Part 94
He was a great peace-maker, and careful keeper thereof himself; a liberal alms-giver, and a special benefactor to the Holy Land; he loved humility, abhorred pride, and much oppressed his nobility. The hungry he refreshed, the rich he regarded not. The humble he would exalt, but the mighty he disdained. He usurped much upon the holy church; and of a certain kind of zeal, but not according to knowledge, he did intermingle and conjoin profane with holy things; for why? _He would be all in all himself._ He was the child of the holy mother church, and by her advanced to the sceptre of his kingdom; and yet he either dissembled or utterly forgot the same; for he was slack always in coming to the church unto the divine service, and at the time thereof he would be busied and occupied rather with councils and in conference about the affairs of his commonwealth, than in devotion and prayer. The livelihoods belonging to any spiritual promotion, he would, in time of their vacation, confiscate to his own treasury, and assume that to himself which was due unto Christ. When any new troubles or wars did grow, or come upon him, then would he lavish and pour out all that ever he had in store or treasury, and liberally bestow that upon a soldier, which ought to have been given unto the priest. He had a very prudent and forecasting wit, and thereby foreseeing what things might or were like to ensue, he would accordingly order or dispose either for the performance or for the prevention thereof; notwithstanding which, many times the event happened to the contrary, and he was disappointed of his expectation: and commonly there happened no ill unto him, but he would foretell thereof to his friends and familiars.
He was a marvellous natural father to his children, and loved them tenderly in their childhood and young years; but they being grown to some age and ripeness, he was as a father-in-law, and could scarcely brook any of them. And, notwithstanding they were very handsome, comely, and noble gentlemen, yet, whether it were that he would not have them prosper too fast, or whether they had evil deserved of him, he hated them; and it was full much against his will that they should be his successors, or heirs to any part of his inheritance. And such is the prosperity of man, that as it cannot be perpetual, no more can it be perfect and assured: for why?--such was the secret malice of fortune against this king, that where he should have received much comfort, there had he most sorrow; where quietness and safety--there unquietness and peril; where peace--there enmity; where courtesy--there ingratitude; where rest--there trouble. And whether this happened by the means of their marriages, or for the punishment of the father’s sins, certain it is, there was no good agreement, neither between the father and the sons, nor yet among the sons themselves.
But at length, when all his enemies and the disturbers of the common peace were suppressed, and his brethren, his sons, and all others his adversaries, as well at home as abroad, were reconciled; then all things happened and befell unto him (though it were long first) after and according to his own will and mind. And would to God he had likewise reconciled himself unto God, and by amendment of his life, had in the end also procured his favour and mercy! Besides this, which I had almost forgotten, he was of such a memory, that if he had seen and known a man, he would not forget him: neither yet whatsoever he had heard, would he be unmindful thereof. And hereof was it, that he had so ready a memory of histories which he had read, and a knowledge and a manner of experience in all things. To conclude, if he had been chosen of God, and been obsequious and careful to live in his fear and after his laws, he had excelled all the princes of the world; for in the gifts of nature, no one man was to be compared unto him.[302]
[301] Giraldus here alludes to his quarrel with Thomas à Becket.
[302] Extracted (from lord Mountmorris’s History of the Irish Parliament, vol. i. page 33, et infra) by “THE VEILED SPIRIT.”
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AMSTERDAM--WITHOUT WATER.
An amusing and lively account of this capital, its public institutions, society, painters, &c. may be found in a small volume, entitled “Voyage par la Hollande,” published by a French visitant in 1806. This is probably the most recent sketch of Amsterdam. With the exception of the conversion of the stadt-house into a king’s palace, and the establishment of certain societies, its general aspect and character have undergone little change for a century past; insomuch that “Le Guide d’Amsterdam,” published by Paul Blad in 1720, may be regarded as forming a correct and useful pocket-companion at the present day. The descriptions given of the Dutch towns by Mr. Ray in 1663, Dr. Brown in 1668, Mr. Misson in 1687, and Dr. Northleigh in 1702, are applicable in almost every particular to the same towns at the present day; so comparatively stationary has Holland been, or so averse are the people to changes.
That fuel should be scarce and dear in Amsterdam, the capital of a country destitute of coal-mines, and growing very little wood, might be expected; but, surrounded and intersected by canals as the city is, it is surprising that another of the necessaries of life, pure water, should be a still scarcer commodity: yet such is the case. There is no water fit for culinary purposes in Amsterdam but what is brought by boats from the Vecht, a distance of fifteen miles; and limpid water is brought from Utrecht, more than twice that distance, and sold in the streets by gallon measures, for table use, and for making of tea and coffee.[303]
[303] Horticultural Tour.
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_For the Table Book._
REASON,
IF NOT RHYME.
Dame Prudence whispers marry not ’Till you have pence enough to pay For chattels, and to keep a cot, And leave a mite for quarter-day.
Beside chair, table, and a bed, Those need, who cannot live on air, Two plates, a basket for the bread, And knives and forks at least two pair.
When winter rattles in the sky Drear is the bed that wants a rug, And hapless he whose purse is dry When sickness calls for pill and drug.
So, Bess, we’ll e’en put off the day For parson C---- to tie us fast-- Who knows but luck, so long away, May come and bide with us at last?
Hope shall be ours the tedious while; We’ll mingle hearts, our lips shall join I’ll only claim thy sweetest smile, Only thy softest tress be mine.
VERITE.
_For the Table Book._
SONG,
IMITATED FROM THE GERMAN OF HÖLTY.
Wer wollte sich mit Grillen plagen, &c.
Who--who would think of sorrowing In hours of youth and blooming spring, When bright cerulean skies are o’er us, And sun-lit paths before us-- Who--who would suffer shade to steal Over the forehead’s vernal light, Whilst young Hope in her heav’n-ward flight Oft turns her face round to reveal Her bright eye to the raptur’d sight-- Whilst Joy, with many smiles and becks, Bids _us_ pursue the road _he_ takes.
----Still, as erst, the fountain plays, The arbour’s green and cool, And the fair queen of night doth gaze On earth, as chastely beautiful As when she op’d her wond’ring eyes First--on the flowers of Paradise.
Still doth, as erst, the grape-juice brighten The heart in fortune’s wayward hour-- And still do kindred hearts delight in Affection’s kiss in evening-bower. Still Philomela’s passionate strain Bids long-fled feelings come again.
The world, to _me_, is wond’rous fair-- So fair, that should I cease to hold Communion with its scenes so dear, I’d think my days were nearly told.
R. W. D.
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SWEETHEART SEEING.
ST. MARK’S EVE.--IN CHANCERY, _August 2, 1827._ In a cause, “Barker v. Ray,” a deponent swore, that a woman, named Ann Johnson, and also called “Nanny Nunks,” went to the deponent, and said to her, “I’ll tell you what I did to know if I could have Mr. Barker. On St. Mark’s night I ran round a haystack nine times, with a ring in my hand, calling out, ‘Here’s the sheath, but where’s the knife?’ and, when I was running round the ninth time, I thought I saw Mr. Barker coming home; but he did not come home that night, but was brought from the Blue Bell, at Beverley, the next day.”
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THINGS WORTH REMEMBERING.
CONTROVERSY.
A man who is fond of disputing, will, in time, have few friends to dispute with.
SPEECH.
Truth is clothed in white. But a lie comes forth with all the colours of the rainbow.
ADVERSITY, A GOOD TEACHER.
Those bear disappointments the best, who have been the most used to them.
EXAMPLE.
When a misfortune happens to a friend, look forward and endeavour to prevent the same thing from happening to yourself.
STANDARD OF VALUE.
The worth of every thing is determined by the demand for it. In the deserts of Arabia, a pitcher of cold water is of more value than a mountain of gold.
LUCK AND LABOUR.
A guinea found in the street, will not do a poor man so much good as half a guinea earned by industry.
EARNING THE BEST GETTING.
Give a man work, and he will find money.
EARLY HOURS.
Since the introduction of candles, luxury has increased. Our forefathers rose with the lark, and went to bed with the sun.
INDICATIONS OF THE STATE-PULSE.
A jolly farmer returning home in his own waggon, after delivering a load of corn, is a more certain sign of national prosperity, than a nobleman riding in his chariot to the opera or the playhouse.
OVERWISE AND OTHERWISE.
A man of bright parts has generally more indiscretions to answer for than a blockhead.
Vol. II.--33.
some monitor unseen, Calls for the song.--the call shall be obey’d; For ’tis that silent monitor, I ween, Which led my youth, to many a green-wood shade; Show’d me the spring, in thousand blooms array’d, And bade me look towards Heaven’s immensity: This is a power that schoolmen never made, That comes all unsolicited and free, To fire the youthful bard--lo! this is Poesy!
_The Song of the Patriot._
~Robert Millhouse~
----The talented author of the poem from whence the motto is extracted is scarcely known to fame, and not at all to fortune. His unostentatious little volume, entitled “The Song of the Patriot, Sonnets, and Songs,” was thrown accidentally in my way; and its perusal occasions me to acquaint the readers of the _Table Book_ with its uncommon merit. I do not know any thing concerning the poet beyond what I have derived from printed particulars, which I now endeavour to diffuse. That he is highly esteemed by a discriminating brother bard in his native county, is apparent by the following beautiful address to him in the Nottingham Mercury:--
STANZAS.
My thoughts are of a solitary place, Where twilight dwells, where sunbeams rarely fall; And there a wild-rose hangs in pensive grace, Reflected in a fountain clear and small; Above them rise dark shadowy trees and tall, Whilst round them grow rank night-shades in the gloom, Which seem with noxious influence to pall The fountain’s light, and taint the flower’s perfume; As fainly they would mar what they might not out-bloom.
These, mind me, Millhouse! of thy spirit’s light, That twilight makes in life so dark as thine! And though I do not fear the rose may blight, Or that the fountain’s flow may soon decline; Hope, is there none, the boughs which frown malign, High over-head, should let in heaven’s sweet face; Yet shall not these their life unknown resign, For nature’s votaries, wandering in each place, Shall find their secret shade, and marvel at their grace.
It appears from a small volume, published in 1823, entitled “Blossoms--by Robert Millhouse--being a Selection of Sonnets from his various Manuscripts,” that the Rev. Luke Booker, LL. D. vicar of Dudley, deemed its author “a man whose genius and character seemed to merit the patronage of his country, while his pressing wants, in an equal degree, claimed its compassion.” The doctor “presumed to advocate his case and his cause” before the “Literary Fund,” and a donation honourable to the society afforded the poet temporary relief. This, says Millhouse, was “at a time when darkness surrounded me on every side.” In a letter to Dr. Booker, lamenting the failure of a subscription to indemnify him for publishing his poems, when sickness had reduced a wife and infant child to the borders of the grave, he says, “I am now labouring under indisposition both of body and mind; which, with the united evils of poverty and a bad trade, have brought on me a species of melancholy that requires the utmost exertions of my philosophy to encounter.” About this period he wrote the following:--
TO A LEAFLESS HAWTHORN.
Hail, rustic tree! for, though November’s wind Has thrown thy verdant mantle to the ground: Yet Nature, to thy vocal inmates kind, With berries red thy matron-boughs has crown’d Thee do I envy: for, bright April show’rs Will bid again thy fresh green leaves expand; And May, light floating in a cloud of flow’rs, Will cause thee to re-bloom with magic hand. But, on _my_ spring, when genial dew drops fell, Soon did life’s north-wind curdle them with frost; And, when my summer-blossom op’d its bell, In blight and mildew was its beauty lost.
Before adducing other specimens of his talents, it seems proper to give some account of the poet; and it can scarcely be better related than in the following
MEMOIR OF ROBERT MILLHOUSE, BY HIS ELDER BROTHER, JOHN MILLHOUSE.
Robert Millhouse was born at Nottingham the 14th of October, 1783, and was the second of ten children. The poverty of his parents compelled them to put him to work at the age of six years, and when ten he was sent to work in a stocking-loom. He had been constantly sent to a Sunday school, (the one which was under the particular patronage of that truly philanthropic ornament of human nature, the late Mr. Francis Wakefield,) till about the last-mentioned age, when a requisition having been sent by the rector of St. Peter’s parish, Dr. Staunton, to the master of the school, for six of his boys to become singers at the church, Robert was one that was selected; and thus terminated his education, which merely consisted of reading, and the first rudiments of writing.
When sixteen years old he first evinced an inclination for the study of poetry, which originated in the following manner.--Being one day at the house of an acquaintance, he observed on the chimney-piece two small statues of Shakspeare and Milton, which attracting his curiosity, he read on a tablet in front of the former, that celebrated inscription--
“The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; And like the baseless fabric of a vision, Leave not a wreck behind!”
Its beauty and solemnity excited in his mind the highest degree of admiration At the first opportunity he related the occurrence to me with apparent astonishment, and concluded by saying, “Is it not Scripture?” In reply, I told him it was a passage from Shakspeare’s play of the “Tempest,” a copy of which I had in my possession, and that he had better read it. For, although he had from his infancy been accustomed to survey with delight the beautiful scenery which surrounds Nottingham, had heard with rapture the singing of birds, and been charmed with the varied beauties of the changing seasons; and though his feelings were not unfrequently awakened by hearing read pathetic narratives, or accounts of the actions and sufferings of great and virtuous men, yet he was totally ignorant that such things were in any wise connected with poetry.
He now began to read with eagerness such books as I had previously collected, the principal of which were some of the plays of Shakspeare, Paradise Lost, Pope’s Essay on Man, the select poems of Gray, Collins, Goldsmith, Prior, and Parnell, two volumes of the Tatler, and Goldsmith’s Essays, all of the cheapest editions. But, ere long, by uniting our exertions, we were enabled to purchase Suttaby’s miniature edition of Pope’s Homer, Dryden’s Virgil, Hawkesworth’s translation of Telemachus, Mickle’s version of the Lusiad, Thomson’s Seasons, Beattie’s Minstrel, &c. These were considered as being a most valuable acquisition; and the more so, because we had feared we should never be able to obtain a sight of some of them, through their being too voluminous and expensive.
In 1810 he became a soldier in the Nottinghamshire militia, joined the regiment at Plymouth, and shortly afterwards made an attempt at composition.
It will readily be expected that now, being separated, we should begin to correspond with each other; and one day, on opening a letter which I had just received from him, I was agreeably surprised at the sight of his first poetical attempt, the “Stanzas addressed to a Swallow;” which was soon after followed by the small piece written “On finding a Nest of Robins.” Shortly after this the regiment embarked at Plymouth, and proceeded to Dublin; from which place, in the spring of 1812, I received in succession several other efforts of his muse.
Being now desirous of knowing for certain whether any thing he had hitherto produced was worthy to appear in print, he requested me to transmit some of them to the editor of the Nottingham Review, with a desire that, if they met with his approbation, he would insert them in his paper; with which request that gentleman very promptly complied. Having now a greater confidence in himself, he attempted something of a larger kind, and produced, in the summer of 1812, the poem of “Nottingham Park.”
In 1814 the regiment was disembodied, when he again returned to the stocking-loom, and for several years entirely neglected composition. In 1817 he was placed on the staff of his old regiment, now the Royal Sherwood Foresters; and in the following year became a married man. The cares of providing for a family now increased his necessities; he began seriously to reflect on his future prospects in life; and perceiving he had no other chance of bettering his condition than by a publication, and not having sufficient already written to form a volume, he resolved to attempt something of greater magnitude and importance than he had hitherto done; and in February, 1819, began the poem of “Vicissitude.” The reader will easily conceive that such a theme required some knowledge of natural and moral philosophy, of history, and of the vital principles of religion. How far he has succeeded in this poem is not for me to say; but certain it is, as may be expected from the narrowness of his education, and his confined access to books, his knowledge is very superficial: however, with unceasing exertions, sometimes composing while at work under the pressure of poverty and ill-health, and at other times, when released from his daily labour, encroaching upon the hours which ought to have been allotted to sleep, by the end of October, 1820, the work was brought to a conclusion.
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To his brother’s narrative should be added, that Robert Millhouse’s “Vicissitude,” and other poems, struggled into the world with great difficulty, and were succeeded by the volume of “Blossoms.” The impression of both was small, their sale slow, and their price low; and nearly as soon as each work was disposed of, the produce was exhausted by the wants of the author and his family.
Fresh and urgent necessities have required fresh exertions, and the result is “The Song of the Patriot, Sonnets, and Songs,” a four-shilling volume, “printed for the Author and sold by R. Hunter, St. Paul’s Church-yard, and J. Dunn, Nottingham.” The book appeared in the autumn of last year, after poor Millhouse had suffered much privation from the bad state of the times. It was published with a slender list of subscribers--only seventy-seven!--and, though intended to improve his situation, has scarcely defrayed the bills of the stationer and printer.
The author of “The Song of the Patriot” anticipated the blight of his efforts. In the commencement of that poem, he says:--
---- ’Tis difficult for little men To raise their feeble pigmy heads so high, As to attract the glance of passing ken Where giant shoulders intercept the sky; And ah! ’tis difficult for such as I, To wake fit strains where mighty minstrels sing; Perhaps, even this, shall but be born and die: Not fated to enjoy a second spring, But like some hawk-struck bird, expire on new-fledg’d wing.
In this poem there are stanzas expressed with all a poet’s fire, and all a patriot’s heartfelt devotion to his country.
Land of my fathers! may thy rocky coast Long be the bulwark of thy free-born race; Long may thy patriots have just cause to boast That mighty Albion is their native place; Still be thy sons unequall’d in the chase Of glory, be it science, arts, or arms; And first o’erweening conquerors to disgrace; Yet happier far, when Peace in all her charms, Drives out from every land the din of war’s alarms.
Potent art thou in poesy--Yet there still Is one thing which the bard hath seldom scann’d; That national, exalting local thrill, Which makes our home a consecrated land: ’Tis not enough to stretch the Muses’ wand O’er states, where thy best blood has purchas’d fame; Nor that thy fertile genius should expand To cast o’er foreign themes the witching flame: This hath thy lyre perform’d, and won a glorious name.
Be every hill and dale, where childhood wanders, And every grove and nook, the lover knows, And every stream, and runlet that meanders, And every plain that covers freedom’s foes The dwelling-place of Song,--and where repose The great immortal worthies of our isle Be hallow’d ground--and when the pilgrim goes To hail the sacred dust, and muse awhile, Be heard the free-born strain to blanch the tyrant’s smile.
The patriotism of that people, traces of whose victories are observable in many of our customs, has been well discriminated. “In the most virtuous times of the Roman republic their country was the idol, at whose shrine her greatest patriots were at all times prepared to offer whole hecatombs of human victims: the interests of other nations were no further regarded, than as they could be rendered subservient to the gratification of her ambition; and mankind at large were considered as possessing no rights, but such as might with the utmost propriety be merged in that devouring vortex. With all their talents and their grandeur, they were unprincipled oppressors, leagued in a determined conspiracy against the liberty and independence of mankind.”[304] Every English patriot disclaims, on behalf of his country, the exclusive selfishness of Roman policy; and Millhouse is a patriot in the true sense of the word. His “Song of the Patriot” is a series of energetic stanzas, that would illustrate the remark. At the hazard of exceeding prescribed limits, two more are added to the specimens already quoted.
A beacon, lighted on a giant hill; A sea-girt watch-tower to each neighbouring state; A barrier, to control the despot’s will; An instrument of all-directing fate Is Britain; for whate’er in man is great, Full to that greatness have her sons attain’d; Dreadful in war to hurl the battle’s weight; Supreme in arts, in commerce unrestrain’d; Peerless in magic song, to hold the soul enchain’d.