[507] The ancients also understood gilding with beaten, or water gold.—Æs inaurari argento vivo, legitimum erat. Plin. Hist. Natur. lib. xxxiii. c. 3. Vitruv. lib. vii. c. 8.
For the Table Book.
TALES OF TINMOUTHE PRIORIE.
No. II.
THE WIZARD’S CAVE.
Unless the nightly owl, or fatal raven.
And when they shewed me this abhorred pit,
They told me, here, at dead time of night,
A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes,
Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,
Would make such fearful and confused cries,
As any mortal body, hearing it,
Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.”
Titus Andronicus.
Far fam’d for his valour in border-fight,
Sat prattling so sweet on his mother’s knee,
As his arms twin’d her neck of pure ivory.
Some feat to be done by the bow or the blade,
Where foe may be quell’d or some charm be undone;
Or lady, or treasure, or fame may be won.
And smooth’d down his ringlets, and kiss’d him, and smil’d;
And she told him high deeds of the Percy brave,
Where the lance e’er could pierce, or the helm-plume wave.
Where treasures were hidden in mountain or dell;
Where wizards, for ages, kept beauty in thrall
’Neath the mould’ring damp of their dank donjon wall.
Where chant the cowl’d monks all by night and by day;
In a cavern of rock scoop’d under the sea,
Lye treasures in keeping of Sorcery.
It avails not the pray’rs of the prior Sir Hugh,
It avails not, O dread! Holy Virgin’s care,
Great treasure long held by dark Sathan is there.
Bound down by the chains of the strongest spell,
Lies the key of gold countless as sands on the shore,
And there it will rest ’till old time is no more.
Not win from the fiend all this ill-gotten gold?
Can no lion-soul’d knight, with his harness true,
Do more than cowl’d monks with their beads e’er can do?
Thy heart is too reckless, thine eye full of fire:
When reason with courage can help thee in need,
I will tell how the treasure from spell may be freed.
Saw the flowers blossom wild on the north mountain heath;
And the fleetest in chase and the stoutest in fight,
Grew young Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight.
Swept through the cold valleys where pines only grow;
But heedless of sleet, snow, or howling blast,
Young Walter e’er brav’d them, the first and the last.
Who wieldeth the falchion with master hand?
Who strideth the war-steed in border fight?
——’Tis Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight!
When my reason can act with my blade and my bow;
But the lady she wept o’er bold Walter her son,
For peril is great where renown can be won.
Who reckless of life sought the dark treasure cell;
Who failing to conquer the fiends of the cave,
For ever must dwell ’neath the green ocean wave.
And he laugh’d at her fears, as in veriest scorn—
—— Then prepare thy good harness, my bonny brave son,
Prepare for thy task on the eve of Saint John.
When the eve of Saint John was usher’d in:
And the shrieks of the sea-gulls, high whirling in air,
Spread far o’er the land like the screams of despair.
But the gusts of the north wind are louder still
And the hymn to the Virgin is lost in the roar
Of the billows that foam on the whiten’d shore.
As he seeks the dark cell, arm’d with basnet and brand;
And clank rings the steel of his aventayle bright,
As he springs up the rocks in the darkness of night.
And quails not the heart-blood that flows in his breast:
Unblenched his proud eye that shines calm and serene,
And floats in the storm his bright mantel of green.
One spring and the knight gains the first cavern keep;
The lightnings flash round him with madd’ning glare,
And the thunderbolts hiss through the midnight air.
And the yells of the spirits seem near and more near,
And the flames from their eye-balls burn ghastly blue
As they dance round the knight with a wild halloo.
Stand belching red fire where the warrior must pass;
But rushes he on with his brand and his shield,
And with loud shrieks of laughter they vanish and yield.
Sulphureous flames in their gaping throats;
And they spring to, but shrinks not, brave Walter the Knight,
And again all is sunk in the darkness of night.
Now menac’d with spirits, now dark and alone;
Till far in the gloom of the murky air
A pond’rous lamp sheds unearthly glare.
Holy mother!—Why shudders his stalwart frame?
A wide chasm opes ’neath his wond’ring view,
And now what availeth his falchion true.
And the eyeless spectres forward spring:
Now shrive thee young Walter, one moment of fear,
And thy doom is to dwell ’neath the ocean drear.
Of the bottomless chasm, then ceases to shrink;
Doffs hauberk and basnet, full fearless and fast,
And darts like an eagle the hell-gulf past.
Now rises to crush thee from nethermost hell;
And monsters most horrible hiss thee around,
And coil round thy limbs from the slimy ground.
Is heard ’mid the vast ocean’s billowy splash;
But it quails not the heart of Sir Robert’s brave son,
He will conquer the fiend on the eve of Saint John.
To sound it aloud once, twice, and again;
It turns to a snake in his startled grasp,
And its mouthpiece is arm’d with the sting of the asp.
The Wizard well knows ’tis the end of his sway;
For the bugle is fill’d with the warrior’s breath,
And thrice sounded loud in the caverns of death.
And it shakes its broad wings, as it shouts so shrill
And down sinks in lightning the demon array,
And the gates of the cavern in thunder give way.
Twelve stately pillars of crystal clear,
With topaz and amethyst, sparkles the floor,
And the bright beryls stud the thick golden door.
Shed a radiant light through the cavern gloom,
Twelve altars of onyx their incense fling
Round the jewell’d throne of an eastern king.
Gold heap’d upon gold, and emeralds green,
And diamonds, and rubies, and sapphires untold,
Rewarded the courage of Walter the Bold.
With far spreading forests and wide flowery plains,
Claim one for their lord, fairly purchas’d by right,
Hight Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight.
The tradition of the “Wizard’s Cave” is as familiar to the inhabitants and visitors of Tynemouth, as “household words.” Daily, during the summer season, even fair damsels are seen risking their slender necks, to ascertain, by adventurous exploration, whether young Walter the knight might not, in his hurry, have passed over some of the treasures of the cave: but alas! Time on this, as on other things, has laid his heavy hand; for the falling in of the rock and earth, and peradventure the machinations of the discomfited “spirits,” have, one or both, stopped up the dark passage of the cavern at the depth of ten or twelve feet. The entrance of the cave, now well known by the name of “Jingling Geordie’s Hole,” is partly formed by the solid rock and partly by masonry, and can be reached with some little danger about half way up the precipitous cliff on which Tynemouth castle and priory stand. It commands a beautiful haven, or sandy bay, on the north of Tynemouth promontory, badly sheltered on both sides by fearful beds of black rocks, on which the ocean beats with a perpetual murmur.
London, Dec. 4, 1827. Αλφα
PERSONS OF DISTINCTION.
Uprightness in Death.
Of German pride we have the following extraordinary anecdote:—A German lord left orders in his will not to be interred, but that he might be enclosed upright in a pillar, which he had ordered to be hollowed, and fastened to a post in the parish, in order to prevent any peasant or slave from walking over his body.
Taking a Liberty.
The most singular instance of British pride is related of a man, known in his time by the name of the “Proud Duke of Somerset.” This pillar of “the Corinthian capital of polished society” married a second wife. One day, with an affectionate ease, she suddenly threw her arm round his neck, and fondly saluted him. “Madam,” said the unmanly peer, “my first wife was a Percy, and she would not have taken such a liberty.”
Royal Dinner Time.
The kham of the Tartars, who had not a house to dwell in, who subsisted by rapine, and lived on mare’s milk and horse-flesh, every day after his repast, caused a herald to proclaim, “That the kham having dined, all other potentates, princes, and great men of the earth, might go to dinner.”
Self-Esteem.
Some Frenchmen, who had landed on the coast of Guinea, found a negro prince seated under a tree, on a block of wood for his throne, and three or four negroes, armed with wooden pikes, for his guards. His sable majesty anxiously inquired, “Do they talk much of me in France?”
Guinea Sovereigns.
The different tribes on the coast of Guinea have each their king, whose power is not greater than that of the negro prince mentioned in the preceding anecdote. These monarchs often name themselves after ours, or adopt the titles of great men, whose exploits they have heard of.
In the year 1743, there was among them a “King William,” whose august spouse called herself “Queen Anne.” There was another who styled himself the “Duke of Marlborough.”
This king William was a little Cæsar. For twenty years he had carried on a war against one Martin, who had dared to attempt to become his equal. At length, after a famous and decisive general engagement, wherein William lost three men, and his rival five, Martin made overtures for a cessation of hostilities, which was agreed to, on the following conditions:
1. That Martin should renounce the title of king, and assume that of captain.
2. That captain Martin should never more put on stockings or slippers when he went on board European ships, but that this brilliant distinction should thenceforth solely belong to king William.
3. That captain Martin should give the conqueror his most handsome daughter in marriage.
In pursuance of this glorious treaty, the nuptials were solemnized, and king William went on board a Danish ship in stockings and slippers, where he bought silk to make a robe for his queen, and a grenadier’s cap for her majesty’s headdress. Captain Martin paid a visit of ceremony to his royal daughter on occasion of her finery, and declared she never appeared so handsome before. This wedding ended a feud, which had divided the sable tribe into combatants as sanguinary and ferocious as the partisans of the white and red rose in England.
Titles.
Until the reign of Constantine, the title of “Illustrious” was never given but to those whose reputation was splendid in arms or in letters. Suetonius wrote an account of those who had possessed this title. As it was then bestowed, a moderate book was sufficient to contain their names; nor was it continued to the descendants of those on whom it had been conferred. From the time of Constantine it became very common, and every son of a prince was “illustrious.”
Towards the decline of the Roman empire the emperors styled themselves “divinities!” In 404, Arcadius and Honorius issued the following decree:—
“Let the officers of the palace be warned to abstain from frequenting tumultuous meetings; and those who, instigated by a sacrilegious temerity, dare to oppose the authority of our divinity, shall be deprived of their employments, and their estates confiscated.” The letters of these emperors were called “holy.” When their sons spoke of them, they called them—“Their father of divine memory;” or “Their divine father.” They called their own laws “oracles,” and “celestial oracles.” Their subjects addressed them by the titles of “Your Perpetuity, Your Eternity.” A law of Theodore the Great ordains thus—“If any magistrate, after having concluded a public work, put his name rather than that of Our Perpetuity, let him be judged guilty of high treason.”
De Meunier observes, that the titles which some chiefs assume are not always honourable in themselves, but it is sufficient if the people respect them. The king of Quiterva calls himself the “Great Lion;” and for this reason lions are there so much respected, that it is not permitted to kill them, except at royal huntings.
The principal officers of the empire of Mexico were distinguished by the odd titles of “Princes of unerring javelins;” “Hackers of men;” and “Drinkers of blood.”
The king of Monomotapa, surrounded by musicians and poets, is adulated by such refined flatteries, as “Lord of the Sun and Moon;” “Great Magician;” and “Great Thief!”
The king of Arracan assumes the title of “Emperor of Arracan; Possessor of the White Elephant, and the two Ear-rings, and in virtue of this possession, legitimate heir of Pegu and Brama, Lord of the twelve provinces of Bengal; and of the twelve Kings who place their heads under his feet.”
His majesty of Ava, when he writes to a foreign sovereign, calls himself—“The King of Kings, whom all others should obey; the Cause of the Preservation of all Animals; the Regulator of the Seasons; the Absolute Master of the Ebb and Flow of the Sea; Brother to the Sun; and King of the Four and Twenty Umbrellas.” These umbrellas are always carried before him as a mark of his dignity.
The titles of the king of Achem are singular and voluminous. These are a few of the most striking:—“Sovereign of the Universe, whose body is luminous as the sun; whom God created to be as accomplished as is the moon at her plenitude; whose eye glitters like the northern star; a King as spiritual as a ball is round—who when he rises shades all his people—from under whose feet a sweet odour is wafted, &c. &c.”
Formerly (says Houssaie) the title of “Highness” was only given to kings. It was conferred on Ferdinand, king of Arragon, and his queen Isabella, of Castile. Charles V. was the first who took that of “Majesty;” not in quality of king of Spain, but as emperor.
Our English kings were apostrophized by the title of “Your Grace.” Henry VIII. was the first who assumed the title of “Highness,” and at length “Majesty.” Francis I. began to give him this last title, in their interview in the year 1520. Our first “Sacred Majesty” was our “Most dread Sovereign, His Highness, the Most High and Mighty Prince, James I.”
The Great Turk.
This designation of the sovereign of the Ottoman empire was not conferred, as some have imagined, to distinguish him from his subjects. Mahomet II. was the first Turkish emperor on whom the Christians bestowed the title of “The Great Turk.” The distinction was not in consequence of his noble deeds, but from the vast extent of his territories, in comparison of those of the sultan of Iconia, or Cappadocia, his contemporary, who was distinguished by the title of “The Little Turk.” After the taking of Constantinople, Mahomet II. deprived “The Little Turk” of his dominions, yet he still preserved the title of “The Great Turk,” though the propriety of it was destroyed by the event.
AN INSCRIPTION,
Said to have been dug out of the Ruins of
a Palace at Rome.
Under this monument repose the ashes of Domitian, the last of the Cæsars, the fourth scourge of Rome; a tyrant, no less deliberate than Tiberius, no less capricious than Caligula, and no less outrageous than Nero.
When satiated with issuing edicts to spill human blood, he found an amusement in stabbing flies with a bodkin.
His reign, though undisturbed by war, occasioned no less calamity to his country than would have happened from the loss of twenty battles.
He was magnificent from vanity, affable from avarice, and implacable from cowardice.
He flattered incessantly the soldiery, who governed him, and detested the senate, who caressed him.
He insulted his country by his laws, heaven by his impiety, and nature by his pleasures.
While living, he was deified; and the assassins alone, whom his empress had sent to despatch him, could convince him of his mortality.
This monster governed during fifteen years; yet the administration of Titus, the delight of humankind, was confined to two.
Ye passengers! who read this inscription, blaspheme not the Gods!
DICKEY FLETCHER.
To the Editor.
I hastily transcribe the following, originally written for the Hull Advertiser, and printed in that paper for September 27, 1827, and subsequently in some of the London and provincial newspapers.
On Saturday, September 22, 1827, the inhabitants and visitants of Bridlington Quay, by a fatal accident, were suddenly deprived of the services of Richard Fletcher, the facetious and well-known bellman of that place, whose singular appearance, rhyming propensity, peculiar manner of pronunciation, and drawling and general originality, have so long been a source of amusement. In the forenoon of the above-mentioned day he was following his usual vocation, with that accustomed gaiety and cheerfulness for which he was remarkable, when having occasion to call at the lodging-house of Mr. Gray, he accidentally fell down the steps of a cellar-kitchen and broke his neck. The death of “poor Dickey,” and the shocking manner in which it occurred, excited much commiseration. The deceased was seventy-nine years of age, and left a widow at the age of eighty-nine, the relict of a former bellman, to whom he had been united about four years—during which period the antiquated pair formed a striking pattern of attachment. Dickey was a freeman of Hull, and the manner in which he made up his mind to vote for a candidate is deserving of mention. In the event of a contested election he was uniformly for the “third man;” as, he would say, “the other two would not think of looking after me, but for him.”
A specimen of Dickey’s rhyming eccentricities appeared in the Hull Advertiser of August 5th, 1825; a copy of which, and the paragraph accompanying it, is here given:—
“The company at Bridlington Quay are often highly amused by that eccentric little creature, yclep’d ‘the bellman.’ He is quite a lion;—being a poet as well as a crier. His poetry is uncommonly original, and if his pronunciation, when improvising, be not so too, it is uncommonly Yorkshire, which is as good. The following lines are a very faithful imitation of the ‘cry’ this singular-looking being drawled forth on Saturday morning, July 30:—
Two keyes, wich I ev i’ my ans;—
Wo-hever as lost ’um mus coom te mea,
An they sal ev ’um agean an we can agrea.’”
“Dickey’s late marriage was one of the ‘largest and the funniest’ known in Bridlington for a long time; a barouche and pair were gratuitously provided on the occasion, as well as a wedding-dinner and other et cæteras. Since ‘they twain became one flesh,’ Dickey has been very proud of walking abroad, at fair times and public occasions, with ‘his better part,’ when they generally formed objects of considerable attraction to those to whom they were not particularly known.”
T. C.
Bridlington, October, 1827.
ANOTHER ODD SIGN.[508]
At Wold Newton, near Bridlington, there is a public-house with the sign of a crooked billet, and the following lines on an angular board:—
First side
Our Ale was fresh and very good,
Step in and taste, O do make haste,
For if you don’t ’twill surely waste.
Second side.
Come read this too before you ride;
And now to end we’ll let it pass,
Step in, kind friends, and take a GLASS.
Bridlington. T. C.
[508] See Table Book, vol. i. p. 636.
For the Table Book.
TO FANNY.
Though parting break my heart in twain,
This hour I go, by many a sea
Divided—ne’er we meet again.
That tear upon thy pallid cheek,
Assures me that I now resign
What long it was my joy to seek.
My only hope, my fondest prayer;
’Tis gone, and like a meteor beam
Hath past, and left me to despair.
Nor find like me those hopes decay,
Which ever, like a desert lake,
Attract the sight to fade away.
So full of life, so radiant now,
I could not see its lustre die,
And time’s cold hand deface thy brow—
(I could not brook to know that hour,)
But, if I do not learn thy fate,
I’ll think thou ne’er canst feel his pow’r.
And other thoughts may love estrange,
’Twill give some pleasure to my soul
To know I cannot see thee change.
One hour of anguish more to me;
Since I have felt the only sting
He e’er could give, in leaving thee.
S.
THE PLEASURES OF ILLUSION.
To the Editor.
Sir,—I am a person unable to reckon upon the certain receipt of sixpence per annum, and yet I enjoy all the pleasures this sublunary world can afford. My assertion may startle, but its truth will be apparent when I declare myself a visionary, or, what is called by the world, “a castle builder.” Many would denounce my profession as useless and unprofitable; but the object constantly desired and incessantly pursued by mankind is happiness, which they find as evanescent and delusive as the silver of the moon upon the waters. Most men attach to certain states of existence every pleasure that the earth can bestow. Some enter these by laborious and careful steps, but find them, upon examination, devoid of the charms which their enthusiastic imaginations had painted. Others, more ardent and less calculating, rapidly ascend towards the object of their wishes, and when their hands are stretched forth to grasp it they lose their high footing by an incautious step, and fall into an abyss of despondence and are lost for ever. How different a fate is mine! I have been the conqueror of nations, without feeling a pang at the recollection of the blood spilled in raising me to my exalted situation. I have been the idol and defender of my country, without suffering the anxieties of a statesman. I have obtained the affections of an amiable girl, without enduring the solicitudes of a protracted courtship. In fact, I possess every earthly pleasure, without any of the pains of endeavouring to obtain them. True it is, that the visions I create are easily dispelled, but this is a source of gratification rather than regret. When glutted with conquest, I sink into love; and on these failing to charm me, I enter upon scenes more congenial to the desires with which I feel myself inspired. Every wish that I conceive is instantly gratified, and in a moment I possess that which many devote their whole lives to obtain. Surely the existence I lead is an enviable one; yet many calling themselves my friends (and I believe them to be such) would wish me to think otherwise. Sometimes, to gratify their desires, I have endeavoured to break the fairy spells that bind me; but when I dissipate the mist in which I am almost constantly surrounded, the scenes of misery that present themselves to my view have such an effect upon my senses, that on returning to my peculiar regions they appear doubly delightful, from being contrasted by those of the real world.
I have obtruded this epistle on your notice, in vindication of a practice which has been deprecated by many; solely, as I believe, from their powers of imagination being unable to lead them into the abodes where I so happily dwell. Should you think it unworthy a place in your miscellany, its rejection will not occasion me a moment’s mortification, as I already possess a reputation for literary acquirements, far surpassing any which has been given to the most celebrated writers that have flourished since the creation of your miserable world.
November 6, 1827. T. T. B.
OLD MACARONIC POEM.
To the Editor.
Sir,—I am a literary lounger, and diurnally amuse myself, during about four hours, in poring over old poetical MSS. in the British Museum: the result of yesterday’s idle labours was the accompanying transcript from a macaronic drinking song, which appears to me a very curious amalgamation of jollity and devotion. If you coincide in this opinion, perhaps you will honour its unknown author by inserting it in your delightful miscellany, which, like the diving bell, restores to the world many interesting relics of antiquity, and rescues them from eternal oblivion.
I am, sir, your obedient servant
and constant reader,
Le Flaneur.
Reading Room,
Brit. Mus. Nov. 22, 1827.
FROM the Cotton MS.
Vespasian A.xxv.
1.
On earthe, that I do knowe,
More worthie praise I trowe,
Than is the vyne,
Whos grapes, as ye may rede,
Their licoure forthe dothe shede,
Wherof is made indede
All our good wyne.
And wyne, ye maye trust me,
Cause the men for to be
Merie, for so ye see
His nature is;
Then put asyde all wrathe,
For David showde us hathe,
Vinum letificat
Cor hominis.
2.
As Scripture dothe expresse,
Cause the great hevines
Unto the mynde:
But theie that take pleasure
To drinke it with measure,
No doute a great treasure
They shall it finde.
Then voide you all sadnes,
Drinke your wyne with gladnes,
To take thought is madnes,
And marke well this;
And put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.
3.
Cordis Jucunditas,
Is now and ever was
The lyfe of man.
Sithe that mirthe hathe no peare,
Then let us make good cheare,
And be you merie heare,
While that ye can;
And drinke well of this wyne,
While it is good and fyne,
And showe some outwarde syne
Of joye and blisse;
Expell from you all wrathe, &c. ut supra.
4.
Hevines dulleth men,
But take this medicien then,
Where’er ye come:
Refreshe yourself therewith.
For it was said long sithe,
That vinum acuit
Ingenium.
Then give not a chery
For sider nor perrye,
Wyne maketh man merie.
Ye knowe well this;
And put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.
5.
From all our hevines,
And mirthe for to encrease
Sum dele the more,
Pulsemus organa.
Simul cum cithara,
Vinum et musica
Vegetabit cor.
But sorowe, care, and strife
Shortnethe the days of life,
Bothe of man and of wyfe
It will not mis;
Then put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.
6.
Makethe a lustie age,
As telleth us the sage,
Ever for the noynes;
Because we should delight
In mirthe, bothe daye and night,
He saith an hevie fright
Driethe up the bones.
Wherfor, let us alwaye
Rejoice in God, I saye,
Our mirthe cannot decaye
If we do this,
And put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.
7.
Laud God Omnipotent,
That hathe us given and sent
Our dalie foode,
When thorowe sinne we’re slaine,
He sent his son againe,
Us to redeeme from paine
By his sweete bloode,
And he is the trewe vyne,
From whome distill’d the wyne,
That boughte your soules and myne,
You knowe well this:
Then put asyde all wrathe,
For David showde us hathe
Vinum letificat
Cor hominis.
ANTY BRIGNAL AND THE BEGGING QUAKER.
For the Table Book.
A few years ago a stout old man, with long grey hair, and dressed in the habit of the Society of Friends, was seen begging in the streets of Durham. The inhabitants, attracted by the novelty of a “begging Quaker,” thronged about him, and several questioned him as to his residence, &c. Amongst them was “Anty Brignal,” the police-officer, who told him to go about his business, or he would put him in the kitty[509] “for an imposteror.” “Who ever heard,” said Anthony, “of a begging Quaker?” “But,” said the mendicant, while tears flowed adown his face, “thou knowest, friend, there be bad Quakers as well as good ones; and, I confess to thee, I have been a bad one. My name is John Taylor; I was in the hosiery business at N——, and through drunkenness have become a bankrupt. The society have turned me out, my friends have deserted me. I have no one in the world to help me but my daughter, who lives in Edinburgh, and I am now on my way thither. Thou seest, friend, why I beg; it is to get a little money to help me on my way: be merciful, as thou hopest for mercy.” “Come, come,” said the officer, “it won’t do, you know; there’s not a word of truth in it; ’tis all false. Did not I see you drunk at Nevill’s Cross (a public-house of that name) the other night?” “No, friend,” said the man of unsteady habits, “thou didst not see me drunk there, but I was there, and saw thee drunk; and thou knowest when a man is drunk he thinks every body else so!” This was a poser for the police-officer. The crowd laughed, and “Anty Brignal” slunk away from their derision, while money fell plentifully into the extended hat of the disowned quaker.
T. Q. M.
[509] So is the house of correction called in Durham.
For the Table Book.
THE ORPHANS.
Written on seeing a small Lithographic
Print of two Female Orphan
Children.
1.
Bent by the breeze that wafts their fragrance round—
Pale, mild, and lovely; but by all forgot,—
They droop neglected on the dewy ground.
2.
To cheer them, through life’s drear and rugged way
Stand these two pensive mourners side by side,
To sorrow keen, and early grief, a prey.
3.
Its gloomy shade, in death their parents sleep;
Unconscious now they rest their weary heads,
Nor hear their children sigh, nor see them weep.
4.
While struggling from its coral cell to start;
Oh, how that pearl of sensibility
In silence pleads to every feeling heart.
5.
To weep for ever in a crystal shower,
Could claim more pity for her hapless state,
Than does, for you, that drop of magic power.
6.
One who would in those bosoms plant a thorn,
And banish thence the halcyon’s tranquil nest,
While they its loss in secret anguish mourn?
7.
Forsaken innocence would lead astray,
And round her like a treach’rous serpent coil,
And having stung, relentless haste away.
8.
To guard you safe, and strew your path with flowers.
May hope’s bright sun your gloomy morning cheer,
And shine in splendour on your evening hours.
R. B.
Sept. 1827.
For the Table Book.
JACK THE VIPER.
This is an odd name for a man, who does not bear the appearance of a viper, or “a snake in the grass.” He is a rough sort of fellow, has been at Waterloo, but did not obtain a medal. He, nevertheless, carries the hue of a triumphant soldier, wears an honest sunburnt face, and might be trusted with his majesty’s great seal, or that of another description in the British Museum. He is a lover of ringing bells and swine; but without regular employment. A singular piece of human construction, lone, and erratic in his love of nature. A shepherd lies down at ease by the sides of his flocks and fountains, listens to the plaints of injured birds, the voice of water and the music of skies, and dreams away his existence, years of youth, manhood, and old age. Jack is more tranquil even than the shepherd. He creeps silently in woods and forests, and on retired hot banks, in search of serpentine amusement—he is a viper catcher. Strange that creatures, generally feared and shunned by mankind, should win Jack’s attention and sympathy, Yet, true it is, that Jack regards them as the living beauties of solitude, the lovely but startling inhabitants of luxuriant spots in the sultry summer. Were we to look round us, in the haunts of men, we could, perhaps, discover beings as fearful and awakening. Jack has travelled, seen the world, and profited by his travels; for he has learned to be contented. He is not entirely idle, nor wholly industrious. If he can get a crust sufficient for the day, he leaves the evil if it should visit him. The first time I saw him was in the high noon of a scorching day, at an inn in Laytonstone. He came in while a sudden storm descended, and a rainbow of exquisite majesty vaulted the earth. Sitting down at a table, he beckoned the hostess for his beer, and conversed freely with his acquaintance. By his arch replies I found that I was in company with an original—a man that might stretch forth his arm in the wilderness without fear, and, like Paul, grasp an adder without harm. He playfully entwined his fingers with their coils and curled crests, and played with their forked tongues. He had unbuttoned his waistcoat, and as dexterously as a fish-woman handles her eels, let out several snakes and adders, warmed by his breast, and spread them on the table. He took off his hat, and others of different sizes and lengths twisted before me; some of them, when he unbosomed his shirt, returned to the genial temperature of his skin; some curled round the legs of the table, and others rose in a defensive attitude. He irritated and humoured them, to express either pleasure or pain at his will. Some were purchased by individuals, and Jack pocketed his gain, observing, “a frog, or mouse, occasionally, is enough for a snake’s satisfaction.”
The “Naturalist’s Cabinet” says, that “in the presence of the grand duke of Tuscany, while the philosophers were making elaborate dissertations on the danger of the poison of vipers, taken inwardly, a viper catcher, who happened to be present, requested that a quantity of it might be put into a vessel; and then, with the utmost confidence, and to the astonishment of the whole company, he drank it off. Every one expected the man instantly to drop down dead; but they soon perceived their mistake, and found that, taken inwardly, the poison was as harmless as water.”
William Oliver, a viper catcher at Bath, was the first who discovered that, by the application of olive oil, the bite of the viper is effectually cured. On the 1st of June, 1735, he suffered himself to be bitten by an old black viper; and after enduring all the agonising symptoms of approaching death, by using olive oil, he perfectly recovered.
Viper’s flesh was formerly esteemed for its medicinal virtues, and its salt was thought to exceed every other animal product, in giving vigour to a languid constitution.
August, 1827. ——
A SKETCH IN SPA FIELDS.
To the Editor.
Sir,—Allow me to draw your attention to a veteran, who in the Egyptian expedition lost his sight by the ophthalmy, and now asks alms of the passenger in the little avenue leading from Sadler’s Wells to Spa Fields, along the eastern side of the New River Head.
His figure, sir, would serve for a model of Belisarius, and even his manner of soliciting would be no disgrace to the Roman general. I am not expert at drawing portraits, yet will endeavour by two or three lines to give a slight conception of this. His present height is full six feet, but in his youth it must have been nearly two inches more; as the weight of about sixty-five years has occasioned a slight curvature of the spine. His limbs are large and muscular, his shoulders broad, his chest capacious, the lines of his countenance indicate intelligence; his motion is not graceful, for he appears to step without confidence, occasioned no doubt by his blindness.
Now, sir, give his head no other covering than a few very short grey hairs, and button him up close in the remains of a dragoon dress, and you have his likeness as exact as an unskilful artist can give it.
O.
N.B.—An old woman must lead him.
Extracts
FROM MY NOTE BOOK.
For the Table Book.
Moore, in his life of Sheridan, says, that “he (Sheridan) had a sort of hereditary fancy for difficult trifling in poetry; particularly to that sort which consists in rhyming to the same word through a long string of couplets, till every rhyme that the language supplies for it is exhausted:” and quotes some dozen lines, entitled “My Trunk,” and addressed “To Anne,” wherein a lady is made to bewail the loss of her trunk, and rhymes her lamentation. The editor, in a note, says, “Some verses by general Fitzpatrick on lord Holland’s father, are the best specimen I know of this scherzo.” The general’s lines I have never seen, and it is probable they are only in MS.; but le Seigneur des Accords, in his Bizarrures, (ed. 1585, Paris, Richer, feuillet 27,) quotes sixty lines, rhyming on a very indecent word from “un certain hure contre les femmes,” composed by Drusac, “un Tolosain rimailleur imitant Marot;” and who is there stated to have composed 300 or 400 verses on the same subject, and to the same rhyme. And at feuillet 162 of the same work and edition, the Seigneur adduces two other remarkable instances of “difficult trifling in poetry.” Speaking of one of which, he says, “Vn Allemant nommé Petrus Porcius Porta, autrement Petrus Placentius, a fait un petit poëme laborieux le possible auquel il descrit Pugnam Porcorum en 350 vers ou environ, qui commencent tous par P, dont j’ai rapporté ces XVI suivas pour exemple, et pour contenter ceux qui ne l’ont pas veu.” The quotation referred to commences with