Part 32
Tommy Sly, whose portrait is above, is a well-known eccentric character in the city of Durham, where he has been a resident in the poor-house for a number of years. We know not whether his parents were rich or poor, where he was born, or how he spent his early years--all is alike “a mystery;” and all that can be said of him is, that he is “daft.” Exactly in appearance as he is represented in the engraving,--he dresses in a coat of many colours, attends the neighbouring villages with spice, sometimes parades the streets of Durham with “pipe-clay for the lasses,” and on “gala days” wanders up and down with a cockade in his hat, beating the city drum, which is good-naturedly lent him by the corporation. Tommy, as worthless and insignificant as he seems, is nevertheless “put out to use:” his name has often served as a signature to satirical effusions; and at election times he has been occasionally employed by the Whigs to take the distinguished lead of some grand Tory procession, and thereby render it ridiculous; and by way of retaliation, he has been hired by the Tories to do the same kind office for the Whigs. He is easily bought or sold, for he will do any thing for a few halfpence. To sum up Tommy’s character, we may say with truth, that he is a harmless and inoffensive man; and if the reader of this brief sketch should ever happen to be in Durham, and have a few halfpence to spare, he cannot bestow his charity better than by giving it to the “Custos Rotulorum” of the place--as Mr. Humble once ludicrously called him--poor TOMMY SLY.
EX DUNELMENSIS.
* * * * *
~Topography.~
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
BURIAL FEES.
The following particulars from a paper before me, in the hand-writing of Mr. Gell, were addressed to his “personal representative” for instruction, in his absence, during a temporary retirement from official duty in August, 1810.
FEES
In the _Cloisters_ £19 6 0
If a grave-stone _more_ £4 4 0
In the _Abbey_ 54 18 0
If a grave-stone _more_ 7 7 0
_Peers_, both in the Cloisters and Abbey, the degree of rank making a difference, Mr. Catling had perhaps write to Mr. Gell, at post-office, Brighton, telling the party that it will be under £150. They might, therefore, leave that sum, or engage to pay Mr. Gell.
Mr. Glanvill can tell about the decorations.
Penalty for burying in linen 2 10 0
Always take full particulars of age and death.
* * * * *
The abbey-church of Westminster may be safely pronounced the most interesting ecclesiastical structure in this kingdom. Considered as a building, its architecture, rich in the varieties of successive ages, and marked by some of the most prominent beauties and peculiarities of the pointed style, affords an extensive field of gratification to the artist and the antiquary. Rising in solemn magnificence amidst the palaces and dignified structures connected with the seat of imperial government, it forms a distinguishing feature in the metropolis of England. Its history, as connected with a great monastic establishment, immediately under the notice of our ancient monarchs, and much favoured by their patronage, abounds in important and curious particulars.
But this edifice has still a stronger claim to notice--it has been adopted as a national structure, and held forward as an object of national pride. Whilst contemplating these venerable walls, or exploring the long aisles and enriched chapels, the interest is not confined to the customary recollections of sacerdotal pomp: ceremonies of more impressive interest, and of the greatest public importance, claim a priority of attention. The grandeur of architectural display in this building is viewed with additional reverence, when we remember that the same magnificence of effect has imparted increased solemnity to the coronation of our kings, from the era of the Norman conquest.
At a very early period, this abbey-church was selected as a place of burial for the English monarchs; and the antiquary and the student of history view their monuments as melancholy, but most estimable sources of intelligence and delight. In the vicinity of the ashes of royalty, a grateful and judicious nation has placed the remains of such of her sons as have been most eminent for patriotic worth, for valour, or for talent; and sculptors, almost from the earliest period in which their art was exercised by natives of England, down to the present time, have here exerted their best efforts, in commemoration of those thus celebrated for virtue, for energy, or for intellectual power.[82]
[82] Mr. Brayley; in Neale’s Hist. and Antiq. of Westminster Abbey.
* * * * *
~St. David’s Day.~
THE LEEK.
_Written by_ WILLIAM LEATHART, _Llywydd_.
Sung at the Second Anniversary of the Society of UNDEB CYMRY, St. David’s Day, 1825.
AIR--_Pen Rhaw_.
I.
If bards tell true, and hist’ry’s page Is right,--why, then, I would engage To tell you all about the age, When Cæsar used to speak; When dandy Britons painted,--were Dress’d in the skin of wolf or bear, Or in their own, if none were there, Before they wore THE LEEK. Ere Alfred hung in the highway, His chains of gold by night or day; And never had them stol’n away, His subjects were so meek. When wolves they danc’d o’er field and fen; When austere _Druids_ roasted men;-- But that was only now and then, Ere Welshmen wore THE LEEK.
II.
Like all good things--this could not last, And _Saxon_ gents, as friends, were ask’d, Our Pictish foes to drive them past The wall:--then home to seek, Instead of home, the cunning chaps Resolv’d to stop and dish the APs, Now here they are, and in their caps To day they wear THE LEEK. Yet tho’ our dads, they tumbled out, And put each other to the rout, We sons will push the bowl about;-- We’re here for fun or freak. Let nought but joy within us dwell; Let mirth and glee each bosom swell; And bards, in days to come, shall tell, How Welshmen love THE LEEK.
* * * * *
THE WELSH HARP.
Mr. Leathart is the author of “_Welsh Pennillion_, with Translations into English, adapted for _singing to the Harp_,” an eighteenpenny pocket-book of words of ancient and modern melodies in Welsh and English, with a spirited motto from Mr. Leigh Hunt.--“The Ancient Britons had in them the seeds of a great nation even in our modern sense of the word. They had courage, they had reflection, they had imagination. Power at last made a vassal of their prince. There were writers in those times, harpers, and bards, who made the instinct of that brute faculty turn cruel out of fear. They bequeathed to their countrymen the glory of their memories; they and time together have consecrated their native hills, so as they never before were consecrated.”
According to the prefatory dissertation of Mr. Leathart’s pleasant little manual, “Pennillion singing” is the most social relic of ancient minstrelsy in existence. It originated when bardism nourished in this island; when the object of its members was to instil moral maxims through the medium of poetry, and the harp was then, as it still is, the instrument to which they chanted. There is evidence of this use of the harp in Cæsar and other Latin writers. The bards were priest and poet; the harp was their inseparable attribute, and skill in playing on it an indispensable qualification. A knowledge of this instrument was necessary, in order to establish a claim to the title of gentleman; it occupied a place in every mansion; and every harper was entitled to valuable privileges. A “Pencerdd,” or chief of song, and a “Bardd Teulu,” or domestic bard, were among the necessary appendages to the king’s court. The former held his lands free, was stationed by the side of the “judge of the palace,” and lodged with the heir presumptive. He was entitled to a fee on the tuition of all minstrels, and to a maiden fee on the marriage of a minstrel’s daughter. The fine for insulting him was six cows and eighty pence. The domestic bard also held his land free; he had a harp from the king, which he was enjoined never to part with; a gold ring from the queen, and a beast out of every spoil. In the palace he sang immediately after the chief of song, and in fight at the front of the battle. It is still customary for our kings to maintain a Welsh minstrel.
One of the greatest encouragers of music was Gruffydd ap Cynan, a sovereign of Wales, who, in the year 1100, summoned a grand congress to revise the laws of minstrelsy, and remedy any abuse that might have crept in. In order that it should be complete, the most celebrated harpers in Ireland were invited to assist, and the result was the establishing the twenty-four canons of music; the MS. of which is in the library of the Welsh school, in Gray’s Inn-lane. It comprises several tunes not now extant, or rather that cannot be properly deciphered, and a few that are well known at the present day. A tune is likewise there to be found, which a note informs us was usually played before king Arthur, when the salt was laid upon the table; it is called “Gosteg yr Halen,” or the _Prelude of the Salt_.
The regulations laid down in the above MS. are curious. A minstrel having entered a place of festivity was not allowed to depart without leave, or to rove about at any time, under the penalty of losing his fees. If he became intoxicated and committed any mischievous trick, he was fined, imprisoned, and divested of his fees for seven years. Only one could attend a person worth ten pounds per annum, or two a person worth twenty pounds per annum, and so forth. It likewise ordains the quantum of musical knowledge necessary for the taking up of the different degrees, for the obtaining of which three years seems to have been allowed.
The Welsh harp, or “Telyn,” consists of three distinct rows of strings, without pedals, and was, till the fifteenth century, strung with hair. The modern Welsh harp has two rows of strings and pedals.
Giraldus Cambrensis, in his Itinerary, speaking of the musical instruments of the Welsh, Irish, and Scotch, says, Wales uses the harp, “crwth,” and bag-pipes; Scotland the harp, “crwth,” and drum; Ireland the harp and drum only; and, of all, Wales only retains her own.
The “crwth” is upon the same principle as the violin; it has however six strings, four of which are played upon with a bow, the two outer being struck by the thumb as an accompaniment, or bass; its tone is a mellow tenor, but it is now seldom heard, the last celebrated player having died about forty years since, and with him, says the editor of the Cambrian Register, “most probably the true knowledge of producing its melodious powers.” From the player of this instrument is derived a name now common, viz. “Crowther” and “Crowder” (Crwthyr); it may be translated “fiddler,” and in this sense it is used by Butler in his Hudibras.
Within the last few years, the harp has undergone a variety of improvements, and it is now the most fashionable instrument; yet in Wales it retains its ancient form and triple strings; “it has its imperfections,” observes Mr. Parry, “yet it possesses one advantage, and that is its unisons,” which of course are lost when reduced to a single row.
There would be much persuasion necessary to induce “Cymru” to relinquish her old fashioned “Telyn,” so reluctant are a national people to admit of changes. When the violin superseded the “crwth,” they could not enjoy the improvement.
Pennillion chanting consists in singing stanzas, either attached or detached, of various lengths and metre, to any tune which the harper may play; for it is irregular, and in fact not allowable, for any particular one to be chosen. Two, three, or four bars having been played, the singer takes it up, and this is done according as the Pennill, or stanza, may suit; he must end precisely with the strain, he therefore commences in any part he may please. To the stranger it has the appearance of beginning in the middle of a line or verse, but this is not the case. Different tunes require a different number of verses to complete it; sometimes only one, sometimes four or six. It is then taken up by the next, and thus it proceeds through as many as choose to join in the pastime, twice round, and ending with the person that began.
These convivial harp meetings are generally conducted with great regularity, and are really social; all sing if they please, or all are silent. To some tunes there are a great number of singers, according to the ingenuity required in adapting Pennillion. Yet even this custom is on the decline.
In South Wales, the custom has been long lost; on its demise they encouraged song writing and singing, and they are still accounted the best (without the harp) in the principality. In North Wales song-singing was hardly known before the time of Huw Morus, in the reign of Charles I., nor is it now so prevalent as in the south.
In the year 1176, Rhys ap Gruffydd held a congress of bards and minstrels at Aberteifi, in which the North Welsh bards came off as victors in the poetical contest, and the South Welsh were adjudged to excel in the powers of harmony.
For the encouragement of the harp and Pennillion chanting, a number of institutions have lately been formed, and the liberal spirit with which they are conducted will do much towards the object; among the principal are the “Cymmrodorion,” or Cambrian Societies of Gwynedd, Powys, Dyfed, Gwent, and London; the “Gwyneddigion,” and “Canorion,” also in London. The former established so long since as 1771, and the “Undeb Cymry,” or United Welshmen, established in 1823, for the same purpose. In all the principal towns of Wales, societies having the same object in view have been formed, among which the “Brecon Minstrelsy Society” is particularly deserving of notice. The harp and Pennillion singing have at all times come in for their share of encomium by the poets, and are still the theme of many a sonnet in both languages.
From more than a hundred pieces in Mr. Leathart’s “Pennillion,” translations of a few pennills, or stanzas, are taken at random, as specimens of the prevailing sentiments.
The man who loves the sound of harp, Of song, and ode, and all that’s dear, Where angels hold their blest abode, Will cherish all that’s cherish’d there. But he who loves not tune nor strain, Nature to him no love has given, You’ll see him while his days remain, Hateful both to earth and heaven.
* * * * *
Fair is yon harp, and sweet the song, That strays its tuneful strings along, And would not such a minstrel too, This heart to sweetest music woo? Sweet is the bird’s melodious lay In summer morn upon the spray. But from my Gweno sweeter far, The notes of friendship after war.
* * * * *
Woe to him, whose every bliss Centers in the burthen’d bowl; Of all burthens none like this, Sin’s sad burthen on the soul; Tis of craft and lies the seeker, Murder, theft, and wantonness, Weakens strong men, makes weak weaker, Shrewd men foolish, foolish--less.
* * * * *
Ah! what avails this golden coat, Or all the warblings of my throat, While I in durance pine? Give me again what nature gave, ’Tis all I ask, ’tis all I crave, Thee, Liberty divine!
* * * * *
To love his language in its pride, To love his land--tho’ all deride, Is a Welshman’s ev’ry care, And love those customs, good and old, Practised by our fathers bold.
* * * * *
We travel, and each town we pass Gives manners new, which we admire, We leave them, then o’er ocean toss’d Thro’ rough or smooth, to pleasure nigher, Still one thought remains behind, ’Tis home, sweet home, our hearts desire.
* * * * *
Wild in the woodlands, blithe and free, Dear to the bird is liberty; Dear to the babe to be caress’d, And fondled on his nurse’s breast, Oh! could I but explain to thee How dear is Merion’s land to me.
* * * * *
Low, ye hills, in ocean lie. That hide fair Merion from mine eye, One distant view, oh! let me take, Ere my longing heart shall break.
* * * * *
Another dress will nature wear Before again I see my fair; The smiling fields will flowers bring, And on the trees the birds will sing; But still one thing unchang’d shall be, That is, dear love, my heart for thee.
The original Welsh of these and other translations, with several interesting particulars, especially the places of weekly harp-meetings and Pennillion-singing in London, may be found in Mr. Leathart’s agreeable compendium.
* * * * *
THE WINTER’S MORN.
Artist unseen! that dipt in frozen dew Hast on the glittering glass thy pencil laid, Ere from yon sun the transient visions fade, Swift let me trace the forms thy fancy drew! Thy towers and palaces of diamond hue, Rivers and lakes of lucid crystal made, And hung in air hoar trees of branching shade, That liquid pearl distil:--thy scenes renew, Whate’er old bards, or later fictions feign, Of secret grottos underneath the wave, Where nereids roof with spar the amber cave, Or bowers of bliss, where sport the fairy train, Who frequent by the moonlight wanderer seen Circle with radiant gems the dewy green.
SOTHEBY.
* * * * *
~Characters.~
MRS. AURELIA SPARR.
_For the Table Book._
Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is a maiden lady, rather past fifty, but fresh and handsome for her age: she has a strong understanding, a retentive memory, a vast deal of acquired knowledge, and with all she is the most disagreeable woman breathing. At first she is amusing enough to spend an evening with, for she will tell you anecdotes of all your acquaintance, and season them with a degree of pleasantry, which is not wit, though something like it. But as a jest-book is the most tiresome reading in the world, so is a narrative companion the most wearisome society. What, in short, is conversation worth, if it be not an emanation from the heart as well as head; the result of sympathy and the aliment of esteem?
Mrs. Aurelia Sparr never sympathized with any body in her life: inexorable to weaknesses of every kind, more especially to those of a tender nature, she is for ever taxing enthusiasm with absurdity, and resolving the ebullition of vivacity into vanity, and the desire to show off. She is equally severe to timidity, which she for ever confounds with imbecility. We are told, that “Gentle dulness ever loved a joke.” Now Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is neither gentle nor dull; it would be a mercy to her hearers if she were either, or both: nevertheless, she chuckles with abundant glee over a good story, is by no means particular as to the admission of unpleasant images and likes it none the worse for being a little gross. But woe to the unlucky wight who ventures any glowing allusion to love and passionate affection in her hearing! Down come the fulminations of her wrath, and indecency--immorality--sensuality--&c. &c. &c.--are among the mildest of the epithets, or, to keep up the metaphor, (a metaphor, like an actor, should always come in more than once,) the _bolts_ which the tempest of her displeasure hurls down upon its victim. The story of Paul and Virginia she looks upon as very improper, while the remembrance of some of the letters in Humphrey Clinker dimples her broad face with retrospective enjoyment.
If pronouns had been tangible things, Mrs. Aurelia Sparr would long ago have worn out the first person singular. Her sentences begin as regularly with “I,” as the town-crier’s address does with “O yes,” or as a French letter ends with “l’assurance des sentimens distingués.” While living with another lady in daily and inevitable intercourse, never was she known to say, “We shall see--we shall hear--we can go--we must read.” It was always “I, I, I.” In the illusion of her egotism, she once went so far as to make a verbal monopoly of the weather, and exclaimed, on seeing the rosy streaks in the evening sky, “I think I shall have a fine day to-morrow.” If you forget yourself so far, in the querulous loquacity of sickness, as to tell her of any ailment, as “My sore-throat is worse than ever to-night”--she does not rejoin, “What will you take?” or “Colds are always worse of an evening, it may be better to-morrow;” or propose flannel or gargle, or any other mode of alleviation, like an ordinary person; no! she flies back from you to herself with the velocity of a coiled-up spring suddenly let go; and says, “I had just such another sore-throat at Leicester ten years ago, I remember it was when I had taken down my chintz bed-curtains to have them washed and glazed.” Then comes a mammoth of an episode, huge, shapeless, and bare of all useful matter: telling all she said to the laundress, with the responses of the latter. You are not spared an item of the complete process: first, you are blinded with dust, then soaked in lye, then comes the wringing of your imagination and the calico, then the bitterness of the gall to refresh the colours; then you are extended on the mangle, and may fancy yourself at the court of king Procrustes, or in a rolling-press. All the while you are wondering how she means to get round to the matter in question, your sore-throat.--Not she! _she cares_ no more for your sore-throat than the reviewers do for a book with the title of which they head an article; your complaint was the peg, and her discourse the voluminous mantle to be hung on it. Some people talk _with_ others, and they are companions; others _at_ their company, and they are declaimers or satirists; others _to_ their friends, and they are conversationists or gossips, according as they talk of things or persons. Mrs. Aurelia Sparr talks neither to you, nor with you, nor at you. Listen attentively, or show your weariness by twenty devices of fidgetiness and preoccupation, it is all the same to Mrs. Aurelia Sparr. She talks spontaneously, from an abstract love of hearing her own voice; she can no more help talking, than a ball can help rolling down an inclined plane. She will quarrel with you at dinner, for she is extremely peevish and addicted to growling over her meals; and by no means so nice as to what comes out of her mouth as to what goes into it; and then, before you can fold your napkin, push back your chair and try to make good your escape, she begins to lay open the errors, failures, and weaknesses of her oldest and best friends to your cold-blooded inspection, with as little reserve as an old practitioner lecturing over a “subject.” Things that no degree of intimacy could justify her in imparting, she pours forth to a person whom she does not even treat as a friend; but talk she must, and she had no other topic at hand. Thus, at the end of a siege, guns are charged with all sorts of rubbish for lack of ammunition.