Chapter M: Blackmore (2)

Sometimes, and particularly if there happens to be a few old disbanded sergeants among them, the whole “gathering” marches very uniformly in pairs; and there is always a strict regulation in the support of the bride, and the place of the bridegroom and his party. The escort of the former takes precedency in the procession, and the head of the column is generally formed of the most active and best armed of her friends, led by their pipes. Immediately after this advanced guard, come the bride and the females of her party, accompanied by their fathers, brothers, and other friends. The bride is supported on one side by a bridesman, and on the other by a bridesmaid; her arms are linked in theirs, and from the right and left hand of the supporters is held a white scarf or handkerchief, which depends in a festoon across the figure of the bride. The privilege of supporting the bride is indispensably confined to the bridesman and bridesmaid, and it would be an unacceptable piece of politeness for any other persons, however high their rank, to offer to supply their place. The bridegroom and his party, with their piper, form the rear of the procession and the whole is closed by two young girls who walk last at the array, bearing in a festoon between them a white scarf, similar to that held before the bride. During the march the pipes generally play the old Scots air, “Fye, lets a’ to the Bridal,” and the parties of the bride and bridegroom endeavour to emulate each other in the discharge of their fire-arms. In this order the bridal company reaches the church, and each pipe as it passes the gate of the surrounding cemetry becomes silent. In the old time the pipers played round the outside of the clachan during the performance of the service, but of later years this custom has been discontinued. The ritual of the marriage is very simple: a prayer for the happiness and guidance of the young couple who are about to enter upon the troubled tide of life; a short exhortation upon the duties of the station which they are to undertake, and a benediction by the imposition of the hands of the minister, is all the ceremonial of the union, and announces to them that they are “no longer two, but one flesh.”

In the short days of winter, and when the bridegroom has to come from a distance, it is very frequent that the ceremony is not performed until night. The different circumstances of the occasion are then doubly picturesque and affecting: while the cavalcade is yet at a distance, the plaintive pealing of the pipes approaching upon the stillness of the night, the fire-arms flashing upon the darkness, and their reports redoubled by the solitary echoes of the mountains, and when, at length, the train draws near, the mingled tread of hasty feet, the full clamour of the pipes, the mixed and confused visionry of the white figures of the girls, and the dark shadows of the men, with here and there the waving of a plaid and the glinting of a dirk, must be striking to a stranger, but wake inexpressible emotions in the bosom of a Gaël, who loves the people and the customs of his land.

The scene is still more impressive at the clachan. I have yet before me the groups of the last wedding at which I was present in the highlands. The church was dimly lighted for the occasion; beneath the pulpit stood the minister, upon whose head eighty-five winters had left their trace: his thinned hair, bleached like the “cana,” hung in ringlets on his neck; and the light falling feebly from above, shed a silvery gleam across his lofty forehead and pale features, as he lifted his look towards heaven, and stretched his hands above the betrothed pair who stood before him. The bridegroom, a hardy young highlander, the fox-hunter of the district, was dressed in the full ’a tans; and the bride, the daughter of a neighbouring shepherd, was simply attired in white, with a bunch of white roses in her hair. The dark cheek and keen eye of the hunter deepened its hue and its light as he held the hand which had been placed in his, while the downcast face of the bride scarcely showed distinctly more than her fair forehead and temples, and seemed, as the light shone obliquely upon them, almost as pale as the roses which she wore; her slim form bent upon the supporting arm of the bridesmaid--the white frill about her neck throbbing with a light and quick vibration.

After the ceremony of the marriage is concluded, it is the privilege of the bridesman to salute the bride. As the party leave the church, the pipes again strike up, and the whole company adjourns to the next inn, or to the house of some relation of the bride’s; for it is considered “_unlucky_” for her own to be the first which she enters. Before she crosses the threshold, an oaten cake is broken over her head by the bridesman and bridesmaid, and distributed to the company, and a glass of whiskey passes round. The whole party then enter the house, and two or three friends of the bridegroom, who act as masters of the ceremonies, pass through the room with a bottle of whiskey, and pour out to each individual a glass to the health of the bride, the bridegroom, and their clans. Dancing then commences to the music of the pipes, and the new-married couple lead off the first reel. It is a customary compliment for the person of highest rank in the room to accompany her in the next. During the dancing the whiskey-bottle makes a revolution at intervals; and after the reels and strathspeys have been kept up for some time, the company retires to supper. The fare of the supper differs little from that of the dinner; and the rotation of the whiskey-bottle is as regular as the sun which it follows.

[At highland festivals the bottle is always circulated sun-ways, an observance which had its rise in the Druidical “deas’oil,” and once regulated almost every action of the Celts.]

When the supper is announced, each man leads his partner or some female friend to the table, and seating himself at her side, takes upon himself her particular charge during the meal; and upon such occasions, as the means of the bride and bridegroom do not permit them to bear the expenses of the supper, he is expected to pay her share of the reckoning as well as his own. After supper the dancing again commences, and is occasionally inspired by the before-noticed circumvolutions of the “Uisga na Baidh.” The bride and bridegroom, and such as choose repose rather than merriment, retire to take a couple of hours’ rest before dawn; but the majority keep up the dancing till day. Towards morning many of the company begin to disperse; and when it is well light, breakfast is given to all who remain. Tea, multitudes of eggs, cold meat, a profusion of oat cakes, barley “scones,” and sometimes _wheat bread_, brought, perhaps, a distance of thirty miles, constitute the good cheer of this meal. When it is concluded, the bride takes leave of the majority of her friends, and accompanied only by her particular intimates and relations, sets off with the bridegroom and his party for her future residence. She is accompanied by her neighbours to the march of her father, or the tacksman under whom he lives, and at the burn-side (for such is generally the boundary) they dance a parting reel: when it is concluded, the bride kisses her friends, they return to their dwellings, and she departs for her new home. When, however, the circumstances of the bridegroom will permit, all those who were present at the house of the bride, are generally invited to accompany her on her way, and a renewal of the preceding festivities takes place at the dwelling of the bridegroom.

Upon these occasions it is incredible the fatigue which the youngest girls will undergo: of this one instance will give a sufficient proof. At a wedding which happened at Cladich by Loch Awe side, there were present as bridesmaids, two girls, not above fourteen years of age, who had walked to the bridal from Inbherara, a distance of nine miles. They attended the bride to the clachan of Inishail, and back to her father’s house, which is four miles farther. During the night none were more blithe in the dance, and in the morning after breakfast they accompanied the rest of the party to the house of the bridegroom at Tighndrum; the distance of this place is eighteen miles: and thus, when they had finished their journey, the two young bridesmaids had walked, without rest, and under the fatigue of dancing, a distance of thirty-one miles.

Such is the general outline of a highland wedding. In some districts, a few other of the ancient customs are yet retained: the throwing of the stocking is sometimes practised; but the blessing of the bridal couch disappeared with the religion of the popes.[79]

* * * * *

FLINGING THE STOCKING.

Mr. Brand collects a variety of particulars respecting this wedding custom.

A curious little book, entitled “The West-country Clothier undone by a Peacock,” says, “The sack-posset must be eaten and the stocking flung, to see who can first hit the bridegroom _on the nose_.” Misson, a traveller in England at the beginning of the last century, relates, concerning this usage, that the young men took the bride’s stocking, and the girls those of the bridegroom; each of whom, sitting at the foot of the bed, threw the stocking over their heads, endeavouring to make it fall upon that of the bride, or her spouse: if the bridegroom’s stockings, thrown by the girls, fell upon the bridegroom’s head, it was a sign that they themselves would soon be married: and a similar prognostic was taken from the falling of the bride’s stocking, thrown by the young men. The usage is related to the same effect in a work entitled “Hymen,” &c. (8vo. 1760.) “The men take the bride’s stockings, and the women those of the bridegroom: they then seat themselves at the bed’s feet, and throw the stockings over their heads, and whenever any one hits the owner of them, it is looked upon as an omen that the person will be married in a short time: and though this ceremony is looked upon as mere play and foolery, new marriages are often occasioned by such accidents. Meantime the posset is got ready and given to the married couple. When they awake in the morning, a sack-posset is also given them.” A century before this, in a “A Sing-Song on Clarinda’s Wedding,” in R. Fletcher’s “Translations and Poems, 1656,” is the following stanza:--

“This clutter ore, Clarinda lay
Half-bedded, like the peeping day
Behind Olimpus’ cap;
Whiles at her head each twitt’ring girle
The fatal stocking quick did whirle
To know the lucky hap.”

And the “Progress of Matrimony,” in “The Palace Miscellany,” 1733, says,

“Then come all the younger folk in,
With ceremony throw the stocking;
Backward, o’er head, in turn they toss’d it,
Till in sack-posset they had lost it.
Th’ intent of flinging thus the hose,
Is to hit him or her _o’ th’ nose_:
Who hits the mark, thus, o’er left shoulder
Must married be, ere twelve months older.”

This adventuring against the most prominent feature of the face is further mentioned in “The Country Wedding,” a poem, in the Gentleman’s Magazine, for March 1735, vol. v. p. 158.

“Bid the lasses and lads to the merry brown bowl,
While rashers of bacon shall smoke on the coal:
Then Roger and Bridget, and Robin and Nan,
_Hit ’em each on the nose, with the hose if you can_.”

Dunton’s “British Apollo,” 1708, contains a question and answer concerning this old usage.

“_Q._ Apollo, say, whence ’tis I pray,
The ancient custom came,
Stockings to throw (I’m sure you know)
At bridegroom and his dame?

“_A._ When Britons bold, bedded of old,
Sandals were backward thrown;
The pair to tell, that, ill or well,
The act was all their own.”

If a more satisfactory explanation of the custom could be found, it should be at the reader’s service. The practice prevails on the continent as well as in this country, but its origin is involved in obscurity.

[79] Note to the Bridal of Caölchairn, by J. H. Allan, Esq.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. VII.

[From “Fortune by Land and Sea,” a Comedy, by T. Heywood, and W.
Rowley, 1655.]

_Old Forest forbids his Son to sup with some riotous gallants; who goes notwithstanding, and is slain._

_Scene, a Tavern._

_Rainsworth, Foster, Goodwin. To them enters Frank Forest._

_Rain._ Now, Frank, how stole you from your father’s arms?
You have been school’d, no doubt. Fie, fie upon’t.
Ere I would live in such base servitude
To an old greybeard; ’sfoot, I’d hang myself.
A man cannot be merry, and drink drunk,
But he must be control’d by gravity.
_Frank._ O pardon him; you know, he is my father,
And what he doth is but paternal love.
Though I be wild, I’m not yet so past reason
His person to despise, though I his counsel
Cannot severely follow.
_Rain._ ’Sfoot, he is a fool.
_Frank._ A fool! you are a a--
_Fost._ Nay, gentlemen--
_Frank._ Yet I restrain my tongue.
Hoping you speak out of some spleenful rashness,
And no deliberate malice; and it may be
You are sorry that a word so unreverent,
To wrong so good an aged gentleman,
Should pass you unawares.
_Rain._ Sorry, Sir Boy! you will not take exceptions?
_Frank._ Not against you with willingness, whom I
Have loved so long. Yet you might think me a
Most dutiless and ungracious son to give
Smooth countenance unto my father’s wrong.
Come, I dare swear
’Twas not your malice, and I take it so.
Let’s frame some other talk. Hear, gentlemen--
_Rain._ But hear me, Boy! it seems, Sir, you are angry--
_Frank._ Not thoroughly yet--
_Rain._ Then what would anger thee?
_Frank._ Nothing from you.
_Rain._ Of all things under heaven
What would’st thou loathest have me do?
_Frank._ I would
Not have you wrong my reverent father; and
I hope you will not.
_Rain._ Thy father’s an old dotard.
_Frank._ I would not brook this at a monarch’s hand,
Much less at thine.
_Rain._ Aye, Boy? then take you that.
_Frank._ Oh I am slain.
_Good._ Sweet Cuz, what have you done? Shift for yourself.
_Rain._ Away.--

_Exeunt._

_Enter Two Drawers._

_1st Dr._ Stay the gentlemen, they have killed a man. O sweet Mr. Francis. One run to his father’s.

_2d Dr._ Hark, hark, I hear his father’s voice below ’tis ten to one he is come to fetch him home to supper and now he may carry him home to his grave.

_Enter the Host, old Forest, and Susan his daughter._

_Host._ You must take comfort, Sir.
_For._ Is he dead, is he dead, girl?
_Sus._ Oh dead, Sir, Frank is dead.
_For._ Alas, alas, my boy! I have not the heart
To look upon his wide and gaping wounds.
Pray tell me, Sir, does this appear to you
Fearful and pitiful--to you that are
A stranger to my dead boy?
_Host._ How can it otherwise?
_For._ O me most wretched of all wretched men!
If to a stranger his warm bleeding wounds
Appear so grisly and so lamentable,
How will they seem to me that am his father?
Will they not hale my eye-brows from their rounds,
And with an everlasting blindness strike them?
_Sus._ Oh, Sir, look here.
_For._ Dost long to have me blind?
Then I’ll behold them, since I know thy mind.
Oh me!
Is this my son that doth so senseless lie,
And swims in blood? my soul shall fly with his
Unto the land of rest. Behold I crave,
Being kill’d with grief, we both may have one grave.
_Sus._ Alas, my father’s dead too! gentle Sir,
Help to retire his spirits, over travail’d
With age and sorrow.
_Host._ Mr. Forest--
_Sus._ Father--
_For._ What says my girl? good morrow. What’s a clock,
That you are up so early? call up Frank;
Tell him he lies too long a bed this morning.
He was wont to call the sun up, and to raise
The early lark, and mount her ’mongst the clouds.
Will he not up? rise, rise, thou sluggish boy.
_Sus._ Alas, he cannot, father.
_For._ Cannot, why?
_Sus._ Do you not see his bloodless colour pale?
_For._ Perhaps he’s sickly, that he looks so pale.
_Sus._ Do you not feel his pulse no motion keep,
How still he lies?
_For._ Then is he fast asleep.
_Sus._ Do you not see his fatal eyelid close?
_For._ Speak softly; hinder not his soft repose.
_Sus._ Oh see you not these purple conduits run?
Know you these wounds?
_For._ Oh me! my murder’d son!

_Enter young Mr. Forest._

_Y. For._ Sister!
_Sus._ O brother, brother!
_Y. For._ Father, how cheer you, Sir? why, you were wont
To store for others comfort, that by sorrow
Were any ways distress’d. Have you all wasted,
And spared none to yourself?
_O. For._ O Son, Son, Son,
See, alas, see where thy brother lies.
He dined with me to day, was merry, merry,
Aye, that corpse was; he that lies here, see here,
Thy murder’d brother and my son was. Oh see,
Dost thou not weep for him?
_Y. For._ I shall find time;
When you have took some comfort, I’ll begin
To mourn his death, and scourge the murderer’s sin.
_O. For._ Oh, when saw father such a tragic sight,
And did outlive it? never, son, ah never,
From mortal breast ran such a precious river.
_Y. For._ Come, father, and dear sister, join with me;
Let us all learn our sorrows to forget.
He owed a death, and he hath paid that debt.

If I were to be consulted as to a Reprint of our Old English Dramatists, I should advise to begin with the collected Plays of Heywood. He was a fellow Actor, and fellow Dramatist, with Shakspeare. He possessed not the imagination of the latter; but in all those qualities which gained for Shakspeare the attribute of _gentle_, he was not inferior to him. Generosity, courtesy, temperance in the depths of passion; sweetness, in a word, and gentleness; Christianism; and true hearty Anglicism of feelings, shaping that Christianism; shine throughout his beautiful writings in a manner more conspicuous than in those of Shakspeare, but only more conspicuous inasmuch as in Heywood these qualities are primary, in the other subordinate to poetry. I love them both equally, but Shakspeare has most of my wonder. Heywood should be known to his countrymen, as he deserves. His plots are almost invariably English. I am sometimes jealous, that Shakspeare laid so few of his scenes at home. I laud Ben Jonson, for that in one instance having framed the first draught of his Every Man in his Humour in Italy, he changed the scene, and Anglicised his characters. The names of them in the First Edition, may not be unamusing.

_Men._

Lorenzo, Sen.
Lorenzo, Jun.
Prospero.
Thorello.
Stephano (Master Stephen.)
Dr. Clement (Justice Clement.)
Bobadilla (Bobadil.)
Musco.
Cob (the same in English.)
Peto.
Pizo.
Matheo (Master Mathew.)

_Women._

Guilliana.
Biancha.
Hesperida.
Tib (the same in English.)

How say you, Reader? do not Master Kitely, Mistress Kitely, Master Knowell, Brainworm, &c. read better than these Cisalpines?

C. L.

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

On January 6th, 1815, died at Lynn, Norfolk, at an advanced age, (supposed about seventy,) this eccentric individual, whose proper name, William Monson, had become nearly obliterated by his professional appellation of _Billy Boots_; having followed the humble employment of shoeblack for a longer period than the greater part of the inhabitants could remember. He was reported, (and he always professed himself to be,) the illegitimate son of a nobleman, whose name he bore, by a Miss Cracroft. Of his early days little is known, except from the reminiscences of conversation which the writer of this article at times held with him. From thence it appears, that having received a respectable education, soon after leaving school, he quitted his maternal home in Lincolnshire, and threw himself upon the world, from whence he was sought out by some of his paternal brothers, with the intention of providing and fixing him in comfortable circumstances; but this dependent life he abhorred, and the wide world was again his element. After experiencing many vicissitudes, (though possessing defects never to be overcome,--a diminutive person,--a shuffling, slip-shod gait,--and a weak, whining voice,) he joined a company of strolling players, and used to boast of having performed “Trueman,” in “George Barnwell:” from this he imbibed an ardent histrionic _cacoethes_, which never left him, but occupied many of his leisure moments, to the latest period of his life. Tired of rambling, he fixed his residence at Lynn, and adopting the useful vocation of shoe-black, became conspicuous as a sober, inoffensive, and industrious individual. Having, by these means, saved a few guineas, in a luckless hour, and when verging towards his fiftieth year, he took to himself a wife, a dashing female of more favourable appearance than reputation. In a few days from the tying of the gordian knot, his precious metal and his precious rib took flight together, never to return; and forsaken Billy whined away his disaster, to every pitying inquirer, and continued to brush and spout till time had blunted the keen edge of sorrow.

Notwithstanding this misfortune, Billy made no rash vow of forswearing the sex, but ogled every mop-squeezer in the town, who would listen to his captivating eloquence, and whenever a roguish Blousalinoa consented to encourage his addresses, he was seen early and late, like a true devotee snuffing a pilgrimage to the shrine of his devotions. In a summer evening after the labour of the day, on these occasions, and on these occasions only, he used to clean himself and spruce up, in his best suit, which was not improperly termed his courting suit--a worn-out scarlet coat, reaching to his heels, with buttons of the largest dimensions--the other part of his dress corresponding. When tired of the joke, his faithless inamorata, on some frivolous pretence, contrived to discard him, leaving him to “fight his battles o’er again,” and seek some other bewitching fair one, who in the end served him as the former; another and another succeeded, but still poor Billy was ever jilted, and still lived a devoted victim to the tender passion.

Passionately fond of play-books, of which he had a small collection--as uninviting to the look as himself in his working dress--and possessing a retentive memory, he would recite, not merely the single character, but whole scenes, with all the dramatis personæ. His favourite character, however, was “Shylock;” and here, when soothed and flattered, he exhibited a rich treat to his risible auditors in the celebrated trial scene, giving the entire dialogue, suiting the action and attitude to the words, in a style of the most perfect caricatural originality. At other times, he would select “The Waterman,” and, as “Tom Tug,” warble forth, “Then farewell my trim-built wherry,” in strains of exquisitely whining melody. But, alas! luckless wight! his only reward was ridicule, and for applause he had jokes and quizzing sarcasms.

Like most of nature’s neglected eccentrics, Billy was a public mark of derision, at which every urchin delighted to aim. When charges of “setting the river Thames on fire!” and “roasting his wife on a gridiron!” were vociferated in his ears, proudly conscious of his innocence of such heinous crimes, his noble soul would swell with rage and indignation; and sometimes stones, at other times his brushes, and oftentimes his pot of blacking, were aimed at the ruthless offender, who frequently escaped, while the unwary passer-by received the marks of his vengeance. When unmolested, he was harmless and inoffensive.

Several attempts, it is said, were made towards the latter part of his life to settle an annuity on him; but Billy scorned such independence, and maintained himself till death by praiseworthy industry. After a few days’ illness, he sank into the grave, unhonoured and unnoticed, except by the following tribute to his memory, written by a literary and agricultural gentleman in the neighbourhood of Lynn, and inserted in the “Norwich Mercury” newspaper of that period.

K.

ELEGIAC LINES ON WILLIAM MONSON, LATE OF LYNN, AN ECCENTRIC CHARACTER;
COMMONLY Y’CLEPT BILLY BOOTS.

Imperial Fate, who, with promiscuous course,
Exerts o’er high and low his influence dread;
Impell’d his shaft with unrelenting force,
And laid thee, _Billy_, ’mongst the mighty dead!

Yet ’though, when borne to thy sepulchral home,
No pomp funereal grac’d thy poor remains,
Some “frail memorial” should adorn thy tomb,
Some trifling tribute from the Muse’s strains.

Full fifty years, poor _Billy!_ hast thou budg’d,
A care-worn shoe-black, up and down the streets;
From house to house, with slip-shod step hast trudg’d,
’Midst summer’s rays, and winter’s driving sleets.

Report allied thee to patrician blood,
Yet, whilst thy life to drudg’ry was confin’d,
Thy firmness each dependent thought withstood,
And prov’d,--thy true nobility of mind.

With shuffling, lagging gait, with visage queer,
Which seem’d a stranger to ablution’s pow’r,
In tatter’d garb, well suited to thy sphere,
Thou o’er life’s stage didst strut thy fretful hour.

O’er boots and shoes, to spread the jetty hue,
And give the gloss,--thou _Billy_, wert the man,
No boasting rivals could thy skill outdo--
Not “Day and Martin,” with their fam’d japan.

On men well-bred and perfectly refin’d,
An extra polish could thine art bestow;
At feast or ball, thy varnish’d honours shin’d,
Made spruce the trader, and adorn’d the beau.

When taunting boys, whom no reproof could tame,
On thee their scoffs at cautious distance shed,
A shoe or brush, impetuous wouldst thou aim,
Wing’d with resentment, at some urchin’s head.

With rage theatric often didst thou glow,
(Though ill adapted for the scenic art;)
As Denmark’s prince soliloquiz’d in woe,
Or else rehears’d vindictive _Shylock’s_ part.

Brushing and spouting, emulous of fame,
Oft pocketing affronts instead of cash,
In _Iago’s_ phrase, sometimes thou might’st exclaim
With too much truth,--“who steals my purse steals trash.”

Peace to thine ashes! harmless in thy way,
Long wert thou _emp’ror_ of the shoe-black train,
And with thy fav’rite Shakspeare we may say,
We “ne’er shall look upon thy like again.”

* * * * *

~The Drama.~

“THE GREAT UNKNOWN”

KNOWN.

Friday the 23d of February, 1827, is to be regarded as remarkable, because on that day “The Great Unknown” confessed himself. The disclosure was made at the first annual dinner of the “Edinburgh Theatrical Fund,” then held in the Assembly Rooms, Edinburgh--Sir WALTER SCOTT in the chair.

Sir WALTER SCOTT, after the usual toasts to the King and the Royal Family, requested, that gentlemen would fill a bumper as full as it would hold, while he would say only a few words. He was in the habit of hearing speeches, and he knew the feeling with which long ones were regarded. He was sure that it was perfectly unnecessary for him to enter into any vindication of the dramatic art, which they had come here to support. This, however, he considered to be the proper time and proper occasion for him to say a few words on that love of representation which was an innate feeling in human nature. It was the first amusement that the child had--it grew greater as he grew up; and, even in the decline of life, nothing amused so much as when a common tale is well told. The first thing a child does is to ape his schoolmaster, by flogging a chair. It was an enjoyment natural to humanity. It was implanted in our very nature, to take pleasure from such representations, at proper times, and on proper occasions. In all ages the theatrical art had kept pace with the improvement of mankind, and with the progress of letters and the fine arts. As he had advanced from the ruder stages of society, the love of dramatic representations had increased, and all works of this nature had been improved in character and in structure. They had only to turn their eyes to the history of ancient Greece, although he did not pretend to be very deeply versed in ancient history. Its first tragic poet commanded a body of troops at Marathon. The second and next, were men who shook Athens with their discourses, as their theatrical works shock the theatre itself. If they turned to France, in the time of Louis XIV., that era in the classical history of that country, they would find that it was referred to by all Frenchmen as the golden age of the drama there. And also in England, in the time of queen Elizabeth, the drama began to mingle deeply and wisely in the general politics of Europe, not only not receiving laws from others, but giving laws to the world, and vindicating the rights of mankind. (_Cheers._) There had been various times when the dramatic art subsequently fell into disrepute. Its professors had been stigmatized: and laws had been passed against them, less dishonourable to them than to the statesmen by whom they were proposed, and to the legislators by whom they were passed. What were the times in which these laws were passed? Was it not when virtue was seldom inculcated as a moral duty, that we were required to relinquish the most rational of all our amusements, when the clergy were enjoined celibacy, and when the laity were denied the right to read their Bibles? He thought that it must have been from a notion of penance that they erected the drama into an ideal place of profaneness, and the tent of sin. He did not mean to dispute, that there were many excellent persons who thought differently from him, and they were entitled to assume that they were not guilty of any hypocrisy in doing so. He gave them full credit for their tender consciences, in making these objections, which did not appear to him relevant to those persons, if they were what they usurped themselves to be; and if they were persons of worth and piety, he should crave the liberty to tell them, that the first part of their duty was charity, and that if they did not choose to go to the theatre, they at least could not deny that they might give away, from their superfluity, what was required for the relief of the sick, the support of the aged, and the comfort of the afflicted. These were duties enjoined by our religion itself. (_Loud cheers._) The performers were in a particular manner entitled to the support or regard, when in old age or distress, of those who had partaken of the amusements of those places which they rendered an ornament to society. Their art was of a peculiarly delicate and precarious nature. They had to serve a long apprenticeship. It was very long before even the first-rate geniuses could acquire the mechanical knowledge of the stage business. They must languish long in obscurity before they could avail themselves of their natural talents; and after that, they had but a short space of time, during which they were fortunate if they could provide the means of comfort in the decline of life. That came late, and lasted but a short time; after which they were left dependent. Their limbs failed, their teeth were loosened, their voice was lost, and they were left, after giving happiness to others, in a most disconsolate state. The public were liberal and generous to those deserving their protection. It was a sad thing to be dependant on the favour, or, he might say, in plain terms, on the caprice of the public; and this more particularly for a class of persons of whom extreme prudence was not the character. There might be instances of opportunities being neglected; but let them tax themselves, and consider the opportunities they had neglected, and the sums of money they had wasted; let every gentleman look into his own bosom, and say whether these were circumstances which would soften his own feeling, were he to be plunged into distress. He put it to every generous bosom--to every better feeling--to say what consolation was it to old age to be told that you might have made provision at a time which had been neglected--(_loud cheers_)--and to find it objected, that if you had pleased you might have been wealthy. He had hitherto been speaking of what, in theatrical language, was called “stars,” but they were sometimes fallen ones. There were another class of sufferers naturally and necessarily connected with the theatre, without whom it was impossible to go on. The sailors had a saying, “every man cannot be a boatswain.” If there must be persons to act _Hamlet_, there must also be people to act _Laertes_, the _King_, _Rosencrantz_, and _Guildenstern_, otherwise a drama cannot go on. If even Garrick himself were to rise from the dead, he could not act _Hamlet_ alone. There must be generals, colonels, commanding officers, and subalterns; but what were the private soldiers to do? Many had mistaken their own talents, and had been driven in early youth to try the stage, to which they were not competent. He would know what to say to the poet and to the artist. He would say that it was foolish, and he would recommend to the poet to become a scribe, and the artist to paint sign-posts (_Loud laughter._) But he could not send the player adrift; for if he could not play _Hamlet_, he must play _Guildenstern_. Where there were many labourers, wages must be low, and no man in such a situation could decently support a wife and family, and save something of his income for old age. What was this man to do in latter life? Were they to cast him off like an old hinge, or a piece of useless machinery, which had done its work? To a person who had contributed to our amusement, that would be unkind, ungrateful, and unchristian. His wants were not of his own making, but arose from the natural sources of sickness and old age. It could not be denied that there was one class of sufferers to whom no imprudence could be ascribed, except on first entering on the profession. After putting his hand to the dramatic plough, he could not draw back, but must continue at it, and toil, till death released him; or charity, by its milder assistance, stepped in to render that want more tolerable. He had little more to say, except that he sincerely hoped that the collection to-day, from the number of respectable gentlemen present, would meet the views entertained by the patrons. He hoped it would do so. They should not be disheartened. Though they could not do a great deal, they might do something. They had this consolation, that every thing they parted with from their superfluity would do some good. They would sleep the better themselves when they had been the means of giving sleep to others. It was ungrateful and unkind that those who had sacrificed their youth to our amusement should not receive the reward due to them, but should be reduced to hard fare in their old age. They could not think of poor Falstaff going to bed without his cup of sack, or Macbeth fed on bones as marrowless as those of Banquo. (_Loud cheers and laughter._) As he believed that they were all as fond of the dramatic art as he was in his younger days, he would propose that they should drink “The Theatrical Fund,” with three times three.

Mr. MACKAY rose on behalf of his brethren, to return their thanks for the toast just drank.

Lord MEADOWBANK begged to bear testimony to the anxiety which they all felt for the interests of the institution which it was for this day’s meeting to establish. For himself, he was quite surprised to find his humble name associated with so many others, more distinguished, as a patron of the institution. But he happened to hold a high and important public station in the country. It was matter of regret that he had so little the means in his power of being of service; yet it would afford him at all times the greatest pleasure to give assistance. As a testimony of the feelings with which he now rose, he begged to propose a health, which he was sure, in an assembly of Scotsmen, would be received, not with an ordinary feeling of delight, but with rapture and enthusiasm. He knew that it would be painful to his feelings if he were to speak of him in the terms which his heart prompted; and that he had sheltered himself under his native modesty from the applause which he deserved. But it was gratifying at last to know that these clouds were now dispelled, and that the “great unknown”--“the mighty Magician”--(_here the room literally rung with applauses for some minutes_)--the Minstrel of our country, who had conjured up, not the phantoms of departed ages, but realities, now stood revealed before the eyes and affections of his country. In his presence it would ill become him, as it would be displeasing to that distinguished person, to say, if he were able, what every man must feel, who recollected the enjoyment he had had from the great efforts of his mind and genius. It had been left for him, by his writings, to give his country an imperishable name. He had done more for that country, by illuminating its annals, by illustrating the deeds of its warriors and statesmen, than any man that ever existed, or was produced, within its territory. He had opened up the peculiar beauties of his native land to the eyes of foreigners. He had exhibited the deeds of those patriots and statesmen to whom we owed the freedom we now enjoyed. He would give “The health of Sir Walter Scott.”

This toast was drank with enthusiastic cheering.

Sir WALTER SCOTT certainly did not think, that, in coming there that day, he would have the task of acknowledging, before 300 gentlemen, a secret which, considering that it was communicated to more than 20 people, was remarkably well kept. He was now before the bar of his country, and might be understood to be on trial before lord Meadowbank, as an offender; yet he was sure that every impartial jury would bring in a verdict of “not proven.” He did not now think it necessary to enter into reasons for his long silence. Perhaps he might have acted from caprice. He had now to say, however, that the merits of these works, if they had any, and their faults, were entirely imputable to himself. (_Long and loud cheering._) He was afraid to think on what he had done. “Look on’t again I dare not.” He had thus far unbosomed himself, and he knew that it would be reported to the public. He meant, when he said that he was the author, that he was the total and undivided author. With the exception of quotations, there was not a single word that was not derived from himself, or suggested in the course of his reading. The wand was now broken and the rod buried. They would allow him further to say, with _Prospero_, “Your breath it is that has filled my sails,” and to crave one single toast in the capacity of the author of those novels, and he would dedicate a bumper to the health of one who had represented some of those characters, of which he had endeavoured to give the skeleton, with a degree of liveliness which rendered him grateful. He would propose the health of his friend _Bailie Nicol Jarvie_; (loud applause;) and he was sure that, when the author of _Waverley_ and _Rob Roy_ drank to _Nicol Jarvie_, it would be received with that degree of applause to which that gentleman had always been accustomed, and that they would take care that, on the present occasion, it should be prodigious! (_Long and vehement applause._)

Mr. MACKAY, who spoke with great humour in the character of _Bailie Jarvie_.--“My conscience! My worthy father, the Deacon, could not have believed that his son could hae had sic a compliment paid to him by the _Great Unknown_.”

Sir WALTER SCOTT.--“_Not unknown now_, Mr. Bailie.”

After this avowal, numerous toasts were duly honoured; and on the proposal of “the health of Mrs. Siddons, senior, the most distinguished ornament of the stage,” Sir WALTER SCOTT said, that if any thing could reconcile him to old age, it was the reflection that he had seen the rising as well as the setting sun of Mrs. Siddons. He remembered well their breakfasting near to the theatre--waiting the whole day--the crushing at the doors at six o’clock--and their going in and counting their fingers till seven o’clock. But the very first step--the very first word which she uttered, was sufficient to overpay him for all his labours. The house was literally electrified; and it was only from witnessing the effects of her genius, that he could guess to what a pitch theatrical excellence could be carried. Those young fellows who had only seen the setting sun of this distinguished performer, beautiful and serene as that was, must give the old fellows who had seen its rise leave to hold their heads a little higher.

Sir WALTER SCOTT subsequently gave “Scotland, the Land of Cakes.” He would give every river, every loch, every hill, from Tweed to Johnnie Groat’s house--every lass in her cottage, and countess in her castle; and may her sons stand by her, as their fathers did before them, and he who would not drink a bumper to his toast, may he never drink whiskey more.

Mr. H. G. BELL proposed the health of “James Sheridan Knowles.”

Sir WALTER SCOTT.--Gentlemen, I crave a bumper all over. The last toast reminds me of a neglect of duty. Unaccustomed to a public duty of this kind, errors in conducting the ceremonial of it may be excused, and omissions pardoned. Perhaps I have made one or two omissions in the course of the evening, for which I trust you will grant me your pardon and indulgence. One thing in particular I have omitted, and I would now wish to make amends for it by a libation of reverence and respect to the memory of Shakspeare. He was a man of universal genius, and from a period soon after his own era to the present day, he has been universally idolized. When I come to his honoured name, I am like the sick man who hung up his crutches at the shrine, and was obliged to confess that he did not walk better than before. It is indeed difficult, gentlemen, to compare him to any other individual. The only one to whom I can at all compare him, is the wonderful Arabian dervise, who dived into the body of each, and in that way became familiar with the thoughts and secrets of their hearts. He was a man of obscure origin, and as a player, limited in his acquirements; but he was born evidently with a universal genius. His eyes glanced at all the varied aspects of life, and his fancy portrayed with equal talents the king on the throne, and the clown who crackled his chestnuts at a Christmas fire. Whatever note he took, he struck it just and true, and awakened a corresponding chord in our own bosoms. Gentlemen, I propose “The memory of William Shakspeare.”

_Glee_--“Lightly tread his hallowed ground.”

Sir WALTER rose after the glee, and begged to propose as a toast the health of a lady whose living merits were not a little honourable to Scotland. This toast (said he) is also flattering to the national vanity of a Scotchman, as the lady whom I intend to propose is a native of this country. From the public her works have met with the most favourable reception. One piece of hers, in particular, was often acted here of late years, and gave pleasure of no mean kind to many brilliant and fashionable audiences. In her private character, she (he begged leave to say) was as remarkable as in a public sense she was for her genius. In short, he would, in one word, name--“Joanna Baillie.”

Towards the close of the evening, Sir WALTER observed:--There is one who ought to be remembered on this occasion. He is indeed well entitled to our great recollection--one, in short, to whom the drama in this city owes much. He succeeded, not without trouble, and perhaps at some considerable sacrifice in establishing a theatre. The younger part of the company may not recollect the theatre to which I allude; but there are some who with me may remember, by name, the theatre in Carrubber’s-close. There Allan Ramsay established his little theatre. His own pastoral was not fit for the stage, but it has its own admirers in those who love the Doric language in which it is written; and it is not without merits of a very peculiar kind. But, laying aside all considerations of his literary merit, Allan was a good, jovial, honest fellow, who could crack a bottle with the best. “The memory of Allan Ramsay.”

Mr. P. ROBERTSON.--I feel that I am about to tread on ticklish ground. The talk is of a new theatre, and a bill may be presented for its erection, saving always, and provided the expenses be defrayed and carried through, provided always it be not opposed. Bereford-park, or some such place, might be selected, provided always due notice was given, and so we might have a playhouse, as it were, by possibility.

Sir WALTER SCOTT.--Wherever the new theatre is built, I hope it will not be large. There are two errors which we commonly commit--the one arising from our pride, the other from our poverty. If there are twelve plans, it is odds but the largest, without any regard to comfort, or an eye to the probable expense, is adopted. There was the college projected on this scale, and undertaken in the same manner, and who shall see the end of it? It has been building all my life, and may probably last during the lives of my children, and my children’s children. Let it not be said when we commence a new theatre, as was said on the occasion of laying the foundation-stone of a certain building, “Behold the endless work begun.” Play-going folks should attend somewhat to convenience. The new theatre should, in the first place, be such as may be finished in eighteen months or two years; and, in the second place, it should be one in which we can hear our old friends with comfort. It is better that a theatre should be crowded now and then, than to have a large theatre, with benches continually empty, to the discouragement of the actors, and the discomfort of the spectators.

Sir WALTER immediately afterwards said, “Gentlemen, it is now wearing late, and I shall request permission to retire. Like Partridge, I may say, ‘_non sum qualis eram_.’ At my time of day, I can agree with Lord Ogleby, as to the rheumatism, and say, ‘There’s a twinge.’ I hope, therefore, you will excuse me for leaving the chair.”--(_The worthy baronet then retired amidst long, loud, and rapturous cheering._)

* * * * *

These extracts[80] contain the substance of Sir Walter Scott’s speeches on this memorable occasion. His allusions to actors and the drama are, of themselves, important; but his avowal of himself as the author of the “Waverley Novels,” is a fact of peculiar interest in literary history. Particular circumstances, however, had made known the “Great Unknown” to several persons in London some months previously, though the fact had not by any means been generally circulated.

[80] From the report of the “Edinburgh Evening Courant” of Saturday,
24th Feb. 1827; in “The Times” of the Tuesday following.

* * * * *

~Hot Meals.~

POWELL, THE FIRE-EATER.

“Oh! for a muse of _fire_!”

One fire burns out another burning. The jack-puddings who swallow flame at “the only booth” in every fair, have extinguished remembrance of Powell the fire-eater--a man so famous in his own day, that his name still lives. Though no journal records the time of his death, no line eulogizes his memory, no stone marks his burial-place, there are two articles written during his lifetime, which, being noticed here, may “help his fame along” a little further. Of the first, by a correspondent of Sylvanus Urban, the following is a sufficient abstract.

_Ashbourn, Derbyshire, Jan. 20, 1755._

Last spring, Mr. Powell, the famous fire-eater, did us the honour of a visit at this town; and, as he set forth in his printed bills, that he had shown away not only before most of the crowned heads in Europe, but even before the Royal Society of London, and was dignified with a curious and very ample silver medal, which, he said, was bestowed on him by that learned body, as a testimony of their approbation, for eating what nobody else could eat, I was prevailed upon, at the importunity of some friends, to go and see a sight, that so many great kings and philosophers had not thought below their notice. And, I confess, though neither a superstitious nor an incurious man, I was not a little astonished at his wonderful performances in the fire-eating way.

After many restless days and nights, and the profoundest researches into the nature of things, I almost despaired of accounting for the strange phenomenon of a human and perishable creature eating red hot coals, taken indiscriminately out of a large fire, broiling steaks upon his tongue, swallowing huge draughts of liquid fire as greedily as a country squire does roast beef and strong beer. Thought I to myself, how can that element, which we are told is ultimately to devour all things, be devoured itself, as familiar diet, by a mortal man?--Here I stuck, and here I might have stuck, if I had not met with the following anecdote by M. Panthot, doctor of physic and member of the college of Lyons:--

“The secret of fire-eating was made public by a servant to one Richardson, an Englishman, who showed it in France about the year 1667, and was the first performer of the kind that ever appeared in Europe. It consists only in rubbing the hands, and thoroughly washing the mouth, lips, tongue, teeth, and other parts that are to touch the fire, with pure spirit of sulphur. This burns and cauterizes the epidermis, or upper skin, till it becomes as hard as thick leather, and every time the experiment is tried it becomes still easier than before. But if, after it has been very often repeated, the upper skin should grow so callous and horny as to become troublesome, washing the parts affected with very warm water, or hot wine, will bring away all the shrivelled or parched epidermis. The flesh, however, will continue tender and unfit for such business till it has been frequently rubbed over again with the same spirit.

“This preparative may be rendered much stronger and more efficacious, by mixing equal quantities of spirit of sulphur, sal ammoniac, essence of rosemary, and juice of onions.

“The bad effects which frequently swallowing red-hot coals, melted sealing wax, rosin, brimstone, and other calcined and inflammable matter, might have had upon his stomach, were prevented by drinking plentifully of warm water and oil, as soon as he left the company, till he had vomited all up again.”

My author further adds, that any person who is possessed of this secret, may safely walk over burning coals, or red-hot plough-shares; and he fortifies his assertion by the example of blacksmiths and forgemen, many of whom acquire such a degree of callosity, by often handling hot things, that they will carry a glowing bar of iron in their naked hands, without hurt.

Whether Mr. Powell will take it kindly of me thus to have published his secret, I cannot tell; but as he now begins to drop into years, has no children that I know of, and may die suddenly, or without making a will, I think it is a great pity so genteel an occupation should become one of the _artes perditæ_, as possibly it may, if proper care is not taken; and therefore hope, after this information, some true-hearted Englishman will take it up again for the honour of his country, when he reads in the newspapers, _Yesterday died, much lamented, the famous Mr._ Powell. _He was the best, if not the only fire-eater in this world, and it is greatly to be feared his art is dead with him._

* * * * *

Notwithstanding the preceding disclosure of Powell’s “grand secret,” he continued to maintain his good name and reputation till after Dr. Johnson was pensioned, in the year 1762. We are assured of the fact by the internal evidence of the following article, preserved by a collector of odd things, who obtained it he knew not how:--

GENIUS UNREWARDED.