Part 41

What! Do you mean in the old common form of the church of Scotland, fellow?

There is no prayer-book required to be produced, I tell you.

Will you answer me when I ask you, what do you mean by the old ordinary form of the church of Scotland, when this transaction has nothing whatever to do with that church? Were you never a clergyman of that country?

Never.

How long are you practising this delightful art?

Upwards of forty-eight years I am doing these marriages.

How old are you?

I am now beyond seventy-five.

What do you do to get your livelihood?

I do these.

Pretty doing it is; but how did you get your livelihood, say, before these last precious forty-eight years of your life?

I was a gentleman.

What do you call a gentleman?

Being sometimes poor, sometimes rich.

Come now, say what was your occupation before you took to this trade?

I followed many occupations.

Were you not an ostler?

No, I were not.

What else were you then?

Why, I was a merchant once.

That is a travelling vagrant pedlar, as I understand your term?

Yes, may be.

Were you ever any thing else in the way of calling?

Never.

Come back now to what you call the marriage. Do you pretend to say that it was done after the common old form of the church of Scotland? Is not the general way by a clergyman?

That is not the general way altogether.

Do you mean that the common ordinary way in Scotland is not to send for a clergyman, but to go a hunting after a fellow like you?

Scotland is not in the practice altogether of going after clergymen. Many does not go that way at all.

Do you mean to swear, then, that the regular common mode is not to go before a clergyman?

I do not say that, as it may be.

Answer me the question plainly, or else you shall not so easily get back to this good old work of yours in Scotland as you think?

I say as it may be, the marriages in Scotland an’t always done in the churches.

I know that as well as you do, for the clergyman sometimes attends in private houses, or it is done before a justice depute; but is this the regular mode?

I say it ent no wrong mode--it is law.

_Re-examined_ by Mr. SCARLETT.

Well, is it the irregular mode?

No, not irregular, but as it may be unregular, but its right still.

You mean your own good old unregular mode?

Yes; I have been both in the courts of Edinburgh and Dublin, and my marriages have always been held legal.

What form of words do you use?

Why, you come before me, and say--

Mr. SCARLETT.--No, I will not, for I do not want to be married; but suppose a man did who called for your services, what is he to do?

Why, it is I that do it. Surely I ask them, before two witnesses, do you take one and other for man and wife, and they say they do, and I then declare them to be man and wife for ever more, and so and so, in the Scotch way you observe.

The COURT.--Mr. Attorney, (addressing Mr. Scarlett, who is attorney-general for the county palatine,) is it by a fellow like this, that you mean to prove the custom of the law of Scotland as to valid marriage?

Here the blacksmith’s examination terminated.

* * * * *

SPRING.

Oh, how delightful to the soul of man, How like a renovating spirit comes, Fanning his cheek, the breath of infant Spring! Morning awakens in the orient sky With purpler light, beneath a canopy Of lovely clouds, their edges tipped with gold; And from his palace, like a deity, Darting his lustrous eye from pole to pole, The glorious sun comes forth, the vernal sky To walk rejoicing. To the bitter north Retire wild winter’s forces--cruel winds-- And griping frosts--and magazines of snow-- And deluging tempests. O’er the moisten’d fields A tender green is spread; the bladed grass Shoots forth exuberant; th’ awakening trees, Thawed by the delicate atmosphere, put forth Expanding buds; while, with mellifluous throat, The warm ebullience of internal joy, The birds hymn forth a song of gratitude To him who sheltered, when the storms were deep, And fed them through the winter’s cheerless gloom.

Beside the garden path, the crocus now Puts forth its head to woo the genial breeze, And finds the snowdrop, hardier visitant, Already basking in the solar ray. Upon the brook the water-cresses float More greenly, and the bordering reeds exalt Higher their speary summits. Joyously, From stone to stone, the ouzel flits along, Startling the linnet from the hawthorn bough; While on the elm-tree, overshadowing deep The low-roofed cottage white, the blackbird sits Cheerily hymning the awakened year.

Turn to the ocean--how the scene is changed. Behold the small waves melt upon the shore With chastened murmur! Buoyantly on high The sea-gulls ride, weaving a sportive dance, And turning to the sun their snowy plumes. With shrilly pipe, from headland or from cape, Emerge the line of plovers, o’er the sands Fast sweeping; while to inland marsh the hern, With undulating wing scarce visible, Far up the azure concave journies on! Upon the sapphire deep, its sails unfurl’d, Tardily glides along the fisher’s boat, Its shadow moving o’er the moveless tide; The bright wave flashes from the rower’s oar, Glittering in the sun, at measured intervals; And, casually borne, the fisher’s voice, Floats solemnly along the watery waste; The shepherd boy, enveloped in his plaid, On the green bank, with blooming furze o’ertopped, Listens, and answers with responsive note.

* * * * *

~Eccentric Biography.~

JAMES CHAMBERS.

This unfortunate being, well known by the designation of “the poor poet,” was born at Soham, in Cambridgeshire, in 1748, where his father was a leather-seller, but having been unfortunate in business, and marrying a second wife, disputes and family broils arose. It was probably from this discomfort in his paternal dwelling-place, that he left home never to return. At first, and for an uncertain period, he was a maker and seller of nets and some small wares. Afterwards, he composed verses on birthdays and weddings, acrostics on names, and such like matters. Naturally mild and unassuming in his manners, he attracted the attention and sympathy of many, and by this means lived, or, rather, suffered life! That his mind was diseased there can be no doubt, for no sane being would have preferred an existence such as his. What gave the first morbid turn to his feelings is perhaps unknown. His sharp, lively, sparkling eye might have conveyed an idea that he had suffered disappointment in the _tender_ passion; while, from the serious tendency of many of his compositions, it may be apprehended that religion, or false notions of religion, in his very young days, operated to increase the unhappiness that distressed his faculties. Unaided by education of any kind, he yet had attained to write, although his MSS. were scarcely intelligible to any but himself; he could spell correctly, was a very decent grammarian, and had even acquired a smattering of Latin and Greek.

From the age of sixteen to seventy years, poor Chambers travelled about the county of Suffolk, a sort of wandering bard, gaining a precarious subsistence by selling his own effusions, of which he had a number printed in cheap forms. Among the poorer people of the country, he was mostly received with a hearty welcome; they held him in great estimation as a poet, and sometimes bestowed on him a small pecuniary recompense for the ready adaptation of his poetical qualities, in the construction of verses on certain occasions suitable to their taste or wishes. Compositions of this nature were mostly suggested to him by his muse during the stillness of night, while reposing in some friendly barn or hay-loft. When so inspired, he would immediately arise and commit the effusion to paper. His memory was retentive, and, to amuse his hearers, he would repeat most of his pieces by heart. He wandered for a considerable time in the west of Suffolk, particularly at Haverhill; and Mr. John Webb, of that place, in his poem entitled “Haverhill,” thus notices him:--

An hapless outcast, on whose natal day No star propitious beam’d a kindly ray. By some malignant influence doom’d to roam The world’s wide dreary waste, and know no home. Yet heav’n to cheer him as he pass’d along, Infus’d in life’s sour cup the sweets of song. Upon his couch of straw, or bed of hay, The poetaster tun’d the _acrostic lay_: On him an humble muse her favours shed, And nightly musings earn’d his daily bread. Meek, unassuming, modest shade! forgive This frail attempt to make thy memory live. Minstrel, adieu!--to me thy fate’s unknown; Since last I saw you, many a year has flown. Full oft has summer poured her fervid beams, And winter’s icy breath congeal’d the streams. Perhaps, lorn wretch! unfriended and alone In hovel vile, thou gav’st thy final groan! Clos’d the blear’d eye, ordain’d no more to weep, And sunk, unheeded sunk, in death’s long sleep!

Chambers left Haverhill, never to return to it, in the year 1790. In peregrinating the country, which he did in every change of sky, through storms, and through snow, or whatever might betide, he was often supported entirely by the spontaneous benevolence of those who witnessed his wanderings. In his verses on a snow-storm, he says:--

This vile raiment hangs in tatters; No warm garment to defend: O’er my flesh the chill snow scatters; No snug hut!--no social friend!

About four years before his death, while sojourning in Woodbridge, sleeping in a miserable hut on the barrack ground, and daily wandering about the town, with every visible mark of misery to distress the eye, his condition became a libel upon the feelings of the inhabitants of the place; a few gentlemen determined he should no longer wander in such a state of wretchedness, offered to clothe and cleanse him, and provide a comfortable room, bed, &c. and a person to shave him and wash for him; and they threatened, if he would not comply, to take him home to where he belonged.

His aversion to a poor-house amounted to horror: he expresses somewhat to that effect in one of his poems----

’Mongst Belial’s sons of contention and strife, To breathe out the transient remains of my life!

This dread operated in behalf of those who desired to assist him. His wretched hovel was emptied, its miserable accumulations were consigned to the flames, and he was put into a new habitation, clothed from head to foot, and so metamorphosed, that but few knew him at first sight. A bedstead and bedding, a chair, table, and necessary crockery were provided for his comfort, but the poor creature was often heard to exclaim, of the cleansing and burning, that “it was the worst day’s work he ever met with.” After a few short weeks he left this home, and a shilling a week allowed him by a gentleman, besides some weekly pence, donations from ladies in the town, for a life of wandering privation and, at times, of absolute want, until the closing scene of his weary pilgrimage. He breathed his last on the 4th of January, 1827, in an unoccupied farm-house belonging to Mr. Thurston of Stradbroke, where he had been permitted the use of two rooms. Within a few days before, he had been as well as usual, but he suddenly became ill, and had the attention of two women, neighbours, who provided him warm gruel, and a few things his situation required. Some one had given him a warm blanket, and when he died there was food in the house, with tenpence halfpenny in money, a few scraps of poetry, and a bushel of wheat which he had gleaned in the harvest. A decent coffin and shroud were provided, and he was buried in Stradbrook churchyard.[99]

Chambers was literally one of the poor at all times; and hence his annals are short and simple. Disregard of personal appearance was natural to his poverty-stricken circumstances and melancholy disposition; for the wheel of his fortune was fixed by habit, as by a nail in a sure place, to constant indigence. Neglected in his youth, and without fixed employment, he brooded throughout life on his hopeless condition, without a friend of his own rank who could participate in his sorrows. He was a lonely man, and a wanderer, who had neither act nor part in the common ways of the world.

[99] The Ipswich Journal, January 31, 1827.

* * * * *

~Vauxhall.~

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

_For the Table Book._

Characters--Mr. Greenfat, Mrs. Greenfat, Masters Peter and Humphrey Greenfat, Misses Theodosia and Arabella Greenfat, and Mr. John Eelskin.

_Seen dispersedly in various parts of the gardens._

_Master Peter._ Oh my! what a sweet place! Why, the lamps are thicker than the pears in our garden, at Walworth: what a load of oil they must burn!

_Miss Arabella._ Mamma, is that the lady mayoress, with the _ostridge_ feathers, and the pink satin gown?

_Mrs. Greenfat._ No, my love; that’s Miss Biddy Wilkins, of Gutter-lane! (_To a waiter._) You rude fellow, you’ve trod on my dress, and your nasty foot has torn off one of my flounces.

_Miss Theodosia._ John, (_to Mr. Eelskin_,) how very pretty that hilluminated walk looks. Dear me! do you see the fountain? How vastly reviving this hot weather, isn’t it?

_Mr. Eelskin._ Ah, my beloved Theodosia! how should I notice the beauties of the scene in your company--when your eyes are brighter than the lamps, and your voice is sweeter than the music? In vain the fiddlers fiddle, and the singers sing, I can hear nothing--listen to nothing--but my adorable Theodosia!

_Master Humphrey._ La, papa, what’s that funny round place, with flags on the top, and ballad women and men with cocked hats inside?

_Mr. Greenfat._ That’s the _Hawkestraw_.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Hush, my dear; it’s vulgar to talk loud. Dosee, my love, don’t hang so on Mr. John’s arm, you’ll quite fatigue him. That’s Miss Tunstall--Miss Tunstall’s going to sing. Now, my pretty Peter, don’t talk so fast.

_Miss Arabella._ Does that lady sing in French, mamma?

_Mrs. Greenfat._ No, child, it’s a _senthemental_ air, and they never have no meaning?

_Miss Theodosia._ That’s the _overthure_ to _Friedshots_; Eelskin, do you like it?

_Mr. Eelskin._ On your _piano_ I should. But shall I take you out of this glare of light? Would you choose a ramble in the dark walk, and a peep at the puppet-show-cosmoramas?

_Mr. Greenfat._ I hates this squalling. (_Bell rings._) What’s that for?

_Mr. Eelskin._ That’s for the _fant-toe-sheeni_, and the balancing man.

_Mr. Greenfat._ Well then, let’s go and look at Mr. Fant-toe-sheeni.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Oh, goodness, how I’m squeedged. Pray don’t push so, sir--I’m astonished at your rudeness, mam! You’ve trod on my corn, and lamed me for the evening!

_Mr. Greenfat._ Sir, how dare you suffer your wife to tread on my wife’s toes?

_Master Peter._ My stars, sister, he’s got a _bagginette_ on his nose!

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Mr. John, will you put little Humphy on your shoulder, and show him the _fant-oh-see-ne_?

_Master Humphrey._ I can see now, mamma; there’s Punch and Judy, mamma! Oh, my! how well they do dance!

_Mr. Greenfat._ I can see this in the streets for nothing.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Yes, Mr. Greenfat, but not in such good company!

_Mr. Eelskin._ This, my beautiful Theodosia, is the musical temple; it’s very elegant--only it never plays. Them paintings on the walls were painted by Mungo Parke and Hingo Jones; the _archatechture_ of this room is considered very fine!

_Master Peter._ Oh, I’m so hot. (_Bell rings._)

_Mr. Eelskin._ That’s for the _hyder-hawlics_. We’d better go into the gallery, and then the ladies won’t be in the crowd.

_Mr. Greenfat._ Come along then; we want to go into the gallery. A shilling a-piece, indeed! I wonder at your impudence! Why, we paid three and sixpence a head at the door.

_Mr. Eelskin._ Admission to the gallery is _hextra_.

_Mr. Greenfat._ Downright robbery!--I won’t pay a farthing more.

_Miss Arabella._ See, mamma, water and fire at once!--how droll!

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Pray be kind enough to take off your hat, sir; my little boy can’t see a bit. Humphy, my dear, hold fast by the railing, and then you won’t lose your place. Oh, Mr. John, how very close and sultry it is!

_Mr. Greenfat._ What outlandish hussey’s that, eh, John?

_Mr. Eelskin._ That’s the female juggler, sir.

_Miss Theodosia._ Are those real knives, do you think, John?

_Mr. Eelskin._ Oh, no doubt of it; only the edges are blunt to prevent mischief. Who’s this wild-looking man? Oh, this is the male juggler: and now we shall have a duet of juggling!

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Can you see, Peter?--Bella, my love, can you see? Mr. John, do you take care of Dosee? Well, I _purtest_ I never saw any thing half so wonderful: did you, Mr. Greenfat?

_Mr. Greenfat._ Never: I wonder when it will be over?

_Mr. Eelskin._ We’d better not go away; the ballet will begin presently, and I’m sure you’ll like the dancing, Miss, for, excepting the _Westrisis_, and your own sweet self, I never saw better dancing.

_Miss Theodosia._ Yes, I loves dancing; and at the last Cripplegate ball, the master of the ceremonies paid me several compliments.

_Miss Arabella._ Why do all the dancers wear plaids, mamma?

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Because it’s a cool dress, dear.

_Mr. Greenfat._ Well, if a girl of mine whisked her petticoats about in that manner, I’d have her horsewhipped.

_Mr. Eelskin._ Now we’ll take a stroll till the concert begins again. This is the marine cave--very natural to look at, Miss, but nothing but paint and canvass, I assure you. This is the _rewolving_ evening war for the present; after the fire-works, it still change into his majesty, King George. Yonder’s the hermit and his cat.

_Master Peter._ Mamma, does that old man always sit there?

_Mrs. Greenfat._ I’m sure I don’t know, child; does he, Mr. Eelskin?

_Mr. Greenfat._ Nonsense--it’s all gammon!

_Mr. Eelskin._ This way, my angel; the concert has recommenced.

_Miss Theodosia._ Oh, that’s Charles Taylor; I likes his singing; he’s such a merry fellow: do _hancore_ him, John.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Dosee, my dear, you’re too bold; it was a very _impurent_ song: I declare I’m quite ashamed of you!

_Mr. Greenfat._ Never mince matters; always speak your mind, girl.

_Mr. Eelskin._ The fire-works come next. Suppose we get nearer the Moorish tower, and look for good places, as Mr. G. dislikes paying for the gallery. Now you’ll not be _afeard_; there’ll not be the least danger, depend.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Is there much smoke, Mr. John?--Do they fire many cannons?--I hates cannons--and smoke makes me cough. (_Bell rings._) Run, run, my dears--Humphy, Peter, Bella, run! Mr. Greenfat, run, or we shall be too late! Eelskin and Dosee are a mile afore us! What’s that _red light_? Oh, we shall all be burnt! What noise is that?--Oh, it’s the bomb in the Park!--We shall all be burnt!

_Mr. Greenfat._ Nonsense, woman, don’t frighten the children!

_Miss Theodosia._ Now you’re sure the rockets won’t fall on my new pink bonnet, nor the smoke soil my _French_ white dress, nor the smell of the powder frighten me into fits?--Now you’re quite sure of it, John?

_Mr. Eelskin._ Quite sure, my charmer: I have stood here repeatedly, and never had a hair of my head hurt. See, Blackmore is on the rope; there he goes up--up--up!--Isn’t it pretty, Miss?

_Miss Theodosia._ Oh, delightful!--Does he never break his neck?

_Mr. Eelskin._ Never--it’s insured! Now he descends. How they shoot the maroons at him! Don’t be afeard, lovee, they sha’n’t hurt you. See, Miss, how gracefully he bows to you.--Isn’t it terrific?

_Miss Theodosia._ Is this _all_?--I thought it would last for an hour, at least. John, I’m so hungry; I hope papa means to have supper?

_Master Peter._ Mamma, I’m so hungry.

_Master Humphrey._ Papa, I’m so dry.

_Miss Arabella._ Mamma, I want somewhat to eat.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Greenfat, my dear, we must have some refreshments.

_Mr. Greenfat._ _Refreshments!_ where will you get them? All the boxes are full.--Oh, here’s one. Waiter! what, the devil, call this a dish of beef?--It don’t weigh three ounces! Bring half a gallon of stout, and plenty of bread. Can’t we have some water for the children?

_Mr. Eelskin._ Shouldn’t we have a little _wine_, sir?--it’s more genteeler.

_Mr. Greenfat._ Wine, Eelskin, wine!--Bad sherry at six shillings a bottle!--Couldn’t reconcile it to my conscience.--We’ll stick to the stout.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Eat, my loves.--Some more bread for Bella.--There’s a bit of fat for you, Peter.--Humphy, you shall have my crust.--Pass the stout to Dosee, Mr. John.--Don’t drink it _all_, my dear!

_Mr. Greenfat._ Past two o’clock!--Shameful!--Waiter, bring the bill. Twelve shillings and eightpence--abominable!--Charge a shilling a pot for stout--monstrous! Well, no matter; we’ll walk home. Come along.

_Master Peter._ Mamma, I’m so tired.

_Miss Arabella._ Mamma, my legs ache so.

_Master Humphrey._ Papa, I wish you’d carry me.

_Mr. Greenfat._ Come along--it will be five o’clock before we get home!

[_Exeunt omnes._

H.

* * * * *

TO MY TEA-KETTLE.

_For the Table Book._

1.

For many a verse inspired by tea, (A never-failing muse to me) MY KETTLE, let this tribute flow, Thy charms to blazon. And tell thy modest worth, although Thy face be _brazen_.

2.

Let others boast the madd’ning bowl, That raises but to sink the soul, Thou art the Bacchus that alone I wish to follow: From thee I tipple Helicon, My best Apollo!

3.

’Tis night--my children sleep--no noise Is heard, except thy cheerful voice; For when the wind would gain mine ear, Thou sing’st the faster-- As if thou wert resolv’d to cheer Thy lonely master.

4.

And so thou dost: those brazen lungs Vent no deceit, like human tongues: That honest breath was never known To turn informer: And for thy feelings--all must own That none are warmer.

5.

But late, another eye and ear Would mark thy form, thy music hear: Alas! how soon our pleasures fly, Returning never! That ear is deaf--that friendly eye Is clos’d for ever!

6.

Be thou then, now, my friend, my guide, And humming wisdom by my side, Teach me so patiently to bear Hot-water troubles, That they may end, like thine, in air, And turn to bubbles.

7.

Let me support misfortune’s fire Unhurt; and, when I fume with ire. Whatever friend my passion sees, And near me lingers, Let him still handle me with ease. Nor burn his fingers.

8.

O! may my memory, like thy front. When I am cold, endure the brunt Of vitriol envy’s keen assaults, And shine the brighter, And ev’ry rub--that makes my faults Appear the lighter.

SAM SAM’S SON.

* * * * *

TO MY TEA-POT.

_For the Table Book._

1.

MY TEA-POT! while thy lips pour forth For me a stream of matchless worth, I’ll pour forth my rhymes for thee: Don Juan’s verse is gross, they say; But I will pen a _grocer_ lay, Commencing--“Amo _tea_.”

2.

Yes--let Anacreon’s votary sip His flowing bowl with feverish lip, And breathe abominations; Some day he’ll be _bowl’d out_ for it-- He’s brewing mischief, while I sit And brew my _Tea-pot-ations_.

3.