  View in Hagbush Lane, Islington. A HUT, ERECTED BY WILLIAM CORRALL, A POOR AND AGED LABOURER, AFTER THE VIOLENT AND LAWLESS DESTRUCTION OF HIS COTTAGE, EARLY IN THE MORNING OF THE SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER, 1827. “—————— ’Twas strange; ’twas passing strange! ’Twas pitiful! ’twas wond’rous pitiful!” I thought, in the Every-Day Book, that I had done with “Hagbush-lane” altogether—the tale of the poor man’s wrongs, when “the proud man’s contumely” grew into open aggression, had passed from me; and I presumed that, for his little while on this side the grave, the oppressed might “go free,” and “hear not the voice of the oppressor”—but when selfishness is unwatched it has a natural tendency to break forth, and a sudden and recent renewal of an outrage, which every honest mind had condemned, To the Editor. Sir,—In the first volume of the Every-Day Book you have favoured the lovers of rural scenery with an historical and descriptive notice of Hagbush-lane, Islington, accompanied with an engraving of the “mud edifice” which formerly stood there; of which you have given “the simple annals:”—its erection by a poor labourer who, else, had no shelter for himself, wife, and child, to “shrink into,” when “pierced by wintry winds;”—its demolition by the wealthy occupants of the neighbouring fields;—the again-houseless man’s endeavour to rebuild his hovel;—the rich man’s repetition of the destruction of his half-finished hut;—and finally, the labourer’s succeeding in the erection of a cottage, more commodious than the first, where he continued unmolested to sell small beer to poor workmen and wayfarers.—Allow me, sir, the melancholy task of informing you of the “final destruction” of this sample of rusticity.—Hagbush-lane is despoiled of its appropriate ornament. I have ever been an admirer of the beautiful scenery that is to be met with on that side of the metropolis; and never, since reading your interesting narrative and description, have I strolled that way, without passing through Hagbush-lane. On entering the wide part from the field by Copenhagen-house, one day last week, I was sadly astonished at the change—the cottage, with its garden-rails and benches, had disappeared; and the garden was entirely laid waste: trees, bushes, and vegetables rudely torn up by the roots, lay withering where they had flourished. Upon the site of his demolished dwelling stood the poor old man, bent by affliction as much as by age, leaning on his stick. From the heartbroken expression of his features, it did not take me a moment to guess the cause of this devastation:—the opulent landholder has, for the third time, taken this ungentle expedient to rid his pastures of a neighbouring “nuisance”—the hut of cheerless poverty. The distressed old rustic stated, that on Thursday, (which was the sixth of September,) at about six o’clock in the morning, before the inmates had arisen, a party of workmen came to the cottage; and, merely informing them that “they must disturb them,” instantly commenced the work of destruction. His dwelling was soon levelled with the ground; and the growth of his garden torn up, and thrown in a heap into the lane. He declared, with a tear, that “it had ruined him for ever, and would be the death of him.” I did not ask him many questions: it had been a sin to probe his too deeply wounded feelings. Proceeding up the lane, to where it is crossed by the new road, I perceived that, in the open space by the road-side, at the entrance into the narrow part of the lane, the old man had managed to botch up, with pieces of board and old canvass, a miserable shed to shelter him. It was surrounded with household utensils, and what materials he had saved from the ruins of his cottage—a most wretched sty—but little larger than the dog-kennel that was erected near it, from which a faithful cur barked loudly at the intruder’s footstep. Being a stranger in the neighbourhood, I cannot pretend to know any thing of the motives that have induced his rich neighbours thus to distress the poor and aged man;—perhaps they are best known to themselves, and it is well if they can justify them to any but themselves!—but surely, surely he will not be suffered to remain thus exposed in the approaching season, “—all amid the rigours of the year, In the wild depth of winter, while without The ceaseless winds blow ice.”—— Perhaps, sir, I give too much room to my feelings. My intention was but to inform you of a regretted change in a scene which you have noticed and admired in the Every-Day Book. Should you consider it worthy of further notice in the Table Book, you will oblige me by putting it forward in what form best pleases yourself. I remain, &c. Sept. 19, 1827. This communication, accompanied by the real name and address of its warmhearted writer, revived my recollections and kindled my feelings. I immediately wrote to a friend, who lives in the vicinage of Hagbush-lane, requesting him to hasten to the site of the old cottage, which was quite as well known to him as to me, and bring me a drawing of the place in its present state, with such particulars of the razing of the edifice as he could obtain. His account, as I collect it from verbal narration, corroborates that of my correspondent. So complete has been the devastation, that a drawing of the spot whereon the cottage stood would merely be a view of the level earth. My friend walked over it, The old man represents the “ringleader,” as he calls him, in this last work of ruin, to be the foreman of a great cow-keeping landholder and speculator, to whose field-possessions the cottage on the waste was adjacent. Who employed this “ringleader” and his followers? Who was the instigating and protecting accessary before and after this brutal housebreaking, and wilful waste? The helpless man got his living by selling small beer, and a little meat, cooked by his wife, to others as poor and helpless as themselves; and they eked out their existence by their garden produce. In the summer of 1825 I heard it said, that their cottage was the resort and drinking-place of idle and disorderly persons. I took some pains to ascertain the fact; but could never trace it beyond—the most dubitable authority—general report. It is quite true, that I saw persons there whom I preferred not to sit down with, because their manners and habits were different from my own; yet I not unfrequently took a cup of the old man’s beer among them, and silently watched them, and sometimes talked with them; and, for any thing that I could observe—and I know myself to be a close observer—they were quite as honourable and moral, as persons of more refined language and dress, who frequent respectable coffee-houses. I had been, too, withinside the cottage, which was a place of rude accommodation for no more than its settled occupants. It was on the outside that the poor couple entertained their customers, who usually sat on the turf seat against the foot-path side of the hut, or on an empty barrel or two, or a three-legged milking-stool. On the hedge side of the cottage was a small low lean-to, wherein the old man kept a pig to fatten. At the front end was an enclosure of a few feet of ground, with domestic fowls and their callow broods, which ran about cackling, and routing the earth for their living. In the rear of the cottage was a rod or two of ground banked off, and well planted with potatoes, cabbages, and other garden stuff, where I have often seen the old man fully employed in weeding and cultivating; digging up old, or preparing for new crops, or plashing and mending his little fences. Between his vegetables, and his live stock, and his few customers, he had enough to do; and I never saw him idle. I never saw him sitting down to drink with them; and if he had, there was nothing among them but the small beer. From the early part of the spring to the end of the year just mentioned, I have been past and loitered near the cottage at all hours of the day, from the early dawn, before even the sun, or the inmates had risen, till after they had gone to rest, and the moon was high, and the stars were in their courses. Never in the hours I spent around the place by day or night, did I see or hear any persons or practices that would be termed disorderly by any but the worst judges of human nature and morals—the underbred overpolite, and vulgarly overdressed. There I have seen a brickmaker or two with their wives and daughters sitting and regaling, as much at home, and as sober and innocent, as parties of French ladies and gentlemen at Chedron’s When I before related something of this poor man’s origin, It is scarcely three weeks since the old cottager was in a snug abode of his own handmaking, with a garden that had yielded support to him and his wife through the summer, and roots growing in it for their winter consumption. These have been mercilessly laid waste at the coming-in of the inclement season. Will no one further investigate the facts, and aid him in obtaining “indemnity for the past, and security for the future?” Respecting the rights of the parish of Islington in Hagbush-lane, as the ancient and long disused north road into London, I do not pretend to determine; because, after the warm discussions and strong resolutions of its vestries, sometime ago, respecting a part of this road which had been partially appropriated to private use, the parish may have thoroughly good reasons for acquiescing in the entire stopping up of a carriage thoroughfare, between the back road to Holloway and Islington upper street, which, if now open, would be of great use. Many of the inhabitants, however may not be so easily satisfied as a few that the individual, who has at length wholly enclosed it, and shut it against the public, has any more right to stop up, and take the ground of this highway to himself, than to enclose so much of the road to Holloway through which the mails pass. I have often perambulated Hagbush-lane, as the old London north road, from Old-street across the City-road, the Lower and Upper Islington, and Holloway roads, by the Islington workhouse, on to the Bull ring field; (which is in private hands, no one knows how;) from thence, over the site of the destroyed cottage to the old man’s present hut; then along the meadows; across the Highgate-archway-cut into other meadows, through which it winds back again, and recrosses the archway-cut, and afterwards crosses the London road, between stately elms, towards Hornsey. Perhaps the Commissioners of Crown Lands, or Woods and Forests, may find it convenient and easy to institute an inquiry into the encroachments of Hagbush-lane, as a disused public road; and devise a method of obtaining its worth, in aid of the public service. Meantime, the aggression on the old cottager must not be forgotten. The private wrong he has sustained is in the nature of a public wrong; and it is open to every one to consider of the means by which these repeated breaches of the peace may be prevented, and redress be obtained for the poor man’s injuries. * Garrick Plays. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| B. C. | ||||
| 42. | Julius CÆsar was murdered by Brutus and others in the senate-house. | |||
| A. D. | ||||
| 15. | Augustus CÆsar died a natural death. | |||
| 39. | Tiberius was smothered with pillows, at the instigation of Macro, the friend of Caligula. | |||
| 42. | Caligula was stabbed by Cherea and other conspirators, when retiring from the celebration of the Palatine games. | |||
| 55. | Claudius was poisoned by the artifice of his wife Aggrippina. | |||
| 69. | Nero in the midst of a general revolt was condemned to death by the senate. Upon hearing of which he killed himself with a dagger. | |||
| 69. | Sergius Galba conspired against by Otho, by whose partisans he was beheaded. | |||
| 70. | Otho destroyed himself, to avoid further contest with his competitor Vitellius. | |||
| 70. | Vitellius was massacred by the populace, who threw his dead body into the Tiber. | |||
| 79. | Vespasian died a natural death. | |||
| 81. | Titus. It is suspected that his death was hastened by his brother Domitian. | |||
| 96. | Domitian was murdered by Stephanus and other conspirators. | |||
| 98. | Nerva died a natural death. | |||
| 117. | Trajan ditto. | |||
| 138. | Adrian ditto. | |||
| 161. | Titus Antoninus, called Antoninus Pius, ditto. | |||
| 180. | Marcus Aurelius, called Antoninus the Philosopher, ditto. | |||
| 192. | Commodus was strangled by Narcissus and other conspirators. | |||
| 192. | Pertinax was murdered by the soldiers. | |||
| 195. | Didius Julian was beheaded by the soldiers. | |||
| 211. | Septimus Severus died a natural death. | |||
| 217. | Caracalla and Geta, joint emperors. Geta was killed by his brother Caracalla, who was afterwards killed by Martial. | |||
| 218. | Opillius Macrinus was killed by the partisans of Heliogabalus. | |||
| 222. | Heliogabalus was murdered by the soldiers, who threw his dead body into the Tiber. | |||
| 235. | Alexander was beheaded by the soldiers. | |||
| 238. | Maximin was murdered by his own guards. | |||
| 238. | Maximus and Balbinus, joint emperors, were both murdered by the prÆtorian guards. | |||
| 243. | Gordian was murdered by order of Philip, whom he had associated with him in the command of the empire. | |||
| 248. | Philip was murdered by the soldiers. | |||
| 251. | Decius destroyed himself, after having been defeated by the Goths. | |||
| 253. | Gallus was slain in battle, with his competitor Emilianus. | |||
| 259. | Valerian was taken prisoner by Sapor, king of Persia, who caused him to be cruelly murdered. | |||
| 268. | Galienus was slain by his own soldiers. | |||
| 270. | Claudius died a natural death. | |||
| 275. | Aurelian was murdered by Menesthus and other conspirators. | |||
| 275. | Tacitus died a natural death. | |||
| 282. | Probus was murdered by his soldiers. II-398] | |||
| 284. | Carus and his sons, Carinus and Numerian, joint emperors. The father was struck dead by lightning, and both his sons were murdered. | |||
| 304. | Dioclesian and Maximian, joint emperors. Dioclesian resigned the empire, and died either by poison or madness. Maximian also resigned, but was afterwards condemned to death by Constantine. | |||
| 306. | Constantius and | - | joint emperors, both died a natural death. | |
| 311. | Galerius, | |||
| 343. | Constantine the Great died a natural death. | |||
Where did these events occur? Among the savage tribes of interior Africa, or the rude barbarians of northern Europe? No: but in Rome—imperial Rome—in her “high and palmy state,” when she was mistress of the world, and held within her dominion all the science and literature of which the earth could boast. Surely we may with reason doubt, whether the moral improvement of mankind invariably keeps pace with their intellectual advancement.
O. Z.
ILL-FATED ROYAL FAMILIES.
The Line of Charlemagne.
The successors of Charlemagne in his French dominions, were examples of a melancholy destiny.
His son, Louis le Debonnaire, died for want of food, in consequence of a superstitious panic.
His successor, Charles the Bald, was poisoned by his physician.
The son of Charles, Louis the Stutterer, fell also by poison.
Charles, king of Aquitaine, brother to Louis, was fatally wounded in the head by a lord, named Albuin, whom he was endeavouring, by way of frolic, to terrify, in disguise.
Louis III., successor to Louis the Stutterer, riding through the streets of Tours, pursued the handsome daughter of a citizen named Germond, till the terrified girl took refuge in a house; and the king, thinking more of her charms than of the size of the gateway, attempting to force his horse after her, broke his back, and died.
His successor, Carloman, fell by an ill-directed spear, thrown, by his own servant, at a wild boar.
Charles the Fat perished of want, grief, and poison, all together.
His successor, Charles the Simple, died in prison of penury and despair.
Louis the Stranger, who succeeded him, was bruised to death as he was hunting.
Lotharius and Louis V., the two last kings of the race of Charlemagne, were both poisoned by their wives.
After a revolution of two hundred and thirty years, there remained of the whole line of Charlemagne, only Charles, duke of Lorrain; and he, after ineffectually struggling in defence of his rights against Hugh Capet, sunk beneath the fortune of his antagonist, and ended his life and race in solitary confinement.
The French historians observe, that the epithets given to the princes of the line of Charlemagne, were, almost all, expressive of the contemptuous light in which that family was held by the people over whom it reigned.
The Stuarts.
The royal line of Stuart was as steadily unfortunate as any ever recorded in history. Their misfortunes continued with unabated succession, during three hundred and ninety years.
Robert III. broke his heart, because his eldest son Robert was starved to death, and his youngest, James, was made a captive.
James I., after having beheaded three of his nearest kindred, was assassinated by his own uncle, who was tortured to death for it.
James II. was slain by the bursting of a piece of ordnance.
James III., when flying from the field of battle, was thrown from his horse, and murdered in a cottage, into which he had been carried for assistance.
James IV. fell in Flodden field.
James V. died of grief for the wilful ruin of his army at Solway Moss.
Henry Stuart, lord Darnley, was assassinated, and then blown up in his palace.
Mary Stuart was beheaded in England.
James I. (and VI. of Scotland) died, not without suspicion of being poisoned by lord Buckingham.
Charles I. was beheaded at Whitehall.
Charles II. was exiled for many years; and when he ascended the throne became
II-400] a slave to his pleasures: he lived a sensualist, and died miserably.
James II. abdicated the crown, and died in banishment.
Anne, after a reign, which though glorious, was rendered unhappy by party disputes, died of a broken heart, occasioned by the quarrels of her favoured servants.
The posterity of James II. remain proscribed and exiled.
Original Poetry.
For the Table Book.
TALES OF TINMOUTHE PRIORIE.
No. I.
THE MAIDEN OF THE SEA.
“That any man kan specifye,
****
“And many unkouth notys new,
“Offe swiche folke als lovid trewe.”
John Lidgate.
And loud on the shore the dashing waves sweep,
And merk is the night by land and by sea,
And woe to the stranger that’s out on the lea.
Unscathed stand the towers of the castle
High flare the flames on the hearth-stane so wide,
But woe to the stranger that crosses the tide.
It cannot be open’d for silver or gold—
The foeman is near with his harrying brand,
And brent are the homes of Northumberland.
But a minstral who weareth the peaceful lay;
Wynken de Mowbray the Prior doth know,
Then open the gate, for the north winds blow.
The softest harp in the minstrel throng;
O many a true love tale can he sing,
And touch the heart with his melting string.
And the angry ocean maddens his waves,
Around the hearth-stane we’ll listen to thee,
And beguile the long night with minstralcye.
As its magic steals o’er the raptur’d brain,
And hush’d is the crowd of hearers all,
As thronged they sit in the priory hall.
“Heather-bell on the mountain brow?
“And what is more pure than the sparkling dew
“That kisses that heather-bell so blue?
“Yes! far far sweeter and purer is she,
“The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.
“Than the nightingale’s plaintive song of love?
“And what is more gay than the lark of spring,
“As he carrols lightly on heaven-bent wing?
“O yes, more sweet and more gay is she,
“The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.
“Her step is more light than the forest doe,
“Her dark eyes shine ’neath their silken lash,
“Like the bright but lambent light’ning flash
“Of a summer eve, as noiseless it plays
“’Midst a million stars of yet softer rays.
“Is wafted o’er the swelling wave,
“And it catches the ear, as it steals along,
“Of wondering seamen, while billows lave
“In gentle murmurs his vessel’s prow,
“As he voyages to where the cedars grow.
“With her broad sail furl’d to the mast;
“A pennon brave floats fair and free
“On the breeze, as it whispers past:
“Who is rock’d on the salt, salt tide?
“———He is from a foreign land I ween,
“A stranger of meikle pride.
“Borne far on the eventide breeze,
“Like the eastern perfume that distant floats
“O’er the silver surfac’d seas.
“As it glanc’d o’er the wave so green;
“And mark’d her tresses of raven-dye,
“(More beauteous than golden sheen,)
“Interwoven with sea-flowers of whiten’d hue,
“Such flowers as never in garden grew,
“But pluck’d from the caverns of ocean deep
“By the last stormy waves’ fast rushing sweep,
“And left on the strand as a tribute to thee,
“Thou dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.
“And he lov’d her bright, bright eye;
“And he sued for the love of that maiden gay,
“As she wander’d the ocean nigh.
“And stately was his stride;
II-402]
“His gentlesse show’d him of noble race,
“Tho’ roaming on billows wide:—
“But fair skims the breeze o’er the placid sea,
“And the stranger must hie to a far countrie.
“And the west wind catches its mournful
“The mariners wonder the changed lay,
“As their slothful barks calm lingering stay:
“The songstress’ cheek is wan and pale,
“And her tresses neglected float on the gale;
“The sea flower is thrown on its rocky bed,
“The once gay Eltha’s peace is fled,
“The eye of the Maiden is dark and bright,
“But it rivals no more the diamond’s light.
“For the bark of thy lover in vain,
“And many a storm thou hast shudder’d to see
“Spread its wings o’er the anger’d main:
“—Is he faithless the stranger?—forgetful of thee?
“Thou beauteous Maiden of the Sea.
“Till the lazy breeze bore it on,
“But they pass, and thy weary eyes are glaz’d,
“As they trace the bark just gone:
“None have the pennon, so free and fair,
“As the stranger ship which once tarried there.
“Loud surging waves for ever race,
“A form is bent o’er the fearful height,
“So eager, that a feather’s weight
“Would cast its poised balance o’er,
“And leave a mangled corse on the shore.
“Scans the wide world of waves, as they dance,
“Uprais’d by the sigh of the east wind chill,
“Which wafts to the ear the scream so shrill
“Of the whirling sea mews, as landward they fly,
“—To seamen a mark that the storm is nigh.
“That seems but a floating beam,
“Save that a pennon fair and free
“Waves in the sun’s bright gleam?
“Its pennon far spread on the moaning gale,
“A foamy track at its angry keel,
“And the billows around it maddening reel;
“The white fring’d surges dash over its prow
“As its masts to the pressing canvass bow—
“The breeze rolls o’er the watery waste,
“And louder is heard the deaf’ning roar
“Of the waves dashing fierce on the trembling shore,
“Ten thousand eddying billows recede,
“And return again with an arrow’s speed,
“Till the flaky foam on the wind is spread,
“Far, far above their ocean bed,
“And boom o’er the cliff where Eltha’s form
“Is seen to await the deadly storm.
“Thou bark from a stranger land,
“No daring northern pilot would meet
“A storm like this near the strand;
“No kindly haven of shelter is here,
“Then whilst thou may,—to seaward steer;
“But thou com’st, with a wide and flowing sail,
“To a rock bound coast in an eastern gale,
“Thou wilt see the danger around thee at last,
“When the hour of safety for ever is past;
“And around thee gathers the evening shade,
“Thy last sun has set in a red, red sky,
“Thy last Vesper hymn is the fearful cry
“Of the ominous sea bird shrieking on high.
“The night and the storm have hidden from view
“The fated ship and her gallant crew,
“And the last sight seen on the foamy sea
“Was a pennon broad streaming fair and free.
********
“The morrow is come and the storm is o’er,
“And the billows more slowly dash,
“But shatter’d timbers are spread on the shore
“Beyond the ebb-waves’ wash:
“Still are the hearts of the gallant band
“Which erst did beat so true;
“They’ll never more see their fatherland,
“Where their playful childhood grew.
“Enwrapp’d in a shroud of sea-weed green,
“A noble corse, whose marble brow
“Is cluster’d with locks of auburn hue;
“And even in death, his manly form
“Seems to mock the rage of the northern storm.
“In his hand is clasp’d a jewel rare
“Enshrining a lock of black, black hair:
“And on his cold breast, near his heart, is display’d
“A golden gift of the dark-ey’d maid.
“And she wildly looks o’er the ocean-bed
“With sunken glance and a pale, pale cheek,
“And her once bounding step is slow and weak;
“On the wave she launches the blue sea-shell
“Which swims for a moment then sinks in the swell
“And wilder’d she bends o’er the chrystal billow
“As it eddying whirls to its coral pillow:
“She fancys a faËry bark is sped
“To bring her cold love from the land of the dead;
“But no tears on her sunken eye-lids quiver,
“Her reason is fled for ever!—for ever!—”
But awaken’d the broken notes once again,
like the throb of the heart strings when dying they sever,
They stop—thrill—stop—and are silent for ever.
Alpha.
September, 1827.
II-404]
For the Table Book.
MY POCKET-BOOK.
I crave good Mr. Du B——’s pardon for my “flat burglary” with regard to the title of the present little paper. It is very far from my intention to endeavour in any way to place myself in competition with that great satirical genius, of whose very superior talents and brilliant wit I am pleased to be thus afforded an opportunity of avowing myself an ardent admirer: but as this title suits my purpose, I must entreat his permission to appropriate it, and merely remind him of the poet Puff’s excuse on a somewhat similar occasion—“All that can be said is—that two people happened to hit upon the same thought, (title,) and Shakspeare (Du B——) made use of it first, that is all.”
Pocket-books (as implied by their name) were originally intended as portable receptacles for our different memoranda, remarks and communications. But now it is no longer honoured by an immediate attendance on our person; its station at present is confined to the bureau, desk, or private drawer. What man who can boast of being d’un assez bon air would consent to injure his exquisite adonisation of coat, by wearing a pocket-book in his side-breast pocket, and thus ungratefully frustrate all poor Mr. Stultz’s efforts at an exact and perfect fit. The ladies, for some reason, concerning which I do not so much as venture even a surmise, (for Heaven forefend that I should attempt to dive into these sacred mysteries, or, as “Uncle Selby” would call them, femalities,) have entirely given up the use of pockets, therefore I would advise that memorandum-books destined for the use of the fair sex should in future be styled—reticule-books.
Old pocket-books are like some old ladies’ chests of drawers—delightful things to rummage and recur to. Looking over an old pocket-book is like revisiting scenes of past happiness after a lapse of years. Recollections and associations of both a painful and pleasurable nature are vividly recalled, or forcibly present themselves to our mind. Treasured letters, private remarks, favourite quotations, dates of days spent in peculiar enjoyment, all these meet our eye, and rise up like the shadows of those past realities connected with them, whose memory they are intended to perpetuate to us.
——Pocket-books are indexes to their owner’s mind—were it an allowable action to inspect another’s pocket-book, we might form a tolerably shrewd guess at the character and disposition of its possessor. On picking up a lost pocket-book by chance in the streets, one can be at no loss to divine the quality of its former proprietor. A large rusty black leather pocket-book, looking more like a portmanteau than a memorandum book, stuffed with papers half printed, half written, blank stamp receipts, churchwarden’s orders and directions, long lists of parishioners, with a small ink-horn in one corner—denotes the property of a tax-gatherer. The servant-maid’s is an old greasy red morocco one—in the blank leaf is written in straggling characters reaching from the top of one side to the bottom of the other—
God give her grace therein to look.
In the part designated “cash account” are various items, for the most part concerning tea, sugar, and ribbon. Among the memoranda are the following:—“Spent last Easter Monday was a twel’month with Tom Hadley, at Greenwich—in great hopes I shall get leave to go again this year. My next wages comes due 4th August, 18—. Jane Thompson says she pays only 4s. for the best sowtchong tea; and I pay 4s. 6d.—to speak to Mr. Ilford the grocer about it.”—The pockets are crammed full of songs and ballads, of which her favourites are “Black eyed Susan,” “Auld Robin Gray,” and “Lord William and Fair Margaret.” Perhaps a letter from Tom Hadley, an old silver coin, his gift, and a lucky penny with a hole in it.—The young lady’s is elegantly bound in red and gilt. In the blank leaf is written in a little niminy piminy hand-writing—“To my sweet friend Ellen Woodmere, from her affectionate Maria Tillotson.” Quotations from Pope, Young, Thomson, Lord Byron, and Tom Moore, occupy the blank pages—“Memoranda. June 16th saw Mrs. Siddons riding in her chariot in Hyde Park. Mem. Wonder why pa’ won’t let me read dear lord Byron’s new work the ‘Don Juan’—there must be something odd in it. Mem. To remember and ask Maria what she paid a yard for that beautiful lace round her collar. Mem. What a horrid wretch that Robespierre must have been! I’m glad he was killed himself at last. Mem. To tell pa’ that it is quite impossible for me to go to the ball next Tuesday without a new lutstring dress. Mem. How I wish I had been Joan of Arc!—But I would not have put on the men’s clothes again in prison—I
II-406] wonder why she did so—How silly!”—In the pockets are some of her dear Maria’s letters—a loose leaf torn out of sir Charles Grandison describing Miss Harriet Byron’s dress at the masquerade—and several copies of verses and sonnets, the productions of some of her former schoolfellows.
The old bachelor’s pocket-book is of russia leather, glossy with use, yet still retaining its grateful and long-enduring odour. The memoranda chiefly consist of the dates of those days on which he had seen or spoken to remarkable or celebrated people. Opposite the prognostics concerning weather, which he has since found incorrect, are to be seen the words: “No such thing”—“Pshaw, the fellow talks about what he does not understand”—“Absurd folly,” &c.—In the pockets are sundry square scraps of paper cut out at different periods from old newspapers—a copy of “The Means to be used for the recovery of persons apparently drowned”—a watch-paper cut out for him by his little grand-niece—and, (wrapped up in several folds of silver paper,) a long ringlet of auburn hair with its wavy drop, and springy relapse as you hold it at full-length between your finger and thumb. Among the leaves is a small sprig of jasmin which she had worn in her bosom a whole evening at a party, and which he had gently possessed himself of, on taking leave of her for the night.——
M. H.
WOMEN.
That venerable people—who were the ancients to those whom we call the ancients—the wise Egyptians, in the disposition which they allotted to the genders of their nouns, paid a singular and delicate compliment to the fair sex. In the four elements, beginning with water, they appointed the ocean, as a rough boisterous existence, to the male sex; but streams and fountains they left to the more gentle females. As to earth, they made rocks and stones male; but arable and meadow lands female. Air they divided thus: to the masculine gender, rough winds and hurricanes of every kind; to the female, the sky and the zephyrs. Fire, when of a consuming nature, they made male, but artificial and harmless flames they rendered feminine.
Discoveries
OF THE
ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.
No. IX.
To the Reader.
In the present volume has been commenced, and will be concluded, a series of Articles under this title, which to some readers may not have been sufficiently attractive. It is therefore now re-stated, that they present very curious particulars concerning the extent to which the ancients were acquainted with several popular systems and theories, usually supposed to have originated in modern times.
Sir Isaac Newton’s Theory of Colours appears, by the succeeding paper, to have been imagined above two thousand years ago. The History of Ancient Philosophy is pregnant with similar instances of discrimination. It is hoped that this may justify the present attempt to familiarize the reader with the knowledge of the Ancients in various branches of Natural Philosophy, and the Elements of the Human Mind. Succeeding papers will be found to relate to their acquaintance with the Motion of the Earth—the Antipodes—Planetary Revolutions—Comets—the Moon—Air—Air-guns—Thunder—Earthquakes—the Magnet—the Tides—the Circulation of the Blood—Chirurgery—Chemistry—Malleability of Glass—Painting on Glass—Gunpowder—the Sexes of Plants—the Pendulum—Light—Perspective—the Quadrature of the Circle—Burning Glasses—the Precession of the Equinoxes—Mechanics—Architecture—Sculpture—Painting—Music, &c.
Sir Isaac Newton’s Theory of Colours indicated by Pythagoras and Plato.
That wonderful theory, whereby is investigated and distinguished from one another the variety of colours that constitute the uniform appearance, called light, establishes the glory of sir Isaac Newton, and is an eternal monument of his extraordinary sagacity. Its discovery was reserved for an age when philosophy had arrived at its fullest maturity; and yet it is to be found in the writings of some of the most eminent men of ancient times.
Pythagoras, and his disciples after him, entertained sufficiently just conceptions of the formation of colours. They taught that “they resulted solely from the different modification of reflected light;” or, as a modern author, in explaining the sentiments of the Pythagoreans, expresses it,
II-408] “light reflecting itself with more or less vivacity, forms by that means our different sensations of colour.” The same philosophers, “in assigning the reason of the difference of colours, ascribe it to a mixture of the elements of light; and divesting the atoms, or small particles of light, of all manner of colour, impute every sensation of that kind to the motions excited in our organs of sight.”
The disciples of Plato contributed not a little to the advancement of optics, by the important discovery they made, that light emits itself in straight lines, and that the angle of incidence is always equal to the angle of reflection.
Plato terms colours “the effect of light transmitted from bodies, the small particles of which were adapted to the organ of sight.” This seems precisely what sir Isaac Newton teaches in his “Optics,” viz. that “the different sensations of each particular colour are excited in us by the difference of size in those small particles of light which form the several rays; those small particles occasioning different images of colour, as the vibration is more or less lively, with which they strike our sense.” But the ancient philosopher went further. He entered into a detail of the composition of colours; and inquired into “the visible effects that must arise from a mixture of the different rays of which light itself is composed.” He advances, however, that “it is not in the power of man exactly to determine what the proportion of this mixture should be in certain colours.” This sufficiently shows, that he had an idea of this theory, though he judged it almost impossible to unfold it. He says, that “should any one arrive at the knowledge of this proportion, he ought not to hazard the discovery of it, since it would be impossible to demonstrate it by clear and convincing proofs:” and yet he thought “certain rules might be laid down respecting this subject, if in following and imitating nature we could arrive at the art of forming a diversity of colours, by the combined intermixture of others.”
It is to be remarked, that Plato adds what may be regarded as constituting the noblest tribute that can be offered in praise of sir Isaac Newton; “Yea, should ever any one,” exclaims that fine genius of antiquity, “attempt by curious research to account for this admirable mechanism, he will, in doing so, but manifest how entirely ignorant he is of the difference between divine and human power. It is true, that God can intermingle those things one with another, and then sever them at his pleasure, because he is, at the same time, all-knowing and all-powerful; but there is no man now exists, nor ever will perhaps, who shall ever be able to accomplish things so very difficult.”
What an eulogium is this from the pen of Plato! How glorious is he who has successfully accomplished what appeared impracticable to the prince of ancient philosophers! Yet what elevation of genius, what piercing penetration into the most intimate secrets of nature, displays itself in these passages concerning the nature and theory of colours, at a time when Greek philosophy was in its infancy!
Light—Aristotle and Descartes.
Although the system of Descartes, respecting the propagation of light in an instant, has been discarded since Cassini discovered that its motion is progressive; yet it may not be amiss to show from whence he obtained the idea. His opinion was, that light is the mere action of a subtile matter upon the organs of sight. This subtile matter he supposes to fill all that space which lies between the sun and us; and that the particle of it, which is next to the sun, receiving thence an impulse, instantaneously communicates it to all the rest, between the sun and the organ of sight. To evidence this, Descartes introduces the comparison of a stick; which, by reason of the continuity of its parts, cannot in any degree be moved lengthways at one end, without instantaneously being put into the same degree of motion at the other end. Whoever will be at the pains to read, attentively, what Aristotle hath written concerning light, will perceive that he defines it to be the action of a subtile, pure, and homogeneous matter. Philoponus, explaining the manner in which this action was performed, makes use of the instance of a long string, which being pulled at one end, will instantaneously be moved at the other: he resembles the sun, to the man who quills the string; the subtile matter, to the string itself; and the instantaneous action of the one, to the movement of the other. Simplicius, in his commentary upon this passage of Aristotle, expressly employs the motion of a stick, to intimate how light, acted upon by the sun, may instantaneously impress the organs of sight. This comparison of a stick seems to have been made use of first, by Chrysippus—lastly, by Descartes.
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Durhamiana.
For the Table Book.
WILLEY WALKER AND JOHN BOLTON.
Willey Walker, a well-known Durham character, who has discovered a new solar system different from all others, is a beadsman of the cathedral; or, as the impudent boys call a person of his rank, from the dress he wears, “a blue mouse.” It is Willey’s business to toll the curfew: but to our story. In Durham there are two clocks, which, if I may so express myself, are both official ones; viz. the cathedral clock, and the gaol or county clock. The admirers of each are about equal: some of the inhabitants regulating their movements by one, and some by the other. Three or four years ago it happened, during the middle of the winter, that the two clocks varied considerably; there was only three quarters of an hour’s difference between them. The citizens cared very little about this slight discrepancy, but it was not at all relished by the guard of the London and Edinburgh mail, who spoke on the subject to the late John Bolton, the regulator of the county clock. John immediately posted off to the cathedral, where he met Willey Walker, and the following dialogue is said to have passed between them.
Bolton. Willey, why doa’nt ye keep t’ abba clock reet—there’s a bit difference between it and mine?
Willey. Why doa’nt ye keep yours so—it never gans reet?
Bolton. Mine’s set by the sun, Willey! (Bolton was an astronomer.)
Willey. By the sun! Whew! whew! whew! Why, are ye turned fule? Nebody would think ye out else! and ye pretend to be an astronomer, and set clocks by ’t’ sun in this windy weather!—ther’s ne depending on it: the winds, man, blaw sa, they whisk the sun about like a whirligig!
Bolton, petrified by the outpouring of Willey’s astronomical knowledge, made no answer.
Bolton was a very eccentric character, and a great natural genius: from a very obscure origin he rose to considerable provincial celebrity. Such was his contempt of London artists, that he described himself on his sign as being “from Chester-le-Street, not London.” He was an indefatigable collector of curiosities; and had a valuable museum, which most strangers visited. His advertisements were curious compositions, often in doggerel verse. He was a good astronomer and a believer in astrology. He is interred in Elvet church-yard: a plain stone marks the place, with the following elegant inscription from the classic pen of veterinary doctor Marshall. I give it as pointed.
Bolton built some excellent organs and turret clocks. For one of the latter, which he made for North Shields, he used to say, he was not paid: and the following notice in his shop, in large characters, informed his customers of the fact—“North Shields clock never paid for!”
R. I. P. Preb. Butt.
A SENSUALIST AND HIS CONSCIENCE.
The following lines, written in the year 1609, are said, in the “Notes of a Bookworm,” to have induced Butler to pursue their manner in his “Hudibras.”
Dialogue.
Echo. Fie!
Gl. Who curbs his appetite’s a fool.
Echo. Ah! fool!
Gl. I do not like this abstinence.
Echo. Hence!
Gl. My joy’s a feast, my wish is wine.
Echo. Swine.
Gl. We epicures are happy truly.
Echo. You lie.
Gl. May I not, Echo, eat my fill?
Echo. Ill.
Gl. Will it hurt me if I drink too much?
Echo. Much.
Gl. Thou mock’st me, nymph, I’ll not believe it.
Echo. Believe it.
Gl. Do’st thou condemn, then, what I do?
Echo. I do.
Gl. Is it that which brings infirmities?
Echo. It is.
Gl. Then, sweetest Temperance, I’ll love thee.
Echo. I love thee.
Gl. If all be true which thou dost tell.
To gluttony I bid farewell.
Echo. Farewell!
II-412]
PLAYWRIGHT-ING.
To the Editor.
Sir,—The following short matter-of-fact narrative, if inserted in your widely circulated miscellany, may in some degree tend to lessen the number of dramatic aspirants, and afford a little amusement to your readers.
I was, at the age of sixteen, apprenticed to a surgeon, and had served but two years of my apprenticeship, when I began to conceive that I had talents for something superior to the profession I had embraced. I imagined that literature was my forte; and accordingly I tried my skill in the composition of a tale, wherein I was so far successful, as to obtain its insertion in a “periodical” of the day. This was succeeded by others; some of which were rejected, and some inserted. In a short time, however, I perceived that I had gained but little fame, and certainly no profit. I therefore determined to attempt dramatic writing, by which I imagined that I should acquire both fame and fortune. Accordingly, after much trouble, I concocted a plot, and in three months completed a farce! I submitted it to my friends, all of whom declared it to be “an excellent thing;” and that if merit met with its due reward, my piece would certainly be brought out. Flattered and encouraged by their good opinion, I offered it, with confidence of success, to the proprietors of Drury-lane theatre. In the space of a week, however, my piece was returned, with a polite note, informing me, that it was “not in any way calculated for representation at that theatre.” I concluded that it could not have been read; and having consoled myself with that idea, I transmitted it to the rival theatre. One morning, after the lapse of a few days, my hopes were clouded by a neat parcel, which I found to contain my manuscript, with the same polite but cutting refusal, added to which was an assurance, “that it had been read most attentively.” I inwardly execrated the Covent Garden “reader” for a fool, and determined to persevere. At the suggestion of my friends I made numerous alterations, and submitted my farce to the manager of the Haymarket theatre, relying upon his liberality; but, after the usual delay of a week, it was again returned. At the Lyceum it also met with a similar fate. I was much hurt by these rejections, yet determined to persevere. The minor theatres remained for me, and I applied to the manager of one of these establishments, who, in the course of time, assured me, that my piece should certainly be produced. I was delighted at the brilliant prospects which seemed to open to me, and I fancied that I was fast approaching the summit of my ambition. Three tedious months ensued before I was summoned to attend the rehearsal; but I was then much pleased at the pains the actors appeared to have taken in acquiring their parts. The wished-for night arrived. I never dreamed of failure; and I invited a few of my select friends to witness its first representation—it was the last: for, notwithstanding the exertions of the performers, and the applause of my worthy friends, so unanimous was the hostility of the audience, that my piece was damned!—damned, too, at a minor theatre! I attributed its failure entirely to the depraved taste of the audience. I was disgusted; and resolved, from that time, never more to waste my talents in endeavouring to amuse an unappreciating and ungrateful public. I have been firm to that resolution. I relinquished the making up of plays for the more profitable occupation of making up prescriptions, and am now living in comfort upon the produce of my profession.
Auctor.
EPIGRAM.
A few years ago a sign of one of the Durham inns was removed, and sent to Chester-le-Street, by way of a frolic. It was generally supposed that the feat was achieved by some of the legal students then in that city; and a respectable attorney there was so fully persuaded of it, that he immediately began to make inquiries corroborative of his suspicions. The circumstances drew forth the following epigram from our friend T. Q. M., which has never appeared in print.
And sent by some wags to a neighbouring town.
To a limb of the law the freak caus’d much vexation,
And he went through the streets making wild lamentation;
And breathing revenge on the frolicsome sparks,
Who, he had not a doubt, were the “gentlemen clerks.”
From the prophets methinks we may inference draw
To prove how perverse was this man of the law.
For we find it inscrib’d in the pages divine—
“A perverse generation looks after a sign!”
II-414]
THE ROMANS.
The whole early part of the Roman history is very problematical. It is hardly possible to suppose the Romans could have made so conspicuous a figure in Italy, and not be noticed by Herodotus, who finished his history in Magna GrÆcia. Neither is Rome mentioned by Aristotle, though he particularly describes the government of Carthage. Livy, a writer by no means void of national prejudice, expressly says, they had never heard of Alexander; and here we surely may say in the words of the poet,
Pliny, it is true, quotes a passage of Theophrastus, to show that a certain Greek writer, named Clitarchus, mentions an embassy from the Romans to Alexander; but this can never be set against the authority of Livy, especially as Quintilian gives no very favourable opinion of the veracity of the Greek historian in these words,—“Clitarchi, probatur ingenium, fides infamatur.”
A LITERARY BLUNDER.
When the Utopia of sir Thomas More was first published, it occasioned a pleasant mistake. This political romance represents a perfect, but visionary republic, in an island supposed to have been newly discovered in America. As this was the age of discovery, (says Granger,) the learned BudÆus, and others, took it for a genuine history; and considered it as highly expedient, that missionaries should be sent thither, in order to convert so wise a nation to Christianity.
TREASURE DIGGING.
A patent passed the great seal in the fifteenth year of James I., which is to be found in Rymer, “to allow to Mary Middlemore, one of the maydes of honor to our deerest consort queen Anne, (of Denmark,) and her deputies, power and authority, to enter into the abbies of Saint Albans, Glassenbury, Saint Edmundsbury, and Ramsay, and into all lands, houses, and places, within a mile, belonging to said abbies;” there to dig, and search after treasure, supposed to be hidden in such places.
PERSONAL CHARMS DISCLAIMED.
By a Lady.
If any human being was free from personal vanity it must have been the second duchess d’Orleans, Charlotte Elizabeth of Bavaria. In one of her letters, (dated 9th August, 1718,) she says, “I must certainly be monstrously ugly. I never had a good feature. My eyes are small, my nose short and thick, my lips broad and thin. These are not materials to form a beautiful face. Then I have flabby, lank cheeks, and long features, which suit ill with my low stature. My waist and my legs are equally clumsy. Undoubtedly I must appear to be an odious little wretch; and had I not a tolerably good character, no creature could enduer me. I am sure a person must be a conjuror to judge by my eyes that I have a grain of wit.”
FORCIBLE ABDUCTION.
The following singular circumstance is related by Dr. Whitaker in his History of Craven:—
Gilbert Plumpton, in the 21 of Henry II., committed something like an Irish marriage with the heiress of Richard Warelwas, and thereby incurred the displeasure of Ranulph de Glanville, great justiciary, who meant to have married her to a dependant of his own. Plumpton was in consequence indicted and convicted of a rape at Worcester; but at the very moment when the rope was fixed, and the executioner was drawing the culprit up to the gallows, Baldwin, bishop of Worcester, running to the place, forbade the officer of justice, in the name of the Almighty, to proceed: and thus saved the criminal’s life.
POLITENESS.
A polite behaviour can never be long maintained without a real wish to please; and such a wish is a proof of good-nature. No ill-natured man can be long well-bred. No good-natured man, however unpolished in his manners, can ever be essentially ill-bred. From an absurd prejudice with regard to good-nature, some people affect to substitute good temper for it; but no qualities can be more distinct: many good-tempered people, as well as many fools, are very ill-natured; and many men of first-rate genius—with which perhaps entire good temper is incompatible—are perfectly good-natured.
II-416]
A FRENCH TRIBUTE TO ENGLISH INTEGRITY.
The Viscount de Chateaubriand gratefully memorializes his respect for the virtue of a distressed family in London by the following touching narrative prefixed to his Indian tale, entitled “The Natchez:”—
When I quitted England in 1800 to return to France, under a fictitious name, I durst not encumber myself with too much baggage. I left, therefore, most of my manuscripts in London. Among these manuscripts was that of The Natchez, no other part of which I brought to Paris but RenÉ, Atala, and some passages descriptive of America.
Fourteen years elapsed before the communication with Great Britain was renewed. At the first moment of the Restoration I scarcely thought of my papers; and if I had, how was I to find them again? They had been left locked up in a trunk with an Englishwoman, in whose house I had lodged in London. I had forgotten the name of this woman; the name of the street and the number of the house had likewise escaped my memory.
In consequence of some vague and even contradictory information which I transmitted to London, Messrs. de Thuisy took the trouble to make inquiries, which they prosecuted with a zeal and perseverance rarely equalled. With infinite pains they at length discovered the house where I resided at the west end of the town; but my landlady had been dead several years, and no one knew what had become of her children. Pursuing, however, the clue which they had obtained, Messrs. de Thuisy, after many fruitless excursions, at last found out her family in a village several miles from London.
Had they kept all this time the trunk of an emigrant, a trunk full of old papers, which could scarcely be deciphered? Might they not have consigned to the flames such a useless heap of French manuscripts? On the other hand, if my name, bursting from its obscurity, had attracted, in the London journals, the notice of the children of my former landlady, might they not have been disposed to make what profit they could of those papers, which would then acquire a certain value?
Nothing of the kind had happened. The manuscripts had been preserved, the trunk had not even been opened. A religious fidelity had been shown by an unfortunate family towards a child of misfortune. I had committed with simplicity the result of the labours of part of my life to the honesty of a foreign trustee, and my treasure was restored to me with the same simplicity. I know not that I ever met with any thing in my life which touched me more than the honesty and integrity of this poor English family.
DEVONSHIRE WRESTLING.
For the Table Book.
Abraham Cann, the Devonshire champion, and his brother wrestlers of that county, are objected to for their play with the foot, called “showing a toe” in Devonshire; or, to speak plainly, “kicking.” Perhaps neither the objectors, nor Abraham and his fellow-countrymen, are aware, that the Devonshire custom was also the custom of the Greeks, in the same sport, three thousand years ago. The English reader may derive proof of this from Pope’s translation of Homer’s account of the wrestling match at the funeral of Patroclus, between Ulysses and Ajax, for prizes offered by Achilles:—
When tower-like Ajax and Ulysses rose.
Amid the ring each nervous rival stands,
Embracing rigid, with implicit hands:
Close lock’d above, their heads and arms are mixt;
Below, their planted feet, at distance fixt.
Now to the grasp each manly body bends;
The humid sweat from every pore descends;
Their bones resound with blows; sides, shoulders, thighs
Swell to each gripe, and bloody tumours rise.
Nor could Ulysses, for his art renown’d,
O’erturn the strength of Ajax on the ground;
Nor could the strength of Ajax overthrow
The watchful caution of his artful foe.
Thus to Ulysses spoke great Telamon:
Or let me lift thee, chief, or lift thou me;
Prove we our force, and Jove the rest decree:
He said, and straining, heav’d him off the ground
With matchless strength; that time Ulysses found
The strength t’evade, and, where the nerves combine,
His ancle struck: the giant fell supine;
Ulysses following, on his bosom lies;
Shouts of applause run rattling through the skies.
Ajax to lift, Ulysses next essays;
He barely stirr’d him but he could not raise:
His knee lock’d fast, the foe’s attempt deny’d,
And grappling close, they tumble side by side.
Here we find not only “the lock,” but that Ulysses, who is described as renowned for his art, attains to the power of throwing his antagonist by the device of Abraham Cann’s favourite kick near the ancle.
I. V.
II-418]
