.Yet tho’ our dads, they tumbled out,And put each other to the rout,We sons will push the bowl about;—We’re here for fun or freak.Let nought but joy within us dwell;Let mirth and glee each bosom swell;And bards, in days to come, shall tell,How Welshmen loveTHE LEEK.

Air—Pen Rhaw.

If bards tell true, and hist’ry’s pageIs right,—why, then, I would engageTo tell you all about the age,When Cæsar used to speak;When dandy Britons painted,—wereDress’d in the skin of wolf or bear,Or in their own, if none were there,Before they woreTHE LEEK.Ere Alfred hung in the highway,His chains of gold by night or day;And never had them stol’n away,His subjects were so meek.When wolves they danc’d o’er field and fen;When austereDruidsroasted men;—But that was only now and then,Ere Welshmen woreTHE LEEK.

II.

Like all good things—this could not last,AndSaxongents, as friends, were ask’d,Our Pictish foes to drive them pastThe wall:—then home to seek,Instead of home, the cunning chapsResolv’d to stop and dish the APs,Now here they are, and in their capsTo day they wearTHE LEEK.Yet tho’ our dads, they tumbled out,And put each other to the rout,We sons will push the bowl about;—We’re here for fun or freak.Let nought but joy within us dwell;Let mirth and glee each bosom swell;And bards, in days to come, shall tell,How Welshmen loveTHE LEEK.

Mr. Leathart is the author of “Welsh Pennillion, with Translations into English, adapted forsinging to the Harp,” an eighteenpenny pocket-book of words of ancient and modern melodies in Welsh and English, with a spirited motto from Mr. Leigh Hunt.—“The Ancient Britons had in them the seeds of a great nation even in our modern sense of the word. They had courage, they had reflection, they had imagination. Power at last made a vassal of their prince. There were writers in those times, harpers, and bards, who made the instinct of that brute faculty turn cruel out of fear. They bequeathed to their countrymen the glory of their memories; they and time together have consecrated their native hills, so as they never before were consecrated.”

According to the prefatory dissertation of Mr. Leathart’s pleasant little manual, “Pennillion singing” is the most social relic of ancient minstrelsy in existence. It originated when bardism nourished in this island; when the object of its members was to instil moral maxims through the medium of poetry, and the harp was then, as it still is, the instrument to which they chanted. There is evidence of this use of the harp in Cæsar and other Latin writers. The bards were priest and poet; the harp was their inseparable attribute, and skill in playing on it an indispensable qualification. A knowledge of this instrument was necessary, in order to establish a claim to the title of gentleman; it occupied a place in every mansion; and every harper was entitled to valuable privileges. A “Pencerdd,” or chief of song, and a “Bardd Teulu,” or domestic bard, were among the necessary appendages to the king’s court. The former held his lands free, was stationed by the side of the “judge of the palace,” and lodged with the heir presumptive. He was entitled to a fee on the tuition of all minstrels, and to a maiden fee on the marriage of a minstrel’s daughter. The fine for insulting him was six cows and eighty pence. The domestic bard also held his land free; he had a harp from the king, which he was enjoined never to part with; a gold ring from the queen, and a beast out of every spoil. In the palace he sang immediately after the chief of song, and in fight at the front of the battle. It is still customary for our kings to maintain a Welsh minstrel.

One of the greatest encouragers of music was Gruffydd ap Cynan, a sovereign of Wales, who, in the year 1100, summoned a grand congress to revise the laws of minstrelsy, and remedy any abuse that might have crept in. In order that it should be complete, the most celebrated harpers in Ireland were invited to assist, and the result was the establishing the twenty-four canons of music; the MS. of which is in the library of the Welsh school, in Gray’s Inn-lane. It comprises several tunes not now extant, or rather that cannot be properly deciphered, and a few that are well known at the present day. A tune is likewise there to be found, which a note informs us was usually played before king Arthur, when the salt was laid upon the table; it is called “Gosteg yr Halen,” or thePrelude of the Salt.

The regulations laid down in the above MS. are curious. A minstrel having entered a place of festivity was not allowed to depart without leave, or to rove about at any time, under the penalty of losing his fees. If he became intoxicated and committed any mischievous trick, he was fined, imprisoned, and divested of his fees for seven years. Only one could attend a person worth ten pounds per annum, or two a person worth twenty pounds per annum, and so forth. It likewise ordains the quantum of musical knowledge necessary for the taking up of the different degrees, for the obtaining of which three years seems to have been allowed.

The Welsh harp, or “Telyn,” consists of three distinct rows of strings, without pedals, and was, till the fifteenth century, strung with hair. The modern Welsh harp has two rows of strings and pedals.

Giraldus Cambrensis, in his Itinerary, speaking of the musical instruments of the Welsh, Irish, and Scotch, says, Wales uses the harp, “crwth,” and bag-pipes; Scotlandthe harp, “crwth,” and drum; Ireland the harp and drum only; and, of all, Wales only retains her own.

The “crwth” is upon the same principle as the violin; it has however six strings, four of which are played upon with a bow, the two outer being struck by the thumb as an accompaniment, or bass; its tone is a mellow tenor, but it is now seldom heard, the last celebrated player having died about forty years since, and with him, says the editor of the Cambrian Register, “most probably the true knowledge of producing its melodious powers.” From the player of this instrument is derived a name now common, viz. “Crowther” and “Crowder” (Crwthyr); it may be translated “fiddler,” and in this sense it is used by Butler in his Hudibras.

Within the last few years, the harp has undergone a variety of improvements, and it is now the most fashionable instrument; yet in Wales it retains its ancient form and triple strings; “it has its imperfections,” observes Mr. Parry, “yet it possesses one advantage, and that is its unisons,” which of course are lost when reduced to a single row.

There would be much persuasion necessary to induce “Cymru” to relinquish her old fashioned “Telyn,” so reluctant are a national people to admit of changes. When the violin superseded the “crwth,” they could not enjoy the improvement.

Pennillion chanting consists in singing stanzas, either attached or detached, of various lengths and metre, to any tune which the harper may play; for it is irregular, and in fact not allowable, for any particular one to be chosen. Two, three, or four bars having been played, the singer takes it up, and this is done according as the Pennill, or stanza, may suit; he must end precisely with the strain, he therefore commences in any part he may please. To the stranger it has the appearance of beginning in the middle of a line or verse, but this is not the case. Different tunes require a different number of verses to complete it; sometimes only one, sometimes four or six. It is then taken up by the next, and thus it proceeds through as many as choose to join in the pastime, twice round, and ending with the person that began.

These convivial harp meetings are generally conducted with great regularity, and are really social; all sing if they please, or all are silent. To some tunes there are a great number of singers, according to the ingenuity required in adapting Pennillion. Yet even this custom is on the decline.

In South Wales, the custom has been long lost; on its demise they encouraged song writing and singing, and they are still accounted the best (without the harp) in the principality. In North Wales song-singing was hardly known before the time of Huw Morus, in the reign of Charles I., nor is it now so prevalent as in the south.

In the year 1176, Rhys ap Gruffydd held a congress of bards and minstrels at Aberteifi, in which the North Welsh bards came off as victors in the poetical contest, and the South Welsh were adjudged to excel in the powers of harmony.

For the encouragement of the harp and Pennillion chanting, a number of institutions have lately been formed, and the liberal spirit with which they are conducted will do much towards the object; among the principal are the “Cymmrodorion,” or Cambrian Societies of Gwynedd, Powys, Dyfed, Gwent, and London; the “Gwyneddigion,” and “Canorion,” also in London. The former established so long since as 1771, and the “Undeb Cymry,” or United Welshmen, established in 1823, for the same purpose. In all the principal towns of Wales, societies having the same object in view have been formed, among which the “Brecon Minstrelsy Society” is particularly deserving of notice. The harp and Pennillion singing have at all times come in for their share of encomium by the poets, and are still the theme of many a sonnet in both languages.

From more than a hundred pieces in Mr. Leathart’s “Pennillion,” translations of a few pennills, or stanzas, are taken at random, as specimens of the prevailing sentiments.

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