Chapter C: Cole (1)

_August 22, 1827._

Vol. II.--40.

A HUT, ERECTED BY WILLIAM CORRALL, A POOR AND AGED LABOURER, AFTER THE VIOLENT AND LAWLESS DESTRUCTION OF HIS COTTAGE, EARLY IN THE MORNING OF THE SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER, 1827.]

“-------------- ’Twas strange; ’twas passing strange!
’Twas pitiful! ’twas wond’rous pitiful!”

I thought, in the _Every-Day Book_, that I had done with “Hagbush-lane” altogether--the tale of the poor man’s wrongs, when “the proud man’s contumely” grew into open aggression, had passed from me; and I presumed that, for his little while on this side the grave, the oppressed might “go free,” and “hear not the voice of the oppressor”--but when selfishness is unwatched it has a natural tendency to break forth, and a sudden and recent renewal of an outrage, which every honest mind had condemned, furnishes a fresh story. It is well related in the following letter:--

_To the Editor._

Sir,--In the first volume of the _Every-Day Book_ you have favoured the lovers of rural scenery with an historical and descriptive notice of Hagbush-lane, Islington, accompanied with an engraving of the “mud edifice” which formerly stood there; of which you have given “the simple annals:”--its erection by a poor labourer who, else, had no shelter for himself, wife, and child, to “shrink into,” when “pierced by wintry winds;”--its demolition by the wealthy occupants of the neighbouring fields;--the again-houseless man’s endeavour to rebuild his hovel;--the rich man’s repetition of the destruction of his half-finished hut;--and finally, the labourer’s succeeding in the erection of a cottage, more commodious than the first, where he continued unmolested to sell small beer to poor workmen and wayfarers.--Allow me, sir, the melancholy task of informing you of the “final destruction” of this sample of rusticity.--Hagbush-lane is despoiled of its appropriate ornament.

I have ever been an admirer of the beautiful scenery that is to be met with on that side of the metropolis; and never, since reading your interesting narrative and description, have I strolled that way, without passing through Hagbush-lane. On entering the wide part from the field by Copenhagen-house, one day last week, I was sadly astonished at the change--the cottage, with its garden-rails and benches, had disappeared; and the garden was entirely laid waste: trees, bushes, and vegetables rudely torn up by the roots, lay withering where they had flourished. Upon the site of his demolished dwelling stood the poor old man, bent by affliction as much as by age, leaning on his stick. From the heartbroken expression of his features, it did not take me a moment to guess the cause of this devastation:--the opulent landholder has, for the third time, taken this ungentle expedient to rid his pastures of a neighbouring “nuisance”--the hut of cheerless poverty.

The distressed old rustic stated, that on Thursday, (which was the sixth of September,) at about six o’clock in the morning, before the inmates had arisen, a party of workmen came to the cottage; and, merely informing them that “they must disturb them,” instantly commenced the work of destruction. His dwelling was soon levelled with the ground; and the growth of his garden torn up, and thrown in a heap into the lane. He declared, with a tear, that “it had ruined him for ever, and would be the death of him.” I did not ask him many questions: it had been a sin to probe his too deeply wounded feelings.

Proceeding up the lane, to where it is crossed by the new road, I perceived that, in the open space by the road-side, at the entrance into the narrow part of the lane, the old man had managed to botch up, with pieces of board and old canvass, a miserable shed to shelter him. It was surrounded with household utensils, and what materials he had saved from the ruins of his cottage--a most wretched sty--but little larger than the dog-kennel that was erected near it, from which a faithful cur barked loudly at the intruder’s footstep.

Being a stranger in the neighbourhood, I cannot pretend to know any thing of the motives that have induced his rich neighbours thus to distress the poor and aged man;--perhaps they are best known to themselves, and it is well if they can justify them to any but themselves!--but surely, surely he will not be suffered to remain thus exposed in the approaching season,

“--all amid the rigours of the year,
In the wild depth of winter, while without
The ceaseless winds blow ice.”----

Perhaps, sir, I give too much room to my feelings. My intention was but to inform you of a regretted change in a scene which you have noticed and admired in the _Every-Day Book_. Should you consider it worthy of further notice in the _Table Book_, you will oblige me by putting it forward in what form best pleases yourself.

I remain, &c.

SO AND SO.

_Sept. 19, 1827._

This communication, accompanied by the real name and address of its warmhearted writer, revived my recollections and kindled my feelings. I immediately wrote to a friend, who lives in the vicinage of Hagbush-lane, requesting him to hasten to the site of the old cottage, which was quite as well known to him as to me, and bring me a drawing of the place in its present state, with such particulars of the razing of the edifice as he could obtain. His account, as I collect it from verbal narration, corroborates that of my correspondent.

So complete has been the devastation, that a drawing of the spot whereon the cottage stood would merely be a view of the level earth. My friend walked over it, and along Hagbush-lane, till he came into the new road, (leading from the King’s Head at Holloway to the lower road from London to Kentish Town.) Immediately at the corner of the continuation of Hagbush-lane, which begins on the opposite side of the new road, he perceived a new hut, and near it the expelled occupant of the cottage, which had been laid waste in the other part of the lane. On asking the old man respecting the occasion and manner of his ejectment, he cried. It was a wet and dreary day; and the poor fellow in tears, and his hastily thrown up tenement, presented a cheerless and desolate scene. His story was short. On the Thursday, (mentioned in the letter,) so early as five in the morning, some men brought a ladder, a barrow, and a pickaxe, and ascending the ladder began to untile the roof, while the old man and his wife were in bed. He hastily rose; they demanded of him to unlock the door; on his refusing they burst it open with the pick-axe, and having thus forced an entrance compelled his wife to get up. They then wantonly threw out and broke the few household utensils, and hewed down the walls of the dwelling. In the little garden, they rooted up and destroyed every tree, shrub, and vegetable; and finally, they levelled all vestiges which could mark the place, as having been used or cultivated for the abode and sustenance of human beings. Some of the less destructible requisites of the cottage they trundled in the barrow up the lane, across the road, whither the old man and his wife followed, and were left with the few remnants of their miserable property by the housebreakers. On that spot they put together their present hut with a few old boards and canvass, as represented in the engraving, and there they remain to tell the story of their unredressed wrongs to all who desire the particulars.

The old man represents the “ringleader,” as he calls him, in this last work of ruin, to be the foreman of a great cow-keeping landholder and speculator, to whose field-possessions the cottage on the waste was adjacent. Who employed this “ringleader” and his followers? Who was the instigating and protecting accessary before and after this brutal housebreaking, and wilful waste?

The helpless man got his living by selling small beer, and a little meat, cooked by his wife, to others as poor and helpless as themselves; and they eked out their existence by their garden produce. In the summer of 1825 I heard it said, that their cottage was the resort and drinking-place of idle and disorderly persons. I took some pains to ascertain the fact; but could never trace it beyond--the most dubitable authority--general report. It is quite true, that I saw persons there whom I preferred not to sit down with, because their manners and habits were different from my own; yet I not unfrequently took a cup of the old man’s beer among them, and silently watched them, and sometimes talked with them; and, for any thing that I could observe--and I know myself to be a close observer--they were quite as honourable and moral, as persons of more refined language and dress, who frequent respectable coffee-houses. I had been, too, withinside the cottage, which was a place of rude accommodation for no more than its settled occupants. It was on the outside that the poor couple entertained their customers, who usually sat on the turf seat against the foot-path side of the hut, or on an empty barrel or two, or a three-legged milking-stool. On the hedge side of the cottage was a small low lean-to, wherein the old man kept a pig to fatten. At the front end was an enclosure of a few feet of ground, with domestic fowls and their callow broods, which ran about cackling, and routing the earth for their living. In the rear of the cottage was a rod or two of ground banked off, and well planted with potatoes, cabbages, and other garden stuff, where I have often seen the old man fully employed in weeding and cultivating; digging up old, or preparing for new crops, or plashing and mending his little fences. Between his vegetables, and his live stock, and his few customers, he had enough to do; and I never saw him idle. I never saw him sitting down to drink with them; and if he had, there was nothing among them but the small beer. From the early part of the spring to the end of the year just mentioned, I have been past and loitered near the cottage at all hours of the day, from the early dawn, before even the sun, or the inmates had risen, till after they had gone to rest, and the moon was high, and the stars were in their courses. Never in the hours I spent around the place by day or night, did I see or hear any persons or practices that would be termed disorderly by any but the worst judges of human nature and morals--the underbred overpolite, and vulgarly overdressed. There I have seen a brickmaker or two with their wives and daughters sitting and regaling, as much at home, and as sober and innocent, as parties of French ladies and gentlemen at Chedron’s in Leicester-square; and from these people, if spoken to civilly, there was language as civil. There I have seen a comfortably dressed man, in a clean shirt, and a coat and hat as good as a Fleet-street tradesman’s, with a jug of _small_ “entire” before him, leisurely at work on a pair of shoes, joining in the homely conversation, and in choruses of old English songs, raised by his compeers. There, too, I have heard a company of merry-hearted labourers and holiday-making journeymen, who had straggled away from their smithies and furnaces in the lanes of London, to breathe the fresh air, pealing out loud laughter, while the birds whistled over their heads from the slender branches of the green elms. In the old man I saw nothing but unremitting industry; and in his customers nothing but rude yet inoffensive good-nature. He was getting his bread by the sweat of his brow, and his brow was daily moistened by labour.

When I before related something of this poor man’s origin,[359] and his former endurances, I little suspected that I should have to tell that, after the parochial officers of Islington had declined to receive him into the poor-house, the parish would suffer him to be molested as a labourer on its waste. He has been hunted as a wild beast; and, perhaps, had he been a younger man, and with vindictive feelings, he might have turned round upon his enemies, and lawlessly avenged himself for the lawless injuries inflicted on him. Vagrancy is easily tempted to criminality, and the step is short.

It is scarcely three weeks since the old cottager was in a snug abode of his own handmaking, with a garden that had yielded support to him and his wife through the summer, and roots growing in it for their winter consumption. These have been mercilessly laid waste at the coming-in of the inclement season. Will no one further investigate the facts, and aid him in obtaining “indemnity for the past, and security for the future?”

Respecting the rights of the parish of Islington in Hagbush-lane, as the ancient and long disused north road into London, I do not pretend to determine; because, after the warm discussions and strong resolutions of its vestries, sometime ago, respecting a part of this road which had been partially appropriated to private use, the parish may have thoroughly good reasons for acquiescing in the entire stopping up of a carriage thoroughfare, between the back road to Holloway and Islington upper street, which, if now open, would be of great use. Many of the inhabitants, however may not be so easily satisfied as a few that the individual, who has at length wholly enclosed it, and shut it against the public, has any more right to stop up, and take the ground of this highway to himself, than to enclose so much of the road to Holloway through which the mails pass.

I have often perambulated Hagbush-lane, as the old London north road, from Old-street across the City-road, the Lower and Upper Islington, and Holloway roads, by the Islington workhouse, on to the Bull ring field; (which is in private hands, no one knows how;) from thence, over the site of the destroyed cottage to the old man’s present hut; then along the meadows; across the Highgate-archway-cut into other meadows, through which it winds back again, and recrosses the archway-cut, and afterwards crosses the London road, between stately elms, towards Hornsey.

Perhaps the Commissioners of Crown Lands, or Woods and Forests, may find it convenient and easy to institute an inquiry into the encroachments of Hagbush-lane, as a disused public road; and devise a method of obtaining its worth, in aid of the public service.

Meantime, the aggression on the old cottager must not be forgotten. The private wrong he has sustained is in the nature of a public wrong; and it is open to every one to consider of the means by which these repeated breaches of the peace may be prevented, and redress be obtained for the poor man’s injuries.

*

[359] In the first volume of the _Every-Day Book_, No. 28, which
contains the account of Hagbush-lane and its vicinage, col. 857 to
872.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXXV.

[From the “Hectors,” a Comedy; by Edmund Prestwick, 1641.]

_A Waiting Maid wheedles an old Justice into a belief, that her Lady is in love with him._

_Maid._ I think there never was Woman of so strange a humour as she is
for the world; for from her infancy she ever doted on old men. I have
heard her say, that in these her late law troubles, it has been no
small comfort to her, that she hath been conversant with grave
counsellors and serjeants; and what a happiness she had sometimes to
look an hour together upon the Judges. She will go and walk a whole
afternoon in Charter House Garden, on purpose to view the ancient
Gentlemen there. Not long ago there was a young Gentleman here about
the town who, hearing of her riches, and knowing this her humour, had
almost got her, by counterfeiting himself to be an old man.

_Justice._ And how came he to miss her?

_Maid._ The strangliest that ever you heard; for all things were
agreed, the very writings drawn, and when he came to seal them,
because he set his name without using a pair of spectacles, she would
never see him more.

_Justice._ Nay, if she can love an old man so--well--

_The Waiting Maid places the Justice, where he can overhear a sham discourse of the Lady with a pretended Brother._

_Brother._ What is the matter, Sister? you do not use to be so strange
to me.

_Lady._ I do not indeed; but now methinks I cannot conceal any thing;
yet I could wish you could now guess my thoughts, and look into my
mind; and see what strange passions have ruled there of late, without
forcing me to strain my modesty.

_Broth._ What, are you in love with anybody? Come, let me know the
party; a brother’s advice may do you no harm.

_Sist._ Did you not see an ancient gentleman with me, when you came
in?

_Broth._ What, is it any son or kinsman of his?

_Sist._ No, no. (_She weeps._)

_Broth._ Who then?

_Sist._ I have told you--

_Broth._ What, that feeble and decrepit piece of age--

_Sist._ Nay, brother--

_Broth._ That sad effect of some threescore years and ten--that antic
relique of the last century--

_Sist._ Alas, dear brother, it is but too true.

_Broth._ It is impossible.

_Sist._ One would think so indeed.

_Broth._ I grant, you may bear a reverence and regard, as to your
father’s ashes, or your grandsire’s tomb.

_Sist._ Alas, brother, you know I never did affect those vain though
pleasing braveries of youth, but still have set my mind on the more
noble part of man, which age doth more refine and elaborate, than it
doth depress and sink this same contemptible clod.

_Justice._ I see, she loves me.

* * * * *

[From “Hey for Honesty,” a Comedy, by T. Randolph, 1651.]

_To Plutus._

Did not Will Summers break his wind for thee?
And Shakespeare therefore writ his comedy?
All things acknowledge thy vast power divine,
Great God of Money, whose most powerful shine
Gives motion, life; day rises from thy sight,
Thy setting though at noon makes pitchy night.
Sole catholic cause of what we feel and see,
All in this all are but the effects of thee.

_Riches above Poverty; a syllogism._

--My _major_, That which is most noble, is most honorable. But Poverty
is more noble. My _minor_ I prove thus. Whose houses are most ancient,
those are most noble. But Poverty’s houses are most ancient; for some
of them are so old, like Vicarage houses, they are every hour in
danger of falling.

_Stationer’s Preface before the Play._

Reader, this is a pleasant Comedy, though some may judge it satirical,
’tis the more like Aristophanes, the father; besides, if it be biting,
’tis a biting age we live in; then biting for biting. Again, Tom
Randal, the adopted son of Ben Jonson, being the Translator hereof,
followed his father’s steps. They both of them loved Sack, and
harmless mirth, and here they shew it; and I, that know myself, am not
averse from it neither. This I thought good to acquaint thee with.
Farewell. Thine, F.J.

* * * * *

[From the “Example,” a Tragi-Comedy, by Jas. Shirley, 1638.]

_The humour of a wary Knight, who sleeps all day, and wakes all night, for security.--He calls up his Household at midnight._

_Plot._ Dormant, why Dormant, thou eternal sleeper
Who would be troubled with these lethargies
About him? are you come, dreamer?

_Dormant (entering.)_ Would I were so happy. There’s less noise in a
steeple upon a Coronation-day. O sleep, sleep, tho’ it were a dead
one, would be comfortable. Your Worship might be pleased to let my
fellow Old-rat watch as well as I.

_Plot._ Old-rat! that fellow is a drone.

_Dorm._ He has slept this half hour on the iron chest. Would I were in
my grave to take a nap; death would do me a courtesy; I should be at
rest, and hear no noise of “Dormant.”

_Plot._ Hah! what’s the matter?

_Dorm._ Nothing but a yawn, Sir, I do all I can to keep myself waking.

_Plot._ ’Tis done considerately. This heavy dulness Is the disease of
souls. Sleep in the night!

_Dorm._ Shall I wake my fellow Old-rat? he is refreshed.
_Plot._ Do; but return you with him: I have business with both--
_Dorm._ To hear us join in opinion of what’s a clock!
They talk of Endymion: now could I sleep three lives.

(_exit._)

_Plot._ When other men measure the hours with sleep,
Careless of where they are and whom they trust,
Exposing their condition to danger
Of plots, I wake and wisely think prevention.
Night was not made to snore in; but so calm,
For our imaginations to be stirring
About the world; this subtle world, this world
Of plots and close conspiracy. There is
No faith in man nor woman. Where’s this Dormant?
_Dorm. (re-entering with Old-rat.)_ Here is the sleepy vermin.
_Old._ It has been day this two hours.
_Plot._ Then ’tis time for me to go to bed.
_Dorm._ Would my hour were once come!
_Plot._ Keep out daylight, and set up a fresh taper.
_Dorm._ By that time we have dined, he will have slept out his
first sleep.
_Old._ And after supper call for his breakfast.
_Plot._ You are sure ’tis morning?
_Dorm._ As sure as I am sleepy.

C. L.

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

IMPERIAL FATE.

-----------------Let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings:--
How some have been depos’d, some slain in war;
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d;
Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping killed;
All murder’d:--For within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps Death his court--

RICHARD II.

Does any man envy the situation of monarchs? Let him peruse the following statement, which particularizes the deaths of the _forty-seven_ Roman emperors, from Julius Cæsar to Constantine the Great; only _thirteen_ of whom encountered “the last enemy” in the ordinary course of nature:--

B. C.

42. _Julius Cæsar_ was murdered by Brutus
and others in the senate-house.

A. D.

15. AUGUSTUS CÆSAR _died a natural
death_.

39. _Tiberius_ was smothered with pillows,
at the instigation of Macro, the
friend of Caligula.

42. _Caligula_ was stabbed by Cherea and
other conspirators, when retiring
from the celebration of the Palatine
games.

55. _Claudius_ was poisoned by the artifice
of his wife Aggrippina.

69. _Nero_ in the midst of a general revolt
was condemned to death by the
senate. Upon hearing of which
he killed himself with a dagger.

69. _Sergius Galba_ conspired against by
Otho, by whose partisans he was
beheaded.

70. _Otho_ destroyed himself, to avoid further
contest with his competitor
Vitellius.

70. _Vitellius_ was massacred by the populace,
who threw his dead body
into the Tiber.

79. VESPASIAN _died a natural death_.

81. _Titus._ It is suspected that his death
was hastened by his brother Domitian.

96. _Domitian_ was murdered by Stephanus
and other conspirators.

98. NERVA _died a natural death_.

117. TRAJAN _ditto_.

138. ADRIAN _ditto_.

161. _Titus Antoninus_, called Antoninus
Pius, _ditto_.

180. MARCUS AURELIUS, called Antoninus
the Philosopher, _ditto_.

192. _Commodus_ was strangled by Narcissus
and other conspirators.

192. _Pertinax_ was murdered by the soldiers.

195. _Didius Julian_ was beheaded by the
soldiers.

211. SEPTIMUS SEVERUS _died a natural
death_.

217. _Caracalla_ and _Geta_, joint emperors.
Geta was killed by his brother
Caracalla, who was afterwards
killed by Martial.

218. _Opillius Macrinus_ was killed by the
partisans of Heliogabalus.

222. _Heliogabalus_ was murdered by the
soldiers, who threw his dead body
into the Tiber.

235. _Alexander_ was beheaded by the soldiers.

238. _Maximin_ was murdered by his own
guards.

238. _Maximus_ and _Balbinus_, joint emperors,
were both murdered by the
prætorian guards.

243. _Gordian_ was murdered by order of
Philip, whom he had associated
with him in the command of the
empire.

248. _Philip_ was murdered by the soldiers.

251. _Decius_ destroyed himself, after having
been defeated by the Goths.

253. _Gallus_ was slain in battle, with his
competitor Emilianus.

259. _Valerian_ was taken prisoner by Sapor,
king of Persia, who caused him
to be cruelly murdered.

268. _Galienus_ was slain by his own soldiers.

270. CLAUDIUS _died a natural death_.

275. _Aurelian_ was murdered by Menesthus
and other conspirators.

275. TACITUS _died a natural death_.

282. _Probus_ was murdered by his soldiers.

284. _Carus_ and his sons, _Carinus_ and
_Numerian_, joint emperors. The
father was struck dead by lightning,
and both his sons were
murdered.

304. _Dioclesian_ and _Maximian_, joint emperors.
Dioclesian resigned the
empire, and died either by poison
or madness. Maximian also resigned,
but was afterwards condemned
to death by Constantine.

306. CONSTANTIUS and { joint emperors, both
311. GALERIUS, { _died a natural death_.

343. CONSTANTINE the Great _died a natural
death_.

Where did these events occur? Among the savage tribes of interior Africa, or the rude barbarians of northern Europe? No: but in Rome--imperial Rome--in her “high and palmy state,” when she was mistress of the world, and held within her dominion all the science and literature of which the earth could boast. Surely we may with reason doubt, whether the moral improvement of mankind invariably keeps pace with their intellectual advancement.

O. Z.

* * * * *

ILL-FATED ROYAL FAMILIES.

THE LINE OF CHARLEMAGNE.

The successors of Charlemagne in his French dominions, were examples of a melancholy destiny.

His son, Louis le Debonnaire, died for want of food, in consequence of a superstitious panic.

His successor, Charles the Bald, was poisoned by his physician.

The son of Charles, Louis the Stutterer, fell also by poison.

Charles, king of Aquitaine, brother to Louis, was fatally wounded in the head by a lord, named Albuin, whom he was endeavouring, by way of frolic, to terrify, in disguise.

Louis III., successor to Louis the Stutterer, riding through the streets of Tours, pursued the handsome daughter of a citizen named Germond, till the terrified girl took refuge in a house; and the king, thinking more of her charms than of the size of the gateway, attempting to force his horse after her, broke his back, and died.

His successor, Carloman, fell by an ill-directed spear, thrown, by his own servant, at a wild boar.

Charles the Fat perished of want, grief, and poison, all together.

His successor, Charles the Simple, died in prison of penury and despair.

Louis the Stranger, who succeeded him, was bruised to death as he was hunting.

Lotharius and Louis V., the two last kings of the race of Charlemagne, were both poisoned by their wives.

After a revolution of two hundred and thirty years, there remained of the whole line of Charlemagne, only Charles, duke of Lorrain; and he, after ineffectually struggling in defence of his rights against Hugh Capet, sunk beneath the fortune of his antagonist, and ended his life and race in solitary confinement.

The French historians observe, that the epithets given to the princes of the line of Charlemagne, were, almost all, expressive of the contemptuous light in which that family was held by the people over whom it reigned.

THE STUARTS.

The royal line of Stuart was as steadily unfortunate as any ever recorded in history. Their misfortunes continued with unabated succession, during three hundred and ninety years.

Robert III. broke his heart, because his eldest son Robert was starved to death, and his youngest, James, was made a captive.

James I., after having beheaded three of his nearest kindred, was assassinated by his own uncle, who was tortured to death for it.

James II. was slain by the bursting of a piece of ordnance.

James III., when flying from the field of battle, was thrown from his horse, and murdered in a cottage, into which he had been carried for assistance.

James IV. fell in Flodden field.

James V. died of grief for the wilful ruin of his army at Solway Moss.

Henry Stuart, lord Darnley, was assassinated, and then blown up in his palace.

Mary Stuart was beheaded in England.

James I. (and VI. of Scotland) died, not without suspicion of being poisoned by lord Buckingham.

Charles I. was beheaded at Whitehall.

Charles II. was exiled for many years; and when he ascended the throne became a slave to his pleasures: he lived a sensualist, and died miserably.

James II. abdicated the crown, and died in banishment.

Anne, after a reign, which though glorious, was rendered unhappy by party disputes, died of a broken heart, occasioned by the quarrels of her favoured servants.

The posterity of James II. remain proscribed and exiled.

* * * * *

~Original Poetry.~

_For the Table Book._

TALES OF TINMOUTHE PRIORIE.

No. I.

THE MAIDEN OF THE SEA.

“Al maner Mynstralcye,
“That any man kan specifye,

* * * * *

“And many unkouth notys new,
“Offe swiche folke als lovid trewe.”

JOHN LIDGATE.

O loud howls the wind o’er the blue, blue deep,
And loud on the shore the dashing waves sweep,
And merk is the night by land and by sea,
And woe to the stranger that’s out on the lea.

Closed fast is the gate of the priory hall,[360]
Unscathed stand the towers of the castle[361] so tall,
High flare the flames on the hearth-stane so wide,
But woe to the stranger that crosses the tide.

Hark! hark! at the portal who’s voice is so bold--
It cannot be open’d for silver or gold--
The foeman is near with his harrying brand,
And brent are the homes of Northumberland.

I’m no foeman, no Scot, in sooth now to say,
But a minstral who weareth the peaceful lay;
Wynken de Mowbray the Prior doth know,
Then open the gate, for the north winds blow.

Who hath not heard De Mowbray’s song?
The softest harp in the minstrel throng;
O many a true love tale can he sing,
And touch the heart with his melting string.

Now while the welkin with tempest raves,
And the angry ocean maddens his waves,
Around the hearth-stane we’ll listen to thee,
And beguile the long night with minstralcye.

O sweet and wild is the harper’s strain,
As its magic steals o’er the raptur’d brain,
And hush’d is the crowd of hearers all,
As thronged they sit in the priory hall.

“O what is sweeter and softer than thou
“Heather-bell on the mountain brow?
“And what is more pure than the sparkling dew
“That kisses that heather-bell so blue?
“Yes! far far sweeter and purer is she,
“The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.

“What is more sweet in the leafy grove
“Than the nightingale’s plaintive song of love?
“And what is more gay than the lark of spring,
“As he carrols lightly on heaven-bent wing?
“O yes, more sweet and more gay is she,
“The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.

“Her raven-tresses in ringlets flow,
“Her step is more light than the forest doe,
“Her dark eyes shine ’neath their silken lash,
“Like the bright but lambent light’ning flash
“Of a summer eve, as noiseless it plays
“’Midst a million stars of yet softer rays.

“The beauteous Eltha’s evening song
“Is wafted o’er the swelling wave,
“And it catches the ear, as it steals along,
“Of wondering seamen, while billows lave
“In gentle murmurs his vessel’s prow,
“As he voyages to where the cedars grow.

“A shallop is riding upon the sea,
“With her broad sail furl’d to the mast;
“A pennon brave floats fair and free
“On the breeze, as it whispers past:

“And who is that stranger of lofty mien
“Who is rock’d on the salt, salt tide?
“-----He is from a foreign land I ween,
“A stranger of meikle pride.

“He has heard the beauteous Eltha’s notes
“Borne far on the eventide breeze,
“Like the eastern perfume that distant floats
“O’er the silver surfac’d seas.

“The stranger hath seen dark Eltha’s eye,
“As it glanc’d o’er the wave so green;
“And mark’d her tresses of raven-dye,
“(More beauteous than golden sheen,)
“Interwoven with sea-flowers of whiten’d hue,
“Such flowers as never in garden grew,
“But pluck’d from the caverns of ocean deep
“By the last stormy waves’ fast rushing sweep,
“And left on the strand as a tribute to thee,
“Thou dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.

“The stranger lov’d dark Eltha’s lay,
“And he lov’d her bright, bright eye;
“And he sued for the love of that maiden gay,
“As she wander’d the ocean nigh.

“He gain’d her love, for his form had grace,
“And stately was his stride;
“His gentlesse show’d him of noble race,
“Tho’ roaming on billows wide:--
“But fair skims the breeze o’er the placid sea,
“And the stranger must hie to a far countrie.

“Dark Eltha still sings but her song is slow,
“And the west wind catches its mournful
“The mariners wonder the changed lay,
“As their slothful barks calm lingering stay:
“The songstress’ cheek is wan and pale,
“And her tresses neglected float on the gale;
“The sea flower is thrown on its rocky bed,
“The once gay Eltha’s peace is fled,
“The eye of the Maiden is dark and bright,
“But it rivals no more the diamond’s light.

“Now many a day thou hast gaz’d o’er the sea
“For the bark of thy lover in vain,
“And many a storm thou hast shudder’d to see
“Spread its wings o’er the anger’d main:
“--Is he faithless the stranger?--forgetful of thee?
“Thou beauteous Maiden of the Sea.

“On many a whiten’d sail hast thou gaz’d,
“Till the lazy breeze bore it on,
“But they pass, and thy weary eyes are glaz’d,
“As they trace the bark just gone:
“None have the pennon, so free and fair,
“As the stranger ship which once tarried there.

“On yon tall cliff to whose broken base
“Loud surging waves for ever race,
“A form is bent o’er the fearful height,
“So eager, that a feather’s weight
“Would cast its poised balance o’er,
“And leave a mangled corse on the shore.

“-----’Tis Eltha’s form, that with eager glance,
“Scans the wide world of waves, as they dance,
“Uprais’d by the sigh of the east wind chill,
“Which wafts to the ear the scream so shrill
“Of the whirling sea mews, as landward they fly,
“--To seamen a mark that the storm is nigh.

“And what is yon distant speck on the sea,
“That seems but a floating beam,
“Save that a pennon fair and free
“Waves in the sun’s bright gleam?

“A bark is driven with rapid sail,
“Its pennon far spread on the moaning gale,
“A foamy track at its angry keel,
“And the billows around it maddening reel;
“The white fring’d surges dash over its prow
“As its masts to the pressing canvass bow--

“But O with rapid, fiend-like, haste,
“The breeze rolls o’er the watery waste,
“And louder is heard the deaf’ning roar
“Of the waves dashing fierce on the trembling shore,
“Ten thousand eddying billows recede,
“And return again with an arrow’s speed,
“Till the flaky foam on the wind is spread,
“Far, far above their ocean bed,
“And boom o’er the cliff where Eltha’s form
“Is seen to await the deadly storm.

“Keep to the wind with a taughten’d sheet,[362]
“Thou bark from a stranger land,
“No daring northern pilot would meet
“A storm like this near the strand;
“No kindly haven of shelter is here,
“Then whilst thou may,--to seaward steer;
“But thou com’st, with a wide and flowing sail,
“To a rock bound coast in an eastern gale,
“Thou wilt see the danger around thee at last,
“When the hour of safety for ever is past;

“----And O it is past, thou art now embay’d,
“And around thee gathers the evening shade,
“Thy last sun has set in a red, red sky,
“Thy last Vesper hymn is the fearful cry
“Of the ominous sea bird shrieking on high.
“The night and the storm have hidden from view
“The fated ship and her gallant crew,
“And the last sight seen on the foamy sea
“Was a pennon broad streaming fair and free.

* * * * *

“The morrow is come and the storm is o’er,
“And the billows more slowly dash,
“But shatter’d timbers are spread on the shore
“Beyond the ebb-waves’ wash:
“Still are the hearts of the gallant band
“Which erst did beat so true;
“They’ll never more see their fatherland,
“Where their playful childhood grew.

“And on a shelving rock is seen,
“Enwrapp’d in a shroud of sea-weed green,
“A noble corse, whose marble brow
“Is cluster’d with locks of auburn hue;
“And even in death, his manly form
“Seems to mock the rage of the northern storm.
“In his hand is clasp’d a jewel rare
“Enshrining a lock of black, black hair:
“And on his cold breast, near his heart, is display’d
“A golden gift of the dark-ey’d maid.

“The lovely Eltha’s smiles are fled,
“And she wildly looks o’er the ocean-bed
“With sunken glance and a pale, pale cheek,
“And her once bounding step is slow and weak;
“On the wave she launches the blue sea-shell
“Which swims for a moment then sinks in the swell
“And wilder’d she bends o’er the chrystal billow
“As it eddying whirls to its coral pillow:
“She fancys a faëry bark is sped
“To bring her cold love from the land of the dead;
“But no tears on her sunken eye-lids quiver,
“Her reason is fled for ever!--for ever!--”

De Mowbray’s soft harp ceas’d the mournful strain
But awaken’d the broken notes once again,
like the throb of the heart strings when dying they sever,
They stop--thrill--stop--and are silent for ever.

ALPHA.

_September, 1827._

[360, 361] Tynemouth castle and priory, which stand together on a
bleak promontory.

[362] _Keep to the wind_, &c. This line is a technical description of
the sails of a vessel when contending against the wind.--αλφα.

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

MY POCKET-BOOK.

I crave good Mr. Du B----’s pardon for my “flat burglary” with regard to the title of the present little paper. It is very far from my intention to endeavour in any way to place myself in competition with that great satirical genius, of whose very superior talents and brilliant wit I am pleased to be thus afforded an opportunity of avowing myself an ardent admirer: but as this title suits my purpose, I must entreat his permission to appropriate it, and merely remind him of the poet Puff’s excuse on a somewhat similar occasion--“All that can be said is--that two people happened to hit upon the same thought, (title,) and Shakspeare (Du B----) made use of it first, that is all.”

Pocket-books (as implied by their name) were originally intended as _portable_ receptacles for our different memoranda, remarks and communications. But now it is no longer honoured by an immediate attendance on our person; its station at present is confined to the bureau, desk, or private drawer. What man who can boast of being _d’un assez bon air_ would consent to injure his exquisite _adonisation_ of coat, by wearing a pocket-book in _his_ side-breast pocket, and thus ungratefully frustrate all poor Mr. Stultz’s efforts at an exact and perfect _fit_. The ladies, for some reason, concerning which I do not so much as venture even a surmise, (for Heaven forefend that I should attempt to dive into these sacred mysteries, or, as “Uncle Selby” would call them, _femalities_,) have entirely given up the use of pockets, therefore I would advise that memorandum-books destined for the use of the fair sex should in future be styled--_reticule_-books.

Old pocket-books are like some old ladies’ chests of drawers--delightful things to rummage and recur to. Looking over an old pocket-book is like revisiting scenes of past happiness after a lapse of years. Recollections and associations of both a painful and pleasurable nature are vividly recalled, or forcibly present themselves to our mind. Treasured letters, private remarks, favourite quotations, dates of days spent in peculiar enjoyment, all these meet our eye, and rise up like the shadows of those past realities connected with them, whose memory they are intended to perpetuate to us.

----Pocket-books are indexes to their owner’s mind--were it an allowable action to inspect another’s pocket-book, we might form a tolerably shrewd guess at the character and disposition of its possessor. On picking up a lost pocket-book by chance in the streets, one can be at no loss to divine the quality of its former proprietor. A large rusty black leather pocket-book, looking more like a portmanteau than a memorandum book, stuffed with papers half printed, half written, blank stamp receipts, churchwarden’s orders and directions, long lists of parishioners, with a small ink-horn in one corner--denotes the property of a tax-gatherer. The servant-maid’s is an old greasy red morocco one--in the blank leaf is written in straggling characters reaching from the top of one side to the bottom of the other--

Sarah Price her book,
God give her grace therein to look.

In the part designated “cash account” are various items, for the most part concerning tea, sugar, and ribbon. Among the memoranda are the following:--“Spent last Easter Monday was a twel’month with Tom Hadley, at Greenwich--in great hopes I shall get leave to go again this year. My next wages comes due 4th August, 18--. Jane Thompson says she pays only 4s. for the best _sowtchong_ tea; and I pay 4s. 6d.--to speak to Mr. Ilford the grocer about it.”--The pockets are crammed full of songs and ballads, of which her favourites are “Black eyed Susan,” “Auld Robin Gray,” and “Lord William and Fair Margaret.” Perhaps a letter from Tom Hadley, an old silver coin, his gift, and a lucky penny with a hole in it.--The young lady’s is elegantly bound in red and gilt. In the blank leaf is written in a little niminy piminy hand-writing--“To my sweet friend Ellen Woodmere, from her affectionate Maria Tillotson.” Quotations from Pope, Young, Thomson, Lord Byron, and Tom Moore, occupy the blank pages--“Memoranda. June 16th saw Mrs. Siddons riding in her chariot in Hyde Park. Mem. Wonder why pa’ won’t let me read dear lord Byron’s new work the ‘Don Juan’--there must be something odd in it. Mem. To remember and ask Maria what she paid a yard for that beautiful lace round her collar. Mem. What a horrid wretch that Robespierre must have been! I’m glad he was killed himself at last. Mem. To tell pa’ that it is quite impossible for me to go to the ball next Tuesday without a new lutstring dress. Mem. How I wish I had been Joan of Arc!--But I would not have put on the men’s clothes again in prison--I wonder why she did so--How silly!”--In the pockets are some of her dear Maria’s letters--a loose leaf torn out of sir Charles Grandison describing Miss Harriet Byron’s dress at the masquerade--and several copies of verses and sonnets, the productions of some of her former schoolfellows.

The old bachelor’s pocket-book is of russia leather, glossy with use, yet still retaining its grateful and long-enduring odour. The memoranda chiefly consist of the dates of those days on which he had seen or spoken to remarkable or celebrated people. Opposite the prognostics concerning weather, which he has since found incorrect, are to be seen the words: “No such thing”--“Pshaw, the fellow talks about what he does not understand”--“Absurd folly,” &c.--In the pockets are sundry square scraps of paper cut out at different periods from old newspapers--a copy of “The Means to be used for the recovery of persons _apparently_ drowned”--a watch-paper cut out for him by his little grand-niece--and, (wrapped up in several folds of silver paper,) a long ringlet of auburn hair with its wavy drop, and springy relapse as you hold it at full-length between your finger and thumb. Among the leaves is a small sprig of jasmin which _she_ had worn in _her_ bosom a whole evening at a party, and which he had gently possessed himself of, on taking leave of her for the night.----

M. H.

* * * * *

WOMEN.

That venerable people--who were the ancients to those whom we call the ancients--the wise Egyptians, in the disposition which they allotted to the genders of their nouns, paid a singular and delicate compliment to the fair sex. In the four elements, beginning with water, they appointed the ocean, as a rough boisterous existence, to the male sex; but streams and fountains they left to the more gentle females. As to earth, they made rocks and stones male; but arable and meadow lands female. Air they divided thus: to the masculine gender, rough winds and hurricanes of every kind; to the female, the sky and the zephyrs. Fire, when of a consuming nature, they made male, but artificial and harmless flames they rendered feminine.

* * * * *

~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. IX.

* * * * *

~To the Reader.~

In the present volume has been commenced, and will be concluded, a
series of Articles under this title, which to some readers may not
have been sufficiently attractive. It is therefore now re-stated, that
they present very curious particulars concerning the extent to which
the ancients were acquainted with several popular systems and
theories, usually supposed to have originated in modern times.

Sir Isaac Newton’s Theory of Colours appears, by the succeeding paper,
to have been imagined above two thousand years ago. The History of
Ancient Philosophy is pregnant with similar instances of
discrimination. It is hoped that this may justify the present attempt
to familiarize the reader with the knowledge of the Ancients in
various branches of Natural Philosophy, and the Elements of the Human
Mind. Succeeding papers will be found to relate to their acquaintance
with the Motion of the Earth--the Antipodes--Planetary
Revolutions--Comets--the
Moon--Air--Air-guns--Thunder--Earthquakes--the Magnet--the Tides--the
Circulation of the Blood--Chirurgery--Chemistry--Malleability of
Glass--Painting on Glass--Gunpowder--the Sexes of Plants--the
Pendulum--Light--Perspective--the Quadrature of the Circle--Burning
Glasses--the Precession of the
Equinoxes--Mechanics--Architecture--Sculpture--Painting--Music, &c.

* * * * *

SIR ISAAC NEWTON’S THEORY OF COLOURS INDICATED BY PYTHAGORAS AND PLATO.

That wonderful theory, whereby is investigated and distinguished from one another the variety of colours that constitute the uniform appearance, called light, establishes the glory of sir Isaac Newton, and is an eternal monument of his extraordinary sagacity. Its discovery was reserved for an age when philosophy had arrived at its fullest maturity; and yet it is to be found in the writings of some of the most eminent men of ancient times.

Pythagoras, and his disciples after him, entertained sufficiently just conceptions of the formation of colours. They taught that “they resulted solely from the different modification of reflected light;” or, as a modern author, in explaining the sentiments of the Pythagoreans, expresses it, “light reflecting itself with more or less vivacity, forms by that means our different sensations of colour.” The same philosophers, “in assigning the reason of the difference of colours, ascribe it to a mixture of the elements of light; and divesting the atoms, or small particles of light, of all manner of colour, impute every sensation of that kind to the motions excited in our organs of sight.”

The disciples of Plato contributed not a little to the advancement of optics, by the important discovery they made, that light emits itself in straight lines, and that the angle of incidence is always equal to the angle of reflection.

Plato terms colours “the effect of light transmitted from bodies, the small particles of which were adapted to the organ of sight.” This seems precisely what sir Isaac Newton teaches in his “Optics,” viz. that “the different sensations of each particular colour are excited in us by the difference of size in those small particles of light which form the several rays; those small particles occasioning different images of colour, as the vibration is more or less lively, with which they strike our sense.” But the _ancient_ philosopher went further. He entered into a detail of the composition of colours; and inquired into “the visible effects that must arise from a mixture of the different rays of which light itself is composed.” He advances, however, that “it is not in the power of man exactly to determine what the proportion of this mixture should be in certain colours.” This sufficiently shows, that he had an idea of this theory, though he judged it almost impossible to unfold it. He says, that “should any one arrive at the knowledge of this proportion, he ought not to hazard the discovery of it, since it would be impossible to demonstrate it by clear and convincing proofs:” and yet he thought “certain rules might be laid down respecting this subject, if in following and imitating nature we could arrive at the art of forming a diversity of colours, by the combined intermixture of others.”

It is to be remarked, that Plato adds what may be regarded as constituting the noblest tribute that can be offered in praise of sir Isaac Newton; “Yea, should ever any one,” exclaims that fine genius of antiquity, “attempt by curious research to account for this admirable mechanism, he will, in doing so, but manifest how entirely ignorant he is of the difference between divine and human power. It is true, that God can intermingle those things one with another, and then sever them at his pleasure, because he is, at the same time, all-knowing and all-powerful; but there is no man now exists, nor ever will perhaps, who shall ever be able to accomplish things so very difficult.”

What an eulogium is this from the pen of Plato! How glorious is he who has successfully accomplished what appeared impracticable to the prince of ancient philosophers! Yet what elevation of genius, what piercing penetration into the most intimate secrets of nature, displays itself in these passages concerning the nature and theory of colours, at a time when Greek philosophy was in its infancy!

* * * * *

LIGHT--Aristotle and Descartes.

Although the system of Descartes, respecting the propagation of light in an instant, has been discarded since Cassini discovered that its motion is progressive; yet it may not be amiss to show from whence he obtained the idea. His opinion was, that light is the mere action of a subtile matter upon the organs of sight. This subtile matter he supposes to fill all that space which lies between the sun and us; and that the particle of it, which is next to the sun, receiving thence an impulse, instantaneously communicates it to all the rest, between the sun and the organ of sight. To evidence this, Descartes introduces the comparison of a stick; which, by reason of the continuity of its parts, cannot in any degree be moved lengthways at one end, without instantaneously being put into the same degree of motion at the other end. Whoever will be at the pains to read, attentively, what Aristotle hath written concerning light, will perceive that he defines it to be the action of a subtile, pure, and homogeneous matter. Philoponus, explaining the manner in which this action was performed, makes use of the instance of a long string, which being pulled at one end, will instantaneously be moved at the other: he resembles the sun, to the man who quills the string; the subtile matter, to the string itself; and the instantaneous action of the one, to the movement of the other. Simplicius, in his commentary upon this passage of Aristotle, expressly employs the motion of a stick, to intimate how light, acted upon by the sun, may instantaneously impress the organs of sight. This comparison of a stick seems to have been made use of first, by Chrysippus--lastly, by Descartes.

* * * * *

~Durhamiana.~

_For the Table Book._

WILLEY WALKER AND JOHN BOLTON.

Willey Walker, a well-known Durham character, who has discovered a new solar system different from all others, is a beadsman of the cathedral; or, as the impudent boys call a person of his rank, from the dress he wears, “a blue mouse.” It is Willey’s business to toll the curfew: but to our story. In Durham there are two clocks, which, if I may so express myself, are both _official_ ones; viz. the cathedral clock, and the gaol or county clock. The admirers of each are about equal: some of the inhabitants regulating their movements by one, and some by the other. Three or four years ago it happened, during the middle of the winter, that the two clocks varied considerably; there was _only_ three quarters of an hour’s difference between them. The citizens cared very little about this _slight_ discrepancy, but it was not at all relished by the guard of the London and Edinburgh mail, who spoke on the subject to the late John Bolton, the regulator of the county clock. John immediately posted off to the cathedral, where he met Willey Walker, and the following dialogue is said to have passed between them.

_Bolton._ Willey, why doa’nt ye keep t’ abba clock reet--there’s a bit difference between it and mine?

_Willey._ Why doa’nt ye keep yours so--it never gans reet?

_Bolton._ Mine’s set by the sun, Willey! (Bolton was an astronomer.)

_Willey._ By the sun! Whew! whew! whew! Why, are ye turned fule? Nebody would think ye out else! and ye pretend to be an astronomer, and set clocks by ’t’ sun in this _windy_ weather!--ther’s ne depending on it: the winds, man, blaw sa, they whisk the sun about like a whirligig!