Mrs. Gilpin riding to Edmonton.
Mrs. Gilpin riding to Edmonton.
Then Mrs. Gilpin sweetly saidUnto her children three,“I’ll clamber o’er this style so high,And you climb after me.”But having climb’d unto the top,She could no further go,But sate, to every passer byA spectacle and show:Who said “Your spouse and you this dayBoth show your horsemanship,And if you stay till he comes back,Your horse will need no whip.”
Then Mrs. Gilpin sweetly saidUnto her children three,“I’ll clamber o’er this style so high,And you climb after me.”But having climb’d unto the top,She could no further go,But sate, to every passer byA spectacle and show:Who said “Your spouse and you this dayBoth show your horsemanship,And if you stay till he comes back,Your horse will need no whip.”
Then Mrs. Gilpin sweetly saidUnto her children three,“I’ll clamber o’er this style so high,And you climb after me.”
But having climb’d unto the top,She could no further go,But sate, to every passer byA spectacle and show:
Who said “Your spouse and you this dayBoth show your horsemanship,And if you stay till he comes back,Your horse will need no whip.”
The sketch, hereengraved, (probably from the poet’s friend Romney,) was found with the above three stanzas in the handwriting of Cowper, among the papers of the late Mrs. Unwin. It is to be regretted that no more was found of this littleEpisode, as it evidently was intended to be, to the “Diverting History of Johnny Gilpin.”It is to be supposed that Mrs. Gilpin, in the interval between dinner and tea, finding the time to hang upon her hands, during her husband’s involuntary excursion, rambled out with the children into the fields at the back of the Bell, (as what could be more natural?) and at one of those high aukward styles, for which Edmonton is so proverbially famed, the embarrassment represented, so mortifying to a substantial City Madam, might have happened; a predicament, which leaves her in a state, which is the very Antipodes to that of her too loco-motive husband; in fact she rides a restive horse.—Now I talk of Edmonton styles, I must speak a little about those of Enfield, its next neighbour, which are so ingeniously contrived—every rising bar to the top becoming more protuberant than the one under it—that it is impossible for any Christian climber to get over, without bruising his (or her) shins as many times as there are bars. These inhospitable invitations to a flayed skin, are planted so thickly too, and are so troublesomely importunate at every little paddock here, that this, with more propriety than Thebes of old, might be entitled Hecatompolis: the Town of the Hundred Gates, orstyles.
A Sojourner at Enfield.
July 16, 1827.
For the Table Book.
In the summer of the year 1815, I fulfilled my long standing promise of spending a day with an old schoolfellow at Sawston, a pleasant little village, delightfully situated in a fertile valley about seven miles south of Cambridge, the north of which is encompassed by the Gogmagog hills, which appear Apennines in miniature; the south, east, and west, are beautifully diversified with trees and foliage, truly picturesque and romantic. After partaking of the good things at the hospitable board of my friend, we set out for a ramble among the quiet rural scenery, and suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a group of people, near the road leading to the church. They were holding a conversation on a grass-plot; from the centre of which rose across, enclosed in a small covered building, like an amphitheatre, that added not a little to the romantic appearance of the village; towards the bottom of the southern slope of the grass-plot, propped with uncommon care, and guarded by a holy zeal from the ravages of time, stood an ancient sycamore-tree; and on the east side, to the terror of evil-doers, stood the stocks. Alas! unsparing ignorance has, since then, destroyed this fine tree; “the place that knew it knows it no more,” and the stocks are fallen never to rise again.
My friend, taking me aside, informed me the persons assembled were residents of the place, and that the meeting was convened to sell the cross. “This cross,” continued my friend, “is the ornament of the village. It escaped the phrenetic rage of the puritans in the civil wars, and is of such antiquity, that when it was built is not to be traced with certainty in the records of history. It may be supposed, however, to have been erected by the Knights Templars, as the living belonged to them; for, I believe, it was usual for them to erect crosses on their property. Upon the abolition of the Templars, the living came into the hands of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John, afterwards called the Knights of Rhodes, and lastly, of Malta. So early as the thirteenth century public officers sat on this cross to administer justice; at other times, the bishop’s house, near the Campion-field, was used for that purpose: this house is now in ruins, but the cross,” continued my friend, “we possessed as an inheritance from our forefathers, and at this moment the cupidity and folly of the covetous and ignorant are conspiring to destroy the venerable relic.”
Wishing to preserve a memoranda of the old cross, I took a hasty sketch of it, (too hastily perhaps to be sufficiently accurate for an engraving,) and having reached my home, recorded the adventures of the day in my pocket-book, from whence the above extract is taken. Passing through the village in the following autumn, I found that the inhabitants had sacrilegiously levelled the cross and sold the remnants.
The Jews of old, as we’ve been told—And Scriptures pure disclose—With harden’d hearts drew lots for partsOf our Salvator’s clothes.The modern Jews—the Sawstonites—As harden’d as the Israelites—In ignorance still more gross—Thinking they could no longer thriveBy Christian means, did means contrive—Drew lots, and sold the cross!
The Jews of old, as we’ve been told—And Scriptures pure disclose—With harden’d hearts drew lots for partsOf our Salvator’s clothes.The modern Jews—the Sawstonites—As harden’d as the Israelites—In ignorance still more gross—Thinking they could no longer thriveBy Christian means, did means contrive—Drew lots, and sold the cross!
The Jews of old, as we’ve been told—And Scriptures pure disclose—With harden’d hearts drew lots for partsOf our Salvator’s clothes.
The modern Jews—the Sawstonites—As harden’d as the Israelites—In ignorance still more gross—Thinking they could no longer thriveBy Christian means, did means contrive—Drew lots, and sold the cross!
Cambridge.T. N.
The Method and Logic of Descartes and Locke derived from the Ancients.
Within the last two centuries some notions were advanced in logic and metaphysics, which were taken to be new; and Descartes, Leibnitz, Mallebranche, and Locke, were regarded as innovators, although nothing be put forth in their works, but what is clearly laid down in those of the ancients.
Descartes sets forth, as a first principle, that whoever searches for truth, ought once in his lifetime at least to doubt of every thing. He then lays down the four following rules, wherein consists the whole of his logic.—1. Never to admit any thing as true, but what we evidently discern to be so; that is, we should carefully avoid rashness and prejudice, and assent to nothing, till it present itself so clearly to the mind, that there be no occasion to hesitate about it.—2. To reduce every difficulty into as many separate parts, as may be necessary to come at its solution.—3. So to arrange our thoughts, that we may gradually arise from the more simple and obvious, to the more complex and remote, adhering to the order wherein they naturally precede one another.—4. To take so extensive a view of our subject, and be so exact in the enumeration of its parts, that nothing may escape our observation.
The first of these principles of doubt and circumspection, so boasted of in Descartes, is clearly laid down by Aristotle, and forcibly recommended by the very arguments that Descartes assumes. “Whoever seeks after instruction,” says Aristotle, “ought first of all to learn to doubt; for that simplicity of mind, which accompanies hesitation, contributes to the discovery of truth:” and, “whoever searches for truth, without beginning his investigation by doubting of every thing, is like one who wanders he knows not whither, and having no fixed scope, cannot determine where he is; whilst, on the contrary, he who hath learned to doubt, so as to inquire, will find, in the end, the place where he ought to rest.” So, also, speaking of the method to be observed in our investigations, Aristotle bids us begin always with what is most evident and best known; and carefully trace to its first elements and principles whatever is obscure, by properly severing and defining them.
Descartes imagined he had been the first discoverer of one of the most proper engines for sapping and demolishing the great bulwark of scepticism, when he reared even upon doubt itself a basis for truth; for he looked upon himself as the original advancer of theEnthymem,[275]“I doubt (or think) therefore I am.” To Descartes has been assigned the whole honour of this argument, though in reality it is to be found in St. Augustine. “I do not see,” says that great man, “what mighty force there is in the scepticism of the academics. For my part, I look upon it as a very just observation of theirs, that we may deceive ourselves. But if I deceive myself, may I not thence conclude that I am? For he who has no existence, cannot deceive himself; wherefore, by that very circumstance, that I deceive myself, I find that I am.”
Locke, in his “Essay on the Human Understanding,” merely advances the fruits of an exact attention to the principles of Aristotle, who taught that all our ideas originally spring from the senses, insomuch that a blind man can never conceive the idea of colours, nor a deaf man of sounds; and who makes the senses to convey truth, so far as the imagination can discern it; and the understanding, so far as truth regards the conduct of life and morals. It was Aristotle who laid the foundation of that principle, so celebrated among the Peripatetics, that “there is nothing in the understanding but what came into it by the senses.” This principle diffuses itself through his works in a thousand places, and Locke was singularly indebted for the very foundation of his system to the Stoics. The basis of his work is, that our sensations are the materials which reflection makes use of to come at mental notions; and that our sensations are simple ideas. It is true, that he has thrown great light upon our manner of acquiring and associating ideas; but the Stoics reasoned in the very same manner; and if all that they advanced on this subject, in those works of which we have nothing now remaining but the titles, had reached our times, we had not neededthe labours of a Locke. There is a most remarkable passage to this point in Plutarch. He says, “The foundation of the doctrine of Zeno and his school, as to logic, was, that all our ideas come from sensation. The mind of man at his birth, say they, is like white paper, adapted to receive whatever may be written on it. The first impressions that it receives come to it from the senses: if the objects are at a distance, memory retains those types of them; and the repetition of these impressions constitutes experience. Ideas or notions are of two kinds, natural and artificial. The natural have their source in sensation, or are derived from the senses; whence they also gave them the name of anticipations: the artificial are produced by reflection, in beings endowed with reason.” This passage, and others in Origen, Sextus Empiricus, Diogenes Laertius, and St. Augustine, may serve to trace the true origin of the principle, “That there is nothing in the understanding, but what entered into it by the senses.” It may be observed, that this axiom, so clearly expressed by the ancient Stoics and Epicureans, and by Locke among the moderns, has been erroneously attributed by several learned men, especially Gassendi and Harvey, to Aristotle.
[275]Enthymem: an argument consisting only of an antecedent and consequential proposition; a syllogism, where the major proposition is suppressed, and only the minor and consequence produced in words.Johnson.
[275]Enthymem: an argument consisting only of an antecedent and consequential proposition; a syllogism, where the major proposition is suppressed, and only the minor and consequence produced in words.Johnson.
Mr. Robert Owen calculates that two hundred arms, with machines, now manufacture as much cotton as twenty millions of arms were able to manufacture without machines forty years ago; and that the cotton now manufactured in the course of one year, in Great Britain, would require, without machines, sixteen millions of workmen with simple wheels. He calculates further, that the quantity of manufactures of all sorts produced by British workmen with the aid of machines is so great, that it would require, without the assistance of machinery, the labour of four hundred millions of workmen.
In the wool manufacture, machines possess an eminent advantage over common wheels. The yarn on thirty or thirty-six spindles is all equally twisted and drawn to the same degree of fineness. The most dexterous spinners cannot twist so equally and so gently twenty slips of yarn from wool of the same quality, as a machine can do twenty thousand.
At one of the cotton mills in Manchester yarn has been spun so fine, as to require 350 hanks to weigh one pound avoirdupois. The perimeter of the common reel being one yard and a half, 80 threads or revolutions would measure 120 yards; and one hank seven times as much, or 840 yards, which multiplied by 350, gives 294,000 yards, or 167 miles and a fraction.
A steam-engine of the ordinary pressure and construction, with a cylinder of thirty inches in diameter, will perform the work of forty horses; and, as it may be made to act without intermission, while horses will not work more than eight hours in the day, it will do the work of one hundred and twenty horses; and as the work of a horse is equal to that of five men, it will perform as much as six hundred men can; while its whole expense is only equal to about half the number of horses for which it is substituted.
The only purpose to which steam-engines were first applied was the raising of water from coal-pits, mines, &c.; but they are now used for many different purposes in which great power is required. Mr. Bolton applied the steam-engine to his apparatus for coining; and, by the help of four boys only, it was capable of striking thirty thousand pieces of money in an hour; the machine itself was made to keep an accurate account of the number struck off.
In 1811 a gentleman made a bet of one thousand guineas, that he would have a coat made in the course of a single day, from the first process of shearing the sheep till its completion by the tailor. The wager was decided at Newbury, on the 25th of June in that year, by Mr. John Coxeter, of Greenham Mills, near that town. At five o’clock that morning, sir John Throckmorton, bart. presented two Southdown wedder sheep to Mr. Coxeter, and the sheep were shorn, the wool spun, the yarn spooled, warped, loomed, and wove; and the cloth burred, milled, rowed, dried, sheared, and pressed, and put into the hands of the tailors by four o’clock that afternoon: and at twenty minutes past six the coat, entirely finished, was presented by Mr. Coxeter to sir John Throckmorton, who appeared with it before upwards of five thousand spectators, who rent the air with acclamations at this remarkable instance of despatch.
For the Table Book.
BALLAD.Suggested on reading the Novel Of“Castle Baynard.”“And must thou go, and must thou go,So very, very soon?There is not time to say farewellBefore the morrow’s noon.”“O let me kiss away those tearsThat dim thine eyes of blue,The king’s behest must be obeyed,And I must sigh, adieu.”“Yet stay! oh stay! my Eustace, stay!A little, little while;I fear me that in Gallia’s courtThou’lt woo another’s smile.”“Nay, nay, Matilda, say not so,Thy knight will aye be true,True to his own betrothed maid,So now, sweet love, adieu.”“Yet tarry—canst thou tarry notOne other, other day?Then guard this pledge of plighted faithWhen thou art far away.”“This precious gift, this flaxen lock,How fondly shall I view,And cherish next my heart—but now,One last, last kiss, adieu.”
“And must thou go, and must thou go,So very, very soon?There is not time to say farewellBefore the morrow’s noon.”“O let me kiss away those tearsThat dim thine eyes of blue,The king’s behest must be obeyed,And I must sigh, adieu.”“Yet stay! oh stay! my Eustace, stay!A little, little while;I fear me that in Gallia’s courtThou’lt woo another’s smile.”“Nay, nay, Matilda, say not so,Thy knight will aye be true,True to his own betrothed maid,So now, sweet love, adieu.”“Yet tarry—canst thou tarry notOne other, other day?Then guard this pledge of plighted faithWhen thou art far away.”“This precious gift, this flaxen lock,How fondly shall I view,And cherish next my heart—but now,One last, last kiss, adieu.”
“And must thou go, and must thou go,So very, very soon?There is not time to say farewellBefore the morrow’s noon.”
“O let me kiss away those tearsThat dim thine eyes of blue,The king’s behest must be obeyed,And I must sigh, adieu.”
“Yet stay! oh stay! my Eustace, stay!A little, little while;I fear me that in Gallia’s courtThou’lt woo another’s smile.”
“Nay, nay, Matilda, say not so,Thy knight will aye be true,True to his own betrothed maid,So now, sweet love, adieu.”
“Yet tarry—canst thou tarry notOne other, other day?Then guard this pledge of plighted faithWhen thou art far away.”
“This precious gift, this flaxen lock,How fondly shall I view,And cherish next my heart—but now,One last, last kiss, adieu.”
***
July 3, 1827.
There is a narrow pass between the mountains in the neighbourhood of Bendearg, in the Highlands of Scotland, which, at a little distance, has the appearance of an immense artificial bridge thrown over a tremendous chasm: but on nearer approach it is seen to be a wall of nature’s own masonry, formed of vast and rugged bodies of solid rock, piled on each other as if in giant sport of architecture. Its sides are in some places covered with trees of a considerable size; and the passenger who has a head steady enough to look down, may see the eyrie of birds of prey beneath his feet. The path across is so narrow, that it cannot admit of persons passing, and indeed none but natives attempt the dangerous route, though it saves a circuit of three miles; yet it sometimes happens that two travellers meet, owing to the curve formed by the pass preventing a view over it from either side, and, in that case, one person lies down while the other creeps over his body. One day, a highlander walking along the pass, when he had gained the highest part of the arch, observed another coming leisurely up, and being himself one of the patrician order, called to him to lie down; the person addressed disregarded the command, and the highlanders met on the summit. They were Cairn and Bendearg, of two families in enmity to each other. “I was first at the top,” said Bendearg, “and called out first; lie down, that I may pass over in peace.” “When the Grant prostrates himself before the M‘Pherson,” answered the other, “it must be with a sword through his body.” “Turn back then,” said Bendearg, “and repass as you came.” “Go back yourself, if you like it,” replied Grant; “I will not be the first of my name to turn before the M‘Phersons.” They then threw their bonnets over the precipice, and advanced with a slow and cautious pace closer to each other—both were unarmed. Preparing for a desperate struggle, they planted their feet firmly on the ground, compressed their lips, knit their brows, and fixing fierce and watchful eyes on each other, stood prepared for an onset. They both grappled at the same moment; but, being of equal strength, were unable to shift each other’s position, and stood fixed on the rock with suppressed breath, and muscles strained to the “top of their bent,” like statues carved out of the solid stone. At length M‘Pherson, suddenly removing his right foot so as to give him greater purchase, stooped his body, and bent his enemy down with him by main strength, till they both leaned over the precipice, looking into the terrible abyss. The contest was doubtful, for Grant had placed his foot firmly on an elevation at the brink, and had equal command of his enemy, but at this moment M‘Pherson sunk slowly and firmly on his knee, and, while Grant suddenly started back, stooping to take the supposed advantage, whirled him over his head into the gulf. M‘Pherson himself fell backwards, his body partly hanging over the rock, a fragment gave way beneath him, and he sunk further, till, catching with a desperate effort at the solid stone above, he regained his footing. There was a pause of death-like stillness, and the bold heart of M‘Pherson felt sick and faint. At length, as if compelled by some mysterious feeling, he looked down over the precipice. Grant had caught with a death-like gripe by the rugged point of a rock—his enemy was almost within his reach. His face wasturned upward, and there was in it horror and despair—but he uttered no word or cry. The next moment he loosed his hold, his brains were dashed out before the eyes of his hereditary foe: the mangled body disappeared among the trees, and his last heavy and hollow sound arose from the bottom. M‘Pherson returned home an altered man. He purchased a commission in the army, and fell fighting in the wars of the Peninsula. The Gaelic name of the place where this tragedy was acted signifies “Hell Bridge.”
The whole British empire may be justly considered as one grand alliance, united for public and private interest; and this vast body of people is subdivided into an infinity of smaller fraternities, for individual benefit.
Perhaps there are hundreds of these societies in Birmingham, under the name of “clubs;” some of them boast the antiquity of a century, and by prudent direction have acquired a capital, at accumulating interest. Thousands of the inhabitants are connected; nay, to be otherwise is rather unfashionable, and some are people of sentiment and property.
Among a variety of purposes intended by these laudable institutions, the principal one is that of supporting the sick. Each society is governed by a code of laws of its own making, which have at least the honour of resembling those of the legislature; for words without sense are found in both, and we sometimes stumble upon contradiction.
The poor-rates, enormous as they appear, are softened by these brotherly aids; they tend also to keep the mind at rest, for a man will enjoy the day of health, with double relish, when he considers he has a treasure laid up for that of sickness. If a member only of a poor family be sick, the head still remains to procure necessaries; but if that head be disordered, the whole source of supply is dried up.
The general custom is to meet at a public house every fortnight, spend a trifle, and each contribute sixpence, or any stated sum, to the common stock. The landlord is always treasurer, or father, and is assisted by two stewards, annually or monthly chosen.
As honour and low life are not always found together, we sometimes see a man, who is idle, wish the society may suppose him sick, that he may rob them with more security; or, if a member hang long “upon the box,” his brethren seek a pretence to expel him. On the other hand, we frequently observe a man silently retreat from the club, if another falls upon the box, and fondly suppose himself no longer a member; or if the box be loaded with sickness, the whole club has been known to dissolve, that the members might rid themselves of the burden. The Court of Requests finds an easy remedy for these evils, at a trifling expense.
The charity of the club is often extended beyond the grave, and terminates with a present to the widow.
Philosophers tell us, “There is no good without its kindred evil.” This amiable body of men, marshalled to relieve disease, has one small alloy, and perhaps but one. As liquor and labour are inseparable, the imprudent member is apt to forget to quit the club-room when he has spent his necessary two-pence, but continues there, to the injury of his family.
One of these institutions is the “Rent Club,” where, from the weekly sums deposited by the members, a sop is regularly served up twice a year, to prevent the growlings of a landlord.
In the “Breeches Club” every member ballots for a pair, value a guinea,promisedof more value by the maker. This club dissolves when all the members are served.
The intentions of the “Book Club” are well known to catch the productions of the press as they rise.
The “Watch Club” has generally a watchmaker for its president, is composed of young men, and is always temporary.
If a tailor be short of employment, he has only to consult a landlord over a bottle, and by their joint powers, they give birth to a “Clothes Club,” where every member is supplied with a suit to his taste, of a stipulated price. These are chiefly composed of bachelors, who wish to shine in the eyes of the fair.
A bricklayer stands at the head of the “Building Club,” where every member perhaps subscribes two guineas per month, and each house, value about one hundred pounds, is balloted for as soon as erected. As a house is a weighty concern, every member is obliged to produce two bondsmen for the performance of covenants.
I will venture to pronounce another, the “Capital Club;” for when the contributionsamount to fifty pounds, the members ballot for this capital, to bring into business, here also securities are necessary. It is easy to conceive the two last clubs are extremely beneficial to building and to commerce.
The last I shall enumerate is the “Clock Club.” When the weekly deposits of the members amount to about four pounds, they cast lots who shall be first served with a clock of that value, and continue the same method till the whole club is supplied; after which, the clock-maker and landlord cast about for another set, who are chiefly young housekeepers. Hence the beginner ornaments his premises with furniture, the artist finds employment with profit, and the publican empties hisbarrel.[276]
[276]Hutton’s History of Birmingham.
[276]Hutton’s History of Birmingham.
A person at Taunton often kept at home for several weeks, under an idea of danger in going abroad. Sometimes he imagined that he was a cat, and seated himself on his hind quarters; at other times he would fancy himself a tea-pot, and stand with one arm a-kimbo like the handle, and the other stretched out like the spout. At last he conceived himself to have died, and would not move or be moved till the coffin came. His wife, in serious alarm, sent for a surgeon, who addressed him with the usual salutation, “How do you do this morning?”
“Do!” replied he in a low voice, “a pretty question to a dead man!”
“Dead, sir! what do you mean?”
“Yes, I died last Wednesday; the coffin will be here presently, and I shall be buried to-morrow.”
The surgeon, a man of sense and skill, immediately felt the patient’s pulse, and shaking his head, said, “I find it is indeed too true; you are certainly defunct; the blood is in a state of stagnation, putrefaction is about to take place, and the sooner you are buried the better.”
The coffin arrived, he was carefully placed in it, and carried towards the church. The surgeon had previously given instructions to several neighbours how to proceed. The procession had scarcely moved a dozen yards, when a person stopped to inquire who they were carrying to the grave? “Mr. ——, our late worthy overseer.”
“What! is the old rogue gone at last? a good release, for a greater villain never lived.”
The imaginary deceased no sooner heard this attack on his character, than he jumped up, and in a threatening posture said, “You lying scoundrel, if I was not dead I’d make you suffer for what you say; but as it is, I am forced to submit.” He then quietly laid down again; but ere they had proceeded half way to church, another party stopped the procession with the same inquiry, and added invective and abuse. This was more than the supposed corpse could bear; and jumping from the coffin, was in the act of following his defamers, when the whole party burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, the public exposure awakened him to a sense of his folly, and he fought against the weakness, and, in the end, conquered it.
The prisons of the classical ancients consisted of “souterains,” or, sometimes, of only simple vestibules, where the prisoners saw their friends, &c.: it was in this latter kind of confinement that Socrates was placed. Their “latomiæ” and “lapidicinæ” were caves or vast quarries, guarded at the entrance: in the “latomiæ” prisoners could move about; but in the “lapidicinæ” they were chained and fettered. The famous “latomiæ” at Syracuse made a capital prison. The prisoners bribed the lictor or executioner to introduce food, and allow them to visit friends, &c. Some prisoners had merely chains upon the legs, others were set fast in stocks. There were also free prisons; as committal to the house of a magistrate, or custody of the accused in his ownhouse.[277]Felix, at Cesarea, commanded a centurion to keep Paul, and to let him have liberty, and that he should forbid none of his acquaintance to minister or come to him. At Rome, Paul was suffered to dwell by himself with a soldier that kept him; and while in that custody the chief of the Jews came and heard him expound. He spoke to them of being “bound with this chain.” He dwelt two whole years in his own hired house preaching and teaching with all confidence, no man forbiddinghim.[278]
In the middle age there were prisons provided with collars, handcuffs, and other fetters, without doors or windows, and descended into only by ladders. Other prisons were made like a cage, with portcullised doors, as now; and there was a kind of prison, called “pediculus,” because in itthe feet were bound with chains, and prisons were made dark on purpose.
Anglo-Saxon prisons were annexed to palaces, with a work-place in them; the prisoners were chained and had guards. In castles there were dungeons, consisting of four dark apartments, three below, and one above, up a long staircase, all well secured; in the uppermost, a ring to which criminals were chained. Prisons were sometimes guarded by dogs, and prisoners bound in chains, brought in carts, and discharged upon a newreign.[279]
In theTable Book, which notes the manners and customs, and sketches the features of ancient and modern times, whenever they are conveniently presented, it seems appropriate to notice a petition printed by order of the House of Commons, on the 12th of February, 1827, respecting
The petition alluded to is from debtors in the above prison, and the Votes of the House state the following particulars, as set forth in thepetition:—
The said gaol is ill constructed, confined, and inconvenient, having only twenty cells on the debtors’ side, half of which are appropriated to the debtors, and the other half chiefly to smugglers and others for notorious offences against the revenue laws, and to deserters from the army.
The said cells for debtors are constructed of the same dimensions, and in the same manner, as the cells for the felons, having no glazed sash-windows, but merely iron-gratings, with the addition at night of an ill-constructed wooden shutter, having a small square hole in the same of about six inches diameter, in some instances glazed and in others not, and by no means calculated to keep out the rain or cold during the inclement season.
The cells are small, being only twelve feet by eight feet, and having no fire-place or other means of being warmed.
The said cells are merely brick arches lime-whitened, with rough stone pavement, and so exceedingly damp at times that the water condenses on the walls, and runs down the sides thereof, and on to the floor, and from thence into the common passage, which is so narrow, that when any of the doors of the cells are open there is not room for one person safely to walk, particularly as the passage is dark.
When the weather is wet, or otherwise inconvenient, the shutters of the cells must necessarily be put up to exclude the same, thereby rendering the cells so dark that the prisoners cannot conveniently see either to read or write; and, therefore, when the prisoners wish to retire to read or write they cannot do so, and are compelled to sit in the common kitchen, which is small, and consequently crowded, and is the only place for the cooking for all the prisoners and at the same time to accommodate them for a sleeping ward and other purposes.
The fire-place is small and inconvenient, and very scantily supplied with fuel, and when the prison is crowded, as it has lately been, it is totally impossible for all the prisoners to have access to the fire, for the required purposes of cooking or otherwise particularly when most required, as in wet and inclement weather.
It sometimes happens that thirteen or more prisoners are obliged to sleep in the said kitchen, and three in each bed in many of the cells.
To each cell is affixed an iron-grating door, and also a door made of timber; and the debtors are locked up within their respective cells at nine o’clock in the evening, having no access to them till seven o’clock the next morning, so that any one being taken ill in the night might lay and perish before his situation could be discovered or made known, or any assistance rendered.
The prisoners are unlocked at seven o’clock in the morning, and are allowed to go into the yard of the prison till eight, when they are called in by means of a whistle until nine o’clock, and allowed to remain in the yard again until twelve o’clock at noon, again locked into the wards till one o’clock, and again in the same manner at five o’clock in the afternoon for the night.
Respectable females are confined in the same ward with the smugglers and others, and no female is appointed or employed to attend on them in any case.
The state of the prison is in general filthy.
There is no sink or water-course, nor any water laid on to either of the wards, nor any means of obtaining water after five o’clock in the evening.
If any part or the whole of the prison is at any time cleaned, it is done by some of the debtors.
There is no proper place for the reception of the dirty water or filth from the wards,but the same is indiscriminately thrown out at the iron-grating doors at the end of the passage to each ward, thereby occasioning a great stench highly disagreeable and unwholesome to the prisoners.
The prisoners are not allowed to see their respective friends or solicitors within the walls of the prison, but are compelled to come into a room in the gaoler’s house, and there meet their friends or solicitors, subject to the continual interruption or presence of the gaoler, his wife, or others, to the great annoyance of the prisoners and their friends, and on the sabbath-day even this privilege is not allowed.
No debtor is allowed to have any trunk, portmanteau, dressing-case, or even a clothes-bag, with lock and key, within the prison, so that the prisoners are obliged, whensoever they require any change of clothing, to obtain leave to come into the room in the gaoler’s house before mentioned, and there take them from their portmanteau, or otherwise; no respectable prisoner can therefore have any article of convenience or value with him, without being obliged either to carry it about his person, or leave it exposed in his cell, or in an ill-constructed small cupboard, where he is also obliged to keep his provisions, &c.; and so great is the injustice in the prison, that smugglers not only receive fourpence-halfpenny per day, but are also allowed a quart of strong beer or ale each man, while the debtors are not permitted to have strong beer or ale even by paying for it.
When a debtor is removed by a writ of habeas corpus to London, a distance of thirty-six miles, and for which one shilling per mile is allowed by law to the gaoler, the sum of two pounds five shillings has been demanded and taken by the gaoler.
A marked inattention to the complaints or remonstrances repeatedly made by various prisoners, together with the general bad state of the prison, and the excessive and unnecessary harshness of the regulations, rendered it imperative on the petitioners to attempt to lay their grievances before the house, in the fervent hope that the house would be pleased to cause inquiry to be made into the truth of the several allegations contained in the petition, which the petitioners pledge themselves to prove, if permitted, by affidavit or otherwise, as the house should direct.
The petitioners humbly prayed, that a speedy remedy might be applied to their complaints as to the house in its wisdom should seem meet.
[277]Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.[278]Acts xxviii. 16, 20, 23, 30, 31.[279]Fosbroke.
[277]Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.
[278]Acts xxviii. 16, 20, 23, 30, 31.
[279]Fosbroke.
Written in half an hour, while attending a Summons.
Art thou solicitor for all thy tribe,That thus I now behold thee?—one that comesDown amid bail-above, an under-scribe,To sue for crumbs?—Away! ’tis vain to ogle round the square,—I fear thou hast no head—To think to get thy breadWhere lawyers are!Say—hast thou pull’d some sparrow o’er the coalsAnd flitted here a summons to indite?I only hope no curs’d judicial kiteHas struck thee off the rolls!I scarce should deem thee of the law—and yetThine eye is keen and quick enough—and stillThou bear’st thyself with perk and tiny fret:—But then how desperately short thybill!How quickly might’st thou be of that bereft?A sixth “tax’d off”—how little would be left!Art thou on summons come, or order bent?Tell me—for I am sick at heart to know!Say,—in the sky is there “distress for rent,”That thou hast flitted to the courts below?If thouwouldsthaul some sparrow o’er the coals,Andwouldsthis spirit hamper and perplex—Go to John Body—he’s available—Sign—swear—and get a bill of MiddlesexReturnable (mind,—bailable!)On Wednesday after th’ morrow of All Souls.Or dost thou come a sufferer? I see—I see thee “cast thybail-ful eyes around;”Oh, call James White, and he will set thee free,He and John Baines will speedily be bound,—In double the sumThat thou wilt comeAnd meet the plaintiff Bird on legal ground.But stand, oh, stand aside,—for look,Judge Best, on no fantastic toe,Through dingy arch,—by dirty nook,—Across the yard into his room doth go—And wisely there doth readSummons for time to plead.—And frameOrder for same.Thou twittering, legal, foolish, feather’d thing,A tiny boy, with salt for latitat,Is sneaking, bailiff-like, to touch thy wing;—Canst thou not see the trick he would be at?Away! away! and let him not prevail.I do rejoice thou’rt off! and yet I groanTo read in that boy’s silly fate my ownIam at fault!For from myatticthough I brought mysalt,I’ve fail’d to put a little on thytale!
Art thou solicitor for all thy tribe,That thus I now behold thee?—one that comesDown amid bail-above, an under-scribe,To sue for crumbs?—Away! ’tis vain to ogle round the square,—I fear thou hast no head—To think to get thy breadWhere lawyers are!Say—hast thou pull’d some sparrow o’er the coalsAnd flitted here a summons to indite?I only hope no curs’d judicial kiteHas struck thee off the rolls!I scarce should deem thee of the law—and yetThine eye is keen and quick enough—and stillThou bear’st thyself with perk and tiny fret:—But then how desperately short thybill!How quickly might’st thou be of that bereft?A sixth “tax’d off”—how little would be left!Art thou on summons come, or order bent?Tell me—for I am sick at heart to know!Say,—in the sky is there “distress for rent,”That thou hast flitted to the courts below?If thouwouldsthaul some sparrow o’er the coals,Andwouldsthis spirit hamper and perplex—Go to John Body—he’s available—Sign—swear—and get a bill of MiddlesexReturnable (mind,—bailable!)On Wednesday after th’ morrow of All Souls.Or dost thou come a sufferer? I see—I see thee “cast thybail-ful eyes around;”Oh, call James White, and he will set thee free,He and John Baines will speedily be bound,—In double the sumThat thou wilt comeAnd meet the plaintiff Bird on legal ground.But stand, oh, stand aside,—for look,Judge Best, on no fantastic toe,Through dingy arch,—by dirty nook,—Across the yard into his room doth go—And wisely there doth readSummons for time to plead.—And frameOrder for same.Thou twittering, legal, foolish, feather’d thing,A tiny boy, with salt for latitat,Is sneaking, bailiff-like, to touch thy wing;—Canst thou not see the trick he would be at?Away! away! and let him not prevail.I do rejoice thou’rt off! and yet I groanTo read in that boy’s silly fate my ownIam at fault!For from myatticthough I brought mysalt,I’ve fail’d to put a little on thytale!
Art thou solicitor for all thy tribe,That thus I now behold thee?—one that comesDown amid bail-above, an under-scribe,To sue for crumbs?—Away! ’tis vain to ogle round the square,—I fear thou hast no head—To think to get thy breadWhere lawyers are!
Say—hast thou pull’d some sparrow o’er the coalsAnd flitted here a summons to indite?I only hope no curs’d judicial kiteHas struck thee off the rolls!I scarce should deem thee of the law—and yetThine eye is keen and quick enough—and stillThou bear’st thyself with perk and tiny fret:—But then how desperately short thybill!How quickly might’st thou be of that bereft?A sixth “tax’d off”—how little would be left!
Art thou on summons come, or order bent?Tell me—for I am sick at heart to know!Say,—in the sky is there “distress for rent,”That thou hast flitted to the courts below?If thouwouldsthaul some sparrow o’er the coals,Andwouldsthis spirit hamper and perplex—Go to John Body—he’s available—Sign—swear—and get a bill of MiddlesexReturnable (mind,—bailable!)On Wednesday after th’ morrow of All Souls.
Or dost thou come a sufferer? I see—I see thee “cast thybail-ful eyes around;”Oh, call James White, and he will set thee free,He and John Baines will speedily be bound,—In double the sumThat thou wilt comeAnd meet the plaintiff Bird on legal ground.But stand, oh, stand aside,—for look,Judge Best, on no fantastic toe,Through dingy arch,—by dirty nook,—Across the yard into his room doth go—And wisely there doth readSummons for time to plead.—And frameOrder for same.
Thou twittering, legal, foolish, feather’d thing,A tiny boy, with salt for latitat,Is sneaking, bailiff-like, to touch thy wing;—Canst thou not see the trick he would be at?Away! away! and let him not prevail.I do rejoice thou’rt off! and yet I groanTo read in that boy’s silly fate my ownIam at fault!For from myatticthough I brought mysalt,I’ve fail’d to put a little on thytale!
Ancient Door of Bromley Church.
Ancient Door of Bromley Church.
On our visit to Bromley church, as soon as the modern outer gates of the porch were unlocked, we were struck by the venerable appearance of the old inner oak door; and, instead of taking a view of the church, of which there are several prints, Mr. Williams made a drawing of the decayed portal, from whence he executed the presentengraving. On the hinge-side of the engraving, there is a representation of the outer edge of the door.
This door formerly hung on the western stone jamb; but, for warmth, and greater convenience, the churchwardens, under whose management the edifice was last repaired, put up a pair of folding-doors covered with crimson cloth; yet, with respectful regard, worthy of imitation in other places, they preserved this vestige of antiquity, and were even careful to display its time-worn front. For this purpose the door has been attached to the eastern jamb,so that if it were shut its ornamented side would be hidden; instead whereof, it is kept open by a slight fastening against the eastern form, or settle, within the porch.
It may be remembered by readers of theEvery DayBook,[280]that, on St. Mark’s eve, our ancestors “watched thechurch-porch,” as they do to the present day in some parts of Yorkshire and the north of England, from eleven o’clock at night till one in the morning. This done thrice, on the third year they were supposed to have seen the ghosts of those who were to die the next year pass by into the church. When any one sickens that is thought to have been seen in this manner, it is presently whispered about that he will not recover, for that such or such an one, who watched on St. Mark’s eve, says so. This idle superstition is in such force, that if the patients themselves hear of it, they almost despair of recovery: many are said to have actually died by their imaginary fears. The like irrational belief and fond practice prevail on St. John’s eve. “I am sure,” says a writer in the “Connoisseur,” “that my own sister Hetty, who died just before Christmas, stood in the church-porch last Midsummer eve, to see all that were to die that year in our parish; and she saw her own apparition.” It is told of a company of these “watchers,” that one of them fell into a sound sleep, so that he could not be waked, and while in this state his ghost or spirit was seen by the rest of his companions knocking at the church-door.
In relation to this church-watching on St. Mark’s and St. John’s eve, there is a narrative in the “Athenian Oracle,” published by John Dunton:—“Nine others besides myself went into a church-porch, with an expectation of seeing those who should die that year; but about eleven o’clock I was so afraid that I left them, and all the nine did positively affirm to me, that about an hour after, the church-doors flying open, the minister, (who it seems was very much troubled that night in his sleep,) with such as should die that year, did appear in order: which persons they named to me, and they appeared then all very healthful; but six of them died in six weeks after, in the very same order that theyappeared.”[281]
Before mention of the “church-porch,” it might have been more orderly to have noticed the “church-yard-porch.” There is one at Bromley, though more modern than the fine “lich-gate” at Beckenham already engraved anddescribed.[282]Sir John Sinclair records of some parishioners in the county of Argyll, that “though by no means superstitious, (an observation which in the sequel seems very odd,) they still retain some opinions handed down by their ancestors, perhaps from the time of the Druids. It is believed by them, that the spirit of the last person that was buried watches round the church-yard till another is buried, to whom he delivers his charge.” Further on, in the samework,[283]is related, that “in one division of this county, where it was believed that the ghost of the person last buried kept thegateof the church-yardtill relieved by the next victim of death, a singular scene occurred, when two burials were to take place in one church-yard on the same day. Both parties staggered forward as fast as possible to consign their respective friend in the first place to the dust: if they met at the gate, the dead were thrown down till the living decided, by blows, whose ghost should be condemned to porter it.”
Bromley church-door is a vestige; for on examination it will be found not perfect. It is seven feet four inches in height, and in width four feet eight inches: the width of the door-way, between the stone jambs, is two inches more; the width of the door itself, therefore, has been reduced these two inches; and hence the centre of the ornaments in relief is not in the centre of the door in its present state. It is a good specimen of the fast-decaying, and often prematurely removed, fine doors of our old churches. The lock, probably of like age with the door, and also of wood, is a massive effectual contrivance, two feet six inches long, seven inches and a half deep, and five inches thick; with a bolt an inch in height, and an inch and a half in thickness, that shoots out two inches on the application of the rude heavy key, which as to form and size is exactlydepicturedin the following page. It seemed good to introduce the engraving, both in respect to the antiquity of the original, and to the information it conveys of the devices of our ancestors for locking-up.