Young Lambs to sell.
If I’d as much money as I could tell,
I’d not come here with lambs to sell!
Dolly and Molly, Richard and Nell,
Buy my young lambs, and I’ll use you well!
This is a “London cry” at the present time: the engraving represents the crier, William Liston, from a drawing for which he purposely stood.
This “public character” was born in the Gallowgate in the city of Glasgow. He became a soldier in the waggon-train, commanded by colonel Hamilton, and served under the duke of York in Holland, where, on the 6th of October, 1799, he lost his right arm and left leg, and his place in the army. His misfortunes thrust distinction upon him. From having been a private in the ranks, where he would have remained a single undistinguishable cipher 0, amongst a row of ciphers 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 he now makes a figure in the world; and is perhaps better known throughout England than any other individual of his order in society, for he has visited almost every town with “young lambs to sell.” He has a wife and four children; the latter are constantly employed in making the “young lambs,” with white cotton wool for fleeces, spangled with Dutch gilt, the head of flour paste, red paint on the cheeks, two jet black spots for eyes, horns of twisted shining tin, legs to correspond, and pink tape tied round the neck for a graceful collar. A full basket of these, and his song-like cry, attract the attention of the juvenile population, and he contrives to pick up a living, notwithstanding the “badness of the times.” The day after last Christmas-day, his cry in Covent-garden allured the stage-manager to purchase four dozen of “young lambs,” and at night they were “brought out” at that theatre, in the basket of a performer who personated their old proprietor, and cried so as to deceive the younger part of the audience into a belief that he was their real favourite of the streets.
I remember the first crier of “young lambs to sell!” He was a maimed sailor; and with him originated the manufacture. If I am not mistaken, this man, many years after I had ceased to be a purchaser of his ware, was guilty of some delinquency, for which he forfeited his life: his cry was
Two for a penny young lambs to sell!
Two for a penny young lambs to sell—
Two for a penny young lambs to sell!
If I’d as much money as I could tell,
I wouldn’t cry young lambs to sell!
Young lambs to sell—young lambs to sell—
Two for a penny young lambs to sell!
Young lambs to se—e—ll,
Young la—a—mbs to sell!
Though it is five and thirty years ago since I heard the sailor’s musical “cry,” it still sings in my memory; it was a tenor of modulated harmonious tune, till, in the last line but one, it became a thorough bass, and rolled off at the close with a loud swell that filled urchin listeners with awe and admiration. During this chant his head was elevated, and he gave his full voice, and apparently his looks, to the winds; but the moment he concluded, and when attention was yet rivetted, his address became particular: his persuasive eye and jocular address flashed round the circle of “my little masters and mistresses,” and his hand presented a couple of his snow white “fleecy charge,” dabbled in gold, “two for a penny!” nor did he resume his song till ones and twos were in the possession of probably every child who had a halfpenny or penny at command.
The old sailor’s “young lambs” were only half the cost of the poor soldier’s. It may be doubted whether the materials of their composition have doubled in price, but the demand for “young lambs” has certainly lessened, while the present manufacturer has quite as many wants as the old one, and luckily possessing a monopoly of the manufacture, he therefore raises the price of his articles to the necessity of his circumstances. It is not convenient to refer to the precise chapter in the “Wealth of Nations,” or to verified tables of the increased value of money, in order to show that the new lamb-seller has not exceeded “an equitable adjustment” in the arrangement of his present prices; but it is fair to state in his behalf, that he declares, notwithstanding all the noise he makes, the carrying on of the lamb business is scarcely better than pig-shaving; “Sir,” says he, “it’s great cry, and little wool.” From a poor fellow, at his time of life, with only half his limbs to support a large family this is no joke. Not having been at his native place for two and twenty years, the desire to see it once more is strong within him, and he purposes next Easter to turn his face northwards, with his family, and “cry” all the way from London to Glasgow. Let the little ones, therefore, in the towns of his route, keep a penny or two by them to lay out in “young lambs,” and so help the poor fellow along the road, in this stage of his struggle through life.
*
March 19, 1827.
LINES ON HAPPINESS.
For the Table Book.
Or some bright star shot o’er the ocean,
Is happiness, that meteor’s blaze,
For ever fleeting in its motion.
Like a phantasmagorian shade,
Pursued, e’en to the latest gasp,
It still seems hovering in the glade.
A star that leads the weary on,
Still pointing to the unpossess’d
And palling that it beams upon.
J. B. O.
HUMAN LIFE.
By Goethe.
That life is but a dream is the opinion of many; it is mine. When I see the narrow limits which confine the penetrating, active genius of man; when I see that all his powers are directed to satisfy mere necessities, the only end of which is to prolong a precarious or painful existence; that his greatest care, with regard to certain inquiries, is but a blind resignation; and that we only amuse ourselves with painting brilliant figures and smiling landscapes on the walls of our prison, whilst we see on all sides the boundary which confines us; when I consider these things I am silent: I examine myself; and what do I find? Alas! more vague desires, presages, and visions, than conviction, truth, and reality.
The happiest are those, who, like children, think not of the morrow, amuse themselves with playthings, dress and undress their dolls, watch with great respect before the cupboard where mamma keeps the sweetmeats, and when they get any, eat them directly, and cry for more; these are certainly happy beings. Many also are to be envied, who dignify their paltry employments, sometimes even their passions, with pompous titles; and who represent themselves to mankind as beings of a superior order, whose occupation it is to promote their welfare and glory. But the man who in all humility acknowledges the vanity of these things; observes with what pleasure the wealthy citizen transforms his little garden into a paradise; with what patience the poor man bears his burden; and that all wish equally to behold the sun yet a little longer; he too may be at peace. He creates a world of his own, is happy also because he is a man; and, however limited his sphere, he preserves in his bosom the idea of liberty.
VALEDICTORY STANZAS.
For the Table Book.
The sun-beam is fled,
The bright eye is shaded,
The loved one is dead:
Like a star in the morning—
When, mantled in gray,
Aurora is dawning—
She vanish’d away.
Neglected to die,
Though its sweetness perfumeth
The ev’ning’s soft sigh—
Like lightning in summer,
Like rainbows that shine
With a mild dreamy glimmer
In colours divine—
The tender, the true,
From our love has departed
With scarce an adieu:
So briefly, so brightly
In virtue she shone,
As shooting stars nightly
That blaze and are gone.
Is holy to me,
And oft as I number
The leaves of the tree,
Whose branches in sorrow
Bend over her urn,
I think of to-morrow
And silently mourn.
The spirit sublime
The last tie has broken,
That bound it to time;
And bright is its dwelling
Its mansion of bliss—
How far, far excelling
The darkness of this!
And eyes still are wet—
True, our joys are all fleeting,
But who can forget?
I know they must vanish
As visions depart,
But oh, can this banish
The thorn from my heart?
Its tribute of tears
Sheds, with fond recollection
Of life’s happy years;
And tho’ vain be the anguish
Indulg’d o’er the tomb,
Yet nature will languish
And shrink from its gloom.
Was music to me,
And, like light on the ocean,
Those eyes seem’d to be:
Are they mute—and for ever?
The spell will not break;
Are they closed—must I never
Behold them awake?
Thy smiles were as balm,
That in misery found me,
And left me in calm:
Success became dearer
When thou wert with me,
And the clear sky grew clearer
When gaz’d on with thee.
My grief would disarm,
I feel there’s a season
When grief has a charm;
And ’tis sweeter, far sweeter
To sit by thy grave,
Than to follow Hope’s meteor
Down time’s hasty wave.
The earth for thy bed—
The couch that we made thee
Is press’d by thee dead:
In sorrow’s film shrouded,
Our eyes could not see
The glory unclouded
That opened on thee.
Return to the dust,
But we may inherit—
So humbly we trust—
The joys without measure
To which thou art gone,
The regions of pleasure
Where tears are unknown.
H.
EFFECT OF CONSCIENCE.
On the 30th of March, 1789, 360l. was carried to the account of the public, in consequence of the following note received by the chancellor of the exchequer.
“Sir—You will herewith receive bank notes to the amount of 360l. which is the property of the nation, and which, as an honest man, you will be so just as to apply to the use of the state in such manner that the nation may not suffer by its having been detained from the public treasury. You are implored to do this for the ease of conscience to an honest man.”
Anecdotes
OF
HENRY THE GREAT.
Public Libel.
About 1605, Henry IV. of France attempting to enforce some regulations respecting the annuities upon the Hotel de Ville, of Paris, several assemblies of the citizens were held, in which Francis Miron, the prévôt des marchands, addressed the king’s commissioners against the measures with fervour and firmness. It was rumoured amongst the people of Paris, that their magistrate was threatened, for having exerted himself too warmly in their behalf; they crowded about his house, in order to defend him, but Miron requested them to retire, and not to render him really criminal. He represented that nothing injurious was to be apprehended, for they had a king as great and wise, as he was beneficent and just, who would not suffer himself to be hurried away by the instigations of evil counsellors. Yet those whose conduct Miron had arraigned, endeavoured to persuade Henry to punish him, and deprive him of his office, for disobedient actions, and seditious discourse. The king’s answer contained memorable expressions:—“Authority does not always consist in carrying things with a high hand: regard must be paid to times, persons, and the subject-matter. I have been ten years in extinguishing civil discord, I dread its revival, and Paris has cost me too much for me to risk its loss; in my opinion, it would unquestionably be the case, were I to follow your advice; for I should be obliged to make terrible examples, which, in a few days, would deprive me of the glory of clemency, and the affection of my people; and these I prize as much, and even more than my crown. I have experienced, on many occasions, the fidelity and probity of Miron, who harbours no ill intentions, but undoubtedly deemed himself bound, by the duties of his office, to act as he has acted. If unguarded expressions have escaped him, I pardon them, on account of his past services; and, should he even desire a martyrdom in the public cause, I will disappoint him of the glory, by avoiding to become a persecutor and a tyrant.”
Henry ended the affair by receiving the apology and submission of Miron, and revoking the orders concerning the annuities, which had occasioned the popular alarm.[93]
Libellous Drama.
On the 26th of January, 1607, a pleasant farce was acted at the Hotel de Bourgogne, at Paris, before Henry IV., his queen, and the greater part of the princes, lords, and ladies of the court. The subject of the piece was a quarrel between a married man and his wife. The wife told her husband, that he staid tippling at the tavern while executions were daily laid upon their goods, for the tax which must be paid to the king, and that all their substance was carried away. “It is for that very reason,” said the husband in his defence, “that we should make merry with good cheer; for of what service would all the fortune we could amass be to us, since it would not belong to ourselves, but to this same noble king. I will drink the more, and of the very best: monsieur the king shall not meddle with that; go fetch me some this minute; march.” “Ah, wretch!” replied the wife, “would you bring me and your children to ruin?” During this dialogue, three officers of justice came in, and demanded the tax, and, in default of payment, prepared to carry away the furniture. The wife began a loud lamentation; at length the husband asked them who they were? “We belong to Justice,” said the officers: “How, to Justice!” replied the husband; “they who belong to Justice act in another manner; I do not believe that you are what you say.” During this altercation the wife seized a trunk, upon which she seated herself. The officers commanded her, “in the king’s name,” to open it; and after much dispute the trunk was opened, and out jumped three devils, who carry away the three officers of justice.
The magistrates, conceiving themselves to have been insulted by this performance, caused the actors to be arrested, and committed them to prison. On the same day they were discharged, by express command of the king, who magnanimously told those that complained of the affront, “You are fools! If any one has a right to take offence, it is I, who have received more abuse than any of you. I pardon the comedians from my heart; for the rogues made me laugh till I cried again.”[94]
CUSTOM AT SCARBOROUGH.
The fish-market is held on the sands, by the sides of the boats, which, at low water, are run upon wheels with a sail set, and are conducted by the fishermen, who dispose of their cargoes in the following manner.
One of the female fishmongers inquires the price, and bids a groat; the fishermen ask a sum in the opposite extreme: the one bids up, and the other reduces the demand, till they meet at a reasonable point, when the bidder suddenly exclaims, “Het!” This practice seems to be borrowed from the Dutch. The purchase is afterwards retailed among the regular, or occasional surrounding customers.
LINES TO A BARREL ORGAN.
For the Table Book.
Music’s humblest vehicle!
From thy caravan of sounds,
Constant in its daily rounds,
Some such pleasure do I find
As when, borne upon the wind,
The well-known “bewilder’d chimes”
Plaintively recall those times,
(Long since lost in sorrow’s shade,)
When, in some sequester’d glade,
Their simple, stammering tongues would try
Some heart-moving melody.—
Oldest musical delight
Of my boyish days! the sight
Or sound of thee would charm my feet,
And make my joy of heart complete—
How thou luredst listeners
To thy crazy, yearning airs!—
Harmonious, grumbling volcano!
Murm’ring sounds in small piano,
Or screaming forth a shrill soprano,
Mingled with the growling bass.
Fragments of some air I trace,
Stifled by the notes which cram it—
Scatter’d ruins of the gamut!—
Sarcophagus of harmony!
Orpheus’ casket! guarded by
A swain who lives by what he earns
From the music which he churns:
Every note thou giv’st by turns.—
Not Pindar’s lyre more variety
Possess’d than thou! no cloy’d satiety
Feel’st thou at thy perpetual feast
Of sound; nor weariness the least:
Thy task’s perform’d with right goodwill.—
Thou art a melodious mill!
Notes, like grain, are dribbled in,
Thou grindest them, and fill’st the bin
Of melody with plenteous store.
Thy tunes are like the parrot’s lore,
Nothing of them dost thou wot,
But repeatest them by rote.—
Curious, docile instrument!
To skilless touch obedient:
Like a mine of richest ore,
Inexhaustible in store,
Yielding at a child’s command
All thy wealth unto its hand.
Harmonicon peripatetic!
What clue to notes so oft erratic
Hast thou, by which the ear may follow
Through thy labyrinthine hollow,
Which its own echo dost consume,
As stoves devour their own fume.—
Mysterious fabric! cage-like chest!
Behind whose gilded bars the nest
Of unfledg’d melodies is hid
’Neath that brazen coverlid.—
In thy bondage-house of song,
Bound in brazen fetters strong,
Immortal harmonies do groan!
Doleful sounds their stifled moan.
A vulture preys upon their pangs,
Round whose neck their prison hangs,
Like that tenanted strong box
By eagle found upon the rocks
Of Brobdingnag’s gigantic isle.
Like Sysiphus, their endless toil
Is hopeless: their tormentor’s claw
Turns the wheel (his will’s their law)
Which all their joints and members racks,
Ne’er will his cruelty relax.—
Miniature in shape and sound
Of that grand instrument, which round
Old cathedral walls doth send
Its pealing voice; whose tones do blend
The clangor of the trumpet’s throat,
And the silver-stringed lute.—
To what else shall I compare thee?—
Further epithets I’ll spare thee.
Honest and despised thing,
To thy memory I cling.
Spite of all thy faults, I own
I love thy “old, familiar” tone.
Gaston.
MINISTERIAL FAVOUR.
A gentleman who had been long attached to cardinal Mazarine, reminded the cardinal of his many promises, and his dilatory performance. Mazarine, who had a great regard for him, and was unwilling to lose his friendship, took his hand, and explained the many demands made upon a person in his situation as minister, which it would be politic to satisfy previously to other requests, as they were founded on services done to the state. The cardinal’s adherent, not very confident in his veracity, replied, “My lord, all the favour I now ask at your hand is, that whenever we meet in public, you will do me the honour to tap me on the shoulder in an unreserved manner.” The cardinal smiled, and in the course of two or three years tapping, his friend became a wealthy man, on the credit of these attentions to him; and Mazarine and his confidant laughed at the public security which enriched the courtier at so little expense to the state.
DUDLEY OF PORTSMOUTH.
“I’m a going!”
For the Table Book.
Barbers are not more celebrated by a desire to become the most busy citizens of the state, than by the expert habit in which they convey news. Many a tale is invented out of a mere surmise, or whisper, for the gratification of those who attend barbers’ shops. An old son of the scissors and razor, well known at Portsmouth, was not, however, quite so perfect a phiziologist, as his more erudite and bristling fraternity. One evening, as he was preparing his fronts, and fitting his comb “to a hair,” two supposed gentlemen entered his shop to be dressed; this being executed with much civility and despatch, a wager was laid with old Dudley, (for that was his name,) that he could not walk in a ring three feet in diameter, for one hour, and utter no other words than “I’m a going!” Two pounds on each side was on the counter; the ring was drawn in chalk; the money chinked in the ear, and old Dudley moved in the circle of his orbit. “I’m a going!—I’m a going!—I’m a going!” were the only words which kept time with his feet during the space of fifty-five minutes, when, on a sudden, one of the gentlemen sprang forward, and taking up the money, put it into his pocket. This device threw old Dudley off his guard, and he exclaimed, “That’s not fair!”—“Enough!” rejoined the sharpers, “you’ve lost the wager.” They departed, leaving him two pounds minus, and to this day old Dudley is saluted by the appellation of “I’m a going!”
Jehoiada.
ROYAL DECISION.
In the reign of George I. the sister of judge Dormer being married to a gentleman who afterwards killed a man very basely, the judge went to move the king for a pardon. It was impossible that he could offer any thing to the royal ear in extenuation of the crime, and therefore he was the more earnest in expressing his hope that his majesty would save him and his family from the infamy the execution of the sentence would bring upon them. “So, Mr. Justice,” said the king, “what you propose to me is, that I should transfer the infamy from you and your family, to me and my family; but I shall do no such thing.” Motion refused.
Biographiana.
REV. THOMAS COOKE.
To the Editor.
Sir—In reply to the inquiries of your correspondent G. J. D. at p. 136, I beg to state, that the person he alludes to was the translator of Hesiod, immortalized by Pope in his Dunciad.
The Rev. Thomas Cooke was a profound Greek and Latin scholar, and consequently much better versed in the beauties of Homer, &c. than the irritable translator of the Iliad and Odyssey: his remarks on, and expositions of Pope’s glaring misconceptions of many important passages of the ancient bard drew down the satirical vengeance of his illustrious translator.
It would, however, appear that Pope was not the assailant in the first instance, for in the Appendix to the Dunciad we find “A list of Books, Papers, and Verses, in which our author (Pope) was abused, before the publication of that Poem;” and among the said works “The Battle of the Poets, an heroic Poem, by Thomas Cooke, printed for J. Roberts, folio, 1725,” is particularly mentioned. In book ii. of the Dunciad, we have the following line,—
to which the following note is appended:—
“The man here specified writ a thing called The Battle of the Poets, in which Philips and Welsted were the heroes, and Swift and Pope utterly routed.”
Cooke also published some “malevolent things in the British, London, and daily journals, and at the same time wrote letters to Mr. Pope, protesting his innocence.”
His chief work was a translation of “Hesiod, to which Theobald writ notes, and half notes, which he carefully owned.”
Again, in the testimonies of authors, which precede the Dunciad, we find the following remark:—
“Mr. Thomas Cooke,
“After much blemishing our author’s Homer, crieth out
While sweetest music dwells in ev’ry line!
These he admir’d, on these he stamp’d his praise,
And bade them live t’ enlighten future days!”
I have somewhere read that Cooke was a native of Sussex; that he became famous for his knowledge of the Greek and Latin languages while at Cambridge; and was ultimately settled in some part of Shropshire, where he soon became acquainted with the family of the young lady celebrated by his muse, in the fifth number of the Table Book, and where he also greatly distinguished himself as a clergyman, and preceptor of the younger branches of the neighbouring gentry and nobility. This may in some measure account for the respectable list of subscribers alluded to by G. J. D.
It is presumed, however, that misfortune at length overtook him; for we find, in the “Ambulator, or London and its Environs,” under the head “Lambeth,” that he lies interred in the church-yard of that parish, and that he died extremely poor: he is, moreover, designated “the celebrated translator of Hesiod, Terence, &c.”
I have seen the poem entitled “The Immortality of the Soul,” mentioned by G. J. D., though I have no recollection of its general features or merit; but of “The Battle of the Poets” I have a copy; and what renders it more rare and valuable is, that it was Mr. Cooke’s own impression of the work, and has several small productions upon various occasions, written, I presume, with his own hand, each having the signature “Thomas Cooke,” on the blank leaves at the commencement of the book.
On my return from the continent, I shall have no objection to intrust this literary curiosity to your care for a short time, giving you the liberty of extracting any (and all if you think proper) of the pieces written on the interleaves: and, in the mean time, I will do myself the pleasure of selecting one from the number, for insertion in the Table Book, which will, at least, prove that Mr. Cooke’s animosity was of transient duration, and less virulent than that of Pope.
It is possible that at some future time I may be able to enlarge upon this subject, for the better information of your correspondent; and I beg, in the interim, to remark that there is no doubt the Annual Register, from about the year 1750 to 1765, or works of that description, will fully satisfy his curiosity, and afford him much more explanation relative to Mr. Cooke than any communications from existing descendants.
In Mr. Cooke’s copy of “The Battle of the Poets,” the lines before quoted run thus:—
What sweetness also dwells in ev’ry line!
These all admire—these bring him endless praise,
And crown his temples with unfading bays!”
I remain, sir,
Your obedient servant and subscriber,
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Oxford, Jan. 29, 1827.
VERSES,
Occasioned by the lamented Death
of Mr. Alexander Pope.
To make my name obnoxious to the age,
While, dipp’d in gall, and tarnish’d with the spleen,
It dealt in taunts ridiculous and mean,
Aiming to lessen what it could not reach,
And giving license to ungrateful speech,
Still I forgive its enmity, and feel
Regrets I would not stifle, nor conceal;
For though thy temper, and imperious soul,
Needed, at times, subjection and controul,
There was a majesty—a march of sense—
A proud display of rare intelligence,
In many a line of that transcendent pen,
We never, perhaps, may contemplate again—
An energy peculiarly its own,
And sweetness perfectly before unknown!
T’ accept what justice and remorse inspire;
Justice that prompts the willing muse to tell,
None ever wrote so largely and so well—
Remorse that feels no future bard can fill
The vacant chair with half such Attic skill,
Or leave behind so many proofs of taste,
As those rich poems dulness ne’er disgrac’d!
Since Pope has left us for a brighter shore,
Where neither rage, nor jealousy, nor hate,
Can rouse the little, nor offend the great;
Where worldly contests are at once forgot,
In the bright glories of a happier lot;
And where the dunces of the Dunciad see
Thy genius crown’d with immortality!
Thomas Cooke.
DUKE OF YORK
Albany and Clarence.
For the Table Book.
In the History of Scotland, there is a remark which may be added to the account of the dukes of York, at col. 103; viz.
Shire of Perth.—That part of the county called Braidalbin, or Breadalbane, lies amongst the Grampian-hills, and gives title to a branch of the family of Campbell; where note that Braid-Albin, in old Scotch, signifies the highest part of Scotland, and Drum-Albin, which is the name of a part thereof, signifies the ridge or back of Scotland. Hence it is collected that this is the country which the ancients called Albany, and part of the residence of the ancient Scots, who still retain the name, and call themselves “Albinkich,” together with the ancient language and habit, continuing to be a hardy, brave, and warlike people, and very parsimonious in their way of living; and from this country the sons of the royal family of Scotland took the title of “duke of Albany;” and since the union of the two crowns, it has been found amongst the royal titles of the dukes of York.
Respecting the dukedom of Clarence, which is originally derived from Clare, in Suffolk, king Edward III. in the thirty-sixth year of his reign, for default of issue male in the former family, created his third son, Lionel, by reason of his marriage with the grandaughter of the late earl of Clare, duke of Clarence, being a word of a fuller sound than the monosyllable “Clare.”
M.
DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS.
Lord George Germain was of a remarkably amiable disposition; and his domestics lived with him rather as humble friends than menial servants. One day entering his house in Pall-mall, he observed a large basket of vegetables standing in the hall, and inquired of the porter to whom they belonged, and from whence they came? Old John immediately replied, “They are ours, my lord, from our country-house.”—“Very well,” rejoined his lordship. At that instant a carriage stopped at the door, and lord George, turning round, asked what coach it was? “Ours,” said honest John. “And are the children in it ours too?” said his lordship, smiling. “Most certainly, my lord,” replied John, with the utmost gravity, and immediately ran to lift them out.
Riddle.
A LITERARY CHARACTER.
I have long maintained a distinguished station in our modern days, but I cannot trace my origin to ancient times, though the learned have attempted it. After the revolution in 1688, I was chief physician to the king; at least in my absence he ever complained of sickness. Had I lived in ancient days, so friendly was I to crowned heads, that Cleopatra would have got off with a sting; and her cold arm would have felt a reviving heat. I am rather a friend to sprightliness than to industry; I have often converted a neutral pronoun into a man of talent: I have often amused myself with reducing the provident ant to indigence; I never meet a post horse without giving him a blow; to some animals I am a friend, and many a puppy has yelped for aid when I have deserted him. I am a patron of architecture, and can turn every thing into brick and mortar; and so honest withal, that whenever I can find a pair of stockings, I ask for their owner. Not even Lancaster has carried education so far as I have: I adopt always the system of interrogatories. I have already taught my hat to ask questions of fact; and my poultry questions of chronology. With my trees I share the labours of my laundry; they scour my linen; and when I find a rent, ’tis I who make it entire.
In short, such are my merits, that whatever yours may be, you can never be more than half as good as I am.
ANSWER
TO THE PRECEDING.
Known to the moderns only—W:
I was physician to king William;
When absent, he would say, “how—ill I am!”
In ancient days if I had liv’d, the asp
Which poison’d Egypt’s queen, had been a—Wasp;
And the death-coldness of th’ imperial arm
With life reviving had again been—Warm.
A friend to sprightliness, that neuter it
By sudden pow’r I’ve chang’d into a—Wit.
The vainly-provident industrious ant
With cruel sport I oft reduce to—Want;
Whene’er I meet with an unlucky hack,
I give the creature a tremendous—Whack:
And many a time a puppy cries for help,
If I desert capriciously the—Whelp.
A friend to architecture, I turn all
(As quick as Chelt’nham builders) into—Wall.
I’m honest, for whene’er I find some hose,
I seek the owner, loud exclaiming—Whose?
Farther than Lancaster I educate,
My system’s always to interrogate;
Already have I taught my very hat
Questions of fact to ask, and cry out—What?
Questions of time my poultry, for the hen
Cackles chronology, enquiring—When?
My laundry’s labour I divide with ashes;
It is with them the laundress scours and—Washes:
And if an ugly rent I find, the hole
Instantly vanishes, becoming—Whole.
How good soe’er you may be, just or true,
You can but halve my worth, for I am—double you.
Cheltenham.
THE MERRY MONARCH,
AND “BLYTHE COCKPEN.”
While Charles II. was sojourning in Scotland, before the battle of Worcester, his chief confidant and associate was the laird of Cockpen, called by the nick-naming fashion of the times, “Blythe Cockpen.” He followed Charles to the Hague, and by his skill in playing Scottish tunes, and his sagacity and wit, much delighted the merry monarch. Charles’s favourite air was “Brose and Butter;” it was played to him when he went to bed, and he was awakened by it. At the restoration, however, Blythe Cockpen shared the fate of many other of the royal adherents; he was forgotten, and wandered upon the lands he once owned in Scotland, poor and unfriended. His letters to the court were unpresented, or disregarded, till, wearied and incensed, he travelled to London; but his mean garb not suiting the rich doublets of court, he was not allowed to approach the royal presence. At length, he ingratiated himself with the king’s organist, who was so enraptured with Cockpen’s wit and powers of music, that he requested him to play on the organ before the king at divine service. His exquisite skill did not attract his majesty’s notice, till, at the close of the service, instead of the usual tune, he struck up “Brose and Butter,” with all its energetic merriment. In a moment the royal organist was ordered into the king’s presence. “My liege, it was not me! it was not me!” he cried, and dropped upon his knees. “You!” cried his majesty, in a rapture, “you could never play it in your life—where’s the man? let me see him.” Cockpen presented himself on his knee. “Ah, Cockpen, is that you?—Lord, man, I was like to dance coming out of the church!”—“I once danced too,” said Cockpen, “but that was when I had land of my own to dance on.”—“Come with me,” said Charles taking him by the hand, “you shall dance to Brose and Butter on your own lands again to the nineteenth generation;” and as far as he could, the king kept his promise.
Topography.
SINGULAR INTERMENT.
The following curious entry is in the register of Lymington church, under the year 1736:—
“Samuel Baldwin, esq. sojourner in this parish, was immersed, without the Needles, sans cérémonie, May 20.”
This was performed in consequence of an earnest wish the deceased had expressed, a little before his dissolution, in order to disappoint the intention of his wife, who had repeatedly assured him, in their domestic squabbles, (which were very frequent,) that if she survived him, she would revenge her conjugal sufferings, by dancing on his grave.
ODD SIGNS.
A gentleman lately travelling through Grantham, in Lincolnshire, observed the following lines under a sign-post, on which was placed an inhabited bee-hive.