Part 149
“Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds Unless the nightly owl, or fatal raven. And when they shewed me this abhorred pit, They told me, here, at dead time of night, A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins, Would make such fearful and confused cries, As any mortal body, hearing it, Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.”
_Titus Andronicus._
Young Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight, Far fam’d for his valour in border-fight, Sat prattling so sweet on his mother’s knee, As his arms twin’d her neck of pure ivory.
Now tell me, dear mother, young Walter said, Some feat to be done by the bow or the blade, Where foe may be quell’d or some charm be undone; Or lady, or treasure, or fame may be won.
The lady, she gaz’d on her war-born child, And smooth’d down his ringlets, and kiss’d him, and smil’d; And she told him high deeds of the Percy brave, Where the lance e’er could pierce, or the helm-plume wave.
And she told wild tales, all of magic spell, Where treasures were hidden in mountain or dell; Where wizards, for ages, kept beauty in thrall ’Neath the mould’ring damp of their dank donjon wall.
But list thee, my Walter, by Tinmouthe’s towers grey, Where chant the cowl’d monks all by night and by day; In a cavern of rock scoop’d under the sea, Lye treasures in keeping of Sorcery.
It avails not the Cross, ever sainted and true, It avails not the pray’rs of the prior Sir Hugh, It avails not, O dread! Holy Virgin’s care, Great treasure long held by dark Sathan is there.
Far, far ’neath the sea, in a deep rocky cell, Bound down by the chains of the strongest spell, Lies the key of gold countless as sands on the shore, And there it will rest ’till old time is no more.
Nay, say not so, mother, can heart that is bold Not win from the fiend all this ill-gotten gold? Can no lion-soul’d knight, with his harness true, Do more than cowl’d monks with their beads e’er can do?
Now hush thee young Walter, how like to thy sire! Thy heart is too reckless, thine eye full of fire: When reason with courage can help thee in need, I will tell how the treasure from spell may be freed.
Full many a long summer with scented breath, Saw the flowers blossom wild on the north mountain heath; And the fleetest in chase and the stoutest in fight, Grew young Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight.
Full many a long winter of sleet and of snow, Swept through the cold valleys where pines only grow; But heedless of sleet, snow, or howling blast, Young Walter e’er brav’d them, the first and the last.
Who is that young knight in the Percy’s band? Who wieldeth the falchion with master hand? Who strideth the war-steed in border fight? ----’Tis Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight!
Thy promise, dear mother, I claim from thee now, When my reason can act with my blade and my bow; But the lady she wept o’er bold Walter her son, For peril is great where renown can be won.
And the lady she told what to brave knights befell, Who reckless of life sought the dark treasure cell; Who failing to conquer the fiends of the cave, For ever must dwell ’neath the green ocean wave.
No tears the bold bent of young Walter could turn, And he laugh’d at her fears, as in veriest scorn-- ---- Then prepare thy good harness, my bonny brave son, Prepare for thy task on the eve of Saint John.
O loud was the green ocean’s howling din, When the eve of Saint John was usher’d in: And the shrieks of the sea-gulls, high whirling in air, Spread far o’er the land like the screams of despair.
The monks at their vespers sing loud and shrill, But the gusts of the north wind are louder still And the hymn to the Virgin is lost in the roar Of the billows that foam on the whiten’d shore.
Deep sinks the mail’d heel of the knight in the sand, As he seeks the dark cell, arm’d with basnet and brand; And clank rings the steel of his aventayle bright, As he springs up the rocks in the darkness of night.
His plume it is raven and waves o’er his crest, And quails not the heart-blood that flows in his breast: Unblenched his proud eye that shines calm and serene, And floats in the storm his bright mantel of green.
Now leaping, now swarving the slipp’ry steep, One spring and the knight gains the first cavern keep; The lightnings flash round him with madd’ning glare, And the thunderbolts hiss through the midnight air.
Down deep in the rock winds the pathway drear, And the yells of the spirits seem near and more near, And the flames from their eye-balls burn ghastly blue As they dance round the knight with a wild halloo.
Fierce dragons with scales of bright burnished brass, Stand belching red fire where the warrior must pass; But rushes he on with his brand and his shield, And with loud shrieks of laughter they vanish and yield.
Huge hell-dogs come baying with murd’rous notes, Sulphureous flames in their gaping throats; And they spring to, but shrinks not, brave Walter the Knight, And again all is sunk in the darkness of night.
Still down winds the warrior in pathway of stone, Now menac’d with spirits, now dark and alone; Till far in the gloom of the murky air A pond’rous lamp sheds unearthly glare.
Then eager the knight presses on to the flame, Holy mother!--Why shudders his stalwart frame? A wide chasm opes ’neath his wond’ring view, And now what availeth his falchion true.
Loudly the caverns with laughter ring, And the eyeless spectres forward spring: Now shrive thee young Walter, one moment of fear, And thy doom is to dwell ’neath the ocean drear.
One instant Sir Walter looks down from the brink Of the bottomless chasm, then ceases to shrink; Doffs hauberk and basnet, full fearless and fast, And darts like an eagle the hell-gulf past.
Forefend thee, good knight, but the demon fell Now rises to crush thee from nethermost hell; And monsters most horrible hiss thee around, And coil round thy limbs from the slimy ground.
A noise, as if worlds in dire conflict crash, Is heard ’mid the vast ocean’s billowy splash; But it quails not the heart of Sir Robert’s brave son, He will conquer the fiend on the eve of Saint John.
He seizes the bugle with golden chain, To sound it aloud once, twice, and again; It turns to a snake in his startled grasp, And its mouthpiece is arm’d with the sting of the asp.
In vain is hell’s rage, strike fierce as it may The Wizard well knows ’tis the end of his sway; For the bugle is fill’d with the warrior’s breath, And thrice sounded loud in the caverns of death.
The magic cock crows from a brazen bill, And it shakes its broad wings, as it shouts so shrill And down sinks in lightning the demon array, And the gates of the cavern in thunder give way.
Twelve pillars of jasper their columns uprear, Twelve stately pillars of crystal clear, With topaz and amethyst, sparkles the floor, And the bright beryls stud the thick golden door.
Twelve golden lamps, from the fretted doom, Shed a radiant light through the cavern gloom, Twelve altars of onyx their incense fling Round the jewell’d throne of an eastern king.
It may not be sung what treasures were seen, Gold heap’d upon gold, and emeralds green, And diamonds, and rubies, and sapphires untold, Rewarded the courage of Walter the Bold.
A hundred strong castles, a hundred domains, With far spreading forests and wide flowery plains, Claim one for their lord, fairly purchas’d by right, Hight Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight.
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The tradition of the “_Wizard’s Cave_” is as familiar to the inhabitants and visitors of Tynemouth, as “household words.” Daily, during the summer season, even fair damsels are seen risking their slender necks, to ascertain, by adventurous exploration, whether young Walter the knight might not, in his hurry, have passed over some of the treasures of the cave: but alas! Time on this, as on other things, has laid his heavy hand; for the falling in of the rock and earth, and peradventure the machinations of the discomfited “spirits,” have, one or both, stopped up the dark passage of the cavern at the depth of ten or twelve feet. The entrance of the cave, now well known by the name of “_Jingling Geordie’s Hole_,” is partly formed by the solid rock and partly by masonry, and can be reached with some little danger about half way up the precipitous cliff on which Tynemouth castle and priory stand. It commands a beautiful haven, or sandy bay, on the north of Tynemouth promontory, badly sheltered on both sides by fearful beds of black rocks, on which the ocean beats with a perpetual murmur.
Αλφα
_London, Dec. 4, 1827._
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PERSONS OF DISTINCTION.
UPRIGHTNESS IN DEATH.
Of German pride we have the following extraordinary anecdote:--A German lord left orders in his will not to be interred, but that he might be enclosed upright in a pillar, which he had ordered to be hollowed, and fastened to a post in the parish, in order to prevent any peasant or slave from walking over his body.
TAKING A LIBERTY.
The most singular instance of British pride is related of a man, known in his time by the name of the “Proud Duke of Somerset.” This pillar of “the Corinthian capital of polished society” married a second wife. One day, with an affectionate ease, she suddenly threw her arm round his neck, and fondly saluted him. “Madam,” said the unmanly peer, “my first wife was a Percy, and _she_ would not have taken such a liberty.”
ROYAL DINNER TIME.
The kham of the Tartars, who had not a house to dwell in, who subsisted by rapine, and lived on mare’s milk and horse-flesh, every day after his repast, caused a herald to proclaim, “That the kham having dined, all other potentates, princes, and great men of the earth, might go to dinner.”
SELF-ESTEEM.
Some Frenchmen, who had landed on the coast of Guinea, found a negro prince seated under a tree, on a block of wood for his throne, and three or four negroes, armed with wooden pikes, for his guards. His sable majesty anxiously inquired, “Do they talk much of me in France?”
GUINEA SOVEREIGNS.
The different tribes on the coast of Guinea have each their king, whose power is not greater than that of the negro prince mentioned in the preceding anecdote. These monarchs often name themselves after ours, or adopt the titles of great men, whose exploits they have heard of.
In the year 1743, there was among them a “King William,” whose august spouse called herself “Queen Anne.” There was another who styled himself the “Duke of Marlborough.”
This king William was a little Cæsar. For twenty years he had carried on a war against one Martin, who had dared to attempt to become his equal. At length, after a famous and decisive general engagement, wherein William lost three men, and his rival five, Martin made overtures for a cessation of hostilities, which was agreed to, on the following conditions:
1. That Martin should renounce the title of king, and assume that of captain.
2. That captain Martin should never more put on stockings or slippers when he went on board European ships, but that this brilliant distinction should thenceforth solely belong to king William.
3. That captain Martin should give the conqueror his most handsome daughter in marriage.
In pursuance of this glorious treaty, the nuptials were solemnized, and king William went on board a Danish ship in stockings and slippers, where he bought silk to make a robe for his queen, and a grenadier’s cap for her majesty’s headdress. Captain Martin paid a visit of ceremony to his royal daughter on occasion of her finery, and declared she never appeared so handsome before. This wedding ended a feud, which had divided the sable tribe into combatants as sanguinary and ferocious as the partisans of the white and red rose in England.
TITLES.
Until the reign of Constantine, the title of “Illustrious” was never given but to those whose reputation was splendid in arms or in letters. Suetonius wrote an account of those who had possessed this title. As it was _then_ bestowed, a moderate book was sufficient to contain their names; nor was it continued to the descendants of those on whom it had been conferred. From the time of Constantine it became very common, and every son of a prince was “illustrious.”
Towards the decline of the Roman empire the emperors styled themselves “divinities!” In 404, Arcadius and Honorius issued the following decree:--
“Let the officers of the palace be warned to abstain from frequenting tumultuous meetings; and those who, instigated by a _sacrilegious_ temerity, dare to oppose the authority of _our divinity_, shall be deprived of their employments, and their estates confiscated.” The letters of these emperors were called “holy.” When their sons spoke of them, they called them--“Their father of _divine_ memory;” or “Their _divine_ father.” They called their own laws “oracles,” and “celestial oracles.” Their subjects addressed them by the titles of “Your Perpetuity, Your Eternity.” A law of Theodore the Great ordains thus--“If any magistrate, after having concluded a public work, put his name rather than that of _Our Perpetuity_, let him be judged guilty of high treason.”
De Meunier observes, that the titles which some chiefs assume are not always honourable in themselves, but it is sufficient if the people respect them. The king of Quiterva calls himself the “Great Lion;” and for this reason lions are there so much respected, that it is not permitted to kill them, except at royal huntings.
The principal officers of the empire of Mexico were distinguished by the odd titles of “Princes of unerring javelins;” “Hackers of men;” and “Drinkers of blood.”
The king of Monomotapa, surrounded by musicians and poets, is adulated by such refined flatteries, as “Lord of the Sun and Moon;” “Great Magician;” and “Great Thief!”
The king of Arracan assumes the title of “Emperor of Arracan; Possessor of the White Elephant, and the two Ear-rings, and in virtue of this possession, legitimate heir of Pegu and Brama, Lord of the twelve provinces of Bengal; and of the twelve Kings who place their heads under his feet.”
His majesty of Ava, when he writes to a foreign sovereign, calls himself--“The King of Kings, whom all others should obey; the Cause of the Preservation of all Animals; the Regulator of the Seasons; the Absolute Master of the Ebb and Flow of the Sea; Brother to the Sun; and King of the Four and Twenty Umbrellas.” These umbrellas are always carried before him as a mark of his dignity.
The titles of the king of Achem are singular and voluminous. These are a few of the most striking:--“Sovereign of the Universe, whose body is luminous as the sun; whom God created to be as accomplished as is the moon at her plenitude; whose eye glitters like the northern star; a King as spiritual as a ball is round--who when he rises shades all his people--from under whose feet a sweet odour is wafted, &c. &c.”
Formerly (says Houssaie) the title of “Highness” was only given to kings. It was conferred on Ferdinand, king of Arragon, and his queen Isabella, of Castile. Charles V. was the first who took that of “Majesty;” not in quality of king of Spain, but as emperor.
Our English kings were apostrophized by the title of “Your Grace.” Henry VIII. was the first who assumed the title of “Highness,” and at length “Majesty.” Francis I. began to give him this last title, in their interview in the year 1520. Our first “_Sacred_ Majesty” was our “Most dread Sovereign, His Highness, the Most High and Mighty Prince, James I.”
THE GREAT TURK.
This designation of the sovereign of the Ottoman empire was not conferred, as some have imagined, to distinguish him from his subjects. Mahomet II. was the first Turkish emperor on whom the Christians bestowed the title of “The Great Turk.” The distinction was not in consequence of his noble deeds, but from the vast extent of his territories, in comparison of those of the sultan of Iconia, or Cappadocia, his contemporary, who was distinguished by the title of “The Little Turk.” After the taking of Constantinople, Mahomet II. deprived “The Little Turk” of his dominions, yet he still preserved the title of “The Great Turk,” though the propriety of it was destroyed by the event.
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AN INSCRIPTION,
_Said to have been dug out of the Ruins of a Palace at Rome._
Under this monument repose the ashes of DOMITIAN, the last of the Cæsars, the fourth scourge of Rome; a tyrant, no less deliberate than Tiberius, no less capricious than Caligula, and no less outrageous than Nero.
When satiated with issuing edicts to spill human blood, he found an amusement in stabbing flies with a bodkin.
His reign, though undisturbed by war, occasioned no less calamity to his country than would have happened from the loss of twenty battles.
He was magnificent from vanity, affable from avarice, and implacable from cowardice.
He flattered incessantly the soldiery, who governed him, and detested the senate, who caressed him.
He insulted his country by his laws, heaven by his impiety, and nature by his pleasures.
While living, he was deified; and the assassins alone, whom his empress had sent to despatch him, could convince him of his mortality.
This monster governed during fifteen years; yet the administration of Titus, the delight of humankind, was confined to two.
Ye passengers! who read this inscription, blaspheme not the Gods!
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DICKEY FLETCHER.
_To the Editor._
I hastily transcribe the following, originally written for the Hull Advertiser, and printed in that paper for September 27, 1827, and subsequently in some of the London and provincial newspapers.
On Saturday, September 22, 1827, the inhabitants and visitants of Bridlington Quay, by a fatal accident, were suddenly deprived of the services of Richard Fletcher, the facetious and well-known bellman of that place, whose singular appearance, rhyming propensity, peculiar manner of pronunciation, and drawling and general originality, have so long been a source of amusement. In the forenoon of the above-mentioned day he was following his usual vocation, with that accustomed gaiety and cheerfulness for which he was remarkable, when having occasion to call at the lodging-house of Mr. Gray, he accidentally fell down the steps of a cellar-kitchen and broke his neck. The death of “poor Dickey,” and the shocking manner in which it occurred, excited much commiseration. The deceased was seventy-nine years of age, and left a widow at the age of eighty-nine, the relict of a former bellman, to whom he had been united about four years--during which period the antiquated pair formed a striking pattern of attachment. Dickey was a freeman of Hull, and the manner in which he made up his mind to vote for a candidate is deserving of mention. In the event of a contested election he was uniformly for the “third man;” as, he would say, “the other two would not think of looking after _me_, but for _him_.”
A specimen of Dickey’s rhyming eccentricities appeared in the Hull Advertiser of August 5th, 1825; a copy of which, and the paragraph accompanying it, is here given:--
“The company at Bridlington Quay are often highly amused by that eccentric little creature, yclep’d ‘the bellman.’ He is quite a lion;--being a poet as well as a crier. His poetry is uncommonly original, and if his pronunciation, when _improvising_, be not so too, it is uncommonly _Yorkshire_, which is as good. The following lines are a very faithful imitation of the ‘cry’ this singular-looking being drawled forth on Saturday morning, July 30:--
‘Tack’n oop this forenoon a pod noarth sans Two keyes, wich I ev i’ my ans;-- Wo-hever as lost ’um mus coom te mea, An they sal ev ’um agean an we can agrea.’”
“Dickey’s late marriage was one of the ‘largest and the funniest’ known in Bridlington for a long time; a barouche and pair were gratuitously provided on the occasion, as well as a wedding-dinner and other _et cæteras_. Since ‘they twain became one flesh,’ Dickey has been very proud of walking abroad, at fair times and public occasions, with ‘his better part,’ when they generally formed objects of considerable attraction to those to whom they were not particularly known.”
T. C.
_Bridlington, October, 1827._
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ANOTHER ODD SIGN.[508]
At Wold Newton, near Bridlington, there is a public-house with the sign of a crooked billet, and the following lines on an angular board:--
_First side_
When this comical stick grew in the wood Our ALE was fresh and very good, Step in and taste, O do make haste, For if you don’t ’twill surely waste.
_Second side._
When you have view’d the other side, Come read this too before you ride; And now to end we’ll let it pass, Step in, kind friends, and take a GLASS.
_Bridlington._
T. C.
[508] See _Table Book_, vol. i. p. 636.
* * * * *
_For the Table Book._
TO FANNY.
No, Fanny, no, it may not be! Though parting break my heart in twain, This hour I go, by many a sea Divided--ne’er we meet again.
I love thee; and that look of thine, That tear upon thy pallid cheek, Assures me that I now resign What long it was my joy to seek.
Oh! once it was my happiest dream, My only hope, my fondest prayer; ’Tis gone, and like a meteor beam Hath past, and left me to despair.
Yet may you still of joy partake, Nor find like me those hopes decay, Which ever, like a desert lake, Attract the sight to fade away.
I could not brook to see that eye, So full of life, so radiant now, I could not see its lustre die, And time’s cold hand deface thy brow--
And death will come, or soon or late, (I could not brook to know that hour,) But, if I do not learn thy fate, I’ll think thou ne’er canst feel his pow’r.
Yes! I will fly! though years may roll, And other thoughts may love estrange, ’Twill give some pleasure to my soul To know I cannot see thee change.
Then fare thee well, death cannot bring One hour of anguish more to me; Since I have felt the only sting He e’er could give, in leaving thee.
S.
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THE PLEASURES OF ILLUSION.
_To the Editor._