Part 67
At Nottingham, a year or two ago, Sophia Hyatt, in consequence of extreme deafness, was accidentally run over by a carrier’s cart, at the entrance of the Maypole inn-yard, and unfortunately killed. She had arrived that morning in a gig from Newstead Papplewick, or somewhere in that neighbourhood, and had been, for the three or four preceding years, a lodger in one of the farm-houses belonging to colonel Wildman, at Newstead Abbey. No one knew exactly from whence she came, nor what were her connections. Her days were passed in rambling about the gardens and grounds of the abbey, to which, from the kindness of colonel Wildman, she had free access. Her dress was invariably the same; and she was distinguished by the servants at Newstead, as the “white lady.” She had ingratiated herself with the Newfoundland dog which came from Greece with the body of lord Byron, by regularly feeding him; and on the evening before the fatal accident, she was seen, on quitting the gardens, to cut off a small lock of the dog’s hair, which she carefully placed in her handkerchief. On that evening also, she delivered to Mrs. Wildman a sealed packet, with a request that it might not be opened till the following morning. The contents of the packet were no less interesting than surprising; they consisted of various poems in manuscript, written during her solitary walks, and all of them referring to the bard to whom Newstead once belonged. A letter, addressed to Mrs. Wildman, was enclosed with the poetry, written with much elegance of language and native feeling; it described her friendless situation, alluded to her pecuniary difficulties, thanked the family for their kind attention towards her, and stated the necessity she was under of removing for a short period from Newstead. It appeared from her statement, that she had connections in America, that her brother had died there, leaving a widow and family, and she requested colonel Wildman’s assistance to arrange certain matters, in which she was materially concerned. She concluded with declaring, that her only happiness in this world consisted in the privilege of being allowed to wander through the domain of Newstead, and to trace the various spots which had been consecrated by the genius of lord Byron. A most kind and compassionate note was conveyed to her immediately after the perusal of this letter, urging her, either to give up her journey, or to return to Newstead as quickly as possible. With the melancholy sequel the reader is acquainted. Colonel Wildman took upon himself the care of her interment, and she was buried in the church-yard of Hucknall, as near as possible to the vault which contains the body of lord Byron. The last poem she composed was the following: it seems to have been dictated by a melancholy foreboding of her fate.
MY LAST WALK IN THE GARDENS OF NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
Here no longer shall I wander Lone, but in communion high, Kindred spirits greet me--yonder Glows the form that’s ever nigh.
Wrapt in blissful contemplation, From that hill no more I gaze On scenes as fair as when creation Rose--the theme of seraphs’ lays.
And thou, fair sylph, that round its basis Driv’st thy car, with milk-white steed; Oft I watch’d its gentle paces-- Mark’d its track with curious heed.
Why? oh! why thus interesting, Are forms and scenes to me unknown? Oh you, the Muses’ power confessing, Define the charm your bosoms own.
Why love to gaze or playful fountain, Or lake, that bore him on its breast? Lonely to wander o’er each mountain, Grove, or plain, his feet have press’d?
It is because the Muses hover, And all around, a halo shed; And still must every fond adorer Worship the shrine, the idol fled.
But ’tis past; and now for ever Fancy’s vision’s bliss is o’er; But to forget thee, Newstead--never, Though I shall haunt thy shades no more.[207]
[207] Nottingham Review.
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DUELS.
Duelling in England was carried to its greatest possible excess in the reigns of James I. and of the two Charles’s. In the reign of the latter Charles, the seconds always fought as well as their principals; and as they were chosen for their courage and adroitness, their combats were generally the most fatal. Lord Howard, of Carlisle, in the reign of Charles II., gave a grand fête champêtre at Spring Gardens, near the village of Charing, the Vauxhall of that day. This fête was to facilitate an intrigue between lord Howard and the profligate duchess of Shrewsbury: but the gay and insinuating Sidney flirted with the duchess, abstracted her attention from Howard, and ridiculed the fête. The next day his lordship sent a challenge to Sidney, who chose as his second a tall, furious, adroit swordsman, named Dillon; Howard selected a young gentleman, named Rawlings, just come into possession of an estate of 10,000_l._ a year. Sidney was wounded in two or three places, whilst his second was run through the heart, and left dead on the field. The duke of Shrewsbury became afterwards so irritated as to challenge the infamous Buckingham for intriguing with his wife. The duchess of Shrewsbury, in the disguise of a page, attended Buckingham to the field, and held his horse whilst he fought and killed her husband. The profligate king, in spite of every remonstrance from the queen, received the duke of Buckingham with open arms, after this brutal murder.
In 172 duels fought during the last sixty years, 69 persons were killed; (in three of these duels, neither of the combatants survived;) 96 persons were wounded, 48 desperately and 48 slightly; and 188 escaped unhurt. Thus, rather more than one-fifth lost their lives, and nearly one-half received the bullets of their antagonists. It appears also, that out of this number of duels, eighteen trials took place; six of the arraigned were acquitted, seven found guilty of manslaughter, and three of murder; two were executed, and eight imprisoned for different periods.
About thirty years ago, there was a duelling society held in Charleston, South Carolina, where each “gentleman” took precedence according to the numbers he had killed or wounded in duels. The president and deputy had killed many. It happened that an old weather-beaten lieutenant of the English navy arrived at Charleston, to see after some property which had devolved upon him, in right of a Charleston lady, whom he had married; and on going into a coffee-house, engaged in conversation with a native, whose insults against England were resented, and the English lieutenant received a challenge. As soon as the affair was known, some gentlemen waited upon the stranger to inform him, that the man who had called him out was a duellist, a “dead shot,” the president of the duellist club; they added, that the society and all its members, though the wealthiest people of the place, were considered so infamous by really respectable persons, that he would not be held in disesteem by not meeting the challenger. The lieutenant replied, that he was not afraid of any duellist; he had accepted the challenge, and would meet his man. They accordingly did meet, and at the first fire the lieutenant mortally wounded his antagonist. In great agony, and conscience-stricken, he invoked the aid of several divines, and calling the “duellist society” to his bedside, lectured them upon the atrocity of their conduct, and begged, as his dying request, that the club might be broken up. The death of this ruffian suppressed a society which the country did not possess sufficient morals or gentlemanly spirit to subdue.
In Virginia, a Mr. Powell, a notorious duellist, purposely met and insulted an English traveller, for having said, that “the Virginians were of no use to the American Union, it requiring one half of the Virginians to keep the other half in order;” the newspapers took it up as a national quarrel, and anticipated the meeting, without the magistracy having decency, morals, or public spirit sufficient to interfere. The Englishman, therefore, got an American duellist as his second, went into training and practice, and met his adversary amidst a mob of many thousands to witness the fight. Mr. Powell was killed on the first shot, and the Englishman remained unhurt.
The brother of general Delancey, the late barrack-master general, having high words with a “gentleman” in a coffee-house at New York, the American immediately called for pistols, and insisted upon fighting in the public coffee-room, across one of the tables. None of the “gentlemen” present interfered; they fought across the table, and the American dishonestly firing before his time, the Englishman was shot dead upon the spot. Lately, at Nashville, a gentleman was shot dead before his own door, in a duel, in the principal square of the city.
In 1763, the secretary of the English treasury, Mr. Martin, notoriously trained himself as a duellist, for the avowed purpose of shooting Mr. Wilkes, whom he first insulted in the House of Commons, and afterwards wounded in the park. This gave rise to Churchill’s poem of “The Duellist;” the House of Commons ordered his majesty’s sergeant surgeon to attend Mr. Wilkes, and Mr. Martin was considered to “have done the state some service.”
At that period duels were frequent among clergymen. In 1764, the _Rev._ Mr. Hill was killed in a duel by cornet Gardener, of the carabineer. The _Reverend_ Mr. Bate fought two duels, and was subsequently created a baronet, and preferred to a deanery after he had fought another duel. The _Reverend_ Mr. Allen killed a Mr. Delany in a duel, in Hyde Park, without incurring any ecclesiastical censure, though judge Buller, on account of his extremely bad conduct, strongly charged his guilt upon the jury.
In 1765, occurred a celebrated duel between the father of the late lord Byron and Mr. Chaworth, a famous duellist. They quarrelled at a club-dinner at the Star and Garter, Pall Mall, about game; Chaworth was a great game preserver, and lord Byron had argued upon the cruelty and impolicy of the game laws. They agreed to fight in an adjoining room, by the light of only one candle. Lord Byron entered first; and, as Chaworth was shutting the door, turning his head round, he beheld lord Byron’s sword half undrawn; he immediately whipped his own weapon out, and making a lunge at his lordship, ran it through his waistcoat, conceiving that his sword had gone through his body: lord Byron closed, and, shortening his sword, stabbed Mr. Chaworth in the belly. The challenge had proceeded from Chaworth. Lord Byron read his defence to the House of Lords, and was found guilty of manslaughter; and, upon the privilege of his peerage, was discharged on paying his fees.
In 1772, a Mr. M‘Lean was challenged and killed by a Mr. Cameron; and the mother of Mr. M‘Lean, on hearing of the shocking event, instantly lost her senses, whilst a Miss M‘Leod, who was to have been married to the deceased, was seized with fits, and died in three days.
In Mr. Sheridan’s duel with Mr. Mathews, the parties cut and slashed at each other, _à la mode de théâtre_, until Mr. Mathews left a part of his sword sticking in Mr. Sheridan’s ear.
In a famous duel in which Mr. Riddell was killed, and Mr. Cunningham very severely wounded, the challenge, by mistake, had fallen in the first instance into the hands of sir James Riddell, father to Mr. Riddell, who, on having it delivered to him, did no more than provide surgeons for the event.
In 1789, colonel Lennox conceived himself to have been insulted by the late duke of York having told him, before all the officers on the parade of St. James’s, “that he desired to derive no protection from his rank of prince.” The colonel accordingly fought his royal highness, it was said, with cork bullets; but be that as it may, he contrived to disturb one of the huge rows of curls which it was then the fashion to wear on the side of the head.
In 1790, a captain Macrae fought and killed sir George Ramsay, for refusing to dismiss a faithful old servant who had insulted captain Macrae. Sir George urged, that even if the servant were guilty, he had been sufficiently punished by the cruel beating that captain Macrae had given him. As soon as the servant heard that his master had been killed on his account, he fell into strong convulsions, and died in a few hours. Captain Macrae fled, and was outlawed.
In 1797, colonel Fitzgerald, a married man, eloped from Windsor with his cousin, the daughter of lord Kingston. Colonel King, the brother, fought colonel Fitzgerald in Hyde Park. They fired six shots each without effect; and the powder being exhausted, colonel King called his opponent “a villain,” and they resolved to fight again next day. They were, however, put under an arrest, when colonel Fitzgerald had the audacity to follow lord Kingston’s family to Ireland, to obtain the object of his seduction from her parents. Colonel King hearing of this, repaired to the inn where colonel Fitzgerald put up. Colonel Fitzgerald had locked himself in his room, and refused admission to colonel King, who broke open the door, and running to a case of pistols, seized one, and desired colonel Fitzgerald to take the other. The parties grappled, and were fighting, when lord Kingston entered the room; and perceiving, from the position of the parties, that his son must lose his life, instantly shot Fitzgerald dead on the spot.
In 1803, a very singular duel took place in Hyde Park, between a lieutenant W., of the navy, and a captain I., of the army. Captain I. had seduced the lieutenant’s sister. Lieutenant W. seemed impressed with a deep sense of melancholy: he insisted that the distance should be only six paces. At this distance they fired, and the shot of captain I. struck the guard of lieutenant W.’s pistol, and tore off two fingers of his right hand. The lieutenant deliberately wrapped his handkerchief round the wound, and looking solemnly to heaven, exclaimed, “I have a left hand, which never failed me.” They again took their ground. Lieutenant W. looked steadfastly at captain I., and casting his eyes up to heaven, was heard to utter “forgive me.” They fired, and both fell. Captain I. received the ball in his head, and died instantly: the lieutenant was shot through the breast. He inquired if captain I.’s wound was mortal. Being answered in the affirmative, he thanked heaven that he had lived so long. He then took his mourning ring off his finger, and said to his second, “Give this to my sister, and tell her it is the happiest moment I ever knew.” He had scarcely uttered the last word, when a quantity of blood gushed from his wound, and he instantly expired.
These are practices in a _Christian_ country.
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ANSWER TO A CHALLENGE.
At a late meeting under a commission of bankruptcy, at Andover, between Mr. FLEET and Mr. MANN, both respectable solicitors of that town, some disagreement arose, which ended in the former sending the latter a challenge, to which the following answer was returned.
_To Kingston Fleet, Esq._
I am honour’d this day, sir, with challenges two, The first from friend Langdon, the second from you; As the one is to _fight_, and the other to _dine_, I accept _his_ “engagement,” and yours must decline. Now, in giving this preference, I trust you’ll admit I have acted with prudence, and done what was fit, Since encountering _him_, and my weapon a knife, There is some little chance of _preserving_ my life; Whilst a bullet from you, sir, _might_ take it away, And the maxim, you know, is to live while you may. If, however, you still should suppose I ill-treat you, By sternly rejecting this challenge to meet you, Bear with me a moment, and I will adduce Three powerful reasons by way of excuse: In the first place, unless I am grossly deceiv’d, I myself am in conscience the party aggriev’d; And therefore, good sir, if a challenge _must_ be, Pray wait till that challenge be _tender’d_ by _me_. Again, sir, I think it by far the more sinful, To stand and be shot, than to sit for a skinful; From whence you’ll conclude (as I’d have you, indeed) That fighting composes not part of my creed-- And my courage (which, though it was never disputed, Is not, I imagine, too, too deeply rooted) Would prefer that its fruit, sir, whate’er it may yield, Should appear at “_the table_,” and not in “_the field_.” And, lastly, _my life_, be it never forgot, Possesses a value which _yours_, sir, does not;[208] So I mean to preserve it as long as I can, Being justly entitled “a family _Man_,” With three or four children, (I scarce know how many,) Whilst _you_, sir, have not, or _ought_ not, to have any. Besides, that the contest would be too unequal, I doubt not will plainly appear by the sequel: For e’en _you_ must acknowledge it would not be meet That one small “_Mann_ of war” should engage “a whole _Fleet_.”
_Andover, July 24, 1826._
[208] Mr. Fleet is a batchelor.
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_SIGNS_ OF LOVE, AT OXFORD.
_By an Inn-consolable Lover._
She’s as light as the _Greyhound_, and fair as the _Angel_; Her looks than the _Mitre_ more sanctified are; But she flies like the _Roebuck_, and leaves me to range ill, Still looking to her as my true polar _Star_. _New Inn_-ventions I try, with new art to adore, But my fate is, alas! to be voted a _Boar_; My _Goats_ I forsook to contemplate her charms, And must own she is fit for our noble _King’s Arms_. Now _Cross’d_, and now _Jockey’d_, now sad, now elate, The _Chequers_ appear but a map of my fate; I blush’d like a _Blue-cur_ to send her a _Pheasant_, But she call’d me a _Turk_, and rejected my present; So I moped to the _Barley-mow_, griev’d in my mind, That the _Ark_ from the flood ever rescu’d mankind! In my dreams _Lions_ roar, and the _Green Dragon_ grins And fiends rise in shape of the _Seven deadly_ sins. When I ogle the _Bells_, should I see her approach, I skip like a _Nag_ and jump into the _Coach_. She is crimson and white, like a _Shoulder of Mutton_, Not the red of the _Ox_ was so bright, when first put on: Like the _Hollybush_ prickles, she scratches my liver, While I moan, and I die like the _Swan_ by the river!
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~Prolific Writers.~
The copiousness and the multiplicity of the writings of many authors, have shown that too many find a pleasure in the act of composition, which they do not communicate to others. Great erudition and every-day application is the calamity of that voluminous author, who, without good sense, and what is more rare, without that exquisite judgment which we call good taste is always prepared to write on any subject, but at the same time on no one reasonably. We are astonished at the fertility and the size of our own writers of the seventeenth century, when the theological war of words raged, spoiling so many pages and brains. They produced folio after folio, like almanacks. The truth is, that it was then easier to write up to a folio, than in our days to write down to an octavo; for correction, selection, and rejection, were arts as yet unpractised. They went on with their work, sharply or bluntly, like witless mowers, without stopping to whet their scythes. They were inspired by the scribbling demon of that rabbin, who, in his oriental style and mania of volume, exclaimed, that were “the heavens formed of paper, and were the trees of the earth pens, and if the entire sea run ink, these only could suffice” for the monstrous genius he was about to discharge on the world.
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WILLIAM PRYNNE.
Prynne seldom dined: every three or four hours he munched a manchet, and refreshed his exhausted spirits with ale brought to him by his servant; and when “he was put into this road of writing,” as Anthony à Wood telleth, he fixed on “a long quilted cap, which came an inch over his eyes, serving as an umbrella to defend them from too much light;” and then, hunger nor thirst did he experience, save that of his voluminous pages. Prynne has written a library, amounting, perhaps, to nearly two hundred books. Our unlucky author, whose life was involved in authorship, and his happiness, no doubt, in the habitual exuberance of his pen, seems to have considered the being debarred from pen, ink, and books, during his imprisonment, as an act more barbarous than the loss of his ears. The extraordinary perseverance of Prynne in this fever of the pen appears in the following title of one of his extraordinary volumes, “Comfortable Cordials against discomfortable Fears of Imprisonment; containing some Latin Verses Sentences, and Texts of Scripture, _written by Mr. Wm. Prynne on his Chamber Walls_, in the Tower of London, during his Imprisonment there; translated by him into English Verse, 1641.” Prynne literally verified Pope’s description:--
“Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls, With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls.”
We have also a catalogue of printed books, written by Wm. Prynne, Esq., of Lincoln’s Inn, in these classes,
BEFORE, } DURING, } _his imprisonment_, and } SINCE }
with this motto, “Jucundi acti labores,” 1643. The secret history of this voluminous author concludes with a characteristic event: a contemporary who saw Prynne in the pillory at Cheapside, informs us, that while he stood there they “burnt his huge volumes under his nose, which had almost suffocated him.”
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FRENCH PAMPHLETEER.