[462] We may with exactness determine what the true colour was of the purple of the ancients, by attending to two passages of Pliny, wherein he says, that the whole aim of the Tyrians and Phœnicians, in bringing their purple to the utmost perfection, was to render it in colour as like as possible to the oriental amethyst. Plin. Hist. Natur. lib. ix. c. 38 & 41, et lib. xxxvii. c. 9.
Stasime; cape Vorsoriam, recipe te ad Herum.
[464] With respect to what was known to the ancients, and of which we still are ignorant, recourse may be had to Pancirolus de rebus Deperditis, particularly to his first book, chap. i. 35, 36, 39, respecting the colour of purple, the ductility of glass and the effects of the ancient music. See especially Dion. Cassius’s History, in Tiber. lib. lvii. p. 617. E. Plin. lib. xxxvi. c. 26, &c. Isidor. de Originib. lib. xvi. c. 15, respecting the ductility of glass.
FILEY, YORKSHIRE.
Haddock Legend, and Herring
Fishery.
For the Table Book.
At Filey a singular range of rock, said to resemble the celebrated mole of Tangiers, extends from the cliff a considerable way into the sea, and is called Filey bridge. It is covered by the sea at high tide, but may be traversed for upwards of a quarter of a mile at low water. From the farther end a distant, but, in fine weather, a distinct view may be had of Scarborough and the Castle on the one hand, and of Flamborough-head and the Lighthouse, with an extensive stretch of lofty chalk-stone cliff, on the other. When the wind is from the north-east the waves break over it majestically, and may be seen rising up in foamy spray to a great distance, producing an imposing and awful appearance. From its singularity there is no wonder that the credulous, the superstitious, and the vulgar, who have always had a propensity to attach something of the marvellous to whatever is extraordinary, should have made this ridge an object from which to form a story.
Perhaps, Mr. Editor, you, as well as many of the readers of the Table Book, may have seen the haddock at different times, and observed the black marks on its sides. But do you know, sir, how the haddock came by these said marks? The legendary tale of Filey says, that the devil in one of his mischievous pranks determined to build Filey bridge for the destruction of ships and sailors, and the annoyance of fishermen, but that in the progress of his work he accidentally let fall his hammer into the sea, and being in haste to snatch it back caught a haddock, and thereby made the imprint, which the whole species retains to this day.
The village of Filey is seated in a small and beautiful bay. The settled inhabitants depend chiefly on the fishery, which is carried on with success to a considerable extent, although of late years a few good houses have been built, and several respectable families have resorted thither during the season, for the purpose of sea-bathing, for which the beach is well adapted. The church is in the form of a cross, with a steeple in the middle, and bears some resemblance to an ancient cathedral in miniature; it stands at a distance from the village, being divided by a deep ravine, which forms the boundary of partition between the North and East Ridings of Yorkshire; the church consequently stands in the former, and the village in the latter of the two Ridings.
T. C.
Bridlington, Sept. 27, 1827.
Since the foregoing was written I have been at Filey, and was there informed that in the month of September, yearly, about ninety men, sometimes accompanied by their wives and children, leave this village for the herring fishery at Yarmouth. Previously to their setting out for the fishing station they send a piece of sea-beef on shore from each boat to such of their friends at the public-houses as they wish “weel teea;” this occasions “a bit of a supper,” at which those who are going away and those who stay meet to enjoy good cheer, heightened with mutual good-will.
October 11, 1827. T. C.
PISCATORIA.
Lucan, the Roman poet, makes a beautiful digression to paint the happy life of a fisherman. In plain prose it will read in this manner:—
News (says he) was brought to Cæsar, at a late hour, that Pompey was up in arms in Calabria, ready to dispute with him the sovereignty of the world; perplexed in mind, he knew not for a while what steps best to pursue, when, stealing from the arms of his Calphornia, he cast his mantle about him, and through the gloom of midnight hastened alone to the mouth of the Tiber, and coming to the cabin of Amilcas the fisherman, struck thrice with his arm upon the door of the slumberer. “Arise, Amilcas,” said Cæsar, in a subdued tone. The fisherman and his family, without care, were reposing on their beds of sheepskins. Amilcas knew the voice of Cæsar, and threw open his wicket to receive his master. “Come away, Amilcas,” cried the emperor, “launch your boat with all speed, and bear me to Calabria; Pompey is there in arms against me while I am absent; hasten then, and ask what thou wilt of Cæsar.” The night was dark, and the elements were at war with each other; but by the strength, courage, and judgment of the boatman, Cæsar was soon landed on the shore of Calabria.—“And now, Amilcas,” rejoined the mighty chief, “make thy demand.” “Grant me then,” replied the fisherman, “that I may return the way I came to my peaceful family; for at daybreak should they not see me spreading my nets upon the beach, as they are wont, their faithful bosoms will be rent with sorrow.”—“Go,” replied the Roman chief, “thou humble, modest man, and never let it be forgotten that Cæsar is thy friend.”
INCREDIBLE LIARS
The French papers in the autumn of 1821 mention, that a man named Desjardins was tried, on his own confession, as an accomplice with Louvel, the assassin of the duke de Berri. But, on his defence, Desjardins contended that his confession ought not to be believed, because he was so notorious for falsehood, that nobody in the world would give credit to a word he said. In support of this, he produced a host of witnesses, his friends and relatives, who all swore that the excessive bad character he had given of himself was true, and he was declared “not guilty.”
This case parallels with a similar instance some years before in Ireland. A man was charged with highway robbery. In the course of the trial the prisoner roared out from the dock that he was guilty; but the jury pronounced him by their verdict “not guilty.” The astonished judge exclaimed, “Good God, gentlemen, did you not hear the man himself declare that he was guilty?” The foreman said, “We did, my lord, and that was the very reason we acquitted him, for we knew the fellow to be so notorious a liar that he never told a word of truth in his life.”
For the Table Book.
HEBREW MELODY,
A Portuguese Hymn.
In seat of the scorner, nor roams o’er the ground,
Where Pleasure is strewing her thorn-covered roses.
And waving her gay silken banners around.
Her somberest shadows o’er mountain and lea;
And kneels in devotion when daylight is glowing,
And gilding the waves of the dark rolling sea.
That riseth all glorious all lovely to view,
Whose deeply fix’d root the pure waters are laving,
Whose boughs are enriched with the kindliest dew.
The chaff by autumnal winds wafted away;
And when life’s fading lamp in its socket shall tremble
Shall look to the judgment with fear and dismay!
T. Q. M.
Ivy Cottage, Grassington in Craven,
October 21, 1827.
FACTITIA.
For the Table Book.
“Where is my Thermometer?”
In a certain town a certain military gentleman regulates his dress by a thermometer, which is constantly suspended at the back door of his house. Some wicked wag once stole the instrument, and left in its place the following lines:—
That huge and warm gasometer!
“Good lord!” quoth he, “how wondrous hot!
O, where is my thermometer!”
Degradation of a Degree.
“Why,” said our friend T. Q. M. to Sally Listen, an old inhabitant of Wensleydale, “why do you call Mr. ——, doctor, when he has no title to such an appellation? he is only a quack!”—“Why,” said Sally, “I’ll call him naught else. What mun a body mister sic chaps as him for? Doctor’s good enough for sic blacks!”
Vol. II.—48.
Source of the Ravensbourne.
Source of the Ravensbourne.
A crystal rillet, scarce a palm in width,
Till creeping to a bed, outspread by art,
It sheets itself across, reposing there:
Thence, through a thicket, sinuous it flows,
And crossing meads, and footpaths, gath’ring tribute.
Due to its elder birth, from younger branches,
Wanders, in Hayes and Bromley, Beckenham vale,
And straggling Lewisham, to where Deptford Bridge
Uprises in obeisance to its flood,
Whence, with large increase it rolls on, to swell
The master current of the “mighty heart”
Of England.
*
Before I had seen Keston I heard, at West Wickham, that it had been the site of a Roman camp, and that a Roman bath was still there. It was from curiosity towards this piece of antiquity that I first visited the spot, in company with my friend W——. The country people, whom we met on our way, spoke of it as the “Old Bath,” and the “Cold Bath,” and as a water of great virtue, formerly bathed in, and still resorted to, by persons afflicted with weak or sprained limbs, which by dipping in this bath became cured.
Our walk from Wickham was remarkably pleasant; we passed noble oaks of many centuries’ growth, and descended from the broad open highway into an old road on our left, a ravine, or intrenchment perchance, clothed with tendril plants and blossoming briars, festooning and arching over wild flowers growing amid the verdure of its high banks. Here we paced up hill, till we reached an open, lofty tract of heathland, in a rude, uncultivated, picturesque state, with a few houses in distant parts, surrounded by thriving plantations. On our left were the woodlands of the pleasant village of Hayes, remarkable for having been the seat of the great earl of Chatham, and the birthplace of his well-remembered son. On our right were the heights of Holwood, and fine forest scenery. Near a cluster of cottages immediately before us there was a mill, with its sails going; these we scarcely glanced at, but made our way to an old alehouse, the sign of the Fox, where an ancient labourer, sitting at the door, directed us to “the Bath.” We found it in a romantic little bottom, immediately under the gates of Holwood.
The delightful landscape, from the opening of this dell towards London and beyond it, so much engaged our attention, that for a while we forgot the “Bath,” on the brink of which we were standing. There is no appearance of its having been a bathing-place, and certainly it has not the least character of a Roman bath. It is simply a well of fine pellucid water, which gently overflowing threads a small winding channel in the herbage, and suddenly expands, till it seems bounded by an embankment and line of trees. This is the road to the pleasant inn “Keston Cross.” In the distance are the Kentish and Essex hills, with the dome of the metropolitan cathedral. Presuming that information respecting the spring might be obtained at Holwood we reascended, and inquired of several labourers employed in levelling and gravelling the avenue; but we derived nothing satisfactory till a Keston man, working at a distance, came up, and told us that it was the source of the Ravensbourne.
I had formerly heard and read of a tradition respecting this spring, and now that I unexpectedly found myself upon its margin, recollection of the story heightened the interest of the scene. The legend runs, that when Cæsar was encamped here his troops were in great need of water, and none could be found in the vicinity. Observing, however, that a raven frequently alighted near the camp, and conjecturing that it was for the purpose of quenching its thirst, he ordered the coming of the bird to be watched for, and the spot to be particularly noted; this was done, and the result was as he anticipated. The object of the raven’s resort was this little spring; from thence Cæsar derived a supply of water for the Roman legions, and from the circumstance of its discovery the spring was called the Raven’s bourne, or the Raven’s brook. From the lodge at Holwood, W. obtained the loan of a chair, and taking his seat on the brink of the well, sketched the view represented in his engraving of it above.
If the account of Holwood[465] in 1792 be correct, this spring, there called “Cæsar’s Spring,” was then a public cold bath, ornamented with trees, and a dressing-house on the brink. Hasted, in 1778,[466] gives a view of the Roman intrenchments on Holwood Hill, and figures the ancient road to the spring of the Ravensbourne, as running down to it from where Holwood gates now stand: he also figures the spring with twelve trees planted round it. Now, however, there is not a vestige of tree or building, but there are in the ground the stumps of a poled fencing, which was standing within recollection. On further examination I found the well bricked round, but the bricks at the top edge had decayed, or been thrown in; and the interior brickwork is lined with hair moss and other water-weeds. On the side opposite to that whereon a man is represented in the engraving. I traced the remains of steps for descending into the well as a bath. Its circle is about nine feet in diameter. At what time it commenced, or ceased, to be used as a bath, is uncertain.
Here, then, about twelve miles from London, in a delightful country, is a spring, rendered venerable by immemorial tradition and our ancient annals; and which, during eighteen centuries, from the time of its alleged discovery by Cæsar, has remained open to general use. Sorry therefore am I to add, that there are rumours of a wish to enclose this public relic of bygone ages. I invite public attention to the place and to the report. Even at this season the lover of natural scenery will find charms at the source of the Ravensbourne, and be able to imagine the beauty of the surrounding country in summer. Had I a right of common on Keston Heath, rather than assist in a base “homage,” to colourably admit the enclosure of “Cæsar’s Spring,” I would surrender my own right, and renounce community and neighbourhood with the heartless hirelings, who would defraud themselves and the public of the chief attraction to Keston Common. At so small a distance from London I know of nothing so remarkable in history as this spring. On no pretence ought the public to be deprived of it. There are rights of nature as well as of property: when the claims of the latter are urged too pertinaciously against the former, it is time to cry out; and if middle men do not interfere to prevent the oppression, they will, in their turn, cry aloud when there will be none to help them.
Garrick Plays.
No. XLII.
[From “Thyestes,” a Tragedy, by John Crowne, 1681.]
Atreus, having recovered his Wife, and Kingdom, from his brother Thyestes, who had usurped both, and sent him into banishment, describes his offending Queen.
’Tis true, in heavy sorrow: so she ought,
If she offended as I fear she has.
Her hardships, though, she owes to her own choice.
I have often offer’d her my useless couch;
For what is it to me? I never sleep:
But for her bed she uses the hard floor.
My table is spread for her; I never eat:
And she’ll take nothing but what feeds her grief.
Philisthenes, the Son of Thyestes, at a stolen interview with Antigone, the daughter of Atreus, is surprised by the King’s Spies: upon which misfortune Antigone swooning, is found by Peneus.
Antigone. Peneus, an ancient retainer to the Court of Mycenæ.
Indeed the place is far from any path,
But what conducts to melancholy thoughts;
But those are beaten roads about this Court.
Her habit calls her, Noble Grecian Maid;
But her sleep says, she is a stranger here.
All birds of night build in this Court, but Sleep;
And Sleep is here made wild with loud complaints,
And flies away from all. I wonder how
This maid has brought it to her lure so tame.
Antigone, (waking from her swoon). Oh my Philisthenes!
Peneus. She wakes to moan;
Aye, that’s the proper language of this place!
Antigone. My dear, my poor Philisthenes!
I know ’tis so! oh horror! death! hell! oh—
Peneus. I know her now; ’tis fair Antigone,
The daughter and the darling of the King.
This is the lot of all this family.[467]
Beauteous Antigone, thou know’st me well;
I am old Peneus, one who threescore years
Has loved and serv’d thy wretched family.
Impart thy sorrows to me; I perhaps
In my wide circle of experience
May find some counsel that may do thee good.
Antigone. O good old man! how long have you been here?
Peneus. I came but now.
Antigone. O did you see this way
Poor young Philisthenes? you know him well.
Peneus. Thy uncle’s son, Thyestes’ eldest son—
Antigone. The same, the same—
Peneus. No; all the Gods forbid
I should meet him so near thy father’s Court.
Antigone. O he was here one cursed minute past.
Peneus. What brought him hither?
Antigone. Love to wretched me.
Our warring fathers never ventured more
For bitter hate than we for innocent love.
Here but a minute past the dear youth lay,
Here in this brambly cave lay in my arms;
And now he is seized! O miserable me—(tears her hair.)
Peneus. Why dost thou rend that beauteous ornament?
In what has it offended? hold thy hands.
Antigone. O father, go and plead for the poor youth;
No one dares speak to the fierce King but you—
Peneus. And no one near speaks more in vain than I;
He spurns me from his presence like a dog.
Antigone. Oh, then—
Peneus. She faints, she swoons, I frighten’d her,
Oh I spake indiscretely. Daughter, child,
Antigone, I’ll go, indeed I’ll go.
Antigone. There is no help for me in heav’n or earth.
Peneus. There is, there is; despair not, sorrowful maid.
All will be well. I’m going to the King,
And will with pow’rful reasons bind his hands;
And something in me says I shall prevail.
But to whose care shall I leave thee the while?—
For oh! I dare not trust thee to thy grief.
Antigone. I’ll be disposed of, father, as you please,
Till I receive the blest or dreadful doom.
Peneus. Then come, dear daughter, lean upon my arm,
Which old and weak is stronger yet than thine;
Thy youth hath known more sorrow than my age.
I never hear of grief, but when I’m here;
But one day’s diet here of sighs and tears
Returns me elder home by many years.
Atreus, to entrap his brother Thyestes; who has lived a concealed life, lurking in woods, to elude his vengeance; sends Philisthenes and old Peneus to him with offers of reconciliation, and an invitation to Court, to be present at the nuptials of Antigone with Philisthenes.
Thyestes. Philisthenes. Peneus.
My hope, my comfort! Time has roll’d about
Several months since I have seen thy face,
And in its progress has done wond’rous things.
Phil. Strange things indeed to chase you to this sad
Dismal abode; nay, and to age, I think:
I see that winter thrusting itself forth
Long, long before its time, in silver hairs.
Thy. My fault, my son; I would be great and high,
Snow lies in summer on some mountain tops.
Ah, Son! I’m sorry for thy noble youth,
Thou hast so bad a father; I’m afraid,
Fortune will quarrel with thee for my sake.
Thou wilt derive unhappiness from me,
Like an hereditary ill disease.
Phil. Sir, I was born, when you were innocent;
And all the ill you have contracted since,
You have wrought out by painful penitence;
For healthy joy returns to us again;
Nay, a more vigorous joy than e’er we had.
Like one recover’d from a sad disease,
Nature for damage pays him double cost,
And gives him fairer flesh than e’er he had.
Thyestes is won from his retirement by the joint representations of Philisthenes and Peneus, of the apparent good faith, and returning kindness of his brother; and visits Mycenæ:—his confidence; his returning misgivings.
Thyestes. Philisthenes. Peneus.
I feel my loved long look’d-for native soil!
And oh! my weary eyes, that all the day
Had from some mountain travell’d toward this place,
Now rest themselves upon the royal towers
Of that great palace where I had my birth.
O sacred towers, sacred in your height,
Mingling with clouds, the villas of the Gods
Whither for sacred pleasures they retire;
Sacred because you are the work of Gods;
Your lofty looks boast your divine descent:
And the proud city which lies at your feet,
And would give place to nothing but to you,
Owns her original is short of yours.
And now a thousand objects more ride fast
On morning beams, and meet my eyes in throngs;
And see, all Argos meets me with loud shouts!
Phil. O joyful sound!
Thy. But with them Atreus too—
Phil. What ails my father, that he stops, and shakes,
And now retires?
Thy. Return with me, my son,
And old friend Peneus, to the honest beasts,
And faithful desart, and well-seated caves;
Trees shelter man, by whom they often die,
And never seek revenge: no villainy
Lies in the prospect of an humble cave.
Pen. Talk you of villainy, of foes, and fraud.
Thy. I talk of Atreus.
Pen. What are these to him?
Thy. Nearer than I am, for they are himself.
Pen. Gods drive these impious thoughts out of your mind.
Thy. The Gods for all our safety put them there.—
Return, return with me.
Pen. Against our oaths?
I cannot stem the vengeance of the Gods.
Thy. Here are no Gods: they’ve left this dire abode.
Pen. True race of Tantalus! who parent-like
Are doom’d in midst of plenty to be starved.
His hell and yours differ alone in this:
When he would catch at joys, they fly from him;
When glories catch at you, you fly from them.
Thy. A fit comparison; our joys and his
Are lying shadows, which to trust is hell.
The day of the pretended Nuptials.—Atreus feigns a returning love for his Queen.
You build new palaces on broken walls.
Atreus. Come, let our new-born pleasures breathe sweet air;
This room’s too vile a cabinet for gold.
Then leave for ever, Love, this doleful place,
And leave behind thee all thy sorrows here;
And dress thyself as this great day requires.
’Twill be thy daughter’s nuptials; and I dream’d,
The Sun himself would be asham’d to come,
And be a guest in his old tarnish’d robe;
But leave my Court,[468] to enlighten all the globe.—
Peneus to Atreus, dissuading him from his horrid purpose.
Atr. The fear of Gods ne’er came in Pelops’ House.
Pen. Think you there are no Gods?
Atr. I find all things
So false, I am sure of nothing but of wrongs.—
Atreus. Thyestes.
A Table, and a Banquet.
Thy. May not Philisthenes
Sit with us, Sir?
Atr. He waits upon the Bride.
A deeper bowl. This to the Bridegroom’s health.
Thy. This to the Gods for this most joyful day.—
Now to the Bridegroom’s health.
Atr. This day shall be
To Argos an eternal festival.
Thy. Fortune and I to day both try our strengths.
I have quite tired her left hand Misery;
She now relieves it with her right-hand Joy,
Which she lays on me with her utmost force;
But both shall be too weak for my strong spirit.
Atr. (aside). So, now my engines of delight have screw’d
The monster to the top of arrogance;
And now he’s ready for his deadly fall.
Thy. O these extremes of misery and joy
Measure the vast extent of a man’s soul.
My spirit reaches Fortune’s East and West.
She has oft set and ris’n here; yet cannot get
Out of the vast dominion of my mind.—
Ho! my proud vaunting has a sudden check;
See, from my head my crown of roses falls;
My hair, tho’ almost drown’d beneath sweet oils,
With strange and sudden horrors starts upright:
Something I know not what bids me not eat;
And what I have devour’d[469] within me groans;
I fain would tear my breast to set it free;—
And I have catch’d the eager thirst of tears,
Which all weak spirits have in misery.
I, who in banishment ne’er wept, weep now.
Atr. Brother, regard it not; ’tis fancy all.
Misery, like night, is haunted with ill spirits,
And spirits leave not easily their haunts;
’Tis said, sometimes they’ll impudently stand
A flight of beams from the forlorn of day,
And scorn the crowing of the sprightly cocks:—
Brother, ’tis morning with our pleasure yet.
Nor has the sprightly wine crow’d oft enough.
See in great flagons at full length it sleeps,
And lets these melancholy thoughts break in
Upon our weaker pleasures. Rouse the wine,
And bid him chase these fancies hence for shame.
Fill up that reverend unvanquish’d Bowl,
Who many a giant in his time has fallen,
And many a monster; Hercules not more.
Thy. If he descends into my groaning breast,
Like Hercules, he will descend to hell—
Atr. And he will vanquish all the monsters there.
Brother, your courage with this Hero try;
He o’er our House has reign’d two hundred years,
And he’s the only king shall rule you here.
Thy. What ails me, I cannot heave it to my lips?
Atr. What, is the bowl too heavy?
Thy. No; my heart.
Atr. The wine will lighten it.
Thy. The wine will not
Come near my lips.
Atr. Why should they be so strange?
They are near a-kin.
Thy. A-kin?
Atr. As possible; father and son not nearer.
Thy. What do you mean?
Atr. Does not good wine beget good blood?
Thy. ’Tis true.
Atr. Your lips then and the wine may be a-kin.
Off with your kindred wine; leave not a drop
To die alone, bewilder’d in that bowl.
Help him to heave it to his head; that’s well.
(Thyestes drinks. A clap of thunder. The lights go out.)
Nature is choak’d with some vast villainy,
And all her face is black.
Atr. Some lights, some lights.
Thy. The sky is stunn’d, and reels ’twixt night and day;
Old Chaos is return’d.
Atr. It is to see
A young One born, more dreadful than herself;
That promises great comfort to her age,
And to restore her empire.
Thy. What do you mean?
Atr. Confusion I have in thy bowels made.
Thy. Dire thoughts, like Furies, break into my mind
With flaming brands, and shew me what he means.
Where is Philisthenes?
Atr. Ask thy own bowels:
Thou heard’st them groan; perhaps they now will speak.
Thy. Thou hast not, Tyrant—what I dare not ask?
Atr. I kill’d thy Son, and thou hast drunk his blood.
C. L.
[467] The descendants of Tantalus.
[468] A hint of the dreadful banquet which he meditates, at which the Sun is said to have turned away his horses.
[469] The mangled limbs of his son Philisthenes, which Atreus has set before him.
For the Table Book
THEATRALIA.
Tom Durfey
Once got fifty guineas (according to tradition) for singing a single song to queen Anne in ridicule of “the princess Sophia, electress and duchess dowager of Hanover,” (as she is called in the oath of allegiance,) naturally no great favourite with the then reigning monarch. The only lines of this satirical production that have come down to us are the following; and, until now, only the two first of the stanza have been preserved by Durfey’s biographers:—
For shoulders of eighty;
She could not sustain such a trophy;
Her hand, too, already
Has grown so unsteady
She can’t hold a sceptre;
So Providence kept her
Away.—Poor old Dowager Sophy.”
“Merry Tom” had sung before the king in the former reign, and Charles II., as is well known, was very fond of his company.
Liston’s Marriage.
The following got into circulation just after Mr. Liston was united to Miss Tyrer but never was published:—
He must, like all the town, admire her,
A pretty actress, charming voice!
But some, astonish’d at his choice
Of one, compar’d with him, so small
She scarcely seem’d a wife at all,
Express’d their wonder: his reply
Show’d that he had “good reason why.”—
“We needs must when the devil drives;
And since all married men say, wives
Are of created things the worst,
I was resolv’d I would be curst
With one as small as I could get her.
The smaller, as I thought, the better.
I need not fear to lay my fist on,
Whene’er ’tis needed, Mrs. Liston:
And since, ’like heathen Jew or Carib,
I like a rib, but not a spare-rib,
I got one broad as she is long—
Go and do better, if I’m wrong.”
Charles Jennens, Esq.
One of the most singular characters of his day was Charles Jennens, Esq., a sort of literary Bubb Doddington. Being born to a good estate, from his boyhood he was ridiculously fond of show and pomp, and his style of writing was of a piece with his style of living. It has been said, that he put together the words of Handel’s “Messiah:” that he had something to do with them is true; but he had a secretary of the name of Pooley, a poor clergyman, who executed the principal part of the work, and, till now, has obtained no part of the credit. Charles Jennens, Esq. took it into his head, (perhaps the most rational notion he had ever indulged,) that the majority of Shakspeare’s commentators were mere twaddling antiquaries, without taste or talent; but he adopted an unfortunate way of proving it: he himself published an edition of Hamlet, Lear, Othello, and one or two more tragedies. He was of course laughed at for his attempt, and George Steevens tried to show a little of the wit, for which his friends gave him credit, and of the ill-nature for which he deserved it. Jennens published a pamphlet in reply, the greater part his own writing, which for years was his delight and solace: his poor secretary used to have the task of reading it from beginning to end, whenever his patron called for it, on giving an entertainment to his friends. Jennens commented, explained, and enforced, as he proceeded. In some of the biographical accounts of this personage it is asserted gravely, that for some time after the appearance of this tract he carefully looked over the newspapers every day, to learn if the success and severity of his attack had not compelled Dr. Johnson, Malone, Steevens, or Warburton, to hang themselves. This depends upon the following epigram, written at the time, and now only existing in MS., but which obtained a wide circulation, and is attributed, perhaps correctly, to Steevens. The only objection to this supposition is, that if it had been Steevens’s it is strange how his vanity could keep it out of the public prints, though after all it possesses but little merit:—