Part 139
Here, then, about twelve miles from London, in a delightful country, is a spring, rendered venerable by immemorial tradition and our ancient annals; and which, during eighteen centuries, from the time of its alleged discovery by Cæsar, has remained open to general use. Sorry therefore am I to add, that there are rumours of a wish to _enclose_ this public relic of bygone ages. I invite public attention to the place and to the report. Even at this season the lover of natural scenery will find charms at the source of the Ravensbourne, and be able to imagine the beauty of the surrounding country in summer. Had I a right of common on Keston Heath, rather than assist in a base “homage,” to colourably admit the enclosure of “Cæsar’s Spring,” I would surrender my own right, and renounce community and neighbourhood with the heartless hirelings, who would defraud themselves and the public of the chief attraction to Keston Common. At so small a distance from London I know of nothing so remarkable in history as this spring. On no pretence ought the public to be deprived of it. There are rights of nature as well as of property: when the claims of the latter are urged too pertinaciously against the former, it is time to cry out; and if middle men do not interfere to prevent the oppression, they will, in their turn, cry aloud when there will be none to help them.
[465] In col. 626.
[466] History of Kent, folio, vol. i. 129.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XLII.
[From “Thyestes,” a Tragedy, by John Crowne, 1681.]
_Atreus, having recovered his Wife, and Kingdom, from his brother Thyestes, who had usurped both, and sent him into banishment, describes his offending Queen._
_Atreus (solus)._ ------ still she lives; ’Tis true, in heavy sorrow: so she ought, If she offended as I fear she has. Her hardships, though, she owes to her own choice. I have often offer’d her my useless couch; For what is it to me? I never sleep: But for her bed she uses the hard floor. My table is spread for her; I never eat: And she’ll take nothing but what feeds her grief.
_Philisthenes, the Son of Thyestes, at a stolen interview with Antigone, the daughter of Atreus, is surprised by the King’s Spies: upon which misfortune Antigone swooning, is found by Peneus._
_Antigone. Peneus, an ancient retainer to the Court of Mycenæ._
_Peneus._ Ha! what is she that sleeps in open air? Indeed the place is far from any path, But what conducts to melancholy thoughts; But those are beaten roads about this Court. Her habit calls her, Noble Grecian Maid; But her sleep says, she is a stranger here. All birds of night build in this Court, but Sleep; And Sleep is here made wild with loud complaints, And flies away from all. I wonder how This maid has brought it to her lure so tame. _Antigone, (waking from her swoon)._ Oh my Philisthenes! _Peneus._ She wakes to moan; Aye, that’s the proper language of this place! _Antigone._ My dear, my poor Philisthenes! I know ’tis so! oh horror! death! hell! oh-- _Peneus._ I know her now; ’tis fair Antigone, The daughter and the darling of the King. This is the lot of all this family.[467] Beauteous Antigone, thou know’st me well; I am old Peneus, one who threescore years Has loved and serv’d thy wretched family. Impart thy sorrows to me; I perhaps In my wide circle of experience May find some counsel that may do thee good. _Antigone._ O good old man! how long have you been here? _Peneus._ I came but now. _Antigone._ O did you see this way Poor young Philisthenes? you know him well. _Peneus._ Thy uncle’s son, Thyestes’ eldest son-- _Antigone._ The same, the same-- _Peneus._ No; all the Gods forbid I should meet him so near thy father’s Court. _Antigone._ O he was here one cursed minute past. _Peneus._ What brought him hither? _Antigone._ Love to wretched me. Our warring fathers never ventured more For bitter hate than we for innocent love. Here but a minute past the dear youth lay, Here in this brambly cave lay in my arms; And now he is seized! O miserable me--(_tears her hair._) _Peneus._ Why dost thou rend that beauteous ornament? In what has it offended? hold thy hands. _Antigone._ O father, go and plead for the poor youth; No one dares speak to the fierce King but you-- _Peneus._ And no one near speaks more in vain than I; He spurns me from his presence like a dog. _Antigone._ Oh, then-- _Peneus._ She faints, she swoons, I frighten’d her, Oh I spake indiscretely. Daughter, child, Antigone, I’ll go, indeed I’ll go. _Antigone._ There is no help for me in heav’n or earth. _Peneus._ There is, there is; despair not, sorrowful maid. All will be well. I’m going to the King, And will with pow’rful reasons bind his hands; And something in me says I shall prevail. But to whose care shall I leave thee the while?-- For oh! I dare not trust thee to thy grief. _Antigone._ I’ll be disposed of, father, as you please, Till I receive the blest or dreadful doom. _Peneus._ Then come, dear daughter, lean upon my arm, Which old and weak is stronger yet than thine; Thy youth hath known more sorrow than my age. I never hear of grief, but when I’m here; But one day’s diet here of sighs and tears Returns me elder home by many years.
_Atreus, to entrap his brother Thyestes; who has lived a concealed life, lurking in woods, to elude his vengeance; sends Philisthenes and old Peneus to him with offers of reconciliation, and an invitation to Court, to be present at the nuptials of Antigone with Philisthenes._
_Thyestes. Philisthenes. Peneus._
_Thy._ Welcome to my arms, My hope, my comfort! Time has roll’d about Several months since I have seen thy face, And in its progress has done wond’rous things. _Phil._ Strange things indeed to chase you to this sad Dismal abode; nay, and to age, I think: I see that winter thrusting itself forth Long, long before its time, in silver hairs. _Thy._ My fault, my son; I would be great and high, Snow lies in summer on some mountain tops. Ah, Son! I’m sorry for thy noble youth, Thou hast so bad a father; I’m afraid, Fortune will quarrel with thee for my sake. Thou wilt derive unhappiness from me, Like an hereditary ill disease. _Phil._ Sir, I was born, when you were innocent; And all the ill you have contracted since, You have wrought out by painful penitence; For healthy joy returns to us again; Nay, a more vigorous joy than e’er we had. Like one recover’d from a sad disease, Nature for damage pays him double cost, And gives him fairer flesh than e’er he had.
_Thyestes is won from his retirement by the joint representations of Philisthenes and Peneus, of the apparent good faith, and returning kindness of his brother; and visits Mycenæ:--his confidence; his returning misgivings._
_Thyestes_. _Philisthenes_. _Peneus._
_Thy._ O wondrous pleasure to a banish’d man, I feel my loved long look’d-for native soil! And oh! my weary eyes, that all the day Had from some mountain travell’d toward this place, Now rest themselves upon the royal towers Of that great palace where I had my birth. O sacred towers, sacred in your height, Mingling with clouds, the villas of the Gods Whither for sacred pleasures they retire; Sacred because you are the work of Gods; Your lofty looks boast your divine descent: And the proud city which lies at your feet, And would give place to nothing but to you, Owns her original is short of yours. And now a thousand objects more ride fast On morning beams, and meet my eyes in throngs; And see, all Argos meets me with loud shouts! _Phil._ O joyful sound! _Thy._ But with them Atreus too-- _Phil._ What ails my father, that he stops, and shakes, And now retires? _Thy._ Return with me, my son, And old friend Peneus, to the honest beasts, And faithful desart, and well-seated caves; Trees shelter man, by whom they often die, And never seek revenge: no villainy Lies in the prospect of an humble cave. _Pen._ Talk you of villainy, of foes, and fraud. _Thy._ I talk of Atreus. _Pen._ What are these to him? _Thy._ Nearer than I am, for they are himself. _Pen._ Gods drive these impious thoughts out of your mind. _Thy._ The Gods for all our safety put them there.-- Return, return with me. _Pen._ Against our oaths? I cannot stem the vengeance of the Gods. _Thy._ Here are no Gods: they’ve left this dire abode. _Pen._ True race of Tantalus! who parent-like Are doom’d in midst of plenty to be starved. His hell and yours differ alone in this: When he would catch at joys, they fly from him; When glories catch at you, you fly from them. _Thy._ A fit comparison; our joys and his Are lying shadows, which to trust is hell.
_The day of the pretended Nuptials.--Atreus feigns a returning love for his Queen._
_Ærope._ O this is too much joy for me to bear: You build new palaces on broken walls. _Atreus._ Come, let our new-born pleasures breathe sweet air; This room’s too vile a cabinet for gold. Then leave for ever, Love, this doleful place, And leave behind thee all thy sorrows here; And dress thyself as this great day requires. ’Twill be thy daughter’s nuptials; and I dream’d, The Sun himself would be asham’d to come, And be a guest in his old tarnish’d robe; But leave my Court,[468] to enlighten all the globe.--
_Peneus to Atreus, dissuading him from his horrid purpose._
_Pen._ Fear you not men or Gods? _Atr._ The fear of Gods ne’er came in Pelops’ House. _Pen._ Think you there are no Gods? _Atr._ I find all things So false, I am sure of nothing but of wrongs.--
_Atreus. Thyestes._
A TABLE, AND A BANQUET.
_Atr._ Come, brother, sit. _Thy._ May not Philisthenes Sit with us, Sir? _Atr._ He waits upon the Bride. A deeper bowl. This to the Bridegroom’s health. _Thy._ This to the Gods for this most joyful day.-- Now to the Bridegroom’s health. _Atr._ This day shall be To Argos an eternal festival. _Thy._ Fortune and I to day both try our strengths. I have quite tired her left hand Misery; She now relieves it with her right-hand Joy, Which she lays on me with her utmost force; But both shall be too weak for my strong spirit. _Atr. (aside)._ So, now my engines of delight have screw’d The monster to the top of arrogance; And now he’s ready for his deadly fall. _Thy._ O these extremes of misery and joy Measure the vast extent of a man’s soul. My spirit reaches Fortune’s East and West. She has oft set and ris’n here; yet cannot get Out of the vast dominion of my mind.-- Ho! my proud vaunting has a sudden check; See, from my head my crown of roses falls; My hair, tho’ almost drown’d beneath sweet oils, With strange and sudden horrors starts upright: Something I know not what bids me not eat; And what I have devour’d[469] within me groans; I fain would tear my breast to set it free;-- And I have catch’d the eager thirst of tears, Which all weak spirits have in misery. I, who in banishment ne’er wept, weep now. _Atr._ Brother, regard it not; ’tis fancy all. Misery, like night, is haunted with ill spirits, And spirits leave not easily their haunts; ’Tis said, sometimes they’ll impudently stand A flight of beams from the forlorn of day, And scorn the crowing of the sprightly cocks:-- Brother, ’tis morning with our pleasure yet. Nor has the sprightly wine crow’d oft enough. See in great flagons at full length it sleeps, And lets these melancholy thoughts break in Upon our weaker pleasures. Rouse the wine, And bid him chase these fancies hence for shame. Fill up that reverend unvanquish’d Bowl, Who many a giant in his time has fallen, And many a monster; Hercules not more. _Thy._ If he descends into my groaning breast, Like Hercules, he will descend to hell-- _Atr._ And he will vanquish all the monsters there. Brother, your courage with this Hero try; He o’er our House has reign’d two hundred years, And he’s the only king shall rule you here. _Thy._ What ails me, I cannot heave it to my lips? _Atr._ What, is the bowl too heavy? _Thy._ No; my heart. _Atr._ The wine will lighten it. _Thy._ The wine will not Come near my lips. _Atr._ Why should they be so strange? They are near a-kin. _Thy._ A-kin? _Atr._ As possible; father and son not nearer. _Thy._ What do you mean? _Atr._ Does not good wine beget good blood? _Thy._ ’Tis true. _Atr._ Your lips then and the wine may be a-kin. Off with your kindred wine; leave not a drop To die alone, bewilder’d in that bowl. Help him to heave it to his head; that’s well.
(_Thyestes drinks. A clap of thunder. The lights go out._)
_Thy._ What pond’rous crimes pull heav’n upon our heads? Nature is choak’d with some vast villainy, And all her face is black. _Atr._ Some lights, some lights. _Thy._ The sky is stunn’d, and reels ’twixt night and day; Old Chaos is return’d. _Atr._ It is to see A young One born, more dreadful than herself; That promises great comfort to her age, And to restore her empire. _Thy._ What do you mean? _Atr._ Confusion I have in thy bowels made. _Thy._ Dire thoughts, like Furies, break into my mind With flaming brands, and shew me what he means. Where is Philisthenes? _Atr._ Ask thy own bowels: Thou heard’st them groan; perhaps they now will speak. _Thy._ Thou hast not, Tyrant--what I dare not ask? _Atr._ I kill’d thy Son, and thou hast drunk his blood.
C. L.
[467] The descendants of Tantalus.
[468] A hint of the dreadful banquet which he meditates, at which the Sun is said to have turned away his horses.
[469] The mangled limbs of his son Philisthenes, which Atreus has set before him.
* * * * *
_For the Table Book_
THEATRALIA.
TOM DURFEY
Once got fifty guineas (according to tradition) for singing a single song to queen Anne in ridicule of “the princess Sophia, electress and duchess dowager of Hanover,” (as she is called in the oath of allegiance,) naturally no great favourite with the then reigning monarch. The only lines of this satirical production that have come down to us are the following; and, until now, only the two first of the stanza have been preserved by Durfey’s biographers:--
“The crown’s far too weighty For shoulders of eighty; She could not sustain such a trophy; Her hand, too, already Has grown so unsteady She can’t hold a sceptre; So Providence kept her Away.--Poor old Dowager Sophy.”
“Merry Tom” had sung before the king in the former reign, and Charles II., as is well known, was very fond of his company.
LISTON’S MARRIAGE.
The following got into circulation just after Mr. Liston was united to Miss Tyrer but never was published:--
Liston has married Fanny Tyrer: He must, like all the town, admire her, A pretty actress, charming voice! But some, astonish’d at his choice Of one, compar’d with him, so small She scarcely seem’d a wife at all, Express’d their wonder: his reply Show’d that he had “good reason why.”-- “We needs must when the devil drives; And since all married men say, wives Are of created things the worst, I was resolv’d I would be curst With one as small as I could get her. The smaller, as I thought, the better. I need not fear to lay my fist on, Whene’er ’tis needed, Mrs. Liston: And since, ’like heathen Jew or Carib, I like a _rib_, but not a _spare-rib_, I got one broad as she is long-- Go and do better, if I’m wrong.”
CHARLES JENNENS, ESQ.
One of the most singular characters of his day was Charles Jennens, Esq., a sort of literary Bubb Doddington. Being born to a good estate, from his boyhood he was ridiculously fond of show and pomp, and his style of writing was of a piece with his style of living. It has been said, that he put together the words of Handel’s “Messiah:” that he had something to do with them is true; but he had a secretary of the name of Pooley, a poor clergyman, who executed the principal part of the work, and, till now, has obtained no part of the credit. Charles Jennens, Esq. took it into his head, (perhaps the most rational notion he had ever indulged,) that the majority of Shakspeare’s commentators were mere twaddling antiquaries, without taste or talent; but he adopted an unfortunate way of proving it: he himself published an edition of _Hamlet_, _Lear_, _Othello_, and one or two more tragedies. He was of course laughed at for his attempt, and George Steevens tried to show a little of the wit, for which his friends gave him credit, and of the ill-nature for which he deserved it. Jennens published a pamphlet in reply, the greater part his own writing, which for years was his delight and solace: his poor secretary used to have the task of reading it from beginning to end, whenever his patron called for it, on giving an entertainment to his friends. Jennens commented, explained, and enforced, as he proceeded. In some of the biographical accounts of this personage it is asserted gravely, that for some time after the appearance of this tract he carefully looked over the newspapers every day, to learn if the success and severity of his attack had not compelled Dr. Johnson, Malone, Steevens, or Warburton, to hang themselves. This depends upon the following epigram, written at the time, and now only existing in MS., but which obtained a wide circulation, and is attributed, perhaps correctly, to Steevens. The only objection to this supposition is, that if it had been Steevens’s it is strange how his vanity could keep it out of the public prints, though after all it possesses but little merit:--
“After Mister Charles Jennens produc’d his _Defence_, He saw all the papers at Martyr’s, To learn if the critics had had the good sense To hang themselves in their own garters. He thought they could never out-live it. The sot Is ready _to hang himself_, ’cause they have _not_.”
When we called Jennens a literary Bubb Doddington, we ought to have remembered that Doddington had talents, but Jennens had none.
ELLISTON’S EPIGRAM.
The following has been handed about as from the pen of Mr. Elliston, now of the Surrey theatre. It may be his or it may not, but whichever way the fact be, it can do him no harm to publish it. The point is in the Greek Anthology, though we do not suppose that Mr. E. went there for it.
_The best Wine._
“What wine do you esteem the first, And like above the rest?” Ask’d Tom--said Dick--“My own is worst, My friend’s is always best.”
SIR JOHN HILL
Was a Polish knight and an English physician, more celebrated by Garrick’s epigrams than by his own dramatic compositions, consisting of two farces, _The Maiden’s Whim_ and _The Rout_. He wrote books enough on all subjects “to build his own papyral monument,” if the grocers and trunk-makers had not committed such havoc among them, even before his death. That event was produced by taking his own remedy for the gout, and it is thus commemorated.
_On the Death of Doctor Hill._
“Poor Doctor Hill is dead!”--“Good lack! Of what disorder?”--“An attack Of gout.”--“Indeed! I thought that he Had found a wondrous remedy.”-- “Why so he had, and when he tried He found it true--_the Doctor died!_”
* * * * *
GOUT.
The contest among medical men for the most proper mode of curing this complaint cannot but produce a smile, when we recollect that the afflicted have recourse to various and opposite remedies with success.
We have heard of a man who would find his pains alleviated by drinking a wineglass full of verjuice, while a table-spoonful of wine would torture him almost to distraction.
There were two counsellors, some years ago, who generally cured themselves in a very pleasant manner; one, who was accustomed to drink water constantly, would cure himself by drinking wine; and the other, who invariably took his bottle or more of wine a day, was constantly cured by the use of water.
Others, by living on a milk diet only, have entirely cured themselves.
Some years ago there was a man in Italy who was particularly successful in the cure of the gout: his mode was to make his patients sweat profusely, by obliging them to go up and down stairs, though with much pain to themselves.
A quack in France acquired great reputation for the cure of this malady, by the use of a medicine he called “Tincture of the Moon,” of which he administered some drops every morning in a basin of broth. It was never used by any but the richest persons; for the price of a bottle full, not larger than a common sized smelling bottle, was eighty louis d’ors. Furetière mentions this quack, and says he possessed many valuable secrets. He adds, that the surprising cures, to which he was witness, by the “Tincture of the Moon,” astonished all the faculty at Paris. The operation of this medicine was insensible.
* * * * *
~Stories~
OF THE
~Craven Dales.~
No. II.[470]
He had been in Yorkshire dales, Amid the winding scars; Where deep and low the hamlets lie Beneath a little patch of sky, And little patch of stars.--WORDSWORTH.
THE LEGEND OF THE TROLLER’S GILL.
On the steep fell’s height shone the fair moonlight, And its beams illum’d the dale, And a silvery sheen cloth’d the forest green, Which sigh’d to the moaning gale.
From Burnsal’s tower the midnight hour Had toll’d, and its echo was still, And the elfin band, from faërie land, Was upon Elboton hill.
’Twas silent all, save the waters’ fall, That with never ceasing din, Roar and rush, and foam and gush, In Loupscar’s troubled linn.
From his cot he stept, while the household slept, And he carroll’d with boist’rous glee, But he ne hied to the green hill’s side, The faerie train to see.
He went not to roam with his own dear maid Along by a pine-clad scar, Nor sing a lay to his ladye love, ’Neath the light of the polar star.
The Troller, I ween, was a fearless wight, And, as legends tell, could hear The night winds rave, in the Knave Knoll cave,[471] Withouten a sign of fear.
And whither now are his footsteps bent? And where is the Troller bound? To the horrid gill of the limestone hill, To call on the Spectre Hound!
And on did he pass, o’er the dew-bent grass, While the sweetest perfumes fell, From the blossoming of the trees which spring In the depth of that lonely dell.
Now before his eyes did the dark gill rise, No moon-ray pierced its gloom, And his steps around did the waters sound Like a voice from a haunted tomb.
And there as he stept, a shuddering crept O’er his frame, scarce known to fear, For he once did dream, that the sprite of the stream Had loudly called--FORBEAR!
An aged yew in the rough cliffs grew, And under its sombre shade Did the Troller rest, and with charms unblest, He a magic circle made.