Chapter II: The Horse Eclipse (5)

How must his soul have been oppress’d,
As intimates dropp’d from his side!
And he, almost unknown, was left
Alone,--upon this desert wide!
Wife--children--friends--all, all were gone,
And he left in the world alone!

His youthful friends had long grown old,
And then were number’d with the dead;
His step had totter’d, sight grown dim,
And ev’ry source of pleasure fled;
By nature’s law such must have been,
Th’ effect of the long years he’d seen!

But then the record nought supplied,
How he had spent this length’ned life;
Whether in peace and quietness,
Or had he worried been with strife:
Perhaps the muse to him had given
Visions of glory, fire from Heaven!

All is conjecture! He was laid
Beneath the cold, unfeeling clay,
His fame--if he had sigh’d for fame--
Had from remembrance pass’d away.
Hope, joy, fear, sorrow, all were fled,
And he lay number’d with the dead!

Oh! cold and cheerless is the thought,
That I shall be as he is now;
My very name remember’d not,
And fame’s wreath wither’d on my brow:
Of me no record be supplied,
But that I liv’d, and that I died!

Such is the tone of sorrowing thought
That through my heart has often past,
As, on a summer’s brightning eve,
A look upon those graves I’ve cast,
Where youth and age together lie,
Emblems of frail mortality!

O. N. Y.

* * * * *

THE WHITE LADY.

A ROMANTIC AND TRUE ANECDOTE.

At Nottingham, a year or two ago, Sophia Hyatt, in consequence of extreme deafness, was accidentally run over by a carrier’s cart, at the entrance of the Maypole inn-yard, and unfortunately killed. She had arrived that morning in a gig from Newstead Papplewick, or somewhere in that neighbourhood, and had been, for the three or four preceding years, a lodger in one of the farm-houses belonging to colonel Wildman, at Newstead Abbey. No one knew exactly from whence she came, nor what were her connections. Her days were passed in rambling about the gardens and grounds of the abbey, to which, from the kindness of colonel Wildman, she had free access. Her dress was invariably the same; and she was distinguished by the servants at Newstead, as the “white lady.” She had ingratiated herself with the Newfoundland dog which came from Greece with the body of lord Byron, by regularly feeding him; and on the evening before the fatal accident, she was seen, on quitting the gardens, to cut off a small lock of the dog’s hair, which she carefully placed in her handkerchief. On that evening also, she delivered to Mrs. Wildman a sealed packet, with a request that it might not be opened till the following morning. The contents of the packet were no less interesting than surprising; they consisted of various poems in manuscript, written during her solitary walks, and all of them referring to the bard to whom Newstead once belonged. A letter, addressed to Mrs. Wildman, was enclosed with the poetry, written with much elegance of language and native feeling; it described her friendless situation, alluded to her pecuniary difficulties, thanked the family for their kind attention towards her, and stated the necessity she was under of removing for a short period from Newstead. It appeared from her statement, that she had connections in America, that her brother had died there, leaving a widow and family, and she requested colonel Wildman’s assistance to arrange certain matters, in which she was materially concerned. She concluded with declaring, that her only happiness in this world consisted in the privilege of being allowed to wander through the domain of Newstead, and to trace the various spots which had been consecrated by the genius of lord Byron. A most kind and compassionate note was conveyed to her immediately after the perusal of this letter, urging her, either to give up her journey, or to return to Newstead as quickly as possible. With the melancholy sequel the reader is acquainted. Colonel Wildman took upon himself the care of her interment, and she was buried in the church-yard of Hucknall, as near as possible to the vault which contains the body of lord Byron. The last poem she composed was the following: it seems to have been dictated by a melancholy foreboding of her fate.

MY LAST WALK IN THE GARDENS OF NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

Here no longer shall I wander
Lone, but in communion high,
Kindred spirits greet me--yonder
Glows the form that’s ever nigh.

Wrapt in blissful contemplation,
From that hill no more I gaze
On scenes as fair as when creation
Rose--the theme of seraphs’ lays.

And thou, fair sylph, that round its basis
Driv’st thy car, with milk-white steed;
Oft I watch’d its gentle paces--
Mark’d its track with curious heed.

Why? oh! why thus interesting,
Are forms and scenes to me unknown?
Oh you, the Muses’ power confessing,
Define the charm your bosoms own.

Why love to gaze or playful fountain,
Or lake, that bore him on its breast?
Lonely to wander o’er each mountain,
Grove, or plain, his feet have press’d?

It is because the Muses hover,
And all around, a halo shed;
And still must every fond adorer
Worship the shrine, the idol fled.

But ’tis past; and now for ever
Fancy’s vision’s bliss is o’er;
But to forget thee, Newstead--never,
Though I shall haunt thy shades no more.[207]

[207] Nottingham Review.

* * * * *

DUELS.

Duelling in England was carried to its greatest possible excess in the reigns of James I. and of the two Charles’s. In the reign of the latter Charles, the seconds always fought as well as their principals; and as they were chosen for their courage and adroitness, their combats were generally the most fatal. Lord Howard, of Carlisle, in the reign of Charles II., gave a grand fête champêtre at Spring Gardens, near the village of Charing, the Vauxhall of that day. This fête was to facilitate an intrigue between lord Howard and the profligate duchess of Shrewsbury: but the gay and insinuating Sidney flirted with the duchess, abstracted her attention from Howard, and ridiculed the fête. The next day his lordship sent a challenge to Sidney, who chose as his second a tall, furious, adroit swordsman, named Dillon; Howard selected a young gentleman, named Rawlings, just come into possession of an estate of 10,000_l._ a year. Sidney was wounded in two or three places, whilst his second was run through the heart, and left dead on the field. The duke of Shrewsbury became afterwards so irritated as to challenge the infamous Buckingham for intriguing with his wife. The duchess of Shrewsbury, in the disguise of a page, attended Buckingham to the field, and held his horse whilst he fought and killed her husband. The profligate king, in spite of every remonstrance from the queen, received the duke of Buckingham with open arms, after this brutal murder.

In 172 duels fought during the last sixty years, 69 persons were killed; (in three of these duels, neither of the combatants survived;) 96 persons were wounded, 48 desperately and 48 slightly; and 188 escaped unhurt. Thus, rather more than one-fifth lost their lives, and nearly one-half received the bullets of their antagonists. It appears also, that out of this number of duels, eighteen trials took place; six of the arraigned were acquitted, seven found guilty of manslaughter, and three of murder; two were executed, and eight imprisoned for different periods.

About thirty years ago, there was a duelling society held in Charleston, South Carolina, where each “gentleman” took precedence according to the numbers he had killed or wounded in duels. The president and deputy had killed many. It happened that an old weather-beaten lieutenant of the English navy arrived at Charleston, to see after some property which had devolved upon him, in right of a Charleston lady, whom he had married; and on going into a coffee-house, engaged in conversation with a native, whose insults against England were resented, and the English lieutenant received a challenge. As soon as the affair was known, some gentlemen waited upon the stranger to inform him, that the man who had called him out was a duellist, a “dead shot,” the president of the duellist club; they added, that the society and all its members, though the wealthiest people of the place, were considered so infamous by really respectable persons, that he would not be held in disesteem by not meeting the challenger. The lieutenant replied, that he was not afraid of any duellist; he had accepted the challenge, and would meet his man. They accordingly did meet, and at the first fire the lieutenant mortally wounded his antagonist. In great agony, and conscience-stricken, he invoked the aid of several divines, and calling the “duellist society” to his bedside, lectured them upon the atrocity of their conduct, and begged, as his dying request, that the club might be broken up. The death of this ruffian suppressed a society which the country did not possess sufficient morals or gentlemanly spirit to subdue.

In Virginia, a Mr. Powell, a notorious duellist, purposely met and insulted an English traveller, for having said, that “the Virginians were of no use to the American Union, it requiring one half of the Virginians to keep the other half in order;” the newspapers took it up as a national quarrel, and anticipated the meeting, without the magistracy having decency, morals, or public spirit sufficient to interfere. The Englishman, therefore, got an American duellist as his second, went into training and practice, and met his adversary amidst a mob of many thousands to witness the fight. Mr. Powell was killed on the first shot, and the Englishman remained unhurt.

The brother of general Delancey, the late barrack-master general, having high words with a “gentleman” in a coffee-house at New York, the American immediately called for pistols, and insisted upon fighting in the public coffee-room, across one of the tables. None of the “gentlemen” present interfered; they fought across the table, and the American dishonestly firing before his time, the Englishman was shot dead upon the spot. Lately, at Nashville, a gentleman was shot dead before his own door, in a duel, in the principal square of the city.

In 1763, the secretary of the English treasury, Mr. Martin, notoriously trained himself as a duellist, for the avowed purpose of shooting Mr. Wilkes, whom he first insulted in the House of Commons, and afterwards wounded in the park. This gave rise to Churchill’s poem of “The Duellist;” the House of Commons ordered his majesty’s sergeant surgeon to attend Mr. Wilkes, and Mr. Martin was considered to “have done the state some service.”

At that period duels were frequent among clergymen. In 1764, the _Rev._ Mr. Hill was killed in a duel by cornet Gardener, of the carabineer. The _Reverend_ Mr. Bate fought two duels, and was subsequently created a baronet, and preferred to a deanery after he had fought another duel. The _Reverend_ Mr. Allen killed a Mr. Delany in a duel, in Hyde Park, without incurring any ecclesiastical censure, though judge Buller, on account of his extremely bad conduct, strongly charged his guilt upon the jury.

In 1765, occurred a celebrated duel between the father of the late lord Byron and Mr. Chaworth, a famous duellist. They quarrelled at a club-dinner at the Star and Garter, Pall Mall, about game; Chaworth was a great game preserver, and lord Byron had argued upon the cruelty and impolicy of the game laws. They agreed to fight in an adjoining room, by the light of only one candle. Lord Byron entered first; and, as Chaworth was shutting the door, turning his head round, he beheld lord Byron’s sword half undrawn; he immediately whipped his own weapon out, and making a lunge at his lordship, ran it through his waistcoat, conceiving that his sword had gone through his body: lord Byron closed, and, shortening his sword, stabbed Mr. Chaworth in the belly. The challenge had proceeded from Chaworth. Lord Byron read his defence to the House of Lords, and was found guilty of manslaughter; and, upon the privilege of his peerage, was discharged on paying his fees.

In 1772, a Mr. M‘Lean was challenged and killed by a Mr. Cameron; and the mother of Mr. M‘Lean, on hearing of the shocking event, instantly lost her senses, whilst a Miss M‘Leod, who was to have been married to the deceased, was seized with fits, and died in three days.

In Mr. Sheridan’s duel with Mr. Mathews, the parties cut and slashed at each other, _à la mode de théâtre_, until Mr. Mathews left a part of his sword sticking in Mr. Sheridan’s ear.

In a famous duel in which Mr. Riddell was killed, and Mr. Cunningham very severely wounded, the challenge, by mistake, had fallen in the first instance into the hands of sir James Riddell, father to Mr. Riddell, who, on having it delivered to him, did no more than provide surgeons for the event.

In 1789, colonel Lennox conceived himself to have been insulted by the late duke of York having told him, before all the officers on the parade of St. James’s, “that he desired to derive no protection from his rank of prince.” The colonel accordingly fought his royal highness, it was said, with cork bullets; but be that as it may, he contrived to disturb one of the huge rows of curls which it was then the fashion to wear on the side of the head.

In 1790, a captain Macrae fought and killed sir George Ramsay, for refusing to dismiss a faithful old servant who had insulted captain Macrae. Sir George urged, that even if the servant were guilty, he had been sufficiently punished by the cruel beating that captain Macrae had given him. As soon as the servant heard that his master had been killed on his account, he fell into strong convulsions, and died in a few hours. Captain Macrae fled, and was outlawed.

In 1797, colonel Fitzgerald, a married man, eloped from Windsor with his cousin, the daughter of lord Kingston. Colonel King, the brother, fought colonel Fitzgerald in Hyde Park. They fired six shots each without effect; and the powder being exhausted, colonel King called his opponent “a villain,” and they resolved to fight again next day. They were, however, put under an arrest, when colonel Fitzgerald had the audacity to follow lord Kingston’s family to Ireland, to obtain the object of his seduction from her parents. Colonel King hearing of this, repaired to the inn where colonel Fitzgerald put up. Colonel Fitzgerald had locked himself in his room, and refused admission to colonel King, who broke open the door, and running to a case of pistols, seized one, and desired colonel Fitzgerald to take the other. The parties grappled, and were fighting, when lord Kingston entered the room; and perceiving, from the position of the parties, that his son must lose his life, instantly shot Fitzgerald dead on the spot.

In 1803, a very singular duel took place in Hyde Park, between a lieutenant W., of the navy, and a captain I., of the army. Captain I. had seduced the lieutenant’s sister. Lieutenant W. seemed impressed with a deep sense of melancholy: he insisted that the distance should be only six paces. At this distance they fired, and the shot of captain I. struck the guard of lieutenant W.’s pistol, and tore off two fingers of his right hand. The lieutenant deliberately wrapped his handkerchief round the wound, and looking solemnly to heaven, exclaimed, “I have a left hand, which never failed me.” They again took their ground. Lieutenant W. looked steadfastly at captain I., and casting his eyes up to heaven, was heard to utter “forgive me.” They fired, and both fell. Captain I. received the ball in his head, and died instantly: the lieutenant was shot through the breast. He inquired if captain I.’s wound was mortal. Being answered in the affirmative, he thanked heaven that he had lived so long. He then took his mourning ring off his finger, and said to his second, “Give this to my sister, and tell her it is the happiest moment I ever knew.” He had scarcely uttered the last word, when a quantity of blood gushed from his wound, and he instantly expired.

These are practices in a _Christian_ country.

* * * * *

ANSWER TO A CHALLENGE.

At a late meeting under a commission of bankruptcy, at Andover, between Mr. FLEET and Mr. MANN, both respectable solicitors of that town, some disagreement arose, which ended in the former sending the latter a challenge, to which the following answer was returned.

_To Kingston Fleet, Esq._

I am honour’d this day, sir, with challenges two,
The first from friend Langdon, the second from you;
As the one is to _fight_, and the other to _dine_,
I accept _his_ “engagement,” and yours must decline.
Now, in giving this preference, I trust you’ll admit
I have acted with prudence, and done what was fit,
Since encountering _him_, and my weapon a knife,
There is some little chance of _preserving_ my life;
Whilst a bullet from you, sir, _might_ take it away,
And the maxim, you know, is to live while you may.
If, however, you still should suppose I ill-treat you,
By sternly rejecting this challenge to meet you,
Bear with me a moment, and I will adduce
Three powerful reasons by way of excuse:
In the first place, unless I am grossly deceiv’d,
I myself am in conscience the party aggriev’d;
And therefore, good sir, if a challenge _must_ be,
Pray wait till that challenge be _tender’d_ by _me_.
Again, sir, I think it by far the more sinful,
To stand and be shot, than to sit for a skinful;
From whence you’ll conclude (as I’d have you, indeed)
That fighting composes not part of my creed--
And my courage (which, though it was never disputed,
Is not, I imagine, too, too deeply rooted)
Would prefer that its fruit, sir, whate’er it may yield,
Should appear at “_the table_,” and not in “_the field_.”
And, lastly, _my life_, be it never forgot,
Possesses a value which _yours_, sir, does not;[208]
So I mean to preserve it as long as I can,
Being justly entitled “a family _Man_,”
With three or four children, (I scarce know how many,)
Whilst _you_, sir, have not, or _ought_ not, to have any.
Besides, that the contest would be too unequal,
I doubt not will plainly appear by the sequel:
For e’en _you_ must acknowledge it would not be meet
That one small “_Mann_ of war” should engage “a whole _Fleet_.”

_Andover, July 24, 1826._

[208] Mr. Fleet is a batchelor.

* * * * *

_SIGNS_ OF LOVE, AT OXFORD.

_By an Inn-consolable Lover._

She’s as light as the _Greyhound_, and fair as the _Angel_;
Her looks than the _Mitre_ more sanctified are;
But she flies like the _Roebuck_, and leaves me to range ill,
Still looking to her as my true polar _Star_.
_New Inn_-ventions I try, with new art to adore,
But my fate is, alas! to be voted a _Boar_;
My _Goats_ I forsook to contemplate her charms,
And must own she is fit for our noble _King’s Arms_.
Now _Cross’d_, and now _Jockey’d_, now sad, now elate,
The _Chequers_ appear but a map of my fate;
I blush’d like a _Blue-cur_ to send her a _Pheasant_,
But she call’d me a _Turk_, and rejected my present;
So I moped to the _Barley-mow_, griev’d in my mind,
That the _Ark_ from the flood ever rescu’d mankind!
In my dreams _Lions_ roar, and the _Green Dragon_ grins
And fiends rise in shape of the _Seven deadly_ sins.
When I ogle the _Bells_, should I see her approach,
I skip like a _Nag_ and jump into the _Coach_.
She is crimson and white, like a _Shoulder of Mutton_,
Not the red of the _Ox_ was so bright, when first put on:
Like the _Hollybush_ prickles, she scratches my liver,
While I moan, and I die like the _Swan_ by the river!

* * * * *

~Prolific Writers.~

The copiousness and the multiplicity of the writings of many authors, have shown that too many find a pleasure in the act of composition, which they do not communicate to others. Great erudition and every-day application is the calamity of that voluminous author, who, without good sense, and what is more rare, without that exquisite judgment which we call good taste is always prepared to write on any subject, but at the same time on no one reasonably. We are astonished at the fertility and the size of our own writers of the seventeenth century, when the theological war of words raged, spoiling so many pages and brains. They produced folio after folio, like almanacks. The truth is, that it was then easier to write up to a folio, than in our days to write down to an octavo; for correction, selection, and rejection, were arts as yet unpractised. They went on with their work, sharply or bluntly, like witless mowers, without stopping to whet their scythes. They were inspired by the scribbling demon of that rabbin, who, in his oriental style and mania of volume, exclaimed, that were “the heavens formed of paper, and were the trees of the earth pens, and if the entire sea run ink, these only could suffice” for the monstrous genius he was about to discharge on the world.

* * * * *

WILLIAM PRYNNE.

Prynne seldom dined: every three or four hours he munched a manchet, and refreshed his exhausted spirits with ale brought to him by his servant; and when “he was put into this road of writing,” as Anthony à Wood telleth, he fixed on “a long quilted cap, which came an inch over his eyes, serving as an umbrella to defend them from too much light;” and then, hunger nor thirst did he experience, save that of his voluminous pages. Prynne has written a library, amounting, perhaps, to nearly two hundred books. Our unlucky author, whose life was involved in authorship, and his happiness, no doubt, in the habitual exuberance of his pen, seems to have considered the being debarred from pen, ink, and books, during his imprisonment, as an act more barbarous than the loss of his ears. The extraordinary perseverance of Prynne in this fever of the pen appears in the following title of one of his extraordinary volumes, “Comfortable Cordials against discomfortable Fears of Imprisonment; containing some Latin Verses Sentences, and Texts of Scripture, _written by Mr. Wm. Prynne on his Chamber Walls_, in the Tower of London, during his Imprisonment there; translated by him into English Verse, 1641.” Prynne literally verified Pope’s description:--

“Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls,
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls.”

We have also a catalogue of printed books, written by Wm. Prynne, Esq., of Lincoln’s Inn, in these classes,

BEFORE, }
DURING, } _his imprisonment_,
and }
SINCE }

with this motto, “Jucundi acti labores,” 1643. The secret history of this voluminous author concludes with a characteristic event: a contemporary who saw Prynne in the pillory at Cheapside, informs us, that while he stood there they “burnt his huge volumes under his nose, which had almost suffocated him.”

* * * * *

FRENCH PAMPHLETEER.

One Catherinot all his life was printing a countless number of _feuilles volantes_ in history and on antiquities; each consisting of about three or four leaves in quarto: Lenglet du Fresnoy calls him “Grand auteur des petits livres.” This gentleman liked to live among antiquaries and historians; but with a crooked head-piece, stuck with whims, and hard with knotty combinations, all overloaded with prodigious erudition, he could not ease it at a less rate than by an occasional dissertation of three or four quarto pages. He appears to have published about two hundred pieces of this sort, much sought after by the curious for their rarity: Brunet complains he could never discover a complete collection. But Catherinot may escape “the pains and penalties” of our voluminous writers, for De Bure thinks he generously printed them to distribute among his friends. Such endless writers, provided they do not print themselves into an alms-house, may be allowed to print themselves out; and we would accept the apology which Monsieur Catherinot has framed for himself, which is preserved in _Beyeri Memoriæ Librorum Rariorum_. “I must be allowed my freedom in my studies, for I substitute my writings for a game at the tennis-court, or a club at the tavern; I never counted among my honours these _opuscula_ of mine, but merely as harmless amusements. It is my partridge, as with St. John the Evangelist; my cat, as with Pope St. Gregory; my little dog, as with St. Dominick; my lamb, as with St. Francis; my great black mastiff, as with Cornelius Agrippa; and my tame hare, as with Justus Lipsius.” Catherinot could never get a printer, and was rather compelled to study economy in his two hundred quartos of four or eight pages; his paper was of inferior quality, and when he could not get his dissertations into his prescribed number of pages, he used to promise the end at another time, which did not always happen. But his greatest anxiety was to publish and spread his works; in despair he adopted an odd expedient. Whenever Monsieur Catherinot came to Paris, he used to haunt the _quaies_ where books are sold, and while he appeared to be looking over them, he adroitly slided one of his own dissertations among these old books. He began this mode of publication early, and continued it to his last days. He died with a perfect conviction that he had secured his immortality; and in this manner he disposed of more than one edition of his unsaleable works.[209]

[209] D’Israeli.

* * * * *

LOVE’S PROGRESS OF A TOBACCONIST.

_For the Table Book._

1.

When bless’d with Fanny’s rosy smiles,
I thought myself in heaven;
Fanny is blooming twenty-two,
And I am--_thirty-seven_.

2.

I thought her deck’d with every grace,
Without one vice to _jar_,
Fresh as new _carrot_ was her face
And sweet as _Macabar_.

3.

Besides a person fair to view
She had a thousand pounds;
Not to be _sneezed at_--I had two,
And credit without bounds.

4.

Our courtship oft consisted in
Slight _taps_ and gentle _knocks_;
And when I gave her a small _pinch_,
She quick return’d a _box_.

5.

Howe’er, one morning, in a rage,
With me herself she put,
She call’d me _blackguard_, and declar’d
I was from thence _short cut_.

6.

In vain I tried the cause to _smoke_,
When she had ta’en offence;
In vain recall’d the words I spoke,
That she had deem’d _bad scents_.

7.

But soon a mutual friend contriv’d
Our quarrel up to botch;
Fanny confess’d her temper warm--
’Twas natural--she was _Scotch_.

8.

We married--snugly in my shop
Fanny’s become a fixture,
And all the neighbourhood declare,
We’re quite a _pleasant mixture_.

SAM SAM’S SON.

* * * * *

THE LORD CHANCELLOR.

The title of chancellor originated with the Romans. It was adopted by the church, and became a half ecclesiastic, and half lay office. The chancellor was intrusted with all public instruments which were authenticated; and when seals came into use, the custody of them was confided to that officer. The mere delivery of the king’s great seal, or the taking it away, is all the ceremony that is used in creating or unmaking a chancellor, the officer of the greatest weight and power subsisting in the kingdom. The first chancellor in England was appointed in the reign of William the Conqueror, and with only one exception, it was enjoyed by ecclesiastics until the time of Elizabeth, when such officers were called keepers of the great seal. From the time of sir Thomas More’s appointment, which took place in the reign of Henry VIII., there is only one instance of a clergyman having been elevated to the office--namely, Dr. Williams, dean of Westminster, in the time of James I.--The chancellor is a privy counsellor by office, and speaker of the house of lords by prescription. To him belongs the appointment of all justices of the peace throughout the kingdom. When the chancellor was an ecclesiastic, he became keeper of the king’s conscience, and remained so. He is also visitor of all hospitals and colleges of the king’s foundation. He is patron of all livings under twenty pounds per annum in the king’s book. He is the general guardian of all infants, idiots, and lunatics, and has the superintendence of all charitable institutions in the kingdom. He takes precedent of every temporal lord, except the royal family, and of all others, except the archbishop of Canterbury. It is declared treason by statute of Edward III. to slay the chancellor in his place, and doing his office.--In the year 1689, there were commissioners appointed for executing the office of lord chancellor.

* * * * *

~Anonymiana.~

THE GREAT LORD CHANCELLOR.

Sir Thomas More, when at the bar, is said to have undertaken only such causes as appeared just to his conscience, and never to have accepted a fee from a widow, orphan, or poor person; yet he acquired by his practice the considerable sum, in those days, of four hundred pounds per annum. When he rose to the height of his profession, his diligence was so great, that one day being in court he called for the next cause, on which it was answered, that there were no more suits in chancery. This made a punning bard of that time thus express himself:--

When _More_ some years had chancellor been,
No _more_ suits did remain;
The same shall never _more_ be seen.
Till _More_ be there again.

CHANCERY.

_Cancellæ_ are lattice-work, by which the chancels being formerly parted from the body of the church, they took their names from thence. Hence, too, the court of _chancery_ and the lord _chancellor_ borrowed their names, that court being enclosed with open work of that kind. And, so, to _cancel_ a writing is to _cross_ it out with the pen, which naturally makes something like the figure of a lattice.

DILIGENCE AND DELIGHT.

It is a common observation, that unless a man takes a _delight_ in a thing, he will never pursue it with pleasure or assiduity. _Diligentia_, diligence, is from _diligo_, to love.

PAMPHLET, PALM, PALMISTRY.

_Pamphlet._--This word is ancient, see Lilye’s Euphnes, p. 5; Lambarde’s Perambulation of Kent, p. 188; Hearne’s Cur. Disc. p. 130; Hall’s Chronicle, in Edward V. f. 2; Richard III. f. 32; Skelton, p. 47; Caxton’s Preface to his Virgil, where it is written _paunflethis_; Oldys’s British Librarian, p. 128; Nash, p. 3, 64; and also his preface, wherein he has the phrase, “to _pamphlet_ on a person” and _pampheleter_, p. 30.

The French have not the word pamphlet, and yet it seems to be of French extraction, and no other than _palm-feuillet_, a leaf to be held in the hand, a book being a thing of a greater weight. So the French call it now _feuille volante_, retaining one part of the compound.

_Palm_ is the old French word for _hand_, from whence we have _palmistry_, the _palm_ of the hand, a _palm_ or span, and to _palm_ a card, and from thence the metaphor of _palming_ any thing upon a person.

CAMBRIDGE WIT.

A gentleman of St. John’s College, Cambridge, having a clubbed foot, which occasioned him to wear a shoe upon it of a particular make, and with a high heel, one of the college wits called him _Bildad the shuhite_.

GRADUAL REFORM.

When lord Muskerry sailed to Newfoundland, George Rooke went with him a volunteer: George was greatly addicted to lying; and my lord, being very sensible of it, and very familiar with George, said to him one day, “I wonder you will not leave off this abominable custom of lying, George.” “I can’t help it,” said the other. “Puh!” says my lord, “it may be done by degrees; suppose you were to begin with uttering one truth a day.”

PRIVATE AND PUBLIC.

Charles II. spending a cheerful evening with a few friends, one of the company, seeing his majesty in good humour, thought it a fit time to ask him a favour, and was so absurd as to do so: after he had mentioned his suit, Charles instantly and very acutely replied, “Sir, you must ask your _king_ for that.”

A HUNDRED TO ONE.

“There were a hundred justices,” says one, “at the monthly meeting.” “A hundred,” says another. “Yes,” says he, “do you count, and I will name them. There was justice Balance, put down one; justice Hall, put down a cipher, he is nobody; justice House, you may put down another cipher for him--_one_ and _two ciphers_ are a _hundred_.”

* * * * *

THE CHILD OF MIGHT.

_For the Table Book._

War was abroad, and the fleeting gale
Loud, o’er the wife’s and the daughter’s wail,
Brought the summoning sound of the clarion’s blast--
Age and affection looked their last
On the valour and youth that went forth to the tomb--
Young eyes were bright at the nodding plume--
Banner and spear gleam’d in the sun--
And the laugh was loud as the day were won:
But the sun shall set, and--ere ’tis night,--
_Woe_ to thee, Child of Pride and Might.

’Tis the hour of battle, the hosts are met,
Pierc’d is the hauberk, cleft the bass’net:
Like a torrent the legions thunder’d on--
Lo! like its foam, they are vanish’d and gone
_Thou_ whom this day beauty’s arms carest,
The hoof of the fleeing spurns thy crest--
Thy _pride_ yet lives on thy dark brow’s height,
But, where is thy _power_, CHILD OF MIGHT?

J. J. K.

Vol. I.--24.

“Any New-River water here.”

This is another of the criers of a hundred years ago, and, it seems, he cried “_New-River_ water.” The cry is scarce, though scarcely extinct, in the environs of London.

I well remember the old prejudices of old-fashioned people in favour of water brought to the door, and their sympathy with the complaints of the water-bearer. “Fresh and fair new River-water! none of your pipe sludge!” vociferated the water-bearer. “Ah dear!” cried his customers, “Ah dear! Well, what’ll the world come to!--they wo’n’t let poor people live at all by and by--here they’re breaking up the ground, and we shall be all under water some day or other with their goings on--I’ll stick to the carrier as long as he has a pail-full and I’ve a penny, and when we haven’t we must all go to the workhouse together.” This was the talk and the reasoning of many honest people within my recollection, who preferred taxing themselves to the daily payment of a penny and often twopence to the water-carrier, in preference to having “Company’s-water” at eighteen shillings per annum. Persons of this order of mind were neither political economists nor domestic economists: they were, for the most part, simple and kind-hearted souls, who illustrated the ancient saying, that “the destruction of the poor is their poverty”--they have perished for “lack of knowledge.”

The _governing_ principle of Napoleon was, that “every thing must be done for the people, and nothing by them:” the ruling practice of the British people is to do every thing for themselves; and by the maintenance of this good old custom they have preserved individual freedom, and attained to national greatness. All our beneficial national works have originated with ourselves--our roads, our bridges, our canals, our water-companies, have all been constructed by our own enterprise, and in the order of our wants.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXI.

[From Sir Richard Fanshaw’s Translation of “Querer Por Solo Querer”--“To love for love’s sake”--a Romantic Drama, written in Spanish by Mendoza: 1649.]

_Felisbravo, Prince of Persia, from a Picture sent him of the brave Amazonian Queen of Tartary, Zelidaura, becoming enamoured, sets out for that realm; in his way thither disenchants a Queen of Araby; but first, overcome by fatigue, falls asleep in the Enchanted Grove, where Zelidaura herself coming by, steals the Picture from him. The passion of the Romance arises from his remorse at being taken so negligent; and her disdain that he should sleep, having the company of her Picture. She here plays upon him, who does not yet know her, in the disguise of a Rustic._

_Fel._ What a spanking Labradora!
_Zel._ You, the unkent Knight, God ye gud mora![210]
_Fel._ The time of day thou dost mistake.
_Zel._--and joy--
_Fel._--of what?
_Zel._ That I discover.
By a sure sign, you are awake.
_Fel._ Awake? the sign--
_Zel._ Your being a lover.
_Fel._ In love am I?
_Zel._--and very deep.
_Fel._ Deep in love! how is that seen?
_Zel._ Perfectly. You do not sleep.
_Fel._ Rustic Excellence, unscreen,
And discover that sweet face,
Which covers so much wit and grace.
_Zel._ You but dream so: sleep again,
And forget it.
_Fel._ Why, now, Saint?
_Zel._ Why, the Lady, that went in,[211]
Looks as if that she did paint.
_Fel._ What has that to do with sleeping?
She is indeed angelical.
_Zel._ _That_ picture now’s well worth your keeping.
For why? ’tis an original.
_Fel._ Is this Shepherdess a Witch?
Or saw the sleeping treason, which
I committed against Love
Erst, in the Enchanted Grove?
Me hast thou ever seen before?
_Zel._ Seen? aye, and know thee for a man
That will turn him, and sleep more
Than a dozen dunces can.
Thou ken’st little what sighs mean.
_Fel._ Unveil, by Jove, that face serene.
_Zel._ What, to make thee sleep again?
_Fel._ Still in riddles?
_Zel._ Now he sees:
This pinching wakes him by degrees.
_Fel._ Art thou a Nymph?
_Zel._ Of Parnass Green.
_Fel._ Sleep I indeed, or am I mad?
_Zel._ None serve thee but the Enchanted Queen?
I think what dull conceits ye have had
Of the bird Phœnix, which no eye
E’er saw; an odoriferous Lye:
How of her beauty’s spells she’s told;
That by her spirit thou art haunted;
And, having slept away the old,
With this new Mistress worse enchanted.
_Fel._ I affect not, Shepherdess,
Myself in such fine terms to express;
Sufficeth me an humble strain:
Too little happy to be vain.--
Unveil!
_Zel._ Sir Gallant, not so fast.
_Fel._ See thee I will.
_Zel._ See me you shall:
But touch not fruit you must not taste.

(_She takes off her veil._)

What says it, now the leaf doth fall?
_Fel._ It says, ’tis worthy to comprize
The kernel of so rare a wit:
Nor, that it grows in Paradise;
But Paradise doth grow in it.
The tall and slender trunk no less divine,
Tho’ in a lowly Shepherdesses rine.

(_He begins to know her._)

This should be that so famous Queen
For unquell’d valour and disdain.--
In these Enchanted Woods is seen
Nothing but illusions vain.
_Zel._ What stares the man at?
_Fel._ I compare
A Picture--I once mine did call--
With the divine Original.
_Zel._ Fall’n again asleep you are:
We poor human Shepherd Lasses
Nor are pictured, nor use glasses.
Who skip their rank, themselves and betters wrong:
To our Dames, god bless ’em, such quaint things belong.
Here a tiny brook alone,
Which fringed with borrow’d flowers (he has
Gold and silver enough on his own)
Is heaven’s proper looking-glass,
Copies us: and its reflections,
Shewing natural perfections,
Free from soothing, free from error.
Are our pencil, are our mirror.
_Fel._ Art thou a Shepherdess?
_Zel._--and bore
On a mountain, called THERE.
_Fel._ Wear’st thou ever heretofore
Lady’s clothes?
_Zel._ I Lady’s gear?--
Yes--what a treacherous poll have I!--
In a Country Comedy
I once enacted a main part;
Still I have it half by heart:
The famous History it was
Of an Arabian--let me see--
No, of a Queen of Tartary,
Who all her sex did far surpass
In beauty, wit, and chivalry:
Who with invincible disdain
Would fool, when she was in the vein,
Princes with all their wits about ’em;
But, an they slept, to death she’d flout ’em.
And, by the mass, with such a mien
My Majesty did play the Queen;
Our Curate had my Picture made,
In the same robes in which I play’d.

To my taste this is fine, elegant, Queen-like raillery; a second part of Love’s Labours Lost, to which title this extraordinary Play has still better pretensions than even Shakspeare’s: for after leading three pair of Royal Lovers thro’ endless mazes of doubts, difficulties; oppositions of dead fathers’ wills; a labyrinth of losings and findings; jealousies; enchantments; conflicts with giants, and single-handed against armies; to the exact state in which all the Lovers might with the greatest propriety indulge their reciprocal wishes--when, the deuce is in it, you think, but they must all be married now--suddenly the three Ladies turn upon their Lovers; and, as an exemplification of the moral of the Play, “Loving for loving’s sake,” and a hyper-platonic, truly Spanish proof of their affections--demand that the Lovers shall consent to their mistresses’ taking upon them the vow of a single life; to which the Gallants with becoming refinement can do less than consent.--The fact is that it was a Court Play, in which the Characters; males, giants, and all; were played by females, and those of the highest order of Grandeeship. No nobleman might be permitted amongst them; and it was against the forms, that a great Court Lady of Spain should consent to such an unrefined motion, as that of wedlock, though but in a play.

Appended to the Drama, the length of which may be judged from its having taken nine days in the representation, and me three hours in the reading of it--hours well wasted--is a poetical account of a fire, which broke out in the Theatre on one of the nights of its acting, when the whole Dramatis Personæ were nearly burnt, because the common people out of “base fear,” and the Nobles out of “pure respect,” could not think of laying hands upon such “great Donnas;” till the young King, breaking the etiquette, by snatching up his Queen, and bearing her through the flames upon his back, the Grandees, (dilatory Æneases), followed his example, and each saved one (Anchises-fashion), till the whole Courtly Company of Comedians were got off in tolerable safety.--Imagine three or four stout London Firemen on such an occasion, standing off in mere respect!

C. L.

[210] She affects rusticity.

[211] The Enchanted Queen of Araby, of whom Zelidaura is jealous.

* * * * *

THE STUART PAPERS,

IN POSSESSION OF THE KING.

In the year 1817 the public, or, more correctly speaking, the English public at Rome, were much excited by the report of a very singular discovery. The largest and the most interesting collection of papers relating to the Stuart family, probably existing, was suddenly recovered. The circumstances connected with the discovery are curious. Dr. W., whose residence on the continent for many years had been unceasingly devoted to every species of research which could tend to throw light on the antiquities of his country and the history of her kings, had in the Scotch college at Paris, after much patient investigation, arrived at the knowledge of some Gaelic MSS., and, what may be perhaps deemed of more consequence, of several papers relating to the dethroned family. The Gaelic MSS., it was imagined, would throw some light on the quarrel _de lana caprina_ of the Ossian “remains,” a name which, as it has been given to the Iliad and Odyssey, cannot be considered as an insult to the claims of the Irish or Scottish phantom which has been conjured up under the name of Ossian: but the Journals, &c., though they added little to his actual information, and communicated few facts not hitherto before the public, had at least the merit of placing the end of the clue in his hand, and hinting first the probability of a more productive inquiry elsewhere. It occurred to him that after the demise of James II., as the majority of the family habitually resided at Rome, much the greater number of interesting documents ought still to be discoverable in that city, and, whatever facilities might originally have existed, they must have been increased considerably, and indeed enhanced by the late extinction of the direct line in the person of the cardinal de York.[212] His journey to Rome, and the results of his perseverance fully justified these conjectures. There was nothing in Dr. W.’s appearance or manner, nothing in the circumstances of his long absence from his country, which could offer motives of encouragement; no man carried less before him, as far as externals were in question, that letter of recommendation to which the most uncourteous are compelled to yield. He was in bad odour with his own government, and consequently with every thing legitimate and subservient on the continent, and one of the worst calculated individuals that Providence could have selected, if not for a discovery, at least for its preservation. Dr. W. was known to few of his countrymen at Rome; and as well as I recollect, they were exclusively Scotch, but his acquaintance amongst the natives was extensive and useful. He had been engaged in some cotton speculations in the Campagna, which had altogether failed; more, I believe, from want of funds and public spirit, than from any error in the project or its execution. The soil was favourable, the climate favourable, and the specimen I saw scarcely inferior to the Asiatic. But whatever may have been the causes, the results were salutary, and productive at least of this advantage, that it served to introduce him to the “mezzo ceto” circles of the capital. A mercante di Campagna is a personage in nowise inferior to a lawyer, and Dr. W. knew how to preserve his importance amongst his competitors. The information which he gained here was a new source of encouragement. After much sagacious and persevering inquiry, and occasional but partial disappointments, he at last chanced in a happy hour on the great object of all his labours. He was informed in rather a circuitous manner, that a considerable portion of the late cardinal de York’s effects lay still in the hands of the executors, but could not at first ascertain whether they comprehended any large masses of his papers. Enough, however, had been detected to lead him much farther: he seized the hint, profited by it, and in a few weeks satisfactorily assured himself that the papers were, as he suspected, included, and were at that very moment at Rome. He lost no time in addressing himself to the proper quarter, but monsignor ---- was out of town, (the acting executor of the cardinal,) and it was very doubtful whether his agent, the abbate Lupi, was sufficiently authorized or empowered to dispose of them in his absence; the abbate Lupi, less scrupulous, or more ignorant than persons in situations of such high trust, smiled at the communication, and conducted the doctor without delay to the premises where these cartacci, or paper-rubbish, as he termed them, were still lying in confusion. It was a dark and dreary garret or gallery, at the top of the house. The abbate pushed back a crazy door, and showed them heaped up, in large lots, in various parts of the chamber. The garret was crumbling, the wind and rain entered _ad libitum_ through the broken tiles, the rats prowled and plundered at full discretion, like the followers of Omar, and had now lived for many years at free quarters on the spoils; but neither decay, nor the seasons and their ravages, nor the rats and their incursions, nor the appearance of daily loss, were sufficient to rouse the habitual indolence of the administrators to the least effort for the preservation of the remainder. There was a sufficient quantity, however, left to surpass the most ardent anticipations of the doctor: he gazed in silence and astonishment; it was a moment of true and unalloyed delight--an instant which, in the estimate of the enthusiast, will outbalance the sufferings of months and years, like the “Land! land!” of Columbus, or the _eureka_ of Pythagoras. He hesitated, he doubted--he took up the paper that was nearest to him; his warmest wishes were realized; it was an autograph of James II. A glance over the rest was sufficient; it was with difficulty he could suppress the feeling of exultation which shivered and fled over his whole frame. After an affected question or two, the abbate accepted his proposal, and very near five hundred thousand documents, of unquestionable authenticity and of the first historic importance and authority, were knocked down to him for not more than three hundred Roman crowns. Dr. W. still meditated, paused, appeared reluctant, inquired for the letter of attorney, examined it, and finding all in order, and powers as he imagined sufficiently full, the arrangement in a few moments was completed. Two carts were brought to the door, the papers were thrown into them confusedly, and so little did the abbate value their utility, that on two or three packets falling into the street, they undoubtedly would have lain there with other rubbish, had not the doctor immediately hastened to take them up and carried them himself to his lodgings.

The prize was now won, and a collection perhaps unrivalled in Europe, an El Dorado of imaginary wealth and glory, was safely lodged in the precincts of his own apartment. Joy is talkative, and for once the doctor altogether forgot his caution, and in the dangerous moment of a first triumph, rushed to his countrymen, and proclaimed his _veni, vidi, vici_ to their envy and astonishment. They were invited to inspect them. Rome, the capital of a considerable state, is still a provincial town, and events of this kind hardly require newspapers. In a few days the news of all the poets and barbers was the singular good fortune of the doctor. What it was no one knew, except the duchess of D----. Her drawing-room was not only the rendezvous of every stranger, and particularly of every Englishman at Rome, but, what ought to have been considered as of infinitely more moment and indeed danger, was a sort of antechamber to the Vatican. Her acquaintance with the cardinal secretary intimately connected her with the Papal government; and, during her life and his administration, the English might almost be said to be, in the language of the modern city, the assistants of the pontifical throne. The duchess requested a cabinet peep. The doctor expostulated;--he ought to have done so, but on the contrary he was gratified by the compliment, and a little conversazione packet was made up with expedition for her next evening party. The doctor had time to judge of his acquisition, and made a judicious selection, but so unfortunately inviting, that his noble patroness could with difficulty confine to her own breast the sentiments she felt of surprise and admiration. Besides, it would be selfish to conceal the gratification from her friends; the papers were of course in a few days to start for England. Who could tell when they were likely to be out? Then there was an enjoyment, not likely to be resisted by a duchess and a protectress, of all that was literary at Rome, in tumbling over an original MS.--and such a MS.--and reading and judging the important work, before it was even dreamt of by the rest of the world. She had been favoured, and could not be blamed for extending, like the doctor, the favour to others. She had two or three very dear friends, and she could not reflect without pain on what they might say, and with so much justice, should they discover, some days afterwards, that she had been in possession of such a treasure, though for a few hours, without kindly participating her pleasures with her acquaintances.

These reasons, cogent at any time, were altogether invincible under the circumstances of the case. The duchess had many friends, but the most intimate of these many was the cardinal secretary. The practised eye of that statesman could not be so easily seduced. He was one of the chief invited of the evening, and as usual appeared amongst the earliest of the guests. The papers were on the table on his entry; they became the chief, the first, and soon the only topic of conversation. They were examined; the cardinal read, folded them up, and was silent; but ere daylight the next morning a guard of the pope’s carabiniers attacked Dr. W.’s apartment, which was not the castle of an Englishman, and very important papers were irrecoverably lost to him, and perhaps to the public for ever.

The next morning, all the valets de place in Rome knew, and took care to inform their masters, that during the night the abbate Lupi had been arrested, and lay actually in prison for a gross violation of his trust; but it was not understood till much later in the day, that the moment the cardinal had left the apartments of the duchess, orders had been also given to have the papers immediately put under the seal and wardship of the state. The doctor was consequently awakened, as we have seen, rather earlier than usual, in the most unceremonious manner imaginable, and requested, in rather a peremptory manner, to point out the treasury room. Tortures were not used, but threats were. The sanctuary was easily discovered; the inviolable seal was fixed on the door; and a guard put over the house, during the remainder of the day.