The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Every-Day Book and Table Book, Vol. III, by William Hone.

——From Beckenham church we walked about two miles along a nearly straight road, fenced off from the adjoining lands, till we reached West Wickham. It was from a painted window in this church that I made the tracing of St. Catherine engraved in the Every-Day Book, where some mention is made of the retired situation of this village.

“Wickham Court,” the ancient manor-house adjacent to the church, was formerly the residence of Gilbert West, the translator of Pindar, and author of the “Observations on the Resurrection of Christ.” for which the university of Oxford conferred on him the degree of doctor of laws. “He was very often visited by Lyttelton and Pitt, who, when they were weary of faction and debates, used, at Wickham, to find books and quiet, a decent table, and literary conversation.”[236] It was in West’s society, at Wickham, that lord Lyttelton was convinced of the truth of Christianity. Under that conviction he wrote his celebrated “Dissertation on the Conversion and Apostleship of St. Paul,” which, until the appearance of Paley’s “Horæ Paulina,” was an unrivalled treatise. Mr. Pitt, (the great earl of Chatham,) during his intimacy with West, formed a walk at Wickham Court. In a summer-house of the grounds, Mr. West inscribed the following lines, in imitation of Ausonius, a Latin poet of the fourth century, “Ad Villam:”—

Not wrapt in smoky London’s sulphurous clouds,
And not far distant stands my rural cot;
Neither obnoxious to intruding crowds,
Nor for the good and friendly too remote.

And when too much repose brings on the spleen,
Or the gay city’s idle pleasures cloy;
Swift as my changing wish I change the scene,
And row the country, now the town enjoy.

The ancient manor of West Wickham was vested in sir Samuel Lennard, bart., from whom it passed to his daughter Mary, the present dowager lady Farnaby, who resides in the manor-house, and with whose permission we were permitted a look at the hall of the mansion, which contains in the windows some painted remains of armorial bearings on glass, removed from the windows of the church. A view in Hasted’s “History of Kent” represents the towers of this mansion to have been surmounted by sextagon cones, terminated at the top with the fleur de lis, a bearing in the family arms; these pinnacles have been taken down, the roofs of the towers flattened, and the walls castellated. By a charter of free warren, in the eleventh year of Edward II., a weekly market was granted to West Wickham, but it is no longer held, and Wickham, as a town, has lost its importance.

The manor-house and church are distant from the village about half a mile, with an intervening valley beautifully pleasant, in which is a road from Hayes Common to Addington and Croydon. The church is on a hill, with an old lich-gate, like that at Beckenham, though not so large. At this spot W. sat down, and made the sketch here represented by his graver. Although I had been in the edifice before, I could not avoid another visit to it. At the north-east corner, near the communion table, are many ancient figured tiles sadly neglected, loose in the pavement; some displaced and lying one upon the other. Worst of all,—and I mean offence to no one, but surely there is blame somewhere,—the ancient stone font, which is in all respects perfect, has been removed from its original situation, and is thrown into a corner. In its place, at the west end, from a nick (not a niche) between the seats, a little trivet-like iron bracket swings in and out, and upon it is a wooden hand-bowl, such as scullions use in a kitchen sink; and in this hand-bowl, of about twelve inches diameter, called a font, I found a common blue-and-white Staffordshire-ware halfpint basin. It might be there still; but, while inveighing to my friend W. against the depravation of the fine old font, and the substitution of such a paltry modicum, in my vehemence I fractured the crockery. I felt that I was angry, and, perhaps, I sinned; but I made restitution beyond the extent that would replace the baptismal slop-basin.

The fragments of old painted glass in the windows of this church are really fine. The best are, St. Anne teaching the virgin to read; whole lengths of St. Christopher wading, with the infant Saviour beating the globe in his hand; an elderly female saint, very good; and a skeleton with armour before him. Some years ago, collectors of curiosities paid their attentions to these windows, and carried off specimens: since then wires have been put up on the outside. On the walls are hung pennons, with an iron helmet, sword, spurs, gloves, and other remains of a funereal pageant. A small organ stands on the floor: the partitions of some of the pewings are very ancient.

Topography.

GODSTOW NUNNERY,
Near Oxford.

The wild-flower waves, in lonely bloom,
On Godstow’s desolated wall:
There thin shades flit through twilight gloom,
And murmured accents feebly fall.
The aged hazel nurtures there
Its hollow fruit, so seeming fair,
And lightly throws its humble shade,
Where Rosamonda’s form is laid,

The rose of earth, the sweetest flower
That ever graced a monarch’s breast,
In vernal beauty’s loveliest hour,
Beneath that sod was laid to rest.
In vain the bower of love around
The Dædalëan path was wound:
Alas! that jealous hate should find
The clue for love alone designed!

The venomed bowl,—the mandate dire,—
The menaced steel’s uplifted glare,—
The tear, that quenched the blue eye’s fire,—
The humble, ineffectual prayer:—
All these shall live, recorded long
In tragic and romantic song,
And long a moral charm impart,
To melt and purify the heart.
A nation’s gem, a monarch’s pride.
In youth, in loveliness, she died:
The morning sun’s ascending ray
Saw none so fair, so blest, so gay:
Ere evening came, her funeral knell
Was tolled by Godstow’s convent bell.

The marble tomb, the illumined shrine,
Their ineffectual splendour gave:
Where slept in earth the maid divine.
The votive silk was seen to wave.
To her, as to a martyred saint.
His vows the weeping pilgrim poured
The drooping traveller, sad and faint,
Knelt there, and found his strength restored:
To that fair shrine, in solemn hour,
Fond youths and blushing maidens came.
And gathered from its mystic power
A brighter, purer, holier flame:
The lightest heart with awe could feel
The charm her hovering spirit shed
But superstition’s impious zeal
Distilled its venom on the dead!

The illumined shrine has passed away;
The sculptured stone in dust is laid:
But when the midnight breezes play
Amid the barren hazel’s shade,
The lone enthusiast, lingering near,
The youth, whom slighted passion grieves,
Through fancy’s magic spell may hear
A spirit in the whispering leaves;
And dimly see, while mortals sleep,
Sad forms of cloistered maidens move,
The transient dreams of life to weep,
The fading flowers of youth and love!

A small chapel, and a wall, enclosing an ample space, are all now remaining of the Benedictine nunnery at Godstow. A hazel grows near the chapel, the fruit of which is always apparently perfect, but is invariably found to be hollow.

This nunnery derives its chief interest from having been the burial-place of Rosamond. The principal circumstances of her story are thus related by Stowe: “Rosamond, the fair daughter of Walter lord Clifford, concubine to Henry II., (poisoned by queen Eleanor, as some thought,) died at Woodstock, (A. D. 1177,) where king Henry had made for her a house of wonderful working; so that no man or woman might come to her, but he that was instructed by the king, or such as were right secret with him touching the matter. This house, after some, was named Labyrinthus, or Dædalus work, which was wrought like unto a knot in a garden, called a maze: but it was commonly said, that lastly the queen came to her by a clue of thread, or silk, and so dealt with her, that she lived not long after: but when she was dead, she was buried at Godstow, in a house of nuns, beside Oxford, with these verses upon her tomb:

“Hic jacet in tumbâ, Rosa mundi, non Rosa munda:
Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet.”

After her death, she appears to have been considered as a saint, from the following inscription on a stone cross, which, Leland says, was erected near the nunnery:

Qui meat huc, oret, signumque salutis adoret,
Utque sibi detur veniam, Rosamunda precetur.

A fanatical priest, Hugh, bishop of Lincoln, visiting the nunnery at Godstow, and observing a tomb covered with silk, and splendidly illuminated, which he found, on inquiry, to be the tomb of Rosamond, commanded her to be taken up, and buried without the church, lest the Christian religion should grow into contempt. This brutal order was instantly obeyed: but “the chaste sisters,” says Speed, “gathered her bones, and put them in a perfumed bag, enclosing them so in lead, and laid them again in the church, under a fair large grave-stone, about whose edges a fillet of brass was inlaid, and thereon written her name and praise: these bones were at the suppression of the nunnery so found.”[237]

ST. MARY MAGDALEN, BERMONDSEY, SURREY.

“The forme of a solemn vowe made betwixt a man and his wife, having been long absent, through which occasion the woman being married to another man, took her again as followeth:

The Man’s Speech.

“Elizabeth, my beloved wife, I am right sorie that I have so long absented myself from thee, whereby thou shouldst be occasioned to take another man to be thy husband. Therefore I do now vowe and promise, in the sight of God and this company, to take thee again as mine owne; and will not onlie forgive thee, but also dwell with thee, and do all other duties unto thee, as I promised at our marriage.”

The Woman’s Speech.

“Raphe, my beloved husband, I am righte sorie that I have in thy absence taken another man to be my husband; but here, before God and this companie, I do renounce and forsake him, and do promise to keep mysealfe only to thee duringe life, and to performe all the duties which I first promised to thee in our marriage.”

“The first day of August, 1601, Raphe Goodchilde, of the parish of Barking, in Thames-street, and Elizabeth, his wife, were agreed to live together, and thereupon gave their hands one to another, making either of them a solemn vow so to do in the presence of us,

“James Herriot, Esq. and Elizabeth Josey, gent. were married June 4th, 1624-5.—N. B. This James Herriott was one of the forty children of his father, a Scotchman.”

Query.—Was this James Herriot related to George Heriot, the munificent founder of the hospital at Edinburgh, who died at London in January of the same year?

BROUGH, WESTMORELAND.

The church at Brough is a pretty large handsome building. The steeple is not so old; having been built about the year 1513, under the direction of Thomas Blenkinsop, of Helbeck, Esq. There are in it four excellent bells, by much the largest in the county, except the great bell at Kirkby Thore. Concerning these bells at Brough, there is a tradition that they were given by one Brunskill, who lived upon Stanemore, in the remotest part of the parish, and had a great many cattle. One time it happened that his bull fell a bellowing, which, in the dialect of the country, is called cruning, (this being the Saxon word to denote that vociferation.) Whereupon he said to one of his neighbours, “Hearest thou how loud this bull crunes? If these cattle should all crune together, might they not be heard from Brough hither?” He answered, “Yea.” “Well, then,” says Brunskill, “I’ll make them all crune together.” And he sold them all; and with the price thereof he bought the said bells, (or perhaps he might get the old bells new cast and made larger.)—There is a monument in the church, in the south wall, between the highest and second windows, under which, it is said, the said Brunskill was the last that was interred.

The pulpit is of stone. There was heretofore a handsome reading desk, given by sir Cuthbert Buckle, knight, vintner in London, who was born upon Stanemore in this parish, and was lord mayor of London in the year 1593. His name was upon the desk thus:—“By Cuthbert Buckle, Anno Domini 1576.” He built also a bridge upon Stanemore, which still bears the name of Buckle’s Bridge; and gave eight pounds a year to a school upon Stanemore.

TO MY PSEUDO-MUSE.

Hence, thou tormenting wayward Being!
For ever courting, trifling, spreeing.
Thou Erysipelas of thrall:
For ever, with thine addled hatch,
I’ll shun thee as an arrant Scratch,
Unworthy to be scratched at all.

Thy Sonnets, staves, and stanzas rhyming
To every key, to every chiming,
St. Vitus’ Dance is ease to Thee:
Thou shalt no more provoke my Quill
To deeds of labour, or of skill,
Thou cacoëthes mise-re.

Promethean fire—Parnassus smiling,
Helicon’s spirituous drops beguiling,—
Where’er thou com’st—whate’er thou be:
The Vagrant Act may take thee in;
I’ll drive thee out as Satan’s sin
Thou worse than fire of Anthony.

Hence Jade! tormentress of the feelings;—
Thou Witch of End-or like revealings:—
Go—haunt the brains, not frenzy past:
I’ll haste to Monmouth Street and buy
A suit of Prose—then joyful cry
Ecce Stultus! grown wise at last.

If thou shou’d’st to my brain-door, knocking,
Come with thy wheedling-pamby, mocking;
I’ll catch thee vi et armis:—then
By Habeas Corpus to the Pleas—
—Sure I will rob thee of degrees,
And scare thee from my Smithfield Pen.

If I’m asleep—then thou art waiting,
Angler-like, with thy couplets baiting,
To drag my crazy thought to light:
Awake! thy float, with stanza-hook,
Is ever dipping in Mal-Brook—
I’ll brook no more—if sense is right.

BATHING.

I do not know any author who has reckoned man among the amphibious race of animals; neither do I know any animal that better deserves it. Man is lord of the little ball on which he treads, one half of which, at least, is water. If we do not allow him to be amphibious, we deprive him of half his sovereignty. He justly bears that name, who can live in the water. Many of the disorders incident to the human frame are prevented, and others cured, both by fresh and salt bathing; so that we may properly remark, “He lives in the water who can find life, nay, even health in that friendly element.”

The greatest treasure on earth is health; but a treasure, of all others, the least valued by the owner. Other property is best rated when in possession, but this can only be rated when lost. We sometimes observe a man, who, having lost this inestimable jewel, seeks it with an ardour equal to its worth; but when every research by land is eluded, he fortunately finds it in the water. Like the fish, he pines away upon shore, but, like that, recovers again in the deep.

The cure of disease among the Romans, by bathing, is supported by many authorities; among others, by the number of baths frequently discovered, in which pleasure, in that warm climate, bore a part. But this practice seemed to decline with Roman freedom, and never after held the eminence it deserved. Can we suppose the physician slept between the disease and the bath to hinder their junction; or, that he lawfully holds by prescription the tenure of sickness in fee?[238]

Rural Sports.

ANGLING.

When genial spring a living warmth bestows,
And o’er the year her verdant mantle throws,
No swelling inundation hides the grounds,
But crystal currents glide within their bounds;
The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake,
Float in the sun, and skim along the lake,
With frequent leap they range the shallow streams,
Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams.
Now let the fisherman his toils prepare,
And arm himself with every wat’ry snare;
His hooks, his lines peruse with careful eye,
Increase his tackle, and his rode retie.

When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain
Troubling the streams with swift-descending rain,
And waters tumbling down the mountain’s side,
Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide;
Then, soon as vernal gales begin to rise,
And drive the liquid burthen thro’ the skies,
The fisher to the neighbouring current speeds,
Whose rapid surface purls, unknown to weeds;
Upon a rising border of the brook
He sits him down, and ties the treach’rous hook;
Now expectation cheers his eager thought,
His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught;
Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand,
Where every guest applauds his skilful hand.

Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws,
Which down the murm’ring current gently flows;
When if or chance, or hunger’s pow’rful sway,
Directs the roving trout this fatal way,
He greedily sucks in the twining bait,
And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat:
Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line!
How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine
Cast on the bank, he dies with gasping pains,
And trickling blood his silver mail distains.

You must not ev’ry worm promiscuous use,
Judgment will tell thee proper bait to choose;
The worm that draws a long immod’rate size
The trout abhors, and the rank morsel flies;
And if too small, the naked fraud’s in sight,
And fear forbids, while hunger does invite.
Those baits will best reward the fisher’s pains,
Whose polish’d tails a shining yellow stains:
Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss,
Cherish the sully’d reptile race with moss;
Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil,
And from their bodies wipe their native soil.

But when the sun displays his glorious beams,
And shallow rivers flow with silver streams,
Then the deceit the scaly breed survey,
Bask in the sun, and look into the day.
You now a more delusive art must try,
And tempt their hunger with the curious fly.

To frame the little animal, provide
All the gay hues that wait on female pride:
Let nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire
The shining bellies of the fly require;
The peacock’s plumes thy tackle must not fail,
Nor the dear purchase of the sable’s tail.
Each gaudy bird some slender tribute brings,
And lends the growing insect proper wings:
Silks of all colours must their aid impart,
And ev’ry fur promote the fisher’s art.
So the gay lady, with expensive care,
Borrows the pride of land, of sea, and air;
Furs, pearls, and plumes, the glittering thing displays,
Dazzles our eyes, and easy hearts betrays.

Mark well the various seasons of the year,
How the succeeding insect race appear;
In this revolving moon one colour reigns,
Which in the next the fickle trout disdains
Oft have I seen a skilful angler try
The various colours of the treach’rous fly;
When he with fruitless pain hath skimm’d the brook,
And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook,
He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,
Which o’er the stream a waving forest throw;
When if an insect fall, (his certain guide)
He gently takes him from the whirling tide;
Examines well his form with curious eyes,
His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, and size.
Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,
And on the back a speckled feather binds;
So just the colours shine thro’ every part,
That Nature seems to live again in art,
Let not thy wary steps advance too near,
While all thy hope hangs on a single hair:
The new-form’d insect on the water moves,
The speckled trout the curious snare approves;
Upon the curling surface let it glide,
With nat’ral motion from thy hand supply’d.
Against the stream now gently let it play,
Now in the rapid eddy roll away.
The scaly shoals float by, and seiz’d with fear,
Behold their fellows toss’d in thinner air;
But soon they leap, and catch the swimming bait,
Plunge on the hook, and share an equal fate.

When a brisk gale against the current blows,
And all the wat’ry plain in wrinkles flows,
Then let the fisherman his art repeat,
Where bubbling eddies favour the deceit.
If an enormous salmon chance to spy
The wanton errors of the floating fly,
He lifts his silver gills above the flood,
And greedily sucks in th’ unfaithful food;
Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey,
And bears with joy the little spoil away.
Soon in smart pain he feels the dire mistake,
Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake:
With sudden rage he now aloft appears,
And in his eye convulsive anguish bears;
And now again, impatient of the wound,
He rolls and wreaths his shining body round;
Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide,
The trembling fins the boiling wave divide;
Now hope exalts the fisher’s beating heart,
Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art;
He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes;
While the line stretches with th’ unwieldy prize;
Each motion humours with his steady hands,
And one slight hair the mighty bulk commands:
Till tir’d at last, despoil’d of all his strength,
The game athwart the stream unfolds his length.
He now, with pleasure, views the gasping prize
Gnash his sharp teeth, and roll his blood-shot eyes,
Then draws him to the shore, with artful care,
And lifts his nostrils in the sick’ning air:
Upon the burthen’d stream he floating lies,
Stretching his quivering fins, and gasping dies.

Would you preserve a num’rous finny race?
Let your fierce dogs the rav’nous otter chase;
Th’ amphibious monster ranges all the shores,
Darts through the waves, and ev’ry haunt explores;
Or let the gin his roving steps betray,
And save from hostile jaws the scaly prey.

I never wander where the bordering reeds
O’erlook the muddy stream, whose tangling weeds
Perplex the fisher; I, nor choose to bear
The thievish nightly net, nor barbed spear;
Nor drain I ponds the golden carp to take,
Nor troll for pikes, dispeoplers of the lake.
Around the steel no tortur’d worm shall twine,
No blood of living insect stain my line;
Let me, less cruel, cast the feather’d hook,
With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook,
Silent along the mazy margin stray,
And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.

GOOD-LIVING.
A Domestic Scene.

Gent. I wish, my dear, you would not keep the carriage an hour always at the door, when we go to a party.

Lady. Surely, my dear, it could not have waited half so long; and that was owing to the unusual length of our rubber.

Gent. I feel exceedingly unwell this evening, my head aches confoundedly, and my stomach is very uneasy.

Lady. You know, my dear, Mr. Abernethy told you, that after such a severe fit you ought to be very careful and moderate in your living.

Gent. Mr. Abernethy is a fool. Can any body be more moderate than I am? you would have me live upon water-gruel, I suppose. The rich pudding, indeed, that Mrs. Belcour made me eat, might possibly not have sat quite easy on the soup, and the salmon, and the chicken and ham, and the harrico, and the turkey and sausages; or, it is possible, the patties I eat before dinner might not perfectly agree with me, for I had by no means a good appetite when I sat down to dinner.

Lady. And then, you know, you eat so many cakes, and such a quantity of almonds and raisins, and oranges after dinner.

Gent. How could I have got down Belcour’s insufferable wine, that tasted of the cork, like the fag bottle at a tavern dinner, without eating something?

Lady. And I am sure you drank a glass of Madeira with every mouthful almost at dinner; for I observed you.

Gent. Why how could one swallow such ill-dressed things, half cold too, without drinking? I can’t conceive what makes me feel so unwell this evening; these flatulencies will certainly kill me. It must be the easterly wind we have had for these three days that affects me: indeed, most of my acquaintance are complaining, and the doctors say, disorders are very prevalent now.——What can I have? John, make me a tumbler of brandy and water—make it strong, and put ginger enough in it. I have not the least appetite—what can I have?

Gent. Why, do you think I have the stomach of a ploughman, that I can eat such insipid things! Is there nothing else?

Gent. Why, if it was nicely done, very nicely, perhaps I could; I’ll try—but remember it must be done to a moment, or I shan’t be able to touch it—and made hot—and some nice gravy. Confound these parties!—could any thing be more stupid. While Martin was sleeping on one side of me, there was Bernard on the other did nothing but bore me about his horses, and his wines, and his pictures, till I wished them all at old Harry—I think I shall have done with parties.

Lady. I am sure, my dear, they are no pleasure to me; and, if they were, I pay dear enough for it: for you generally come home in an ill humour—and your health and your pocket too suffer for it. Your last bill came to more than ninety pounds, besides your expenses at Cheltenham—and the next thing, I suppose, will be a voyage to Madeira, or Lisbon—and then what will become of us?

Gent. What, do you grudge me the necessaries of life? It is I that am the sufferer—

Lady. Not entirely so: I am sure I feel the effects of it, and so do the servants. Your temper is so entirely changed, that the poor children are afraid to go near you—you make every body about you miserable, and you know Smith lost his cause from your not being able to attend at the last assizes, which will be nearly the ruin of him and his family. Two days before you were tolerably well, but after you had dined at ——’s, you were laid up.

Gent. Nay, I was as much concerned at it as any body could be; and I think I had reason to be so, for I lost three hundred pounds myself—but who can help illness? Is it not a visitation of Providence? I am sure nobody can live more temperately than I do—do you ever see me drunk? A’n’t I as regular as clockwork? Indeed, my dear, if you cannot talk more rationally, you had better go to bed. John! why don’t you bring the brandy and water! and see if the chop is ready; if I am not better in the morning, I am sure I shall not be able to attend my appointment in the city——

There will always be a few ready to receive the hints of experience, and to them only can this scene be useful.

DRINKING.

Lime applied to trees makes them put forth leaves and flourish, and produce fruit early, but then it kills them. Wine cheers and stimulates men, and makes them thrust forth flowers of wit; but, then, there is no doubt it shortens life.[239]

KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD
By St. Evremond.

The first thing by which we know men, is the physiognomy, the colour, and the lineaments of the face; the briskness, the air, the motion of the body, the action, the sound of the voice, the aspect, &c.: and there is no man, but at first sight we are either well or ill affected towards him. Every man makes some impressions upon us of what he is; but these impressions, being sudden, are not always certain, a little frequent conversation with him perfects our knowledge of him.

Hear the man with whom you keep company; endeavour to draw him in to make a long discourse, and then you will easily perceive the greatness or meanness of his wit, his civility, his inclination to vice or virtue, and to what kind of vice or virtue he is most inclined; whether he be sincere in his speech or a man of artifice; whether he aggravates matters, if he be a liar, or a proud man, and to what degree he carries his good or bad qualities.

Study well the persons with whom you converse familiarly, and with least circumspection. Examine them when they are sedate, in an obliging humour; and when they are in anger, in a disdainful and morose humour. When something vexes or pleases them, observe them in their sorrow and disgrace, in their pleasures, in their advancement, and in their humiliation. Be attentive to their discourse in all these several states, consider their behaviour, their sentiments, their projects, and the different motions which their passions, their ranks, and their affairs, produce in them.

Moreover, endeavour also to know yourself very well; consider in all the different states, wherein good or bad fortune has placed you, the designs which you pursue, and the resolutions for doing good or evil, you are capable of making. These several observations upon yourself and others will infallibly make you know mankind. And the reason of it is this:—all men, and even philosophers themselves, are, more or less, subject to the same passions, and all of them think very nearly after the same manner.

Of the most excellent qualities, that of knowing the world is most necessary for our behaviour, and for our fortune:—for our behaviour, because otherwise our life is liable to continual crosses, and is nothing else but one continued series of extravagancies, which will bring upon us a thousand bad businesses:—for our fortune, because if we do not know men, we cannot make use of them in that way which is most convenient with respect to our interest. It is necessary therefore to know them, and to behave ourselves with each of them after such a manner as is most agreeable to their character. A prudent man, with respect to others, is like a master who knows all the springs of an engine, and makes them play as he pleases, either for his pleasure or advantage.

It seems to me, that our first motion should be to distrust the world in general, and even to have a bad opinion of it. The world, such as it should be, is full of virtue; out as we see it, it is full of wickedness and malice; and this latter world is that we should endeavour to know well, because we live in it, and it concerns us very much to avoid its deceits.

But why should we have so bad an opinion of the world? Why, because men are born with a bad disposition, and they carry in their heart at their birth the source of all vices, and an aversion to all virtues, which would hinder their singularity; and which they cannot acquire but by such pains as they are not willing to take. Yet I do not say that we must therefore think ill of all particular persons, but it is good to know them.

THE TONGA ISLANDS.

Wild and straggling as the flowers
Is human nature there;
Uncultivated all its powers
In that secluded air:
The passions fiery, bold, and strong,
Impetuous urge their course along,
Like mountain torrent rolling,
More rapid as the more confined,
Far leaving Reason’s rules behind,
No curb of law controlling!
The spectre Superstition there
Sits trembling on her gloomy throne!
Pale child of Ignorance and Fear,
Embodying shapes of things unknown:
When, when shall rise the glorious morn
Of heavenly radiance unconfined?
When shall the mental veil be torn,
And God be known by all mankind?

Full many a ray must pierce the soul,
Ere darkness quits the southern pole:
Yet here are maidens kind and true
As ever northern pencil drew;
And here are warriors brave and young
As ever northern minstrel sung!
And see, upon the valley’s side
With fairy footstep lightly glide
A train of virgins soft and fair,
With sparkling eyes and shining hair,
As beauteous as the flowers they bear—
Fresh flowers of every scent and hue,
Besprinkled with the morning dew,
Which they have risen before the sun
To gather for some favourite one.

It is a custom at Tonga for the young women to gather flowers in the earlier part of the morning, and twine them on their return into various ornaments, for themselves, and their relations and friends. They gather them at sunrise while the dew of the morning is still fresh on them; because, when plucked at that time, their fragrance is of longer continuance.[240]

West Wickham Church, Kent.