Chapter C: Lamb (1)

_January, 27, 1827._

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. I.

[From “King John and Matilda,” a Tragedy by Robert Davenport, acted in
1651.]

John, not being able to bring Matilda, the chaste daughter of the old Baron Fitzwater, to compliance with his wishes, causes her to be poisoned in a nunnery.

SCENE. _John. The Barons_: they being as yet ignorant of the murder,
and having just come to composition with the King after tedious wars.
Matilda’s hearse is brought in by Hubert.

_John._ Hubert, interpret this apparition.
_Hubert._ Behold, sir,
A sad-writ Tragedy, so feelingly
Languaged, and cast; with such a crafty cruelty
Contrived, and acted; that wild savages
Would weep to lay their ears to, and (admiring
To see themselves outdone) they would conceive
Their wildness mildness to this deed, and call
Men more than savage, themselves rational.
And thou, Fitzwater, reflect upon thy _name_,[32]
And turn the _Son of Tears_. Oh, forget
That Cupid ever spent a dart upon thee;
That Hymen ever coupled thee; or that ever
The hasty, happy, willing messenger
Told thee thou had’st a daughter. Oh look here!
Look here, King John, and with a trembling eye
Read your sad act, Matilda’s tragedy.
_Barons._ Matilda!
_Fitzwater._ By the lab’ring soul of a much-injured man,
It is my child Matilda!
_Bruce._ Sweet niece!
_Leicester._ Chaste soul!
_John._ Do I stir, Chester?
Good Oxford, do I move? stand I not still
To watch when the griev’d friends of wrong’d Matilda
Will with a thousand stabs turn me to dust,
That in a thousand prayers they might be happy?
Will no one do it? then give a mourner room,
A man of tears. Oh immaculate Matilda,
These shed but sailing heat-drops, misling showers
The faint dews of a doubtful April morning;
But from mine eyes ship-sinking cataracts,
Whole clouds of waters, wealthy exhalations,
Shall fall into the sea of my affliction,
Till it amaze the mourners.
_Hubert._ Unmatch’d Matilda;
Celestial soldier, that kept a fort of chastity
’Gainst all temptations.
_Fitzwater._ Not to be a Queen,
Would she break her chaste vow. Truth crowns your reed;
Un_match’d_ Matilda was her name indeed.
_John._ O take into your spirit-piercing praise
My scene of sorrow. I have well-clad woes,
Pathetic epithets to illustrate passion,
And steal true tears so sweetly from all these,
Shall touch the soul, and at once pierce and please.
[_Peruses the Motto and Emblems on the hearse._
“To Piety and Purity”--and “Lillies mix’d with Roses”--
How well you have apparell’d woe! this Pendant,
To Piety and Purity directed,
Insinuates a chaste soul in a clean body,
Virtue’s white Virgin, Chastity’s red Martyr!
Suffer me then with this well-suited wreath
To make our griefs ingenious. Let all be dumb,
Whilst the king speaks her Epicedium.
_Chester._ His very soul speaks sorrow.
_Oxford._ And it becomes him sweetly.
_John._ Hail Maid and Martyr! lo on thy breast,
Devotion’s altar, chaste Truth’s nest,
I offer (as my guilt imposes)
Thy merit’s laurel, Lillies and Roses;
Lillies, intimating plain
Thy immaculate life, stuck with no stain;
Roses red and sweet, to tell
How sweet red sacrifices smell.
Hang round then, as you walk about this hearse,
The songs of holy hearts, sweet virtuous verse.
_Fitzwater._ Bring Persian silks, to deck her monument;
_John._ Arabian spices, quick’ning by their scent;
_Fitzwater._ Numidian marble, to preserve her praise,
_John._ Corinthian ivory, her shape to praise:
_Fitzwater._ And write in gold upon it, In this breast
Virtue sate mistress, Passion but a guest.
_John._ Virtue is sweet; and, since griefs bitter be,
Strew her with roses, and give rue to me.
_Bruce._ My noble brother, I’ve lost a wife and son;[33]
You a sweet daughter. Look on the king’s penitence;
His promise for the public peace. Prefer
A public benefit.[34] When it shall please,
Let Heaven question him. Let us secure
And quit the land of Lewis.[35]
_Fitzwater._ Do any thing;
Do all things that are honorable; and the Great King
Make you a good king, sir! and when your soul
Shall at any time reflect upon your follies,
Good King John, weep, weep very heartily;
It will become you sweetly. At your eyes
Your sin stole in; there pay your sacrifice.
_John._ Back unto Dunmow Abbey. There we’ll pay
To sweet Matilda’s memory, and her sufferings,
A monthly obsequy, which (sweet’ned by
The wealthy woes of a tear-troubled eye)
Shall by those sharp afflictions of my face
Court mercy, and make grief arrive at grace.

_Song._

Matilda, now go take thy bed
In the dark dwellings of the dead;
And rise in the great waking day
Sweet as incence, fresh as May.
Rest there, chaste soul, fix’d in thy proper sphere,
Amongst Heaven’s fair ones; all are fair ones there.
Rest there, chaste soul, whilst we here troubled say:
Time gives us griefs, Death takes our joys away.

This scene has much passion and poetry in it, if I mistake not. The last words of Fitzwater are an instance of noble temperament; but to understand him, the character throughout of this mad, merry, feeling, insensible-seeming lord, should be read. That the venomous John could have even counterfeited repentance so well, is out of nature; but supposing the possibility, nothing is truer than the way in which it is managed. These old playwrights invested their bad characters with notions of good, which could by no possibility have coexisted with their actions. Without a soul of goodness in himself, how could Shakspeare’s Richard the Third have lit upon those sweet phrases and inducements by which he attempts to win over the dowager queen to let him wed her daughter. It is not Nature’s nature, but Imagination’s substituted nature, which does almost as well in a fiction.

(_To be continued._)

[32] Fitzwater: son of water. A striking instance of the compatibility
of the _serious pun_ with the expression of the profoundest sorrows.
Grief, as well as joy, finds ease in thus playing with a word. Old
John of Gaunt in Shakspeare thus descants on his _name_: “Gaunt, and
gaunt indeed;” to a long string of conceits, which no one has ever yet
felt as ridiculous. The poet Wither thus, in a mournful review of the
declining estate of his family, says with deepest nature:--

The very name of Wither shows decay.

[33] Also cruelly slain by the poisoning John.

[34] i. e. of peace; which this monstrous act of John’s in this play
comes to counteract, in the same way as the discovered Death of Prince
Arthur is like to break the composition of the King with his Barons in
Shakspeare’s Play.

[35] The Dauphin of France, whom they had called in, as in
Shakspeare’s Play.

* * * * *

~Literature.~

GLANCES AT NEW BOOKS ON MY TABLE.

“CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY of _original and selected Publications_” is proposed to consist of various works on important and popular subjects, with the view of supplying certain chasms in the existing stock of useful knowledge; and each author or subject is to be kept separate, so as to enable purchasers to acquire all the numbers, or volumes, of each book, distinct from the others. The undertaking commenced in the first week of the new year, 1827, with the first number of Captain Basil Hall’s voyage to Loo-Choo, and the complete volume of that work was published at the same time.

* * * * *

“EARLY METRICAL TALES, _including the History of Sir Egeir, Sir Gryme, and Sir Gray-Steill_.” Edinb. 1826. sm. 8vo. 9_s._ (175 copies printed.) The most remarkable poem in this elegant volume is the rare Scottish romance, named in the title-page, which, according to its present editor, “would seem, along with the poems of sir David Lindsay, and the histories of Robert the Bruce, and of sir William Wallace, to have formed the standard productions of the vernacular literature of the country.” In proof of this he adduces several authorities; “and yet it is remarkable enough, that every ancient copy should have hitherto eluded the most active and unremitting research.” The earliest printed edition is presumed to have issued from the press of Thomas Bassandyne, “the first printer of the sacred Scriptures in Scotland.” An inventory of his goods, dated 18th October, 1577, contains an item of three hundred “Gray Steillis,” valued at the “pece VI_d._ summa £VII. x. o.” Its editor would willingly give the sum-total of these three hundred copies for “_one_ of the said _Gray-Steillis_, were he so fortunate as to meet with it.” He instances subsequent editions, but the only copy he could discover was printed at Aberdeen in 1711, by James Nicol, printer to the town and university; and respecting this, which, though of so recent date, is at present unique, “the editor’s best acknowledgments are due to his friend, Mr. Douce, for the kind manner in which he favoured him with the loan of the volume, for the purpose of republication.” On the 17th of April, 1497, when James IV. was at Stirling: there is an entry in the treasurer’s accounts, “Item, that samyn day to twa Sachelaris that _sang Gray Steil_ to the King, IX_s._” In MS. collections made at Aberdeen in 1627, called a “Booke for the Lute,” by Robert Gordon, is the _air_ of “Gray-Steel;” and a satirical poem in Scottish rhyme on the marquis of Argyle, printed in 1686, is “appointed to be sung according _to the tune_ of old Gray Steel.” These evidences that the poem was sung, manifest its popularity. There are conjectures as to who the person denominated Sir Gray Steel really was, but the point is undetermined.

In this volume there are thirteen poems. 1. _Sir Gray-Steill_ above spoken of. 2. _The Tales of the Priests of Peblis_, wherein the three priests of Peebles, having met to regale on St. Bride’s day, agree, each in turn, to relate a story. 3. _Ane Godlie Dreame_, by lady Culross. 4. _History of a Lord and his three Sons_, much resembling the story of Fortunatus. 5. _The Ring of the Roy Robert_, the printed copies of which have been modernized and corrupted. 6. _King Estmere_, an old romantic tale. 7. _The Battle of Harlaw_, considered by its present editor “as the original of rather a numerous class of Scotish historical ballads.” 8. _Lichtoun’s Dreme_, printed for the first time from the Bannatyne MS. 1568. 9. _The Murning Maiden_, a poem “written in the Augustan age of Scotish poetry.” 10. _The Epistill of the Hermeit of Alareit_, a satire on the Grey Friers, by Alexander earl of Glencairn. 11. _Roswall and Lillian_, a “pleasant history,” (chanted even of late in Edinburgh,) from the earliest edition discovered, printed in 1663, of which the only copy known is in the Advocates’ Library, from the Roxburghe sale. 12. _Poem by Glassinberry_, a name for the first time introduced into the list of early Scotish poets, and the poem itself printed from “Gray’s MS.” 13. _Sir John Barleycorn_, from a stall-copy printed in 1781, with a few corrections, concerning which piece it is remarked, that Burns’s version “cannot be said to have greatly improved it.” There is a vignette to this ballad, “designed and etched by the ingenious young artist, W. Geikie,” of Edinburgh, from whence I take the liberty to _cut_ a figure, not for the purpose of conveying an idea of this “Allan-a-Maut,” who is surrounded with like “good” company by Mr. Geikie’s meritorious pencil, but to extend the knowledge of Mr. Geikie’s name, who is perfectly unknown to me, except through the single print I refer to, which compels me to express warm admiration of his correct feeling, and assured talent.

Besides Mr. Geikie’s beautiful etching, there is a frontispiece by W. H. Lizars from a design by Mr. C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe, and a portrait of Alexander earl of Eglintoune 1670, also by Mr. Lizars, from a curiously illuminated parchment in the possession of the present earl.

SAYING NOT MEANING.

BY WILLIAM BASIL WAKE.

_For the Table Book._

Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,
When, opening his toothpick-case, one said,
“It was not until lately that I knew
That _anchovies_ on terrâ firmâ grew.”
“Grew!” cried the other, “yes, they _grow_, indeed,
Like other fish, but not upon the land;
You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,
Or in the Strand!”

“Why, sir,” return’d the irritated other,
“My brother,
When at Calcutta,
Beheld them bonâ fide growing;
He wouldn’t utter
A lie for love or money, sir; so in
This matter you are thoroughly mistaken.”
“Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit
To the assertion--none e’er saw or read it;
Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken.”

“Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are
Perverse--in short--”
“Sir,” said the other, sucking his cigar,
And then his port--
“If you _will_ say impossibles are true,
You may affirm just any thing you please--
That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,
And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!
Only you must not _force_ me to believe
What’s propagated merely to deceive.”

“Then you force me to say, sir, you’re a fool,”
Return’d the bragger.
Language like this no man can suffer cool;
It made the listener stagger;
So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,
“The traveller _lied_
Who had the impudence to tell it you.”
“Zounds! then d’ye mean to swear before my face
That anchovies don’t grow like cloves and mace?”
“I do!”

Disputants often after hot debates
Leave the contention as they found it--bone,
And take to duelling, or thumping _têtes_;
Thinking, by strength of artery, to atone
For strength of argument; and he who winces
From force of words, with force of arms convinces!

With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,
Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,
Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading
(Their hearts already loaded) serv’d to show
It might be better they shook hands--but no;
When each opines himself, though frighten’d, right,
Each is, in courtesy, oblig’d to fight!
And they _did_ fight: from six full measured paces
The unbeliever pull’d his trigger first;
And fearing, from the braggart’s ugly faces,
The whizzing lead had whizz’d its very worst,
Ran up, and with a _duelistic_ tear,
(His ire evanishing like morning vapours,)
Found _him_ possess’d of one remaining ear,
Who, in a manner sudden and uncouth,
Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth:
For, while the surgeon was applying lint,
He, wriggling, cried--“The deuce is in’t--
Sir! I meant--_capers_!”

* * * * *

~Characters.~

THE OLD GENTLEMAN.

Our old gentleman, in order to be exclusively himself, must be either a widower or a bachelor. Suppose the former. We do not mention his precise age, which would be invidious;--nor whether he wears his own hair or a wig; which would be wanting in universality. If a wig, it is a compromise between the more modern scratch and the departed glory of the toupee. If his own hair, it is white, in spite of his favourite grandson, who used to get on the chair behind him, and pull the silver hairs out, ten years ago. If he is bald at top, the hair-dresser, hovering and breathing about him like a second youth, takes care to give the bald place as much powder as the covered; in order that he may convey, to the sensorium within, a pleasing indistinctness of idea respecting the exact limits of skin and hair. He is very clean and neat; and in warm weather is proud of opening his waistcoat half way down, and letting so much of his frill be seen; in order to show his hardiness as well as taste. His watch and shirt-buttons are of the best; and he does not care if he has two rings on a finger. If his watch ever failed him at the club or coffee-house, he would take a walk every day to the nearest clock of good character, purely to keep it right. He has a cane at home, but seldom uses it, on finding it out of fashion with his elderly juniors. He has a small cocked hat for gala days, which he lifts higher from his head than the round one, when made a bow to. In his pockets are two handkerchiefs, (one for the neck at night-time,) his spectacles, and his pocket-book. The pocket-book, among other things, contains a receipt for a cough, and some verses cut out of an odd sheet of an old magazine, on the lovely duchess of A., beginning--

When beauteous Mira walks the plain.

He intends this for a common-place book which he keeps, consisting of passages in verse and prose cut out of newspapers and magazines, and pasted in columns; some of them rather gay. His principal other books are Shakspeare’s Plays and Milton’s Paradise Lost; the Spectator, the History of England; the works of Lady M. W. Montague, Pope, and Churchill; Middleton’s Geography, the Gentleman’s Magazine; Sir John Sinclair on Longevity; several plays with portraits in character; Account of Elizabeth Canning, Memoirs of George Ann Bellamy, Poetical Amusements at Bath-Easton, Blair’s Works, Elegant Extracts; Junius as originally published; a few pamphlets on the American War and Lord George Gordon, &c. and one on the French Revolution. In his sitting rooms are some engravings from Hogarth and Sir Joshua; an engraved portrait of the Marquis of Granby; ditto of M. le Comte de Grasse surrendering to Admiral Rodney; a humorous piece after Penny; and a portrait of himself, painted by Sir Joshua. His wife’s portrait is in his chamber, looking upon his bed. She is a little girl, stepping forward with a smile and a pointed toe, as if going to dance. He lost her when she was sixty.

The Old Gentleman is an early riser, because he intends to live at least twenty years longer. He continues to take tea for breakfast, in spite of what is said against its nervous effects; having been satisfied on that point some years ago by Dr. Johnson’s criticism on Hanway, and a great liking for tea previously. His china cups and saucers have been broken since his wife’s death, all but one, which is religiously kept for his use. He passes his morning in walking or riding, looking in at auctions, looking after his India bonds or some such money securities, furthering some subscription set on foot by his excellent friend sir John, or cheapening a new old print for his portfolio. He also hears of the newspapers; not caring to see them till after dinner at the coffee-house. He may also cheapen a fish or so; the fishmonger soliciting his doubting eye as he passes, with a profound bow of recognition. He eats a pear before dinner.

His dinner at the coffee-house is served up to him at the accustomed hour, in the old accustomed way, and by the accustomed waiter. If William did not bring it, the fish would be sure to be stale, and the flesh new. He eats no tart; or if he ventures on a little, takes cheese with it. You might as soon attempt to persuade him out of his senses, as that cheese is not good for digestion. He takes port; and if he has drank more than usual, and in a more private place, may be induced by some respectful inquiries respecting the old style of music, to sing a song composed by Mr. Oswald or Mr. Lampe, such as--

Chloe, by that borrowed kiss,

or

Come, gentle god of soft repose;

or his wife’s favourite ballad, beginning--

At Upton on the Hill
There lived a happy pair.

Of course, no such exploit can take place in the coffee-room; but he will canvass the theory of that matter there with you, or discuss the weather, or the markets, or the theatres, or the merits of “my lord North” or “my lord Rockingham;” for he rarely says simply, lord; it is generally “my lord,” trippingly and genteelly off the tongue. If alone after dinner, his great delight is the newspaper; which he prepares to read by wiping his spectacles, carefully adjusting them on his eyes, and drawing the candle close to him, so as to stand sideways betwixt his ocular aim and the small type. He then holds the paper at arm’s length, and dropping his eyelids half down and his mouth half open, takes cognizance of the day’s information. If he leaves off, it is only when the door is opened by a new comer, or when he suspects somebody is over-anxious to get the paper out of his hand. On these occasions, he gives an important hem! or so; and resumes.

In the evening, our Old Gentleman is fond of going to the theatre, or of having a game of cards. If he enjoy the latter at his own house or lodgings, he likes to play with some friends whom he has known for many years; but an elderly stranger may be introduced, if quiet and scientific; and the privilege is extended to younger men of letters; who, if ill players, are good losers. Not that he is a miser; but to win money at cards is like proving his victory by getting the baggage; and to win of a younger man is a substitute for his not being able to beat him at rackets. He breaks up early, whether at home or abroad.

At the theatre, he likes a front row in the pit. He comes early, if he can do so without getting into a squeeze, and sits patiently waiting for the drawing up of the curtain, with his hands placidly lying one over the other on the top of his stick. He generously admires some of the best performers, but thinks them far inferior to Garrick, Woodward, and Clive. During splendid scenes, he is anxious that the little boy should see.

He has been induced to look in at Vauxhall again, but likes it still less than he did years back, and cannot bear it in comparison with Ranelagh. He thinks every thing looks poor, flaring, and jaded. “Ah!” says he, with a sort of triumphant sigh, “Ranelagh was a noble place! Such taste, such elegance, such beauty! There was the duchess of A. the finest woman in England, sir; and Mrs. L., a mighty fine creature; and lady Susan what’s her name, that had that unfortunate affair with sir Charles. Sir, they came swimming by you like the swans.”

The Old Gentleman is very particular in having his slippers ready for him at the fire, when he comes home. He is also extremely choice in his snuff, and delights to get a fresh box-full at Gliddon’s, in King-street, in his way to the theatre. His box is a curiosity from India. He calls favourite young ladies by their Christian names, however slightly acquainted with them; and has a privilege also of saluting all brides, mothers, and indeed every species of lady on the least holiday occasion. If the husband for instance has met with a piece of luck, he instantly moves forward, and gravely kisses the wife on the cheek. The wife then says, “My niece, sir, from the country;” and he kisses the niece. The niece, seeing her cousin biting her lips at the joke, says, “My cousin Harriet, sir;” and he kisses the cousin. He never recollects such weather, except during the great frost, or when he rode down with Jack Skrimshire to Newmarket. He grows young again in his little grand-children, especially the one which he thinks most like himself; which is the handsomest. Yet he likes best perhaps the one most resembling his wife; and will sit with him on his lap, holding his hand in silence, for a quarter of an hour together. He plays most tricks with the former, and makes him sneeze. He asks little boys in general who was the father of Zebedee’s children. If his grandsons are at school, he often goes to see them; and makes them blush by telling the master or the upper-scholars, that they are fine boys, and of a precocious genius. He is much struck when an old acquaintance dies, but adds that he lived too fast; and that poor Bob was a sad dog in his youth; “a very sad dog, sir, mightily set upon a short life and a merry one.”

When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for whole evenings, and say little or nothing; but informs you, that there is Mrs. Jones (the housekeeper),--“_She’ll_ talk.”--_Indicator._

* * * * *

A HAPPY MEETING.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends
For all the long years I’ve been wand’ring away?
To see thus around me my youth’s early friends,
As smiling and kind as in that happy day!
Though haply o’er some of your brows, as o’er mine,
The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
We’ll wear the gay tinge of youth’s roses again.

What soften’d remembrances come o’er the heart,
In gazing on those we’ve been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seem’d effaced,
The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light.

And thus, as in memory’s bark, we shall glide
To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,
Tho’ oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
The wreck of full many a hope shining through--
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers
That once made a garden of all the gay shore,
Deceiv’d for a moment, we’ll think them still ours,
And breath the fresh air of life’s morning once more

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,
For want of some heart that could echo it near.
Ah! well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast’ning on,
Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

But come--the more rare such delights to the heart,
The more we should welcome, and bless them the more--
They’re ours when we meet--they’re lost when we part,
Like birds that bring summer, and fly when ’tis o’er,
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
Let Sympathy pledge us, thro’ pleasure thro’ pain,
That fast as a feeling but touches one link,
Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.

* * * * *

LINES TO HIS COUSIN

ON THE NEW YEAR,

BY A WESTMINSTER BOY.

Time rolls away! another year
Has rolled off with him; hence ’tis clear
His lordship keeps his carriage
A single man, no doubt;--and thus
Enjoys himself without the fuss
And great expense of marriage.

His wheel still rolls (and like the river
Which Horace mentions) still for ever
_Volvitur et volvetur_.
In vain you _run against him_; place
your fleetest filly in the race,--
Here’s ten to one he’ll beat her.

Of all he sees, he takes a tithe,
With that tremendous sweeping scythe,
Which he keeps always going;
While every step he takes, alas!
Too plainly proves that _flesh is grass_,
When he sets out a _mowing_.

And though his hungry ravenous maw
Is crammed with food, both dress’d and raw,
I’ll wager any betting,
His appetite has ever been
Just like his scythe, sharp-set and keen,
Which never wanted _whetting_.

Could you but see the mighty treat
Prepared, when he sits down to eat
His breakfast or his dinner,--ah,
Not vegetable--flesh,--alone,
But timber, houses, iron, stone,
He eats the very china.

When maidens pray that he will spare
Their teeth, complexion, or their hair,
Alas! he’ll never hear ’em;
Grey locks and wrinkles hourly show,
What Ovid told us years ago,
_Ut Tempus edax rerum!_

In vain, my dearest girl, you choose
(Your face to wash) Olympic dews;
In vain you paint or rouge it;
He’ll play such havoc with your youth,
That ten years hence you’ll say with truth
Ah Edward!--_Tempus fugit!_

The glass he carries in his hand
Has ruin in each grain of sand;
But what I most deplore is,
He breaks the links of friendship’s chain,
And barters youthful love for gain:
_Oh, Tempora! oh, Mores!_

One sole exception you shall find,
(_Unius generis_ of its kind,)
Wherever fate may steer us;
Tho’ wide his universal range,
Time has no power the heart to change
Of your AMICUS VERUS.

_Bath Herald._

* * * * *

GERMAN UNIVERSITIES.

Germany, which embraces a population of thirty-six millions of people, has twenty-two universities. The following table contains their names according to the order of their foundation, and the number of professors and students:

+-------------+--------+-----------+---------+
| | When | Number of | Number |
|Universities.|founded.|Professors.| of |
| | | |Students.|
+-------------+--------+-----------+---------+
|Prague | 1348 | 55 | 1449 |
|Vienna | 1365 | 77 | 1688 |
|Heidelberg | 1368 | 55 | 626 |
|Warsbourg | 1403 | 31 | 660 |
|Leipsig | 1409 | 81 | 1384 |
|Rostock | 1419 | 34 | 201 |
|Fribourg | 1450 | 35 | 556 |
|Griefswald | 1456 | 30 | 227 |
|Bâle | 1460 | 24 | 214 |
|Tubingen | 1477 | 44 | 827 |
|Marbourg | 1527 | 38 | 304 |
|Kœnisberg | 1544 | 23 | 303 |
|Jena | 1558 | 51 | 432 |
|Giessen | 1607 | 39 | 371 |
|Kiel | 1665 | 26 | 238 |
|Halle | 1694 | 64 | 1119 |
|Breslau | 1702 | 49 | 710 |
|Gœttengen | 1734 | 89 | 1545 |
|Erlangen | 1743 | 34 | 498 |
|Landshut | 1803 | 48 | 623 |
|Berlin | 1810 | 86 | 1245 |
|Bonn | 1818 | 42 | 526 |
+-------------+--------+-----------+---------+

Of this number six belong to Prussia, three to Bavaria, two to the Austrian States, two to the Grand Duchy of Baden, two to the Electorate of Hesse-Cassel, and one to each of the following states--Saxony, Wurtemberg, Denmark, Hanover, the Grand Duchies of Mecklenbergh-Schweren and of Saxe-Weimar, and Switzerland. The total number of professors is 1055, embracing not only the ordinary and extraordinary professors, but also the private lecturers, whose courses of reading are announced in the half-yearly programmes. Catholic Germany, which reckons nineteen millions of inhabitants, has only six universities; while Protestant Germany, for seventeen millions of inhabitants, has seventeen. Of the students there are 149 for every 250,000 in the Protestant states, while there are only 68 for the same number in the Catholic states. It must, however, be mentioned, that this estimate does not take in those Catholic ecclesiastics who do not pursue their studies in the universities, but in private seminaries.--The universities of Paderborn and Munster, both belonging to Prussia, and which had only two faculties, those of theology and philosophy, were suppressed; the first in 1818, and the second in 1819; but that of Munster has been reestablished, with the three faculties of theology, philosophy, and medicine.

Vol. I.--5.

Last of her sire in dotage--she was used
By him, as children use a fav’rite toy;
Indulg’d, neglected, fondled, and abus’d,
As quick affection of capricious joy,
Or sudden humour of dislike dictated:
Thoughtlessly rear’d, she led a thoughtless life;
And she so well beloved became most hated:
A helpless mother, and a wife unblest,
She pass’d precocious womanhood in strife;
Or, in strange hiding-places, without rest;
Or, wand’ring in disquietude for bread:
Her father’s curse--himself first cause of all
That caused his ban--sunk her in deeper thrall,
Stifling her heart, till sorrow and herself were dead.

*

“THE LIFE OF MRS. CHARLOTTE CHARKE, _youngest daughter of Colley Cibber, Esq. written by herself_,” is a curious narrative of remarkable vicissitudes. She dedicates it to herself, and aptly concludes her dedication by saying, “Permit me, madam, to subscribe myself, for the future, what I ought to have been some years ago, your real friend, and humble servant, CHARLOTTE CHARKE.”

In the “Introduction” to the recent reprint of this singular work, it is well observed, that “her Life will serve to show what very strange creatures _may_ exist, and the endless diversity of habits, tastes, and inclinations, which may spring up spontaneously, like weeds, in the hot-bed of corrupt civilization.” She was born when Mrs. Cibber was forty-five years old, and when both her father and mother had ceased to expect an addition to their family: the result was that Charlotte Cibber was a spoiled child. She married Mr. Richard Charke, an eminent violin player, of dissolute habits; and, after a course of levities, consequent upon the early recklessness of her parents, she was repudiated by her father. When she wrote her life, she was in great penury: it was published in eight numbers, at three-pence each. In the last, which appeared on the 19th of April, 1755, she feelingly deplores the failure of her attempts to obtain forgiveness of her father, and says, “I cannot recollect any crime I have been guilty of that is unpardonable.” After intimating a design to open an oratorical academy, for the instruction of persons going on the stage, she mentions her intention to publish “Mr. Dumont’s history, the first number of which will shortly make its appearance.” This was a novel she was then writing, which a bookseller treated with her for, in company with Mr. Samuel Whyte of Dublin, who thus describes her distressed situation:--

“Cibber the elder had a daughter named Charlotte, who also took to the stage; her subsequent life was one continued series of misfortune, afflictions, and distress, which she sometimes contrived a little to alleviate by the productions of her pen. About the year 1755, she had worked up a novel for the press, which the writer accompanied his friend the bookseller to hear read; she was at this time a widow, having been married to one Charke a musician, long since dead. Her habitation was a wretched thatched hovel, situated on the way to Islington in the purlieus of Clerkenwell Bridewell, not very distant from the New River Head, where at that time it was usual for the scavengers to leave the cleansings of the streets, &c. The night preceding a heavy rain had fallen, which rendered this extraordinary seat of the muses almost inaccessible, so that in our approach we got our white stockings enveloped with mud up to the very calves, which furnished an appearance much in the present fashionable style of half-boots. We knocked at the door, (not attempting to pull the latch string,) which was opened by a tall, meagre, ragged figure, with a blue apron, indicating, what else we might have doubted, the feminine gender,--a perfect model for the copper captain’s tattered landlady; that deplorable exhibition of the fair sex, in the comedy of Rule-a-Wife. She with a torpid voice and hungry smile desired us to walk in. The first object that presented itself was a dresser, clean, it must be confessed, and furnished with three or four coarse delf plates, two brown platters, and underneath an earthen pipkin and a black pitcher with a snip out of it. To the right we perceived and bowed to the mistress of the mansion sitting on a maimed chair under the mantle-piece, by a fire, merely sufficient to put us in mind of starving. On one hob sat a monkey, which by way of welcome chattered at our going in; on the other a tabby cat, of melancholy aspect! and at our author’s feet on the flounce of her dingy petticoat reclined a dog, almost a skeleton! he raised his shagged head, and, eagerly staring with his bleared eyes, saluted us with a snarl. ‘Have done, Fidele! these are friends.’ The tone of her voice was not harsh; it had something in it humbled and disconsolate; a mingled effort of authority and pleasure.--Poor soul! few were her visitors of that description--no wonder the creature barked!.--A magpie perched on the top ring of her chair, not an uncomely ornament! and on her lap was placed a mutilated pair of bellows, the pipe was gone, an advantage in their present office, they served as a succedaneum for a writing-desk, on which lay displayed her hopes and treasure, the manuscript of her novel. Her ink-stand was a broken tea-cup, the pen worn to a stump; she had but one! a rough deal board with three hobbling supporters was brought for our convenience, on which, without farther ceremony, we contrived to sit down and entered upon business:--the work was read, remarks made, alterations agreed to, and thirty guineas demanded for the copy. The squalid handmaiden, who had been an attentive listener, stretched forward her tawny length of neck with an eye of anxious expectation!--The bookseller offered five!--Our authoress did not appear hurt; disappointments had rendered her mind callous; however, some altercation ensued. This was the writer’s first initiation into the mysteries of bibliopolism and the state of authorcraft. He, seeing both sides pertinacious, at length interposed, and at his instance the wary haberdasher of literature doubled his first proposal, with this saving proviso, that his friend present would pay a moiety and run one half the risk; which was agreed to. Thus matters were accommodated, seemingly to the satisfaction of all parties; the lady’s original stipulation of fifty copies for herself being previously acceded to. Such is the story of the once-admired daughter of Colley Cibber, Poet Laureate and patentee of Drury-lane, who was born in affluence and educated with care and tenderness, her servants in livery, and a splendid equipage at her command, with swarms of time-serving sycophants officiously buzzing in her train; yet, unmindful of her advantages and improvident in her pursuits, she finished the career of her miserable existence on a dunghill.”[36]

Mr. Whyte’s account of the “reading the manuscript,” a subject worthy of Wilkie’s pencil, is designed to be illustrated by the engraving at the head of this article. Of Mrs. Charke, after that interview, nothing further is known, except that she kept a public-house, at Islington, and is said to have died on the 6th of April, 1760.[37] Her brother Theophilus was wrecked, and perished on his way to Dublin, in October, 1758; her father died on the 12th of December, in the year preceding. Her singular “Narrative” is printed verbatim in the seventh volume of “Autobiography,” with the life of the late “Mary Robinson,” who was also an actress, and also wrote her own “Memoirs.”

[36] Whyte’s Collection of Poems, second edition. Dublin, 1792.

[37] Biog. Dram.

* * * * *

AN INEDITED BALLAD.

_To the Editor._

Dear Sir,--A friend of mine, who resided for some years on the borders, used to amuse himself by collecting old ballads, printed on halfpenny sheets, and hawked up and down by itinerant minstrels. In his common-place book I found one, entitled “The Outlandish Knight,” evidently, from the style, of considerable antiquity, which appears to have escaped the notice of Percy, and other collectors. Since then I have met with a printed one, from the popular press of Mr. Pitts, the six-yards-for-a-penny song-publisher, who informs me that he has printed it “ever since he was a printer, and that Mr. Marshall, his predecessor, printed it before him.” The ballad has not improved by circulating amongst Mr. Pitts’s friends; for the heroine, who has no name given her in my friend’s copy, is in Mr. Pitts’s called “Polly;” and there are expressions _contra bonos mores_. These I have expunged; and, to render the ballad more complete, added a few stanzas, wherein I have endeavoured to preserve the simplicity of the original, of which I doubt if a correct copy could now be obtained. As it is, it is at the service of your _Table Book_.

The hero of the ballad appears to be of somewhat the same class as the hero of the German ballad, the “Water King,” and in some particulars resembles the ballad of the “Overcourteous Knight,” in Percy’s Reliques.

I am, dear sir, &c.

-- -- --

_Grange-road, Bermondsey, Jan. 8, 1827._

THE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT.

---------------“Six go true,
The _seventh_ askew.”

_Der Freischutz Travestie._

An outlandish knight from the north lands came,
And he came a wooing to me;
He told me he’d take me unto the north lands,
And I should his fair bride be.

A broad, broad shield did this strange knight wield,
Whereon did the red-cross shine,
Yet never, I ween, had that strange knight been
In the fields of Palestine.

And out and spake this strange knight,
This knight of the north countrie,
O, maiden fair, with the raven hair,
Thou shalt at my bidding be.

Thy sire he is from home, ladye,
For he hath a journey gone,
And his shaggy blood-hound is sleeping sound,
Beside the postern stone.

Go, bring me some of thy father’s gold,
And some of thy mother’s fee,
And steeds twain of the best, in the stalls that rest
Where they stand thirty and three.

* * * * *

She mounted her on her milk-white steed,
And he on a dapple grey,
And they forward did ride, till they reach’d the sea-side,
Three hours before it was day.

Then out and spake this strange knight,
This knight of the north countrie,
O, maiden fair, with the raven hair,
Do thou at my bidding be.

Alight thee, maid, from thy milk-white steed,
And deliver it unto me;
Six maids have I drown’d, where the billows sound,
And the seventh one thou shalt be.

But first pull off thy kirtle fine,
And deliver it unto me;
Thy kirtle of green is too rich, I ween,
To rot in the salt, salt sea.

Pull off, pull off thy silken shoon,
And deliver them unto me;
Methinks that they are too fine and gay
To rot in the salt, salt sea.

Pull off, pull off thy bonnie green plaid,
That floats in the breeze so free;
It is woven fine with the silver twine,
And comely it is to see.

If I must pull off my bonnie green plaid,
O turn thy back to me;
And gaze on the sun which has just begun
To peer o’er the salt, salt sea.

He turn’d his back on the dameselle
And gaz’d on the bright sunbeam--
She grasp’d him tight with her arms so white,
And plung’d him into the stream.

Lie there, sir knight, thou false-hearted wight,
Lie there instead of me;
Six damsels fair thou hast drown’d there,
But the seventh has drowned thee.

That ocean wave was the false one’s grave,
For he sunk right hastily;
Though with dying voice faint, he pray’d to his saint,
And utter’d an Ave Marie.

No mass was said for that false knight dead,
No convent bell did toll;
But he went to his rest, unshriv’d and unblest--
Heaven’s mercy on his soul!

* * * * *

She mounted her on her dapple-grey steed,
And led the steed milk-white;
She rode till she reach’d her father’s hall,
Three hours before the night.

The parrot, hung in the lattice so high,
To the lady then did say,
Some ruffian, I fear, has led thee from home,
For thou hast been long away.

Do not prattle, my pretty bird,
Do not tell tales of me;
And thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,
Instead of the greenwood tree.

The earl as he sat in his turret high,
On hearing the parrot did say,
What ails thee, what ails thee, my pretty bird?
Thou hast prattled the live-long day.

Well may I prattle, the parrot replied,
And call, brave earl, on thee;
For the cat has well nigh reach’d the lattice so high,
And her eyes are fix’d on me.

Well turn’d, well turn’d, my pretty bird,
Well turn’d, well turn’d for me;
Thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,
Instead of the greenwood tree.

* * * * *

PRIDE AND GOOD-WILL.

It is related of a certain class of French nobility, who, in their winter residence at Aix, were objects of dislike from their arrogance and self-importance, that they were beloved and esteemed for their kindness and benevolence by the dependants around their _chateaus_ in the country. Many instances might be cited to show that the respect paid them was no more than they deserved; and one is particularly striking:--

A seigneur, when he resided in the country, used to distribute among the women and children, and the old men who were unable to work in the field, raw wool, and flax, which they spun and wove into cloth or stuff at their pleasure: every week they were paid wages according to the quantity of work done, and had a fresh supply of raw materials whenever it was wanted. At the end of the year, a general feast was given by the seigneur to the whole village, when all who had been occupied in spinning and weaving brought in their work, and a prize of a hundred livres was given to each person who had spun the best skein, and woven the best web. They had a dinner in a field adjoining to the chateau, at which the seigneur himself presided, and on each side of him sat those who had gained the prizes. The evening was concluded with a dance. The victors, besides the hundred livres, had their work given them: the rest were allowed to purchase theirs at a very moderate price, and the money resulting from it was laid by to distribute among any persons of the village who wanted relief on account of sickness, or who had suffered from unavoidable accident, either in their persons or property. At the death of this excellent man, who unfortunately left no immediate heirs to follow his good example, the village presented a scene of the bitterest lamentation and distress: the peasants assembled round the body, and it was almost forced away from them for interment. They brought their shuttles, their distaffs, their skeins of thread and worsted, their pieces of linen and stuff, and strewed them upon his grave, saying that now they had lost their patron and benefactor, they could no longer be of use to them. If this man felt the pride of conscious superiority, it was scarcely to be condemned when accompanied with such laudable exertions to render himself, through that superiority, a benefactor to society.[38]

[38] Miss Plumptre.

~Garrick Plays.~

No. II.

[From the “Parliament of Bees,” a Masque, by John Day, printed 1607.
Whether this singular production, in which the Characters are all
_Bees_, was ever acted, I have no information to determine. It is at
least as capable of representation, as we can conceive the “Birds” of
Aristophanes to have been.]

Ulania, a female Bee, confesses her passion for Meletus, who loves Arethusa.

------- not a village Fly, nor meadow Bee,
That trafficks daily on the neighbour plain,
But will report, how all the Winged Train
Have sued to me for Love; when we have flown
In swarms out to discover fields new blown.
Happy was he could find the forward’st tree,
And cull the choicest blossoms out for me;
Of all their labours they allow’d me some
And (like my champions) mann’d me out, and home:
Yet loved I none of them. Philon, a Bee
Well-skill’d in verse and amorous poetry,
As we have sate at work, both of one Rose,[39]
Has humm’d sweet Canzons, both in verse and prose,
Which I ne’er minded. Astrophel, a Bee
(Although not so poetical as he)
Yet in his full invention quick and ripe,
In summer evenings, on his well-tuned pipe,
Upon a woodbine blossom in the sun,
(Our hive being clean-swept, and our day’s work done),
Would play me twenty several tunes; yet I
Nor minded Astrophel, nor his melody.
Then there’s Amniter, for whose love fair Leade
(That pretty Bee) flies up and down the mead
With rivers in her eyes; without deserving
Sent me trim Acorn bowls of his own carving,
To drink May dews and mead in. Yet none of these,
My hive-born Playfellows and fellow Bees,
Could I affect, until this strange Bee came;
And him I love with such an ardent flame,
Discretion cannot quench.--
He labours and toils,
Extracts more honey out of barren soils
Than twenty lazy Drones. I have heard my Father,
Steward of the Hive, profess that he had rather
Lose half the Swarm than him. If a Bee, poor or weak,
Grows faint on his way, or by misfortune break
A wing or leg against a twig; alive,
Or dead, he’ll bring into the Master’s Hive
Him and his burthen. But the other day,
On the next plain there grew a fatal fray
Betwixt the Wasps and us; the wind grew high,
And a rough storm raged so impetuously,
Our Bees could scarce keep wing; then fell such rain,
It made our Colony forsake the plain,
And fly to garrison: yet still He stood,
And ’gainst the whole swarm made his party good;
And at each blow he gave, cried out _His Vow,
His Vow, and Arethusa_!--On each bough
And tender blossom he engraves her name
With his sharp sting. To Arethusa’s fame
He consecrates his actions; all his worth
Is only spent to character her forth.
On damask roses, and the leaves of pines,
I have seen him write such amorous moving lines
In Arethusa’s praise, as my poor heart
Has, when I read them, envied her desert;
And wept and sigh’d to think that he should be
To her so constant, yet not pity me.

* * * * *

Porrex, Vice Roy of Bees under King Oberon, describes his large prerogative.

To Us (who, warranted by Oberon’s love.
Write Ourself _Master Bee_), both field and grove,
Garden and orchard, lawns and flowery meads,
(Where the amorous wind plays with the golden heads
Of wanton cowslips, daisies in their prime,
Sun-loving marigolds; the blossom’d thyme,
The blue-vein’d violets and the damask rose;
The stately lily, Mistress of all those);
Are allow’d and giv’n, by Oberon’s free areed,
Pasture for me, and all my swarms to feed.

* * * * *

------------the doings,
The births, the wars, the wooings,

of these pretty little winged creatures are with continued liveliness portrayed throughout the whole of this curious old Drama, in words which Bees would talk with, could they talk; the very air seems replete with humming and buzzing melodies, while we read them. Surely Bees were never so be-rhymed before.

C. L.

[39] Prettily pilfered from the sweet passage in the Midsummer Night’s
Dream, where Helena recounts to Hermia their school-days’ friendship:

We, Hermia, like two artificial Gods,
Created with our needles both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion.

* * * * *

~Biographical Memoranda.~

JOHN SCOT, A FASTING FANATIC.

In the year 1539, there lived in Scotland one John Scot, no way commended for his learning, for he had none, nor for his good qualities, which were as few. This man, being overthrown in a suit of law, and knowing himself unable to pay that wherein he was adjudged, took sanctuary in the abbey of Holyrood-house; where, out of discontent, he abstained from all meat and drink, by the space of thirty or forty days together.

Fame having spread this abroad, the king would have it put to trial, and to that effect shut him up in a private room within the castle of Edinburgh, whereunto no man had access. He caused a little water and bread to be set by him, which he was found not to have diminished in the end of thirty days and two. Upon this he was dismissed, and, after a short time, he went to Rome, where he gave the like proof of his fasting to pope Clement VII.; from whence he went to Venice, carrying with him a testimony of his long fasting under the pope’s seal: and there also he gave the like proof thereof. After long time, returning into England, he went up into the pulpit in St. Paul’s Church-yard, where he gave forth many speeches against the divorce of king Henry VIII. from his queen Katherine, inveighing bitterly against him for his defection from the see of Rome; whereupon he was thrust into prison, where he continued fasting for the space of fifty days: what his end was I read not.--_Spotswood, &c._

* * * * *

HART THE ASTROLOGER.