Part 38
The flower is faded, The sun-beam is fled, The bright eye is shaded, The loved one is dead: Like a star in the morning-- When, mantled in gray, Aurora is dawning-- She vanish’d away.
Like the primrose that bloometh Neglected to die, Though its sweetness perfumeth The ev’ning’s soft sigh-- Like lightning in summer, Like rainbows that shine With a mild dreamy glimmer In colours divine--
The kind and pure hearted, The tender, the true, From our love has departed With scarce an adieu: So briefly, so brightly In virtue she shone, As shooting stars nightly That blaze and are gone.
The place of her slumber Is holy to me, And oft as I number The leaves of the tree, Whose branches in sorrow Bend over her urn, I think of to-morrow And silently mourn.
The farewell is spoken, The spirit sublime The last tie has broken, That bound it to time; And bright is its dwelling Its mansion of bliss-- How far, far excelling The darkness of this!
Yet hearts still are beating, And eyes still are wet-- True, our joys are all fleeting, But who can forget? I know they must vanish As visions depart, But oh, can this banish The thorn from my heart?
The eye of affection, Its tribute of tears Sheds, with fond recollection Of life’s happy years; And tho’ vain be the anguish Indulg’d o’er the tomb, Yet nature will languish And shrink from its gloom.
Those lips--their least motion Was music to me, And, like light on the ocean, Those eyes seem’d to be: Are they mute--and for ever? The spell will not break; Are they closed--must I never Behold them awake?
When distress was around me Thy smiles were as balm, That in misery found me, And left me in calm: Success became dearer When thou wert with me, And the clear sky grew clearer When gaz’d on with thee.
Thou art gone--and tho’ reason My grief would disarm, I feel there’s a season When grief has a charm; And ’tis sweeter, far sweeter To sit by thy grave, Than to follow Hope’s meteor Down time’s hasty wave.
In darkness we laid thee-- The earth for thy bed-- The couch that we made thee Is press’d by thee dead: In sorrow’s film shrouded, Our eyes could not see The glory unclouded That opened on thee.
Thou canst not, pure spirit, Return to the dust, But we may inherit-- So humbly we trust-- The joys without measure To which thou art gone, The regions of pleasure Where tears are unknown.
H.
* * * * *
EFFECT OF CONSCIENCE.
On the 30th of March, 1789, 360_l._ was carried to the account of the public, in consequence of the following note received by the chancellor of the exchequer.
“Sir--You will herewith receive bank notes to the amount of 360_l._ which is the property of the nation, and which, as an honest man, you will be so just as to apply to the use of the state in such manner that the nation may not suffer by its having been detained from the public treasury. You are implored to do this for the ease of conscience to an honest man.”
* * * * *
~Anecdotes~
OF
HENRY THE GREAT.
PUBLIC LIBEL.
About 1605, Henry IV. of France attempting to enforce some regulations respecting the annuities upon the Hotel de Ville, of Paris, several assemblies of the citizens were held, in which Francis Miron, the prévôt des marchands, addressed the king’s commissioners against the measures with fervour and firmness. It was rumoured amongst the people of Paris, that their magistrate was threatened, for having exerted himself too warmly in their behalf; they crowded about his house, in order to defend him, but Miron requested them to retire, and not to render him really criminal. He represented that nothing injurious was to be apprehended, for they had a king as great and wise, as he was beneficent and just, who would not suffer himself to be hurried away by the instigations of evil counsellors. Yet those whose conduct Miron had arraigned, endeavoured to persuade Henry to punish him, and deprive him of his office, for disobedient actions, and seditious discourse. The king’s answer contained memorable expressions:--“Authority does not always consist in carrying things with a high hand: regard must be paid to times, persons, and the subject-matter. I have been ten years in extinguishing civil discord, I dread its revival, and Paris has cost me too much for me to risk its loss; in my opinion, it would unquestionably be the case, were I to follow your advice; for I should be obliged to make terrible examples, which, in a few days, would deprive me of the glory of clemency, and the affection of my people; and these I prize as much, and even more than my crown. I have experienced, on many occasions, the fidelity and probity of Miron, who harbours no ill intentions, but undoubtedly deemed himself bound, by the duties of his office, to act as he has acted. If unguarded expressions have escaped him, I pardon them, on account of his past services; and, should he even desire a martyrdom in the public cause, I will disappoint him of the glory, by avoiding to become a persecutor and a tyrant.”
Henry ended the affair by receiving the apology and submission of Miron, and revoking the orders concerning the annuities, which had occasioned the popular alarm.[93]
* * * * *
LIBELLOUS DRAMA.
On the 26th of January, 1607, a pleasant farce was acted at the Hotel de Bourgogne, at Paris, before Henry IV., his queen, and the greater part of the princes, lords, and ladies of the court. The subject of the piece was a quarrel between a married man and his wife. The wife told her husband, that he staid tippling at the tavern while executions were daily laid upon their goods, for the tax which must be paid to the king, and that all their substance was carried away. “It is for that very reason,” said the husband in his defence, “that we should make merry with good cheer; for of what service would all the fortune we could amass be to us, since it would not belong to ourselves, but to this same noble king. I will drink the more, and of the very best: monsieur the king shall not meddle with that; go fetch me some this minute; march.” “Ah, wretch!” replied the wife, “would you bring me and your children to ruin?” During this dialogue, three officers of justice came in, and demanded the tax, and, in default of payment, prepared to carry away the furniture. The wife began a loud lamentation; at length the husband asked them who they were? “We belong to Justice,” said the officers: “How, to _Justice_!” replied the husband; “they who belong to Justice act in another manner; I do not believe that you are what you say.” During this altercation the wife seized a trunk, upon which she seated herself. The officers commanded her, “in the king’s name,” to open it; and after much dispute the trunk was opened, and out jumped three devils, who carry away the three officers of justice.
The magistrates, conceiving themselves to have been insulted by this performance, caused the actors to be arrested, and committed them to prison. On the same day they were discharged, by express command of the king, who magnanimously told those that complained of the affront, “You are fools! If any one has a right to take offence, it is I, who have received more abuse than any of you. I pardon the comedians from my heart; for the rogues made me laugh till I cried again.”[94]
[93] Perefixe.
[94] L’Etoile, Hist. d’Henri IV.
* * * * *
CUSTOM AT SCARBOROUGH.
The fish-market is held on the sands, by the sides of the boats, which, at low water, are run upon wheels with a sail set, and are conducted by the fishermen, who dispose of their cargoes in the following manner.
One of the female fishmongers inquires the price, and bids a groat; the fishermen ask a sum in the opposite extreme: the one bids up, and the other reduces the demand, till they meet at a reasonable point, when the bidder suddenly exclaims, “Het!” This practice seems to be borrowed from the Dutch. The purchase is afterwards retailed among the regular, or occasional surrounding customers.
* * * * *
LINES TO A BARREL ORGAN.
_For the Table Book._
How many thoughts from thee I cull, Music’s humblest vehicle! From thy caravan of sounds, Constant in its daily rounds, Some such pleasure do I find As when, borne upon the wind, The well-known “bewilder’d chimes” Plaintively recall those times, (Long since lost in sorrow’s shade,) When, in some sequester’d glade, Their simple, stammering tongues would try Some heart-moving melody.-- Oldest musical delight Of my boyish days! the sight Or sound of thee would charm my feet, And make my joy of heart complete-- How thou luredst listeners To thy crazy, yearning airs!-- Harmonious, grumbling volcano! Murm’ring sounds in small _piano_, Or screaming forth a shrill _soprano_, Mingled with the growling bass. Fragments of some air I trace, Stifled by the notes which cram it-- Scatter’d ruins of the gamut!-- Sarcophagus of harmony! Orpheus’ casket! guarded by A swain who lives by what he earns From the music which he churns: Every note thou giv’st _by turns_.-- Not Pindar’s lyre more variety Possess’d than thou! no cloy’d satiety Feel’st thou at thy perpetual feast Of sound; nor weariness the least: Thy task’s perform’d with right goodwill.-- Thou art a melodious mill! Notes, like grain, are dribbled in, Thou _grindest_ them, and fill’st the bin Of melody with plenteous store. Thy tunes are like the parrot’s lore, Nothing of them dost thou wot, But repeatest them by rote.-- Curious, docile instrument! To skilless touch obedient: Like a mine of richest ore, Inexhaustible in store, Yielding at a child’s command All thy wealth unto its hand. Harmonicon peripatetic! What clue to notes so oft erratic Hast thou, by which the ear may follow Through thy labyrinthine hollow, Which its own echo dost consume, As stoves devour their own fume.-- Mysterious fabric! cage-like chest! Behind whose gilded bars the nest Of unfledg’d melodies is hid ’Neath that brazen coverlid.-- In thy bondage-house of song, Bound in brazen fetters strong, Immortal harmonies do groan! Doleful sounds their stifled moan. A vulture preys upon their pangs, Round whose neck their prison hangs, Like that tenanted strong box By eagle found upon the rocks Of Brobdingnag’s gigantic isle. Like Sysiphus, their endless toil Is hopeless: their tormentor’s claw Turns the wheel (his will’s their law) Which all their joints and members racks, Ne’er will his cruelty relax.-- Miniature in shape and sound Of that grand instrument, which round Old cathedral walls doth send Its pealing voice; whose tones do blend The clangor of the trumpet’s throat, And the silver-stringed lute.-- To what else shall I compare thee?-- Further epithets I’ll spare thee. Honest and despised thing, To thy memory I cling. Spite of all thy faults, I own I love thy “old, familiar” tone.
GASTON.
* * * * *
MINISTERIAL FAVOUR.
A gentleman who had been long attached to cardinal Mazarine, reminded the cardinal of his many promises, and his dilatory performance. Mazarine, who had a great regard for him, and was unwilling to lose his friendship, took his hand, and explained the many demands made upon a person in his situation as minister, which it would be politic to satisfy previously to other requests, as they were founded on services done to the state. The cardinal’s adherent, not very confident in his veracity, replied, “My lord, all the favour I now ask at your hand is, that whenever we meet in public, you will do me the honour to tap me on the shoulder in an unreserved manner.” The cardinal smiled, and in the course of two or three years tapping, his friend became a wealthy man, on the credit of these attentions to him; and Mazarine and his confidant laughed at the public security which enriched the courtier at so little expense to the state.
* * * * *
DUDLEY OF PORTSMOUTH.
“I’M A GOING!”
_For the Table Book._
Barbers are not more celebrated by a desire to become the most busy citizens of the state, than by the expert habit in which they convey news. Many a tale is invented out of a mere surmise, or whisper, for the gratification of those who attend barbers’ shops. An old son of the scissors and razor, well known at Portsmouth, was not, however, quite so perfect a _phiz_iologist, as his more erudite and bristling fraternity. One evening, as he was preparing his fronts, and fitting his comb “to a hair,” two supposed gentlemen entered his shop to be dressed; this being executed with much civility and despatch, a wager was laid with old Dudley, (for that was his name,) that he could not walk in a ring three feet in diameter, for one hour, and utter no other words than “I’m a going!” Two pounds on each side was on the counter; the ring was drawn in chalk; the money chinked in the ear, and old Dudley moved in the circle of his orbit. “I’m a going!--I’m a going!--I’m a going!” were the only words which kept time with his feet during the space of fifty-five minutes, when, on a sudden, one of the gentlemen sprang forward, and taking up the money, put it into his pocket. This device threw old Dudley off his guard, and he exclaimed, “That’s not fair!”--“Enough!” rejoined the sharpers, “you’ve lost the wager.” They departed, leaving him two pounds minus, and to this day old Dudley is saluted by the appellation of “I’m a going!”
JEHOIADA.
* * * * *
ROYAL DECISION.
In the reign of George I. the sister of judge Dormer being married to a gentleman who afterwards killed a man very basely, the judge went to move the king for a pardon. It was impossible that he could offer any thing to the royal ear in extenuation of the crime, and therefore he was the more earnest in expressing his hope that his majesty would save him and his family from the infamy the execution of the sentence would bring upon them. “So, Mr. Justice,” said the king, “what you propose to me is, that I should transfer the infamy from you and your family, to me and my family; but I shall do no such thing.” Motion refused.
* * * * *
~Biographiana.~
REV. THOMAS COOKE.
_To the Editor._
Sir--In reply to the inquiries of your correspondent G. J. D. at p. 136, I beg to state, that the person he alludes to was the translator of Hesiod, immortalized by Pope in his Dunciad.
The Rev. Thomas Cooke was a profound Greek and Latin scholar, and consequently much better versed in the beauties of Homer, &c. than the irritable translator of the Iliad and Odyssey: his remarks on, and expositions of Pope’s glaring misconceptions of many important passages of the ancient bard drew down the satirical vengeance of his illustrious translator.
It would, however, appear that Pope was not the assailant in the first instance, for in the Appendix to the Dunciad we find “A list of Books, Papers, and Verses, in which our author (Pope) was abused, before the publication of that Poem;” and among the said works “The Battle of the Poets, an heroic Poem, by Thomas Cooke, printed for J. Roberts, folio, 1725,” is particularly mentioned. In book ii. of the Dunciad, we have the following line,--
“Cooke shall be Prior, and Concanen Swift;”
to which the following note is appended:--
“The man here specified writ a thing called _The Battle of the Poets_, in which Philips and Welsted were the heroes, and Swift and Pope utterly routed.”
Cooke also published some “malevolent things in the British, London, and daily journals, and at the same time wrote letters to Mr. Pope, protesting his innocence.”
His chief work was a translation of “Hesiod, to which Theobald writ notes, and half notes, which he carefully owned.”
Again, in the testimonies of authors, which precede the Dunciad, we find the following remark:--
“_Mr. Thomas Cooke_,
“After much blemishing our author’s Homer, crieth out
“But in his other works what beauties shine, While sweetest music dwells in ev’ry line! These he admir’d, on these he stamp’d his praise, And bade them live t’ enlighten future days!”
I have somewhere read that Cooke was a native of Sussex; that he became famous for his knowledge of the Greek and Latin languages while at Cambridge; and was ultimately settled in some part of Shropshire, where he soon became acquainted with the family of the young lady celebrated by his muse, in the fifth number of the _Table Book_, and where he also greatly distinguished himself as a clergyman, and preceptor of the younger branches of the neighbouring gentry and nobility. This may in some measure account for the respectable list of subscribers alluded to by G. J. D.
It is presumed, however, that misfortune at length overtook him; for we find, in the “Ambulator, or London and its Environs,” under the head “Lambeth,” that he lies interred in the church-yard of that parish, and that he died extremely poor: he is, moreover, designated “the celebrated translator of Hesiod, Terence, &c.”
I have seen the poem entitled “The Immortality of the Soul,” mentioned by G. J. D., though I have no recollection of its general features or merit; but of “The Battle of the Poets” I have a copy; and what renders it more rare and valuable is, that it was Mr. Cooke’s own impression of the work, and has several small productions upon various occasions, written, I presume, with his own hand, each having the signature “Thomas Cooke,” on the blank leaves at the commencement of the book.
On my return from the continent, I shall have no objection to intrust this literary curiosity to your care for a short time, giving you the liberty of extracting any (and all if you think proper) of the pieces written on the interleaves: and, in the mean time, I will do myself the pleasure of selecting one from the number, for insertion in the _Table Book_, which will, at least, prove that Mr. Cooke’s animosity was of transient duration, and less virulent than that of Pope.
It is possible that at some future time I may be able to enlarge upon this subject, for the better information of your correspondent; and I beg, in the interim, to remark that there is no doubt the Annual Register, from about the year 1750 to 1765, or works of that description, will fully satisfy his curiosity, and afford him much more explanation relative to Mr. Cooke than any communications from existing descendants.
In Mr. Cooke’s copy of “The Battle of the Poets,” the lines before quoted run thus:--
“But in his other works what beauties shine-- What sweetness also dwells in ev’ry line! These all admire--these bring him endless praise, And crown his temples with unfading bays!”
I remain, sir,
Your obedient servant and subscriber,
* * * * * * * * * * * *
_Oxford, Jan. 29, 1827._
VERSES,
OCCASIONED BY THE LAMENTED DEATH OF MR. ALEXANDER POPE.
POPE! though thy pen has strove with heedless rage To make my name obnoxious to the age, While, dipp’d in gall, and tarnish’d with the spleen, It dealt in taunts ridiculous and mean, Aiming to lessen what it could not reach, And giving license to ungrateful speech, Still I forgive its enmity, and feel Regrets I would not stifle, nor conceal; For though thy temper, and imperious soul, Needed, at times, subjection and controul, There was a majesty--a march of sense-- A proud display of rare intelligence, In many a line of that transcendent pen, We never, perhaps, may contemplate again-- An energy peculiarly its own, And sweetness perfectly before unknown!
Then deign, thou mighty master of the lyre! T’ accept what justice and remorse inspire; Justice that prompts the willing muse to tell, None ever wrote so largely and so well-- Remorse that feels no future bard can fill The vacant chair with half such Attic skill, Or leave behind so many proofs of taste, As those rich poems dulness ne’er disgrac’d!
Farewell, dear shade! all enmity is o’er, Since Pope has left us for a brighter shore, Where neither rage, nor jealousy, nor hate, Can rouse the little, nor offend the great; Where worldly contests are at once forgot, In the bright glories of a happier lot; And where the dunces of the Dunciad see Thy genius crown’d with immortality!
THOMAS COOKE.
* * * * *
DUKE OF YORK
ALBANY AND CLARENCE.
_For the Table Book._
In the History of Scotland, there is a remark which may be added to the account of the dukes of York, at col. 103; viz.
_Shire of Perth._--That part of the county called Braidalbin, or Breadalbane, lies amongst the Grampian-hills, and gives title to a branch of the family of Campbell; where note that Braid-Albin, in old Scotch, signifies the highest part of Scotland, and Drum-Albin, which is the name of a part thereof, signifies the ridge or back of Scotland. Hence it is collected that this is the country which the ancients called _Albany_, and part of the residence of the ancient Scots, who still retain the name, and call themselves “Albinkich,” together with the ancient language and habit, continuing to be a hardy, brave, and warlike people, and very parsimonious in their way of living; and from this country the sons of the royal family of Scotland took the title of “duke of _Albany_;” and since the union of the two crowns, it has been found amongst the royal titles of the dukes of York.
Respecting the dukedom of _Clarence_, which is originally derived from Clare, in Suffolk, king Edward III. in the thirty-sixth year of his reign, for default of issue male in the former family, created his third son, Lionel, by reason of his marriage with the grandaughter of the late earl of _Clare_, duke of Clarence, being a word of a fuller sound than the monosyllable “Clare.”
~M.~
* * * * *
DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS.
Lord George Germain was of a remarkably amiable disposition; and his domestics lived with him rather as humble friends than menial servants. One day entering his house in Pall-mall, he observed a large basket of vegetables standing in the hall, and inquired of the porter to whom they belonged, and from whence they came? Old John immediately replied, “They are _ours_, my lord, from _our_ country-house.”--“Very well,” rejoined his lordship. At that instant a carriage stopped at the door, and lord George, turning round, asked what coach it was? “_Ours_,” said honest John. “And are the children in it _ours_ too?” said his lordship, smiling. “_Most certainly_, my lord,” replied John, with the utmost gravity, and immediately ran to lift them out.
* * * * *
~Riddle.~
A LITERARY CHARACTER.