And he came a wooing to me;
He told me he’d take me unto the north lands,
And I should his fair bride be.
Whereon did the red-cross shine,
Yet never, I ween, had that strange knight been
In the fields of Palestine.
This knight of the north countrie,
O, maiden fair, with the raven hair,
Thou shalt at my bidding be.
For he hath a journey gone,
And his shaggy blood-hound is sleeping sound,
Beside the postern stone.
And some of thy mother’s fee,
And steeds twain of the best, in the stalls that rest
Where they stand thirty and three.
*****
And he on a dapple grey,
And they forward did ride, till they reach’d the sea-side,
Three hours before it was day.
This knight of the north countrie,
O, maiden fair, with the raven hair,
Do thou at my bidding be.
And deliver it unto me;
Six maids have I drown’d, where the billows sound,
And the seventh one thou shalt be.
And deliver it unto me;
Thy kirtle of green is too rich, I ween,
To rot in the salt, salt sea.
And deliver them unto me;
Methinks that they are too fine and gay
To rot in the salt, salt sea.
That floats in the breeze so free;
It is woven fine with the silver twine,
And comely it is to see.
O turn thy back to me;
And gaze on the sun which has just begun
To peer o’er the salt, salt sea.
And gaz’d on the bright sunbeam—
She grasp’d him tight with her arms so white,
And plung’d him into the stream.
Lie there instead of me;
Six damsels fair thou hast drown’d there,
But the seventh has drowned thee.
For he sunk right hastily;
Though with dying voice faint, he pray’d to his saint,
And utter’d an Ave Marie.
No convent bell did toll;
But he went to his rest, unshriv’d and unblest—
Heaven’s mercy on his soul!
*****
And led the steed milk-white;
She rode till she reach’d her father’s hall,
Three hours before the night.
To the lady then did say,
Some ruffian, I fear, has led thee from home,
For thou hast been long away.
Do not tell tales of me;
And thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,
Instead of the greenwood tree.
On hearing the parrot did say,
What ails thee, what ails thee, my pretty bird?
Thou hast prattled the live-long day.
And call, brave earl, on thee;
For the cat has well nigh reach’d the lattice so high,
And her eyes are fix’d on me.
Well turn’d, well turn’d for me;
Thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,
Instead of the greenwood tree.
PRIDE AND GOOD-WILL.
It is related of a certain class of French nobility, who, in their winter residence at Aix, were objects of dislike from their arrogance and self-importance, that they were beloved and esteemed for their kindness and benevolence by the dependants around their chateaus in the country. Many instances might be cited to show that the respect paid them was no more than they deserved; and one is particularly striking:—
A seigneur, when he resided in the country, used to distribute among the women and children, and the old men who were unable to work in the field, raw wool, and flax, which they spun and wove into cloth or stuff at their pleasure: every week they were paid wages according to the quantity of work done, and had a fresh supply of raw materials whenever it was wanted. At the end of the year, a general feast was given by the seigneur to the whole village, when all who had been occupied in spinning and weaving brought in their work, and a prize of a hundred livres was given to each person who had spun the best skein, and woven the best web. They had a dinner in a field adjoining to the chateau, at which the seigneur himself presided, and on each side of him sat those who had gained the prizes. The evening was concluded with a dance. The victors, besides the hundred livres, had their work given them: the rest were allowed to purchase theirs at a very moderate price, and the money resulting from it was laid by to distribute among any persons of the village who wanted relief on account of sickness, or who had suffered from unavoidable accident, either in their persons or property. At the death of this excellent man, who unfortunately left no immediate heirs to follow his good example, the village presented a scene of the bitterest lamentation and distress: the peasants assembled round the body, and it was almost forced away from them for interment. They brought their shuttles, their distaffs, their skeins of thread and worsted, their pieces of linen and stuff, and strewed them upon his grave, saying that now they had lost their patron and benefactor, they could no longer be of use to them. If this man felt the pride of conscious superiority, it was scarcely to be condemned when accompanied with such laudable exertions to render himself, through that superiority, a benefactor to society.[38]
[38] Miss Plumptre.
Garrick Plays.
No. II.
[From the “Parliament of Bees,” a Masque, by John Day, printed 1607. Whether this singular production, in which the Characters are all Bees, was ever acted, I have no information to determine. It is at least as capable of representation, as we can conceive the “Birds” of Aristophanes to have been.]
Ulania, a female Bee, confesses her passion for Meletus, who loves Arethusa.
That trafficks daily on the neighbour plain,
But will report, how all the Winged Train
Have sued to me for Love; when we have flown
In swarms out to discover fields new blown.
Happy was he could find the forward’st tree,
And cull the choicest blossoms out for me;
Of all their labours they allow’d me some
And (like my champions) mann’d me out, and home:
Yet loved I none of them. Philon, a Bee
Well-skill’d in verse and amorous poetry,
As we have sate at work, both of one Rose,[39]
Has humm’d sweet Canzons, both in verse and prose,
Which I ne’er minded. Astrophel, a Bee
(Although not so poetical as he)
Yet in his full invention quick and ripe,
In summer evenings, on his well-tuned pipe,
Upon a woodbine blossom in the sun,
(Our hive being clean-swept, and our day’s work done),
Would play me twenty several tunes; yet I
Nor minded Astrophel, nor his melody.
Then there’s Amniter, for whose love fair Leade
(That pretty Bee) flies up and down the mead
With rivers in her eyes; without deserving
Sent me trim Acorn bowls of his own carving,
To drink May dews and mead in. Yet none of these,
My hive-born Playfellows and fellow Bees,
Could I affect, until this strange Bee came;
And him I love with such an ardent flame,
Discretion cannot quench.—
He labours and toils,
Extracts more honey out of barren soils
Than twenty lazy Drones. I have heard my Father,
Steward of the Hive, profess that he had rather
Lose half the Swarm than him. If a Bee, poor or weak,
Grows faint on his way, or by misfortune break
A wing or leg against a twig; alive,
Or dead, he’ll bring into the Master’s Hive
Him and his burthen. But the other day,
On the next plain there grew a fatal fray
Betwixt the Wasps and us; the wind grew high,
And a rough storm raged so impetuously,
Our Bees could scarce keep wing; then fell such rain,
It made our Colony forsake the plain,
And fly to garrison: yet still He stood,
And ’gainst the whole swarm made his party good;
And at each blow he gave, cried out His Vow,
His Vow, and Arethusa!—On each bough
And tender blossom he engraves her name
With his sharp sting. To Arethusa’s fame
He consecrates his actions; all his worth
Is only spent to character her forth.
On damask roses, and the leaves of pines,
I have seen him write such amorous moving lines
In Arethusa’s praise, as my poor heart
Has, when I read them, envied her desert;
And wept and sigh’d to think that he should be
To her so constant, yet not pity me.
***
Porrex, Vice Roy of Bees under King Oberon, describes his large prerogative.
Write Ourself Master Bee), both field and grove,
Garden and orchard, lawns and flowery meads,
(Where the amorous wind plays with the golden heads
Of wanton cowslips, daisies in their prime,
Sun-loving marigolds; the blossom’d thyme,
The blue-vein’d violets and the damask rose;
The stately lily, Mistress of all those);
Are allow’d and giv’n, by Oberon’s free areed,
Pasture for me, and all my swarms to feed.
The births, the wars, the wooings,
of these pretty little winged creatures are with continued liveliness portrayed throughout the whole of this curious old Drama, in words which Bees would talk with, could they talk; the very air seems replete with humming and buzzing melodies, while we read them. Surely Bees were never so be-rhymed before.
C. L.
[39] Prettily pilfered from the sweet passage in the Midsummer Night’s Dream, where Helena recounts to Hermia their school-days’ friendship:
Created with our needles both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion.
Biographical Memoranda.
John Scot, a Fasting Fanatic.
In the year 1539, there lived in Scotland one John Scot, no way commended for his learning, for he had none, nor for his good qualities, which were as few. This man, being overthrown in a suit of law, and knowing himself unable to pay that wherein he was adjudged, took sanctuary in the abbey of Holyrood-house; where, out of discontent, he abstained from all meat and drink, by the space of thirty or forty days together.
Fame having spread this abroad, the king would have it put to trial, and to that effect shut him up in a private room within the castle of Edinburgh, whereunto no man had access. He caused a little water and bread to be set by him, which he was found not to have diminished in the end of thirty days and two. Upon this he was dismissed, and, after a short time, he went to Rome, where he gave the like proof of his fasting to pope Clement VII.; from whence he went to Venice, carrying with him a testimony of his long fasting under the pope’s seal: and there also he gave the like proof thereof. After long time, returning into England, he went up into the pulpit in St. Paul’s Church-yard, where he gave forth many speeches against the divorce of king Henry VIII. from his queen Katherine, inveighing bitterly against him for his defection from the see of Rome; whereupon he was thrust into prison, where he continued fasting for the space of fifty days: what his end was I read not.—Spotswood, &c.
Hart the Astrologer.
There lived in Houndsditch, about the year 1632, one Alexander Hart, who had been a soldier formerly, a comely old man, of good aspect, he professed questionary astrology and a little of physic; his greatest skill was to elect young gentlemen fit times to play at dice, that they might win or get money. Lilly relates that “he went unto him for resolutions for three questions at several times, and he erred in every one.” He says, that to speak soberly of him he was but a cheat, as appeared suddenly after; for a rustical fellow of the city, desirous of knowledge, contracted with Hart, to assist for a conference with a spirit, and paid him twenty pounds of thirty pounds the contract. At last, after many delays, and no spirit appearing, nor money returned, the young man indicted him for a cheat at the Old Bailey in London. The jury found the bill, and at the hearing of the cause this jest happened: some of the bench inquired what Hart did? “He sat like an alderman in his gown,” quoth the fellow; at which the court fell into a laughter, most of the court being aldermen. He was to have been set upon the pillory for this cheat; but John Taylor the water poet being his great friend, got the lord chief justice Richardson to bail him, ere he stood upon the pillory, and so Hart fled presently into Holland, where he ended his days.[40]
[40] Autobiography, vol. ii, Lilly’s Life.
REV. THOMAS COOKE.
The verses at the end of the following letter may excuse the insertion of a query, which would otherwise be out of place in a publication not designed to be a channel of inquiry.
To the Editor.
Sir,—I should feel much obliged, if the Table Book can supply some account of a clergyman of the name of Thomas Cooke, who, it is supposed, resided in Shropshire, and was the author of a very beautiful poem, in folio, (published by subscription, about ninety years since,) entitled “The Immortality of the Soul.” I have a very imperfect copy of this work, and am desirous of ascertaining, from any of your multifarious readers, whether or not the poem ever became public, and where it is probable I could obtain a glimpse of a perfect impression. Mine has no title-page, and about one moiety of the work has been destroyed by the sacrilegious hands of some worthless animal on two legs!
The list of subscribers plainly proves that Mr. Cooke must have been a man of good family, and exalted connections. On one of the blank leaves in my copy, the following lines appear, written by Mr. Cooke himself; and, considering the trammels by which he was confined, I think the verses are not without merit; at any rate, the subject of them appears to have been a beautiful creature.
By giving this article a place in the Table Book, you will much oblige
Your subscriber and admirer,
G. J. D.
Islington-green.
Varieties.
CURIOUS PLAY BILL.
The following remarkable theatrical announcement is a mixed appeal of vanity and poverty to the taste and feelings of the inhabitants of a town in Sussex.
(Copy.)
At the old theatre in East Grinstead, on Saturday, May, 1758, will be represented (by particular desire, and for the benefit of Mrs. P.) the deep and affecting Tragedy of Theodosius, or the Force of Love, with magnificent scenes, dresses, &c.
Varanes, by Mr. P., who will strive, as far as possible, to support the character of this fiery Persian Prince, in which he was so much admired and applauded at Hastings, Arundel, Petworth, Midworth, Lewes, &c.
Theodosius, by a young gentleman from the University of Oxford, who never appeared on any stage.
Athenais, by Mrs. P. Though her present condition will not permit her to wait on gentlemen and ladies out of the town with tickets, she hopes, as on former occasions, for their liberality and support.
Nothing in Italy can exceed the altar, in the first scene of the play. Nevertheless, should any of the Nobility or Gentry wish to see it ornamented with flowers, the bearer will bring away as many as they choose to favour him with.
As the coronation of Athenais, to be introduced in the fifth act, contains a number of personages, more than sufficient to fill all the dressing-rooms, &c., it is hoped no gentlemen and ladies will be offended at being refused admission behind the scenes.
N. B. The great yard dog, that made so much noise on Thursday night, during the last act of King Richard the Third, will be sent to a neighbour’s over the way; and on account of the prodigious demand for places, part of the stable will be laid into the boxes on one side, and the granary be open for the same purpose on the other.
Vivat Rex.[41]
It’s never too late to mend.
At Chester, in the beginning of the year 1790, a reputable farmer, on the evening of a market-day, called at the shop of Mr. Poole, bookseller, and, desiring to speak with him at the door, put a shilling into his hand, telling him, “he had owed it to him many years.” The latter asked, for what? To which the farmer replied, that “When a boy, in buying a book-almanac at his shop, he had stolen another—the reflection of which had frequently given him much uneasiness.” If any one who sees this ever wronged his neighbour, let him be encouraged by the courage of the farmer of Chester, to make reparation in like manner, and so make clean his conscience.
Conscience.
Nor charm in prayer—nor purifying form
Of penitence—nor outward look—nor fast—
Nor agony—nor, greater than all these,
The innate tortures of that deep despair,
Which is remorse without the fear of hell.
But all in all sufficient to itself
Would make a hell of heaven—can exorcise
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge
Upon itself; there is no future pang
Can deal that justice on the self-condemn’d
He deals on his own soul.
Byron.
Epitaph by Dr. Lowth, late bishop of London, on a monument in the church of Cudesden, Oxfordshire, to the memory of his daughter, translated from the Latin:—
More dear than in a daughter’s name—farewell!
Farewell, dear Mary—but the hour is nigh
When, if I’m worthy, we shall meet on high:
Then shall I say, triumphant from the tomb,
“Come, to thy father’s arms, dear Mary, come!”
INSCRIPTION
From the book at Rigi, in Switzerland.
The setting sun to see;
Sulky and grim he went to bed.
Sulky and grim went we.
The rising sun to see,
Sulky and grim we rose again.
Sulky and grim rose he.
[41] Boaden’s Life of Mrs. Siddons.
Antiquarian Hall, ALIAS Will. Will-be-so, of Lynn,
Be-doctor’d Norfolk cows; much vext, he
Turn’d bookseller, and poetaster,
And was a tolerable master
Of title-pages, but his rhymes
Were shocking, at the best of times.
However, he was very honest,
And now, poor fellow, he is—“non est.”
*
For the Table Book.
William Hall, or as he used to style himself, “Antiquarian Hall,” “Will. Will-be-so,” and “Low-Fen-Bill-Hall,” or, as he was more generally termed by the public, “Old Hall,” died at Lynn, in Norfolk, on the 24th of January, 1825. From some curious autobiographical sketches in rhyme, published by himself, in the decline of life, it appears that he was born on June 1, O.S. 1748, at Willow Booth, a small island in the fens of Lincolnshire, near Heckington Ease, in the parish of South Kyme.
Where no corn grows,
Nothing but a little hay;
And the water comes,
And takes it all away.”
His ancestors on the father’s side were all “fen slodgers,” having lived there for many generations; his mother was
The other half was Heckington,
Vulgar a place as and one.”
When about four years old, he narrowly escaped drowning; for, in his own words, he
And popp’d beneath a merchant’s ship;[42]
No soul at hand but me and mother;
Nor could I call for one or other.”
She, however, at the hazard of her own life, succeeded in saving her son’s. At eleven years old, he went to school, in Brothertoft chapel, for about six months, in which time he derived all the education he ever received. His love of reading was so great, that as soon as he could manage a gunning-boat, he used to employ his Sundays either in seeking for water-birds’ eggs, or to
A catching fish, to make a groat,
And sometimes with a snare or hook;
Well, what was’t for?—to buy a book,
Propensity so in him lay.”
Before he arrived at man’s estate, he lost his mother, and soon afterwards his father married again. Will. himself, on arriving at man’s estate, married “Suke Holmes,” and became a “gozzard,” or gooseherd; that is, a keeper and breeder of geese, for which the fens were, at that time, famous throughout the kingdom, supplying the London markets with fowls, and the warehouses with feathers and quills. In these parts, the small feathers are plucked from the live geese five times a year, at Lady-tide, Midsummer, Lammas, Michaelmas, and Martinmas, and the larger feathers and quills are pulled twice. Goslings even are not spared, for it is thought that early plucking tends to increase the succeeding feathers. It is said that the mere plucking hurts the fowl very little, as the owners are careful not to pull until the feathers are ripe: those plucked after the geese are dead, are affirmed not to be so good. The number of geese kept by Will. must have been very great, for his “brood geese,” alone, required five coombs of corn for daily consumption.
The inundations to which the fens were then liable, from breaches, or overflowing of the banks, overwhelmed him with difficulties, and ruined his prospects.
Till some high lands got lit’rally coated;
Nor did most peasants think it duty
Them to preserve, but made their booty;
And those who were ‘not worth a goose,’
On other people’s liv’d profuse.”
After many vicissitudes and changes of residence, he settled at Marshland, in Norfolk, where his wife practised phlebotomy and midwifery, while he officiated as an auctioneeer, cowleech, &c. &c. Indeed he appeared to have been almost bred to the doctoring profession, for his own mother was
And always doctor’d all her own,
Being cowleech both in flesh and bone.”
His mother-in-law was no less skilful, for in Will.’s words
And of recipes had ample share,
Which I retain unto this day.”
His father-in-law was an equally eminent practitioner; when, says Will.,
Did more than them put altogether;
Imparted all his skill to me,
Farrier, cowleech, and surgery,
All which he practised with success.”
Will. tells of a remarkable and surprising accident, which closed his career as a cowleech.
Had fix’d so close in my left arm,
So violent throbb’d, that without stroke
To touch—it absolutely broke!
Went with a spring, made a report,
And hence in cowleech spoil’d my sport;
Remain’d so tender, weak, and sore,
I never dare attempt it more.”
Thus disqualified, he removed to Lynn, and opening a shop in Ferry-street, commenced his operations as a purchaser and vender of old books, odds and ends, and old articles of various descriptions; from whence he obtained the popular appellation of “Old Hall.” On a board over the door, he designated this shop the
“Antiquarian Library,”
and thus quaintly announced his establishment to the public:
Where, should a stranger set his feet,
Just cast an eye, read ‘Antiquary!’
Turn in, and but one hour tarry,
Depend upon’t, to his surprise, sir,
He would turn out somewhat the wiser.”
He had great opportunity to indulge in “Bibliomania,” for he acquired an extensive collection of scarce, curious, and valuable books, and became, in fact, the only dealer in “old literature” at Lynn. He versified on almost every occasion that seemed opportune for giving himself and his verses publicity; and, in one of his rhyming advertisements, he alphabetised the names of ancient and modern authors, by way of catalogue. In addition to his bookselling business, he continued to practise as an auctioneer. He regularly kept a book-stall, &c. in Lynn Tuesday-market, from whence he occasionally knocked down his articles to the best bidder; and he announced his sales in his usual whimsical style. His hand-bill, on one of these occasions, runs thus:
“Lynn, 19th September, 1810.
Now do not doubt but we’ll be sober!
If Providence permits us action,
You may depend upon
AN AUCTION,
At the stall
That’s occupied by WILLIAM HALL.
To enumerate a task would be,
So best way is to come and see;
But not to come too vague an errant,
We’ll give a sketch which we will warrant.
“About one hundred books, in due lots,
And pretty near the same in shoe-lasts;
Coats, waistcoats, breeches, shining buttons,
Perhaps ten thousand leather cuttings.
Sold at per pound, your lot but ask it,
Shall be weigh’d to you in a basket;
Some lots of tools, to make a try on.
About one hundred weight of iron;
Scales, earthenware, arm-chairs, a tea-urn,
Tea-chests, a herring-tub, and so on;
With various more, that’s our intention,
Which are too tedious here to mention.
“N. B. To undeceive, ’fore you come nigher,
The duty charg’d upon the buyer;
And, should we find we’re not perplext,
We’ll keep it up the Tuesday next.”
During repeated visits to his surviving relatives in his native fens, he observed the altered appearance of the scene from the improved method of drainage. It had become like “another world,” and he resolved
His talent for posterity;”
and “make a book,” under the title of “The Low Fen Journal,” to comprise “a chain of Incidents relating to the State of the Fens, from the earliest Account to the present Time.” As a specimen of the work he published, in the summer of 1812, an octavo pamphlet of twenty-four pages, called a “Sketch of Local History,” by “Will. Will-be-so,” announcing
The whole of this journal is meant to be laid
Under public view.”
This curious pamphlet of odds and ends in prose and rhyme, without order or arrangement, contained a “caution to the buyer.”
But should they ask to borrow, pray don’t lend it!
Advise them, ‘Go and buy;’ ’twill better suit
My purpose; and with you prevent dispute.
With me a maxim ’tis, he that won’t buy
Does seldom well regard his neighbour’s property;
And did you chew the bit, so much as I do
From lending books, I think ’twould make you shy too.”
In the course of the tract, he presented to “the critics” the following admonitory address.
Bred where whole winters nothing’s seen
But naked flood for miles and miles,
Except a boat the eye beguiles;
Or coots, in clouds, by buzzards teaz’d,
Your ear with seeming thunder seiz’d
From rais’d decoy,—there ducks on flight,
By tens of thousands darken light;
None to assist in greatest need,
Parents but very badly read,
No conversation strike the mind,
But of the lowest, vulgar kind;
Five miles from either church or school,
No coming there, but cross a pool;
Kept twenty years upon that station,
With only six months’ education;
Traverse the scene, then weigh it well,
Say, could you better write or spell?”
One extract, in prose, is an example of the disposition and powers of his almost untutored mind, viz.
“No animation without generation seems a standing axiom in philosophy: but upon tasting the berry of a plant greatly resembling brooklime, but with a narrower leaf, I found it attended with a loose fulsomeness, very different from any thing I had ever tasted; and on splitting one of them with my nail, out sprang a fluttering maggot, which put me upon minute examination. The result of which was, that every berry, according to its degree of maturity, contained a proportionate maggot, up to the full ripe shell, where a door was plainly discerned, and the insect had taken its flight. I have ever since carefully inspected the herb, and the result is always the same, viz. if you split ten thousand of the berries, you discover nothing but an animated germ. It grows in shallow water, and is frequently accompanied with the water plantain. Its berry is about the size of a red currant, and comes on progressively, after the manner of juniper in the berry: the germ is first discoverable about the middle of July, and continues till the frost subdues it. And my conjectures lead me to say, that one luxurious plant shall be the mother of many scores of flies. I call it the fly berry plant.”
Thus far the “Sketch.” He seems to have caught the notion of his “Low Fen Journal” from a former fen genius, whose works are become of great price, though it must be acknowledged, more for their quaintness and rarity, than their intrinsic merit. Will. refers to him in the following apologetical lines.