Part 60
_Cilicia._ Madam your Song is passing passionate. _Alvida._ And wilt thou then not pity my estate? _Cilicia._ Ask love of them who pity may impart. _Alvida._ I ask of thee, sweet; thou hast stole my heart. _Cilicia._ Your love is fixed on a greater King. _Alvida._ Tut, women’s love--it is a fickle thing. I love my Rasni for my dignity: I love Cilician King for his sweet eye. I love my Rasni, since he rules the world: But more I love this Kingly little world. How sweet he looks!--O were I Cynthia’s sphere, And thou Endymion, I should hold thee dear: Thus should mine arms be spread about thy neck, Thus would I kiss my Love at every beck. Thus would I sigh to see thee sweetly sleep: And if thou wak’st not soon, thus would I weep: And thus, and thus, and thus: thus much I love thee.
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[From “Tethys’ Festival,” by Samuel Daniel, 1610.]
_Song at a Court Masque._
Are they shadows that we see And can shadows pleasure give?-- Pleasures only shadows be, Cast by bodies we conceive; And are made the things we deem In those figures which they seem.-- But these pleasures vanish fast, Which by shadows are exprest:-- Pleasures are not, if they last; In their passing is their best. Glory is most bright and gay In a flash, and so away. Feed apace then, greedy eyes, On the wonder you behold; Take it sudden as it flies, Tho’ you take it not to hold: When your eyes have done their part, Thought must lengthen it in the heart.
C. L.
[186] Jove, for Jehovah.
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~Scylla and Charybdis.~
ANCIENT AND PRESENT STATE.
Incidit in Scyllam, cupiens vitare Charybdis.
This Latin verse, which has become proverbial, is thus translated:--
He falls on Scylla, who Charybdis shuns.
The line has been ascribed to Ovid; it is not, however, in that or any other classic poet, but has been derived from Philippe Gualtier, a modern French writer of Latin verses. Charybdis is a whirlpool in the straits of Messina, on the coast of Sicily, opposite to Scylla, a dangerous rock on the coast of Italy. The danger to which mariners were exposed by the whirlpool is thus described by Homer in Pope’s translation:
Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms, And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms; When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves, The rough rock roars; tumultuous boil the waves: They toss, they foam, a wild confusion raise, Like waters bubbling o’er the fiery blaze: Eternal mists obscure the aërial plain, And high above the rock she spouts the main. When in her gulfs the rushing sea subsides, She drains the ocean with the refluent tides. The rock rebellows with a thundering sound; Deep, wondrous deep, below appears the ground.
Virgil imagines the origin of this terrific scene:
That realm of old, a ruin huge, was rent In length of ages from the continent. With force convulsive burst the isle away; Through the dread opening broke the thund’ring sea: At once the thund’ring sea Sicilia tore, And sunder’d from the fair Hesperian shore; And still the neighbouring coasts and towns divides With scanty channels, and contracted tides. Fierce to the right tremendous Scylla roars, Charybdis on the left the flood devours.
_Pitt._
A great earthquake in the year 1783 diminished the perils of the pass.[187] Thirteen years before this event, which renders the scene less poetical, Brydone thus describes
SCYLLA.
May 19, 1770. Found ourselves within half a mile of the coast of Sicily, which is low, but finely variegated. The opposite coast of Calabria is very high, and the mountains are covered with the finest verdure. It was almost a dead calm, our ship scarce moving half a mile in an hour, so that we had time to get a complete view of the famous rock of Scylla, on the Calabrian side, Cape Pylorus on the Sicilian, and the celebrated Straits of the Faro that runs between them. Whilst we were still some miles distant from the entry of the Straits, we heard the roaring of the current, like the noise of some large impetuous river confined between narrow banks. This increased in proportion as we advanced, till we saw the water in many places raised to a considerable height, and forming large eddies or whirlpools. The sea in every other place was as smooth as glass. Our old pilot told us, that he had often seen ships caught in these eddies, and whirled about with great rapidity, without obeying the helm in the smallest degree. When the weather is calm, there is little danger; but when the waves meet with this violent current, it makes a dreadful sea. He says, there were five ships wrecked in this spot last winter. We observed that the current set exactly for the rock of Scylla, and would infallibly have carried any thing thrown into it against that point; so that it was not without reason the ancients have painted it as an object of such terror. It is about a mile from the entry of the Faro, and forms a small promontory, which runs a little out to sea, and meets the whole force of the waters, as they come out of the narrowest part of the Straits. The head of this promontory is the famous Scylla. It must be owned that it does not altogether come up to the formidable description that Homer gives of it; the reading of which (like that of Shakspeare’s Cliff) almost makes one’s head giddy. Neither is the passage so wondrous narrow and difficult as he makes it. Indeed it is probable that the breadth of it is greatly increased since his time, by the violent impetuosity of the current. And this violence too must have always diminished, in proportion as the breadth of the channel increased.
Our pilot says, there are many small rocks that show their heads near the base of the large ones. These are probably the dogs that are described as howling round the monster Scylla. There are likewise many caverns that add greatly to the noise of the water, and tend still to increase the horror of the scene. The rock is near two hundred feet high. There is a kind of castle or fort built on its summit; and the town of Scylla, or Sciglio, containing three or four hundred inhabitants, stands on its south side, and gives the title of prince to a Calabrese family.
CHARYBDIS.
The harbour of Messina is formed by a small promontory or neck of land that runs off from the east end of the city, and separates that beautiful basin from the rest of the Straits. The shape of this promontory is that of a reaping-hook, the curvature of which forms the harbour, and secures it from all winds. From the striking resemblance of its form, the Greeks, who never gave a name that did not either describe the object or express some of its most remarkable properties, called this place Zancle, or the Sickle, and feigned that the sickle of Saturn fell on this spot, and gave it its form. But the Latins, who were not quite so fond of fable, changed its name to Messina, (from _Messis_, a harvest,) because of the great fertility of its fields. It is certainly one of the safest harbours in the world after ships have got in; but it is likewise one of the most difficult access. The celebrated gulf or whirlpool of Charybdis lies near to its entry, and often occasions such an intestine and irregular motion in the water, that the helm loses most of its power, and ships have great difficulty to get in, even with the fairest wind that can blow. This whirlpool, I think, is probably formed by the small promontory I have mentioned; which contracting the Straits in this spot, must necessarily increase the velocity of the current; but no doubt other causes, of which we are ignorant, concur, for this will by no means account for all the appearances which it has produced. The great noise occasioned by the tumultuous motion of the waters in this place, made the ancients liken it to a voracious sea-monster perpetually roaring for its prey; and it has been represented by their authors, as the most tremendous passage in the world. Aristotle gives a long and a formidable description of it in his 125th chapter _De Admirandis_, which I find translated in an old Sicilian book I have got here. It begins, “Adeo profundum, horridumque spectaculum, &c.” but it is too long to transcribe. It is likewise described by Homer, 12th of the Odyssey; Virgil, 3d Æneid; Lucretius, Ovid, Sallust, Seneca, as also by many of the old Italian and Sicilian poets, who all speak of it in terms of horror; and represent it as an object that inspired terror, even when looked on at a distance. It certainly is not now so formidable; and very probably, the violence of this motion, continued for so many ages, has by degrees worn smooth the rugged rocks and jutting shelves, that may have intercepted and confined the waters. The breadth of the Straits too, in this place, I make no doubt is considerably enlarged. Indeed, from the nature of things it must be so; the perpetual friction occasioned by the current must wear away the bank on each side, and enlarge the bed of the water.
The vessels in this passage were obliged to go as near as possible to the coast of Calabria, in order to avoid the suction occasioned by the whirling of the waters in this vortex; by which means when they came to the narrowest and most rapid part of the Straits, betwixt Cape Pelorus and Scylla, they were in great danger of being carried upon that rock. From whence the proverb, still applied to those, who in attempting to avoid one evil fall into another.
There is a fine fountain of white marble on the key, representing Neptune holding Scylla and Charybdis chained, under the emblematical figures of two sea-monsters, as represented by the poets.
The little neck of land, forming the harbour of Messina, is strongly fortified. The citadel, which is indeed a very fine work, is built on that part which connects it with the main land. The farthermost point, which runs out to sea, is defended by four small forts, which command the entry into the harbour. Betwixt these lie the lazaret, and a lighthouse to warn sailors of their approach to Charybdis, as that other on Cape Pelorus is intended to give them notice of Scylla.
It is probably from these lighthouses (by the Greeks called Pharoi) that the whole of this celebrated Strait has been denominated the Faro of Messina.
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According to Brydone, the hazard to sailors was less in his time than the Nestor of song, and the poet of the Æneid, had depicted in theirs. In 1824, Capt. W. H. Smyth, to whom a survey of the coast of Sicily was intrusted by the lords of the Admiralty, published a “Memoir” in 1824, with the latest and most authentic accounts of these celebrated classic spots--viz.:
SCYLLA.
As the breadth across this celebrated strait has been so often disputed, I particularly state, that the Faro Tower is exactly six thousand and forty-seven English yards from that classical bugbear, the Rock of Scylla, which, by poetical fiction, has been depicted in such terrific colours, and to describe the horrors of which, Phalerion, a painter, celebrated for his nervous representation of the awful and the tremendous, exerted his whole talent. But the flights of poetry can seldom bear to be shackled by homely truth, and if we are to receive the fine imagery, that places the summit of this rock in clouds brooding eternal mists and tempests--that represents it as inaccessible, even to a man provided with twenty hands and twenty feet, and immerses its base among ravenous sea-dogs;--why not also receive the whole circle of mythological dogmas of Homer, who, though so frequently dragged forth as an authority in history, theology, surgery, and geography, ought in justice to be read only as a poet. In the writings of so exquisite a bard, we must not expect to find all his representations strictly confined to a mere accurate narration of facts. Moderns of intelligence, in visiting this spot, have gratified their imaginations, already heated by such descriptions as the escape of the Argonauts, and the disasters of Ulysses, with fancying it the scourge of seamen, and that in a gale its caverns ‘roar like dogs;’ but I, as a sailor, never perceived any difference between the effect of the surges here, and on any other coast, yet I have frequently watched it closely in bad weather. It is now, as I presume it ever was, a common rock, of bold approach, a little worn at its base, and surmounted by a castle, with a sandy bay on each side. The one on the south side is memorable for the disaster that happened there during the dreadful earthquake of 1783, when an overwhelming wave (supposed to have been occasioned by the fall of part of a promontory into the sea) rushed up the beach, and, in its retreat, bore away with it upwards of two thousand people.
CHARYBDIS.
Outside the tongue of land, or Braccio di St. Rainiere, that forms the harbour of Messina, lies the Galofaro, or celebrated vortex of Charybdis, which has, with more reason than Scylla, been clothed with terrors by the writers of antiquity. To the undecked boats of the Rhegians, Locrians, Zancleans, and Greeks, it must have been formidable; for, even in the present day, small craft are sometimes endangered by it, and I have seen several men-of-war, and even a seventy four gun ship, whirled round on its surface; but, by using due caution, there is generally very little danger or inconvenience to be apprehended. It appears to be an agitated water, of from seventy to ninety fathoms in depth, circling in quick eddies. It is owing probably to the meeting of the harbour and lateral currents with the main one, the latter being forced over in this direction by the opposite point of Pezzo. This agrees in some measure with the relation of Thucydides, who calls it a violent reciprocation of the Tyrrhene and Sicilian seas; and he is the only writer of remote antiquity I remember to have read, who has assigned this danger its true situation, and not exaggerated its effects. Many wonderful stories are told respecting this vortex, particularly some said to have been related by the celebrated diver, Colas, who lost his life here. I have never found reason, however, during my examination of this spot, to believe one of them.
[187] Bourn’s Gazetteer.
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_For the Table Book._
A FRAGMENT.
FROM CORNELIUS MAY’S “JOURNEY TO THE GREATE MARKETT AT OLYMPUS”--“SEVEN STARRS OF WITTE.”
One daye when tired with worldly toil, Upp to the Olympian mounte I sped, as from soul-cankering care, Had ever been my wonte; And there the gods assembled alle I founde, O strange to tell! Chaffering, like chapmen, and around The wares they had to sell. Eache god had sample of his goodes, Which he displaied on high; And cried, “How lack ye?” “What’s y’re neede?” To every passer by. Quoth I, “What have you here to sell? To purchase being inclined;” Said one, “We’ve art and science here, And every gifte of minde.” “What coin is current here?” I asked, Spoke Hermes in a trice, “Industrie, perseverence, toile, And life the highest price.” I saw Apollo, and went on, Liking his wares of olde; “Come buy,” said he, “this lyre of mine, I’ll pledge it sterling golde; This is the sample of its worthe, ’Tis cheape at life, come buy!” So saying, he drew olde Homer forth, And placed him ’neath my eye. I turn’d aside, where in a row Smalle bales high piled up stood; Tyed rounde with golden threades of life. And eache inscribed with blood, “Travell to far and foreign landes;” “The knowledge of the sea;” “Alle beastes, and birdes, and creeping thinges, And heaven’s immensity;” “Unshaken faithe when alle men change,” “The patriot’s holy heart;” “The might of woman’s love to stay When alle besides departe.” I next saw things soe strange of forme, Their names I mighte not knowe, Unlike aught either in heaven or earthe, Or in the deeps below; Then Hermes to my thoughte replied, “Strange as these thinges appeare, Gigantic power, the mighte of arte And science are laide here; Yeare after yeare of toile and thoughte Can buy these stores alone; Yet boughte, how neare the gods is man, What knowledge is made known! The power and nature of all thinges, Fire, aire, and earthe, and flood. Known and made subject to man’s will For evill or for good.” Next look’d I in a darksome den, Webbed o’er with spider’s thread, Where bookes were piled, and on eache booke I “metaphysics” read; Spoke Hermes, “Friend, the price of these Is puzzling of the brain, A gulf of words which, who gets in, Can ne’er get oute again.” I then saw “law,” piled up alofte, And asked its price to know; “Its price is, conscience and good name,” Said Hermes, whispering low. Nexte, “Physic and divinity,” I stood as I was loth, To take or leave, with curling lip, Said Hermes, “Quackery, both!” “Now, friend,” said I, “since of your wares You no good thing can telle, You are the honestest chapman That e’er had wares to selle.”
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DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND:
OR,
MANNERS OF LONDON MERCHANTS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
_Tempore mutato de nobis fabula narratur._
Decio, a man of great figure, that had large commissions for sugar from several parts beyond sea, treats about a considerable parcel of that commodity with Alcander, an eminent West India merchant; both understood the market very well, but could not agree. Decio was a man of substance, and thought nobody ought to buy cheaper than himself. Alcander was the same, and not wanting money, stood for his price. Whilst they were driving their bargain at a tavern near the Exchange, Alcander’s man brought his master a letter from the West Indies, that informed him of a much greater quantity of sugars coming for England than was expected. Alcander now wished for nothing more than to sell at Decio’s price, before the news was public; but being a cunning fox, that he might not seem too precipitant, nor yet lose his customer, he drops the discourse they were upon, and putting on a jovial humour, commends the agreeableness of the weather; from whence falling upon the delight he took in his gardens, invites Decio to go along with him to his country house, that was not above twelve miles from London. It was in the month of May, and as it happened upon a Saturday in the afternoon, Decio, who was a single man, and would have no business in town before Tuesday, accepts of the other’s civility, and away they go in Alcander’s coach. Decio was splendidly entertained that night and the day following; the Monday morning, to get himself an appetite, he goes to take the air upon a pad of Alcander’s, and coming back meets with a gentleman of his acquaintance, who tells him news was come the night before that the Barbadoes fleet was destroyed by a storm; and adds, that before he came out, it had been confirmed at Lloyd’s coffee-house, where it was thought sugars would rise twenty-five per cent. by change time. Decio returns to his friend, and immediately resumes the discourse they had broke off at the tavern. Alcander who, thinking himself sure of his chap, did not design to have moved it till after dinner, was very glad to see himself so happily prevented; but how desirous soever he was to sell, the other was yet more eager to buy; yet both of them afraid of one another, for a considerable time counterfeited all the indifference imaginable, till at last Decio, fired with what he had heard, thought delays might prove dangerous, and throwing a guinea upon the table, struck the bargain at Alcander’s price. The next day they went to London; the news proved true, and Decio got five hundred pounds by his sugars. Alcander, whilst he had strove to overreach the other, was paid in his own coin: yet all this is called _fair dealing_; but I am sure neither of them would have desired to be done by, as they did to each other.
_Fable of the Bees_, 1725.
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CHILTERN HUNDREDS.
The acceptance of this office, or stewardship, vacates a seat in parliament, but without any emolument or profit. Chiltern is a ridge of chalky hills crossing the county of Bucks, a little south of the centre, reaching from Tring in Hertfordshire to Henly in Oxford. This district belongs to the crown, and from time immemorial has given title to the nominal office of stewards of the Chiltern hundreds. Of this office, as well as the manor of East Hundred, in Berks, it is remarkable, that although frequently conferred upon members of parliament, it is not productive either of honour or emolument; being granted at the request of any member of that house, merely to enable him to vacate his seat by the acceptance of a nominal office under the crown; and on this account it has frequently been granted to three or four members a week.
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This is an eccentric, good-humoured character--a lover of a chirruping cup--and a favourite with the pitmen of Durham. He dresses like them, and mixes and jokes with them; and his portrait seems an appropriate illustration of the following paper, by a gentleman of the north, well acquainted with their remarkable manners.
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THE PITMAN.
_For the Table Book._
“O the bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie, The bonny pit laddie for me, O!-- He sits in a hole, as black as a coal, And brings all the white money to me, O!”
OLD PIT SONG.
Gentle Reader,--Whilst thou sittest toasting thy feet at the glowing fuel in thy grate, watching in dreaming unconsciousness the various shapes and fantastic forms appearing and disappearing in the bright, red heat of thy fire--here a beautiful mountain, towering with its glowing top above the broken and diversified valley beneath--there a church, with its pretty spire peeping above an imagined village; or, peradventure, a bright nob, assuming the ken of human likeness, thy playful fancy picturing it the semblance of some distant friend--I say, whilst thou art sitting in this fashion, dost thou ever think of that race of mortals, whose whole life is spent beyond a hundred fathoms below the surface of mother earth, plucking from its unwilling bosom the materials of thy greatest comfort?
The pitman enables thee to set at nought the “pelting of the pitiless storm,” and render a season of severity and pinching bitterness, one of warmth, and kindly feeling, and domestic smiles. If thou hast never heard of these useful and daring men who
“Contemn the terrors of the mine, Explore the caverns, dark and drear, Mantled around with deadly dew; Where congregated vapours blue, Fir’d by the taper glimmering near, Bid dire explosion the deep realms invade, And earth-born lightnings gleam athwart th’ infernal shade;”[188]
--who dwell in a valley of darkness for thy sake, and whose lives are hazarded every moment in procuring the light and heat of the flickering flame--listen with patience, if not with interest, to a short account of them, from the pen of one who is not unmindful of
“The simple annals of the poor.”