[I-639,
I-640]

SNUFFERS.

Perhaps there is no implement of domestic use that we are less acquainted with, in its old form, than snuffers. I have now before me a pair, which for their antiquity and elegant workmanship seem worth attention: the engraving on the other side represents their exact size and construction.

After some research, I can only meet with particulars of one other pair, which were found in digging the foundation of a granary, at the foot of a hill adjoining to Cotton Mansion-house, (formerly the seat of the respectable family of the Mohuns,) in the parish of St. Peter, Portisham, about two miles north-east from Abbotsbury in Dorsetshire. They were of brass, and weighed six ounces. “The great difference,” says Mr. Hutchins, “between these and modern utensils of the same name and use is, that these are in shape like a heart fluted, and consequently terminate in a point. They consist of two equal lateral cavities, by the edges of which the snuff is cut off and received into the cavities, from which it is not got out without particular application and trouble. There are two circumstances attending this little utensil, which seem to bespeak it of considerable age: the roughness of the workmanship, which is in all respects as rude and coarse as can be well imagined, and the awkwardness of the form.” There is an engraving of the Dorsetshire snuffers in the history of that county.

The snuffers now submitted to notice are superior in design and workmanship to those found in Dorsetshire. The latter seem of earlier date, and they divide in the middle of the upper as well as the lower part, but in one respect both pairs are alike: they are each “in shape like a heart,” and they each terminate in a point formed exactly in the manner shown by the present engraving. The print likewise shows that the box of the snuffers bears a boldly chased winged head of Mercury, who had more employments and occupations than any other of the ancient deities. Whether as the director of theft, as the conductor of the departed to their final destination, as an interpreter to enlighten, or as an office-bearer constantly in requisition, the portrait of Mercury is a symbol appropriate to the implement before us. The engraving shows the exact size of the instrument, and the present appearance of the chasing, which is in bold relief, and was, originally, very elegant.

These snuffers are plain on the underside, and made without legs. They were purchased, with some miscellaneous articles, by a person who has no clue to their former possessors, but who rightly imagined that in an archÆological view they would be acceptable to the Table Book.

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Garrick Plays.
No. XVIII.

[From “David and Bethsabe:” further Extracts.]

Absalon, rebelling.

Absalon, triumphant.

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[From a “Looking Glass for England and London,” a Tragi-comedy, by Thomas Lodge and Robert Green, 1598.]

Alvida, Paramour to Rasni, the Great King of Assyria, courts a petty King of Cilicia.

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[From “Tethys’ Festival,” by Samuel Daniel, 1610.]

Song at a Court Masque.

C. L.

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Scylla and Charybdis.
Ancient and Present State.

This Latin verse, which has become proverbial, is thus translated:—

The line has been ascribed to Ovid; it is not, however, in that or any other classic poet, but has been derived from Philippe Gualtier, a modern French writer of Latin verses. Charybdis is a whirlpool in the straits of Messina, on the coast of Sicily, opposite to Scylla, a dangerous rock on the coast of Italy. The danger to which mariners were exposed by the whirlpool is thus [I-643,
I-644] described by Homer in Pope’s translation:

Virgil imagines the origin of this terrific scene:

A great earthquake in the year 1783 diminished the perils of the pass.[187] Thirteen years before this event, which renders the scene less poetical, Brydone thus describes

Scylla.

May 19, 1770. Found ourselves within half a mile of the coast of Sicily, which is low, but finely variegated. The opposite coast of Calabria is very high, and the mountains are covered with the finest verdure. It was almost a dead calm, our ship scarce moving half a mile in an hour, so that we had time to get a complete view of the famous rock of Scylla, on the Calabrian side, Cape Pylorus on the Sicilian, and the celebrated Straits of the Faro that runs between them. Whilst we were still some miles distant from the entry of the Straits, we heard the roaring of the current, like the noise of some large impetuous river confined between narrow banks. This increased in proportion as we advanced, till we saw the water in many places raised to a considerable height, and forming large eddies or whirlpools. The sea in every other place was as smooth as glass. Our old pilot told us, that he had often seen ships caught in these eddies, and whirled about with great rapidity, without obeying the helm in the smallest degree. When the weather is calm, there is little danger; but when the waves meet with this violent current, it makes a dreadful sea. He says, there were five ships wrecked in this spot last winter. We observed that the current set exactly for the rock of Scylla, and would infallibly have carried any thing thrown into it against that point; so that it was not without reason the ancients have painted it as an object of such terror. It is about a mile from the entry of the Faro, and forms a small promontory, which runs a little out to sea, and meets the whole force of the waters, as they come out of the narrowest part of the Straits. The head of this promontory is the famous Scylla. It must be owned that it does not altogether come up to the formidable description that Homer gives of it; the reading of which (like that of Shakspeare’s Cliff) almost makes one’s head giddy. Neither is the passage so wondrous narrow and difficult as he makes it. Indeed it is probable that the breadth of it is greatly increased since his time, by the violent impetuosity of the current. And this violence too must have always diminished, in proportion as the breadth of the channel increased.

Our pilot says, there are many small rocks that show their heads near the base of the large ones. These are probably the dogs that are described as howling round the monster Scylla. There are likewise many caverns that add greatly to the noise of the water, and tend still to increase the horror of the scene. The rock is near two hundred feet high. There is a kind of castle or fort built on its summit; and the town of Scylla, or Sciglio, containing three or four hundred inhabitants, stands on its south side, and gives the title of prince to a Calabrese family.

Charybdis.

The harbour of Messina is formed by a small promontory or neck of land that runs off from the east end of the city, and separates that beautiful basin from the rest of the Straits. The shape of this promontory is that of a reaping-hook, the curvature of which forms the harbour, and secures it from all winds. From the striking resemblance of its form, the Greeks, who never gave a name that did not either describe the object or express some of its most remarkable properties, called this place Zancle, or the Sickle, and feigned that the sickle of Saturn fell on this spot, and gave it its form. But the Latins, who were not quite so fond [I-645,
I-646] of fable, changed its name to Messina, (from Messis, a harvest,) because of the great fertility of its fields. It is certainly one of the safest harbours in the world after ships have got in; but it is likewise one of the most difficult access. The celebrated gulf or whirlpool of Charybdis lies near to its entry, and often occasions such an intestine and irregular motion in the water, that the helm loses most of its power, and ships have great difficulty to get in, even with the fairest wind that can blow. This whirlpool, I think, is probably formed by the small promontory I have mentioned; which contracting the Straits in this spot, must necessarily increase the velocity of the current; but no doubt other causes, of which we are ignorant, concur, for this will by no means account for all the appearances which it has produced. The great noise occasioned by the tumultuous motion of the waters in this place, made the ancients liken it to a voracious sea-monster perpetually roaring for its prey; and it has been represented by their authors, as the most tremendous passage in the world. Aristotle gives a long and a formidable description of it in his 125th chapter De Admirandis, which I find translated in an old Sicilian book I have got here. It begins, “Adeo profundum, horridumque spectaculum, &c.” but it is too long to transcribe. It is likewise described by Homer, 12th of the Odyssey; Virgil, 3d Æneid; Lucretius, Ovid, Sallust, Seneca, as also by many of the old Italian and Sicilian poets, who all speak of it in terms of horror; and represent it as an object that inspired terror, even when looked on at a distance. It certainly is not now so formidable; and very probably, the violence of this motion, continued for so many ages, has by degrees worn smooth the rugged rocks and jutting shelves, that may have intercepted and confined the waters. The breadth of the Straits too, in this place, I make no doubt is considerably enlarged. Indeed, from the nature of things it must be so; the perpetual friction occasioned by the current must wear away the bank on each side, and enlarge the bed of the water.

The vessels in this passage were obliged to go as near as possible to the coast of Calabria, in order to avoid the suction occasioned by the whirling of the waters in this vortex; by which means when they came to the narrowest and most rapid part of the Straits, betwixt Cape Pelorus and Scylla, they were in great danger of being carried upon that rock. From whence the proverb, still applied to those, who in attempting to avoid one evil fall into another.

There is a fine fountain of white marble on the key, representing Neptune holding Scylla and Charybdis chained, under the emblematical figures of two sea-monsters, as represented by the poets.

The little neck of land, forming the harbour of Messina, is strongly fortified. The citadel, which is indeed a very fine work, is built on that part which connects it with the main land. The farthermost point, which runs out to sea, is defended by four small forts, which command the entry into the harbour. Betwixt these lie the lazaret, and a lighthouse to warn sailors of their approach to Charybdis, as that other on Cape Pelorus is intended to give them notice of Scylla.

It is probably from these lighthouses (by the Greeks called Pharoi) that the whole of this celebrated Strait has been denominated the Faro of Messina.

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According to Brydone, the hazard to sailors was less in his time than the Nestor of song, and the poet of the Æneid, had depicted in theirs. In 1824, Capt. W. H. Smyth, to whom a survey of the coast of Sicily was intrusted by the lords of the Admiralty, published a “Memoir” in 1824, with the latest and most authentic accounts of these celebrated classic spots—viz.:

Scylla.

As the breadth across this celebrated strait has been so often disputed, I particularly state, that the Faro Tower is exactly six thousand and forty-seven English yards from that classical bugbear, the Rock of Scylla, which, by poetical fiction, has been depicted in such terrific colours, and to describe the horrors of which, Phalerion, a painter, celebrated for his nervous representation of the awful and the tremendous, exerted his whole talent. But the flights of poetry can seldom bear to be shackled by homely truth, and if we are to receive the fine imagery, that places the summit of this rock in clouds brooding eternal mists and tempests—that represents it as inaccessible, even to a man provided with twenty hands and twenty feet, and immerses its base among ravenous sea-dogs;—why not also receive the whole circle of mythological dogmas of Homer, who, though so frequently dragged forth as an authority in history, theology, surgery, and geography, ought in justice to be read only as a poet. In the writings of so exquisite a bard, we must not expect to find all his representations strictly confined to a mere accurate [I-647,
I-648] narration of facts. Moderns of intelligence, in visiting this spot, have gratified their imaginations, already heated by such descriptions as the escape of the Argonauts, and the disasters of Ulysses, with fancying it the scourge of seamen, and that in a gale its caverns ‘roar like dogs;’ but I, as a sailor, never perceived any difference between the effect of the surges here, and on any other coast, yet I have frequently watched it closely in bad weather. It is now, as I presume it ever was, a common rock, of bold approach, a little worn at its base, and surmounted by a castle, with a sandy bay on each side. The one on the south side is memorable for the disaster that happened there during the dreadful earthquake of 1783, when an overwhelming wave (supposed to have been occasioned by the fall of part of a promontory into the sea) rushed up the beach, and, in its retreat, bore away with it upwards of two thousand people.

Charybdis.

Outside the tongue of land, or Braccio di St. Rainiere, that forms the harbour of Messina, lies the Galofaro, or celebrated vortex of Charybdis, which has, with more reason than Scylla, been clothed with terrors by the writers of antiquity. To the undecked boats of the Rhegians, Locrians, Zancleans, and Greeks, it must have been formidable; for, even in the present day, small craft are sometimes endangered by it, and I have seen several men-of-war, and even a seventy four gun ship, whirled round on its surface; but, by using due caution, there is generally very little danger or inconvenience to be apprehended. It appears to be an agitated water, of from seventy to ninety fathoms in depth, circling in quick eddies. It is owing probably to the meeting of the harbour and lateral currents with the main one, the latter being forced over in this direction by the opposite point of Pezzo. This agrees in some measure with the relation of Thucydides, who calls it a violent reciprocation of the Tyrrhene and Sicilian seas; and he is the only writer of remote antiquity I remember to have read, who has assigned this danger its true situation, and not exaggerated its effects. Many wonderful stories are told respecting this vortex, particularly some said to have been related by the celebrated diver, Colas, who lost his life here. I have never found reason, however, during my examination of this spot, to believe one of them.

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For the Table Book.

A FRAGMENT.

From Cornelius May’s “Journey To The Greate Markett at Olympus”—“Seven Starrs of Witte.”

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DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND:
OR,
MANNERS OF LONDON MERCHANTS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

Decio, a man of great figure, that had large commissions for sugar from several parts beyond sea, treats about a considerable parcel of that commodity with Alcander, an eminent West India merchant; both understood the market very well, but could not agree. Decio was a man of substance, and thought nobody ought to buy cheaper than himself. Alcander was the same, and not wanting money, stood for his price. Whilst they were driving their bargain at a tavern near the Exchange, Alcander’s man brought his master a letter from the West Indies, that informed him of a much greater quantity of sugars coming for England than was expected. Alcander now wished for nothing more than to sell at Decio’s price, before the news was public; but being a cunning fox, that he might not seem too precipitant, nor yet lose his customer, he drops the discourse they were upon, and putting on a jovial humour, commends the agreeableness of the weather; from whence falling upon the delight he took in his gardens, invites Decio to go along with him to his country house, that was not above twelve miles from London. It was in the month of May, and as it happened upon a Saturday in the afternoon, Decio, who was a single man, and would have no business in town before Tuesday, accepts of the other’s civility, and away they go in Alcander’s coach. Decio was splendidly entertained that night and the day following; the Monday morning, to get himself an appetite, he goes to take the air upon a pad of Alcander’s, and coming back meets with a gentleman of his acquaintance, who tells him news was come the night before that the Barbadoes fleet was destroyed by a storm; and adds, that before he came out, it had been confirmed at Lloyd’s coffee-house, where it was thought sugars would rise twenty-five per cent. by change time. Decio returns to his friend, and immediately resumes the discourse they had broke off at the tavern. Alcander who, thinking himself sure of his chap, did not design to have moved it till after dinner, was very glad to see himself so happily prevented; but how desirous soever he was to sell, the other was yet more eager to buy; yet both of them afraid of one another, for a considerable time counterfeited all the indifference imaginable, till at last Decio, fired with what he had heard, thought delays might prove dangerous, and throwing a guinea upon the table, struck the bargain at Alcander’s price. The next day they went to London; the news proved true, and Decio got five hundred pounds by his sugars. Alcander, whilst he had strove to overreach the other, was paid in his own coin: yet all this is called fair dealing; but I am sure neither of them would have desired to be done by, as they did to each other.

Fable of the Bees, 1725.

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CHILTERN HUNDREDS.

The acceptance of this office, or stewardship, vacates a seat in parliament, but without any emolument or profit. Chiltern is a ridge of chalky hills crossing the county of Bucks, a little south of the centre, reaching from Tring in Hertfordshire to Henly in Oxford. This district belongs to the crown, and from time immemorial has given title to the nominal office of stewards of the Chiltern hundreds. Of this office, as well as the manor of East Hundred, in Berks, it is remarkable, that although frequently conferred upon members of parliament, it is not productive either of honour or emolument; being granted at the request of any member of that house, merely to enable him to vacate his seat by the acceptance of a nominal office under the crown; and on this account it has frequently been granted to three or four members a week.

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[I-651,
I-652]

This is an eccentric, good-humoured character—a lover of a chirruping cup—and a favourite with the pitmen of Durham. He dresses like them, and mixes and jokes with them; and his portrait seems an appropriate illustration of the following paper, by a gentleman of the north, well acquainted with their remarkable manners.

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THE PITMAN.

For the Table Book.

Gentle Reader,—Whilst thou sittest toasting thy feet at the glowing fuel in thy grate, watching in dreaming unconsciousness the various shapes and fantastic forms appearing and disappearing in the bright, red heat of thy fire—here a beautiful mountain, towering with its glowing top above the broken and diversified valley beneath—there a church, with its pretty spire peeping above an imagined village; or, peradventure, a bright nob, assuming the ken of human likeness, thy playful fancy picturing it the semblance of some distant friend—I say, whilst thou art sitting in this fashion, dost thou ever think of that race of mortals, whose whole life is spent beyond a hundred fathoms below the surface of mother earth, plucking from its unwilling bosom the materials of thy greatest comfort?

The pitman enables thee to set at nought the “pelting of the pitiless storm,” [I-653,
I-654] and render a season of severity and pinching bitterness, one of warmth, and kindly feeling, and domestic smiles. If thou hast never heard of these useful and daring men who

—who dwell in a valley of darkness for thy sake, and whose lives are hazarded every moment in procuring the light and heat of the flickering flame—listen with patience, if not with interest, to a short account of them, from the pen of one who is not unmindful of

The pitmen, who are employed in bringing coals to the surface of the earth, from immensely deep mines, for the London and neighbouring markets, are a race entirely distinct from the peasantry surrounding them. They are principally within a few miles of the river Wear, in the county of Durham, and the river Tyne, which traces the southern boundary of Northumberland. They reside in long rows of one-storied houses, called by themselves “pit-rows,” built near the chief entrance to the mine. To each house is attached a small garden,

and wherein they pay so much attention to the cultivation of flowers, that they frequently bear away prizes at floral exhibitions.

Within the memory of the writer, (and his locks are not yet “silver’d o’er with age,”) the pitmen were a rude, bold, savage set of beings, apparently cut off from their fellow men in their interests and feelings; often guilty of outrage in their moments of ebrious mirth; not from dishonest motives, or hopes of plunder, but from recklessness, and lack of that civilization, which binds the wide and ramified society of a great city. From the age of five or six years, their children are immersed in the dark abyss of their lower worlds; and when even they enjoy the “light of the blessed sun,” it is only in the company of their immediate relations: all have the same vocation, and all stand out, a sturdy band, separate and apart from the motley mixture of general humanity.

The pitmen have the air of a primitive race. They marry almost constantly with their own people; their boys follow the occupations of their sires—their daughters, at the age of blooming and modest maidenhood, linking their fate to some honest “neebor’s bairn:” thus, from generation to generation, family has united with family, till their population has become a dense mass of relationship, like the clans of our northern friends, “ayont the Cheviot’s range.” The dress of one of them is that of the whole people. Imagine a man, of only middling stature, (few are tall or robust,) with several large blue marks, occasioned by cuts, impregnated with coal-dust, on a pale and swarthy countenance, a coloured handkerchief around his neck, a “posied waistcoat” opened at the breast, to display a striped shirt beneath, a short blue jacket, somewhat like, but rather shorter than the jackets of our seamen, velvet breeches, invariably unbuttoned and untied at the knee, on the “tapering calf” a blue worsted stocking, with white clocks, and finished downwards by a long, low-quartered shoe, and you have a pitman before you, equipped for his Saturday’s cruise to “canny Newcastle,” or for his Sabbath’s gayest holiday.

On a Saturday evening you will see a long line of road, leading to the nearest large market town, grouped every where with pitmen and their wives or “lasses,” laden with large baskets of the “stomach’s comforts,” sufficient for a fortnight’s consumption. They only are paid for their labour at such intervals; and their weeks are divided into what they term “pay week,” and “bauf week,” (the etymology of “bauf,”[189] I leave thee, my kind reader, to find out.)—All merry and happy—trudging home with their spoils—not unfrequently the thrifty husband is seen “half seas over,” wrestling his onward way with an obstinate little pig, to whose hind leg is attached a string, as security for allegiance, while ever and anon this third in the number of “obstinate graces,” seeks a sly opportunity of evading its unsteady guide and effecting a retreat over the road, and “Geordie” (a common name among them) attempts a masterly retrograde reel to regain his fugitive. A long cart, lent [I-655,
I-656] by the owners of the colliery for the purpose, is sometimes filled with the women and their marketings, jogging homeward at a smart pace; and from these every wayfarer receives a shower of taunting, coarse jokes, and the air is filled with loud, rude merriment. Pitmen do not consider it any deviation from propriety for their wives to accompany them to the alehouses of the market town, and join their husbands in their glass and pint. I have been amused by peeping through the open window of a pothouse, to see parties of them, men and women, sitting round a large fir table, talking, laughing, smoking, and drinking con amore; and yet these poor women are never addicted to excessive drinking. The men, however, are not particularly abstemious when their hearts are exhilarated with the bustle of a town.

When the pitman is about to descend to the caverns of his labour, he is dressed in a checked flannel jacket, waistcoat, and trowsers, with a bottle or canteen slung across his shoulders, and a satchell or haversack at his side, to hold provender for his support during his subterrene sojourn. At all hours, night and day, groups of men and boys are seen dressed in this fashion wending their way to their colliery, some carrying sir Humphrey Davy’s (called by them “Davy’s”) safety-lamp, ready trimmed, and brightened for use. They descend the pit by means of a basket or “corfe,” or merely by swinging themselves on to a chain, suspended at the extreme end of the cordage, and are let down, with inconceivable rapidity, by a steam-engine. Clean and orderly, they coolly precipitate themselves into a black, smoking, and bottomless-looking crater, where you would think it almost impossible human lungs could play, or blood dance through the heart. At nearly the same moment you see others coming up, as jetty as the object of their search, drenched and tired. I have stood in a dark night, near the mouth of a pit, lighted by a suspended grate, filled with flaring coals, casting an unsteady but fierce reflection on the surrounding swarthy countenances; the pit emitting a smoke as dense as the chimney of a steam-engine; the men, with their sooty and grimed faces, glancing about their sparkling eyes, while the talking motion of their red lips disclosed rows of ivory; the steam-engines clanking and crashing, and the hissing from the huge boilers, making a din, only broken by the loud, mournful, and musical cry of the man stationed at the top of the pit “shaft,” calling down to his companions in labour at the bottom. This, altogether, is a scene as wild and fearful as a painter or a poet could wish to see.

All have heard of the dreadful accidents in coal-mines from explosions of fire-damp, inundations, &c., yet few have witnessed the heart-rending scenes of domestic calamity which are the consequence. Aged fathers, sons, and sons’ sons, a wide branching family, all are sometimes swept away by a fell blast, more sudden, and, if possible, more terrible, than the deadly Sirocca of the desert.

Never shall I forget one particular scene of family destruction. I was passing along a “pit-row” immediately after a “firing,” as the explosion of fire-damp is called, when I looked into one of the houses, and my attention became so rivetted, that I scarcely knew I had entered the room. On one bed lay the bodies of two men, burnt to a livid ash colour; the eldest was apparently sixty, the other about forty—father and son:—on another bed, in the same room, were “streaked” three fine boys, the oldest not more than fifteen—sons of the younger dead—all destroyed at the same instant by the same destructive blast, let loose from the mysterious hand of Providence: and I saw—Oh God! I shall never forget—I saw the vacant, maddened countenance, and quick, wild glancing eye of the fatherless, widowed, childless being, who in the morning was smiling in her domestic felicity; whose heart a few hours before was exultingly beating as she looked on her “gudeman and bonny bairns.” Before the evening sun had set she was alone in the world; without a prop for her declining age, and every endearing tie woven around her heart was torn and dissevered. I passed into the neat little garden—it was the spring time—part of the soil was fresh turned up, and some culinary plants were newly set:—these had been the morning work of the younger father—his spade was standing upright in the earth at the last spot he had laboured at; he had left it there, ready for the evening’s employment:—the garden was yet blooming with all the delightful freshness of vernal vegetation its cultivator was withered and dead—his spade was at hand for another to dig its owner’s grave.

Amidst all their dangers, the pitmen are a cheerful, industrious race of men. They were a few years ago much addicted to gambling, cock-fighting, horse-racing, &c. Their spare hours are diverted now to a widely different channel; they are for the most part members of the Wesleyan sects; [I-657,
I-658] and, not unfrequently in passing their humble but neat dwellings, instead of brawls and fights you hear a peaceful congregation of worshippers, uttering their simple prayers; or the loud hymn of praise breaking the silence of the eventide.

The ancient custom of sword-dancing at Christmas is kept up in Northumberland, exclusively by these people. They may be constantly seen at that festive season with their fiddler, bands of swordsmen, Tommy and Bessy, most grotesquely dressed, performing their annual routine of warlike evolutions. I have never had the pleasure of seeing the Every-Day Book, but I have no doubt this custom has there been fully illustrated.

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Some years ago a Tynemouth vessel, called the “Northern Star,” was lost, and the following ballad made on the occasion: the memory of a lady supplies the words—

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British Mines.

For the Table Book.

Mines of gold and silver, sufficient to reward the conqueror, were found in Mexico and Peru; but the island of Britain never produced enough of the precious metals to compensate the invader for the trouble of slaughtering our ancestors.

Camden mentions gold and silver mines in Cumberland, a mine of silver in Flintshire, and of gold in Scotland. Speaking of the copper mines of Cumberland, he says that veins of gold and silver were found intermixed with the common ore; and in the reign of Elizabeth gave birth to a suit at law between the earl of Northumberland and another claimant.

Borlase, in his History of Cornwall, relates, “that so late as the year 1753 several pieces of gold were found in what the miners call stream tin; and silver is now got in considerable quantity from several of our lead mines.”

A curious paper, concerning the gold mines of Scotland, is given by Mr. Pennant, in the Appendix, No. 10. to his second part of a “Tour in Scotland, in 1772;” but still there never was sufficient gold and silver enough to constitute the price of victory. The other metals, such as tin, copper, iron, and lead, are found in abundance at this day; antimony and manganese in small quantities.[191]

Of the copper mines now working in Cornwall, “Dolcoath,” situated near Camborn, is the deepest, having a 220 fathom level under the adit, which is 40 fathoms from the surface; so that the total depth is 260 fathoms, or 1560 feet: it employs upwards of 1000 persons. The “Consolidated Mines,” in Gwennap, are the most productive perhaps in the world, yielding from 10l. to 12000l. a month of copper ore, with a handsome profit to the shareholders. “Great St. George” is the only productive mine near St. Agnes, and the only one producing metal to the “English Mining Association.”

Of the tin mines, “Wheal Nor,” in Breague, is an immense concern, producing an amazing quantity, and a large profit to the company. “Carnon Stream,” near Perran, is now yielding a good profit on its [I-659,
I-660] capital. It has a shaft sunk in the middle of the stream. The washings down from so many mines, the adits of which run in this stream, bring many sorts of metal, with some curious bits of gold.

Of late years the mine called Wheal Rose, and some others belonging to sir Christopher Hawkins, have been the most prolific of lead, mixed with a fair proportion of silver. Wheal Penhale, Wheal Hope, and others, promise favourably.

As yet Wheal Sparnon has not done much in cobalt; the quality found in that mine is very excellent, but quantity is the “one thing needful.”

The immense quantity of coals consumed in the numerous fire-engines come from Wales; the vessels convey the copper ore, as it is brought by the copper companies, to their smelting works: it is a back freight for the shipping.

Altogether, the number of individuals who derive their living by means of the mineral district of Cornwall must be incalculable; and it is a great satisfaction to know, that this county suffered less during the recent bad times than perhaps any other county.

Sam Sam’s Son.

April 30, 1827.

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Angling

AT THAMES DITTON.

For the Table Book.

Thames Ditton is a pretty little village, delightfully situated on the banks of the Thames, between Kingston and Hampton Court palace. During the summer and autumn, it is the much-frequented resort of the followers of Isaac Walton’s tranquil occupation.

The Swan inn, only a few paces from the water’s edge, remarkable for the neatness and comfort of its appearance, and for the still more substantial attractions of its internal accommodation, is kept by Mr. John Locke, a most civil, good-natured, and obliging creature; and, what is not of slight importance to a bon-vivant, he has a wife absolutely incomparable in the preparation of “stewed eels,” and not to be despised in the art of cooking a good beef-steak, or a mutton-chop.

But what is most remarkable in this place is its appellation of “lying Ditton”—from what reason I have ever been unable to discover, unless it has been applied by those cockney anglers, who, chagrined at their want of sport, have bestowed upon it that very opprobrious designation; and perhaps not entirely without foundation for when they have been unsuccessful in beguiling the finny tribe, the fishermen, who attend them in their punts, are always prepared to assign a cause for their failure; as that the water is too low—or not sufficiently clear—or too muddy—or there is a want of rain—or there has been too much of that element—or—any thing else—except a want of skill in the angler himself, who patiently sits in his punt, watching the course of his float down the stream, or its gentle diving under the water, by which he flatters himself he has a bite, listening to the stories of his attendant, seated in calm indifference at his side, informing him of the mortality produced among the gelid tribe by the noxious gas which flows into the river from the metropolis, the alarming effects from the motion of the steam-boats on their fishy nerves, and, above all, from their feeding at that season of year on the green weeds at the bottom.

However, there are many most skilful lovers of the angle who pay weekly, monthly, or annual visits to this retired spot; amongst whom are gentlemen of fortune, professional men, and respectable tradesmen. After the toils of the day, the little rooms are filled with aquatic sportsmen, who have left the cares of life, and the great city behind them, and associate in easy conversation, and unrestrained mirth.

One evening last summer there alighted from the coach a gentleman, apparently of the middle age of life, who first seeing his small portmanteau, fishing-basket, and rods safely deposited with the landlord, whom he heartily greeted, walked into the room, and shaking hands with one or two of his acquaintances, drew a chair to the window, which he threw up higher than it was before; and, after surveying with a cheerful countenance the opposite green park, the clear river with its sedgy islands, and the little flotilla of punts, whose tenants were busily engaged on their gliding floats, he seemed as delighted as a bird that has regained his liberty: then, taking from his pocket a paper, he showed its contents to me, who happened to be seated opposite, and asked if I was a connoisseur in “single hair;” for, if I was, I should find it the best that could be procured for love or money. I replied that I seldom fished with any but gut-lines; yet it appeared, as far as I could judge, to be very fine. “Fine!” said he, “it would do for the filament of a spider’s-web; and yet [I-661,
I-662] I expect to-morrow to kill with it a fish of a pound weight. I recollect,” continued he, “when I was but a tyro in the art of angling, once fishing with an old gentleman, whose passion for single-hair was so great, that, when the season of the year did not permit him to pursue his favourite diversion, he spent the greatest part of his time in travelling about from one end of the kingdom to the other, seeking the best specimens of this invaluable article. On his visits to the horse-dealers, instead of scrutinizing the horses in the customary way, by examining their legs, inquiring into their points and qualities, or trying their paces, to the unspeakable surprise of the venders, he invariably walked up to the nether extremities of the animals, and seized hold of their tails, by which means he was enabled to select a capital assortment of hairs for his ensuing occupation.”

After the new-comer had finished his amusing anecdote, the noise of a numerous flock of starlings, which had assembled among the trees in the park preparatory to their evening adjournment to roost, attracted his notice by the babel-like confusion of their shrill notes, and led him again to entertain us with a story touching their peculiarities.

“I remember,” said he, “when I was at a friend’s house in Yorkshire last autumn, there were such immense numbers of these birds, who sought their sustenance by day on the neighbouring marshes, and at night came to roost in his trees, that at length there was not room for their entire accommodation; the consequence of which was, that it became a matter of necessity that a separation of their numbers should take place—a part to other quarters, the remainder to retain possession of their old haunts. If I might judge from the conflicting arguments which their confused chatterings seemed to indicate, the contemplated arrangement was not at all relished by those who were doomed to separate from their companions—a separation, however, did take place—but the exiles would not leave the field undisputed. Birds, like aid-de-camps of an army, flew from one side to the other—unceasing voices gave note of dreadful preparation—and, at last, both sides took flight at the same instant. The whirring sound of their wings was perfectly deafening; when they had attained a great height in the air, the two forces clashed together with the greatest impetuosity; immediately the sky was obscured with an appearance like the falling of snow, descending gradually to the earth, accompanied with a vast quantity of bodies of the starlings, which had been speared through by hostile beaks-they literally fell like hail. It was then growing rather dusk; I could merely see the contending flocks far above me for some time—it became darker—and I returned to narrate this extraordinary aËrial combat to my friend, who in the morning had the curiosity to accompany me to the field of battle, where we picked up, according to an accurate calculation, 1087 of these birds, some quite dead, and others generally severely wounded, with an amazing quantity of their feathers.”

I saw this amusing gentleman on the following morning sitting quietly in his punt, exercising his single-hair skill, nearly opposite to the little fishing-house.

E. J. H.

April, 1827.

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TICKLING TROUT.

For the Table Book.

It is a liberty taken by poachers with the little brook running through Castle Coombe, to catch trout by tickling. I instance the practice there because I have there witnessed it, although it prevails in other places. The person employed wades into the stream, puts his bare arms into the hole where trout resort, slides his fingers under the fish, feels its position, commences tickling, and the trout falls gradually into his hand, and is thrown upon the grass. This is a successful snare, destructive to the abundance of trout, and the angler’s patient pleasure. The lovers of the “hook and eye” system oppose these ticklish practices, and the ticklers, when caught, are “punished according to law,” while the patrons of the “rod and line” escape. Shakspeare may have hinted at retribution, when he said

Pope tell us that men are

P.

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THE CLERKS OF CORNWALL.

1. In the last age there was a familiarity between the parson and the clerk and the people, which our feelings of decorum would revolt at, e. g.—“I have seen the ungodly flourish like a green bay tree.”—“How can that be, maister?” said the clerk [I-663,
I-664] of St. Clement’s. Of this I was myself an ear-witness.

2. At Kenwyn, two dogs, one of which was the parson’s, were fighting at the west-end of the church; the parson, who was then reading the second lesson, rushed out of the pew, and went down and parted them, returned to his pew, and, doubtful where he had left off, asked the clerk, “Roger, where was I?” “Why down parting the dogs, maister,” said Roger.

3. At Mevagizzey, when non-resident clergymen officiated, it was usual with the squire of the parish to invite them to dinner. Several years ago, a non-resident clergyman was requested to do duty in the church of Mevagizzey on a Sunday, when the Creed of St. Athanasius is directed to be read. Before he had begun the service, the parish-clerk asked him, whether he intended to read the Athanasian Creed that morning. “Why?” said the clergyman. “Because if you do, no dinner for you at the squire’s, at Penwarne.”

4. A very short time since, parish-clerks used to read the first lesson. I once heard the St. Agnes clerk cry out, “At the mouth of the burning viery vurnis,—Shadrac, Meshac, and Abednego, com voath and com hether.” [Daniel, chap, iii.]

The clerk of Lamorran, in giving out the Psalm, “Like a timorous bird to distant mountains fly,” always said, “Like a temmersum burde, &c. &c.” with a shake of the head, and a quavering of the voice, which could not but provoke risibility.[192]

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Custom
OBSERVED BY THE
LORD LIEUTENANTS OF IRELAND.

On the great road from London to West Chester, we find, at the principal inns, the coats of arms of several lord lieutenants of Ireland, framed, and hung up in the best rooms. At the bottom of these armorial pictures (as I may call them) is a full display of all the titles of the party, together with the date of the year when each viceroyship commenced. I have often inquired the reason of this custom, but never could procure a satisfactory answer. I do not reprobate the idea of this relique of ancient dignity, as these heraldic monuments were doubtless intended to operate as public evidences of the passage of each lord-deputy to his delegated government. They now seem only to be preserved for the gratification of the vanity of the capital innkeepers, by showing to humble travellers that such and such lord lieutenants did them the honour to stop at their houses; and yet I will not say, but that for half-a-crown handsomely offered to his excellency’s gentleman, they might likewise become part of the furniture of every ale-house in Dunstable.

After fruitless inquiry, accident furnished me with the ground of this custom, which now only serves to excite a little transitory curiosity. Having occasion to look into sir Dudley Digge’s “Complete Ambassador,” published in 1654, I was obliged to the editor for a solution, who, in the preface, (signed A. H.,) speaking of the reserve of the English ambassadors, in not making public their negotiations, has this observation—“We have hardly any notion of them but by their arms, which are hung up in inns where they passed.”

This paragraph at once accounts for the point before us, and is sufficient, at the same time, to show that the custom was anciently, and even in the seventeenth century, common to every ambassador, though it now only survives with those who go in the greater and more elevated line of royal representation to Ireland.

Samuel Pegge.[193]

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W. T. M.

May, 1827.

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BRUMMELLIANA.

A great deal used to be said of Beau Nash and his witticisms; but certainly we never met with any thing of his which was at all equal to the oracular sentences of the gentleman who gives a name to this article. Of all the beaux that ever flourished—at least, of all that ever flourished on the same score—exemplary of waistcoat, and having authoritative boots from which there was no appeal—he appears to us to have been the only one who made a proper and perfect union of the coxcombical and ingenious. Other men may have been as scientific on the subject of bibs, in a draper-like point of view; and others may have said as good things, which had none of the colouring arising out of the consciousness of fashionable preeminence. Beau Fielding, we believe, stands on record as the handsomest of beaux. There is Beau Skeffington, now rather sir Lumley, who, under all his double-breasted coats and waistcoats, never had any other than a single-hearted soul; he is to be recorded as the most amiable of beaux; but Beau Brummell for your more than finished coxcomb. He could be grave enough, but he was any thing but a solemn coxcomb. He played with his own sceptre. It was found a grand thing to be able to be a consummate fop, and yet have the credit of being something greater; and he was both. Never was any thing more exquisitely conscious, yet indifferent; extravagant, yet judicious. His superiority in dress gave such importance to his genius, and his genius so divested of insipidity his superiority in dress, that the poet’s hyperbole about the lady might be applied to his coat; and

It was a moot point which had the more tact, his gloves or his fingers’ ends. He played the balls of wit and folly so rapidly about his head, that they lost their distinctions in one crowning and brilliant halo.

Mr. Brummell, it is true, is no longer in favour as a settler of fashions. Why, it is not our business to inquire. But though it may be said of his waistcoat, like Troy, that it was, his wit is, and will remain; and here, for the first time, a few specimens of it are collected. If George Etheridge himself would not have acknowledged a brother in George Brummell, then are no two gloves of a colour.

To begin with what is usually reckoned the prince of his good things. Mr. Brummell having fallen out of favour with an [I-667,
I-668] illustrious person, was of course to be cut, as the phrase is, when met in public. Riding one day with a friend, who happened to be otherwise regarded, and encountering the personage in question, who spoke to the friend without noticing Mr. Brummell, he affected the air of one who waits aloof while a stranger is present; and then, when the great man was moving off, said to his companion, loud enough for the other to hear, and placidly adjusting his bibs, “Eh! who is our fat friend?”

Having taken it into his head, at one time, to eat no vegetables, and being asked by a lady if he had never eaten any in his life, he said, “Yes, madam, I once eat a pea.”

Being met limping in Bond-street, and asked what was the matter, he said he had hurt his leg, and “the worst of it was, it was his favourite leg.”

Somebody inquiring where he was going to dine next day, was told that he really did not know: “they put me in my coach and take me somewhere.”

He pronounced of a fashionable tailor that he made a good coat, an exceedingly good coat, all but the collar: nobody could achieve a good collar but Jenkins.

Having borrowed some money of a city beau, whom he patronised in return, he was one day asked to repay it; upon which he thus complained to a friend: “Do you know what has happened?”—“No.”—“Why, do you know, there’s that fellow, Tomkins, who lent me five hundred pounds, has had the face to ask me for it; and yet I had called the dog ‘Tom,’ and let myself dine with him.”

“You have a cold, Mr. Brummell,” observed a sympathizing group. “Why do you know,” said he, “that on the Brighton road, the other day, that infidel, Weston, (his valet,) put me into a room with a damp stranger.”

Being asked if he liked port, he said, with an air of difficult recollection, “Port? port?—Oh, port!—Oh, ay; what, the hot intoxicating liquor so much drank by the lower orders?”

Going to a rout, where he had not been invited, or rather, perhaps, where the host wished to mortify him, and attempted it, he turned placidly round to him, and, with a happy mixture of indifference and surprise, asked him his name. “Johnson,” was the answer. “Jauhnson,” said Brummell, recollecting, and pretending to feel for a card; “Oh, the name, I remember, was Thaun-son (Thompson;) and Jauhnson and Thaunson, you know, Jauhnson and Thaunson, are really so much the same kind of thing!”

A beggar petitioned him for charity “even if it was only a farthing.”—“Fellow,” said Mr. Brummell, softening the disdain of the appellation in the gentleness of his tone, “I don’t know the coin.”

Having thought himself invited to somebody’s country seat, and being given to understand, after one night’s lodging, that he was in error, he told an unconscious friend in town who asked him what sort of a place it was, that it was an “exceedingly good place for stopping one night in.”

Speaking lightly of a man, and wishing to convey his maximum of contemptuous feeling about him, he said, “He is a fellow, now, that would send his plate up twice for soup.”

It was his opinion, that port, and not porter, should be taken with cheese. “A gentleman,” said he, “never malts with his cheese, he always ports.”

It being supposed that he once failed in a matrimonial speculation, somebody condoled with him; upon which he smiled, with an air of better knowledge on that point, and said, with a sort of indifferent feel of his neckcloth, “Why, sir, the truth is, I had great reluctance in cutting the connection; but what could I do? (Here he looked deploring and conclusive.) Sir, I discovered that the wretch positively ate cabbage.”

Upon receiving some affront from an illustrious personage, he said that it was “rather too good. By gad, I have half a mind to cut the young one, and bring old G—e into fashion.”

When he went visiting, he is reported to have taken with him an elaborate dressing apparatus, including a silver basin; “For,” said he, “it is impossible to spit in clay.”

On being asked by a friend, during an unseasonable summer, if he had ever seen such a one? “Yes,” replied B. “last winter.”

On a reference being made to him as to what sum would be sufficient to meet the annual expenditure for clothes, he said, “that with a moderate degree of prudence and economy, he thought it might be managed for eight hundred per annum.”

He told a friend that he was reforming his way of life, “For instance,” said he, “I sup early; I take a-a-little lobster, an apricot puff, or so, and some burnt champaigne, about twelve; and my man gets me to bed by three.”[194]

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[I-669,
I-670]