Chapter D: A. M (6)

The house standing on a high hill, the gentlemen who have hitherto lived in it, judging “not much good was to be had from the _North_,” had defended it on that quarter by large plantations of evergreens; but the present possessor has cut down these plantations, and seems determined “to be open to every thing that comes from that delightful region.”

The house itself has undergone no other alteration than the addition of a small eating-room covered with pantiles, and a curious new-invented variegated stucco, with which the whole has been done over: this stucco has now stood several winters, and only requires to be a little more known to be universally adopted.[461]

* * * * *

While Holwood was in the occupation of Mr. Pitt he there seemed to enjoy the short cessations he could obtain from official duty. His chief delight in these spare hours was planting; which, as he pursued it only as opportunity enabled him, was without system of purchase or order of arrangement, and consequently very expensive. After his death Holwood successively devolved into different hands, and the residence and grounds were variously altered. At length the estate was purchased by John Ward, Esq. a merchant of London, who pulled down the house, and erected the present edifice from a design by Mr. Burton, under whose direction the work was completed in the spring of 1827. Its exterior is chaste, and the interior commodious and elegantly laid out. It stands on the summit of a noble ascent, well defended from adverse winds by full-grown trees and young plantations. From the back front, a fine sweep of lawn descends into a wide spreading valley; and the high and distant woodlands of Knole, Seven Oaks, Tunbridge, and the hills of Sussex, form an extensive amphitheatre of forest scenery and downs, as far as the eye can reach. The home grounds are so disposed, that the domain seems to include the whole of the rich and beautiful country around.

In the rear of Holwood Mr. Ward is forming a vineyard, which, if conducted with the judgment and circumspection that mark the commencement, may prove that the climate of England is suited to the open culture of the grape. Mr. Ward has imported ten sorts of vines, five black and five white, from different parts of the Rhine and Burgundy. They are planted on a slope towards the S.S.E. Difficulties and partial failures are to be expected in the outset of the experiment, and are to be overcome, in its progress, by enlarged experience and information respecting the treatment of the plants in foreign countries. That the vine flourished here several centuries ago can be proved historically. There is likewise evidence of it in the old names of places still existing. For instance, in London, there is “Vineyard-gardens,” Clerkenwell; and in Kent, there is a field near Rochester cathedral, which has been immemorially called “the Vines.” Many examples of this nature might be adduced. But far stronger than presumptive testimony is the fact, that, in some parts of the weald of Kent, the vine grows wild in the hedges; a friend assures me of this from his own knowledge, he having often assisted when a boy in rooting up the wild vine on his father’s land.

Mr. Ward’s alterations at Holwood are decisive and extensive. Besides the erection of a new and spacious residence, instead of the old one, which was small and inconvenient, and ill suited to the commanding character and extent of the grounds, he has greatly improved them; and perfected a stately approach to the mansion. Immediately within the great entrance gates, from Keston Common, is the elegant lodge represented by the engraving. For the purpose of making the drawing, we obtained seats just within the gates. While W. sketched it the silence was unbroken, save by the gentle rustle of the leaves in the warm afternoon air of summer, and the notes of the small birds preparing for their vesper song; the rabbits were scudding from their burrows across the avenue, and the sun poured glowing beams from between the branches of the magnificent trees, and dressed the varied foliage in a thousand beauteous liveries----

* * * * *

Circumstances prevent this article from concluding, as had been purposed, with notices of Holwood-hill as a Roman encampment, and of “Cæsar’s Spring,” in the declivity, beneath the gates of Holwood on Keston Common. An engraving of that ancient bourne, which Julius Cæsar is said to have himself discovered nearly two thousand years ago, and thither directed his legions to slake their thirst, will precede the remaining particulars in another sheet.

*

[461] European Magazine, Dec. 1792.

* * * * *

THE PLAGUE AT EYAM, AND THE REV. THOMAS STANLEY.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--The publication of the paper, entitled “Catherine Mompesson’s Tomb,” on “The Desolation of Eyam, and other Poems, by William and Mary Howitt,” at p. 482 of the _Table Book_, gives me an opportunity, with your good offices, of rescuing from a degree of oblivion the name and merits of an individual, who has unaccountably been almost generally overlooked, but who ought, at least, to be equally identified in any notice of the “Plague at Eyam” with Mr. Mompesson himself.

The Rev. Thomas Stanley was instituted to the rectory of Eyam by the ruling powers in 1644, which he held till the “Act of Uniformity,” in 1662, threw him out.

It appears that he continued to reside at Eyam after his ejectment, and the tradition of the place at this day is, that he was supported by the voluntary contributions of _two-thirds_ of the inhabitants; this may have been the cause of some jealousy in those who might have been satisfied with his removal from the living.

His comparative disinterestedness, with other circumstances worthy of notice, are recorded by his friend and fellow-sufferer Bagshaw, usually called “the Apostle of the Peak;” he concludes a most interesting account of Mr. Stanley in these words:--“When he could not serve his people publickly, some (yet alive) will testifie, how helpful he was to ’em in private; especially when the sickness (by way of eminency so called, I mean the Pestilence) prevailed in that town, he continuing with ’em, when, as it is written, 259 persons of ripe age, and 58 children were cut off thereby. When some, who might have been better employed, moved the then noble earl of Devonshire, lord lieutenant, to remove him out of the town; I am told by the credible, that he said, ‘It was more reasonable that the whole country should, in more than words, testify their thankfulness to him, who, together with his care of the town, had taken such care as no one else did, to prevent the infection of the towns adjacent.’”

Mr. Stanley died at Eyam 24th August, and was buried there on the 26th following, 1670.

I have thus extracted what, as an act of justice, ought to have been published long since, and which, indeed, ought to accompany every memorial of the plague at Eyam: though I scarcely regret that it has waited for the extensive circulation the _Table Book_ must give to it--if it is so fortunate as to be considered a communication to your purpose. My authority is, “_De Spiritualibus Pecci_. Notes (or Notices) concerning the Work of God, and some of those who have been workers together with God in the High Peak of Derbyshire,” &c. 12mo. 1702. (Sheffield.)

Some farther account of Stanley may be seen in Calamy’s “Nonconformist’s Memorial,” and Hunter’s “History of Hallamshire,” but both follow Bagshaw.

I exceedingly regret that “William and Mary Howitt” were unacquainted with Mr. Stanley’s services at Eyam.

I am, sir,

Your obedient and humble servant,

M. N.

_Nov. 9, 1827._

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

THE REIGN OF DEATH.

And I saw, and beheld a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow;
and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to
conquer.

_Revelations_, vi. 2.

In nightly vision, on my bed, I saw
A form unearthly, on a pale horse sat,
Riding triumphant o’er a prostrate world.
Around his brows he wore a crown of gold,
And in his bony hand he grasp’d a bow,
Which scatter’d arrows of destruction round.
His form was meagre--shadowy--indistinct--
Clothed with the faint lineaments of man.
He pass’d me swifter than the winged wind--
Or lightning from the cloud--or ghostly vision.
From his eye he shot devouring lightnings,
And his dilated nostril pour’d a stream
Of noisome, pestilential vapour.
Where’er he trod all vegetation ceas’d,
And the spring flow’rs hung, with’ring, on their stalks.
He passed by a city, whose huge walls,
And towers, and battlements, and palaces,
Cover’d the plain, aspiring to the skies:
As he pass’d, he smil’d--and straight it fell--
Wall, tower, and battlement, and glittering spire,
Palace, and prison, crumbling into dust;
And nought of this fair city did remain,
But one large heap of wild, confused ruin.
The rivers ceas’d to flow, and stood congeal’d.
The sea did cease its roaring, and its waves
Lay still upon the shore----
No tide did ebb or flow, but all was bound
In a calm, leaden slumber. The proud ships,
Which hitherto had travers’d o’er the deep,
Were now becalmed with this dead’ning stillness:--
The sails hung motionless--straight sunk the mast
O’er the huge bulwarks, and the yielding planks
Dropt silently into the noiseless deep:--
No ripple on the wave was left to show
Where, erst, the ship had stood, but all was blank
And motionless.
Birds in the air, upon the joyous wing,
Fell, lifeless, as the shadowy monster pass’d
And hostile armies, drawn in warlike lines,
Ceas’d their tumultuous conflict in his sight--
Conqueror and conquer’d yielding ’neath the power
Of the unknown destroyer! Nations fell;
And thrones, and principalities and powers.--
Kings with their glitt’ring crowns, lay on the earth,
And at their sides, their menials.----
Beauty and beggary together lay;
Youth, innocence, and age, and crime, together.
I saw a murderer, in a darksome wood,
Wielding a dagger o’er a beauteous bosom,
Threat’ning quick destruction to his victim:--
The shadow pass’d--the leaves grew sere and dropp’d--
The forest crumbled into ashes, and
The steel dissolv’d within th’ assassin’s hand--
His face grew wan and bloodless--his eyes stood
Fix’d, and glazed--he stiffen’d, and he fell--
And o’er his prostrate body sunk his victim!
I still pursued the conqueror with my eye--
The earth grew desart as he rode along--
The sun turn’d bloody in the stagnant air--
The universe itself was one vast ruin----
Then, stopp’d the Fiend. By him all mortal things
Had been destroyed; yet was he unsated;
And his vengeful eyes still flash’d destruction.--
Thus, alone, he stood; and reign’d--sole monarch--
All supreme--THE KING OF DESOLATION!

O. N. Y.

_Oct. 14, 1827._

* * * * *

~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. XIII.

THUNDER--LIGHTNING--AURORA BOREALIS--EARTHQUAKES--EBBING AND FLOWING OF THE SEA--THE LOADSTONE AND AMBER--ELECTRICITY--RIVERS.

Some of the moderns have assigned the cause of _Thunder_ to inflamed exhalations, rending the clouds wherein they are confined; others, to the shock between two or more clouds, when those that are higher and more condensed fall upon those that are lower, with so much force as suddenly to expel the intermediate air, which vigorously expanding itself, in order to occupy its former space, puts all the exterior air in commotion, producing those reiterated claps which we call thunder. This is the explanation of Descartes, and had but few followers; the former had more, being that of the Newtonians. For a third theory, which makes the matter productive of thunder the same with that of electricity, its author, Dr. Franklin, is in no part indebted to the ancients.

The notion of Descartes entirely belongs to Aristotle, who says, that “thunder is caused by a dry exhalation, which, falling upon a humid cloud, and violently endeavouring to force a passage for itself, produces the peals which we hear.” Anaxagoras refers it to the same cause.

All the other passages, which occur in such abundance among the ancients, respecting thunder, contain in them the reasonings of the Newtonians, sometimes combining the notions of Descartes.

Leucippus, and the Eleatic sect, held that “thunder proceeded from a fiery exhalation, which, enclosed in a cloud, burst it asunder, and forced its way through.” Democritus asserts, that it is the effect of a mingled collection of various volatile particles, which impel downwards the cloud which contains them, till, by the rapidity of their motion, they set themselves and it on fire.

Seneca ascribes it to a dry sulphureous exhalation arising out of the earth, which he calls the aliment of lightning; and which, becoming more and more subtilized in its ascent, at last takes fire in the air, and produces a violent eruption.

According to the stoics, thunder was occasioned by the shock of clouds; and lightning was the combustion of the volatile parts of the cloud, set on fire by the shock. Chrysippus taught, that lightning was the result of clouds being set on fire by winds, which dashed them one against another; and that thunder was the noise produced by that rencontre: he added, that these effects were coincident; our perception of the lightning before the thunder-clap being entirely owing to our sight’s being quicker than our hearing.

In short, Aristophanes, in his comedy of the “Clouds,” introducing Socrates as satisfying the curiosity of one of his disciples as to the cause of thunder, makes him assign it to the action of the compressed air in a cloud, which dilating itself bursts it, and, violently agitating the exterior air, sets itself on fire, and by the rapidity of its progress occasions all that noise.

The _Aurora Borealis_ was also observed by the ancients, as may be seen in Aristotle, Pliny, Seneca, and other writers, who conjectured differently its cause.

The Cartesians, Newtonians, and other able moderns, ascribe _Earthquakes_ to the earth’s being filled with cavities of a vast extent, containing in them an immense quantity of thick exhalations, resembling the smoke of an extinguished candle, which being easily inflammable, and by their agitation catching fire, rarefy and heat the central and condensed air of the cavern to such a degree, that finding no vent, it bursts its enclosements; and, in doing this, shakes the surrounding earth all around with dreadful percussions, producing all the other effects which naturally follow.

Aristotle and Seneca assigned these dreadful events to the same cause. The former says, that they were occasioned by the efforts of the internal air in dislodging itself from the bowels of the earth; and he observes, that on the approach of an earthquake the weather is generally serene, because that sort of air which occasions commotions in the atmosphere, is at that time pent up in the entrails of the earth.

Seneca is so precise, we might take him for a naturalist of the present times. He supposes that the earth hides in its bosom many subterraneous fires, which uniting their flames, necessarily put into fervid motion the congregated vapours of its cells, which finding no immediate outlet, exert their utmost powers, till they force a way through whatever opposes them. He says also, that if the vapours be too weak to burst the barriers which retain them, all their efforts end in weak shocks, and hollow murmurs, without any fatal consequence.

Of all the solutions of the _Ebbing and Flowing of the Sea_, the most simple and ingenious, though afterwards found by observation to be inadequate, is that of Descartes, who supposes a vortex of subtile matter, of an elliptic form, to invest our globe, and compress it on all sides. The moon, according to this philosopher, is immerged in this elliptic vortex, and when at its greatest elongation from the earth, it makes less impression upon the circumambient ethereal matter; but when it comes to the narrowest part of the ellipse, gives such an impulse to the atmosphere, as puts the whole ocean in agitation. He supports his system by this remark, that the ebbing and flowing of the sea generally coincides with the irregularity of the moon’s course.

The opinion of Kepler and Newton is more conformable to observation, and is founded on this hypothesis--that the moon attracts the waters of the sea, diminishing the weight of those parts of it over whose zenith it comes, and increasing the weight of the collateral parts, so that the parts directly opposite to the moon, and under it in the same hemisphere, must become more elevated than the rest. According to this system, the action of the sun concurs with that of the moon, in occasioning the tides; which are higher or lower respectively, according to the situation of those two luminaries, which, when in conjunction, act in concert, raising the tides to the greatest height; and when in opposition, produce nearly the same effect, in swelling the waters of the opposite hemispheres; but when in quadrature, suspend each other’s force, so as to act only by the difference of their powers; and thus the tides vary, according to the different positions of the sun and moon.

The Cartesian method of solution has been indicated by Pytheas Massiliensis, who observes, that the tides, in their increase and decrease, follow the irregular course of the moon; and by Seleucus of Erythrea, the mathematician, who ascribing to the earth a rotation about its axis, imputes the cause of tides to the activity of the earth’s vortex, in conjunction with that of the moon.

Pliny’s account has more affinity to that of sir Isaac Newton. The great naturalist of the ancients maintained, that “the sun and moon had a reciprocal share in causing the tides:” and after a course of observations for many years, he remarked, that “the moon acted most forcibly upon the waters when it was nearest to the earth; but that the effect was not immediately perceived by us, but at such an interval as may well take place between the action of celestial causes, and the discernible result of them on earth.” He remarked also, that the waters, which are naturally inert, do not swell up immediately upon the conjunction of the sun and moon; but having gradually admitted the impulse, and begun to raise themselves, continue in that elevation, even after the conjunction is over.

There are few things which have more engaged the attention of naturalists, and with less success, than the wonderful properties of the _Loadstone_. Almost all have agreed in affirming that there are corpuscles of a peculiar form and energy that continually circulate around and through the loadstone, and that a vortex of the same matter circulates around and through the earth. Upon these suppositions Descartes and others have advanced, that the loadstone has two poles similar to those of the earth; and that the magnetic matter which issues at one of the poles, and circulates around to enter at the other, occasions that impulse which brings iron to the loadstone, whose small corpuscles have an analogy to the pores of iron, fitting them to lay hold of it, but not of other bodies.

All this the ancients had said before. The impulsive force which joins iron to the loadstone, and other things to _Amber_, was known to Plato; though he would not call it attraction, as allowing no such cause in nature. This philosopher called the magnet the stone of Hercules, because it subdued iron, which conquers every thing.

Descartes’s idea of his explanation was doubtless derived from Lucretius, who admitted, that there was a “vortex of corpuscles, or magnetic matter, which, continually circulating around the loadstone, repelled the intervening air betwixt itself and the iron. The air thus repelled, the intervening space became a vacuum; and the iron, finding no resistance, approached with an impulsive force, pushed on by the air behind it.”

Plutarch likewise is of the same opinion. He says, that “amber attracts none of those things that are brought to it, any more than the loadstone, but emits a matter, which reflects the circumambient air, and thereby forms a void. The expelled air puts in motion the air before it, which making a circle, returns to the void space, driving before it, towards the loadstone, the iron which it meets in its way.” He then proposes a difficulty, to wit, “why the vortex which circulates around the loadstone does not make its way to wood or stone, as well as iron?” He answers, like Descartes, that “the pores of iron have an analogy to the particles of the vortex circulating about the loadstone, which yields them such access as they can find in no other bodies, whose pores are differently formed.”

Certain authors report, that the properties of the loadstone, particularly its tendency towards the north pole, enabled the ancients to undertake long voyages; and they pretend, that the Egyptians, Phœnicians, and Carthaginians, employed the compass to guide them in their naval excursions; though afterwards they lost the use of it, just as they did of dying purple,[462] and of embroidering, and of composing bricks, and a cement able to resist the force of all weathers; arts, without all doubt, formerly well known to them. Pineda and Kircher affirm likewise, that Solomon knew the use of the compass, and that his subjects steered their course by it in sailing to the land of Ophir. There is also a passage of Plautus[463] produced, wherein it is alleged he speaks of the compass. There is not however a single passage in the ancients that directly supports these pretensions.[464]

It is scarcely credible, that the real cause of _Electricity_ was known to the ancients, and yet there are indications of it in the work of Timæus Locrensis, concerning the soul of the world.

The moderns are also divided in their sentiments, as to how it happens that _Rivers_, continually flowing into the sea, do not swell the mass of waters, so as to make it overflow its banks. One of the solutions of this difficulty is, that rivers return again to their source by subterraneous passages or canals; and that there is, between the sea and the springs of rivers, a circulation analogous to that of blood in the human body. This solution, however, is the same as Seneca’s, who accounts for their not overflowing the bed of the ocean, by imagining secret passages, which reconduct them to their springs; and because, at their springs, they retain nothing of that brackishness which they carried with them from the sea, he supposes they are filtrated in their circuit through winding paths, and layers of every soil, so that they must needs return to their source as pure and sweet as they departed thence.

[462] We may with exactness determine what the true colour was of the
purple of the ancients, by attending to two passages of Pliny, wherein
he says, that the whole aim of the Tyrians and Phœnicians, in bringing
their purple to the utmost perfection, was to render it in colour as
like as possible to the oriental amethyst. Plin. Hist. Natur. lib. ix.
c. 38 & 41, et lib. xxxvii. c. 9.

[463]

Hùc secundus ventus nunc est; cape modò Vorsoriam,
Stasime; cape Vorsoriam, recipe te ad Herum.

[464] With respect to what was known to the ancients, and of which we
still are ignorant, recourse may be had to Pancirolus _de rebus
Deperditis_, particularly to his first book, chap. i. 35, 36, 39,
respecting the colour of purple, the ductility of glass and the
effects of the ancient music. See especially Dion. Cassius’s History,
in Tiber. lib. lvii. p. 617. E. Plin. lib. xxxvi. c. 26, &c. Isidor.
de Originib. lib. xvi. c. 15, respecting the ductility of glass.

* * * * *

FILEY, YORKSHIRE.

HADDOCK LEGEND, AND HERRING FISHERY.

_For the Table Book._

At Filey a singular range of rock, said to resemble the celebrated mole of Tangiers, extends from the cliff a considerable way into the sea, and is called Filey bridge. It is covered by the sea at high tide, but may be traversed for upwards of a quarter of a mile at low water. From the farther end a distant, but, in fine weather, a distinct view may be had of Scarborough and the Castle on the one hand, and of Flamborough-head and the Lighthouse, with an extensive stretch of lofty chalk-stone cliff, on the other. When the wind is from the north-east the waves break over it majestically, and may be seen rising up in foamy spray to a great distance, producing an imposing and awful appearance. From its singularity there is no wonder that the credulous, the superstitious, and the vulgar, who have always had a propensity to attach something of the marvellous to whatever is extraordinary, should have made this ridge an object from which to form a story.

Perhaps, Mr. Editor, you, as well as many of the readers of the _Table Book_, may have seen the haddock at different times, and observed the black marks on its sides. But do you know, sir, how the haddock came by these said marks? The legendary tale of Filey says, that the devil in one of his mischievous pranks determined to build Filey bridge for the destruction of ships and sailors, and the annoyance of fishermen, but that in the progress of his work he accidentally let fall his hammer into the sea, and being in haste to snatch it back caught a haddock, and thereby made the imprint, which the whole species retains to this day.

The village of Filey is seated in a small and beautiful bay. The settled inhabitants depend chiefly on the fishery, which is carried on with success to a considerable extent, although of late years a few good houses have been built, and several respectable families have resorted thither during the season, for the purpose of sea-bathing, for which the beach is well adapted. The church is in the form of a cross, with a steeple in the middle, and bears some resemblance to an ancient cathedral in miniature; it stands at a distance from the village, being divided by a deep ravine, which forms the boundary of partition between the North and East Ridings of Yorkshire; the church consequently stands in the former, and the village in the latter of the two Ridings.

T. C.

_Bridlington, Sept. 27, 1827._

Since the foregoing was written I have been at Filey, and was there informed that in the month of September, yearly, about ninety men, sometimes accompanied by their wives and children, leave this village for the herring fishery at Yarmouth. Previously to their setting out for the fishing station they send a piece of sea-beef on shore from each boat to such of their friends at the public-houses as they wish “_weel teea_;” this occasions “a bit of a supper,” at which those who are going away and those who stay meet to enjoy good cheer, heightened with mutual good-will.

_October 11, 1827._

T. C.

* * * * *

PISCATORIA.

Lucan, the Roman poet, makes a beautiful digression to paint the happy life of a fisherman. In plain prose it will read in this manner:--

News (says he) was brought to Cæsar, at a late hour, that Pompey was up in arms in Calabria, ready to dispute with him the sovereignty of the world; perplexed in mind, he knew not for a while what steps best to pursue, when, stealing from the arms of his Calphornia, he cast his mantle about him, and through the gloom of midnight hastened alone to the mouth of the Tiber, and coming to the cabin of Amilcas the fisherman, struck thrice with his arm upon the door of the slumberer. “Arise, Amilcas,” said Cæsar, in a subdued tone. The fisherman and his family, without care, were reposing on their beds of sheepskins. Amilcas knew the voice of Cæsar, and threw open his wicket to receive his master. “Come away, Amilcas,” cried the emperor, “launch your boat with all speed, and bear me to Calabria; Pompey is there in arms against me while I am absent; hasten then, and ask what thou wilt of Cæsar.” The night was dark, and the elements were at war with each other; but by the strength, courage, and judgment of the boatman, Cæsar was soon landed on the shore of Calabria.--“And now, Amilcas,” rejoined the mighty chief, “make thy demand.” “Grant me then,” replied the fisherman, “that I may return the way I came to my peaceful family; for at daybreak should they not see me spreading my nets upon the beach, as they are wont, their faithful bosoms will be rent with sorrow.”--“Go,” replied the Roman chief, “thou humble, modest man, and never let it be forgotten that Cæsar is thy friend.”

* * * * *

INCREDIBLE LIARS

The French papers in the autumn of 1821 mention, that a man named Desjardins was tried, on his own confession, as an accomplice with Louvel, the assassin of the duke de Berri. But, on his defence, Desjardins contended that his confession ought not to be believed, because he was so notorious for falsehood, that nobody in the world would give credit to a word he said. In support of this, he produced a host of witnesses, his friends and relatives, who all swore that the excessive bad character he had given of himself was true, and he was declared “not guilty.”

This case parallels with a similar instance some years before in Ireland. A man was charged with highway robbery. In the course of the trial the prisoner roared out from the dock that he was guilty; but the jury pronounced him by their verdict “not guilty.” The astonished judge exclaimed, “Good God, gentlemen, did you not hear the man himself declare that he was guilty?” The foreman said, “We did, my lord, and that was the very reason we acquitted him, _for we knew the fellow_ to be so notorious a liar that he never told a word of truth in his life.”

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

HEBREW MELODY,

A PORTUGUESE HYMN.

How blest is the mortal who never reposes
In seat of the scorner, nor roams o’er the ground,
Where Pleasure is strewing her thorn-covered roses.
And waving her gay silken banners around.

Who worships his Maker when evening is throwing
Her somberest shadows o’er mountain and lea;
And kneels in devotion when daylight is glowing,
And gilding the waves of the dark rolling sea.

He shall be like a tree on the calm river waving,
That riseth all glorious all lovely to view,
Whose deeply fix’d root the pure waters are laving,
Whose boughs are enriched with the kindliest dew.

Not so the ungodly! his fate shall resemble
The chaff by autumnal winds wafted away;
And when life’s fading lamp in its socket shall tremble
Shall look to the judgment with fear and dismay!

T. Q. M.

_Ivy Cottage, Grassington in Craven,_

_October 21, 1827._

* * * * *

FACTITIA.

_For the Table Book._

“WHERE IS MY THERMOMETER?”

In a certain town a certain military gentleman regulates his dress by a thermometer, which is constantly suspended at the back door of his house. Some wicked wag once stole the instrument, and left in its place the following lines:--

When ----n to Tartarus got,
That huge and warm gasometer!
“Good lord!” quoth he, “how wondrous hot!
O, where is my thermometer!”

DEGRADATION OF A DEGREE.

“Why,” said our friend T. Q. M. to Sally Listen, an old inhabitant of Wensleydale, “why do you call Mr. ----, _doctor_, when he has no title to such an appellation? he is only a quack!”--“Why,” said Sally, “I’ll call him naught else. What mun a body _mister_ sic chaps as him for? _Doctor_’s good enough for sic blacks!”

Vol. II.--48.

On Keston Heath wells up the Ravensbourne,
A crystal rillet, scarce a palm in width,
Till creeping to a bed, outspread by art,
It sheets itself across, reposing there:
Thence, through a thicket, sinuous it flows,
And crossing meads, and footpaths, gath’ring tribute.
Due to its elder birth, from younger branches,
Wanders, in Hayes and Bromley, Beckenham vale,
And straggling Lewisham, to where Deptford Bridge
Uprises in obeisance to its flood,
Whence, with large increase it rolls on, to swell
The master current of the “mighty heart”
Of England.

*

Before I had seen Keston I heard, at West Wickham, that it had been the site of a Roman camp, and that a Roman bath was still there. It was from curiosity towards this piece of antiquity that I first visited the spot, in company with my friend W----. The country people, whom we met on our way, spoke of it as the “Old Bath,” and the “Cold Bath,” and as a water of great virtue, formerly bathed in, and still resorted to, by persons afflicted with weak or sprained limbs, which by dipping in this bath became cured.

Our walk from Wickham was remarkably pleasant; we passed noble oaks of many centuries’ growth, and descended from the broad open highway into an old road on our left, a ravine, or intrenchment perchance, clothed with tendril plants and blossoming briars, festooning and arching over wild flowers growing amid the verdure of its high banks. Here we paced up hill, till we reached an open, lofty tract of heathland, in a rude, uncultivated, picturesque state, with a few houses in distant parts, surrounded by thriving plantations. On our left were the woodlands of the pleasant village of Hayes, remarkable for having been the seat of the great earl of Chatham, and the birthplace of his well-remembered son. On our right were the heights of Holwood, and fine forest scenery. Near a cluster of cottages immediately before us there was a mill, with its sails going; these we scarcely glanced at, but made our way to an old alehouse, the sign of the Fox, where an ancient labourer, sitting at the door, directed us to “the Bath.” We found it in a romantic little bottom, immediately under the gates of Holwood.

The delightful landscape, from the opening of this dell towards London and beyond it, so much engaged our attention, that for a while we forgot the “Bath,” on the brink of which we were standing. There is no appearance of its having been a bathing-place, and certainly it has not the least character of a Roman bath. It is simply a well of fine pellucid water, which gently overflowing threads a small winding channel in the herbage, and suddenly expands, till it seems bounded by an embankment and line of trees. This is the road to the pleasant inn “Keston Cross.” In the distance are the Kentish and Essex hills, with the dome of the metropolitan cathedral. Presuming that information respecting the spring might be obtained at Holwood we reascended, and inquired of several labourers employed in levelling and gravelling the avenue; but we derived nothing satisfactory till a Keston man, working at a distance, came up, and told us that it was the source of the Ravensbourne.

I had formerly heard and read of a tradition respecting this spring, and now that I unexpectedly found myself upon its margin, recollection of the story heightened the interest of the scene. The legend runs, that when Cæsar was encamped here his troops were in great need of water, and none could be found in the vicinity. Observing, however, that a raven frequently alighted near the camp, and conjecturing that it was for the purpose of quenching its thirst, he ordered the coming of the bird to be watched for, and the spot to be particularly noted; this was done, and the result was as he anticipated. The object of the raven’s resort was this little spring; from thence Cæsar derived a supply of water for the Roman legions, and from the circumstance of its discovery the spring was called the Raven’s bourne, or the Raven’s brook. From the lodge at Holwood, W. obtained the loan of a chair, and taking his seat on the brink of the well, sketched the view represented in his engraving of it above.

If the account of Holwood[465] in 1792 be correct, this spring, there called “Cæsar’s Spring,” was then a public cold bath, ornamented with trees, and a dressing-house on the brink. Hasted, in 1778,[466] gives a view of the Roman intrenchments on Holwood Hill, and figures the ancient road to the spring of the Ravensbourne, as running down to it from where Holwood gates now stand: he also figures the spring with twelve trees planted round it. Now, however, there is not a vestige of tree or building, but there are in the ground the stumps of a poled fencing, which was standing within recollection. On further examination I found the well bricked round, but the bricks at the top edge had decayed, or been thrown in; and the interior brickwork is lined with hair moss and other water-weeds. On the side opposite to that whereon a man is represented in the engraving. I traced the remains of steps for descending into the well as a bath. Its circle is about nine feet in diameter. At what time it commenced, or ceased, to be used as a bath, is uncertain.

Here, then, about twelve miles from London, in a delightful country, is a spring, rendered venerable by immemorial tradition and our ancient annals; and which, during eighteen centuries, from the time of its alleged discovery by Cæsar, has remained open to general use. Sorry therefore am I to add, that there are rumours of a wish to _enclose_ this public relic of bygone ages. I invite public attention to the place and to the report. Even at this season the lover of natural scenery will find charms at the source of the Ravensbourne, and be able to imagine the beauty of the surrounding country in summer. Had I a right of common on Keston Heath, rather than assist in a base “homage,” to colourably admit the enclosure of “Cæsar’s Spring,” I would surrender my own right, and renounce community and neighbourhood with the heartless hirelings, who would defraud themselves and the public of the chief attraction to Keston Common. At so small a distance from London I know of nothing so remarkable in history as this spring. On no pretence ought the public to be deprived of it. There are rights of nature as well as of property: when the claims of the latter are urged too pertinaciously against the former, it is time to cry out; and if middle men do not interfere to prevent the oppression, they will, in their turn, cry aloud when there will be none to help them.

[465] In col. 626.

[466] History of Kent, folio, vol. i. 129.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. XLII.

[From “Thyestes,” a Tragedy, by John Crowne, 1681.]

_Atreus, having recovered his Wife, and Kingdom, from his brother Thyestes, who had usurped both, and sent him into banishment, describes his offending Queen._

_Atreus (solus)._ ------ still she lives;
’Tis true, in heavy sorrow: so she ought,
If she offended as I fear she has.
Her hardships, though, she owes to her own choice.
I have often offer’d her my useless couch;
For what is it to me? I never sleep:
But for her bed she uses the hard floor.
My table is spread for her; I never eat:
And she’ll take nothing but what feeds her grief.

_Philisthenes, the Son of Thyestes, at a stolen interview with Antigone, the daughter of Atreus, is surprised by the King’s Spies: upon which misfortune Antigone swooning, is found by Peneus._

_Antigone. Peneus, an ancient retainer to the Court of Mycenæ._

_Peneus._ Ha! what is she that sleeps in open air?
Indeed the place is far from any path,
But what conducts to melancholy thoughts;
But those are beaten roads about this Court.
Her habit calls her, Noble Grecian Maid;
But her sleep says, she is a stranger here.
All birds of night build in this Court, but Sleep;
And Sleep is here made wild with loud complaints,
And flies away from all. I wonder how
This maid has brought it to her lure so tame.
_Antigone, (waking from her swoon)._ Oh my Philisthenes!
_Peneus._ She wakes to moan;
Aye, that’s the proper language of this place!
_Antigone._ My dear, my poor Philisthenes!
I know ’tis so! oh horror! death! hell! oh--
_Peneus._ I know her now; ’tis fair Antigone,
The daughter and the darling of the King.
This is the lot of all this family.[467]
Beauteous Antigone, thou know’st me well;
I am old Peneus, one who threescore years
Has loved and serv’d thy wretched family.
Impart thy sorrows to me; I perhaps
In my wide circle of experience
May find some counsel that may do thee good.
_Antigone._ O good old man! how long have you been here?
_Peneus._ I came but now.
_Antigone._ O did you see this way
Poor young Philisthenes? you know him well.
_Peneus._ Thy uncle’s son, Thyestes’ eldest son--
_Antigone._ The same, the same--
_Peneus._ No; all the Gods forbid
I should meet him so near thy father’s Court.
_Antigone._ O he was here one cursed minute past.
_Peneus._ What brought him hither?
_Antigone._ Love to wretched me.
Our warring fathers never ventured more
For bitter hate than we for innocent love.
Here but a minute past the dear youth lay,
Here in this brambly cave lay in my arms;
And now he is seized! O miserable me--(_tears her hair._)
_Peneus._ Why dost thou rend that beauteous ornament?
In what has it offended? hold thy hands.
_Antigone._ O father, go and plead for the poor youth;
No one dares speak to the fierce King but you--
_Peneus._ And no one near speaks more in vain than I;
He spurns me from his presence like a dog.
_Antigone._ Oh, then--
_Peneus._ She faints, she swoons, I frighten’d her,
Oh I spake indiscretely. Daughter, child,
Antigone, I’ll go, indeed I’ll go.
_Antigone._ There is no help for me in heav’n or earth.
_Peneus._ There is, there is; despair not, sorrowful maid.
All will be well. I’m going to the King,
And will with pow’rful reasons bind his hands;
And something in me says I shall prevail.
But to whose care shall I leave thee the while?--
For oh! I dare not trust thee to thy grief.
_Antigone._ I’ll be disposed of, father, as you please,
Till I receive the blest or dreadful doom.
_Peneus._ Then come, dear daughter, lean upon my arm,
Which old and weak is stronger yet than thine;
Thy youth hath known more sorrow than my age.
I never hear of grief, but when I’m here;
But one day’s diet here of sighs and tears
Returns me elder home by many years.

_Atreus, to entrap his brother Thyestes; who has lived a concealed life, lurking in woods, to elude his vengeance; sends Philisthenes and old Peneus to him with offers of reconciliation, and an invitation to Court, to be present at the nuptials of Antigone with Philisthenes._

_Thyestes. Philisthenes. Peneus._

_Thy._ Welcome to my arms,
My hope, my comfort! Time has roll’d about
Several months since I have seen thy face,
And in its progress has done wond’rous things.
_Phil._ Strange things indeed to chase you to this sad
Dismal abode; nay, and to age, I think:
I see that winter thrusting itself forth
Long, long before its time, in silver hairs.
_Thy._ My fault, my son; I would be great and high,
Snow lies in summer on some mountain tops.
Ah, Son! I’m sorry for thy noble youth,
Thou hast so bad a father; I’m afraid,
Fortune will quarrel with thee for my sake.
Thou wilt derive unhappiness from me,
Like an hereditary ill disease.
_Phil._ Sir, I was born, when you were innocent;
And all the ill you have contracted since,
You have wrought out by painful penitence;
For healthy joy returns to us again;
Nay, a more vigorous joy than e’er we had.
Like one recover’d from a sad disease,
Nature for damage pays him double cost,
And gives him fairer flesh than e’er he had.

_Thyestes is won from his retirement by the joint representations of Philisthenes and Peneus, of the apparent good faith, and returning kindness of his brother; and visits Mycenæ:--his confidence; his returning misgivings._

_Thyestes_. _Philisthenes_. _Peneus._

_Thy._ O wondrous pleasure to a banish’d man,
I feel my loved long look’d-for native soil!
And oh! my weary eyes, that all the day
Had from some mountain travell’d toward this place,
Now rest themselves upon the royal towers
Of that great palace where I had my birth.
O sacred towers, sacred in your height,
Mingling with clouds, the villas of the Gods
Whither for sacred pleasures they retire;
Sacred because you are the work of Gods;
Your lofty looks boast your divine descent:
And the proud city which lies at your feet,
And would give place to nothing but to you,
Owns her original is short of yours.
And now a thousand objects more ride fast
On morning beams, and meet my eyes in throngs;
And see, all Argos meets me with loud shouts!
_Phil._ O joyful sound!
_Thy._ But with them Atreus too--
_Phil._ What ails my father, that he stops, and shakes,
And now retires?
_Thy._ Return with me, my son,
And old friend Peneus, to the honest beasts,
And faithful desart, and well-seated caves;
Trees shelter man, by whom they often die,
And never seek revenge: no villainy
Lies in the prospect of an humble cave.
_Pen._ Talk you of villainy, of foes, and fraud.
_Thy._ I talk of Atreus.
_Pen._ What are these to him?
_Thy._ Nearer than I am, for they are himself.
_Pen._ Gods drive these impious thoughts out of your mind.
_Thy._ The Gods for all our safety put them there.--
Return, return with me.
_Pen._ Against our oaths?
I cannot stem the vengeance of the Gods.
_Thy._ Here are no Gods: they’ve left this dire abode.
_Pen._ True race of Tantalus! who parent-like
Are doom’d in midst of plenty to be starved.
His hell and yours differ alone in this:
When he would catch at joys, they fly from him;
When glories catch at you, you fly from them.
_Thy._ A fit comparison; our joys and his
Are lying shadows, which to trust is hell.

_The day of the pretended Nuptials.--Atreus feigns a returning love for his Queen._

_Ærope._ O this is too much joy for me to bear:
You build new palaces on broken walls.
_Atreus._ Come, let our new-born pleasures breathe sweet air;
This room’s too vile a cabinet for gold.
Then leave for ever, Love, this doleful place,
And leave behind thee all thy sorrows here;
And dress thyself as this great day requires.
’Twill be thy daughter’s nuptials; and I dream’d,
The Sun himself would be asham’d to come,
And be a guest in his old tarnish’d robe;
But leave my Court,[468] to enlighten all the globe.--

_Peneus to Atreus, dissuading him from his horrid purpose._

_Pen._ Fear you not men or Gods?
_Atr._ The fear of Gods ne’er came in Pelops’ House.
_Pen._ Think you there are no Gods?
_Atr._ I find all things
So false, I am sure of nothing but of wrongs.--

_Atreus. Thyestes._

A TABLE, AND A BANQUET.

_Atr._ Come, brother, sit.
_Thy._ May not Philisthenes
Sit with us, Sir?
_Atr._ He waits upon the Bride.
A deeper bowl. This to the Bridegroom’s health.
_Thy._ This to the Gods for this most joyful day.--
Now to the Bridegroom’s health.
_Atr._ This day shall be
To Argos an eternal festival.
_Thy._ Fortune and I to day both try our strengths.
I have quite tired her left hand Misery;
She now relieves it with her right-hand Joy,
Which she lays on me with her utmost force;
But both shall be too weak for my strong spirit.
_Atr. (aside)._ So, now my engines of delight have screw’d
The monster to the top of arrogance;
And now he’s ready for his deadly fall.
_Thy._ O these extremes of misery and joy
Measure the vast extent of a man’s soul.
My spirit reaches Fortune’s East and West.
She has oft set and ris’n here; yet cannot get
Out of the vast dominion of my mind.--
Ho! my proud vaunting has a sudden check;
See, from my head my crown of roses falls;
My hair, tho’ almost drown’d beneath sweet oils,
With strange and sudden horrors starts upright:
Something I know not what bids me not eat;
And what I have devour’d[469] within me groans;
I fain would tear my breast to set it free;--
And I have catch’d the eager thirst of tears,
Which all weak spirits have in misery.
I, who in banishment ne’er wept, weep now.
_Atr._ Brother, regard it not; ’tis fancy all.
Misery, like night, is haunted with ill spirits,
And spirits leave not easily their haunts;
’Tis said, sometimes they’ll impudently stand
A flight of beams from the forlorn of day,
And scorn the crowing of the sprightly cocks:--
Brother, ’tis morning with our pleasure yet.
Nor has the sprightly wine crow’d oft enough.
See in great flagons at full length it sleeps,
And lets these melancholy thoughts break in
Upon our weaker pleasures. Rouse the wine,
And bid him chase these fancies hence for shame.
Fill up that reverend unvanquish’d Bowl,
Who many a giant in his time has fallen,
And many a monster; Hercules not more.
_Thy._ If he descends into my groaning breast,
Like Hercules, he will descend to hell--
_Atr._ And he will vanquish all the monsters there.
Brother, your courage with this Hero try;
He o’er our House has reign’d two hundred years,
And he’s the only king shall rule you here.
_Thy._ What ails me, I cannot heave it to my lips?
_Atr._ What, is the bowl too heavy?
_Thy._ No; my heart.
_Atr._ The wine will lighten it.
_Thy._ The wine will not
Come near my lips.
_Atr._ Why should they be so strange?
They are near a-kin.
_Thy._ A-kin?
_Atr._ As possible; father and son not nearer.
_Thy._ What do you mean?
_Atr._ Does not good wine beget good blood?
_Thy._ ’Tis true.
_Atr._ Your lips then and the wine may be a-kin.
Off with your kindred wine; leave not a drop
To die alone, bewilder’d in that bowl.
Help him to heave it to his head; that’s well.

(_Thyestes drinks. A clap of thunder. The lights go out._)

_Thy._ What pond’rous crimes pull heav’n upon our heads?
Nature is choak’d with some vast villainy,
And all her face is black.
_Atr._ Some lights, some lights.
_Thy._ The sky is stunn’d, and reels ’twixt night and day;
Old Chaos is return’d.
_Atr._ It is to see
A young One born, more dreadful than herself;
That promises great comfort to her age,
And to restore her empire.
_Thy._ What do you mean?
_Atr._ Confusion I have in thy bowels made.
_Thy._ Dire thoughts, like Furies, break into my mind
With flaming brands, and shew me what he means.
Where is Philisthenes?
_Atr._ Ask thy own bowels:
Thou heard’st them groan; perhaps they now will speak.
_Thy._ Thou hast not, Tyrant--what I dare not ask?
_Atr._ I kill’d thy Son, and thou hast drunk his blood.

C. L.

[467] The descendants of Tantalus.

[468] A hint of the dreadful banquet which he meditates, at which the
Sun is said to have turned away his horses.

[469] The mangled limbs of his son Philisthenes, which Atreus has set
before him.

* * * * *

_For the Table Book_

THEATRALIA.

TOM DURFEY

Once got fifty guineas (according to tradition) for singing a single song to queen Anne in ridicule of “the princess Sophia, electress and duchess dowager of Hanover,” (as she is called in the oath of allegiance,) naturally no great favourite with the then reigning monarch. The only lines of this satirical production that have come down to us are the following; and, until now, only the two first of the stanza have been preserved by Durfey’s biographers:--

“The crown’s far too weighty
For shoulders of eighty;
She could not sustain such a trophy;
Her hand, too, already
Has grown so unsteady
She can’t hold a sceptre;
So Providence kept her
Away.--Poor old Dowager Sophy.”

“Merry Tom” had sung before the king in the former reign, and Charles II., as is well known, was very fond of his company.

LISTON’S MARRIAGE.

The following got into circulation just after Mr. Liston was united to Miss Tyrer but never was published:--

Liston has married Fanny Tyrer:
He must, like all the town, admire her,
A pretty actress, charming voice!
But some, astonish’d at his choice
Of one, compar’d with him, so small
She scarcely seem’d a wife at all,
Express’d their wonder: his reply
Show’d that he had “good reason why.”--
“We needs must when the devil drives;
And since all married men say, wives
Are of created things the worst,
I was resolv’d I would be curst
With one as small as I could get her.
The smaller, as I thought, the better.
I need not fear to lay my fist on,
Whene’er ’tis needed, Mrs. Liston:
And since, ’like heathen Jew or Carib,
I like a _rib_, but not a _spare-rib_,
I got one broad as she is long--
Go and do better, if I’m wrong.”

CHARLES JENNENS, ESQ.