Part 48
The custom of carrying a pen behind the ear, lately common, is ancient. In the life of S. Odo is the following passage: “He saw a pen sticking above his ear, in the manner of a writer.”
Mabillon says, that he could find no paper books more ancient than the tenth century: but the pen made of a feather was certainly common in the seventh century; and though ascribed to the classical ancients, by Montfaucon’s mistaking a passage of Juvenal, it is first mentioned by Adrian de Valois, a writer of the fifth century. This rather precedes Beckmann, who places the first certain account of it to Isadore.[130]
[130] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.
* * * * *
~Suburban Sonnets.~
IV.
HAMPSTEAD.
HAMPSTEAD! I doubly venerate thy name, Because ’twas in thy meadows that I grew Enamour’d of that literary fame Which youthful poets eagerly pursue, And first beheld that beauty-beaming form, Which death too quickly tore from my embrace, That peerless girl, whose blushes were as warm As ever glow’d upon a virgin face! Hence, lovely village! I am still thy debtor, For pleasures now irrevocably flown-- For that transcendant maid, who, when I met her Along thy meadows musing, and alone, Look’d like a spirit from the realms above, Sent down to prove the sov’reignty of Love!
V.
THE NEW RIVER.
Thou pleasant river! in the summer time About thy margin I delight to stray, Perusing Byron’s captivating rhyme, And drinking inspiration from his lay! For there is something in thy placid stream That gives a keener relish to his song, And makes the spirit of his numbers seem More fascinating as I move along:-- There is besides upon thy waves a moral, With which it were ridiculous to quarrel; For, like the current of our lives, they flow Thro’ multifarious channels, till they go Down into darkness, and preserve no more The “form and feature” they possess’d before!
VI.
MINERVA TERRACE, ISLINGTON.
Ye, who are anxious for a “country seat,” Pure air, green meadows, and suburban views, Rooms snug and light, not over large, but neat, And gardens water’d with refreshing dews, May find a spot adapted to your taste, Near Barnsbury-_park_, or rather Barnsbury-_town_, Where ev’ry thing looks elegant and chaste, And wealth reposes on a bed of down! I, therefore, strongly recommend to those Who want a pure and healthy situation, To choose MINERVA TERRACE, and repose ’Midst _prospects_ worthy of their admiration;-- How long they’ll last is quite another thing, Not longer, p’rhaps, than the approaching spring!
J. G.
_Islington, March 25, 1827._
Vol. I.--17.
“Buy a fine singing-bird!”
The _criers_ of singing birds are extinct: we have only the bird-_sellers_. This engraving, therefore, represents a by-gone character: it is from a series of etchings called the “Cries of London,” by Marcellus Lauron, a native of the Hague, where he was born in 1653. He came to England with his father, by whom he was instructed in painting. He drew correctly, studied nature diligently, copied it closely, and so surpassed his contemporaries in drapery, that sir Godfrey Kneller employed him to clothe his portraits. He likewise excelled in imitating the different styles of eminent masters, executed conversation pieces of considerable merit, and died at London in 1705. His “London Cries” render his name familiar, on account of the popularity which these performances still possess, and there being among them likenesses of several “remarkable people” of the times. “Lauron’s Cries” are well known to collectors, with whom the portrait of a pedlar, if a “_mentioned_ print,” is quite as covetable as a peer’s.
Mr. Fenn of East Dereham, Norfolk, writing to the Rev. Mr. Granger, who was the Linnæus of “engraved British portraits,” sends him a _private_ etching or two of a “Mr. Orde’s doing,” and says, “He is a fellow of King’s College, Cambridge, and is exceedingly lucky in taking off any peculiarity of person. Mr. Orde is a gentleman of family and fortune, and in these etchings makes his genius a conveyance of his charity, as he gives the profits arising from the local sale of the impressions in the University, to the originals from whom he draws his likenesses.--Randal, the orangeman, got enough by the sale of himself to equip himself from head to food: he always calls his oranges, &c. by some name corresponding to the time he sells them; as, at the commencement, _Commencement_ oranges; at a musical entertainment, _Oratorio_ oranges. By this humour he is known throughout the University, where he is generally called _Dr._ Randal. His likeness, manner, and gait, are exactly taken off.--The Clare-hall fruit-woman too is very striking, as indeed are all the etchings.”[131]
Mr. Malcolm tells of a negro-man abroad, who cried “_balloon_ lemons, quality oranges, quality lemons, holiday limes, with a certain peculiarity, and whimsicality, that recommended him to a great deal of custom. He adventured in a lottery, obtained a prize of five thousand dollars, became raving mad, through excess of joy, and died in a few days.”
Lauron’s “London Cries” will be further noticed: in the mean time it may suffice to say, that this is the season wherein a few kidnappers of the feathered tribe walk about with their little prisoners, and tempt young fanciers to “buy a fine singing bird.”
_April 9, 1827._
*
[131] Letters between Rev. J. Granger, &c.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XIV.
[From the “Arraignment of Paris,” a Dramatic Pastoral, by George Peel, 1584.]
_Flora dresses Ida Hill, to honour the coming of the Three Goddesses._
_Flora._ Not Iris in her pride and bravery Adorns her Arch with such variety; Nor doth the Milk-white Way in frosty night Appear so fair and beautiful in sight, As done these fields, and groves, and sweetest bowers, Bestrew’d and deck’d with parti-colour’d flowers. Along the bubbling brooks, and silver glide, That at the bottom doth in silence slide, The watery flowers and lilies on the banks Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks; Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree, Where sacred Phœbe may delight to be: The primrose, and the purple hyacinth, The dainty violet, and the wholesome minth; The double daisy, and the cowslip (Queen Of summer flowers), do over-peer the green; And round about the valley as ye pass, Ye may ne see (for peeping flowers) the grass.-- They are at hand by this. Juno hath left her chariot long ago, And hath return’d her peacocks by her Rainbow; And bravely, as becomes the Wife of Jove, Doth honour by her presence to our grove: Fair Venus she hath let her sparrows fly, To tend on her, and make her melody; Her turtles and her swans unyoked be, And flicker near her side for company: Pallas hath set her tigers loose to feed, Commanding them to wait when she hath need: And hitherward with proud and stately pace, To do us honour in the sylvan chace, They march, like to the pomp of heav’n above, Juno, the Wife and Sister of King Jove, The warlike Pallas, and the Queen of Love.
* * * * *
_The Muses, and Country Gods, assemble to welcome the Goddesses._
_Pomona._ ------ with country store like friends we venture forth. Think’st, Faunus, that these Goddesses will take our gifts in worth? _Faunus._ Nay, doubtless; for, ’shall tell thee, Dame, ’twere better give a thing, A sign of love, unto a mighty person, or a King, Than to a rude and barbarous swain both bad and basely born: FOR GENTLY TAKES THE GENTLEMAN THAT OFT THE CLOWN WILL SCORN.
* * * * *
_The Welcoming Song._
_Country Gods._ O Ida, O Ida, O Ida, happy hill! This honour done to Ida may it continue still! _Muses._ Ye Country Gods, that in this Ida wonne, Bring down your gifts of welcome, For honour done to Ida.
_Gods._ Behold in sign of joy we sing, And signs of joyful welcome bring. For honour done to Ida.
_Pan._ The God of Shepherds, and his mates With country cheer salutes your States: Fair, wise, and worthy, as you be! And thank the gracious Ladies Three, For honour done to Ida.
* * * * *
_Paris. Œnone._
_Paris._ Œnone, while we bin disposed to walk, Tell me, what shall be subject of our talk. Thou hast a sort of pretty tales in store; ’Dare say no nymph in Ida’s woods hath more. Again, beside thy sweet alluring face, In telling them thou hast a special grace. Then prithee, sweet, afford some pretty thing, Some toy that from thy pleasant wit doth spring. _Œn._ Paris, my heart’s contentment, and my choice Use thou thy pipe, and I will use my voice; So shall thy just request not be denied, And time well spent, and both be satisfied. _Paris._ Well, gentle nymph, although thou do me wrong, That can ne tune my pipe unto a song, Me list this once, Œnone, for thy sake, This idle task on me to undertake.
(_They sit under a tree together._)
_Œn._ And whereon then shall be my roundelay? For thou hast heard my store long since, ’dare say-- How Saturn did divide his kingdom tho’ To Jove, to Neptune, and to Dis below: How mighty men made foul successless war Against the Gods, and State of Jupiter: How Phorcyas’ ’ympe, that was so trick and fair, That tangled Neptune in her golden hair, Became a Gorgon for her lewd misdeed;-- A pretty fable, Paris, for to read; A piece of cunning, trust me for the nonce, That wealth and beauty alter men to stones: How Salmacis, resembling Idleness, Turns men to women all thro’ wantonness: How Pluto raught Queen Pluto’s daughter thence, And what did follow of that love-offence: Of Daphne turn’d into the Laurel Tree, That shews a myrror of virginity: How fair Narcissus, tooting on his shade, Reproves disdain, and tells how form doth vade: How cunning Philomela’s needle tells, What force in love, what wit in sorrow, dwells: What pains unhappy Souls abide in Hell, They say, because on Earth they lived not well,-- Ixion’s wheel, proud Tantal’s pining woe, Prometheus’ torment, and a many moe; How Danaus’ daughters ply their endless task; What toil the toil of Sysiphus doth ask. All these are old, and known, I know; yet, if thou wilt have any, Chuse some of these; for, trust me else, Œnone hath not many. _Paris._ Nay, what thou wilt; but since my cunning not compares with thine, Begin some toy that I can play upon this pipe of mine. _Œn._ There is a pretty Sonnet then, we call it CUPID’S CURSE: “They that do change old love for new, pray Gods they change for worse.”
(_They sing._)
_Œn._ Fair, and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be, The fairest shepherd on our green, A Love for any Lady.
_Paris._ Fair, and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be, Thy Love is fair for thee alone, And for no other Lady.
_Œn._ My Love is fair, my Love is gay. And fresh as bin the flowers in May, And of my Love my roundelay, My merry, merry, merry roundelay, Concludes with Cupid’s Curse: They that do change old love for new. Pray Gods they change for worse.
_Both._ {Fair, and fair, &c.} (_repeated._) {Fair, and fair, &c.}
_Œn._ My Love can pipe, my Love can sing, My Love can many a pretty thing, And of his lovely praises ring My merry, merry, merry roundelays Amen to Cupid’s Curse: They that do change old love for new, Pray Gods they change for worse.
_Both._ {Fair, and fair, &c.} (_repeated._) {Fair, and fair, &c.}
* * * * *
TO MY ESTEEMED FRIEND, AND EXCELLENT MUSICIAN, V. N., ESQ.
DEAR SIR,
I conjure you in the name of all the Sylvan Deities, and of the Muses, whom you honour, and they reciprocally love and honour you,--rescue this old and passionate _Ditty_--the very flower of an old _forgotten Pastoral_, which had it been in all parts equal, the Faithful Shepherdess of Fletcher had been but a second name in this sort of Writing----rescue it from the profane hands of every common Composer: and in one of your tranquillest moods, when you have most leisure from those sad thoughts, which sometimes unworthily beset you; yet a mood, in itself not unallied to the better sort of melancholy; laying by for once the lofty Organ, with which you shake the Temples; attune, as to the Pipe of Paris himself, to some milder and more love-according instrument, this pretty Courtship between Paris and his (then-not as yet-forsaken) Œnone. Oblige me; and all more knowing Judges of Music and of Poesy; by the adaptation of fit musical numbers, which it only wants to be the rarest Love Dialogue in our language.
Your Implorer,
C. L.
* * * * *
~Etymology.~
“_For the_ NONCE.”
The original of _nonce_, an old word used by George Peel, is uncertain: it signifies purpose, intent, design.
I saw a wolf Nursing two whelps; I saw her little ones In wanton dalliance the teat to crave, While she her neck wreath’d from them _for the_ NONCE.
_Spenser._
They used at first to fume the fish in a house built _for the_ NONCE.
_Carew._
When in your motion you are hot. And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepared him A chalice _for the_ NONCE.
Such a light and metall’d dance; Saw you never; And they lead men _for the_ NONCE, That turn round like grindle stones.
_Ben Jonson._
A voider _for the_ NONCE, I wrong the devil should I pick their bones.
_Cleaveland._
Coming ten times _for the_ NONCE, I never yet could see it flow but once.
_Cotton._
These authorities, adduced by Dr. Johnson, Mr. Archdeacon Nares conceives to have sufficiently explained the meaning of the word, which, though obsolete, is still “provincially current.” He adds, that it is sometimes written _nones_, and exemplifies the remark by these quotations:--
The mask of Monkes, devised for the _nones_.
_Mirror for Magistrates._
And cunningly contrived them for the _nones_ In likely rings of excellent device.
_Drayton._
We also find “for the _nones_” in Chaucer.
* * * * *
THE BANQUET OF THE DEAD, OR GENERAL BIBO’S TALE.
A LEGEND OF KIRBY MALHAMDALE CHURCH-YARD, CRAVEN, YORKSHIRE.
_For the Table Book._
Come all ye jovial farmers bold, and damsels sweet and fair, And listen unto me awhile a doleful tale you’ll hear.
_Bloody Squire, or Derbyshire Tragedy._
PROEM.
On Sheep-street-hill, in the town of Skipton, in Craven, is a blacksmith’s-shop, commonly called “the parliament-house.” During the late war it was the resort of all the eccentric characters in the place, who were in the habit of assembling there for the purpose of talking over the political events of the day, the knowledge whereof was gleaned from a daily paper, taken in by Mr. Kitty Cook, the occupier of the premises, and to the support of which the various members contributed. One winter’s morning in the year 1814, owing to a very heavy snow, the mail was detained on its road to the great discomfiture and vexation of the respectable parliamentary members, who were all as usual at their posts at the hour of nine. There happened on that morning to be a full house, and I very well recollect that Tom Holderd, General Bibo, Roger Bags, Duke Walker, Town Gate Jack, and Bill Cliff of Botany,[132] all of whom are since dead, were present. After the members had waited a long time, without the accustomed “folio of four pages” making its appearance, general Bibo arose and turning to the speaker, who in pensive melancholy was reclining on the anvil, he thus addressed him:--
“Mr. Speaker, I am convinced that the mail will not arrive to day, (hear! hear!) and therefore, that the members of this honourable house may not, at the hour of twelve, which is fast approaching, go home to their dinners without having something to communicate to their wives and families, I will, with your permission, relate one of those numerous legendary tales, with which our romantic district so much abounds--May I do so?”
Kitty upon this gave the anvil a thundering knock, which was his usual signal of assent, and the general proceeded to relate the full particulars, from which is extracted the following
~Legend.~
It was the 14th day of July, in the year 17--, when the corpse of a villager was interred in the romantic church-yard of Kirby Malhamdale. The last prayer of the sublime burial service of the English church was said, and the mourners had taken a last lingering look at the narrow tenement which enshrined mortality. All had departed, with the exception of the sexton, a village lad of the name of Kitchen, and a soldier, whose long, flowing, silvery hair and time-worn frame bespoke a very advanced age; he was seated on a neighbouring stone. The grave was not entirely filled up, and a scull, the melancholy remnant of some former occupier of the same narrow cell, was lying beside it. Kitchen took up the scull, and gazed on the sockets, eyeless _then_, but which had contained orbs, that perhaps had reflected the beam sent from beauty’s eye, glowed with fury on the battle-field, or melted at the tale of compassion. The old soldier observed the boy, and approaching him said, “Youth! _that_ belonged to one who died soon after the reign of queen Mary. His name was Thompson, he was a military man, and as mischievous a fellow as ever existed--ay, for many a long year he was a plague to Kirby Malhamdale.”
“Then,” replied the boy, “doubtless his death was a benefit, as by it the inhabitants of the valley would be rid from a pest.”
“Why, as to that point,” answered the veteran, “I fear you are in the wrong. Thompson’s reign is not yet finished; ’tis whispered he often returns and visits the scenes of his childhood, nay, even plays his old tricks over again. It is by no means improbable, that at this very instant he is at no great distance, and listening to our conversation.”
“What,” ejaculated the boy, “he will neither rest himself nor allow other people to do so, the old brute!” and he kicked the scull from him.
“Boy,” said the soldier, “you dare not do that again.”
“Why not?” asked Kitchen, giving it at the same time another kick.
“Kick it again,” said the soldier.
The boy did so.
The veteran smiled grimly, as if pleased with the spirit which the boy manifested, and said, in a joking way, “Now take up that scull, and say to it--Let the owner of this meet me at the midnight hour, and invite me to a banquet spread on yon green stone by his bony fingers--
Come ghost, come devil, Come good, come evil, Or let old Thompson himself appear, For I will partake of his midnight cheer.”[133]
Kitchen, laughing with the glee of a schoolboy, and with the thoughtlessness incident to youth, repeated the ridiculous lines after his director, and then leaving the church-yard vaulted over the stile leading to the school-house, where, rejoining his companions, he quickly forgot the scene wherein he had been engaged; indeed it impressed him so little, that he never mentioned the circumstance to a single individual.
The boy at his usual hour of ten retired to rest, and soon fell into a deep slumber, from which he was roused by some one rattling the latch of his door, and singing beneath his window. He arose and opened the casement. It was a calm moonlight night, and he distinctly discerned the old soldier, who was rapping loudly at the door, and chanting the elegant stanzas he had repeated at the grave of the villager.
“And what pray now may you be wanting at this time of night?” asked the boy, wholly undaunted by the strangeness of the visitation. “If you cannot lie in bed yourself, you ought to allow others to rest.”
“What,” replied the old man, “hast thou so soon forgotten thy promise?” and he repeated the lines “_Come good, come evil_, &c.”
Kitchen laughed at again hearing the jingle of these ridiculous rhymes, which to him seemed to be “such as nurses use to frighten babes withal.” At this the soldier’s countenance assumed a peculiar expression, and the full gaze of his dark eye, which appeared to glow with something inexpressibly wild and unearthly, was bent upon the boy, who, as he encountered it, felt an indescribable sensation steal over him, and began to repent of his incautious levity. After a short silence the stranger again addressed him, but in tones so hollow and sepulchral, that his youthful blood was chilled, and his heart beat strongly and quickly in his bosom.
“Boy, thy word must be kept! Promises made with the grave are not to be lightly broken--
“Amidst the cold graves of the coffin’d dead Is the table deck’d and the banquet spread; Then haste thee thither without delay, For nigh is the time, away! away!”
“Then be it as you wish,” said the boy, in some slight degree resuming his courage; “go; I will follow.” On hearing this the soldier departed, and Kitchen watched his figure till it was wholly lost in the mists of the night.
* * * * *
At a short distance from Kirby Malhamdale church, on the banks of the Aire, was a small cottage, the residence of the Rev. Mr. ----, the rector of the parish, [General Bibo mentioned his name, but I shall not, for if I did some of his descendants might address themselves to the _Table Book_, and contradict the story of their ancestor having been engaged in so strange an adventure as that contained in the sequel of this legend.] Mr. ---- had from his earliest years been addicted to scientific and literary pursuits, and was generally in his study till a late hour. On this eventful night he was sitting at a table strewed with divers ancient tomes, intently perusing an old Genevan edition of the Institutes of John Calvin. While thus employed, and buried in profound meditation, the awful and death-like stillness was broken, and he was roused from his reverie by a hurried and violent knocking at the door. He started from his chair, and rushing out to ascertain the cause of this strange interruption, beheld Kitchen with a face as pale as a winding-sheet. “Kitchen, what brings you here at this untimely hour?” asked the clergyman. The boy was silent, and appeared under the influence of extreme terror. Mr. ----, on repeating the question, had a confused and indistinct account given him of all the circumstances. The relation finished, Mr. ---- looked at the boy, and thus addressed him: “Yes, I thought some evil would come of your misdeeds; for some time past your conduct has been very disorderly, you having long set a bad example to the lads of Malhamdale. But this is no time for upbraiding. I will accompany you, and together we will abide the result of your rash engagement.”
Mr. ---- and the boy left the rectory, and proceeded along the road leading to the church-yard; as they entered the sacred precinct, the clock of the venerable pile told the hour of midnight. It was a beautiful night--scarcely a cloud broke the cerulean appearance of the heavens--countless stars studded heaven’s deep blue vault--the moon was glowing in her highest lustre, and shed a clear light on the old grey church tower and the distant hills--scarcely a breeze stirred the trees, then in their fullest foliage--every inmate of the village-inn[134] was at rest--there was not a sound, save the murmuring of the lone mountain river, and the deep-toned baying of the watchful sheep-dog.