With joynts so close as not to be perceiv’d;
Yet are they both each other’s counterpart,
(Her part had Juan inscrib’d, and his had Zayda.
You know those names were theirs:) and, in the midst,
A heart divided in two halves was plac’d.
Now if the rivets of those rings, inclos’d,
Fit not each other, I have forg’d this lye:
But if they join, you must for ever part.”
According to other passages in this play one of these rings was worn by Sebastian’s father: the other by Almeyda’s mother, as pledges of love. Sebastian pulls off his, which had been put on his finger by his dying father: Almeyda does the same with hers, which had been given her by her mother at parting: and Alvarez unscrews both the rings, and fits one half to the other.
There is a beautiful allusion to the emblematical properties of the wedding ring in the following poem:—
TO S—— D——, WITH A RING.
Accept this modest ring of virgin gold.
Love in the small, but perfect, circle, trace,
And duty, in its soft, though strict embrace.
Plain, precious, pure, as best becomes the wife;
Yet firm to bear the frequent rubs of life.
Connubial love disdains a fragile toy,
Which rust can tarnish, or a touch destroy;
Nor much admires what courts the gen’ral gaze,
The dazzling diamond’s meretricious blaze,
That hides, with glare, the anguish of a heart
By nature hard, tho’ polish’d bright by art.
More to thy taste the ornament that shows
Domestic bliss, and, without glaring, glows.
Whose gentle pressure serves to keep the mind
To all correct, to one discreetly kind.
Of simple elegance th’ unconscious charm,
The holy amulet to keep from harm;
To guard at once and consecrate the shrine,
Take this dear pledge—It makes and keeps thee mine.[244]
[242] Academy of Armory, b. iii. c. 2. p. 20.
[243] Hone on Ancient Mysteries, p. 222.
[244] Collection of Poems, Dublin, 1801, 8vo.
Garrick Plays.
No. XXIV.
[From “Chabot, Admiral of France,” a Tragedy, by G. Chapman and J. Shirley, 1639.]
No Advice to Self Advice.
Applied to my instruction, cannot equal
My own soul’s knowledge how to inform acts.
The sun’s rich radiance shot thro’ waves most fair,
Is but a shadow to his beams i’ th’ air;
His beams that in the air we so admire,
Is but a darkness to his flame in fire;
In fire his fervour but in vapour flies,
To what his own pure bosom rarifies:
And the Almighty Wisdom having given
Each man within himself an apter light
To guide his acts than any light without him,
(Creating nothing, not in all things equal),
It seems a fault in any that depend
On others’ knowledge, and exile their own.
Virtue under Calumny.
[From “Cæsar and Pompey,” a Tragedy, by G. Chapman, 1631.]
Cato’s Speech at Utica to a Senator, who had exprest fears on his account.
Exceed thy knowledge of me, and the Gods,
Whose rights thou wrong’st for my right? have not I
Their powers to guard me in a cause of theirs,
Their justice and integrity to guard me
In what I stand for? he that fears the Gods,
For guard of any goodness, all things fears;
Earth, seas, and air; heav’n; darkness; broad daylight;
Rumour, and silence, and his very shade:
And what an aspen soul has such a creature!
How dangerous to his soul is such a fear!—
In whose cold fits, is all Heavn’s justice shaken
To his faint thoughts; and all the goodness there,
Due to all good men by the Gods’ own vows;
Nay, by the firmness of their endless being;
All which shall fail as soon as any one
Good to a good man in them: for his goodness
Proceeds from them, and is a beam of theirs.
O never more, Statilius, may this fear
Faint thy bold bosom, for thyself or friend,
More than the Gods are fearful to defend.
His thoughts of Death.
If men would sleep, they would be wrath with all
That interrupt them; physic take, to take
The golden rest it brings; both pay and pray
For good and soundest naps: all friends consenting
In those invocations; praying all
“Good rest the Gods vouchsafe you.” But when Death,
Sleep’s natural brother, comes; that’s nothing worse,
But better (being more rich—and keeps the store—
Sleep ever fickle, wayward still, and poor);
O how men grudge, and shake, and fear, and fly
His stern approaches! all their comforts, taken
In faith, and knowledge of the bliss and beauties
That watch their wakings in an endless life,
Drown’d in the pains and horrors of their sense
Sustain’d but for an hour.
His Discourse with Athenodorus on an After Life.
So, in the appropriate honour of that end,
All things precedent have their natural frame;
And therefore is there a proportion
Betwixt the ends of those things and their primes:
For else there could not be in their creation
Always, or for the most part, that firm form
In their still like existence, that we see
In each full creature. What proportion then
Hath an immortal with a mortal substance?
And therefore the mortality, to which
A man is subject, rather is a sleep
Than bestial death; since sleep and death are called
The twins of nature. For, if absolute death,
And bestial, seize the body of a man,
Then there is no proportion in his parts,
(His soul being free from death) which otherwise
Retain divine proportion. For, as sleep
No disproportion holds with human souls,
But aptly quickens the proportion
Twixt them and bodies, making bodies fitter
To give up forms to souls, which is their end:
So death, twin-born of sleep, resolving all
Man’s body’s heavy parts, in lighter nature
Makes a re-union with the sprightly soul;
When in a second life their Beings given!
Hold their proportions firm in highest heaven.
Athenodorus. Hold you, our bodies shall revive resuming
Our souls again to heaven?
Cato. Past doubt; though others
Think heav’n a world too high for our low reaches.
Not knowing the sacred sense of Him that sings.
“Jove can let down a golden chain from heaven.
Which, tied to earth, shall fetch up earth and seas”—
And what’s that golden chain but our pure souls
That, govern’d with his grace and drawn by him,
Can hoist the earthy body up to him?—
The sea, the air, and all the elements,
Comprest in it; not while ’tis thus concrete,
But ’fined by death, and then giv’n heav’nly heat.
We shall, past death,
Retain those forms of knowledge, learn’d in life:
Since if what here we learn we there shall lose,
Our immortality were not life, but time:
And that our souls in reason are immortal,
Their natural and proper objects prove;
Which Immortality and Knowledge are:
For to that object ever is referr’d
The nature of the soul, in which the acts
Of her high faculties are still employ’d;
And that true object must her powers obtain,
To which they are in nature’s aim directed;
Since ’twere absurd to have her set an object
Which possibly she never can aspire.
His last words.
Come, Cæsar, quickly now, or lose your vassal.
Now wing thee, dear Soul, and receive her heaven.
The earth, the air, and seas I know, and all
The joys and horrors of their peace and wars;
And now will see the Gods’ state and the stars.
Greatness in Adversity.
And stood no less a God than at his height.
[From “Bussy D’Ambois,” a Tragedy, by G. Chapman, 1613.]
Invocation for Secrecy at a Love-meeting.
Silently-gliding Exhalations,
Languishing Winds, and murmuring Falls of Waters,
Sadness of Heart, and Ominous Secureness,
Enchantment’s dead Sleeps; all the Friends of Rest,
That ever wrought upon the life of man;
Extend your utmost strengths, and this charm’d hour
Fix like the center; make the violent wheels
Of Time and Fortune stand; and great Existence.
The Maker’s Treasury, now not seem to be
To all but my approaching friend[245] and me.
At the Meeting.
Before a tempest, when the silent air
Lays her soft ear close to the earth, to hearken
For that, she fears is coming to afflict her.
Invocation for a Spirit of Intelligence.
How my dear Mistress fares, and be inform’d
What hand she now holds on the troubled blood
Of her incensed Lord. Methought the Spirit
When he had utter’d his perplext presage,
Threw his chang’d countenance headlong into clouds;
His forehead bent, as he would hide his face:
He knock’d his chin against his darken’d breast,
And struck a churlish silence thro’ his powers.—
Terror of Darkness: O thou King of Flames,
That with thy music-footed horse dost strike
The clear light out, of chrystal, on dark earth;
And hurl’st instructive fire about the world:
Wake, wake the drowsy and enchanted night,
That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle.[246]
Or thou, Great Prince of Shades, where never sun
Sticks his far-darted beams; whose eyes are made
To see in darkness, and see ever best
Where sense is blindest: open now the heart
Of thy abashed oracle, that, for fear
Of some ill it includes, would fain lie hid;
And rise Thou with it in thy greater light.[247]
The Friar dissuades the Husband of Tamyra from revenge.
You can imagine, without greater proofs,
To sever your eternal bonds and hearts;
Much less to touch her with a bloody hand:
Nor is it manly, much less husbandly,
To expiate any frailty in your wife
With churlish strokes or beastly odds of strength.—
The stony birth of clouds[248] will touch no laurel,
Nor any sleeper. Your wife is your laurel,
And sweetest sleeper; do not touch her then:
Be not more rude than the wild seed of vapour
To her that is more gentle than it rude.
C. L.
[245] D’Ambois: with whom she has an appointment.
[246] He wants to know the fate of Tamyra, whose intrigue with him has been discovered by her Husband.
[247] This calling upon Light and Darkness for information, but, above all, the description of the Spirit—“Threw his chang’d countenance headlong into clouds”—is tremendous, to the curdling of the blood.—I know nothing in Poetry like it.
[248] The thunderbolt.
MAID MARIAN.
To the Editor.
Sir,—A correspondent in your last Number[249] rather hastily asserts, that there is no other authority than Davenport’s Tragedy for the poisoning of Matilda by King John. It oddly enough happens, that in the same Number[250] appears an Extract from a Play of Heywood’s, of an older date, in two parts; in which Play, the fact of such poisoning, as well as her identity with Maid Marian, are equally established. Michael Drayton also hath a Legend, confirmatory (as far as poetical authority can go) of the violent manner of her death. But neither he, nor Davenport, confound her with Robin’s Mistress. Besides the named authorities, old Fuller (I think) somewhere relates, as matter of Chronicle History, that old Fitzwalter (he is called Fitzwater both in Heywood and in Davenport) being banished after his daughter’s murder,—some years subsequently—King John at a Tournament in France being delighted with the valiant bearing of a combatant in the lists, and enquiring his name, was told that it was his old faithful servant, the banished Fitzwalter, who desired nothing more heartily than to be reconciled to his Liege,—and an affecting reconciliation followed. In the common collection, called Robin Hood’s Garland (I have not seen Ritson’s), no mention is made, if I remember, of the nobility of Marian. Is she not the daughter of plain Squire Gamwell, of old Gamwell Hall?—Sorry that I cannot gratify the curiosity of your “disembodied spirit,” (who, as such, is methinks sufficiently “veiled” from our notice) with more authentic testimonies, I rest,
Your humble Abstracter,
C. L.
RIVAL ITALIAN DRAMATISTS.
The Venetian stage had long been in possession of Goldoni, a dramatic poet, who, by introducing bustle and show into his pieces, and writing principally to the level of the gondoliers, arrived to the first degree of popularity in Venice. He had a rival in Pietro Chiari, whom the best critics thought even inferior to Goldoni; but such an epidemic frenzy seized the Venetians in favour of these two authors, that it quickly spread to almost all parts of Italy, to the detriment of better authors, and the derangement of the public taste. This dramatic mania was arrested by Carlo Gozzi, a younger brother of a noble family, who attacked Goldoni and Chiari, and others soon followed him. On this occasion the two bards suspended their mutual animosity, and joined to oppose their adversaries. Chiari was a great prose scribbler, as well as a comedy-monger, so that a warm paper war was soon commenced, which grew hotter and hotter rapidly.
It happened one day that Gozzi met with Goldoni in a bookseller’s shop. They exchanged sharp words, and in the heat of altercation Goldoni told Gozzi, “that though it was an easy task to find fault with a play, it was very difficult to write one.” Gozzi acknowledged “that to find fault with a play was really very easy, but that it was still easier to write such plays as would please so thoughtless a nation as the Venetians;” adding, with a tone of contempt, “that he had a good mind to make all Venice run to see the tale of the Three Oranges formed into a comedy.” Goldoni, with some of his partisans in the shop, challenged Gozzi to do it; and the critic, thus piqued, engaged to produce such a comedy within a few weeks.
To this trifling and casual dispute Italy owed the greatest dramatic writer it ever had. Gozzi quickly wrote a comedy in five acts, entitled “I Tre Aranci,” or “The Three Oranges;” formed out of an old woman’s story with which the Venetian children are entertained by their nurses. The comedy was acted, and three beautiful princesses, born of three enchanted oranges, made all Venice crowd to the theatre of St. Angelo.
In this play Goldoni and Chiari were not spared. Gozzi introduced in it many of their theatrical absurdities. The Venetian audiences, like the rest of the world, do not much relish the labour of finding out the truth; but once point it out, and they will instantly seize it. This was remarkable on the first night that the comedy of the “Three Oranges” was acted. The fickle Venetians, forgetting the loud acclamations with which they had received Goldoni’s and Chiari’s plays, laughed obstreperously at them and their comedies, and bestowed frantic applause on Gozzi and the “Three Oranges.”
This success encouraged Gozzi to write more; and in a little time his plays so entirely changed the Venetian taste, that in about two seasons Goldoni was stripped of his theatrical honours, and poor Chiari annihilated. Goldoni quitted Italy, and went to France, where Voltaire’s interest procured him the place of Italian master to one of the princesses at Versailles; and Chiari retired to a country house in the neighbourhood of Brescia.
NATURAL CURIOSITIES OF DERBYSHIRE.
Extracts from the Journal of a Tourist.
For the Table Book.
Buxton, May 27, 1827.
***I was so fortunate as to meet at the inn (the Shakspeare) at Buxton with two very agreeable companions, with whom I dined. The elder was a native of the place, and seemed well acquainted with all the natural curiosities at Buxton, and in the county of Derby. The name of the other was H——, of a highly respectable firm in London, sojourning at the Wells for the benefit of a sprained leg. He accompanied me on the following morning to visit an immense natural cavern, called Pool’s Hole, from a freebooter of that name having once made it his place of abode. It is situated at the foot of a steep hill, the entrance low and narrow: it is 696 feet in length, penetrating into the bosom of the mountain, and varying in height from six to fifty or sixty feet. Our guides were two old women, who furnished us with lights. There is in it an incessant dripping of water, crystallizing as it falls, forming a great variety of grotesque and fanciful figures, more resembling inverted gothic pinnacles than any thing else I could imagine: it was with great difficulty that we could break some fragments off; they are termed by naturalists stalactites. A scene so novel and imposing as the interior of this gloomy cave presented, with its huge blocks of rocks irregularly piled upon each other, their shapes but indistinctly visible from the glare of the torches, was of that kind as to leave an indelible impression on my mind. It has many very large and curious recesses within; one of which is called Pool’s chamber, another his closet, and a third his shelf. The continual falling of the water from the insterstices in the roof upon the rocks beneath, causes holes on them, which are not formed by the friction of the water itself, but by its gradual crystallization immediately around the spots whereon it drips. The utmost extent that can be reached by a human foot is called Mary Queen of Scot’s Pillar; from that point it becomes dangerous and impassable.
After dinner we made a short excursion along the banks of the river Wye, called Wye-dale; a walk, which from the grandeur of the scenery, and its novelty, (for I had never before seen any of the Peak scenery,) will be long imprinted in vivid colours on my recollection. In some parts the river flowed smoothly along, but in others its motion was rapid, impetuous, and turbulent: huge fragments of rock, disunited from the impending crags, divided the stream into innumerable eddies; the water bubbled and foamed around, forming miniature cataracts, and bestowing life and animation to the otherwise quiet scene. On either side, the rocks rose to a great height in every diversity of shape; some spiral, or like the shattered walls or decayed bastions of ruined or demolished fortresses; others bluff, or like the towers of citadels; all covered with a variety of coarse vegetation, among which the stunted yew was the most conspicuous; its dark foliage hanging over the projecting eminences, gave an expressive character to surrounding objects. A few water-mills, built of rough unhewn limestone, presented themselves as we followed the windings of the stream, having a deserted and silent appearance.
It appeared to me probable, that the now insignificant little stream was, in by-gone distant ages, a mighty river; the great depth of the valley, excavated through the rocks, could scarcely have been caused but by the irresistible force of water. The lesser vales diverging from it in some parts, favour the conjecture that they had been formerly some of its tributary streams: in one of these, which we had the curiosity to ascend, we observed a small rill. After a slippery ascent on the rough stones of which its bed was formed, we reached a mineral spring, issuing from a fissure in the rock, and depositing a greenish copperas-like sediment at the bottom; we found some beautiful specimens of mosses and lichens.
I inquired of a passing peasant what fish the Wye could boast of. “Wee (Wye) fish to be sure,” said he: by which I understood him to mean, that there was in it only one species of the finny race of any consequence, and that trout.
It was late before we gained our inn; we had walked upwards of six miles in that deep and romantic dale.
28th. This morning I enjoyed a beautiful ride to Tideswell, along the banks of the Wye, about seven miles. The road wound up the sides of lofty hills, in some parts commanding views of the river flowing in the vale beneath; not so high however, but that the murmur of its waters, mellowed by the distance, might be heard by the traveller. Tideswell possesses a handsome church; from the steeple arise four gothic spires.
29th. Went forward to Castleton, down the hills called the Wynyats, by the Sparrow Pit mountain; the ride took me over some of the wild and barren hills which surround Buxton on every side. The immediate descent to Castleton is from a steep mountain more than a mile in length, and is only to be effected by a road formed in a zigzag direction. A fine view of the rich vale beneath presents itself from this road, having the appearance of a vast amphitheatre, for nothing is to be seen on any side but mountains; it is of great fertility. The most remarkable mountain is Mam-Tor; its height is 1301 feet. One of them I learnt was called the “Shivering” Mountain; the reason for which being, that after severe frosts, or in heavy gales, large quantities of earth separate from one side of it, which is nearly perpendicular. At the foot of Mam-Tor there is a lead mine, called Odin; from whence is procured the famous fluor spar, of which so many articles of utility and ornament are made. Castleton is by no means a handsome town; it has narrow dirty streets, and a deplorably rough pavement. The objects worthy of notice near it are, a celebrated cavern, called Peak’s Hole, and a venerable ruined castle, situated on the rock immediately above it. It was built by William Peveril, to whom the manor of Castleton was granted by William the Conqueror.
On the path leading to the cavern, a streamlet is followed, which issues from that extraordinary wonder of nature; the approach is grand and striking; the perpendicular cliffs above are solemnly majestic—their height is about 250 feet. The arch of the first and largest chamber in this cavern is stupendously broad in its span. The top of the mountain along the edges is fringed with a number of fine elms, wherein there is perched a rookery, a singular situation of the noisy tribe: lower down are innumerable jackdaws, which build in the ledges of the rocks.
The span of the grand arch is 180 feet; the length of the first cave 220 feet. A number of labourers in it are employed at rope walks, making twine, &c. From the roof hang immense spiral masses of petrified water, or stalactites. The entrance to the interior is through a small door at the further end: the visiter is there directed to stop and gaze at the arch of the first cavern; this is a most striking object; the very livid colour of the light admitted, with the bluish-white reflection upon the surrounding rocks, reminded me forcibly of the descriptions of the infernal regions by Virgil, Milton, and other poets. Torches are here put into your hands: the passage is narrow and low, and you reach an immense hollow above you in the roof, called the Bell House, from its resemblance to that form; the same stream is then seen which was followed on your approach; on it is a small shallop. I was directed to extend myself along its bottom with the guide, on account of the rock being in this place but fourteen inches from the surface of the water, which in depth is only four feet. I was then landed in a cavern more stupendous than the first; the whole of it was surrounded with a number of rugged rocks of limestone, which seemed to have been tossed and heaped together by some violent convulsion of nature, or by the impetuosity of the water that swells to a great height after heavy and continued rains. This is called Pluto’s Hall; and when a distant gallery, formed by a ledge of rocks, was illumined by the light of some dozen of candles, the effect was the most imposing of the kind I ever witnessed. There is a continual dropping of water; and after passing a ford, I reached what is called “Roger Rain’s” House, from its always dripping there. A little further on is a place called the Devil’s Wine Cellar, from which is a descent of 150 feet; it becomes terrific in the extreme: immense arches throw their gloomy and gigantic spans above; and the abyss on one side, which it is impossible for the vision to penetrate to the bottom, adds to the intensity of the horror. This wonderful subterraneous mansion is 2250 feet in length.
30th. At Bakewell, one of the pleasantest of the small towns in England, there is an excellent hotel, called the Rutland Arms, belonging to the Rutland family, and under its patronage. The church is situated on a rising ground. There is a neat stone bridge over the river Wye, and the silvery stream winds the adjoining vale. The view from the church-yard is enchanting. The two rivers, the Wye and Derwent, form a junction at some little distance, and beyond are wood-tufted hills sloping their gentle elevations. Haddon Hall, one of the finest and most perfect of the ancient baronial residences in the kingdom, is seen embosomed in the deep woods.
Bakewell is celebrated as a fishing station. The fine estates of the Devonshire and Rutland families join near it.
In the church-yard I copied, from the tomb of one who had been rather a licentious personage, the following curious
Epitaph.
“Know posterity, that on the 8th of April, 1737, the rambling remains of John Dale were, in the 86th year of his age, laid upon his two wives.
Here all three lie together lovingly;
But from embraces here no pleasure flows,
Alike are here all human joys and woes.
Here Sarah’s chiding John no longer hears,
And old John’s rambling, Sarah no more fears;
A period’s come to all their toilsome lives,
The good man’s quiet—still are both his wives.”
Another.
Of Philip, our late parish clerk;
In church none ever heard a layman
With a clearer voice say Amen:
Who now with hallelujah’s sound
Like him can make the roofs rebound?
—The choir lament his choral tones
The town so soon—here lie his bones.”
E. J. H.
June, 1827.
BRIBERY.
Charles V. sent over 400,000 crowns, to be distributed among the members of parliament, in bribes and pensions, to induce them to confirm a marriage between Mary and his son Philip. This was the first instance in which public bribery was exercised in England by a foreign power.
The Retired Husbandman.
The Retired Husbandman.
This is a sketch from nature—“a repose”—an aged man enjoying the good that remains to him, yet ready for his last summons: his thoughts, at this moment, are upon the little girl that fondles on him—one of his grandaughters. The annals of his life are short and simple. “Born to labour as the sparks fly upward,” he discharged the obligation of his existence, and by the work of his hands endowed himself with independence. He is contented and grateful; and filled with hope and desire, that, after he shall be gathered to his fathers, there may be many long years of happiness in store for his children and their offspring. His days have passed in innocence and peace, and he prays for peace to the innocent. His final inclination is towards the place of his rest.
*
For the Table Book.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN VIRTUE AND DEATH,
On the Death of Sir James Pemberton, Knight, who departed this Life the 8th of September, 1613.
He was lord mayor of London in the reign of James I., and was a great benefactor to several charities.
Death. What Death layes claime to who can contradict?
Ver. Vertue, whose power exceeds all other might.
Dea. Wher’s Vertue’s power when Death makes all submit?
Ver. I gave him life and therefore he is mine.
Dea. That life he held no longer than I list.
Ver. I made him more than mortall, neere diuine;
Dea. How hapt he could not then Death’s stroke resist?
Ver. Because (by nature) all are born to dye.
Dea. Then thyne own tongue yeelds Death the victory.
Ver. No, Death, thou art deceiued, thy enuious stroke
Hath giuen him life immortal ’gainst thy will:
Dea. What life can be, but vanished as smoake?
Ver. A life that all thy darts can never kill.
Dea. Haue I not locked his body in my graue?
Ver. That was but dust, and that I pray thee keepe.
Dea. That is as much as I desire to haue,
His comely shape in my eternal sleepe.
Ver. But wher’s his honorable life, renowne, and fame?
Dea. They are but breath, them I resign to thee.
Ver. Them I most couet.
Dea. —————— I prefer my claim,
His body mine.
Ver. —————— mine his eternity.
Virtue o’er that which death can never haue.”
H****t.
London, June 12, 1827.
ANCIENT DIAL.
For the Table Book.
The dial in use among the ancient Jews differed from that in use among us. Theirs was a kind of stairs; the time of the day was distinguished, not by lines, but by steps or degrees; the shade of the sun every hour moved forward to a new degree. On the dial of Ahaz, the sun went back (magnoloth) degrees or steps, not lines.—Isai. xxxviii. 8. P.
PETER HERVE.
To the Editor.
Sir,—Having had the happiness and honour of holding correspondence with that most benevolent man, Mr. Peter Hervé, whose death I deeply deplore, I shall feel myself relieved from a debt due to his memory, if you will allow me, through the medium of your valuable publication, to express my hope that he was not, in the time of need, forgotten by that society of which he was the honoured founder. His last letter told me he was ill and in distress; and had been advised to try the air of the south of France, with scarcely any means of pursuing his journey but by the sale of his drawings. My own inability to serve him made me hesitate; and I am shocked to say, his letter was not answered. I am sorry, but repentance will not come too late, if this hint will have any weight towards procuring for his amiable widow, from that admirable institution, a genteel, if not an ample independence: for certain I am, that he could not have made choice of any one who had not a heart generous as his own.
I am, &c.
F. S. Jun.
Stamford, June 24, 1827.
CABALISTIC ERUDITION.
Nothing can exceed the followers of cabalistical mysteries, in point of fantastical conceits. The learned Godwin recounts some of them. “Abraham,” they say, “wept but little for Sarah, probably because she was old.” They prove this by producing the letter “Caph,” which being a remarkably small letter, and being made use of in the Hebrew word which describes Abraham’s tears, evinces, they affirm, that his grief also was small.
The Cabalists discovered likewise, that in the two Hebrew words, signifying “man” and “woman,” are contained two letters, which, together, form one of the names of “God;” but if these letters be taken away, there remain letters which signify “fire.” “Hence,” argue the Cabalists, “we may find that when man and wife agree together, and live in union, God is with them, but when they separate themselves from God, fire attends their footsteps.” Such are the whimsical dogmas of the Jewish Cabala.
OFFERINGS TO INFANTS.
To the Editor.
Edgeley, near Stockport.
Sir,—I am anxious to notice a custom I have observed in Yorkshire, relative to very young infants, which I think it would be desirable to keep alive. I know that it is partially practised now, in that county, in the neighbourhood of Wakefield. The custom I allude to is, the making an offering to new-born infants on the occasion of their making their first visit abroad, by the person who is honoured with it, of a cake of bread, an egg, and a small quantity of salt. Special care is taken that the young pilgrim in life makes its first visit to the house of a near relative, or an esteemed friend, who will in nowise omit a ceremony so necessary to its future welfare. For it is believed if this be not done, that in its progress through life it will be exposed to the miseries of want; and by parity of reason, the due observance of it will insure a continual supply of those necessaries, of which the offering at setting out in life presents so happy an omen. I know not whence or where this custom originated, nor how extensively it may be still practised; but if its origin be utterly unknown, we are, according to the usage of the world in all such cases, bound the more to observe and reverence it. There are many ancient customs, upon which the hand of Time has set his seal, “more honoured in the breach than the observance;” but, I think, you will agree with me, that this, from its air of social humanity, is not of that class. Perhaps you can give it further elucidation. I believe it to be of the most remote antiquity, and to have been amongst the oldest nations.
I am, &c.
Milo.
The only immediate illustration of the preceding custom that occurs, is Hutchinson’s mention of it in his History of Northumberland; in which county, also, infants, when first sent abroad in the arms of the nurse to visit a neighbour, are presented with an egg, salt, and bread. He observes, that “the egg was a sacred emblem, and seems a gift well adapted to infancy.” Mr. Bryant says, “An egg, containing in it the elements of life, was thought no improper emblem of the ark, in which were preserved the rudiments of the future world: hence, in the Dionusiaca, and in other mysteries one part of the nocturnal ceremony consisted in the consecration of an egg. By this, as we are informed by Porphyry, was signified the world. It seems to have been a favourite symbol, and very ancient, and we find it adopted among many nations. It was said by the Persians of Orosmasdes, that he formed mankind and enclosed them in an egg. Cakes and salt were used in religious rites by the ancients. The Jews probably adopted their appropriation from the Egyptians:—‘And if thou bring an oblation of a meat-offering baken in the oven, it shall be unleavened cakes of fine flour,’ &c. (Levit. ii. 4.) ‘With all thine offerings thou shalt offer salt.’” (Ibid, ii. 13.)
It is also customary in Northumberland for the midwife, &c. to provide two slices, one of bread and the other of cheese, which are presented to the first person they meet in the procession to church at the christening. The person who receives this homely present must give the child in return “three” different things, wishing it at the same time health and beauty. A gentleman happening once to fall in the way of such a party, and to receive the above present, was at a loss how to make the triple return, till he bethought himself of laying upon the child which was held out to him, a shilling, a halfpenny, and a pinch of snuff. When they meet more than one person together, it is usual to single out the nearest to the woman that carries the child.
Cowel says, it was a good old custom for God-fathers and God-mothers, every time their God-children asked them blessing, to give them a cake, which was a God’s-kichell: it is still a proverbial saying in some countries, “Ask me a blessing, and I will give you some plum-cake.”
Among superstitions relating to children, the following is related by Bingham, on St. Austin: “If when two friends are talking together, a stone, or a dog, or a child, happens to come between them, they tread the stone to pieces as the divider of their friendship; and this is tolerable in comparison of beating an innocent child that comes between them. But it is more pleasant that sometimes the children’s quarrel is revenged by the dogs: for many times they are so superstitious as to dare to beat the dog that comes between them, who, turning again upon him that smites him, sends him from seeking a vain remedy, to seek a real physician.” Brand, who cites these passages, adduces the following
Christening Customs.
Dr. Moresin was an eye-witness to the following usages in Scotland. They take, on their return from church, the newly-baptized infant, and vibrate it three or four times gently over a flame, saying, and repeating it thrice, “Let the flame consume thee now or never.”
Martin relates, that in the Western Islands, the same lustration, by carrying of fire, is performed round about lying-in women, and round about children before they are christened, as an effectual means to preserve both the mother and infant from the power of evil spirits. This practice is similar to an ancient feast at Athens, kept by private families, called Amphidromia, on the fifth day after the birth of the child, when it was the custom for the gossips to run round the fire with the infant in their arms, and then, having delivered it to the nurse, they were entertained with feasting and dancing.
There is a superstition that a child who does not cry when sprinkled in baptism will not live.
Among the ancient Irish, the mother, at the birth of a man child, put the first meat into her infant’s mouth upon the point of her husband’s sword, with wishes that it might die no otherwise than in war, or by sword. Pennant says, that in the Highlands, midwives give new-born babes a small spoonful of earth and whisky, as the first food they take.
Giraldus Cambrensis relates, that “at the baptizing of the infants of the wild Irish, their manner was not to dip their right arms into the water, that so as they thought they might give a more deep and incurable blow.” Mr. Brand deems this a proof that the whole body of the child was anciently commonly immersed in the baptismal font.
In 1795 the minister of the parishes of South Ronaldsay and Burray, two of the Orkney islands, describing the manners of the inhabitants, says: “Within these last seven years, the minister has been twice interrupted in administering baptism to a female child, before the male child, who was baptized immediately after. When the service was over, he was gravely told he had done very wrong; for, as the female child was first baptized, she would, on her coming to the years of discretion, most certainly have a strong beard, and the boy would have none.”
The minister of Logierait, in Perthshire, describing the superstitious opinions and practices in that parish, says: “When a child was baptized privately, it was, not long since, customary to put the child upon a clean basket, having a cloth previously spread over it, with bread and cheese put into the cloth; and thus to move the basket three times successively round the iron crook, which hangs over the fire, from the roof of the house, for the purpose of supporting the pots when water is boiled, or victuals are prepared. This” he imagines, “might be anciently intended to counteract the malignant arts which witches and evil spirits were imagined to practise against new-born infants.”
It is a vulgar notion, that children, prematurely wise, are not long-lived, and rarely reach maturity. Shakspeare puts this superstition into the mouth of Richard the Third.
Bulwer mentions a tradition concerning children born open-handed, that they will prove of a bountiful disposition and frank-handed. A character in one of Dekker’s plays says, “I am the most wretched fellow: sure some left-handed priest christened me, I am so unlucky.”
The following charms for infancy are derived from Herrick: