Part 76

The church at Brough is a pretty large handsome building. The steeple is not so old; having been built about the year 1513, under the direction of Thomas Blenkinsop, of Helbeck, Esq. There are in it four excellent bells, by much the largest in the county, except the great bell at Kirkby Thore. Concerning these bells at Brough, there is a tradition that they were given by one _Brunskill_, who lived upon Stanemore, in the remotest part of the parish, and had a great many cattle. One time it happened that his bull fell a bellowing, which, in the dialect of the country, is called _cruning_, (this being the Saxon word to denote that vociferation.) Whereupon he said to one of his neighbours, “Hearest thou how loud this bull crunes? If these cattle should all crune together, might they not be heard from Brough hither?” He answered, “Yea.” “Well, then,” says _Brunskill_, “I’ll make them all crune together.” And he sold them all; and with the price thereof he bought the said bells, (or perhaps he might get the old bells new cast and made larger.)--There is a monument in the church, in the south wall, between the highest and second windows, under which, it is said, the said _Brunskill_ was the last that was interred.

The pulpit is of stone. There was heretofore a handsome _reading desk_, given by sir _Cuthbert Buckle_, knight, vintner in London, who was born upon Stanemore in this parish, and was lord mayor of London in the year 1593. His name was upon the desk thus:--“By Cuthbert Buckle, Anno Domini 1576.” He built also a bridge upon Stanemore, which still bears the name of _Buckle’s Bridge_; and gave eight pounds a year to a school upon Stanemore.

[237] From the “Genius of the Thames, a Lyrical Poem, with Notes, by Thomas Love Peacock,” 1810.

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_For the Table Book._

TO MY PSEUDO-MUSE.

Hence, thou tormenting wayward Being! For ever courting, trifling, spreeing. Thou _Erysipelas_ of thrall: For ever, with thine addled hatch, I’ll shun thee as an arrant Scratch, Unworthy to be scratched at all.

Thy Sonnets, staves, and stanzas rhyming To every key, to every chiming, St. _Vitus’ Dance_ is ease to Thee: Thou shalt no more provoke my Quill To deeds of labour, or of skill, Thou _cacoëthes mise-re_.

Promethean fire--Parnassus smiling, Helicon’s spirituous drops beguiling,-- Where’er thou com’st--whate’er thou be: The _Vagrant Act_ may take thee in; I’ll drive thee out as Satan’s sin Thou worse than _fire of Anthony_.

Hence Jade! tormentress of the feelings;-- Thou _Witch of End-or_ like revealings:-- Go--haunt the brains, not frenzy past: I’ll haste to Monmouth Street and buy A suit of Prose--then joyful cry _Ecce Stultus!_ grown wise at last.

If thou shou’d’st to my brain-door, knocking, Come with thy wheedling-pamby, mocking; I’ll catch thee _vi et armis_:--then By Habeas Corpus to the Pleas-- --_Sure_ I will rob thee of degrees, And scare thee from my _Smithfield Pen_.

If I’m asleep--then thou art waiting, Angler-like, with thy couplets baiting, To drag my crazy thought to light: Awake! thy float, with stanza-hook, Is ever dipping in _Mal-Brook_-- I’ll brook no more--if sense is right.

*, *, P.

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BATHING.

I do not know any author who has reckoned man among the amphibious race of animals; neither do I know any animal that better deserves it. Man is lord of the little ball on which he treads, one half of which, at least, is water. If we do not allow him to be amphibious, we deprive him of half his sovereignty. He justly bears that name, who can _live_ in the water. Many of the disorders incident to the human frame are prevented, and others cured, both by fresh and salt bathing; so that we may properly remark, “_He lives in the water_ who can find life, nay, even _health_ in that friendly element.”

The greatest treasure on earth is health; but a treasure, of all others, the least valued by the owner. Other property is best rated when in possession, but this can only be rated when lost. We sometimes observe a man, who, having lost this inestimable jewel, seeks it with an ardour equal to its worth; but when every research by land is eluded, he fortunately finds it in the water. Like the fish, he pines away upon shore, but, like that, recovers again in the deep.

The cure of disease among the Romans, by bathing, is supported by many authorities; among others, by the number of baths frequently discovered, in which pleasure, in that warm climate, bore a part. But this practice seemed to decline with Roman freedom, and never after held the eminence it deserved. Can we suppose the physician slept between the disease and the bath to hinder their junction; or, that he lawfully holds by prescription the tenure of sickness in _fee_?[238]

[238] W. Hutton.

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~Rural Sports.~

ANGLING.

When genial spring a living warmth bestows, And o’er the year her verdant mantle throws, No swelling inundation hides the grounds, But crystal currents glide within their bounds; The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake, Float in the sun, and skim along the lake, With frequent leap they range the shallow streams, Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams. Now let the fisherman his toils prepare, And arm himself with every wat’ry snare; His hooks, his lines peruse with careful eye, Increase his tackle, and his rode retie.

When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain Troubling the streams with swift-descending rain, And waters tumbling down the mountain’s side, Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide; Then, soon as vernal gales begin to rise, And drive the liquid burthen thro’ the skies, The fisher to the neighbouring current speeds, Whose rapid surface purls, unknown to weeds; Upon a rising border of the brook He sits him down, and ties the treach’rous hook; Now expectation cheers his eager thought, His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught; Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand, Where every guest applauds his skilful hand.

Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws, Which down the murm’ring current gently flows; When if or chance, or hunger’s pow’rful sway, Directs the roving trout this fatal way, He greedily sucks in the twining bait, And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat: Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line! How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine Cast on the bank, he dies with gasping pains, And trickling blood his silver mail distains.

You must not ev’ry worm promiscuous use, Judgment will tell thee proper bait to choose; The worm that draws a long immod’rate size The trout abhors, and the rank morsel flies; And if too small, the naked fraud’s in sight, And fear forbids, while hunger does invite. Those baits will best reward the fisher’s pains, Whose polish’d tails a shining yellow stains: Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss, Cherish the sully’d reptile race with moss; Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil, And from their bodies wipe their native soil.

But when the sun displays his glorious beams, And shallow rivers flow with silver streams, Then the deceit the scaly breed survey, Bask in the sun, and look into the day. You now a more delusive art must try, And tempt their hunger with the curious fly.

To frame the little animal, provide All the gay hues that wait on female pride: Let nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire The shining bellies of the fly require; The peacock’s plumes thy tackle must not fail, Nor the dear purchase of the sable’s tail. Each gaudy bird some slender tribute brings, And lends the growing insect proper wings: Silks of all colours must their aid impart, And ev’ry fur promote the fisher’s art. So the gay lady, with expensive care, Borrows the pride of land, of sea, and air; Furs, pearls, and plumes, the glittering thing displays, Dazzles our eyes, and easy hearts betrays.

Mark well the various seasons of the year, How the succeeding insect race appear; In this revolving moon one colour reigns, Which in the next the fickle trout disdains Oft have I seen a skilful angler try The various colours of the treach’rous fly; When he with fruitless pain hath skimm’d the brook, And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook, He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow, Which o’er the stream a waving forest throw; When if an insect fall, (his certain guide) He gently takes him from the whirling tide; Examines well his form with curious eyes, His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, and size. Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds, And on the back a speckled feather binds; So just the colours shine thro’ every part, That Nature seems to live again in art, Let not thy wary steps advance too near, While all thy hope hangs on a single hair: The new-form’d insect on the water moves, The speckled trout the curious snare approves; Upon the curling surface let it glide, With nat’ral motion from thy hand supply’d. Against the stream now gently let it play, Now in the rapid eddy roll away. The scaly shoals float by, and seiz’d with fear, Behold their fellows toss’d in thinner air; But soon they leap, and catch the swimming bait, Plunge on the hook, and share an equal fate.

When a brisk gale against the current blows, And all the wat’ry plain in wrinkles flows, Then let the fisherman his art repeat, Where bubbling eddies favour the deceit. If an enormous salmon chance to spy The wanton errors of the floating fly, He lifts his silver gills above the flood, And greedily sucks in th’ unfaithful food; Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey, And bears with joy the little spoil away. Soon in smart pain he feels the dire mistake, Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake: With sudden rage he now aloft appears, And in his eye convulsive anguish bears; And now again, impatient of the wound, He rolls and wreaths his shining body round; Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide, The trembling fins the boiling wave divide; Now hope exalts the fisher’s beating heart, Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art; He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes; While the line stretches with th’ unwieldy prize; Each motion humours with his steady hands, And one slight hair the mighty bulk commands: Till tir’d at last, despoil’d of all his strength, The game athwart the stream unfolds his length. He now, with pleasure, views the gasping prize Gnash his sharp teeth, and roll his blood-shot eyes, Then draws him to the shore, with artful care, And lifts his nostrils in the sick’ning air: Upon the burthen’d stream he floating lies, Stretching his quivering fins, and gasping dies.

Would you preserve a num’rous finny race? Let your fierce dogs the rav’nous otter chase; Th’ amphibious monster ranges all the shores, Darts through the waves, and ev’ry haunt explores; Or let the gin his roving steps betray, And save from hostile jaws the scaly prey.

I never wander where the bordering reeds O’erlook the muddy stream, whose tangling weeds Perplex the fisher; I, nor choose to bear The thievish nightly net, nor barbed spear; Nor drain I ponds the golden carp to take, Nor troll for pikes, dispeoplers of the lake. Around the steel no tortur’d worm shall twine, No blood of living insect stain my line; Let me, less cruel, cast the feather’d hook, With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook, Silent along the mazy margin stray, And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.

_Gay._

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GOOD-LIVING.

A DOMESTIC SCENE.

_Gent._ I wish, my dear, you would not keep the carriage an hour always at the door, when we go to a party.

_Lady._ Surely, my dear, it could not have waited half so long; and that was owing to the unusual length of our rubber.

_Gent._ I feel exceedingly unwell this evening, my head aches confoundedly, and my stomach is very uneasy.

_Lady._ You know, my dear, Mr. Abernethy told you, that after such a severe fit you ought to be very careful and moderate in your living.

_Gent._ Mr. Abernethy is a fool. Can any body be more moderate than I am? you would have me live upon water-gruel, I suppose. The rich pudding, indeed, that Mrs. Belcour made me eat, might possibly not have sat quite easy on the soup, and the salmon, and the chicken and ham, and the harrico, and the turkey and sausages; or, it is possible, the patties I eat before dinner might not perfectly agree with me, for I had by no means a good appetite when I sat down to dinner.

_Lady._ And then, you know, you eat so many cakes, and such a quantity of almonds and raisins, and oranges after dinner.

_Gent._ How could I have got down Belcour’s insufferable wine, that tasted of the cork, like the fag bottle at a tavern dinner, without eating something?

_Lady._ And I am sure you drank a glass of Madeira with every mouthful almost at dinner; for I observed you.

_Gent._ Why how could one swallow such ill-dressed things, half cold too, without drinking? I can’t conceive what makes me feel so unwell this evening; these flatulencies will certainly kill me. It must be the easterly wind we have had for these three days that affects me: indeed, most of my acquaintance are complaining, and the doctors say, disorders are very prevalent now.----What can I _have_? John, make me a tumbler of brandy and water--make it strong, and put ginger enough in it. I have not the least appetite--what _can_ I have?

_Lady._ There is ham, and, I believe, some chicken--

_Gent._ Why, do you think I have the stomach of a ploughman, that I can eat such insipid things! Is there nothing else?

_Lady._ There is a loin of pork--perhaps you could relish a chop, nicely done?

_Gent._ _Why_, if it _was_ nicely done, _very_ nicely, perhaps I _could_; I’ll _try_--but remember it must be done _to a moment_, or I shan’t be able to touch it--and made _hot_--and some nice gravy. Confound these parties!--could any thing be more stupid. While Martin was sleeping on one side of me, there was Bernard on the other did nothing but bore me about his horses, and his wines, and his pictures, till I wished them all at old Harry--I think I shall have done with parties.

_Lady._ I am sure, my dear, they are no pleasure to me; and, if they were, I pay dear enough for it: for you generally come home in an ill humour--and your health and your pocket too suffer for it. Your _last_ bill came to more than ninety pounds, besides your expenses at Cheltenham--and the _next_ thing, I suppose, will be a voyage to Madeira, or Lisbon--and then what will _become_ of us?

_Gent._ What, do you grudge me the necessaries of life? It is I that am the sufferer--

_Lady._ Not entirely so: I am sure I feel the effects of it, and so do the servants. Your temper is so entirely changed, that the poor children are afraid to go near you--you make every body about you miserable, and you know Smith lost his cause from your not being able to attend at the last assizes, which will be nearly the ruin of him and his family. Two days before you were tolerably well, but after you had dined at ----’s, you were laid up.

_Gent._ Nay, I was as much concerned at it as any body could be; and I think I had reason to be so, for I lost three hundred pounds myself--but who can help illness? Is it not a visitation of Providence? I am sure nobody can live more temperately than I do--do you ever see me drunk? A’n’t I as regular as clockwork? Indeed, my dear, if you cannot talk more rationally, you had better go to bed. John! why don’t you bring the brandy and water! and see if the chop is ready; if I am not better in the morning, I am sure I shall not be able to attend my appointment in the city----

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There will always be a few ready to receive the hints of experience, and to them only can this scene be useful.

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DRINKING.

Lime applied to trees makes them put forth leaves and flourish, and produce fruit early, but then it kills them. Wine cheers and stimulates men, and makes them thrust forth flowers of wit; but, then, there is no doubt it shortens life.[239]

[239] Perron.

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KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD

BY ST. EVREMOND.

The first thing by which we know men, is the physiognomy, the colour, and the lineaments of the face; the briskness, the air, the motion of the body, the action, the sound of the voice, the aspect, &c.: and there is no man, but at first sight we are either well or ill affected towards him. Every man makes some impressions upon us of what he is; but these impressions, being sudden, are not always certain, a little frequent conversation with him perfects our knowledge of him.

Hear the man with whom you keep company; endeavour to draw him in to make a long discourse, and then you will easily perceive the greatness or meanness of his wit, his civility, his inclination to vice or virtue, and to what kind of vice or virtue he is most inclined; whether he be sincere in his speech or a man of artifice; whether he aggravates matters, if he be a liar, or a proud man, and to what degree he carries his good or bad qualities.

Study well the persons with whom you converse familiarly, and with least circumspection. Examine them when they are sedate, in an obliging humour; and when they are in anger, in a disdainful and morose humour. When something vexes or pleases them, observe them in their sorrow and disgrace, in their pleasures, in their advancement, and in their humiliation. Be attentive to their discourse in all these several states, consider their behaviour, their sentiments, their projects, and the different motions which their passions, their ranks, and their affairs, produce in them.

Moreover, endeavour also to know yourself very well; consider in all the different states, wherein good or bad fortune has placed you, the designs which you pursue, and the resolutions for doing good or evil, you are capable of making. These several observations upon yourself and others will infallibly make you know mankind. And the reason of it is this:--all men, and even philosophers themselves, are, more or less, subject to the same passions, and all of them think very nearly after the same manner.

Of the most excellent qualities, that of knowing the world is most necessary for our behaviour, and for our fortune:--for our _behaviour_, because otherwise our life is liable to continual crosses, and is nothing else but one continued series of extravagancies, which will bring upon us a thousand bad businesses:--for our _fortune_, because if we do not know men, we cannot make use of them in that way which is most convenient with respect to our interest. It is necessary therefore to know them, and to behave ourselves with each of them after such a manner as is most agreeable to their character. A prudent man, with respect to others, is like a master who knows all the springs of an engine, and makes them play as he pleases, either for his pleasure or advantage.

It seems to me, that our first motion should be to distrust the world in general, and even to have a bad opinion of it. The world, such as it should be, is full of virtue; out as we see it, it is full of wickedness and malice; and this latter world is that we should endeavour to know well, because we live in it, and it concerns us very much to avoid its deceits.

But why should we have so bad an opinion of the world? Why, because men are born with a bad disposition, and they carry in their heart at their birth the source of all vices, and an aversion to all virtues, which would hinder their singularity; and which they cannot acquire but by such pains as they are not willing to take. Yet I do not say that we must therefore think ill of all particular persons, but it is good to know them.

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THE TONGA ISLANDS.

Wild and straggling as the flowers Is human nature there; Uncultivated all its powers In that secluded air: The passions fiery, bold, and strong, Impetuous urge their course along, Like mountain torrent rolling, More rapid as the more confined, Far leaving Reason’s rules behind, No curb of law controlling! The spectre Superstition there Sits trembling on her gloomy throne! Pale child of Ignorance and Fear, Embodying shapes of things unknown: When, when shall rise the glorious morn Of heavenly radiance unconfined? When shall the mental veil be torn, And GOD be known by all mankind?

Full many a ray must pierce the soul, Ere darkness quits the southern pole: Yet here are maidens kind and true As ever northern pencil drew; And here are warriors brave and young As ever northern minstrel sung! And see, upon the valley’s side With fairy footstep lightly glide A train of virgins soft and fair, With sparkling eyes and shining hair, As beauteous as the flowers they bear-- Fresh flowers of every scent and hue, Besprinkled with the morning dew, Which they have risen before the sun To gather for some favourite one.

It is a custom at Tonga for the young women to gather flowers in the earlier part of the morning, and twine them on their return into various ornaments, for themselves, and their relations and friends. They gather them at sunrise while the dew of the morning is still fresh on them; because, when plucked at that time, their fragrance is of longer continuance.[240]

[240] From the “Ocean Cavern, a Tale of the Tonga Islands,” 1819.

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SENSIBILITY IN A RAVEN.

In 1785 there was living at the Red Lion inn, Hungerford, Wiltshire, a raven, respecting which a correspondent communicated to “Mr. Urban” the following anecdote:--

His name, I think, is “Rafe:” and you must know, that going into that inn, my chaise ran over, or bruised, the leg of my Newfoundland dog. While we were examining the injury done to the dog’s foot, Rafe was evidently a concerned spectator; for, the minute the dog was tied up under the manger with my horses, Rafe not only visited, but fetched him bones, and attended upon him with particular and repeated marks of kindness. The bird’s notice of the dog was so marked, that I observed it to the hostler. John then told me, that the raven had been bred from his pin-feather in intimacy with a dog; that the affection between them was mutual; and that all the neighbourhood had often been witnesses of the innumerable acts of kindness they had conferred upon each other. Rafe’s poor dog, after a while, unfortunately broke his leg; and during the long time he was confined, Rafe waited upon him constantly, carried him his provisions daily, and never scarce left him alone. One night, by accident, the hostler had shut the stable door, and Rafe was deprived of the company of his friend the whole night; but the hostler found in the morning the bottom of the door so pecked away, that, had it not been opened, Rafe would, in another hour, have made his own entrance-port. I then inquired of my landlady, (a sensible woman,) and heard what I have related confirmed by her, with several other singular traits of the kindnesses this bird showed to all dogs in general, but particularly to maimed or wounded ones.

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DIAMONDS.