Chapter M: Blackmore (8)

_Mr. Eelskin._ This way, my angel; the concert has recommenced.

_Miss Theodosia._ Oh, that’s Charles Taylor; I likes his singing; he’s such a merry fellow: do _hancore_ him, John.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Dosee, my dear, you’re too bold; it was a very _impurent_ song: I declare I’m quite ashamed of you!

_Mr. Greenfat._ Never mince matters; always speak your mind, girl.

_Mr. Eelskin._ The fire-works come next. Suppose we get nearer the Moorish tower, and look for good places, as Mr. G. dislikes paying for the gallery. Now you’ll not be _afeard_; there’ll not be the least danger, depend.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Is there much smoke, Mr. John?--Do they fire many cannons?--I hates cannons--and smoke makes me cough. (_Bell rings._) Run, run, my dears--Humphy, Peter, Bella, run! Mr. Greenfat, run, or we shall be too late! Eelskin and Dosee are a mile afore us! What’s that _red light_? Oh, we shall all be burnt! What noise is that?--Oh, it’s the bomb in the Park!--We shall all be burnt!

_Mr. Greenfat._ Nonsense, woman, don’t frighten the children!

_Miss Theodosia._ Now you’re sure the rockets won’t fall on my new pink bonnet, nor the smoke soil my _French_ white dress, nor the smell of the powder frighten me into fits?--Now you’re quite sure of it, John?

_Mr. Eelskin._ Quite sure, my charmer: I have stood here repeatedly, and never had a hair of my head hurt. See, Blackmore is on the rope; there he goes up--up--up!--Isn’t it pretty, Miss?

_Miss Theodosia._ Oh, delightful!--Does he never break his neck?

_Mr. Eelskin._ Never--it’s insured! Now he descends. How they shoot the maroons at him! Don’t be afeard, lovee, they sha’n’t hurt you. See, Miss, how gracefully he bows to you.--Isn’t it terrific?

_Miss Theodosia._ Is this _all_?--I thought it would last for an hour, at least. John, I’m so hungry; I hope papa means to have supper?

_Master Peter._ Mamma, I’m so hungry.

_Master Humphrey._ Papa, I’m so dry.

_Miss Arabella._ Mamma, I want somewhat to eat.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Greenfat, my dear, we must have some refreshments.

_Mr. Greenfat._ _Refreshments!_ where will you get them? All the boxes are full.--Oh, here’s one. Waiter! what, the devil, call this a dish of beef?--It don’t weigh three ounces! Bring half a gallon of stout, and plenty of bread. Can’t we have some water for the children?

_Mr. Eelskin._ Shouldn’t we have a little _wine_, sir?--it’s more genteeler.

_Mr. Greenfat._ Wine, Eelskin, wine!--Bad sherry at six shillings a bottle!--Couldn’t reconcile it to my conscience.--We’ll stick to the stout.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Eat, my loves.--Some more bread for Bella.--There’s a bit of fat for you, Peter.--Humphy, you shall have my crust.--Pass the stout to Dosee, Mr. John.--Don’t drink it _all_, my dear!

_Mr. Greenfat._ Past two o’clock!--Shameful!--Waiter, bring the bill. Twelve shillings and eightpence--abominable!--Charge a shilling a pot for stout--monstrous! Well, no matter; we’ll walk home. Come along.

_Master Peter._ Mamma, I’m so tired.

_Miss Arabella._ Mamma, my legs ache so.

_Master Humphrey._ Papa, I wish you’d carry me.

_Mr. Greenfat._ Come along--it will be five o’clock before we get home!

[_Exeunt omnes._

H.

* * * * *

TO MY TEA-KETTLE.

_For the Table Book._

1.

For many a verse inspired by tea,
(A never-failing muse to me)
MY KETTLE, let this tribute flow,
Thy charms to blazon.
And tell thy modest worth, although
Thy face be _brazen_.

2.

Let others boast the madd’ning bowl,
That raises but to sink the soul,
Thou art the Bacchus that alone
I wish to follow:
From thee I tipple Helicon,
My best Apollo!

3.

’Tis night--my children sleep--no noise
Is heard, except thy cheerful voice;
For when the wind would gain mine ear,
Thou sing’st the faster--
As if thou wert resolv’d to cheer
Thy lonely master.

4.

And so thou dost: those brazen lungs
Vent no deceit, like human tongues:
That honest breath was never known
To turn informer:
And for thy feelings--all must own
That none are warmer.

5.

But late, another eye and ear
Would mark thy form, thy music hear:
Alas! how soon our pleasures fly,
Returning never!
That ear is deaf--that friendly eye
Is clos’d for ever!

6.

Be thou then, now, my friend, my guide,
And humming wisdom by my side,
Teach me so patiently to bear
Hot-water troubles,
That they may end, like thine, in air,
And turn to bubbles.

7.

Let me support misfortune’s fire
Unhurt; and, when I fume with ire.
Whatever friend my passion sees,
And near me lingers,
Let him still handle me with ease.
Nor burn his fingers.

8.

O! may my memory, like thy front.
When I am cold, endure the brunt
Of vitriol envy’s keen assaults,
And shine the brighter,
And ev’ry rub--that makes my faults
Appear the lighter.

SAM SAM’S SON.

* * * * *

TO MY TEA-POT.

_For the Table Book._

1.

MY TEA-POT! while thy lips pour forth
For me a stream of matchless worth,
I’ll pour forth my rhymes for thee:
Don Juan’s verse is gross, they say;
But I will pen a _grocer_ lay,
Commencing--“Amo _tea_.”

2.

Yes--let Anacreon’s votary sip
His flowing bowl with feverish lip,
And breathe abominations;
Some day he’ll be _bowl’d out_ for it--
He’s brewing mischief, while I sit
And brew my _Tea-pot-ations_.

3.

After fatigue, how dear to me
The maid who suits me to a T,
And makes the water bubble.
From her red hand when I receive
The evergreen, I seem to give
At T. L. no trouble.

4.

I scorn the hop, disdain the malt,
I hate solutions sweet and salt,
Injurious I vote ’em;
For tea my faithful palate yearns;
Thus--though my fancy never _turns_,
It always is _tea-totum_!

5.

Yet some assure me whilst I sip,
That thou hast stain’d thy silver lip
With sad adulterations--
Slow poison drawn from leaves of sloe,
That quickly cause the quick to go,
And join their dead relations.

6.

Aunt Malaprop now drinks noyeau
Instead of Tea, and well I know
That she prefers it greatly:
She says, “Alas! I give up Tea,
There’s been so much _adultery_
Among the grocers lately!”

7.

She warns me of Tea-dealers’ tricks--
Those double-dealing men, who mix
Unwholesome drugs with _some_ Tea
’Tis bad to sip--and yet to give
Up sipping’s worse; we cannot live
“Nec sine _Tea_, nec cum _Tea_.”

8.

Yet still, tenacious of my Tea,
I think the grocers send it me
Quite pure, (’tis what they _call_ so.)
Heedless of warnings, still I get
“Tea veniente die, et
Tea decedente,” also.

SAM SAM’S SON.

Vol. I.--15.

From a sepia drawing, obligingly communicated by J. S. J., the reader is presented with this view of a church, “hallowed by being the sepulchral enclosure of the remains of the immortal Shakspeare.” It exemplifies the two distinct styles, the early pointed and that of the fourteenth century. The tower is of the first construction; the windows of the transepts possess a preeminent and profuse display of the mullions and tracery characteristic of the latter period.[100]

This structure is spacious and handsome, and was formerly collegiate, and dedicated to the Holy Trinity. A row of limes trained so as to form an arched avenue form an approach to the great door. A representation of a portion of this pleasant entrance is in an engraving of the church in the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for 1807.

Another opportunity will occur for relating particulars respecting the venerable edifice, and the illustrious bard, whose birth and burial at Stratford upon Avon confer on the town imperishable fame.

[100] Mr. Carter, in the Gentleman’s Magazine, 1816.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. XII.

[From the “Brazen Age,” an Historical Play, by Thomas Heywood, 1613.]

_Venus courts Adonis._

_Venus._ Why doth Adonis fly the Queen of Love,
And shun this ivory girdle of my arms?
To be thus scarf’d the dreadful God of War
Would give me conquer’d kingdoms. For a kiss,
But half like this, I could command the Sun
Rise ’fore his hour, to bed before his time;
And, being love-sick, change his golden beams,
And make his face pale as his sister Moon.
Look on me, Adon, with a stedfast eye,
That in these chrystal glasses I may see
My beauty that charms Gods, makes Men amazed
And stown’d with wonder. Doth this roseat pillow
Offend my Love?
With my white fingers will I clap thy cheek;
Whisper a thousand pleasures in thy ear.
_Adonis._ Madam, you are not modest. I affect
The unseen beauty that adorns the mind:
This looseness makes you foul in Adon’s eye.
If you will tempt me, let me in your face
Read blusfulness and fear; a modest fear
Would make your cheek seem much more beautiful.
_Venus._ ------wert thou made of stone,
I have heat to melt thee; I am Queen of Love.
There is no practive art of dalliance
Of which I am not mistress, and can use.
I have kisses that can murder unkind words,
And strangle hatred that the gall sends forth;
Touches to raise thee, were thy spirits half dead;
Words that can pour affection down thy ears.
Love me! thou can’st not chuse; thou shalt not chuse.
_Adonis._ Madam, you woo not well. Men covet not
These proffer’d pleasures, but love sweets denied.
These prostituted pleasures surfeit still;
Where’s fear, or doubt, men sue with best good will.
_Venus._ Thou canst instruct the Queen of Love in love.
Thou shalt not, Adon, take me by the hand;
Yet, if thou needs will force me, take my palm.
I’ll frown on him: alas! my brow’s so smooth,
It will not bear a wrinkle.--Hie thee hence
Unto the chace, and leave me; but not yet:
I’ll sleep this night upon Endymion’s bank,
On which the Swain was courted by the Moon.
Dare not to come; thou art in our disgrace:
Yet, if thou come, I can afford thee place!

* * * * *

_Phœbus jeers Vulcan._

_Vul._ Good morrow, Phœbus; what’s the news abroad?--
For thou see’st all things in the world are done,
Men act by day-light, or the sight of sun.
_Phœb._ Sometime I cast my eye upon the sea,
To see the tumbling seal or porpoise play.
There see I merchants trading, and their sails
Big-bellied with the wind; sea fights sometimes
Rise with their smoke-thick clouds to dark my beams
Sometimes I fix my face upon the earth,
With my warm fervour to give metals, trees,
Herbs, plants and flowers, life. Here in gardens walk
Loose Ladies with their Lovers arm in arm.
Yonder the laboring Plowman drives his team.
Further I may behold main battles pitcht;
And whom I favour most (by the wind’s help)
I can assist with my transparent rays.
Here spy I cattle feeding; forests there
Stored with wild beasts; here shepherds with their lasses,
Piping beneath the trees while their flocks graze.
In cities I see trading, walking, bargaining,
Buying and selling, goodness, badness, all things--
And shine alike on all.
_Vul._ Thrice happy Phœbus,
That, whilst poor Vulcan is confin’d to Lemnos,
Hast every day these pleasures. What news else?
_Phœb._ No Emperor walks forth, but I see his state;
Nor sports, but I his pastimes can behold.
I see all coronations, funerals,
Marts, fairs, assemblies, pageants, sights and shows.
No hunting, but I better see the chace
Than they that rouse the game. What see I not?
There’s not a window, but my beams break in;
No chink or cranny, but my rays pierce through;
And there I see, O Vulcan, wondrous things:
Things that thyself, nor any God besides,
Would give belief to.
And, shall I tell thee, Vulcan, ’tother day
What I beheld?--I saw the great God Mars--
_Vul._ God Mars--
_Phœb._ As I was peeping through a cranny, a-bed--
_Vul._ Abed! with whom?--some pretty Wench, I warrant.
_Phœb._ She was a pretty Wench.
_Vul._ Tell me, good Phœbus,
That, when I meet him, I may flout God Mars;
Tell me, but tell me truly, on thy life.
_Phœb._ Not to dissemble, Vulcan, ’twas thy Wife!

* * * * *

_The Peers of Greece go in quest of Hercules, and find him in woman’s weeds, spinning with Omphale._

_Jason._ Our business was to Theban Hercules.
’Twas told us, he remain’d with Omphale,
The Theban Queen.
_Telamon._ Speak, which is Omphale? or which Alcides?
_Pollux._ Lady, our purpose was to Hercules;
Shew us the man.
_Omphale._ Behold him here.
_Atreus._ Where?
_Omphale._ There, at his task.
_Jason._ Alas, _this_ Hercules!
This is some base effeminate Groom, not he
That with his puissance frighted all the earth.
_Hercules._ Hath Jason, Nestor, Castor, Telamon,
Atreus, Pollux, all forgot their friend?
We are the man.
_Jason._ Woman, we know thee not:
We came to seek the Jove-born Hercules,
That in his cradle strangled Juno’s snakes,
And triumph’d in the brave Olympic games.
He that the Cleonean lion slew.
Th’ Erimanthian boar, the bull of Marathon.
The Lernean hydra, and the winged hart.
_Telamon._ We would see the Theban
That Cacus slew, Busiris sacrificed,
And to his horses hurl’d stern Diomed
To be devoured.
_Pollux._ That freed Hesione
From the sea whale, and after ransack’d Troy,
And with his own hand slew Laomedon.
_Nestor._ He by whom Dercilus and Albion fell;
He that Œcalia and Betricia won.
_Atreus._ That monstrous Geryon with his three heads vanquisht,
With Linus, Lichas that usurpt in Thebes,
And captived there his beauteous Megara.
_Pollux._ That Hercules by whom the Centaurs fell,
Great Achelous, the Stymphalides,
And the Cremona giants: where is he?
_Telamon._ That trait’rous Nessus with a shaft transfixt.
Strangled Antheus, purged Augeus’ stalls,
Won the bright apples of th’ Hesperides.
_Jason._ He that the Amazonian baldrick won;
That Achelous with his club subdued,
And won from him the Pride of Caledon,
Fair Deianeira, that now mourns in Thebes
For absence of the noble Hercules!
_Atreus._ To him we came; but, since he lives not here,
Come, Lords; we will return these presents back
Unto the constant Lady, whence they came.
_Hercules._ Stay, Lords--
_Jason._ ’Mongst women?--
_Hercules._ For that Theban’s sake,
Whom you profess to love, and came to seek,
Abide awhile; and by my love to Greece,
I’ll bring before you that lost Hercules,
For whom you came to enquire.
_Telamon._ It works, it works--
_Hercules._ How have I lost myself!
Did we all this? Where is that spirit become,
That was in us? no marvel, Hercules,
That thou be’st strange to them, that thus disguised
Art to thyself unknown!--hence with this distaff,
And base effeminate chares; hence, womanish tires;
And let me once more be myself again.
Your pardon, Omphale!

* * * * *

I cannot take leave of this Drama without noticing a touch of the truest pathos, which the writer has put into the mouth of Meleager, as he is wasting away by the operation of the fatal brand, administered to him by his wretched Mother.

My flame encreaseth still--Oh father Œneus;
And you Althea, whom I would call Mother,
But that my genius prompts me thou’rt unkind:
_And yet farewell_!

What is the boasted “Forgive me, but forgive me!” of the dying wife of Shore in Rowe, compared with these three little words?

C. L.

* * * * *

~Topography.~

ST. MARGARET’S AT CLIFF.

_For the Table Book._

--------Stand still. How fearful
And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low!
The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air
Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen that walk upon the beach
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark,
Diminish’d to her cock; her cock, a buoy,
Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,
That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high.--

SHAKSPEARE.

The village of St. Margaret’s at Cliff is situated at a small distance from the South Foreland, and about a mile from the high road half way between Dover and Deal. It was formerly of some consequence, on account of its fair for the encouragement of traders, held in the precincts of its priory, which, on the dissolution of the monastic establishments by Henry VIII., losing its privilege, or rather its utility, (for the fair is yet held,) the village degenerated into an irregular group of poor cottages, a decent farm-house, and an academy for boys, one of the best commercial school establishments in the county of Kent. The church, though time has written strange defeatures on its mouldering walls, still bears the show of former importance; but its best claim on the inquisitive stranger is the evening toll of its single bell, which is generally supposed to be the curfew, but is of a more useful and honourable character. It was established by the testament of one of its inhabitants in the latter part of the seventeenth century, for the guidance of the wanderer from the peril of the neighbouring precipices, over which the testator fell, and died from the injuries he received. He bequeathed the rent of a piece of land for ever, to be paid to the village sexton for tolling the bell every evening at eight o’clock, when it should be dark at that hour.

The cliffs in the range eastward of Dover to the Foreland are the most precipitous, but not so high as Shakspeare’s. They are the resort of a small fowl of the widgeon species, but something less than the widgeon, remarkable for the size of its egg, which is larger than the swan’s, and of a pale green, spotted with brown; it makes its appearance in May, and, choosing the most inaccessible part of the precipice, deposits its eggs, two in number, in holes, how made it is difficult to prove: when the young bird is covered with a thin down, and before any feathers appear, it is taken on the back of the parent, carried to the sea, and abandoned to its own resources, which nature amply supplies means to employ, in the myriads of mackerel fry that at that season colour the surface of the deep with a beautiful pale green and silver. This aquatic wanderer is said to confine its visit to the South Foreland and the seven cliffs at Beachy-head, and is known by the name of Willy. Like the gull, it is unfit for the table, but valuable for the downy softness of its feathers.

It was in this range of Dover cliffs that Joe Parsons, who for more than forty years had exclusively gathered samphire, broke his neck in 1823. Habit had rendered the highest and most difficult parts of these awful precipices as familiar to this man as the level below. Where the overhanging rock impeded his course, a rope, fastened to a peg driven into a cliff above, served him to swing himself from one projection to another: in one of these dangerous attempts this fastening gave way, and he fell to rise no more. Joe had heard of Shakspeare, and felt the importance of a hero. It was his boast that he was a king too powerful for his neighbours, who dared not venture to disturb him in his domain; that nature alone was his lord, to whom he paid no quittance. All were free to forage on his grounds, but none ventured. Joe was twice wedded; his first rib frequently attended and looked to the security of his ropes, and would sometimes terrify him with threats to cast him loose; a promise of future kindness always ended the parley, and a thrashing on the next quarrel placed Joe again in peril. Death suddenly took Judith from this vale of tears; Parsons awoke in the night and found her brought up in an everlasting roadstead: like a true philosopher and a quiet neighbour, Joe took his second nap, and when day called out the busy world to begin its matin labour, Joe called in the nearest gossip to see that all was done that decency required for so good a wife. His last helpmate survives her hapless partner. No one has yet taken possession of his estate. The inquisitive and firm-nerved stranger casts his eyes below in vain: he that gathered samphire is himself gathered. The anchored bark, the skiff, the choughs and crows, the fearful precipice, and the stringy root, growing in unchecked abundance, bring the bard and Joe Parsons to remembrance, but no one now attempts the “dreadful trade.”

K. B.

* * * * *

TO A SEA-WEED

PICKED UP AFTER A STORM.

Exotic!--from the soil no tiller ploughs,
Save the rude surge;--fresh stripling from a grove
Above whose tops the wild sea-monsters rove,
--Have not the genii harbour’d in thy boughs,
Thou filmy piece of wonder!--have not those
Who still the tempest, for thy rescue strove,
And stranded thee thus fair, the might to prove
Of spirits, that the caves of ocean house?

How else, from capture of the giant-spray,
Hurt-free escapest thou, slight ocean-flower?
--As if Arachne wove, thus faultless lay
The full-develop’d forms of fairy-bower;
--Who that beholds thee thus, nor with dismay
Recalls thee struggling thro’ the storm’s dark hour![101]

[101] Poems and Translations from Schiller.

* * * * *

MARRIAGE OF THE SEA.

The doge of Venice, accompanied by the senators, in the greatest pomp, marries the sea every year.

Those who judge of institutions by their appearance only, think this ceremony an indecent and extravagant vanity; they imagine that the Venetians annually solemnize this festival, because they believe themselves to be masters of the sea. But the wedding of the sea is performed with the most noble intentions.

The sea is the symbol of the republic: of which the doge is the first magistrate, but not the master; nor do the Venetians wish that he should become so. Among the barriers to his domination, they rank this custom, which reminds him that he has no more authority over the republic, which he governs with the senate, than he has over the sea, notwithstanding the marriage he is obliged to celebrate with her. The ceremony symbolizes the limits of his power, and the nature of his obligations.

* * * * *

OLD COIN INSCRIPTIONS.

To read an inscription on a silver coin which, by much wear, is become wholly obliterated, put the poker in the fire; when red hot, place the coin upon it, and the inscription will plainly appear of a greenish hue, but will disappear as the coin cools. This method was practised at the Mint to discover the genuine coin when the silver was last called in.

* * * * *

THE LADY AND THE TROUBADOUR.

_For the Table Book._

[Emeugarde, daughter of Jacques de Tournay, Lord of Croiton, in
Provence, becoming enamoured of a Troubadour, by name Enguilbert de
Marnef, who was bound by a vow to repair to the Camp of the Crusaders
in Palestine, besought him on the eve of his departure to suffer her
to accompany him: de Marnef at first resolutely refused; but at
length, overcome by her affectionate solicitations, assented, and was
joined by her the same night, after her flight from her father’s
chastel, in the garb of a guild brother of the joyeuse science.

CHRONIQUE DE POUTAILLER]

Enguilbert! oh Enguilbert, the sword is in thine hand,
Thou hast vowed before our Lady’s shrine to seek the Sainted land:
--Thou goest to fight for glory--but what will _glory_ be,
If thou lov’st me, and return’st to find a tomb and dust for _me_?

Look on me Enguilbert, for I have lost the shame
That should have stayed these tears and prayers from one of
Tournay’s name:
--Look on me, my own bright-eyed Love--oh wilt thou leave me--say
To droop as sunless flowers do, lacking thee--light of _my_ day?

Oh say that I may wend with thee--I’ll doff my woman’s ’tire,
Sling my Father’s sword unto my side, and o’er my back my lyre:
I’ll roam with thee a Troubadour, by day--by night, thy bride--
--Speak Enguilbert--say _yes_,--or see my heart break if denied.

Oh shouldst thou fall, my Enguilbert, whose lips thy wounds will
close?--
Who but thine own fond Emeugarde should watch o’er thy repose?
And pierced, and cold her faithful breast must be e’er spear or
sword
Should ought of harm upon thee wreak, my Troubadour--my Lord.

--Nay smile not at my words, sweet-heart--the Goss hath slender beak
But brings its quarry nobly down--I _love_ tho’ I am _weak_
--My Blood hath coursed thro’ Charlemagne’s veins, and better it
should _flow_
Upon the field with Infidels’, than here _congeal_ with woe.

--Ah Enguilbert--my soul’s adored! the tear is in thine eye;
Thou wilt not--can’st not leave me like the widowed dove to die:
--No--no--thine arm is round me--that kiss on my hot brow
Spoke thy assent, my bridegroom love,--_we are_ ONE _for ever now_.

J. J. K.

* * * * *

THE GOLDEN TOOTH.

In 1593, it was reported that a Silesian child, seven years old, had lost all its teeth, and that a golden tooth had grown in the place of a natural double one.

In 1595, Horstius, professor of medicine in the university of Helmstadt, wrote the history of this golden tooth. He said it was partly a natural event, and partly miraculous, and that the Almighty had sent it to this child, to console the Christians for their persecution by the Turks.

In the same year, Rullandus drew up another account of the golden tooth.

Two years afterwards, Ingosteterus, another learned man, wrote against the opinion which Rullandus had given on this tooth of gold. Rullandus immediately replied in a most elegant and erudite dissertation.

Libavius, a very learned man, compiled all that had been said relative to this tooth, and subjoined his remarks upon it.

Nothing was wanting to recommend these erudite writings to posterity, but proof that the tooth was gold--a goldsmith examined it, and found it a natural tooth artificially gilt.

* * * * *

LE REVENANT.

“There are but two classes of persons in the world--those who are
hanged, and those who are not hanged: and it has been my lot to belong
to the former.”

There is a pathetic, narrative, under the preceding title and motto in “Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine,” of the present month, (April, 1827.) It is scarcely possible to abridge or extract from it, and be just to its writer. Perhaps the following specimen may induce curiosity to the perusal of the entire paper in the journal just named.

“I have been _hanged_, and am _alive_,” says the narrator. “I was a clerk in a Russia broker’s house, and fagged between Broad-street Buildings and Batson’s coffee-house, and the London-docks, from nine in the morning to six in the evening, for a salary of fifty pounds a-year. I did this--not contentedly--but I endured it; living sparingly in a little lodging at Islington for two years; till I fell in love with a poor, but very beautiful girl, who was honest where it was very hard to be honest; and worked twelve hours a-day at sewing and millinery, in a mercer’s shop in Cheapside, for half a guinea a-week. To make short of a long tale--this girl did not know how poor I was; and, in about six months, I committed seven or eight forgeries, to the amount of near two hundred pounds. I was seized one morning--I expected it for weeks--as regularly as I awoke--every morning--and carried, after a very few questions, for examination before the lord mayor. At the Mansion-house I had nothing to plead. Fortunately my motions had not been watched; and so no one but myself was implicated in the charge--as no one else was really guilty. A sort of instinct to try the last hope made me listen to the magistrate’s caution, and remain silent; or else, for any chance of escape I had, I might as well have confessed the whole truth at once. The examination lasted about half an hour; when I was fully committed for trial, and sent away to Newgate.

“The shock of my first arrest was very slight indeed; indeed I almost question if it was not a relief, rather than a shock, to me. For months, I had known perfectly that my eventual discovery was certain. I tried to shake the thought of this off; but it was of no use--I dreamed of it even in my sleep; and I never entered our counting-house of a morning, or saw my master take up the cash-book in the course of the day, that my heart was not up in my mouth, and my hand shook so that I could not hold the pen--for twenty minutes afterwards, I was sure to do nothing but blunder. Until, at last, when I saw our chief clerk walk into the room, on new year’s morning, with a police officer, I was as ready for what followed, as if I had had six hours’ conversation about it. I do not believe I showed--for I am sure I did not feel it--either surprise or alarm. My ‘fortune,’ however, as the officer called it, was soon told. I was apprehended on the 1st of January; and the sessions being then just begun, my time came rapidly round. On the 4th of the same month, the London grand jury found three bills against me for forgery; and, on the evening of the 5th, the judge exhorted me to ‘prepare for death;’ for ‘there was no hope that, in this world, mercy could be extended to me.’

“The whole business of my trial and sentence passed over as coolly and formally as I would have calculated a question of interest, or summed up an underwriting account. I had never, though I lived in London, witnessed the proceedings of a criminal court before; and I could hardly believe the composure and indifference--and yet civility--for there was no show of anger or ill-temper--with which I was treated; together with the apparent perfect insensibility of all the parties round me, while I was rolling on--with a speed which nothing could check, and which increased every moment--to my ruin! I was called suddenly up from the dock, when my turn for trial came, and placed at the bar; and the judge asked, in a tone which had neither severity about it, nor compassion--nor carelessness, nor anxiety--nor any character or expression whatever that could be distinguished--‘If there was any counsel appeared for the prosecution?’ A barrister then, who seemed to have some consideration--a middle aged, gentlemanly-looking man--stated the case against me--as he said he would do--very ‘fairly and forbearingly;’ but, as soon as he read the facts from his brief, ‘that only’--I heard an officer of the gaol, who stood behind me, say--‘put the rope about my neck.’ My master then was called to give his evidence; which he did very temperately--but it was conclusive. A young gentleman, who was my counsel, asked a few questions in cross-examination, after he had carefully looked over the indictment: but there was nothing to cross-examine upon--I knew that well enough--though I was thankful for the interest he seemed to take in my case. The judge then told me, I thought more gravely than he had spoken before--‘That it was time for me to speak in my defence, if I had any thing to say.’ I had nothing to say. I thought one moment to drop down upon my knees, and beg for mercy; but, again--I thought it would only make me look ridiculous; and I only answered--as well as I could--‘That I would not trouble the court with any defence.’ Upon this, the judge turned round, with a more serious air still, to the jury, who stood up all to listen to him as he spoke. And I listened too--or tried to listen attentively--as hard as I could; and yet--with all I could do--I could not keep my thoughts from wandering! For the sight of the court--all so orderly, and regular, and composed, and formal, and well satisfied--spectators and all--while I was running on with the speed of wheels upon smooth soil downhill, to destruction--seemed as if the whole trial were a dream, and not a thing in earnest! The barristers sat round the table, silent, but utterly unconcerned, and two were looking over their briefs, and another was reading a newspaper; and the spectators in the galleries looked on and listened as pleasantly, as though it were a matter not of death going on, but of pastime or amusement; and one very fat man, who seemed to be the clerk of the court, stopped his writing when the judge began, but leaned back in his chair, with his hands in his breeches’ pockets, except once or twice that he took a snuff; and not one living soul seemed to take notice--they did not seem to know the fact--that there was a poor, desperate, helpless creature--whose days were fast running out--whose hours of life were even with the last grains in the bottom of the sand-glass--among them! I lost the whole of the judge’s charge--thinking of I know not what--in a sort of dream--unable to steady my mind to any thing, and only biting the stalk of a piece of rosemary that lay by me. But I heard the low, distinct whisper of the foreman of the jury, as he brought in the verdict--‘GUILTY,’--and the last words of the judge, saying--‘that I should be hanged by the neck until I was dead;’ and bidding me ‘prepare myself for the next life, for that my crime was one that admitted of no mercy in this.’ The gaoler then, who had stood close by me all the while, put his hand quickly upon my shoulder, in an under voice, telling me, to ‘Come along!’ Going down the hall steps, two other officers met me; and, placing me between them, without saying a word, hurried me across the yard in the direction back to the prison. As the door of the court closed behind us, I saw the judge fold up his papers, and the jury being sworn in the next case. Two other culprits were brought up out of the dock; and the crier called out for--‘The prosecutor and witnesses against James Hawkins, and Joseph Sanderson, for burglary!’

“I had no friends, if any in such a case could have been of use to me--no relatives but two; by whom--I could not complain of them--I was at once disowned.--There was but one person then in all the world that seemed to belong to me; and that one was Elizabeth Clare! And, when I thought of her, the idea of all that was to happen to myself was forgotten--I covered my face with my hands, and cast myself on the ground; and I wept, for I was in desperation.--She had gone wild as soon as she had heard the news of my apprehension--never thought of herself, but confessed her acquaintance with me. The result was, she was dismissed from her employment--and it was her only means of livelihood.

“She had been every where--to my master--to the judge that tried me--to the magistrates--to the sheriffs--to the aldermen--she had made her way even to the secretary of state! My heart did misgive me at the thought of death; but, in despite of myself, I forgot fear when I missed her usual time of coming, and gathered from the people about me how she was employed. I had no thought about the success or failure of her attempt. All my thoughts were--that she was a young girl, and beautiful--hardly in her senses, and quite unprotected--without money to help, or a friend to advise her--pleading to strangers--humbling herself perhaps to menials, who would think her very despair and helpless condition, a challenge to infamy and insult. Well, it mattered little! The thing was no worse, because I was alive to see and suffer from it. Two days more, and all would be over; the demons that fed on human wretchedness would have their prey. She would be homeless--pennyless--friendless--she would have been the companion of a forger and a felon; it needed no witchcraft to guess the termination.----

“We hear curiously, and read every day, of the visits of friends and relatives to wretched criminals condemned to die. Those who read and hear of these things the most curiously, have little impression of the sadness of the reality. It was six days after my first apprehension, when Elizabeth Clare came, for the last time, to visit me in prison! In only these short six days her beauty, health, strength--all were gone; years upon years of toil and sickness could not have left a more worn-out wreck. Death--as plainly as ever death spoke--sat in her countenance--she was broken-hearted. When she came, I had not seen her for two days. I could not speak, and there was an officer of the prison with us too: I was the property of the law now; and my mother, if she had lived, could not have blest, or wept for me, without a third person, and that a stranger, being present. I sat down by her on my bedstead, which was the only place to sit on in my cell, and wrapped her shawl close round her, for it was very cold weather, and I was allowed no fire; and we sat so for almost an hour without exchanging a word.----

* * * * *

“She was got away, on the pretence that she might make one more effort to save me, with a promise that she should return again at night. The master was an elderly man, who had daughters of his own; and he promised--for he saw I knew how the matter was--to see Elizabeth safe through the crowd of wretches among whom she must pass to quit the prison. She went, and I knew that she was going for ever. As she turned back to speak as the door was closing, I knew that I had seen her for the last time. The door of my cell closed. We were to meet no more on earth. I fell upon my knees--I clasped my hands--my tears burst out afresh--and I called on God to bless her.”----

The mental and bodily sufferings of the condemned man in his cell, his
waking dreams, and his dead sleep till the morning of execution,
though of intense interest in the narrative, are omitted here that the
reader may at once accompany the criminal to the place of
execution.----

“I remember beginning to move forward through the long arched passages
which led from the press-room to the scaffold. I saw the lamps that
were still burning--for the daylight never entered here: I heard the
quick tolling of the bell, and the deep voice of the chaplain reading
as he walked before us--

‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth
in me, though he were dead, shall live. And though after my skin
worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God!’

“It was the funeral service--the order for the grave--the office for those that were senseless and dead--over us, the quick and the living----

“I felt once more--and saw! I felt the transition from these dim, close, hot, lamp-lighted subterranean passages, to the open platform and steps at the foot of the scaffold, and to day. I saw the immense crowd blackening the whole area of the street below me. The windows of the shops and houses opposite, to the fourth story, choked with gazers. I saw St. Sepulchre’s church through the yellow fog in the distance, and heard the pealing of its bell. I recollect the cloudy, misty morning; the wet that lay upon the scaffold--the huge dark mass of building, the prison itself, that rose beside, and seemed to cast a shadow over us--the cold, fresh breeze, that, as I emerged from it, broke upon my face. I see it all now--the whole horrible landscape is before me. The scaffold--the rain--the faces of the multitude--the people clinging to the house-tops--the smoke that beat heavily downwards from the chimneys--the waggons filled with women, staring in the inn-yards opposite--the hoarse low roar that ran through the gathered crowd as we appeared. I never saw so many objects at once so plainly and distinctly in all my life as at that one glance; but it lasted only for an instant.

“From that look, and from that instant, all that followed is a blank----”

To what accident the narrator owes his existence is of little consequence, compared with the moral to be derived from the sad story.--“The words are soon spoken, and the act is soon done, which dooms a wretched creature to an untimely death; but bitter are the pangs--and the sufferings of the body are among the least of them--that he must go through before he arrives at it!”

In the narrative there is more than seems to be expressed. By all who advocate or oppose capital punishment--by every being with a human heart, and reasoning powers--it should be read complete in the pages of “Blackwood.”

*

Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true,
In heart byeth blithe an’ mellow,
Bestow the praise that’s fairly due
To this bluff, honest fellow--
And when he’s hamper’d i’ the dust,
Still i’ wor memory springin’,
The times we’ve run till like to brust
To hear blind Willie singin’.

NEWCASTLE SONG.

WILLIAM PURVIS, or, as he is generally styled, blind Willie, is a well-known character, and native of Newcastle, where he has resided since his infancy. He was born blind, and is the son of Margaret Purvis, who died in All Saints’ workhouse, February 7, 1819, in her hundredth year.

Willie is, indeed, as the ingenious Mr. Sykes calls him in his “Local Records,” a “famous musician,” for he has long been celebrated for his minstrelsy throughout the northern counties, but more particularly so in Northumberland. In Newcastle, Willie is respected by all--from the rudest to the gentlest heart all love him--children seize his hand as he passes--and he is ever an equally welcome guest at the houses of the rich and the hovels of the pitmen. The hoppings of the latter are cheered by the soul-inspiring sound of his viol: nay, he is, I may truly say, a very particle of a pitman’s existence, who, after a hard day’s labour, considers it a pleasure of the most exquisite nature to repair to some neighbouring pot-house, there to enjoy Willie’s music, and listen to the rude ballads he is in the habit of composing and singing to the accompaniment of his own music. Poor Willie! may he live long and live happy. When he dies many a tear will fall from eyes that seldom weep, and hearts that know little of the more refined sensations of our nature will heave a sigh. Willie will die, but not his fame will die. In many of those humorous provincial songs, with which Newcastle abounds more than any other town I am acquainted with--the very airs as well as the words of which possess a kind of local nationality--“Blind Willie” is the theme. These songs are the admiration of all who know how to appreciate genuine humour; several of them have been sung for years, and I venture to prophecy, will be sung by future generations.

Among the characters who have noticed “Willie” may be mentioned the present duke of Northumberland, sir Matthew White Ridley, the late Stephen Kemble, Esq. and the admirable comedian Matthews. Sir Matthew White Ridley is a most particular favourite with “Willie,” and it is no uncommon occurrence to hear Willie, as he paces along the streets of Newcastle, muttering to himself “Sir Maffa! sir Maffa! canny sir Maffa! God bless sir Maffa!”

One of Willie’s greatest peculiarities is thus alluded to by Mr. Sykes:--“He has travelled the streets of Newcastle time out of mind without a covering upon his head. Several attempts have been made, by presenting him with a hat, to induce him to wear one, but after having _suffered_ it for a day or two it is thrown aside, and the minstrel again becomes uncovered, preferring the exposure of his pate to the ‘pelting of the pitiless storm.’” The likeness that accompanies this notice is from a large quarto engraving, published at Newcastle, and will doubtless be acceptable to numerous readers of that populous district wherein blind Willie is so popular.

* * * * *

FARMERS.

IN

1722.

Man to the plough;
Wife to the cow;
Girl to the sow;
Boy to the mow;
And your rents will be netted.

1822.

Man tally-ho;
Miss piano;
Wife silk and satin;
Boy Greek and Latin;
And you’ll all be _Gazetted_.

G.[102]

[102] The Times.

* * * * *

A REVERIE.

_For the Table Book._

----On a cool delightful evening which succeeded one of the scorching days of last summer, I sallied forth for a walk in the neighbourhood of the city of ----. Chance led me along a path usually much frequented, which was then covered thick with the accumulated dust of a long drought; it bore the impression of a thousand busy feet, of every variety of form and size; from the first steps of the infant, whose nurse had allowed it to toddle his little journey to the outstretched arms of her who was almost seated to receive him, to the hobnailed slouch of the carter, whose dangling lash and dusty jacket annoyed the well-dressed throng. But three pair of footsteps, which were so perfect that they could not long have preceded my own, more than all, attracted my attention; those on the left certainly bore the impress of the delicately formed foot of a female; the middle ones were shaped by the ample square-toed, gouty shoe of a senior; and those on the right were as certainly placed there by the Wellington boot of some dandy; they were extravagantly right and left, the heel was small and high, for the middle of the foot did not tread on earth.--My imagination was instantly at work, to tenant these “leathern conveniences;” the last-mentioned I felt so certain were inhabited by an officer of the lancers, or an hussar who had witnessed Waterloo’s bloody fight, that I could almost hear the tinkle of his military spur. I pictured him young, tall, handsome, with black mustachios, dark eyes, and, as the poet says,

“His nose was large with curved line
Which some men call the aquiline,
And some do say the Romans bore
Such noses ’fore them to the war.”

The strides were not so long as a tall man would make, but this I accounted for by supposing they were accommodated to the hobbling gait of the venerable gentleman in the centre, who I imagined “of the old school,” and to wear one of those few self-important wigs, which remain in this our day of sandy scratches. As these powdered coverings never look well without a three cocked hat, I had e’en placed one upon it, and almost edged it with gold lace, which, however, would not do--it had rather loo much of by-gone days:--to my “mind’s eye” he was clothed in a snuff-coloured suit, and one of his feet, which was not too gouty to admit of a leather shoe, had upon it a large silver buckle. My “high fancy” formed the lady a charming creature, sufficiently _en bon point_, with an exceedingly genteel figure; not such as two parallel lines would describe, but rather broad on the shoulders, gently tapering to the waist, then gradually increasing in a delicately flowing outline, such as the “statue that enchants the world” would exhibit, if animated and clothed in the present fashionable dress; her voice, of course, was delightful, and the mild expression of her face to be remembered through life--it could not be forgotten; in short, she was as Sterne says, “all that the heart wishes or the eye looks for in woman.” My reverie had now arrived at its height, my canvass was full, my picture complete, and I was enjoying the last delicate touches of creative fancy, when a sudden turn in the road placed before me three persons, who, on a moment’s reflection, I felt constrained to acknowledge as the authors of the footsteps which had led me into such a pleasing delusion; but--no more like the trio of my imagination, than “Hyperion to a satyr!” The dandy had red hair, the lady a red nose, and the middle man was a gouty sugar-baker; all very good sort of people, no doubt, except that they overthrew my aerial castle. I instantly retraced my steps, and was foolish enough to be sulky, nay, a very “anatomie of melancholy;” till a draught of “Burton’s” liquid amber at supper made me friends with the world again----

ETA.

* * * * *

HIGHLAND TRADITION.

MACGREGOR.

About the middle of the sixteenth century, the eldest son of Lamond, of Cowel, in Argyleshire, was hunting the red deer in Glenfine. At the same time the only son of Macgregor, of Glenstrae, the chief of that once powerful clan, was on a similar excursion in the same place, which was the boundary between the extensive territories of these two great families. Young Lamond had pierced a prime hart with an arrow; and the noble animal, galled by the shaft, which stuck in the wound, plunged into the river, and bent his course into Macgregor’s country. He was followed by Lamond, who outran all his companions. It unfortunately fell out, that a hart had been wounded by the young Macgregor at the same time, among his own hills. The two deer crossed each other in their flight, and the first that fell was claimed by both the hunters. The youths, flushed by the ardour of the chase, and totally unknown to each other, hotly disputed. They were armed, as was the fashion of those days, and fought, and the young Macgregor fell. Lamond cut his way through the attendants, but was keenly pursued. Having wonderful fleetness of foot, he made his way forward; and ignorant of the country and of the people, and almost exhausted with thirst, hunger, anguish, and fatigue, rushed into the house of Macgregor of Glenstrae, on whose mercy he threw himself, telling him that he had slain a man. Macgregor received him, and had given him refreshment, when the pursuers arrived, and told the unfortunate man the woful tale--that his son had fallen--his only child--the last of his ancient race--the hope of his life--the stay of his age. The old man was at this period left surrounded by enemies crafty and powerful--he, friendless and alone. The youth was possessed of every virtue that a father’s heart could wish; his destroyer was now in his hands; but he had pledged his promise for his safety, and that pledge must be redeemed. It required all the power and influence of the aged chief to restrain the fury of his people from slaying young Lamond at the moment; and even that influence, great as it was, could only protect him, on an assurance that on the next morning his life should be solemnly sacrificed for their beloved Gregor.

In the middle of the night, Macgregor led Lamond forth by the hand, and, aware of his danger, himself accompanied him to the shore of Lochfine, where he procured a boat, made Lamond enter it, and ordered the boatmen to convey him safely across the loch into his own country. “I have now performed my promise,” said the old man, “and henceforth I am your enemy--beware the revenge of a father for his only son!”

Before this fatal event occurred, the persecution against the unfortunate Macgregors had commenced, and this sad accident did not contribute to diminish it. The old laird of Glenstrae struggled hard to maintain his estate and his independence, but his enemies prevailed against him. The conduct of young Lamond was grateful and noble. When he succeeded to the ample possessions of his ancestors, he beseeched old Macgregor to take refuge under his roof. There the aged chief was treated as a father, and ended his days.

* * * * *

HY-JINKS.

A SCOTCH AMUSEMENT.

This is a drunken sort of game.--The _queff_, or cup, is filled to the brim, then one of the company takes a pair of dice, and cries “Hy-jinks,” and throws. The number he casts points out the person that must drink; he who threw beginning at himself number one, and so round, till the number of the person agree with that of the dice, (which may fall upon himself, if the number be within twelve,) then he sets the dice to him, or bids him take them. He on whom they fall is obliged to drink, or pay a small sum of money as forfeit; then he throws and so on: but if he forgets to cry “Hy-jinks” he pays a forfeiture. Now, he, on whom it falls to drink, gets all the forfeited money in the bank, if he drinks, and orders the cup to be filled again, and then throws. If he errs in the articles, he loses the privilege of drawing the money. The articles are (1 _drink_;) 2 _draw_; 3 _fill_; 4 _cry_ “Hy-jinks;” 5 _count just_; 6 _choose your double man_; viz. when two equal numbers of the dice is thrown, the person whom you choose must pay double forfeit, and so must you when the dice is in his hand.

A rare project this, and no bubble I can assure you, for a covetous fellow may save money, and get himself as drunk as he can desire in less than an hour’s time.[103]

S. S. S.

[103] Notes on Allan Ramsay’s Elegy upon Maggy Johnston.

* * * * *