Chapter M: Blackmore (3)

We have been lately honoured with the presence of the celebrated Mr. Powell, who, I suppose, must formerly have existed in a comet; and by one of those unforeseen accidents which sometimes happen to the most exalted characters, has dropped from its tail.

His common food is brimstone and fire, which he licks up as eagerly as a hungry peasant would a mess of pottage; he feeds on this extraordinary diet before princes and peers, to their infinite satisfaction; and such is his passion for this terrible element, that if he were to come hungry into your kitchen, while a sirloin was roasting, he would eat up the fire, and leave the beef.

It is somewhat surprising, that the friends of _real merit_ have not yet promoted him, living, as we do, in an age favourable to men of genius: Mr. Johnson has been rewarded with a pension for writing, and Mr. Sheridan for speaking well; but Mr. Powell, who _eats well_, has not yet been noticed by any administration. Obliged to wander from place to place, instead of indulging, himself in private with his favourite dish, he is under the uncomfortable necessity of eating in public, and helping himself from the kitchen fire of some paltry alehouse in the country.

O tempora! O mores![81]

[81] Lounger’s Common Place Book

Vol. I.--11.

_For the Table Book_

This fair is held always on the second Thursday in March: it is a good one for cattle; and, in consequence of the great show, the inhabitants are obliged to shut up their windows; for the cattle and the drivers are stationed in all parts of the town, and few except the jobbers venture out during the time of selling.

From five to six o’clock the preceding evening, carts, chiefly belonging to Yorkshire clothiers, begin to arrive, and continue coming in until the morning, when, at about eight or nine, the cattle fair begins, and lasts till three in the afternoon. Previously to any article being sold, the fair is proclaimed in a manner depicted tolerably well in the preceding sketch. At ten, two individuals, named Matthew Horn and John Deighton, having furnished themselves with a fiddle and clarinet, walk through the different avenues of the town three times, playing, as they walk, chiefly “God save the King;” at the end of this, some verses are repeated, which I have not the pleasure of recollecting; but I well remember, that thereby the venders are authorized to commence selling. After it is reported through the different stalls that “they’ve walked the fair,” business usually commences in a very brisk manner.

Mat. Horn has the best cake booth in the fair, and takes a considerable deal more money than any “spice wife,” (as women are called who attend to these dainties.) Jack Deighton is a shoemaker, and a tolerably good musician. Coals are also brought for sale, which, with cattle, mainly constitute the morning fair.

At the close of the cattle fair, the town is swept clean, and lasses walk about with their “_sweethearts_,” and the fair puts on another appearance. “Cheap John’s here the day,” with his knives, combs, bracelets, &c. &c. The “great Tom Mathews,” with his gallanty show, generally contrives to pick up a pretty bit of money by his droll ways. Then “Here’s spice Harry, gingerbread, Harry--Harry--Harry!” from Richmond, with his five-and-twenty lumps of gingerbread for sixpence. Harry stands in a cart, with his boxes of “spice” beside him, attracting the general attention of the whole fair, (though he is seldomer here than at Brough-hill fair.) There are a few shows, viz. Scott’s sleight of hand, horse performances, &c. &c.; and, considering the size of the town, it has really a very merry-spent fair. At six o’clock dancing begins in nearly all the public-houses, and lasts the whole of “a merry neet.”

Jack Deighton mostly plays at the greatest dance, namely, at the Swan inn; and his companion, Horn, at one of the others; the dances are merely jigs, three reels, and four reels, and country dances, and _no more_ than three sets can dance at a time. It is a matter of course to give the fiddler a penny or two-pence each dance; sometimes however another set slips in after the tune’s begun, and thus trick the player. By this time nearly all the stalls are cleared away, and the “merry neet” is the only place to resort to for amusement. The fiddle and clarinet are to be heard every where; and it is astonishing what money is taken by the fiddlers. Some of the “spice wives,” too, stop till the next morning, and go round with their cakes at intervals, which they often sell more of than before.

At this festival at Brough, the husbandmen have holiday, and many get so tipsy that they are frequently turned off from their masters. Several of the “spice wives” move away in the afternoon to Kirby Stephen, where there is a very large fair, better suited to their trade, for it commences on the day ensuing. Unfortunately, I was never present at the proclamation. From what I saw, I presume it is in consequence of a charter, and that these people offer their services that the fair-keepers may commence selling their articles sooner. I never heard of their being paid for their trouble. They are constantly attended by a crowd of people, who get on the carts and booths, and, at the end, set up a load “huzza!”

W. H. H.

* * * * *

THE TWELVE GEMS

OF THE TWELVE MONTHS.

_For the Table Book._

It is a Polish superstition, that each month has a particular gem attached to it, which governs it, and is supposed to influence the destiny of persons born in that month; it is therefore customary among friends, and lovers particularly, to present each other, on their natal day, with some trinket containing their tutelary gem, accompanied with its appropriate wish; this kind fate, or perhaps kinder fancy, generally contrives to realize according to their expectations.

JANUARY.

_Jacinth_, or _Garnet_ denotes constancy and fidelity in every engagement.

FEBRUARY.

_Amethyst_ preserves mortals from strong passions, and ensures peace of mind.

MARCH.

_Bloodstone_ denotes courage and secrecy in dangerous enterprises.

APRIL.

_Sapphire_, or _Diamond_ denotes repentance and innocence.

MAY.

_Emerald_, successive love.

JUNE.

_Agate_ ensures long life and health.

JULY.

_Ruby_, or _Cornelian_ ensures the forgetfulness or cure of evils springing from friendship or love.

AUGUST.

_Sardonix_ ensures conjugal felicity.

SEPTEMBER.

_Chrysolite_ preserves from, or cures folly.

OCTOBER.

_Aquamarine_, or _Opal_ denotes misfortune and hope.

NOVEMBER.

_Topaz_ ensures fidelity and friendship.

DECEMBER.

_Turquoise_, or _Malakite_ denotes the most brilliant success and happiness in every circumstance of life.

E. M. S.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. VIII.

[From the “Game at Chess,” a Comedy, by Thomas Middleton, 1624.]

_Popish Priest to a great Court Lady, whom he hopes to make a Convert of._

Let me contemplate;
With holy wonder season my access,
And by degrees approach the sanctuary
Of unmatch’d beauty, set in grace and goodness.
Amongst the daughters of men I have not found
A more Catholical aspect. That eye
Doth promise single life, and meek obedience.
Upon those lips (the sweet fresh buds of youth)
The holy dew of prayer lies, like pearl
Dropt from the opening eyelids of the morn
Upon the bashful rose. How beauteously
A gentle fast (not rigorously imposed)
Would look upon that cheek; and how delightful
The courteous physic of a tender penance,
(Whose utmost cruelty should not exceed
The first fear of a bride), to beat down frailty!

* * * * *

[From the “Virgin Widow,” a Comedy, 1649; the only production, in that
kind, of Francis Quarles, Author of the Emblems.]

_Song._

How blest are they that waste their weary hours
In solemn groves and solitary bowers,
Where neither eye nor ear
Can see or hear
The frantic mirth
And false delights of frolic earth;
Where they may sit, and pant,
And breathe their pursy souls;
Where neither grief consumes, nor griping want
Afflicts, nor sullen care controuls.
Away, false joys; ye murther where ye kiss!
There is no heaven to that, no life to this.

* * * * *

[From “Adrasta,” a Tragi-comedy, by John Jones, 1635.]

_Dirge._

Die, die, ah die!
We all must die:
’Tis Fate’s decree;
Then ask not why.
When we were framed, the Fates consultedly
Did make this law, that all things born should die.
Yet Nature strove,
And did deny
We should be slaves
To Destiny.
At which, they heapt
Such misery;
That Nature’s self
Did wish to die:
And thank their goodness, that they would foresee
To end our cares with such a mild decree.

_Another._

Come, Lovers, bring your cares,
Bring sigh-perfumed sweets;
Bedew the grave with tears,
Where Death with Virtue meets.
Sigh for the hapless hour,
That knit two hearts in one;
And only gave Love power
To die, when ’twas begun.

* * * * *

[From “Tancred and Gismund,” acted before the Court by the Gentlemen
of the Inner Temple, 1591.]

_A Messenger brings to Gismund a cup from the King her Father, enclosing the heart of her Lord, whom she had espoused without his sanction._

_Mess._ Thy father, O Queen, here in this cup hath sent
The thing to joy and comfort thee withal,
Which thou lovedst best: ev’n as thou wast content
To comfort him with his best joy of all.
_Gis._ I thank my father, and thee, gentle Squire;
For this thy travail; take thou for thy pains
This bracelet, and commend me to the King.

* * * * *

So, now is come the long-expected hour,
The fatal hour I have so looked for.
Now hath my father satisfied his thirst
With guiltless blood, which he so coveted.
What brings this cup? aye me, I thought no less;
It is my Earl’s, my County’s pierced heart.
Dear heart, too dearly hast thou bought my love.
Extremely rated at too high a price.
Ah my dear heart, sweet wast thou in thy life,
But in thy death thou provest passing sweet.
A fitter hearse than this of beaten gold
Could not be lotted to so good a heart.
My father therefore well provided thus
To close and wrap thee up in massy gold
And therewithal to send thee unto me,
To whom of duty thou dost best belong.
My father hath in all his life bewrayed
A princely care and tender love to me,
But this surpasseth, in his latter days
To send me this mine own dear heart to me.
Wert not thou mine, dear heart, whilst that my love
Danced and play’d upon thy golden strings?
Art thou not mine, dear heart, now that my love
Is fled to heaven, and got him golden wings?
Thou art mine own, and still mine own shall be,
Therefore my father sendeth thee to me.
Ah pleasant harbourer of my heart’s thought!
Ah sweet delight, the quickener of my soul!
Seven times accursed be the hand that wrought
Thee this despite, to mangle thee so foul
Yet in this wound I see my own true love,
And in this wound thy magnanimity,
And in this wound I see thy constancy.
Go, gentle heart, go rest thee in thy tomb;
Receive this token as thy last farewell.
_She kisseth it._
Thy own true heart anon will follow thee,
Which panting hasteth for thy company.
Thus hast thou run, poor heart, thy mortal race,
And rid thy life from fickle fortune’s snares,
Thus hast thou lost this world and worldly cares,
And of thy foe, to honour thee withal,
Receiv’d a golden grave to thy desert.
Nothing doth want to thy just funeral,
But my salt tears to wash thy bloody wound;
Which to the end thou mightst receive, behold,
My father sends thee in this cup of gold:
And thou shalt have them; though I was resolved
To shed no tears; but with a cheerful face
Once did I think to wet thy funeral
Only with blood, and with no weeping eye.
This done, my soul forthwith shall fly to thee;
For therefore did my father send thee me.

Nearly a century after the date of this Drama, Dryden produced his admirable version of the same story from Boccacio. The speech here extracted may be compared with the corresponding passage in the Sigismonda and Guiscardo, with no disadvantage to the elder performance. It is quite as weighty, as pointed, and as passionate.

C. L.

* * * * *

~Necromancy.~

THE DEAN OF BADAJOS.

BY THE ABBE BLANCHET.

The dean of the cathedral of Badajos was more learned than all the doctors of Salamanca, Coimbra, and Alcala, united; he understood all languages, living and dead, and was perfect master of every science divine and human, except that, unfortunately, he had no knowledge of magic. He was inconsolable when he reflected on his ignorance in that sublime art, till he was told that a very able magician resided in the suburbs of Toledo, named don Torribio. He immediately saddled his mule, departed for Toledo, and alighted at the door of no very superb dwelling, the habitation of that great man.

“Most reverend magician,” said he, addressing himself to the sage, “I am the dean of Badajos. The learned men of Spain all allow me to be their superior; but I am come to request from you a much greater honour, that of becoming your pupil. Deign to initiate me in the mysteries of your art, and doubt not but you shall receive a grateful acknowledgment, suitable to the benefit conferred, and your own extraordinary merit.”

Don Torribio was not very polite, though he valued himself on being intimately acquainted with the highest company below. He told the dean he was welcome to seek elsewhere for a master; for that, for his part, he was weary of an occupation which produced nothing but compliments and promises, and that he should but dishonour the occult sciences by prostituting them to the ungrateful.

“To the ungrateful!” exclaimed the dean: “has then the great don Torribio met with persons who have proved ungrateful? And can he so far mistake _me_ as to rank me with such monsters?” He then repeated all the maxims and apophthegms which he had read on the subject of gratitude, and every refined sentiment his memory could furnish. In short, he talked so well, that the conjuror, after having considered a moment, confessed he could refuse nothing to a man of such abilities, and so ready at pertinent quotations.

“Jacintha,” said don Torribio to his old woman, “lay down two partridges to the fire. I hope my friend the dean will do me the honour to sup with me to night.” At the same time he took him by the hand and led him into the cabinet; when here, he touched his forehead, uttering three mysterious words, which the reader will please to remember, “_Ortobolan_, _Pistafrier_, _Onagriouf_.” Then, without further preparation, he began to explain, with all possible perspicuity, the introductory elements of his profound science. The new disciple listened with an attention which scarcely permitted him to breathe; when, on a sudden, Jacintha entered, followed by a little old man in monstrous boots, and covered with mud up to the neck, who desired to speak with the dean on very important business. This was the postilion of his uncle, the bishop of Badajos, who had been sent express after him, and who had galloped without ceasing quite to Toledo, before he could overtake him. He came to bring him information that, some hours after his departure, his grace had been attacked by so violent an apoplexy that the most terrible consequences were to be apprehended. The dean heartily, that is _inwardly_, (so as to occasion no scandal,) execrated the disorder, the patient, and the courier, who had certainly all three chosen the most impertinent time possible. He dismissed the postilion, bidding him make haste back to Badajos, whither he would presently follow him; and instantly returned to his lesson, as if there were no such things as either uncles or apoplexies.

A few days afterwards the dean again received news from Badajos: but this was worth hearing. The principal chanter, and two old canons, came to inform him that his uncle, the right reverend bishop, had been taken to heaven to receive the reward of his piety; and the chapter, canonically assembled, had chosen him to fill the vacant bishopric, and humbly requested he would console, by his presence, the afflicted church of Badajos, now become his spiritual bride.

Don Torribio, who was present at this harangue, endeavoured to derive advantage from what he had learned; and taking aside the new bishop, after having paid him a well-turned compliment on his promotion, proceeded to inform him that he had a son, named Benjamin, possessed of much ingenuity, and good inclination, but in whom he had never perceived either taste or talent for the occult sciences. He had, therefore, he said, advised him to turn his thoughts towards the church, and he had now, he thanked heaven, the satisfaction to hear him commended as one of the most deserving divines among all the clergy of Toledo. He therefore took the liberty, most humbly, to request his grace to bestow on don Benjamin the deanery of Badajos, which he could not retain together with his bishopric.

“I am very unfortunate,” replied the prelate, apparently somewhat embarrassed; “you will, I hope, do me the justice to believe that nothing could give me so great a pleasure as to oblige you in every request; but the truth is, I have a cousin to whom I am heir, an old ecclesiastic, who is good for nothing but to be a dean, and if I do not bestow on him this benefice, I must embroil myself with my family, which would be far from agreeable. But,” continued he, in an affectionate manner, “will you not accompany me to Badajos? Can you be so cruel as to forsake me at a moment when it is in my power to be of service to you? Be persuaded, my honoured master, we will go together. Think of nothing but the improvement of your pupil, and leave me to provide for don Benjamin; nor doubt, but sooner or later, I will do more for him than you expect. A paltry deanery in the remotest part of Estremadura is not a benefice suitable to the son of such a man as yourself.”

The canon law would, no doubt, have construed the prelate’s offer into simony. The proposal however was accepted, nor was any scruple made by either of these two very intelligent persons. Don Torribio followed his illustrious pupil to Badajos, where he had an elegant apartment assigned him in the episcopal palace; and was treated with the utmost respect by the diocese as the favourite of his grace, and a kind of grand vicar. Under the tuition of so able a master the bishop of Badajos made a rapid progress in the occult sciences. At first he gave himself up to them, with an ardour which might appear excessive; but this intemperance grew by degrees more moderate, and he pursued them with so much prudence that his magical studies never interfered with the duties of his diocese. He was well convinced of the truth of a maxim, very important to be remembered by ecclesiastics, whether addicted to sorcery, or only philosophers and admirers of literature--that it is not sufficient to assist at learned nocturnal meetings, or adorn the mind with embellishments of human science, but that it is also the duty of divines to point out to others the way to heaven, and plant in the minds of their hearers, wholesome doctrine and Christian morality. Regulating his conduct by these commendable principles, this learned prelate was celebrated throughout Christendom for his merit and piety: and, “when he least expected such an honour,” was promoted to the archbishopric of Compostella. The people and clergy of Badajos lamented, as may be supposed, an event by which they were deprived of so worthy a pastor; and the canons of the cathedral, to testify their respect, unanimously conferred on him the honour of nominating his successor.

Don Torribio did not neglect so alluring an opportunity to provide for his son. He requested the bishopric of the new archbishop, and was _refused_ with all imaginable politeness. He had, he said, the greatest veneration for his old master, and was both sorry and ashamed it was “not in his power” to grant a thing which appeared so very a trifle, but, in fact, don Ferdinand de Lara, constable of Castile, had asked the bishopric for his natural son; and though he had never seen that nobleman, he had, he said, some secret, important, and what was more, very ancient obligations to him. It was therefore an indispensable duty to prefer an old benefactor to a new one But don Torribio ought not to be discouraged at this proof of his justice; as he might learn by that, what _he_ had to expect when his turn arrived, which should certainly be the first opportunity. This anecdote concerning the ancient obligations of the archbishop, the magician had the goodness to believe, and rejoiced, as much as he was able, that his interests were sacrificed to those of don Ferdinand.

Nothing was now thought of but preparations for their departure to Compostella, where they were to reside. These, however, were scarcely worth the trouble, considering the short time they were destined to remain there; for at the end of a few months one of the pope’s chamberlains arrived, who brought the archbishop a cardinal’s cap, with an epistle conceived in the most respectful terms, in which his holiness invited him to assist, by his counsel, in the government of the Christian world; permitting him at the same time to dispose of his mitre in favour of whom he pleased. Don Torribio was not at Compostella when the courier of the holy father arrived. He had been to see his son, who still continued a priest in a small parish at Toledo. But he presently returned, and was not put to the trouble of asking for the vacant archbishopric. The prelate ran to meet him with open arms, “My dear master,” said he, “I have two pieces of good news to relate at once. Your disciple is created a cardinal, and your son shall--_shortly_--be advanced to the same dignity. I had intended in the mean time to bestow upon him the archbishopric of Compostella, but, unfortunately for him, and for me, my mother, whom we left at Badajos, has, during your absence, written me a cruel letter, by which all my measures have been disconcerted. She will not be pacified unless I appoint for my successor the archdeacon of my former church, don Pablas de Salazar, her intimate friend and confessor. She tells me it will “occasion her death” if she should not be able to obtain preferment for her dear father in God. Shall I be the death of my mother?”

Don Torribio was not a person who could incite or urge his friend to be guilty of parricide, nor did he indulge himself in the least resentment against the mother of the prelate. To say the truth, however, this mother was a good kind of woman, nearly superannuated. She lived quietly with her cat and her maid servant, and scarcely knew the name of her confessor. Was it likely, then, that she had procured don Pablas his archbishopric? Was it not _more_ than probable that he was indebted for it to a Gallician lady, his cousin, at once devout and handsome, in whose company his grace the archbishop had frequently been edified during his residence at Compostella? Be this as it may, don Torribio followed his eminence to Rome. Scarcely had he arrived at that city ere the pope died. The conclave met--all the voices of the sacred college were in favour of the Spanish cardinal. Behold him therefore pope.

Immediately after the ceremony of his exaltation, don Torribio, admitted to a secret audience, wept with joy while he kissed the feet of his dear pupil. He modestly represented his long and faithful services, reminded his holiness of those inviolable promises which he had renewed before he entered the conclave, and instead of demanding the vacant hat for don Benjamin, finished with most exemplary moderation by renouncing every ambitious hope. He and his son, he said, would both esteem themselves too happy if his holiness would bestow on them, together with his benediction, the smallest temporal benefice; such as an annuity for life, sufficient for the few wants of an ecclesiastic and a philosopher.

During this harangue the sovereign pontiff considered within himself how to dispose of his preceptor. He reflected he was no longer necessary; that he already knew as much of magic as was sufficient for a pope. After weighing every circumstance, his holiness concluded that don Torribio was not only an useless, but a _troublesome_ pedant; and this point determined, he replied in the following words:

“We have learned, with concern, that under the pretext of cultivating the occult sciences, you maintain a horrible intercourse with the spirit of darkness and deceit; we therefore exhort you, as a father, to expiate your crime by a repentance proportionable to its enormity. Moreover, we enjoin you to depart from the territories of the church within three days, under penalty of being delivered over to the secular arm, and its merciless flames.”

Don Torribio, without being alarmed, immediately repeated the three mysterious words which the reader was desired to remember; and going to a window, cried out with all his force, “Jacintha, you need spit but one partridge; for my friend, the dean, will _not_ sup here to-night.”

This was a thunderbolt to the imaginary pope. He immediately recovered from the trance, into which he had been thrown by the three mysterious words. He perceived that, instead of being in the vatican, he was still at Toledo, in the closet of don Torribio; and he saw, by the clock, it was not a complete hour since he entered that fatal cabinet, where he had been entertained by such pleasant dreams.

In that short time the dean of Badajos had imagined himself a magician, a bishop, a cardinal, and a pope; and he found at last that he was only a dupe and a knave. All was illusion, except the proofs he had given of his deceitful and evil heart. He instantly departed, without speaking a single word, and finding his mule where he had left her, returned to Badajos.

* * * * *

~Phrenology.~

_For the Table Book._

“You look but on the _outside_ of affairs.”

KING JOHN.

Oh! why do we wake from the alchymist’s dream
To relapse to the visions of Doctor Spurzheim?
And why from the heights of philosophy fall,
For the profitless plans of Phrenology Gall?
To what do they tend?
What interest befriend?
By disclosing all vices, we burn away shame,
And virtuous endeavour
Is fruitless for ever,
If it lose the reward that self-teaching may claim.

On their skulls let the cold-blooded theorists seek
Indications of soul, which we read on the cheek;
In the glance--in the smile--in the bend of the brow
We dare not tell when, and we cannot tell how.
More pleasing our task,
No precepts we ask;
’Tis the tact, ’tis the instinct, kind Nature has lent,
For the guide and direction of sympathy meant.
And altho’ in our cause no learn’d lecturer proses,
We reach the same end, thro’ a path strew’d with roses.
’Twixt the head and the hand, be the contact allow’d,
Of the road thro’ the eye to the heart we are proud.
When we feel like the brutes, like the brutes we may show it,
But no lumps on the head mark the artist or poet.
The gradations of genius you never can find,
Since no matter can mark the refinements of mind.
’Tis the coarser perceptions alone that you trace,
But what swells in the heart must be read in the face.
That index of feeling, that key to the soul,
No art can disguise, no reserve can control.
’Tis the Pharos of love, tost on oceans of doubt,
’Tis the Beal-fire of rage--when good sense _puts about_.
As the passions may paint it--a heaven or a hell.
And ’tis always a _study_--not _model_ as well.

* * * * *

TO THE RHONE

_For the Table Book._

Thou art like our existence, and thy waves,
Illustrious river! seem the very type
Of those events which drive us to our graves,
Or rudely place us in misfortune’s gripe!
Thou art an emblem of our changeful state,
Smooth when the summer magnifies thy charms.
But rough and cheerless when the winds create
Rebellion, and remorseless winter arms
The elements with ruin! In thy course
The ups and downs of fortune we may trace--
One wave submitting to another’s force,
The boldest always foremost in the race:
And thus it is with life--sometimes its calm
Is pregnant with enjoyment’s sweetest balm;
At other times, its tempests drive us down
The steep of desolation, while the frown
Of malice haunts us, till the friendlier tomb
Protects the victim she would fain consume!

B. W. R.

_Upper Park Terrace._

* * * * *

ADVICE.

Would a man wish to offend his friends?--let him give them advice.

Would a lover know the surest method by which to lose his mistress?--let him give her advice.

Would a courtier terminate his sovereign’s partiality?--let him offer advice.

In short, are we desirous to be universally hated, avoided, and despised, the means are always in our power.--We have but _to advise_, and the consequences are infallible.

The friendship of two young ladies though apparently founded on the rock of eternal attachment, terminated in the following manner: “My dearest girl, I do not think your figure well suited for dancing; and, as a sincere friend of yours, I _advise_ you to refrain from it in future.” The other naturally affected by such a _mark_ of sincerity, replied, “I feel very much obliged to you, my dear, for your _advice_; this proof of your friendship demands some return: I would sincerely recommend you to relinquish your singing, as some of your upper notes resemble the melodious squeaking of the feline race.”

The _advice_ of neither was followed--the one continued to sing, and the other to dance--and they never met but as enemies.

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

Tommy Sly, whose portrait is above, is a well-known eccentric character in the city of Durham, where he has been a resident in the poor-house for a number of years. We know not whether his parents were rich or poor, where he was born, or how he spent his early years--all is alike “a mystery;” and all that can be said of him is, that he is “daft.” Exactly in appearance as he is represented in the engraving,--he dresses in a coat of many colours, attends the neighbouring villages with spice, sometimes parades the streets of Durham with “pipe-clay for the lasses,” and on “gala days” wanders up and down with a cockade in his hat, beating the city drum, which is good-naturedly lent him by the corporation. Tommy, as worthless and insignificant as he seems, is nevertheless “put out to use:” his name has often served as a signature to satirical effusions; and at election times he has been occasionally employed by the Whigs to take the distinguished lead of some grand Tory procession, and thereby render it ridiculous; and by way of retaliation, he has been hired by the Tories to do the same kind office for the Whigs. He is easily bought or sold, for he will do any thing for a few halfpence. To sum up Tommy’s character, we may say with truth, that he is a harmless and inoffensive man; and if the reader of this brief sketch should ever happen to be in Durham, and have a few halfpence to spare, he cannot bestow his charity better than by giving it to the “Custos Rotulorum” of the place--as Mr. Humble once ludicrously called him--poor TOMMY SLY.

EX DUNELMENSIS.

* * * * *

~Topography.~

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

BURIAL FEES.

The following particulars from a paper before me, in the hand-writing of Mr. Gell, were addressed to his “personal representative” for instruction, in his absence, during a temporary retirement from official duty in August, 1810.

FEES

In the _Cloisters_ £19 6 0

If a grave-stone _more_ £4 4 0

In the _Abbey_ 54 18 0

If a grave-stone _more_ 7 7 0

_Peers_, both in the Cloisters and Abbey, the degree of
rank making a difference, Mr. Catling had perhaps write to
Mr. Gell, at post-office, Brighton, telling the party that
it will be under £150. They might, therefore, leave that
sum, or engage to pay Mr. Gell.

Mr. Glanvill can tell about the decorations.

Penalty for burying in linen 2 10 0

Always take full particulars of age and death.

* * * * *

The abbey-church of Westminster may be safely pronounced the most interesting ecclesiastical structure in this kingdom. Considered as a building, its architecture, rich in the varieties of successive ages, and marked by some of the most prominent beauties and peculiarities of the pointed style, affords an extensive field of gratification to the artist and the antiquary. Rising in solemn magnificence amidst the palaces and dignified structures connected with the seat of imperial government, it forms a distinguishing feature in the metropolis of England. Its history, as connected with a great monastic establishment, immediately under the notice of our ancient monarchs, and much favoured by their patronage, abounds in important and curious particulars.

But this edifice has still a stronger claim to notice--it has been adopted as a national structure, and held forward as an object of national pride. Whilst contemplating these venerable walls, or exploring the long aisles and enriched chapels, the interest is not confined to the customary recollections of sacerdotal pomp: ceremonies of more impressive interest, and of the greatest public importance, claim a priority of attention. The grandeur of architectural display in this building is viewed with additional reverence, when we remember that the same magnificence of effect has imparted increased solemnity to the coronation of our kings, from the era of the Norman conquest.

At a very early period, this abbey-church was selected as a place of burial for the English monarchs; and the antiquary and the student of history view their monuments as melancholy, but most estimable sources of intelligence and delight. In the vicinity of the ashes of royalty, a grateful and judicious nation has placed the remains of such of her sons as have been most eminent for patriotic worth, for valour, or for talent; and sculptors, almost from the earliest period in which their art was exercised by natives of England, down to the present time, have here exerted their best efforts, in commemoration of those thus celebrated for virtue, for energy, or for intellectual power.[82]

[82] Mr. Brayley; in Neale’s Hist. and Antiq. of Westminster Abbey.

* * * * *

~St. David’s Day.~

THE LEEK.

_Written by_ WILLIAM LEATHART, _Llywydd_.

Sung at the Second Anniversary of the Society of UNDEB CYMRY, St.
David’s Day, 1825.

AIR--_Pen Rhaw_.

I.

If bards tell true, and hist’ry’s page
Is right,--why, then, I would engage
To tell you all about the age,
When Cæsar used to speak;
When dandy Britons painted,--were
Dress’d in the skin of wolf or bear,
Or in their own, if none were there,
Before they wore THE LEEK.
Ere Alfred hung in the highway,
His chains of gold by night or day;
And never had them stol’n away,
His subjects were so meek.
When wolves they danc’d o’er field and fen;
When austere _Druids_ roasted men;--
But that was only now and then,
Ere Welshmen wore THE LEEK.

II.

Like all good things--this could not last,
And _Saxon_ gents, as friends, were ask’d,
Our Pictish foes to drive them past
The wall:--then home to seek,
Instead of home, the cunning chaps
Resolv’d to stop and dish the APs,
Now here they are, and in their caps
To day they wear THE LEEK.
Yet tho’ our dads, they tumbled out,
And put each other to the rout,
We sons will push the bowl about;--
We’re here for fun or freak.
Let nought but joy within us dwell;
Let mirth and glee each bosom swell;
And bards, in days to come, shall tell,
How Welshmen love THE LEEK.

* * * * *

THE WELSH HARP.

Mr. Leathart is the author of “_Welsh Pennillion_, with Translations into English, adapted for _singing to the Harp_,” an eighteenpenny pocket-book of words of ancient and modern melodies in Welsh and English, with a spirited motto from Mr. Leigh Hunt.--“The Ancient Britons had in them the seeds of a great nation even in our modern sense of the word. They had courage, they had reflection, they had imagination. Power at last made a vassal of their prince. There were writers in those times, harpers, and bards, who made the instinct of that brute faculty turn cruel out of fear. They bequeathed to their countrymen the glory of their memories; they and time together have consecrated their native hills, so as they never before were consecrated.”

According to the prefatory dissertation of Mr. Leathart’s pleasant little manual, “Pennillion singing” is the most social relic of ancient minstrelsy in existence. It originated when bardism nourished in this island; when the object of its members was to instil moral maxims through the medium of poetry, and the harp was then, as it still is, the instrument to which they chanted. There is evidence of this use of the harp in Cæsar and other Latin writers. The bards were priest and poet; the harp was their inseparable attribute, and skill in playing on it an indispensable qualification. A knowledge of this instrument was necessary, in order to establish a claim to the title of gentleman; it occupied a place in every mansion; and every harper was entitled to valuable privileges. A “Pencerdd,” or chief of song, and a “Bardd Teulu,” or domestic bard, were among the necessary appendages to the king’s court. The former held his lands free, was stationed by the side of the “judge of the palace,” and lodged with the heir presumptive. He was entitled to a fee on the tuition of all minstrels, and to a maiden fee on the marriage of a minstrel’s daughter. The fine for insulting him was six cows and eighty pence. The domestic bard also held his land free; he had a harp from the king, which he was enjoined never to part with; a gold ring from the queen, and a beast out of every spoil. In the palace he sang immediately after the chief of song, and in fight at the front of the battle. It is still customary for our kings to maintain a Welsh minstrel.

One of the greatest encouragers of music was Gruffydd ap Cynan, a sovereign of Wales, who, in the year 1100, summoned a grand congress to revise the laws of minstrelsy, and remedy any abuse that might have crept in. In order that it should be complete, the most celebrated harpers in Ireland were invited to assist, and the result was the establishing the twenty-four canons of music; the MS. of which is in the library of the Welsh school, in Gray’s Inn-lane. It comprises several tunes not now extant, or rather that cannot be properly deciphered, and a few that are well known at the present day. A tune is likewise there to be found, which a note informs us was usually played before king Arthur, when the salt was laid upon the table; it is called “Gosteg yr Halen,” or the _Prelude of the Salt_.

The regulations laid down in the above MS. are curious. A minstrel having entered a place of festivity was not allowed to depart without leave, or to rove about at any time, under the penalty of losing his fees. If he became intoxicated and committed any mischievous trick, he was fined, imprisoned, and divested of his fees for seven years. Only one could attend a person worth ten pounds per annum, or two a person worth twenty pounds per annum, and so forth. It likewise ordains the quantum of musical knowledge necessary for the taking up of the different degrees, for the obtaining of which three years seems to have been allowed.

The Welsh harp, or “Telyn,” consists of three distinct rows of strings, without pedals, and was, till the fifteenth century, strung with hair. The modern Welsh harp has two rows of strings and pedals.

Giraldus Cambrensis, in his Itinerary, speaking of the musical instruments of the Welsh, Irish, and Scotch, says, Wales uses the harp, “crwth,” and bag-pipes; Scotland the harp, “crwth,” and drum; Ireland the harp and drum only; and, of all, Wales only retains her own.

The “crwth” is upon the same principle as the violin; it has however six strings, four of which are played upon with a bow, the two outer being struck by the thumb as an accompaniment, or bass; its tone is a mellow tenor, but it is now seldom heard, the last celebrated player having died about forty years since, and with him, says the editor of the Cambrian Register, “most probably the true knowledge of producing its melodious powers.” From the player of this instrument is derived a name now common, viz. “Crowther” and “Crowder” (Crwthyr); it may be translated “fiddler,” and in this sense it is used by Butler in his Hudibras.

Within the last few years, the harp has undergone a variety of improvements, and it is now the most fashionable instrument; yet in Wales it retains its ancient form and triple strings; “it has its imperfections,” observes Mr. Parry, “yet it possesses one advantage, and that is its unisons,” which of course are lost when reduced to a single row.

There would be much persuasion necessary to induce “Cymru” to relinquish her old fashioned “Telyn,” so reluctant are a national people to admit of changes. When the violin superseded the “crwth,” they could not enjoy the improvement.

Pennillion chanting consists in singing stanzas, either attached or detached, of various lengths and metre, to any tune which the harper may play; for it is irregular, and in fact not allowable, for any particular one to be chosen. Two, three, or four bars having been played, the singer takes it up, and this is done according as the Pennill, or stanza, may suit; he must end precisely with the strain, he therefore commences in any part he may please. To the stranger it has the appearance of beginning in the middle of a line or verse, but this is not the case. Different tunes require a different number of verses to complete it; sometimes only one, sometimes four or six. It is then taken up by the next, and thus it proceeds through as many as choose to join in the pastime, twice round, and ending with the person that began.

These convivial harp meetings are generally conducted with great regularity, and are really social; all sing if they please, or all are silent. To some tunes there are a great number of singers, according to the ingenuity required in adapting Pennillion. Yet even this custom is on the decline.

In South Wales, the custom has been long lost; on its demise they encouraged song writing and singing, and they are still accounted the best (without the harp) in the principality. In North Wales song-singing was hardly known before the time of Huw Morus, in the reign of Charles I., nor is it now so prevalent as in the south.

In the year 1176, Rhys ap Gruffydd held a congress of bards and minstrels at Aberteifi, in which the North Welsh bards came off as victors in the poetical contest, and the South Welsh were adjudged to excel in the powers of harmony.

For the encouragement of the harp and Pennillion chanting, a number of institutions have lately been formed, and the liberal spirit with which they are conducted will do much towards the object; among the principal are the “Cymmrodorion,” or Cambrian Societies of Gwynedd, Powys, Dyfed, Gwent, and London; the “Gwyneddigion,” and “Canorion,” also in London. The former established so long since as 1771, and the “Undeb Cymry,” or United Welshmen, established in 1823, for the same purpose. In all the principal towns of Wales, societies having the same object in view have been formed, among which the “Brecon Minstrelsy Society” is particularly deserving of notice. The harp and Pennillion singing have at all times come in for their share of encomium by the poets, and are still the theme of many a sonnet in both languages.

From more than a hundred pieces in Mr. Leathart’s “Pennillion,” translations of a few pennills, or stanzas, are taken at random, as specimens of the prevailing sentiments.

The man who loves the sound of harp,
Of song, and ode, and all that’s dear,
Where angels hold their blest abode,
Will cherish all that’s cherish’d there.
But he who loves not tune nor strain,
Nature to him no love has given,
You’ll see him while his days remain,
Hateful both to earth and heaven.

* * * * *

Fair is yon harp, and sweet the song,
That strays its tuneful strings along,
And would not such a minstrel too,
This heart to sweetest music woo?
Sweet is the bird’s melodious lay
In summer morn upon the spray.
But from my Gweno sweeter far,
The notes of friendship after war.

* * * * *

Woe to him, whose every bliss
Centers in the burthen’d bowl;
Of all burthens none like this,
Sin’s sad burthen on the soul;
Tis of craft and lies the seeker,
Murder, theft, and wantonness,
Weakens strong men, makes weak weaker,
Shrewd men foolish, foolish--less.

* * * * *

Ah! what avails this golden coat,
Or all the warblings of my throat,
While I in durance pine?
Give me again what nature gave,
’Tis all I ask, ’tis all I crave,
Thee, Liberty divine!

* * * * *

To love his language in its pride,
To love his land--tho’ all deride,
Is a Welshman’s ev’ry care,
And love those customs, good and old,
Practised by our fathers bold.

* * * * *

We travel, and each town we pass
Gives manners new, which we admire,
We leave them, then o’er ocean toss’d
Thro’ rough or smooth, to pleasure nigher,
Still one thought remains behind,
’Tis home, sweet home, our hearts desire.

* * * * *

Wild in the woodlands, blithe and free,
Dear to the bird is liberty;
Dear to the babe to be caress’d,
And fondled on his nurse’s breast,
Oh! could I but explain to thee
How dear is Merion’s land to me.

* * * * *

Low, ye hills, in ocean lie.
That hide fair Merion from mine eye,
One distant view, oh! let me take,
Ere my longing heart shall break.

* * * * *

Another dress will nature wear
Before again I see my fair;
The smiling fields will flowers bring,
And on the trees the birds will sing;
But still one thing unchang’d shall be,
That is, dear love, my heart for thee.

The original Welsh of these and other translations, with several interesting particulars, especially the places of weekly harp-meetings and Pennillion-singing in London, may be found in Mr. Leathart’s agreeable compendium.

* * * * *

THE WINTER’S MORN.

Artist unseen! that dipt in frozen dew
Hast on the glittering glass thy pencil laid,
Ere from yon sun the transient visions fade,
Swift let me trace the forms thy fancy drew!
Thy towers and palaces of diamond hue,
Rivers and lakes of lucid crystal made,
And hung in air hoar trees of branching shade,
That liquid pearl distil:--thy scenes renew,
Whate’er old bards, or later fictions feign,
Of secret grottos underneath the wave,
Where nereids roof with spar the amber cave,
Or bowers of bliss, where sport the fairy train,
Who frequent by the moonlight wanderer seen
Circle with radiant gems the dewy green.

SOTHEBY.

* * * * *

~Characters.~

MRS. AURELIA SPARR.

_For the Table Book._

Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is a maiden lady, rather past fifty, but fresh and handsome for her age: she has a strong understanding, a retentive memory, a vast deal of acquired knowledge, and with all she is the most disagreeable woman breathing. At first she is amusing enough to spend an evening with, for she will tell you anecdotes of all your acquaintance, and season them with a degree of pleasantry, which is not wit, though something like it. But as a jest-book is the most tiresome reading in the world, so is a narrative companion the most wearisome society. What, in short, is conversation worth, if it be not an emanation from the heart as well as head; the result of sympathy and the aliment of esteem?

Mrs. Aurelia Sparr never sympathized with any body in her life: inexorable to weaknesses of every kind, more especially to those of a tender nature, she is for ever taxing enthusiasm with absurdity, and resolving the ebullition of vivacity into vanity, and the desire to show off. She is equally severe to timidity, which she for ever confounds with imbecility. We are told, that “Gentle dulness ever loved a joke.” Now Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is neither gentle nor dull; it would be a mercy to her hearers if she were either, or both: nevertheless, she chuckles with abundant glee over a good story, is by no means particular as to the admission of unpleasant images and likes it none the worse for being a little gross. But woe to the unlucky wight who ventures any glowing allusion to love and passionate affection in her hearing! Down come the fulminations of her wrath, and indecency--immorality--sensuality--&c. &c. &c.--are among the mildest of the epithets, or, to keep up the metaphor, (a metaphor, like an actor, should always come in more than once,) the _bolts_ which the tempest of her displeasure hurls down upon its victim. The story of Paul and Virginia she looks upon as very improper, while the remembrance of some of the letters in Humphrey Clinker dimples her broad face with retrospective enjoyment.