The Every-day Book and Table Book. v. 3 (of 3) / Everlasting Calerdar of Popular Amusements, Sports, Pastimes, Ceremonies, Manners, Customs and Events, Incident to Each of the Three Hundred and Sixty-five Days, in past and Present Times; Forming a Complete History of the Year, Month, and Seasons, and a Perpetual Key to the Almanac

Keys varied in their form according to the age wherein they were made, and the purposes for which they were used. Anciently, the figure of the key of the west door of the church was put in the register. This was mostly done on the delivery of the church keys to the “ostiarii,” who were officers, created with much ceremony, to whom the keys were intrusted: the bishops themselves delivered the keys, and the deacons the doors of the respective churches.[284]

While W. drew the door of Bromley church I had ample opportunity to make measurements and look about; and I particularly noticed a capital large umbrella of old construction, which I brought out and set up in the church-yard: with its wooden handle, fixed into a movable shaft, shod with an iron point at the bottom, and struck into the ground, it stood seven feet high; the awning is of a green oiled-canvass, such as common umbrellas were made of forty years ago, and is stretched on ribs of cane. It opens to a diameter of five feet, and forms a decent and capacious covering for the minister while engaged in the burial-service at the grave. It is in every respect a more fitting exhibition than the watchbox sort of vehicle devised for the same purpose, and in some church-yards trundled from grave to grave, wherein the minister and clerk stand, like the ordinary of Newgate and a dying malefactor at the new drop in the Old Bailey. An unseemly thing of this description is used at St. George’s in the Borough.

The church of Bromley, an ancient spacious edifice with a square tower, has been much modernised, yet to the credit of the inhabitants it retains its old Norman font. It is remarkable, that it is uncertain to what saint it was dedicated: some ascribe it to St. Peter and St. Paul; others to St. Blaise; but it is certain that Browne Willis, with all his industry and erudite research, was unable to determine the point. This I affirm from a MS. memorandum before me in his hand-writing. It abounds with monuments, though none are of very old standing. There was formerly a tomb to Water de Henche, “persone de Bromleghe, 1360.”[285] Among the mural tablets are the names of Elizabeth, wife to “the great moralist” Dr. Johnson; Dr. Hawkesworth, a resident in Bromley, popular by his “Adventurer;” and Dr. Zachary Pearce. The latter was successively rector of St. Bartholomew’s by the Royal Exchange, vicar of St. Martin’s in the Fields, dean of Winchester, bishop of Bangor, dean of Westminster, and bishop of Rochester. His principal literary labours were editorial—“Longinus de Sublimitate,” “Cicero de Officiis,” and “Cicero de Oratore.” He wrote in the “Spectator,” No. 572, upon “Quacks,” and No. 633 upon “Eloquence;” and No. 121 in the “Guardian,” signed “Ned Mum.” The chief of this prelate’s other works were Sermons. There is a cenotaph to him in Westminster Abbey; a distinction he was entitled to by his learning and virtues.

Dr. Zachary Pearce is remarkable for having desired to resign his deanery and bishopric. In 1763, being then seventy-three years old, he told his majesty in his closet that he found the business of his stations too much for him; that he was afraid it would grow more so as he advanced in years, and desired to retire, that he might spend more time in his devotions and studies. Afterwards, one of the law lords doubted the practicability of resigning a bishopric, but on further consideration the difficulty disappeared. The king then gave his consent, and the bishop kissed hands upon it; but lord Bath requesting the bishopric and deanery of the king for Dr. Newton, then bishop of Bristol, the ministry thought that no church dignities should pass from the crown but through their hands, and opposed the resignation, as the shortest way of keeping the bishopric from being disposed of otherwise than they liked. On this occasion the law lord, earl Mansfield, who had been doubtful, and who soon after had seen clear, doubted again, and Dr. Pearce was told by the king he must think no more about resigning the bishopric. In 1768 he resigned the deanery of Westminster, and wrote

Bishop Pearce lived and laboured till June 29, 1774, when he died in the eighty-fourth year of his age.

There is a neat monument by Nollekens over the north gallery of the church, with a remarkable inscription:—“Sacred to the memory of Thomas Chase, Esq. formerly of this parish, born in the city of Lisbon the 1st of November, 1729; and buried under the ruins of the same house where he first saw the light in the ever-memorable and terrible earthquake which befell that city the 1st of November, 1755: when after a most wonderful escape, he by degrees recovered from a very deplorable condition, and lived till the 20th of Nov 1788, aged 59 years.”

On the outside of the church a monumental stone, fixed in the wall, records a memorable and affecting instance of gratitude in noble terms:—

“In the year 1733, the present clerk of the parish church of Bromley in Kent, by his digging a grave in that church-yard, close to the east end of the chancel wall, dug up a funeral crown, or garland, which is most artificially wrought in fillagree work with gold and silver wire, in resemblance of myrtle, (with which plant the funebrial garlands of the ancients were composed,[286]) whose leaves are fastened to hoops of larger wire of iron, now something corroded with rust, but both the gold and silver remain to this time very little different from their original splendour. It was also lined with cloth of silver, a piece of which, together with part of this curious garland, I keep as a choice relic of antiquity.

“Besides these crowns, (which were buried with deceased virgins,) the ancients had also their depository garlands, the use of which was continued even till of late years (and perhaps are still retained in many parts of this nation, for my own knowledge of these matters extends not above twenty or thirty miles round London,) which garlands, at the funerals of the deceased, were carried solemnly before the corpse by two maids, and afterwards hung up in some conspicuous place within the church, in memorial of the departed person, and were (at least all that I have seen) made after the following manner, viz. the lower rim or circlet was a broad hoop of wood, whereunto was fixed, at the sides thereof, part of two other hoops crossing each other at the top, at right angles, which formed the upper part, being about one-third longer than the width; these hoops were wholly covered with artificial flowers of paper, dyed horn, or silk, and more or less beauteous, according to the skill or ingenuity of the performer. In the vacancy of the inside, from the top, hung white paper, cut in form of gloves, whereon was wrote the deceased’s name, age, &c. together with long slips of various coloured paper or ribbons. These were many times intermixed with gilded or painted empty shells of blown eggs, as farther ornaments; or, it may be, as emblems of the bubbles or bitterness of this life; whilst other garlands had only a solitary hour-glass hanging therein, as a more significant symbol of mortality.

“About forty years ago these garlands grew much out of repute, and were thought by many as very unbecoming decorations for so sacred a place as the church; and at the reparation or new beautifying several churches where I have been concerned, I was obliged, by order of the minister and churchwardens, to take the garlands down, and the inhabitants were strictly forbidden to hang up any more for the future. Yet notwithstanding, several people, unwilling to forsake their ancient and delightful custom, continued still the making of them, and they were carried at the funerals, as before, to the grave, and put therein upon the coffin over the face of the dead; this I have seen done in many places.”[287]

Garrick Plays.
No. XXVII.

[From the “Gentleman of Venice,” a Tragi-Comedy by James Shirley, 1655.]

Giovanni, of noble extraction, but brought up a Gardener, and ignorant of any greater birth, loves Bellaura, a Princess; and is beloved again.

Bellaura. Giovanni.

C. L.

JAMES THOMSON.

A volume, entitled the “English Gentleman’s Library Manual,” contains the following remarkable anecdotes respecting the author of “The Seasons.”

Memoranda communicated by James Robertson, Esq. of Richmond, in Surrey, late Surgeon to the Household at Kew, October 17, 1791, to Thomas Parke, Esq. the Poet, and by him to the Earl of Buchan.

Parke. Have you any objection, sir, to my taking down memorandums to a conversation?

Robertson. Not in the least, I will procure you pen, ink, and paper immediately.

I understand, sir, you knew Thomson long?

I became acquainted with him in the year 1726, when he published his poem of Winter. He lived opposite to me, in Lancaster-court, in the Strand. I went to the East Indies soon after, which caused a chasm in our acquaintance; but, on my return, our intimacy was strengthened, and continued to the hour of his death. I do not know any man, living or dead, I ever esteemed more highly, and he was attached to me. I had once a complaint of a consumptive nature, which confined me much at home, and he was so good as to come often from Kew-lane to sit with me.

Did you know Amanda?

Know her? Yes, sir, I married her sister. Amanda was a Miss Young, daughter to captain Gilbert Young, of the Gulyhill family, in Dumfriesshire, and was married afterwards to admiral Campbell. She was a fine sensible woman, and poor Thomson was desperately in love with her. Mr. Gilbert Young, her nephew, left my house this very morning. Thomson, indeed, was never wealthy enough to marry.

Mr. Collins, the brewer, has told me, that he was so heedless in his money concerns, that in paying him a bill for beer, he gave him two bank notes rolled together instead of one. Collins did not perceive the mistake till he got home, and when he returned the note Thomson appeared perfectly indifferent about the matter, and said he had enough to go on without it! Mr. Robertson smiled at this anecdote, and said it was like him.

He was not, I believe, one of the weeping philosophers. He was no Heraclitus?

No, he was not, indeed. I remember his being stopped once between London and Richmond, and robbed of his watch, and when I expressed my regret for his loss, “Pshaw, damn it,” said he, “I am glad they took it from me, ’twas never good for any thing.”

Was he national in his affections?

He had no prejudices whatever; he was the most liberal of men in all his sentiments.

I have been told that he used to associate with parson Cromer, and some other convivials, at the Old Orange Tree, in Kew-lane?

Relaxation of any kind was to him frequently desirable, and he could conform to any company. He was benevolent and social, both in his writings and in his life; as his friend, Dr. Armstrong, said on another occasion, he practised what he preached. Lord L.’s character of him as an author was perfectly just, that in his last moments he had no cause to wish any thing blotted he had ever written.

I hear he kept very late hours?

No, sir, very early; he was always up at sunrise, but then he had never been in bed.

Did you ever correspond with him?

Very seldom. We were so much together there was little opportunity or occasion for it.

You do not happen to have any reliques of his hand-writing?

I don’t think I have; but when I get my breath a little better I will look among my papers to try if I can find any.

The kind old gentleman was warmed with the subject, and even set forward to his escritoire in the pursuit, but returned only with a letter from the late Dr. Armstrong, which he flattered himself contained something relative to Thomson. In this he was mistaken. It was a rhapsody of thanks in return for being presented with a large bottle of spirits; but it was well worth an airing. This, said Mr. R., will show you the intimate terms I was upon with Johnny Armstrong, who wrote that beautiful poem, the “Art of Preserving the Health.” He was a very ingenious and excellent man.

Did you know Dr. Patrick Murdoch, who wrote Thomson’s Life?

Ay, very well, and esteemed him. Pattie, as I always called him, had a good heart.

Pope, as I have heard, used often to visit Thomson?

Yes, frequently. Pope has sometimes said, Thomson, I’ll walk to the end of your garden, and then set off to the bottom of Kew-foot-lane and back. Pope, sir, courted Thomson, and Thomson was always admitted to Pope whether he had company or not; but Pope had a jealousy of every eminent writer; he was a viper that gnawed the file.

Was Pope a great talker?

Pope, when he liked his company, was a very agreeable man. He was fond of adulation, and when he had any dislike was a most bitter satirist.

Thomson, I think, was very intimate with David Mallet, the editor of Bolingbroke?

Sir, that person’s name was properly “Malloch;” but I used to call him “Moloch” in our festive moments, and Thomson enjoyed the jest. Sir, he had not Thomson’s heart; he was not sound at the core; he made a cat’s-paw of Thomson, and I did not like the man on that account.

Thomson had two cousins or nephews, who were gardeners, did they live with him?

No, they did not live with him, they lived upon him. He was so generous a man, that if he had but two eggs he would have given them both away.

Were you acquainted with Mr. Gray, who lived at Richmond Hill?

Yes, I knew a John Gray, who was a victualler. He purchased Thomson’s collection of prints and drawings after his decease, but I believe purely out of ostentation.

You must have had great influence over him, sir, from several circumstances you have mentioned, but wish to be suppressed?

Without ostentation or vanity, sir, I really very often have wondered how I came to have so much, and the rest of his friends wondered too; for I do say it most sincerely, that I never could find out what made Thomson and many of these geniuses so partial to me as they appeared.

Then, sir, I suspect you are the only one who could not make the discovery?

Sir, I was not fishing for a compliment, I do assure you.

If you had, sir, I should not have snatched so eagerly at your bait.

I suppose you attended Thomson in a medical as well as in a social capacity?

Yes, Armstrong and myself were with him till his last moments. I was in the room with him when he died. A putrid fever carried him off in less than a week. He seemed to me to be desirous not to live, and I had reason to think that my sister-in-law was the occasion of this. He could not bear the thoughts of her being married to another.

Pray did you attend his funeral?

Indeed I did, and a real funeral it was to me, as Quin said when he spoke the prologue to “Coriolanus”—“I was in truth no actor there.”

Did you hear Quin speak that prologue, sir?

Yes, I could not have been absent.

Were you the only intimate friend who paid the last tribute of respect to Thomson’s remains?

No, sir, Quin attended, and Mallet, and another friend, whose name I do not recollect. He was interred in the north-west corner of Richmond church, just where the christening pew now stands. I pointed out the place to the sexton’s widow, that she might show it to strangers.

Did you know Andrew Millar, the bookseller?

I knew him well. He took a box near Thomson’s, in Kew-lane, to keep in with him as an author who might be profitable to him. Andrew was a good-natured man, and not an unpleasant companion, but he was a little contracted in mind by his business, and had the dross of a bookseller about him.

Did you know Paterson?

Yes. Paterson had been clerk to a counting-house in the city, went for some time abroad, and on his return was amanuensis to Thomson, was his deputy as surveyor-general to the Leeward Islands, and succeeded him in that office, but he did not live long to enjoy it, I believe not more than two years.

Collins, the poet, and Hammond, author of the “Love Elegies,” visited Thomson?

Yes. Ah! poor Collins, he had much genius, but half mad. Hammond was a gentleman, and a very pleasant man. Yet Thomson, I remember, one day called him a burnished butterfly. Quin, the comedian, was a sincere friend of Thomson; he was naturally a most humane and friendly man, and only put on the brute when he thought it was expected from him by those who gave him credit for the character.

Was the anecdote of Quin and Thomson true?

Yes, I believe it was.

Boswell surmised that Thomson was a much coarser man than is commonly allowed?

Sir, Thomson was neither a petit-maître nor a boor; he had simplicity without rudeness, and a cultivated manner without being courtly. He had a great aversion to letter-writing, and did not attempt much of prose composition of any kind. His time for composition was generally at the dead of night, and was much in his summer-house, which, together with every memorial of his residence, is carefully preserved by the honourable Mrs. Boscawen.

Did you know, sir, of any other attachments of Thomson’s, except that to his Amanda?

No, I believe he was more truly attached to my little wife and her sister than to any one else, next to Amanda. Mr. H., of Bangor, said he was once asked to dinner by Thomson, but could not attend. One of his friends, who was there, told him that there was a general stipulation agreed on by the whole company, that there should be no hard drinking. Thomson acquiesced, only requiring that each man should drink his bottle. The terms were accepted unconditionally, and when the cloth was removed, a three-quart bottle was set before each of his guests. Thomson had much of this kind of agreeable humour. Mr. Aikman, the painter, and Dr. De la Cour, a physician and ingenious writer, were intimate and beloved friends of Thomson. Mr. Aikman was a gentleman of competent estate, and was always friendly to Thomson.

Sir, I cordially thank you for this kindness, in suffering yourself to be teased with interrogations; and when lord Buchan’s tablet on the grave of the poet shall be imposed in Richmond church, I shall hope to see you tripping across the green to take a peep at it.

Sir, if I can crawl across for such a gratification, I shall certainly do it.

We then twice shook hands and parted. Intelligent old gentleman! Little was I aware that his lengthened eve of life was so very near its close! He was taken seriously ill a few hours after I left him, Monday, October 24, and on the Friday following he died, and was buried on Saturday, the 4th of November, by the south side of Richmond church.

(Signed) T. P.

QUIPOES.

The Peruvians had a method of expressing their meaning by narrow knotted ribands of various colours, which they called “Quipoes:” a certain number of knots of one colour, divided by so many of another, expressed particular meanings; and served these simple and innocent people in place of the art of writing. P.

SPANISH MYSTERIES.

Of all the dramatic works of Lope de Vega, the Lives of the Saints are in every respect the most irregular. Allegorical characters, buffoons, saints, peasants, students, kings, God, the infant Jesus, the devil, and the most heterogeneous beings that the wildest imagination could bring together, are introduced. Music seems always to have been an indispensable accessary. Lope de Vega’s spiritual comedy, entitled the Life of Saint Nicolas de Tolentino,[288] commences with a conversation maintained by a party of students, who make a display of their wit and scholastic learning. Among them is the future saint, whose piety shines with the brighter lustre when contrasted with the disorderly gaiety of those by whom he is surrounded. The devil disguised by a mask joins the party. A skeleton appears in the air; the sky opens, and the Almighty is discovered sitting in judgment, attended by Justice and Mercy, who alternately influence his decisions. Next succeeds a love intrigue between a lady named Rosalia, and a gentleman named Feniso. The future saint then reenters attired in canonicals, and delivers a sermon in redondillas. The parents of the saint congratulate themselves on possessing such a son; and this scene forms the conclusion of the first act. At the opening of the second a party of soldiers are discovered; the saint enters accompanied by several monks, and offers up a prayer in the form of a sonnet. Brother Peregrino relates the romantic history of his conversion. Subtle theological quiddities ensue, and numerous anecdotes of the lives of the saints are related. St. Nicolas prays again through the medium of a sonnet. He then rises in the air, either by the power of faith, or the help of the theatrical machinery; and the Holy Virgin and St. Augustin descend from heaven to meet him. The sonnet by which St. Nicolas performs this miracle is the most beautiful in this sacred farce. In the third act the scene is transferred to Rome, where two cardinals exhibit the holy sere-cloth to the people by torch-light. Music performed on clarinets adds to the solemnity of this ceremony, during which pious discourses are delivered. St. Nicolas is next discovered embroidering the habit of his order; and the pious observations which he makes, while engaged in this occupation, are accompanied by the chanting of invisible angels. The music attracts the devil, who endeavours to tempt St. Nicolas. The next scene exhibits souls in the torments of purgatory. The devil again appears attended by a retinue of lions, serpents, and other hideous animals; but in a scene, which is intended for burlesque, (graciosamente,) a monk armed with a great broom drives off the devil and his suite. At the conclusion of the piece the saint, whose beatification is how complete, descends from heaven in a garment bespangled with stars. As soon as he touches the earth, the souls of his father and mother are released from purgatory, and rise through a rock; the saint then returns hand-in-hand with his parents to heaven, music playing as they ascend.[289]

PORTUGUESE MYSTERIES.

One of the spiritual dramas of Gil Vicente, performed at Lisbon, commences with shepherds, who discourse and enter a chapel, which is decorated with all the apparatus necessary for the celebration of the festival of Christmas. The shepherds cannot sufficiently express their rustic admiration of the pomp exhibited in the chapel. Faith (La Fé) enters as an allegorical character. She speaks Portuguese, and after announcing herself to the shepherds as True Faith, she explains to them the nature of faith, and enters into an historical relation of the mysteries of the incarnation. This is the whole subject of the piece.

Another of these dramas, wherein the poet’s fancy has taken a wider range, presents scenes of a more varied nature. Mercury enters as an allegorical character, and as the representative of the planet which bears his name. He explains the theory of the planetary system and the zodiac, and cites astronomical facts from Regiomontanus, in a long series of stanzas in the old national style. A seraph then appears, who is sent down from heaven by God, in compliance with the prayers of Time. The seraph, in the quality of a herald, proclaims a large yearly fair in honour of the Holy Virgin, and invites customers to it. A devil next makes his appearance with a little stall which he carries before him. He gets into a dispute with Time and the seraph, and asserts, that among men such as they are, he shall be sure to find purchasers for his wares. He therefore leaves to every customer his free choice. Mercury then summons eternal Rome as the representative of the church. She appears, and offers for sale Peace of Mind, as the most precious of her merchandise. The devil remonstrates, and Rome retires. Two Portuguese peasants now appear in the market: one is very anxious to sell his wife, and observes, that if he cannot sell her, he will give her away for nothing, as she is a wicked spendthrift. Amidst this kind of conversation a party of peasant women enter, one of whom, with considerable comic warmth, vents bitter complaints against her husband. She tells, with a humorous simplicity, that her ungrateful husband has robbed her garden of its fruits before they were ripe; that he never does any thing, but leads a sottish life, eating and drinking all day, &c. The man who has already been inveighing against his wife immediately recognises her, and says,—“That is my slippery helpmate.” During this succession of comic scenes the action does not advance. The devil at last opens his little stall and displays his stock of goods to the female peasants; but one of them, who is the most pious of the party, seems to suspect that all is not quite right with regard to the merchandise, and she exclaims—“Jesus! Jesus! true God and man!” The devil immediately takes to flight, and does not reappear; but the seraph again comes forward and mingles with the rustic groups. The throng continues to increase; other countrywomen with baskets on their heads arrive; and the market is stored with vegetables, poultry, and other articles of rural produce. The seraph offers Virtues for sale; but they find no purchasers. The peasant girls observe, that in their village money is more sought after than virtue, when a young man wants a wife. One of the party, however, says, that she wished to come to the market because it happened to fall on the festival of the mother of God; and because the Virgin does not sell her gifts of grace, but distributes them gratis. This observation crowns the theological morality of the piece, which terminates with a hymn of praise, in the popular style, in honour of the Holy Virgin.[290]

POACHING.

A poor itinerant player, caught performing the part of a poacher, and being taken before the magistrates assembled at a quarter sessions for examination, one of them asked him what right he had to kill a hare? when he replied in the following ludicrous parody on Brutus’s speech to the Romans, in defence of the death of Cæsar:—

“Britons, hungry-men, and epicures! hear me for my cause; and be silent—that you may hear; believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of this hare, to him I say, that a player’s love for hare is no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why a player rose against a hare, this is my answer,—not that I loved hare less, but that I loved eating more. Had you rather this hare were living, and I had died starving—than that this hare were dead, that I might live a jolly fellow? As this hare was pretty, I weep for him; as he was nimble, I rejoice at it; as he was plump, I honour him; but, as he was eatable, I slew him. There are tears, for his beauty; joy, for his condition; honour, for his speed; and death, for his toothsomeness. Who is here so cruel, would see a starved man? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so silly, that would not take a tit bit? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so sleek, that does not love his belly? If any, speak, for him have I offended.”

“You have offended justice, sirrah,” cried one of the magistrates, out of all patience at this long and strange harangue.

“Then,” cried the culprit, guessing at the hungry feelings of the bench, “since justice is dissatisfied, it must needs have something to devour—Heaven forbid I should keep any gentleman from his dinner—so, if you please, I’ll wish your worships a good day, and a good appetite.”

HAPPY UNION.

Quin used to say, that of all the bans of marriage he ever heard, none gave him such pleasure as the union of delicate Ann Chovy with good John Dory. This sentiment was worthy of such a disciple of Apicius.

S. S. S.

Fine View.
LEITH HILL, NEAR DORKING.

Extracted from a letter from Mr. Dennis to Mr. Serjeant, near seventy years ago.

In a late journey which I took into the wild of Sussex, I passed over a hill, which showed me more transporting sights than ever I had seen before, either in England or Italy. The prospects which in Italy pleased me most were the Valdarno from the Apennines of Rome, and the Mediterranean from the mountain of Viterbo; of Rome at forty, and the Mediterranean at fifty miles distant from it; and that of the famous Campagna of Rome from Tivoli and Frescati, to the very foot of the mountain Viterbo, without any thing to intercept your sight.

But from an hill which I passed in my late journey into Sussex, I had a prospect more extensive than any of these, and which surpassed them at once in rural charms, in pomp, and magnificence. The hill which I speak of is called Leith-hill, and is about five miles southward from Dorking, about six miles from Box-hill, and near twelve from Epsom. It juts itself out about two miles beyond that range of hills, which terminate the north downs to the south. After conquering the hill itself the sight is enchantingly beautiful. Beneath lie open to our view all the wilds of Surrey and Sussex, and a great part of that of Kent, admirably diversified in every part of them with woods, and fields of corn and pasture, and everywhere adorned with stately rows of trees. This beautiful vale is thirty miles in breadth, and sixty in length, terminating on the south by the majestic range of hills and the sea. About noon on a serene day you may, at thirty miles distance, see the waters of the sea through a chasm of the mountains. And that which, above all, makes it a noble and wonderful prospect is, that at the same time you behold this noble sight, by a little turn of your head towards the north, you look full over Box-hill, and see the country beyond it, between that and London, and St. Paul’s, at twenty-five miles distance, with Highgate and Hampstead beyond it all. It may perhaps appear incredible to some, that a place which affords so great and so surprising a prospect should have remained so long in obscurity, and that it is unknown to the very visitors of Epsom and Box-hill. But, alas! we live in a country more fertile of great things, than of men to admire them.

Whoever talked of Cooper’s-hill, till sir John Denham made it illustrious?—How long did Milton remain in obscurity, while twenty paltry authors, little and vile compared to him, were talked of and admired? But in England, nineteen in twenty like by other people’s opinions, and not by their own.

PARSIMONY.

Augustine Pentheny, Esq. who died on the 23d of November, 1810, in the eighty-third year of his age, at an obscure lodging in Leeson-street, Dublin, was a miser of the most perfect drawing that nature ever gave to the world. He was born in the village of Longwood, county of Meath, and became a journeyman-cooper. Very early in life he was encouraged to make a voyage to the West Indies, to follow his trade, under the patronage of his maternal uncle, another adventurer of the name of Gaynor, better known among his neighbours by the name of “Peter Big Brogues,” from the enormous shoes he was mounted in on the day he set out on his travels. Peter acquired an immense fortune, and lived to see his only child married to sir G. Colebrook, chairman to the East India Company, and a banker in London, to whom Peter gave with his daughter two hundred thousand pounds. His nephew, Anthony, acquired the enormous sum of three hundred thousand pounds in the islands of Antigua and Santa Cruz.

Anthony Pentheny saw mankind only through one medium—money. His vital powers were so diverted from generous or social objects by the prevailing passion of gold, that he could discover no trait in any character, however venerable or respectable, that was not seconded by riches; in fact, any one that was not rich he considered as an inferior animal, neither worthy of notice, nor safe to be admitted into society. This feeling he extended to female society, and, if possible, with a greater degree of disgust. A woman he considered only as an incumbrance on a man of property, and therefore he could never be prevailed upon to admit one into his confidence. Wedlock he utterly and uniformly rejected. His wife was the public funds, and his children dividends; and no parent or husband ever paid more deference or care to the objects of his affection. He was never known to diminish his immense hoard, by rewarding a generous action; or to alleviate distress, or accidental misfortune, by the application of a single shilling. It could scarcely be expected that a man would give gifts or bestow gratuities, who was a niggard of comforts to himself. The evening before he died, some busy friend sent a respectable physician to him. The old miser evinced no dislike, until he recollected the doctor might expect a fee; this alarmed him, and immediately raising himself in the bed, he addressed his “medical friend” in the following words: “Doctor, I am a strong man, and know my disorder, and could cure myself, but as Mr. Nangle has sent you to my assistance, I shall not exchange you for any other person, if we can come to an understanding; in fact, I wish to know what you will charge for your attendance until I am recovered.” The doctor answered “eight guineas.” “Ah! sir,” said the old man, “if you knew my disorder you would not be exorbitant; but to put an end to this discussion, I will give you six guineas and a half.” The doctor assented, and the patient held out his arm with the fee, to have his pulse considered, and laid himself down again.

Old Pentheny’s relations were numerous, but, in his opinion, wholly unqualified, by want of experience in the management of money, to nurse his wealth, and therefore he bequeathed the entire of it to a rich family in the West Indies, with the generous exception of four pounds annually to a faithful servant, who had lived with him twenty-four years. In his will he expresses great kindness for “poor John,” and says he bequeaths the four pounds for his kind services, that his latter days might be spent in comfortable independence! He appointed Waller Nangle, Esq. and major O’Farrell, his executors, and the right hon. David La Touche and lord Fingal, trustees. Like Thellusson, he would not allow his fortune to pass to his heirs immediately, as he directed that the entire should be funded for fourteen years, and then, “in its improved state,” be at the disposal of the heirs he had chosen.