Chapter I: A - P || D - R - E (5)

Long at one place we must not stay,
’Tis almost four, let’s haste away.
But here’s a sign; ’tis rash, we think,
To leave the place before we drink.
We meet with liquor to our mind,
Our hostess complaisant and kind:
She was a widow, who, we found,
Had (as the phrase is) been shod round,
That is, had buried husbands four,
And had no want of charms for more;
Yet her we leave, and, as we go,
_Scott_ bravely undertook to show
That through the world we could not pass,
How thin soe’er our breeches was;
“’Tis true, indeed, we may go round,
But through”--then pointed to the ground.
So well he manag’d the debate,
We own’d he was a man of weight:
And so indeed he was this once,
His pockets we had fill’d with stones.
But here we’d serv’d ourselves a trick,
Of which he might have made us sick;
We’d furnish’d him with ammunition
Fit to knock down all opposition;
And, knowing well his warmth of temper,
Out of his reach began to scamper,
Till, growing cooler, he pretends
His passion feign’d, so all are friends.
Our danger now becomes a joke,
And peaceably we go to _Stoke_.
About the church we nothing can see
To strike or entertain our fancy:
But near a farm, or an elm tree,
A long pole fix’d upright we see,
And tow’rd the top of it was plac’d
A weathercock, quite in high taste,
Which all of us, ere we go further,
Pronounce of the Composite order.
First, on a board turn’d by the wind,
A painter had a cock design’d,
A common weathercock was above it,
This turn’d too as the wind did move it;
Then on the spindle’s point so small
A shuttlecock stuck o’ertopp’d them all.
This triple alliance gave occasion
To much improving speculation.
Alas! we ne’er know when we are well,
So at _Northfleet_ again must quarrel;
But fought not here with sticks and stones
(For those, you know, might break our bones)
A well just by, full to the brim,
Did fitter for our purpose seem;
So furiously we went to dashing,
Till our coats wanted no more washing;
But this our heat and courage cooling,
’Twas soon high time to leave such fooling.
To _The Nag’s Head_ we therefore hie,
To drink, and to be turn’d adry.
At six, while supper was preparing,
And we about the marsh-lands staring,
Our two game cocks, _Tothall_ and _Scott_,
To battling once again were got:
But here no weapons could they find,
Save what the cows dropp’d from behind;
With these they pelted, till we fancy
Their cloaths look’d something like a tansy.
At seven we all come home again,
_Tothall_ and _Scott_ their garments clean;
Supper we get, and, when that’s o’er,
A tiff of punch drink at the door;
Then, as the beds were only three,
Draw cuts who shall so lucky be
As here to sleep without a chum;
To _Tothall’s_ share the prize did come;
_Hogarth_ and _Thornhill_, _Scott_ and I,
In pairs, like man and wife, must lie.
Then mighty frolicksome they grow,
At _Scott_ and me the stocking throw,
Fight with their wigs, in which perhaps
They sleep, for here we found no caps.
Up at eleven again we get,
Our sheets were so confounded wet;
We dress, and lie down in our cloaths;
_Monday_, at three, awak’d and rose.
And of the cursed gnats complain,
Yet make a shift to sleep again.
Till six o’clock we quiet lay,
And then got out for the whole day;
To fetch a barber out we send;
Stripp’d, and in boots, he does attend,
For he’s a fisherman by trade;
Tann’d was his face, shock was his head;
He flowers our wigs and trims our faces,
And the top barber of the place is.
The cloth is for our breakfast spread,
A bowl of milk and toasted bread
Are brought, of which while _Forrest_ eats,
To draw our pictures _Hogarth_ sits;
_Thornhill_ is in the barber’s hands,
Shaving himself _Will Tothall_ stands;
While _Scott_ is in a corner sitting,
And an unfinish’d piece completing.
Our reckoning about eight we pay,
And take for Isle of _Greane_ our way;
To keep the road we were directed,
But, as ’twas bad, this rule neglected;
A tempting path over a stile
Led us astray above a mile;
Yet the right road at last we gain,
And joy to find ourselves at _Greane_;
Where my Dame _Husbands_, at _The Chequer_,
Refresh’d us with some good malt liquor;
Into her larder then she runs,
Brings out salt pork, butter, and buns,
And coarse black bread, but that’s no matter,
’Twill fortify us for the water.
Here _Scott_ so carefully laid down
His penknife which had cost a crown,
That all in vain we sought to find it,
And, for his comfort, say, “Ne’er mind it;”
For to _Sheerness_ we now must go:
To this the ferryman says, “No.”
We to another man repair’d:
He too says, “No--it blows too hard.”
But, while we study how to get there,
In spite of this tempestuous weather,
Our landlady a scheme propos’d,
With which we fortunately clos’d,
Was to the shore to go, and try
To hail the ships in ordinary,
So we might get, for no great matter,
A boat to take us o’er the water.
We haste, and soon the shore we tread,
With various kinds of shells bespread,
And in a little time we spy’d
A boat approaching on our side;
The man to take us in agreed,
But that was difficult indeed,
Till, holding in each hand an oar,
He made a sort of bridge to shore,
O’er which on hands and knees we crawl,
And so get safe on board the yawl.
In little time we seated were,
And now to _Shepey’s_ coast draw near;
When suddenly, with loud report,
The cannons roar from ships and fort,
And, like tall fellows, we impute
To our approach this grand salute.
But soon, alas! our pride was humbled,
And from this fancy’d height we tumbled,
On recollecting that the day
The nine and twentieth was of _May_.
The firing had not long been ended,
Before at _Sheerness_ we were landed,
Where on the battery while we walk,
And of the charming prospect talk,
_Scott_ from us in a hurry runs,
And, getting to the new-fir’d guns,
Unto their touch-holes clapp’d his nose;
_Hogarth_ sits down, and trims his toes;
These whims when we had made our sport,
Our turn we finish round the fort,
And are at one for _Queenborough_ going:
Bleak was the walk, the wind fierce blowing,
And driving o’er our heads the spray;
On loose beach stones, our pebbly way,
But _Thornhill_ only got a fall,
Which hurt him little, if at all:
So merrily along we go,
And reach that famous town by two.
_Queenborough_ consists of one short street,
Broad, and well-pav’d, and very neat;
Nothing like dirt offends the eye,
Scarce any people could we spy:
The town-house, for the better show
Is mounted on a portico
Of piers and arches, number four,
And crown’d at top with a clock tower;
But all this did not reach so high
As a flag-staff, that stood just by,
On which a standard huge was flying
(The borough’s arms, the king’s supplying)
Which on high festivals they display
To do the honours of the day.
As for salutes, excus’d they are,
Because they have no cannon there.
To the church-yard we first repair,
And hunt for choice inscriptions there.
Search stones and rails, till almost weary all
In hopes to find something material.
When one at last, of pyebald style
(Though grave the subject) made us smile:
Telling us first, in humble prose,
“That _Henry Knight_ doth here repose,
A _Greenland_ Trader twice twelve year,
As master and as harpooner:”
Then, in as humble verse, we read
(As by himself in person said)
“In _Greenland_ I whales, sea-horse, and bears did slay
Though now my body is intombed in clay.”
The house at which we were to quarter
Is call’d _The Swans_; this rais’d our laughter,
Because the sign is _The Red Lion_,
So strange a blunder we cry “Fie on!”
But, going in, all neat we see
And clean; so was our landlady:
With great civility she told us,
She had not beds enough to hold us,
But a good neighbour had just by,
Where some of us perhaps might lie.
She sends to ask. The merry dame
Away to us directly came,
Quite ready our desires to grant,
And furnish us with what we want.
Back to the church again we go,
Which is but small, ill built, and low,
View’d the inside, but still we see
Nothing of curiosity,
Unless we suffer the grave-digger
In this our work to make a figure,
Whom just beside us now we have,
Employ’d in opening of a grave.
A prating spark indeed he was,
Knew all the scandal of the place,
And often rested from his labours,
To give the history of his neighbours;
Told who was who, and what was what,
Till on him we bestow’d a pot.
(For he forgot not, you may think,
“Masters, I hope you’ll make me drink!”).
At this his scurrilous tongue run faster,
Till “a sad dog” he call’d his master,
Told us the worshipful the Mayor
Was but a custom house officer,
Still rattling on till we departed,
Not only with his tales diverted,
But so much wisdom we had got,
We treated him with t’other pot.
Return we now to the town-hall,
That, like the borough, is but small,
Under its portico’s a space,
Which you may call the market place,
Just big enough to hold the stocks,
And one, if not two, butchers’ blocks,
Emblems of plenty and excess,
Though you can no where meet with less:
For though ’tis call’d & market-town
(As they are not asham’d to own)
Yet we saw neither butcher’s meat,
Nor fish, nor fowl, nor aught to eat.
Once in seven years, they say, there’s plenty,
When strangers come to represent ye.
Hard at _The Swans_ had been our fare,
But that some _Harwich_ men were there,
Who lately had some lobsters taken,
With which, and eke some eggs and bacon,
Our bellies we design to fill;
But first will clamber up the hill,
A most delightful spot of ground,
O’erlooking all the country round;
On which there formerly has been
The palace of _Philippa_, queen
To the third _Edward_, as they tell,
Now nought remains on’t but a well:
But ’tis from hence, says common fame,
The borough gets its royal name.
Two sailors at this well we meet,
And do each other kindly greet:
“What brings you here, my lads?” cry we.
“Thirst, please your honours, as you see;
For (adds the spokesman) we are here
Waiting for our young officer,
A midshipman on board _The Rose_,
(For General _S----’s_ son he goes)
We and our messmates, six in all,
Yesterday brought him in our yawl,
And when, as we had been commanded,
Quite safe and dry we had him landed,
By running of her fast aground
At tide of ebb, he quickly found
That he might go and see _Sheerness_,
So here he left us pennyless,
To feast on _Queenborough_ air and water,
Or starve, to him ’tis no great matter;
While he among his friends at ease is,
And will return just when he pleases;
Perhaps he may come back to-day;
If not, he knows that we must stay.”
So one of us gave him a tester,
When both cried out, “God bless you, master!”
Then ran to rouse their sleeping fellows,
To share their fortune at the alehouse.
Hence to the creek-side, one and all,
We go to see _The Rose’s_ yawl,
And found her bedded in the mud,
Immovable till tide of flood.
The sailors here had cockles got,
Which gratefully to us they brought,
’Twas all with which they could regale us;
This t’ other sixpence sent to th’ alehouse:
So merrily they went their way,
And we were no less pleas’d than they.
At seven about the town we walk,
And with some pretty damsels talk,
Beautiful nymphs indeed, I ween,
Who came to see, and to be seen.
Then to our _Swans_ returning, there
We borrow’d a great wooden chair,
And plac’d it in the open street,
Where, in much state did _Hogarth_ sit
To draw the townhouse, church, and steeple,
Surrounded by a crowd of people;
Tag, rag, and bobtail, stood quite thick there,
And cry’d, “What a sweet pretty picture!”
This was not finish’d long before
We saw, about the Mayor’s fore-door,
Our honest sailors in a throng:
We call’d one of them from among
The rest, to tell us the occasion;
Of which he gave us this relation:
“Our midshipman is just come back,
And chanc’d to meet or overtake
A sailor walking with a woman
(May be she’s honest, may be common):
He thought her handsome, so his honour
Would needs be very sweet upon her:
But this the seaman would not suf-
-fer, and this put him in a huff.
‘Lubber, avast,’ says sturdy _John_,
‘Avast, I say, let her alone;
You shall not board her, she’s my wife.
Sheer off, Sir, if you love your life:
I’ve a great mind your back to lick;’
And up he held his oaken stick.
“Our midship hero this did scare:
I’ll swear the peace before the Mayor,”
Says he, so to the Mayor’s they trudge:
How such a case by such a judge
Determin’d was I cannot say,
We thought it not worth while to stay:
For it strikes nine, “How th’ evening spends
“Come, let us drink to all our friends
A chearful glass, and eat a bit.”
So to our supper down we sit,
When something merry check’d our mirth:
The _Harwich_ men had got a birth
Closely adjoining to our room,
And were to spend their evening come:
The wall was thin, and they so near,
That all they say, or sing, we hear.
We sung our songs, we crack’d our jokes,
Their emulation this provokes;
And they perform’d so joyously,
As distanc’d hollow all our glee;
So (were it not a bull) I’d say,
This night they fairly won the day.
Now plenteously we drink of flip,
In hopes we shall the better sleep;
Some rest the long day’s work requires;
_Scott_ to his lodging first retires;
His landlady is waiting for him,
And to his chamber walks before him;
In her fair hand a light she bears,
And shows him up the garret-stairs;
Away comes he greatly affronted,
And his disgrace to us recounted,
This makes us game, we roast him for it,
“_Scott’s_ too high-minded for a garret.”
But _Tothall_ more humanely said,
“Come, _Scott_, be easy, take my bed,
And to your garret I will go.”
(This great good-nature sure did show)
There finding nought him to entertain
But a flock-bed without a curtain,
He too in haste came back, and got
Away to share his bed with _Scott_,
And at eleven each goes to nest,
Till _Tuesday_ morn to take his rest.
At six comes _Hogarth_, “Rise, Sirs, rise,”
Says he, with roguery in his eyes,
“_Scott’s_ landlady is below stairs;
And roundly the good woman swears,
That for his lodging he shall pay,
(Where his tir’d bones he scorn’d to lay)
Or he should go before the Mayor.”
She’s in the right on’t, we declare,
For this would cut the matter short,
(At least ’twould make us special sport);
But here she balk’d us, and, no doubt,
Had wit enough to find us out.
Our mark thus miss’d, we kindly go
To see how he and _Tothall_ do.
We find the doors all open were,
(It seems that’s not unusual here)
They’re very well, but _Scott_ last night
Had been in a most dreadful fright:
“When to his room he got,” he said,
“And just was stepping into bed,
He thought he saw the bed-cloaths stir,
So back he flew in mortal fear;
But, taking heart of grace, he try’d
To feel what ’twas, when out it cry’d;
Again he starts, but to his joy
It prov’d a little harmless boy,
Who by mistake had thither crept,
And soundly (till he wak’d him) slept.
So from his fears recover’d quite,
He got to sleep, and slept all night.”
We laugh at this, and he laughs too,
For, pray, what better could he do?
At ten we leave our _Lion-Swans_,
And to the higher lands advance,
Call on our laundress by the way,
For the led shirts left yesterday
To wash; “She’s sorry, they’re not yet
Quite dry!”--“Why then we’ll take them wet
They’ll dry and iron’d be, we hope,
At _Minster_, where we next shall stop.”
The way was good, the weather fair,
The prospects most delightful were.
To _Minster_ got, with labour hard
We climb’d the hill to the church-yard,
But, when arriv’d there, did not fail
To read some verses on a rail
Well worth transcribing, we agree,
Whether you think so, you may see.
“Here interr’d _George Anderson_ doth lye,
By fallen on an anchor he did dye
In _Sheerness_ yard on _Good Friday_
The 6th of _April_, I do say,
All you that read my allegy be alwaies
Ready for to dye--aged 42 years.”
Of monuments that here they shew
Within the church, we drew but two;
One an ambassador of _Spain’s_,
T’other Lord _Shorland’s_ dust contains,
Of whom they have a wondrous story,
Which (as they tell) I’ll lay before ye.
[349]The Lord of _Shorland_, on a day,
Chancing to take a ride this way,
About a corpse observ’d a crowd,
Against their priest complaining loud,
That he would not the service say
Till somebody his fees should pay.
On this his lordship too did rave,
And threw the priest into the grave,
“Make haste and fill it up,” said he,
“We’ll bury both without a fee.”
But when got home, and cool, reflecting
On the strange part he had been acting,
He drew a state up of the case,
Humbly petitioning for grace,
And to the sea gallop’d away,
Where, at that time, a frigate lay,
With Queen _Elizabeth_ on board,
When (strange to tell!) this hare-brain’d Lord
On horseback swam to the ship’s side,
And there to see the Queen apply’d.
His case she reads; her royal breast
Is mov’d to grant him his request.
His pardon thankfully he takes,
And, swimming still, to land he makes:
But on his riding up the beach,
He an old woman met, a witch:
“This horse, which now your life doth save,
Says she, “will bring you to the grave.”
“You’ll prove a liar,” says my lord,
“You ugly hag!” and with his sword
(Acting a most ungrateful part)
His panting steed stabb’d to the heart.
It happen’d, after many a day,
That with some friends he stroll’d that way,
And this strange story, as they walk,
Became the subject of their talk:
When, “There the carcase lies,” he cry’d,
“Upon the beach by the sea side.”
As ’twas not far, he led them to’t,
And kick’d the skull up with his foot,
When a sharp bone pierc’d through his shoe,
And wounded grievously his toe,
Which mortify’d; so he was kill’d,
And the hag’s prophecy fulfill’d.
See there his cross-legg’d figure laid,
And near his feet the horse’s head!
The tomb[350] is of too old a fashion
To tally well with this narration;
But of the truth we would not doubt,
Nor put our _Cicerone_ out:
It gives a moral hint at least,
That gratitude’s due to a beast.
So far it’s good, whoever made it,
And that it may not fail of credit,
A horsehead vane adorns the steeple,
And it’s _Horse-church_ call’d by the people.
Our shirts dry’d at _The George_ we get,
We dine there, and till four we sit;
And now in earnest think of home;
So to _Sheerness_ again we come,
Where for a bum-boat we agree,
And about five put off to sea.
We presently were under sail,
The tide our friend, south-east the gale,
Quite wind enough, and some to spare,
But we to that accustom’d were.
When we had now got past _The Nore_,
And lost the sight of _Shepey’s_ shore,
The ebbing tide of _Thames_ we met,
The wind against it fiercely set;
This made a short and tumbling sea,
And finely toss’d indeed were we.
The porpoises in stormy weather
Are often seen in shoals together
About us while they roll and play,
One in his gambols miss’d his way,
And threw himself so far on shore,
We thought he would get off no more;
But with great straggling, and some pain,
He did, and went to play again.
On this we moralising say,
“How thoughtless is the love of play!”
When we ourselves with sorrow find
Our pleasures too with pain conjoin’d.
For troubles crowd upon us thick;
Our hero, _Scott_, grows very sick;
Poor _Hogarth_ makes wry faces too
(Worse faces than he ever drew).
You’ll guess what were the consequences,
Not overpleasing to our senses;
And this misfortune was augmented
By Master _Tothall’s_ being acquainted
With the commander of a sloop,
At _Holy Haven_ near _The Hope_.
“There’s Captain _Robinson_,” says he,
“A friend, whom I must call and see.”
Up the ship’s side he nimbly goes,
While we lie overwhelm’d with woes,
Sick, and of winds and waves the sport,
But then he made his visit short,
And when a sup of punch he’d got,
Some lighted match to us he brought
A sovereign cordial this, no doubt,
To men whose pipes had long been out.
By seven o’clock our sick recover,
And all are glad this trouble’s over.
Now jovially we sail along,
Our cockswain giving song for song.
But soon our notes are chang’d; we found
Our boat was on _Bly-sand_ aground,
Just in the middle of the river;
Here _Tothall_ shew’d himself quite clever:
And, knowing we must else abide
Till lifted by the flowing tide,
Work’d without skippers, till the boat
Was once more happily afloat.
We all applaud his care and skill,
So do the boatmen his good-will.
Ere long the tide made upward, so
With that before the wind we go,
And, disembarking about ten,
Our _Gravesend_ quarters reach again.
Here Madam, smiling, comes to tell
How glad she is to see us well:
This kind reception we commended;
And now thought all our troubles ended;
But, when for what we want we call,
Something unlucky did befall.
When we our travels first began
_Scott_ (who’s a very prudent man)
Thought a great coat could do no harm,
And in the boat might keep him warm;
So far perhaps you think him right,
As we took water in the night:
But when from hence we took our way
On foot, the latter end of _May_,
He, quite as reasonably, thought
’Twould be too heavy or too hot;
“I’ll leave it here,” says he, “and take
It with me at our coming back.”
And he most certainly design’d it,
But now the thing was, how to find it?
We told him he had been mistaken,
And did without his hostess reckon.
To him it was no jest; he swore,
“He left it there three days before.”
“This Mrs. _Bramble_ can’t deny.”
“Sir, we shall find it by and by:”
So out she goes, and rends her throat
With “_Moll_, go find the gem’man’s coat.”
The house _Moll_ searches round and round.
At last, with much ado, ’twas found--
’Twas found, that, to the owner’s cost,
Or _Scott’s_, the borrow’d coat was lost.
“Coat lost!” says he, stamping and staring.
Then stood like dumb, then fell to swearing:
He curs’d the ill-concluding ramble,
He curs’d _Gravesend_ and mother _Bramble_.
But, while his rage he thus express’d,
And we his anger made our jest,
Till wrath had almost got the upper-
-hand of his reason, in came supper:
To this at once his stomach turn’d,
No longer it with fury burn’d,
But hunger took the place of rage,
And a good meal did both assuage.
He eat and drank, he drank and eat,
The wine commended, and the meat;
So we did all, and sat so late,
That _Wednesday_ morn we lay till eight.
Tobacco then, and wine provide,
Enough to serve us for this tide.
Get breakfast, and our reckoning pay,
And next prepare for _London_ hey;
So, hiring to ourselves a wherry,
We put off, all alive and merry.
The tide was strong, fair was the wind,
_Gravesend_ is soon left far behind,
Under the tilt on straw we lay,
Observing what a charming day,
There stretch’d at ease we smoke and drink,
_Londoners_ like, and now we think
Our cross adventures all are past,
And that at _Gravesend_ was the last:
But cruel Fate to that says no;
One yet shall Fortune find his foe.
While we (with various prospects cloy’d)
In clouds of smoke ourselves enjoy’d,
More diligent and curious, _Scott_
Into the forecastle had got,
And took his papers out, to draw
Some ships which right ahead he saw.
There sat he, on his work intent,
When, to increase our merriment,
So luckily we shipp’d a sea,
That he got sous’d, and only he.
This bringing to his mind a thought
How much he wanted his great coat,
Renew’d his anger and his grief;
He curs’d _Gravesend_, the coat, and thief;
And, still to heighten his regret,
His shirt was in his breeches wet:
He draws it out, and lets it fly,
Like a _French_ ensign, till ’tis dry,
Then, creeping into shelter safe,
Joins with the company and laugh.
Nothing more happen’d worthy note:
At _Billingsgate_ we change our boat,
And in another through bridge get,
By two, to Stairs of _Somerset_,
Welcome each other to the shore,
To _Covent Garden_ walk once more,
And, as from _Bedford Arms_ we started,
There wet our whistles ere we parted.
With pleasure I observe, none idle
Were in our travels, or employ’d ill.
_Tothall_, our treasurer, was just,
And worthily discharg’d his trust;
(We all sign’d his accounts as fair;)
_Sam Scott_ and _Hogarth_, for their share,
The prospects of the sea and land did;
As _Thornhill_ of our tour the plan did;
And _Forrest_ wrote this true relation
Of our five days peregrination.
This to attest, our names we’ve wrote all,
Viz. _Thornhill_, _Hogarth_, _Scott_, and _Tothall_.

THE END.

Of whom they have a wondrous story,
Which (as they tell) I’ll lay before ye.

_Gostling._

[345] Mr. Nichols’s account of Hogarth.

[346] It is to be regretted that his grace’s picture was not preserved
in this collection.

[347] This drawing unluckily has not been preserved.

[348] _The Royal Sovereign_ and _Marlborough_.

[349] This story is quoted by Mr. _Grose_ in his Antiquities, Vol. II.
art. _Minster Monastery_. “The legend,” says Mr. _Grose_, “has, by a
worthy friend of mine, been hitched into doggrel rhyme. It would be
paying the reader but a bad compliment to attempt seriously to examine
the credibility of the story.”

[350] A cross-legg’d figure in armour, with a shield over his left
arm, like that of a Knight Templar, said to represent Sir _Robert de
Shurland_, who by _Edward_ I. was created a Knight banneret for his
gallant behaviour at the siege of _Carlaverock_ in _Scotland_. He lies
under a _Gothic_ arch in the south wall, having an armed page at his
feet, and on his right side the head of a horse emerging out of the
waves of the sea, as in the action of swimming.--GROSE.

Vol. II.--38.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--This engraving is from a silver medal, of the same size, which commemorates two events--The first is that of the date of June 1530, which is called the Confession of Augsburgh, to settle the religious disputes, in a Diet, or Assembly of Princes between the Lutherans and the Catholics--The second relates to the celebration of the Centenary of the Diet.

The inscription “Johannes” on the side of the medal dated 1530, is for John Elector of Saxony. The inscription “Joh. Geor.” on the side dated 1630, is for the Elector John George III. The escutcheon with swords saltierwise, accompanying their arms, denotes the dignity of Grand Marshal of the Empire.

The medal is in the possession of John Burrell Vaux, Esq. of Thetford, in Norfolk, who obligingly lent it to me, with permission to have a drawing taken from it for any purpose I pleased, together with a memorandum accompanying it, to the preceding effect. As a friend to the composure of differences, I deemed it suitable to the peaceful columns of the _Table Book_; and I shall be happy if so striking a memorial, and the events it refers to, receive further illustration from other correspondents.

I am, &c.

H. B.

* * * * *

[By a mistake of the engraver, the present is the only engraving in
the present sheet of the _Table Book_.--EDITOR.]

* * * * *

HIGHLAND EMIGRATION.

Son of the Gaël, how many a wierie change
The wing of time has brought across thy hills!
How many a deed uncouth, and custom strange,
The lofty spirit of thy fathers chills!
The usage of thy foes thy region fills,
And low thy head is bowed their hand beneath,
And driven by innumerable ills,
Thy olden race is gone from hill and heath,
To live a homeless life, and die a stranger’s death.

The preceding stanza is the first in the poem entitled “The Last Deer of Beann Doran.” On the last two lines its author Mr. James Hay Allan, appends a note as follows:--

In consequence of the enormous advance of rents, and the system of throwing the small crofts into extensive sheep-farms, the Highlands have been so depopulated in the last seventy-seven years,[351] that the inhabitants do not now amount to above one-third of their number at the commencement of that period. An instance of this melancholy fact is very striking in Glen Urcha: in 1745 the east half only of the straith from Dalmallie to Strone sent out a hundred fighting men: at the present day there are not in the same space above thirty. This proportion of decrease is general. During the last twenty years fifteen hundred persons have gone from Argyleshire; three thousand from Inverness; the same number from Ross and Caithness; and five thousand from Sutherland. The desertions have been equal in the isles. Pennant, speaking of the inhabitants of Skie, says: “Migrations and depression of spirit, the last a common cause of depopulation, have since the year 1750 reduced the number from fifteen thousand to between twelve and thirteen: one thousand having crossed the Atlantic; others, sunk beneath poverty, or in despair, ceased to obey the first great command, Increase and multiply.” These observations were written in 1774; so that the depopulation which is mentioned, took place in twenty-four years.

It is impossible to paint the first departings of a people who held the memory of their ancestors, and the love of their soil, a part of their soul. Unacquainted with any mechanical art, and unable to obtain for their overflowing numbers an agricultural or pastoral employment in their own country, they were obliged to abandon their native land, and seek an asylum in the unpeopled deserts of the western world. The departing inhabitants of each straith and hamlet gathered into bands, and marched out of their glens with the piper playing before them the death lament, “Cha pill! cha pill! cha pill me tulle!”--“Never! never! never shall I return!” Upon the spot where they were to lose sight of their native place, and part from those who were to remain behind, they threw themselves upon the ground in an agony of despair, embracing the earth, moistening the heather with their tears, and clinging with hopeless anguish to the necks and plaids of the friends whom they were to see no more. When the hour of separation was past, they went forth upon the world a lonely, sad, expatriated race, rent from all which bound them to the earth, and lost amid the tide of mankind: none mixed with them in character, none blended with them in sympathy. They were left in their simplicity to struggle with fraud, ignorance, and distress, a divided people set apart to misfortune.

* * * * *

In the third stanza of the poem on “Beann Doran,” its author says,

There was a time--alas! full long ago,
Wide forests waved upon thy mountains’ side.

On these lines Mr. Allan remarks as follows:--

Almost every district of the Highlands bears the trace of the vast forests with which at no very distant period the hills and heaths were covered: some have decayed with age, but large tracts were purposely destroyed in the latter end of the sixteenth and the early part of the seventeenth century. On the south side of Beann Nevis a large pine forest, which extended from the western braes of Lochabar to the black water and the mosses of Ranach, was burned to expel the wolves. In the neighbourhood of Loch Sloi a tract of woods, nearly twenty miles in extent, was consumed for the same purpose; and at a later period a considerable part of the forests adjoining to Lochiel was laid waste by the soldiers of Oliver Cromwell, in their attempts to subdue the Clan Cameron. Nothing of late years has tended more to the destruction of the small woods than the pasturage of sheep. Wherever these animals have access to a copse-wood which has been cut down, they entirely stunt its growth, and sometimes destroy it altogether, by continually eating off the young shoots as soon as they appear. A considerable quantity of the yet remaining woods is also too frequently sacrificed to the avarice of the proprietors. On the west bank of Loch Catrine, near the Trossachs, a ground which ought now to have been as sacred as the vale of Tempe, a beautiful copse-wood has been cut and sold within a recent period; and there appears in its place only the desolate side of a naked heather hill. It is not above sixty years since Glen Urcha has been divested of a superb forest of firs some miles in extent. The timber was bought by a company of Irish adventurers, who paid at the rate of sixpence a tree for such as would now have been valued at five guineas. After having felled the whole of the forest, the purchasers became bankrupt, and dispersed: the overseer of the workmen was hanged at Inverara, for assassinating one of his men. The laird never received the purchase of his timber, and a considerable number of the trees were left upon the spot where they fell, or by the shores of Loch Awe, where they were carried for conveyance, and gradually consumed by the action of the weather. Those mosses where the ancient forests formerly stood, are overspread with the short stocks of trees still standing where they grew. Age has reduced them almost to the core, and the rains and decay of the earth have cleared them of the soil: yet their wasted stumps, and the fangs of their roots, retain their original shape, and stand amid the hollows, the realization of the skeletons of trees in the romance of Leonora. Abundance of these remains of an older world are to be seen in Glen Urcha and its neighbourhood. In Corrai Fhuar, Glen Phinglass, and Glen Eitive, they are met at every step. In the first, a few living firs are yet thriving; but they are surrounded on every side by the shattered stumps, fallen trunks, and blasted limbs of a departed forest.

It is difficult to conceive the sad emotions which are excited by this picture of an aged existence falling without notice, and consuming in the deepest solitude and silence: on every side lie different stages of decay, from the mouldered and barkless stock, half overgrown with grass and moss, to the overturned tree, yet bearing on its crashed limbs the withered leaves of its last summer. In Glen Phinglass there is no longer any living timber; but the remains of that which it once produced are of greater magnitude than those in Corrai Fhuar. In this tract the trees were chiefly oak; firs were, however, intermixed among them, and in the upper part of the glen is the stump of one six feet in diameter. At intervals are stocks of oak from five to seven or eight feet in height; they are all of a great size and age: some are still covered with bark, and yet bear a few stunted shoots; but many are so old, that the mossy earth has grown on one side to their top, and the heath has begun to tuft them over like ivy. In Glen Eitive the remains are less obliterated: many of the scathed and knotted stumps yet bear a thin head of wreathed and dwarfish boughs, and in some places trunks of immense oaks, straight as a mast, yet lie at the foot of the stump from which they were snapped. I know not how to describe the feelings with which I have gazed upon these relics of the ancient forests which once covered the hills, and looked up to the little feathery copse-wood which is all that now remains upon the side of the mountain. What must be the soul of that man who can look upon the change without a thought? who hears the taunts of the stranger revile the nakedness of his land, and who can stand upon his hill and stretch his eye for an hundred miles over the traces of gigantic woods, and say, “This is mine;” and yet ask not the neglected earth for its produce, nor strive to revive the perished glory of his country, and which to be reanimated needs but to be sought?

The success of those who have possessed this patriotism _ought_ to be a source of emulation, and _is_ a monument of reproach to those who do not follow their example. The princely avenues of Inverara, the beautiful woods of Glengarrie, the plantations of Duntroon, and the groves of Athol, must excite in a stranger, admiration; in a native, pride and gratitude--pride in the produce of his country, and gratitude to the noble possessors who have preserved and cherished that which every Scottish proprietor ought to support, the honour and the interest of his fathers’ land.

* * * * *

Mr. Allan’s elegant poem is a “lament” on the desertion of the Highlands by its ancient inhabitants. He says:--

Full often in the valleys still and lone,
The _ruins of deserted huts_ appear.
And here and there grown o’er for many a year,
_Half-hidden ridges_ in the heath are seen,
Where once the delving plough and waving corn had been.

In a note on this stanza, Mr. Allan eloquently depicts the depopulated districts, viz.:--

Upon the narrow banks of lonely streams, amid the solitude of waste moors, in the bosom of desolate glens, and on the eminences of hills given to the foxes and the sheep, are seen the half-mouldered walls of ruined huts, and the mossy furrows of abandoned fields, which tell the existence of a people once numerous and rich. In these melancholy traces of desolation are sometimes seen the remains of eight or twelve houses bereft of their roofs, and mouldering into a promiscuous heap. Upon one farm in the straith of Glen Urcha there were “sixty years since” thirty-seven “smokes;” at this day they are all extinguished, except four. A less extensive but more striking instance of this falling away of the people will still farther illustrate the lines in the poem. I was one evening passing up a solitary glen between Glen Phinglass and Loch Bhoile; the day was fast closing, and wearied with hunting, and at a distance from the inhabited straiths, I wished to discover some house where I might obtain refreshment. As I turned the shoulder of the hill, I came upon a small level plain where four glens met. In the midst stood two cottages, and I hastened forward in the hopes of obtaining a stoup of milk and a barley scone. As I drew near I remarked that no smoke issued from the chimney, no cattle stood in the straith, nor was there any sign of the little green kale yard, which is now found in the precincts of a highland cottage. I was something discouraged by the quiet and desolation which reigned around; but knowing the solitude and poverty of the shepherds of the outward bounds, I was not surprised. At length, however, as I drew near, I saw the heath growing in the walls of the huts, the doors were removed, and the apertures of the windows had fallen into chasms. As I stopped and looked round, I observed a level space which had been once a field: it was yet green and smooth, and the grass-grown ridges of long-neglected furrows were perceivable, retiring beneath the encroaching heather. Familiarity with such objects prevented surprise and almost reflection; but hunger and weariness reminded me not to linger, and I pursued my way towards Loch Bhoile. As I turned into the north-west glen, I again discovered before me a small house by the side of the burn, and the compactitude of its walls and the freshness of its grey roof as the setting sun glinted upon its ridge, assured me that it was not deserted. I hastened onward, but again I was deceived. When I came near, I found that although it had not been so long uninhabited, it was forsaken like the rest: the small wooden windows were half-closed; the door stood open, and moss had crept upon the sill; the roof was grown over with a thick and high crop of long-withered grass: a few half-burnt peats lay in a corner of the hearth, and the smoke of its last fire was yet hanging on the walls. In the narrow sandy path near the door was a worn space, which yet seemed smoothened by the tread of little feet, and showed the half-deranged remains of children’s playhouses built with pebbles and fragments of broken china: the row of stepping-stones yet stood as they had been placed in the brook, but no foot-mark was upon them, and it was doubtless many a day since they had been crossed, save by the foxes of the hill.

[351] Mr. Allan’s poems, the “Bridal of Caölchairn,” the “Last Deer of
Beann Doran,” &c. were published by Carpenter, Bond-street, in 1822.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXXIII.

[From the “True Trojans, or Fuimus Troes,” an Historical Play, Author unknown, 1633.]

_Invocation of the Druids to the Gods of Britain, on the invasion of Cæsar._

Draw near, ye Heav’nly Powers,
Who dwell in starry bowers;
And ye, who in the deep
On mossy pillows sleep;
And ye who keep the centre,
Where never light did enter;
And ye whose habitations
Are still among the nations,
To see and hear our doings,
Our births, our wars, our wooings;
Behold our present grief
Belief doth beg relief.

By the vervain and lunary,
By fern seed planetary,
By the dreadful misletoe
Which doth on holy oak grow,
Draw near, draw near, draw near.

Help us beset with danger,
And turn away your anger;
Help us begirt with trouble,
And now your mercy double;
Help us opprest with sorrow
And fight for us to-morrow.
Let fire consume the foeman,
Let air infest the Roman,
Let seas intomb their fury,
Let gaping earth them bury.
Let fire, and air, and water,
And earth conspire their slaughter.

By the vervain, &c.

We’ll praise then your great power,
Each month, each day, each hour,
And blaze in lasting story
Your honour and your glory.
High altars lost in vapour,
Young heifers free from labour,
White lambs for suck still crying,
Shall make your music dying,
The boys and girls around,
With honey suckles crown’d;
The bards with harp and rhiming
Green bays their brows entwining,
Sweet tune and sweeter ditty,
Shall chaunt your gracious pity.

By the vervain, &c.

_Another, to the Moon._

Thou Queen of Heav’n, Commandress of the deep,
Lady of lakes, Regent of woods and deer;
A Lamp, dispelling irksome night; the Source
Of generable moisture; at whose feet
Wait twenty thousand Naiades!--thy crescent
Brute elephants adore, and man doth feel
Thy force run through the zodiac of his limbs.
O thou first Guide of Brutus to this isle,
Drive back these proud usurpers from this isle.
Whether the name of Cynthia’s silver globe,
Or chaste Diana with a gilded quiver,
Or dread Proserpina, stern Dis’s spouse,
Or soft Lucina, call’d in child-bed throes,
Doth thee delight: rise with a glorious face.
Green drops of Nereus trickling down thy cheeks,
And with bright horns united in full orb
Toss high the seas, with billows beat the banks,
Conjure up Neptune, and th’ Æolian slaves,
Protract both night and winter in a storm,
That Romans lose their way, and sooner land
At sad Avernus’ than at Albion’s strand.
So may’st thou shun the Dragon’s head and tail!
So may Endymion snort on Latmian bed!
So may the fair game fall before thy bow!--
Shed light on us, but light’ning on our foe.

* * * * *

[From the “Twins,” a Comedy, by W. Rider, A. M. 1655.]

_Irresolution._

I am a heavy stone,
Rolled up a hill by a weak child: I move
A little up, and tumble back again.

_Resolution for Innocence._

My noble mind has not yet lost all shame.
I will desist. My love, that will not serve me
As a true subject, I’ll conquer as an enemy.
O Fame, I will not add another spot
To thy pure robe. I’ll keep my ermine honour
Pure and alive in death; and with my end
I’ll end my sin and shame: like Charicles,
Who living to a hundred years of age
Free from the least disease, fearing a sickness,
To kill it killed himself, and made his death
The period of his health.

* * * * *

[From “Sir Giles Goosecap,” a Comedy, Author Unknown, 1606.]

_Friendship in a Lord; modesty in a Gentleman._

_Clarence_, (_to some musicians_). Thanks, gentle friends;
Is your good lord, and mine, gone up to bed yet?
_Momford_. I do assure you not, Sir, not yet, nor yet,
my deep and studious friend, not yet, musical Clarence.
_Clar._ My Lord--
_Mom._ Nor yet, then sole divider of my Lordship.
_Clar._ That were a most unfit division,
And far above the pitch of my low plumes.
I am your bold and constant guest, my Lord.
_Mom._ Far, far from bold, for thou hast known me long,
Almost these twenty years, and half those years
Hast been my bedfellow, long time before
This unseen thing, this thing of nought indeed,
Or atom, call’d _my Lordship_, shined in me;
And yet thou mak’st thyself as little bold
To take such kindness, as becomes the age
And truth of our indissoluble love,
As our acquaintance sprong but yesterday;
Such is thy gentle and too tender spirit.
_Clar._ My Lord, my want of courtship makes me fear
I should be rude; and this my mean estate
Meets with such envy and detraction,
Such misconstructions and resolv’d misdooms
Of my poor worth, that should I be advanced
Beyond my unseen lowness but one hair,
I should be torn in pieces by the spirits
That fly in ill-lung’d tempests thro’ the world,
Tearing the head of virtue from her shoulders,
If she but look out of the ground of glory;
’Twixt whom, and me, and every worldly fortune,
There fights such sour and curst antipathy,
So waspish and so petulant a star,
That all things tending to my grace and good
Are ravish’d from their object, as I were
A thing created for a wilderness,
And must not think of any place with men.

* * * * *

[From the “English Monsieur,” a Comedy by the Hon. James Howard,
1674.]

_The humour of a conceited Traveller, who is taken with every thing that is French._

_English Monsieur._ Gentlemen, if you please, let us dine together.

_Vaine._ I know a cook’s shop, has the best boiled and roast beef in
town.

_Eng. Mons._ Sir, since you are a stranger to me, I only ask you what
you mean; but, were you acquainted with me, I should take your greasy
proposition as an affront to my palate.

_Vaine._ Sir, I only meant, by the consent of this company, to dine
well together.

_Eng. Mons._ Do you call dining well, to eat out of a French house.

_Vaine._ Sir, I understand you as little as you do beef.

_Eng. Mons._ Why then, to interpret my meaning plainly, if ever you
make me such offer again, expect to hear from me next morning--

_Vaine._ What, that you would not dine with me--

_Eng. Mons._ No, Sir; that I will fight with you. In short, Sir, I can
only tell you, that I had once a dispute with a certain person in this
kind, who defended the English way of eating; whereupon I gent him a
challenge, as any man that has been in France would have done. We
fought; I killed him: and whereabouts do you think I hit him?

_Vaine._ I warrant you, in the small guts--

_Eng. Mons._ I run him through his mistaken palate; which made me
think the hand of justice guided my sword.

* * * * *

_Eng. Mons._ Madam, leading your Ladyship, puts me in mind of France.

_Lady._ Why, Sir?

_Eng. Mons._ Because you lead so like French ladies.

_Lady._ Sir, why look you so earnestly on the ground?

_Eng. Mons._ I’ll lay a hundred pounds, here has been three English
ladies walking up before us.

_Crafty._ How can you tell, Sir?

_Eng. Mons._ By being in France.

_Crafty._ What a devil can he mean?

_Eng. Mons._ I have often in France observed in gardens, when the
company used to walk after a small shower of rain, the impression of
the French ladies’ feet. I have seen such _bon mien_ in their
footsteps, that the King of France’s _Maitre de Daunce_ could not have
found fault with any one tread amongst them all. In this walk I find
the toes of the English ladies ready to tread one upon another.

* * * * *

_Vaine._ Monsieur Frenchlove, well met--

_Eng. Mons._ I cannot say the like to you, Sir, since I’m told you’ve
done a damn’d English trick.

_Vaine._ In what?

_Eng. Mons._ In finding fault with a pair of tops I wore yesterday;
and, upon my _parol_, I never had a pair sat better in my life. My leg
look’d in ’em not at all like an English leg.

_Vaine._ Sir, all that I said of your tops was, that they made such a
rushing noise as you walk’d, that my mistress could not hear one word
of the love I made to her.

_Eng. Mons._ Sir, I cannot help that; for I shall justify my tops in
the noise they were guilty of, since ’twas _Alamode_ of France. Can
you say ’twas an English noise.

_Vaine._ I can say, though your tops were made in France, they made a
noise in England.

_Eng. Mons._ But still, Sir, ’twas a French noise--

_Vaine._ But cannot a French noise hinder a man from hearing?

_Eng. Mons._ No, certainly, that’s a demonstration; for, look you,
Sir, a French noise is agreeable to the air, and therefore not
unagreeable, and therefore not prejudicial, to the hearing; that is to
say, to a person that has seen the world.

The Monsieur comforts himself, when his mistress rejects him, that “’twas a denial with a French tone of voice, so that ’twas agreeable:” and, at her final departure, “Do you see, Sir, how she leaves us? she walks away with a French step.”

C. L.

* * * * *

THOU AND YOU, IN POETRY.

The promiscuous use of _thou_ and _you_ is a common error among all our poets, not the best or most accurate excepted.

The cause of this anomaly is not of difficult investigation. The second person singular not being colloquial with us, (for we never use it to our familiar friends like the French,) it at once elevates our language above the level of common discourse--a most essential object to the poet, and therefore he readily adopts it; but when it comes to govern a verb, the combination of _st_ is so harsh that he as readily abandons it.

In Pope’s Eloisa to Abelard, the singular pronoun is constantly used till verse 65:

“--Heaven listen’d while _you sung_;”

for _thou sungst_ (without considering the rhyme) would have been intolerable.

In lines 107, 109, the verb _canst thou_ has a good effect; as by lengthening the syllable by position it becomes more emphatic, and the harshness is amply compensated by the superior force of _canst thou_ to _can you_. The fastidious critic therefore would do well, before he passes his sentence, to consider whether an inaccuracy, which is never discovered except it be sought after, is not fairly entitled to the favour Aristotle grants to those deviations from strict propriety which tend to heighten the interest of a poem.

This change however is absolutely indefensible when used for the sake of rhyme only. Many instances of this occur in the same poem; the most striking will be found in two succeeding couplets: