Part 104
_Phao._ Yea, Madam; and that in the boat did I mean to make my tale.
_Venus._ It is not for a ferryman to talk of the Gods Loves: but to tell how thy father could dig, and thy mother spin. But come, let us away.
_Phao._ I am ready to wait--
_Sapho, sleepless for love of Phao, who loves her as much, consults with him about some medicinal herb: She, a great Lady; He, the poor Ferryman, but now promoted to be her Gardener._
_Sapho._ What herbs have you brought, Phao?
_Phao._ Such as will make you sleep, Madam; though they cannot make me slumber.
_Sapho._ Why, how can you cure me, when you cannot remedy yourself?
_Phao._ Yes, madam; the causes are contrary. For it is only a dryness in your brains, that keepeth you from rest. But--
_Sapho._ But what?
_Phao._ Nothing: but mine is not so--
_Sapho._ Nay then, I despair of help, if our disease be not all one.
_Phao._ I would our diseases were all one!
_Sapho._ It goes hard with the patient, when the physician is desperate.
_Phao._ Yet Medea made the ever-waking dragon to snort, when she (poor soul) could not wink.
_Sapho._ Medea was in love, and nothing could cause her rest but Jason.
_Phao._ Indeed I know no herb to make lovers sleep but Heart’s Ease: which, because it groweth so high, I cannot reach, for--
_Sapho._ For whom?
_Phao._ For such as love--
_Sapho._ It stoopeth very low, and I can never stoop to it, that----
_Phao._ That what?
_Sapho._ That I may gather it. But why do you sigh so, Phao?
_Phao._ It is mine use, Madam.
_Sapho._ It will do you harm, and me too: for I never hear one sigh, but I must sigh also.
_Phao._ It were best then that your Ladyship give me leave to be gone; for I can but sigh--
_Sapho._ Nay, stay; for now I begin to sigh, I shall not leave, though you be gone. But what do you think best for your sighing, to take it away?
_Phao._ Yew, Madam.
_Sapho._ Me!
_Phao._ No, Madam; Yew of the tree.
_Sapho._ Then will I love Yew the better. And indeed I think it would make me sleep too; therefore, all other simples set aside, I will simply use only Yew.
_Phao._ Do, Madam; for I think nothing in the world so good as Yew.
_Sapho._ Farewell, for this time.
_Sapho questions her low-placed Affection._
_Sapho._ Into the nest of an Alcyon no bird can enter but the Alcyon: and into the heart of so great a Lady can any creep but a great Lord?
_Cupid. Sapho cured of her love by the pity of Venus._
_Cupid._ But what will you do for Phao?
_Sapho._ I will wish him fortunate. This will I do for Phao, because I once loved Phao: for never shall it be said, that Sapho loved to hate: or that out of love she could not be as courteous, as she was in love passionate.
_Phao’s final resolution._
_Phao._ O Sapho, thou hast Cupid in thy arms, I in my heart; thou kissest him for sport, I must curse him for spite; yet will I not curse him, Sapho, whom thou kissest. This shall be my resolution, wherever I wander, to be as I were ever kneeling before Sapho; my loyalty unspotted, though unrewarded. With as little malice will I go to my grave, as I did lie withal in my cradle. My life shall be spent in sighing and wishing; the one for my bad fortune, the other for Sapho’s good.
C. L.
* * * * *
_For the Table Book._
WHITTLE SHEEPSHANKS, ESQ.
Formerly there was a farmer of very extensive property, who was also of great piety, residing in Craven, with the above awkward Christian and surname. He once purchased some sheep of a native of North Britain at one of the Skipton cattle fairs, and not having cash enough with him to pay for them, he said to the man, “I’ve no money by me at present, but I’ll settle with you next fair.” “An’ wha ma ye be, sir?” said the Scotsman. “What, don’t ye know me? I thought every body knew Whittle Sheepshanks.” “Hout! mon,” said the Scotsman, “dinna think to make a fule o’ me; wha’ ever heard sic a name _o’ a sheepshanks wi’ a whittle to it_.” This so offended Mr. Sheepshanks, that he changed his name to York.
T. Q. M.
* * * * *
_For the Table Book._
MY “HOME.”
This is the soothing word that calms the mind under all the various anxieties, mortifications, and disappointments we meet with, day after day, in the busy world. This is the idea that enables us to support the most trying vexations and troubles--it is an antidote for every evil--
My “Home!”--There is a deliciously restful, quiet tone about the word. It presents heavenly ideas of soft ease, and gentle repose to the oppressed mind and languid body--ideas of quiet seclusion, where one’s powers and faculties may be relaxed, and be at rest. The idea of “home” is perhaps the only one which preserves an equal influence over us through all the different periods of life.
The weary child that slowly draws its little tender feet, one after the other, in endeavours to keep up with “dear papa,” who has taken it out for a long walk, looks up in his face with brightening eyes, as he says, “Never mind, we shall soon be _home_ now.” Its tiny fingers take a firmer grasp of the supporting hand of its father, and its poor drooping head half erects, as it thinks of the kind mother who will receive it with words of sympathy for its fatigue, seat it in her lap, lay its face on her cherishing bosom with comforting expressions, and chafe its aching limbs with her soft palms.
The school boy, or girl, when holiday-time comes--with what anxiety do they not look forward to the time of the chaise’s arrival, which is to take them “home!” They both think of the approaching happy meeting with all their affectionate family--the encouraging smile of the proud father--the overwhelming kisses of the fond mother--the vociferous welcomes of the delighted brothers and sisters. Visions of well-merited praise bestowed on the different exhibitions of the neatly executed copybook, the correctly worked sums, (those tremendously long phalanxes of figures, that call forth the mirthful astonishment of the younger party,) the well-recited Latin lines, and the “horribly hard” translation, pass before _his_ mind.--_She_ anticipates the admiration that will be elicited by the display of certain beautiful needlework, (that pernicious destroyer of female health, both bodily and mental,) which, at the expense of shape and eyesight, is perhaps brought to such perfection as exactly to imitate the finest “Brussels.”--Alas, poor WOMAN! How comes it that we are so blind to our own good, as to employ in such trifling and even injurious pursuits all your faculties, which (inferior to man’s, as man assumes they are) might still be cultivated and developed, so as to add mental acquirements to your gentle qualities, and render you a still more amiable and desirable companion for us.
The man while busy at his daily occupation thinks of going “home” after the fatigues of the day with ecstasy. He knows that on his return he shall find an affectionate face to welcome him--a warm snug room--a bright fire--a clean hearth--the tea-things laid--the sofa wheeled round on the rug--and, in a few minutes after his entrance, his wife sitting by his side, consoling him in his vexations, aiding him in his plans for the future, or participating in his joys, and smiling upon him for the good news he may have brought home for her--his children climbing on the hassock at his feet, leaning over his knees to eye his face with joyous eagerness, that they may coaxingly win his intercession with “dear mamma” for “only half an hour longer.”----
I have hitherto looked only at the bright side of the picture. I am unhappily aware that there are individuals who never can know the luxury of “home.” Mr. Charles Lamb says, that “the home of the very poor is no home.” And I also aver, that the home of the very rich is no home. He may be constantly at home if he chooses, therefore he can never know the delightful sensation of a return to it, after having been obliged (for with human beings the chief charm of a thing seems to arise from its being denied to us) to remain out all day. Besides, “home” should be a place of simplicity and quiet retirement after the turmoil of the world. Do the rich find _these_ amid their numerous guests and officious domestics--their idle ceremony, and pomp, and ostentation? This is not the “ease and comfort” (that greatest source of an Englishman’s delight) which should be peculiar to “home.”----
There is, likewise, another being who never can taste the truly exquisite enjoyment of “home:”--I mean the “Old Bachelor.” He returns to his lodging (I will not say to his “home”)--there may be every thing he can possibly desire in the shape of mere external comforts, provided for him by the officious zeal and anxious wish to please of Mrs. Smith, (his housekeeper,) but still the room has an air of chilling vacancy:--the very atmosphere of the apartment has a dim, uninhabited appearance--the chairs, set round with provoking neatness, look reproachfully useless and unoccupied--and the tables and other furniture shine with impertinent and futile brightness. All is dreary and repelling. No gentle face welcomes his arrival--no loving hand meets his--no kind looks answer the listless gaze he throws round the apartment as he enters. He sits down to a book--alone. There is no one sitting by his side to enjoy with him the favourite passage, the apt remark, the just criticism--no eyes in which to read his own feelings--his own tastes are unappreciated and unreflected--he has no resource but himself--no one to look up to but himself--all his enjoyment, all his happiness must emanate from himself. He flings down the volume in despair--buries his face in his hands--thinks of her who might have been his beloved and heart-cheering companion--_she_ is gone!----
HOME!--scene of tenderly cherished infancy--of youthful buoyancy, brilliant with enjoying and hopeful feelings--of maturer and exquisite happiness--of all our best feelings--towards thee does my heart ever yearn in constant and grateful affection!--
M. H.
* * * * *
_For the Table Book._
THE BLACKBERRY BLOSSOM.
WRITTEN IN EPPING FOREST.
The maiden’s blush, Sweet blackberry blossom, thou Wearest, in prickly leaves that rove O’er friendlike turning bough.
Companionship Thine attributes, thou givest Likeness of virtue shielded safe From lives with whom thou livest.
What is mankind? But like thy wand’ring?--Time Leads mortals through the maze of life, And thousands hopewards climb.
A sudden blast-- Then what of hope remains? Beauty full soon by sickness falls, And pleasures die in pains.
But fruit succeeds-- Thou ripenest by the sky: May human hearts bear fruits of peace Before in earth _they_ lie!
_August 19, 1827._
----
* * * * *
NOTES ON A TOUR, CHIEFLY PEDESTRIAN, FROM SKIPTON IN CRAVEN, YORKSHIRE, TO KESWICK, IN CUMBERLAND.
“I hate the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba and say ’tis all barren.”--_Sterne_
_July 14, 1827._ Left Skipton for Keswick. The road from Skipton to Burnsal exhibits some romantic scenery, which the muse of Wordsworth has made classic ground. About half a mile from Rilston, on the right-hand side of the road, are the ruins of Norton tower, one of the principal scenes in the poem of the “White Doe of Rylstone.” Having visited the tower before, I did not think it worth while to reascend the immense precipice on which it stands.
15th, _Sunday_. Previously to the commencement of the service at _Burnsal_ church, I sketched the “lich-gate,” which differs considerably from the beautiful one of Beckenham, in Kent; a drawing whereof is in my friend Mr. Hone’s _Table Book_. The manner wherein the gate turns on its pivot is rather curious, and will be best exemplified by the drawing above. The church, an old structure, apparently of the reign of Henry VII., is pleasantly situated on “the banks of the crystal Wharfe.” While attending divine service, one or two things struck me as remarkable. The church has an organ, on which two voluntaries were played; one after the psalms for the day, and the other after the second lesson; but during the singing of the metrical psalms the organ was silent. Instead of it two or three strange-looking countrymen in the organ gallery raised an inharmonious noise with a small fiddle, a flute, and a clarinet. Why do the churchwardens allow this? The gallery of the church should not be allowed to resemble the interior of an ale-house at a village feast. The church would have looked better had it been cleaner: the pew wherein I sat was covered with cobwebs. The business of the churchwardens seemed to me to consist rather in thumping the heads of naughty boys than in looking after the state of the church.
_Afternoon, same day._ At _Linton_, about two miles up the river, arrived during the time of service. This church has suffered much from the “beautifiers;” who, amongst other equally judicious improvements, have placed a _Venetian_ window over the altar of the _Gothic_ edifice: the present incumbent, the Rev. Mr. Coulthurst, is about to remove it. The altar rails were covered with garlands made of artificial flowers. Church garlands were formerly made of real flowers. They are borne before the corpses of unmarried young women. I have heard an old woman in Durham sing the following stanza, which evidently alludes to the custom:--
When I am dead, before I be buried, Hearken ye maidens fair, this must ye do-- Make me a garland of marjoram and lemon thyme, Mixed with the pansy, rosemary, and rue.
The practice of bearing the garlands is still very common in the country churches in Craven.
In the church-yard is the following inscription on a stone, date 1825! The march of intellect is surely here proceeding at a rapid pace!
Remember man, that paseth by As thou is now so once was I; And as I is so must thou be, Prepare thyself to follow me.
Some one had written beneath,
To follow you’s not my intent, Unless I knew which way you went.
_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._