Chapter I: A - P || D - R - E (3)

_July 16._ Went from Linton over the moors to _Clapham_; passed through Skirethorns, over Skirethorns moor, by Malham Water, by the side of Pennygent, through Great and Little Stainforth, over ---- moor,[338] through Wharfe and Austwick. Malham Water is a beautiful lake, well worthy of the traveller’s notice; it is supposed to be the source of the river Aire, which springs in the neighbourhood. About a mile from it is the famous chasm Gordale. (Vide Gray’s Journal.) From ---- moor,[339] above the village of Little Stainforth, is a sublime view of mountain scenery, in which Pennygent is a principal object. No traveller should pass through Little Stainforth without seeing the waterfall below the bridge. There is a finer one in the neighbourhood, but I was ignorant of it when I passed through the village. From the waterfall the bridge appears to great advantage; the arch has a fine span. There are, I was told, some curious caves in this part. N.B. This day’s journey taught me that the information of the peasantry with respect to distances is not to be depended upon: at Little Stainforth I was informed it was three miles to Clapham; six would have been nearer the mark.

_July 17, 18. Kirby Lonsdale._ This town is on the banks of the Lune, which here winds through a finely wooded valley. It has an elegant old bridge. In one of the battlements is a stone, resembling a Roman altar, with this inscription--FEARE GOD, HONORE TE KINGE, 1683. Why and when placed there I know not. Drunken Barnaby’s “_Aulam factam in tabernam_,” may be seen in the main street: it is still used as an inn. The church is a handsome structure; near the altar rails I observed the table of consanguinity placed.[340] At the west end is a fine Norman doorway, a considerable sufferer by “beautifying.” In the church-yard, on a neat pyramidal tombstone, is the following melancholy inscription:--

_Eastern side._

SACRED
to the Memory of

ALICE CLARK,
Aged 31 years;

AGNES WALLING,
Aged 25;

BELLA CORNTHWAITE,
Aged 20;

HANNAH ARMSTRONG,
Aged 18;

AGNES NICHOLSON,
Aged 17:

All of whom were hurried into eternity by the awful
conflagration by fire of the Rose and Crown Hotel, in
this town, on the night of the 6 December, 1820.

_Western side._

In the midst of life we are in Death.

Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the
earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting thou art, O
God!

Thou turnest man to destruction, and sayest, Return, ye children of
men.

Thou carriest them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep: in the
morning they are like grass which springeth up.

In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up: in the evening it is cut
down and withered.

Erected by voluntary contributions.

All the sufferers in this dreadful conflagration seem to have been _young_. “Whom the Gods love die young,” I think is said by one of the Grecian poets.

A walk, extending from the north gate of the church-yard along the banks of the Lune, affords a delightful prospect of the county, with several gentlemen’s seats. N.B. The Rev. Mr. Hunt, the author of an elegant version of Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered, was once curate here. I believe the well-known Carus Wilson is the officiating minister at present.

18th, _Evening_--At _Kendal_. At Cowbrow half way between Kirby Lonsdale and this place, is the following stanza, beneath a sign representing a ploughboy:--

The weather’s fair, the season’s now,
Drive on my boys, God speed the plough;
All you my friends pray call and see
What jolly _boys_ we plough_men_ be.

Had this “poetry” been in the neighbourhood of Durham, I should have suspected it to have been written either by the late Baron Brown, or Vet. Doc. Marshall, though I do not think the doctor would have made such a bull as runs in the last line.

19. Left Kendal for _Bowness_. Arrived there in the evening, and took up my quarters at the posting-house at the entrance of the village. From the front windows of the inn is a good view of Windermere. At the time of my arrival it was invisible; both lake and village were enveloped in a thick mist. About eight o’clock the mist dispersed, the sky grew clear, and Windermere was seen in all its beauty. This is the largest of the English lakes; and, according to Mr. Athey’s Guide, is ten miles in length. The hills around it are delightfully wooded, but the scenery is tame when compared with that of the more northern lakes. Bell’s Island is now called Curwen’s Island, from its being the country residence of Mr. Curwen: it is the largest of the numerous islands on Windermere. In Bowness church-yard is a tomb to the memory of Rassellas Belfield, an Abyssinian. Near Troutbeck bridge, in the neighbourhood, is the seat of the laureate of the Palmy isle. In the midst of the village is a tree on which notices of sales are posted. Bowness is to the inhabitants of Kendal what Hornsey is to the cocknies, and during the summer months gipsying excursions are very frequent. On the evening that I arrived some Oxonians were “astonishing the natives:” they seemed to think that, as they were from college, they had a right to give themselves airs. The inhabitants appeared to regard them with mingled looks of pity and derision.

_July 20._ Left Bowness for _Grassmere_, through _Ambleside_ and _Rydal_. At the last place I turned aside to see Rydal Mount, the residence of the celebrated poet, Wordsworth. While proceeding to his cottage, an old woman popped out her head from the window of a rude hut, and asked me if I should like to see the waterfall: I entered her dwelling, where a good fire of sticks and turf was burning on the hearth; and, from the conversation of the dame, I gleaned that she was a dependant on the bounty of Lady le Fleming, in whose grounds the waterfall was: she at length conducted me to it. This waterfall is certainly a fine one, but as seen through the window of a summer-house it has rather a cockney appearance. Rydal Hall is a huge uncouth building; the beautifiers have made the old mansion look like a factory: when I first saw it from the road I mistook it for one. N.B. For seeing the waterfall, the price is “what you choose!”

I now proceeded to Rydal Mount, which, from the trees surrounding it, can hardly be seen from the road: the approach is shaded by beautiful laurels--proper trees for the residence of Wordsworth! While reconnoitring I was caught in a heavy thunder-shower, and should have been drenched, had not a pretty servant girl invited me into the kitchen, where I sat for at least an hour. On the dresser, in a large wicker cage, were two turtledoves; these, I learnt, were great favourites, or rather _pets_, (that was the word,) with the bard. The shower having ceased, I obtained Mrs. Wordsworth’s leave to walk through the garden: from the mount in it I gained an excellent view of the front part of the house. I had scarcely reached the village of Rydal when another shower drove me into a cottage, from the door of which I had my first view of the author of the Lyrical Ballads: he is rather tall, apparently about fifty years of age; he was dressed in a hair cap, plaid coat, and white trowsers. It was gratifying to hear how the Rydal peasantry spoke of this good man. One said he was kind to the poor; another, that he was very religious; another, that he had no pride, and would speak to any body: all were loud in his praise.

At _Rydal_ is a neat gothic church, lately erected at the sole cost of Lady le Fleming. I have not seen any new church that pleased me so much as this; the east end is finely conceived, and both the exterior and interior reflect the highest credit on the taste and talent of the artist, Mr. Webster of Kendal. I wished Mr. Hone had seen it with me, for I know he would have been delighted with it. The church tower forms a pretty object from many parts of the neighbourhood. Rydal lake is small, but very romantic. On some of the surrounding hills I observed those rude erections of loose stones which the country boys are in the habit of building, and which they call _men_. Wordsworth alludes to these men in his Lyrical Ballads:--

To the top of high[341] ---- they chanc’d to climb,
And there did they build, without mortar or lime,
A _man_ on the top of the crag.

A few of these “men” being provided with arms, resemble crosses, and transport the imagination of the beholder to catholic countries. The “Opium Eater” resides in this part; I saw him; his name is De Q----.

_July 21. Grassmere._ Arrived here at nine in the morning, and took up my quarters at Jonathan Bell’s, the Grassmere inn. This is a most lovely village. The poem of the “City of the Plague,” in which its lake and church are so exquisitely described, conveys but a faint idea of its beauties--even my favourite, Wilson, has failed in delineating this fairy spot. On entering, the first object that struck me was the church and its cemetery.

There is a little church-yard on the side
Of a low hill that hangs o’er Grassmere lake.
Most beautiful it is! a vernal spot
Enclos’d with wooded rocks, where a few graves
Lie shelter’d, sleeping in eternal calm--
Go thither when you will, and that sweet spot
Is bright with sunshine.

Death put on
The countenance of an angel, in the spot
Which he had sanctified----

_City of the Plague._

I found the description correct, with the exception of the sunshine passage; for when I entered the church-yard not a sun ray smiled on the graves; but, on the contrary, gloomy clouds were frowning above. The church door was open, and I discovered that the villagers were strewing the floors with fresh rushes. I learnt from the old clerk, that, according to annual custom, the rush-bearing procession would be in the evening. I asked the clerk if there were any dissenters in the neighbourhood; he said, no, not nearer than Keswick, where there were some that called themselves Presbyterians; but he did not know what they were, he believed them to be a kind of _papishes_.[342] During the whole of this day I observed the children busily employed in preparing garlands of such wild flowers as the beautiful valley produces, for the evening procession, which commenced at nine, in the following order:--The children (chiefly girls) holding these garlands, paraded through the village, preceded by the _Union_ band, (thanks to the great drum for this information;) they then entered the church, where the three largest garlands were placed on the altar, and the remaining ones in various other parts of the place. (By the by, the beautifiers have placed an ugly window above the altar, of the nondescript order of architecture.) In the procession I observed the “Opium Eater,” Mr. Barber, an opulent gentleman residing in the neighbourhood, Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Wordsworth, and Miss Dora Wordsworth. Wordsworth is the chief supporter of these rustic ceremonies. The procession over, the party adjourned to the ball-room, a hayloft, at my worthy friend, Mr. Bell’s, where the country lads and lasses tripped it merrily and _heavily_. They called the amusement _dancing_, but I called it _thumping_; for he who could make the greatest noise seemed to be esteemed the best dancer; and, on the present occasion, I think Mr. Pooley, the schoolmaster, bore away the palm. Billy Dawson, the fiddler, boasted to me of having been the officiating minstrel at this ceremony for the last six and forty years. He made grievous complaints of the outlandish tunes which the “Union band chaps” introduce: in the procession of this evening they annoyed Billy by playing the “Hunters’ Chorus in Friskits.” “Who,” said Billy, “can keep time with such a queer thing?” Amongst the gentlemen dancers was one Dan Burkitt; he introduced himself to me, by seizing my coat collar in a mode that would have given a Burlington Arcade lounger the hysterics, and saying, “---- I’m old Dan Burkitt, of Wytheburn, sixty-six years old--not a better jigger in Westmoreland.” No, thought I, nor a greater tosspot. On my relating this to an old man present, he told me not to judge of Westmoreland manners by Dan’s; “for,” said he, “you see, sir, he is a _statesman_, and has been at Lunnon, and so takes liberties.” In Westmoreland, farmers residing on their own estate are called “statesmen.” The dance was kept up till a quarter to twelve, when a livery-servant entered, and delivered the following verbal message to Billy--“Master’s respects, and will thank you to lend him the fiddlestick.” Billy took the hint; the sabbath morn was at hand, and the pastor of the parish had adopted this gentle mode of apprizing the assembled revellers that they ought to cease their revelry. The servant departed with the fiddlestick, the chandelier was removed, and when the village clock struck twelve not an individual was to be seen out of doors in the village. No disturbance of any kind interrupted the dance: Dan Burkitt was the only person at all “how came you so?” and he was “non se ipse” before the jollity commenced. He told me he was “seldom sober;” and I believed what he said. The rush-bearing is now, I believe, almost entirely confined to Westmoreland. It was once customary in Craven, as appears from the following extract from Dr. Whitaker:--“Among the seasons of periodical festivity, was the rush-bearing, or the ceremony of conveying fresh rushes to strew the floor of the parish church. This method of covering floors was universal in _houses_ while floors were of earth, but is now confined to places of worship: the bundles of the girls were adorned with wreaths of flowers, and _the evening concluded with a dance_. In Craven the custom has wholly ceased.”

In Westmoreland the custom has undergone a change. Billy remembered when the lasses bore the rushes in the evening procession, and strewed the church floor at the same time that they decorated the church with garlands; now, the rushes are laid in the morning by the ringer and clerk, and no rushes are introduced in the evening procession. I do not like old customs to change; for, like mortals, they change before they die altogether.

The interest of the scene at Grassmere was heightened to me, by my discovering that the dancing-room of the rush-bearers was the ball-room of Mr. Wilson’s children’s dance. The dancing-master described so exquisitely in his poem is John Carradus. From an old inhabitant of Grassmere I had the following anecdotes of the now professor of moral philosophy. He was once a private in the Kendal local militia; he might have been a captain, but not having sufficient knowledge of military tactics, he declined the honour.

Wilson, while in the militia, was billeted at one of the Kendal inns, where a brother private was boasting of his skill in leaping, and stated, that he never met with his equal. Wilson betted a guinea that he would outleap him; the wager was accepted, and the poet came off victorious, having leaped seven yards; his bragging antagonist leaped only five. Mr. Wilson appears to have been celebrated in Westmoreland for these things; being a good climber of trees, an excellent swimmer, and a first-rate leaper.

The poet had a curious fancy in wearing his hair in long curls, which flowed about his neck. His sergeant noticed these curls, and remarked, that in the militia they wanted men and not puppies; requesting, at the same time, that he would wear his hair like other Christians. The request of the sergeant was complied with, and the poet’s head was soon deprived of its tresses. On a friend blaming him for submitting to the orders of a militia sergeant, he coolly said, “I have acted correctly; it is the duty of an inferior soldier to submit to a superior.”

While in the militia, Wilson opposed himself to seven beggars, or trampers, of “Younghusband’s gang,” who were insulting a poor man. In this fray the bard got two black eyes; “but,” added the narrator, “no matter--he got ’em in a good cause.”

_July 22, Sunday._ Attended church. After service sketched the font, which appeared to be of great antiquity. Near the altar is the following inscription on a beautiful marble monument, designed and executed by Webster of Kendal: the poetry is by Wordsworth.

IN THE BURIAL GROUND

Of this church are deposited the remains of JEMIMA ANN DEBORAH, second
Daughter of Sir EGERTON BRYDGES, of Denton Court, Kent, Bart. She
departed this life, at the Ivy Cottage, Rydal, May 25, 1822, Aged 28
years. This memorial is erected by her husband, EDWARD QUILLINAN.

These vales were saddened with no common gloom
When good Jemima perished in her bloom;
When, such the awful will of Heaven, she died
By flames breathed on her from her own fire-side.
On earth we dimly see, and but in part
We know, yet faith sustains the sorrowing heart:
And she the pure, the patient, and the meek,
Might have fit epitaph could feelings speak:
If words could tell, and monuments record,
How treasures lost are inwardly deplored,
No name by grief’s fond eloquence adorned,
More than Jemima’s would be praised and mourned
The tender virtues of her blameless life,
Bright in the daughter, brighter in the wife;
And in the cheerful mother brightest shone--
That light hath past away--the will of God be done.

From the church-yard I transcribed the following inscriptions:--

HERE LIETH

The body of THOMAS, the son of WILLIAM and MARY WORDSWORTH. He died
on the 1st of December, A. D. 1812.

Six months to six years added, he remained
Upon this sinful earth by sin unstained.
O blessed Lord, whose mercy then removed
A child whom every eye that looked on loved,
Support us, teach us calmly to resign
What we possessed, and now is wholly thine.

* * * * *

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

WILLIAM GREEN, the last 23 years of whose life were passed in the
neighbourhood, where, by his skill and industry as an artist, he
produced faithful representations of the county, and lasting memorials
of its more perishable features.

He was born at Manchester,
And died at Ambleside,
On the 29 Day of April, 1823, in the 63 year of
his age, deeply lamented by a numerous family,
and universally respected.

HIS AFFLICTED WIDOW
Caused this stone to be erected.

Green was a surprising man, and his sketches of mountain scenes are correctly executed, though I never liked his manner of drawing; and in his colouring there is something glaring and unnatural. But the fame of Green does not rest on his abilities as an artist. As the historian of the English maintains, his descriptive talents were of the first order. His entertaining and invaluable “Guide” will be perused by posterity with increased admiration. There is a charm about it which I have not found in any other of the numerous publications of a similar nature. I have been informed, however, that notwithstanding its excellence its sale was limited, and the author was out of pocket by it.

_July 23._ Ascended _Silvertop_ or _Silverhow_, a hill at Grassmere. It is not very high, but from its unevenness it is not easy to reach the summit. The view from it is rather extensive, considering its very moderate height. When I ascended there was a considerable mist, yet I could distinguish Windermere, Rydal lake and church, and the surrounding objects. To day I leave Grassmere; I do it with regret, but with hopes of once more visiting it, and seeing Jonathan Bell again. He is one of the pleasantest fellows I ever met with, and I shall recommend the Grassmere inn to all my friends who may visit the lakes.

_July 24._ Walked to _Keswick_. The road from Grassmere is so well described in Mr. Otley’s small guide, (which has been of the greatest use to me,) that it would be only a waste of time and paper to particularize its numerous interesting objects. The road passes by Thulmere, or _contracted_ Lake, (so called from its sudden contraction in the middle, where there is a neat bridge,) through the greatest part of Saint John’s Vale, so celebrated by sir Walter Scott’s poem, the “Bridal of Triermain.” Opposite Wytheburn chapel, (which is the smallest I ever saw,) I entered into conversation with a labouring man, who was well acquainted with the late Charles Gouche, the “gentle pilgrim of nature,” who met an untimely death by falling over one of the precipices of Helvellyn. Some time previous to his death he had lodged at the Cherry Tree, near Wytheburn. The man related many anecdotes of him, but none particularly interesting. Mr. Gouche was an enthusiastic admirer of poetry, which he would frequently recite to him and others of his friends.

Keswick is a neat town. The Greta runs through it; but, alas! its once pure waters have become polluted by the filthy factories now on its banks. Having been obliged to leave Keswick in the afternoon of the day after my arrival, I was unable to see much of it or its neighbourhood. I paid a hasty visit to Derwentwater and the falls of Lowdore. The latter, from the dryness of the season, much disappointed me. I saw the Druid’s Temple on the old road to Penrith; it is a circle formed of rough stones. The common people pretend these stones cannot be counted, but I found no difficulty in ascertaining their number to be forty-eight. A barbarian once recommended the owner to blast these stones for walling, but happily for the antiquary his suggestion was not attended to. Green, in his guide, speaking of this spot, alludes to the very erroneous opinion that the druidical was a polytheistic religion.--N.B. Skiddaw has a majestic appearance when viewed from Keswick. Southey’s house is at the foot.

* * * * *

During my residence in the above parts I collected the following scraps, by whom written, or whether original, I know not.

SONNET.

The nimble fancy of all beauteous Greece
Fabled young Love an everlasting boy,
That through the blithe air, like a pulse of joy,
Wing’d his bright way--a life that could not cease,
Nor suffer diminution or increase;
Whose quiver, fraught with quaint delicious woes,
And wounds that hurt not--thorns plucked from the rose
Making the fond heart hate its stagnant fence--
Was ever full. Oh musical conceit
Of old Idolatry, and youthful time,
Fit emanation of a happy clime,
Where but to live, to move, to breathe, was sweet;
And love indeed came floating on the air,
A winged God, for ever fresh and fair!

SONNET.

It must be so--my infant love must find
In my own breast a cradle and a grave;
Like a rich jewel hid beneath the wave,
Or rebel spirit bound within the rind
Of some old [wither’d] oak--or fast enshrin’d
In the cold durance of an echoing cave----
Yet better thus, than cold disdain to brave;
Or worse, to taint the quiet of that mind
That decks its temple with unearthly grace,
Together must we dwell my dream and I--
Unknown then live, and unlamented die
Rather than dim the lustre of that face,
Or drive the laughing dimple from its place,
Or heave that white breast with a painful sigh.

SONNET.

Few lov’d the youthful bard, for he was one
Whose face, tho’ with intelligence it beam’d,
Was ever sad; if with a smile it gleam’d
It was but momentary, like the sun
Darting one bright ray thro’ the thunder cloud--
He lov’d the secret vale, and not the crowd
And hum of populous cities--some would say
There was a secret labouring in his breast,
That made him cheerless and disturb’d his rest;
Whose influence sad he could not drive away.
What caused the young bard’s woe was never known,
Yet, once, a wanderer deem’d an hapless flame
Consum’d his life away, for one, whose name
He heard him breathe, upon the mountains lone!

SONG.

She is not fair to outward view,
As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew,
Until she smil’d on me.
O then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne’er reply;
And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye--
Her very frowns are fairer far,
Than smiles of other maidens are.

SONG.

I have lived, and I have loved,
Have lived, and loved in vain;
Some joy, and many woes, have proved,
Which may not be again.
My heart is old--my eye is sere--
Joy wins no smile, and grief no tear.
I would hope, if hope I could,
Tho’ sure to be deceived;
There’s sweetness in a thought of good,
If ’tis not quite believed--
But fancy ne’er repeats the strain
That memory once reproves, for vain.

Here endeth my journal.

T. Q. M.

[338, 339] I cannot remember the names: the map of Yorkshire I have
affords no clue.

[340] This seems a pretty general custom in Westmoreland. Do the young
people of this county need informing that “a man may not marry his
grandmother?”

[341] I quote from memory, and cannot fill up the blank.

[342] The only instance of dissent I heard of betwixt Kendal and
Keswick, was a private Unitarian chapel at a gentleman’s seat near
Bowness. At Kendal and Keswick the dissenters are very numerous.

* * * * *

GENDERS.--JAMES HARRIS.

A good translation of Xenophon’s Cyropædia is much wanted. That by Ashley is vilely done; though Mr. Harris has pronounced a high eulogium on it in his Philological Inquiries.

Mr. Harris was an excellent Greek scholar, but beyond that he does not seem to have great merit as a writer. In his “Hermes,” speaking of the grammatical genders, he says, they are founded on a “reasoning which discovers, even in things without sex, a distant analogy to that great distinction, which, according to Milton, animates the world.” To this he adds, in a note, “Linnæus has traced the distinction of sexes through the vegetable world, and made it the basis of his botanic method.” Should not one be induced to think from this, that Linnæus classed some plants as male, and others as female, from their form and character? when, in fact, they are classed according to the number and form of those parts on which the fructification of the plants actually depends. What becomes of this supposed analogy in the German language, where the sun is feminine, and the moon masculine?

Lowth, in his grammar, mentions the poetical advantage our language derives from making all inanimate things neuter, by the power it gives of personification by the mere change of gender.[343]

[343] Pye.

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

WHAT IS LIFE?

What is life? ’tis like the ocean,
In its placid hours of rest,
Sleeping calmly--no emotion
Rising in its tranquil breast.

But too soon the heavenly sky
Is obscured by nature’s hand,
And the whirlwind passing by
Leaves a wreck upon the strand.

S.

* * * * *

DOCTOR LETTSOM.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--Few inherited better qualities or were more eccentric than the late Dr. Lettsom. While he associated with literary men, communicated with literary works, and wrote and published his medical experience, he gave gratuitous aid to the needy, and apportioned his leisure to useful and practical purposes.

In a work, called “Moods and Tenses,” lately published, I find anecdotes of the doctor, which I had sent to a literary publication,[344] reprinted without acknowledgment, and extracted since into other works. In addition to the printed anecdotes of so amiable a man, I trust, sir, you will not be unwilling further to illustrate his character by an anecdote or two, until now untold.

The first is of a _Lady and her Servant_. The doctor was once called in to attend a sick lady and her maid-servant. On entering the passage, he was asked by the nurse into the lady’s chamber. “Very well,” said he mildly, “but is there not a servant ill also.” “Yes, sir,” was the reply. “Then let me prescribe for her first,” he rejoined, “as her services will be first wanted.” His request was complied with; and as he predicted so it proved,--by the second visit the servant was convalescent. “I generally find this the case,” observed the doctor, good-humouredly, to his friend; “Servants want physic _only_, but their mistresses require more skill than physic. This is owing to the difference between scrubbing the stairs and scrubbing the teeth.”

The second anecdote refers to _books_. Whenever a friend borrowed a book from the doctor’s library, he rarely lent it but with this stipulation, that the supposed value of the book should be deposited, with the name of the borrower, and the title of the volume with date, in the vacant place till the book was restored. “Though attended with some pains, I find this a good plan,” said the doctor; “many of my sets would otherwise be imperfect. I feel pleasure in lending my books, (many I give away,) but I like to see my library, like my practice, as regularly conducted as possible.”

The third anecdote relates to the cure of _filching_. The doctor had a favourite servant, who manifested the frailty of taking that which did not belong to him. John had abstracted a loaf of sugar from the store closet, and sold it to a person that kept a shop. Shortly afterwards, on the carriage passing the shop, the doctor desired John to go in and order a loaf of lump sugar, and to pay for it, which was accordingly done; but when they returned home, John suspecting his master’s motive, made a full confession of the crime, fell on his knees, implored forgiveness, and was pardoned on his solemn promise of future honesty.

The fourth anecdote is worthy of the consideration of medical practitioners. The doctor having been called to a poor “lone woman,” pitied her desolate situation so much, that he shed tears. Her person and room were squalid; her language and deportment indicated that she had seen better days; he took a slip of paper out of his pocket, and wrote with his pencil the following very rare prescription to the overseers of the parish in which she resided:--

“A shilling _per diem_ for Mrs. Maxton: Money, not Physic, will cure
her.

_Lettsom._”

That the doctor was not a rich man may be easily accounted for, when it is considered that at the houses of the necessitous he gave more fees than he took. At public medical dinners, anniversaries, and lectures, he must be well remembered by many a truly vivacious companion, with a truly benevolent heart and good understanding.

ΠΡΙ

[344] Literary Chronicle, 1819, p. 392.

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

A FAREWELL.

Go, go, thy heart is still thine own,
Go, taste of joy and gladness;
I fondly dreamt that heart mine own,
To hope so now were madness.

Many a mortal yet will woo thee,
Many a lover trust that smile,
But, if well as I they knew thee,
Few thy beauty would beguile.

Like the merchant who has ventured
All his fortune on the sea,
So in thee my hopes were center’d,
Destin’d soon a wreck to be.

Then fare-thee-well, we meet no more
Better had we never met;
Thou hast many joys in store,
I have none--my sun is set.

S.

* * * * *

“PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.”

EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES, WRITTEN TO OBLIGE A YOUNG FRIEND, WHO SUGGESTED
THE TOPIC.

The PAST, which _once_ was present, _then_ did seem,
As doth _this_ present, but “a sick man’s dream.”
_Now_, the remembrance of _that_ past appears,
Through the dim distance of receding years,
A lovely vision of fair forms:--and yet,
How different it was! Fool! to regret
What had no being! Time, that faithful tutor,
Were I but teachable, might show the FUTURE
As the PRESENT is; and yet I paint it
Teeming with joy; and my hope doth saint it,
With haloes round the fond imagination.
And so through life I pass--without a station
Whence I can see the present, a reality
To be enjoy’d--living on _ideality_.

_August 25, 1827._

*

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

TOMMY MITCHESON, OF DURHAM.

The above is a well-known character in Durham, called “the philosopher:” and were his literary attainments to be measured by the books he peruses, they would far exceed those of any gentleman in the place. Tommy reads every thing that he can borrow--legal, medical, theological, historical--true narrative, or romance, it matters little to him;--but Tommy has no recollection. On arriving at the last page of a work he is just as wise as before he commenced. A friend of mine once lent him Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall;” and when Tommy returned the last volume, asked him how he liked it. “It is a _nice_ work.”--“Well, how did you like that part about the boxing match between Crib and Molineux?”--“Oh,” said he, “it was the _nicest_ part in the whole book!” Poor Tommy! I can say this of thee; I have lent thee many a book, and have always had them returned clean and unsoiled! I cannot say this of some of my book borrowers.

T. Q. M.

* * * * *

A MAN-LIKING BIRD.

“I have read of a bird,” says Dr. Fuller, in his Worthies of England, “which hath a face _like_, and yet will prey _upon_, a man, who coming to the water to drink, and finding there, by reflection, that he had killed one like himself, pineth away by degrees, and never afterwards enjoyeth itself.”

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

PENNY A LOT.

A SCHOOLBOY’S _fruitless_ RAMBLE THROUGH TOWN.

The morning is warm, and the weather is fine,
’Tis too late for school, and too early to dine;
Through the streets as I go for refreshment, or not,
All the dainties to sell are, a--_Penny a Lot_!

Fine pears, by their cheeks, are inviting to taste,
With their tails curling round, like bashaws in the east;
Red apples in heaps, on a wicker-work spot,--
How d’ye sell them?--These--here, are, a--_Penny a Lot_!

But your plums--are they cheap? By their Orlean hues
They belong to the Indigo Warehouse,--the Blues;
And your gages, so green!--are they fresh from the cot?--
From the Garden this morning, sir,--_Penny a Lot_!

Barcelonas in small wooden measures are piled;
How attractive they look to the one-copper child,
With his treasure to spend! But what _there_ have ye got?
Acid Drops! cries a Jew Boy, a--_Penny a Lot_!

Nice slices of cocoa-nut, white as the snow,
Brazil-nuts and almond-nuts all in a row;
Napoleon’s-ribs,--brandy-balls for the sot,
And sweet cakes--what are _these_? Sir, a--_Penny a Lot_.

Groundsel, chickweed, canes, posies, beads, cresses, and grapes,
Currants sodden’d with rains, raisins press’d in their shapes;
Seaweeds, shells, and ornaments, fit for a Grot,
Are all sold at the rate of, a--_Penny a Lot_!

What chance has the Far-thing to burn a hole through?
What chance has the Half-penny, though it were new?
Unbless’d with a purchase, though thirsty and hot,
All the order of sale is, a--_Penny a Lot_.

_P._

* * * * *

FISH.

Philip II. of Spain, the consort of our queen Mary, gave a whimsical reason for not eating fish. “They are,” said he, “nothing but element congealed, or a jelly of water.”

It is related of a queen Aterbatis, that she forbad her subjects ever to touch fish, “lest,” said she, with calculating forecast, “there should not be enough left to regale their sovereign.”

Vol. II.--37.

------------- on hands and knees we crawl,
And so get safe on board the yawl.

_Gostling._

This sheet is dedicated to the five days’ travels, in 1732, of him

That drew th’ essential form of grace,
That saw the manners in the face,

and four of his friends. “Some few copies of the Tour,” says Horace Walpole, “were printed by Mr. Nichols. It was a party of pleasure down the river into Kent, undertaken by Mr. Hogarth, Mr. Scott, and three of their friends, in which they intended to have more humour than they accomplished, as is commonly the case in such meditated attempts. The Tour was described in verse by one of the company, and the drawings executed by the painters, but with little merit, except the views taken by Mr. Scott.”

Walpole’s account is an incorrect and contemptuous flout of “a merry, and a very merry” party, consisting--besides Hogarth, and his friend Scott, a landscape painter--of Thornhill, (son of sir James, whose daughter Hogarth married;) Tothall, a woollendraper at the corner of Tavistock-court, Covent-garden, who, being a member of the club at the Bedford coffee-house, became intimate with Hogarth; and Forrest, another of Hogarth’s friends. They “accomplished” much “humour,” as their journal shows; though not to the understanding of Walpole, who was only a fine gentleman, a wit, and an adept in artificial knowledge.

A few months ago, I heard from the lips of the kindest and most exquisite humourist of the age, what seems to me a perfect definition--“Humour is Wit steeped in Mannerism.” Walpole could never say, because he never thought, or felt, any thing like it. He was skilled in imitative matters alone: he brought himself up to Art, and there stopped; his good breeding would not permit him to deviate towards Nature. He talked of it as people of fashion do of trade--a vulgar thing, which they are obliged to hear something about, and cannot help being influenced by.

The “some few copies of the Tour,” which Horace Walpole says “were printed by Mr. Nichols,” and which he represents as having been “described in verse by one of the company,” Mr. Nichols certainly printed in 1781; but that gentleman acquaints us, that it “was the production of the ingenious Mr. W. Gostling, of Canterbury,” who was not of the party. Mr. Nichols reprinted it at the request of some friends, on account of its rarity, in his “Biographical Anecdotes of Hogarth.” The account of the “Tour,” really written “by one of the company,” was in prose; and this, which certainly Walpole had not seen, was edited, and given to the world, by Mr. R. Livesay, in 1782, on nine oblong folio pages, with etchings of the same size.

The Tour in question was not “meditated.” The party set out at midnight, at a moment’s warning, from the Bedford Arms tavern, each with a shirt in his pocket. They had particular departments to attend to. Hogarth and Scott made the drawings; Thornhill (Hogarth’s brother-in-law) the map; Tothall faithfully discharged the joint office of treasurer and caterer; and Forrest wrote the journal. They were out five days only; and on the second night after their return, the book was produced, bound, gilt, and lettered, and read at the same tavern to the members of the club then present. A copy of the journal having been left in the hands of the Rev. Mr. Gostling, (author of “A Walk in and about Canterbury,”) he wrote an imitation of it in Hudibrastic verse, of which Mr. Nichols printed twenty copies as a literary curiosity.[345]

The original Tour by Mr. Forrest, and the versified version of it, are placed on the ensuing pages, from the before-mentioned editions; beginning with Forrest’s from the title-page, viz.

AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT SEEMED MOST REMARKABLE IN THE FIVE DAYS’
PEREGRINATION OF THE FIVE FOLLOWING PERSONS; VIZ. MESSRS. TOTHALL,
SCOTT, HOGARTH, THORNHILL, AND FORREST. Begun on Saturday, May 27th,
1732, and finished on the 31st of the same Month. “ABI TU, ET FAC
SIMILITER.”--_Inscription on Dulwich College Porch._ LONDON: Printed
for R. Livesay, 1782.

Saturday, May the 27th, we set out with the morning, and took our departure from the Bedford Arms Tavern, in Covent Garden, to the tune of “Why should we quarrel for riches?” The first land we made was Billingsgate, where we dropped anchor at the Dark House.

There Hogarth made a caracatura of a porter, who called himself the Duke of Puddle Dock.[346] The drawing was (by his grace) pasted on the cellar door. We were agreeably entertained with the humours of the place, particularly an explanation of a Gaffer and Gammer, a little gross, though in presence of two of the fair sex. Here we continued till the clock struck one.

Then set sail in a Gravesend boat we had hired for ourselves. Straw was our bed, and a tilt our covering. The wind blew hard at S.E. and by E. We had much rain and no sleep for about three hours. At Cuckold’s Point we sung St. John, at Deptford Pishoken; and in Blackwall Reach eat hung beef and biscuit, and drank right Hollands.

At Purfleet we had a view of the Gibraltar, the Dursley Galley, and Tartar Pink, men of war, from the last of which we took on board the pilot who brought her up the channel. He entertained us with a lieutenant’s account of an insult offered him by the Spaniards, and other affairs of consequence, which naturally made us drowsy; and then Hogarth fell asleep, but soon awaking, was going to relate a dream he had, but falling asleep again, when he awaked forgot he had dreamed at all.

We soon arrived at Gravesend, and found some difficulty in getting ashore, occasioned by an unlucky boy’s having placed his boat between us and the landing-place, and refusing us passage over his vessel; but, as virtue surmounts all obstacles, we happily accomplished this adventure, and arrived at Mr. Bramble’s at six. There we washed our faces and hands, and had our wigs powdered; then drank coffee, eat toast and butter, paid our reckoning, and set out at eight.

We took a view of the building of the New Church, the unknown person’s tomb and epitaph, and the Market place, and then proceeded on foot to Rochester.

Nothing remarkable happened in that journey, except our calling and drinking three pots of beer at an evil house, (as we were afterwards informed,) known by the sign of the Dover Castle, and some small distress Scott suffered in travelling through some clay ground moistened by the rain; but the country being extremely pleasant alleviated his distress, and made him jocund, and about ten we arrived at Rochester.

There we surveyed the fine Bridge, the cathedral, and the Castle; the last well worth observing. It is a very high building, situate on the river Medway, strong built, but almost demolished. With some difficulty we ascended to the top of the battlements, and took a view of a most beautiful country, a fine river, and some of the noblest ships in the world. There is a very curious well cut in the middle wall from the top of the Castle, a considerable depth below its foundation, as we believed: we saw a little boy go down towards the bottom of it by small holes cut in the sides, wherein he placed his hands and feet, and soon returned, bringing up with him a young daw he had taken out of a nest there.

We afterwards traversed the city, saw the Town-house, Watts’s Hospital for relief of six travelling persons, by entertaining them with one night’s lodging, and giving to each fourpence in the morning, provided they are not persons contagiously diseased, rogues, or proctors.

We saw on the front of a house four figures in basso relievo after the antique, done by some modern hand, representing the Seasons; and then came to the Crown inn at twelve. From that time till dinner most of our company slept on several chairs in the dining-room. From one o’clock till three we were at dinner on a dish of soles and flounders, with crab sauce, a calf’s heart stuffed and roasted, the liver fried, and the other appurtenances minced, a leg of mutton roasted, and some green peas, all very good and well drest, with good small beer and excellent port. The boy of the house cleaned all our shoes, and we again set out to seek adventures.

Hogarth and Scott stopped and played at hop-scotch in the colonnade under the Town-hall; and then we walked on to Chatham, bought shrimps and eat them, and proceeded by a round-about way to the king’s store-houses and dock-yard, which are very noble. We went on board the Marlborough and the Royal Sovereign, which last is reckoned one of the finest ships in the navy. We saw the London, the Royal George, and Royal Anne, all first-rate men of war. At six we returned to our quarters at Rochester, and passed the time agreeably till nine, and then, quite fatigued with pleasure, we went to bed.

Sunday at seven awaked. Hogarth and Thornhill related their dreams, and we entered into a conversation on that subject in bed, and left off no wiser than we begun. We arose and missed Scott, who soon came, and acquainted us that he had been on the bridge drawing a view of some part of the river, (vide Drawing the 2d,) and wondered at the people staring at him, till he recollected it was Sunday. We asked him to produce the drawing; and he told us he had not drawn any thing. We were all desirous to have him reconcile this contradiction; but other affairs intervening, prevented our further inquiry.

At nine we breakfasted, and set out over the bridge, through part of Stroud, and by the Medway side. Going through the fields, we were attacked by a severe shower of rain; to escape which Scott retired under a hedge, and lying down had the misfortune to soil the back of his coat----. Uneasy at this, and requiring assistance to be cleaned----, he missed a white cambric handkerchief, which he declared was lent him by his spouse; and though he soon found it, yet was his joy at that success again abated by his fear that it was torn; but being soon convinced that he was more afraid than hurt, we all proceeded merrily to Frendsbury.

We there viewed the church and church-yard, pleasantly situated. There are some bad epitaphs, and in the church is hung up a list of benefactions to the parish, at the bottom of which there is wrote, “Witness our hands,” and subscribed with the name of “William Gibbons, Vicar,” only. This seemed a little odd; but being in such a place we imagined there might be some mystery in it, so inquired no further.

At ten we walked on, and calling a council among ourselves, it was proposed, that if any one was dissatisfied with our past proceedings, or intended progress, he might depatriate, and be allowed money to bear his charges. It was unanimously rejected, and resolved to proceed to Upnor.

We viewed, and Hogarth made a drawing of the castle, and Scott of some shipping riding near it (vide Drawing the 3d). The castle is not very large, but strong, garrisoned with twenty-four men, and the like number of guns, though no more than eight are mounted. I went and bought cockles of an old blind man and woman, who were in a little cock-boat on the river. We made a hurry-scurry dinner at the Smack at the ten-gun battery, and had a battle-royal with sticks, pebbles, and hog’s dung. In this fight Tothall was the greatest sufferer, and his cloaths carried the marks of his disgrace. Some time this occasioned much laughter, and we marched on to the bird’s-nest battery; and, keeping the river and shipping still in view, passed over the hills, and came to Hoo church-yard, where, on a wooden rail over a grave, is an epitaph, supposed to be wrote by a maid-servant on her master, which, being something extraordinary, I shall here transcribe verbatim:

And. wHen. he. Died. you. plainLy. see.
Hee. freely. gave. al. to. Sara. passa. Wee.
And. in. Doing. so. if. DoTh. prevail.
that. Ion. him. can. Well. besTow. this Rayel.
On. Year. I. sarved. him. it. is. well. None.
BuT. Thanks. beto. God. it. is. al. my. One.

* * * * *

At four we left Hoo and an agreeable widow landlady, who had buried four husbands. As we travelled along this charming country, the weather was exceeding pleasant, and Scott (according to custom) made us laugh by attempting to prove, a man might go over but not through the world; and, for example, pointed to the earth, and asked us to go through that element. Our fixed opinion was, that his argument had less weight than his coat-pockets, which were, by some of the company, filled with pebble-stones, unperceived by him, and he carried them some time; but at last discovering the trick, and being thereby in a condition to knock down all opposition to his argument, we acquiesced.

At five we took a view of Stoke Church, and passed through the church-yard, but saw nothing worth observation till we came to a farm-house not far distant; where, on an elm-tree at the door was placed a high pole, with a board that moved with the wind, painted in form of a cock, over which was a fane weather-cock, and above that a shuttle-cock. This variety of cocks afforded much speculation.

At North-street, a little village we passed through, we all agreed to quarrel; and being near a well of water full to the brim, we dealt about that ammunition for some time, till the cloaths and courage of the combatants were sufficiently cooled; and then, all pleased, travelled on to the town of Stock, and took up our quarters at the Nag’s Head.

At six, whilst supper was getting ready, we walked out to take a view of the low countries thereabouts; and, on an adjacent plain, another sharp engagement happened, in which Tothall and Scott both suffered, by their cloaths being daubed with soft cow-dung.

At seven we returned back and cleaned ourselves; supped, and adjourned to the door; drank punch, stood and sat for our pictures drawn by Hogarth, for which see Drawing the 3d. Night coming on, we drew cuts who should lie single, there being but three beds, and no night-caps. The lot fell to Tothall, and he had the satisfaction of lying alone.

At ten went to bed, and had much laughter at Scott and I being forced to lie together. They threw the stocking, fought perukes, and did a great many pretty tricks in a horn, and then left us. At eleven we arose again, without a candle, and dressed ourselves, our sheets being very damp; then went to bed again in our cloaths, and slept till three.

Monday at three, awaked and cursed our day; our eyes, lips, and hands, being tormented and swelled by the biting of gnats. Notwithstanding this, the God of Sleep being powerful, we soon forgot our miseries, and submitted to be bound fast again in his leaden chains, in which condition we remained till six; then arose, had our shoes cleaned, were shaved, and had our wigs flowered, by a fisherman in his boots and shock hair, without coat or waistcoat, vide Drawing the 4th. We had milk and toast for breakfast, paid our reckoning, and set out for Sheerness at eight.