|The sentinel sleeps when off his post; the Moorfields barker enjoys
some interval of repose; moonshine suffers a partial eclipse on Bank
holidays among the _omnium gatherem_ of Bulls and Bears; the doctor
gives the undertaker a holiday; Argus sends his hundred eyes to the Land
of Nod, and Briareus puts his century of hands in his pockets.--But the
match-maker, ante and post meridian, is always at her post!
“The News teems with candidates for the noose:--A spinster conjugally
inclined; a bachelor devoted to Hymen; forlorn widowers; widows
disconsolate; and why not 'A daughter to marry?' Addresses paid per
post, post paid! For an introduction to the belle, ring the bell! None
but principals (with a principal!) need apply.”
“Egad,” continued Mr. Bosky, as we journeyed through the fields a few
mornings after our caravan adventure, to pay Uncle Timothy a visit at
his new _rus in urbe_ near Hampstead Heath, “it will soon be dangerous
to dine out, or to figure in; for a dinner may become an action for
damages; and a dance, matrimony without benefit of clergy! But yesterday
I pic-nic'd with the Muffs; buzzed with Brutus; endured Ma, was just
civil to Miss; when early this morning comes a missive adopting me for a
son-in-law!”
We congratulated Mr. Bosky on the prospect of his speedily becoming a
Benedick.
“_Bien oblige!_ What! ingraft myself on that family Upas tree of
ignorance, selfishness, and conceit! Couple with triflers, who, having
no mental resources or amusement within themselves, sigh 'O! another
dull day!' and are happy only when some gad-about party drag them from a
monotonous home, where nothing is talked of or read, but petty scandal,
fashions for the month, trashy novels, mantua-makers' and milliners'
bills! I can laugh at affectation, but I loathe duplicity; I can pity
a fool, but I scorn a flirt. This is a hackneyed ruse of Ma's. The last
coasting season of the Muffs has been comparatively unprolific. From
Margate to Brighton Miss Matilda counts but five proposals positive, and
half a dozen presumptive; in the latter are included some broad stares
at Broadstairs from the Holborn Hill Demosthenes! and even these
have been furiously scrambled for by the delicate sisters for their
marriageable Misses! 'Everybody! says Lord Herbert of Cherbury, 'loves
the virtuous, whereas the vicious do scarcely love one another.”
An oddity crossed our path. “There waddles,” said the Lauréat, “Mr.
Onessimus Omnium, who thrice on every Sabbath takes the round of the
Conventicles with his pockets stuffed full of bibles and psalm books,
every one of which (chapter and verse pointed out!) he passes into the
hands of forgetful old ladies and gentlemen whom he opines 'Consols,
and not philosophy, console!' Pasted on the inside cover is his card,
setting forth the address and calling of Onessimus! You may swear that
somebody is dead in the neighbourhood, (the pious Lynx is hunting up the
executors!) by seeing him out of 'the Alley' at this early time of the
day.”
Farther a-field, rambling amidst the rural scenes he has so charmingly
described, we shook hands with Uncle Timothy's dear friend, the Author
of a work “On the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature.” *
Happy old man! Who shall say that fortune deals harshly, if, in taking
much away, she leaves us virtue?
* To Charles Bucke,
On hearing that he is engaged upon another Work, to be entitled Man.
“Man!” comprehensive Volume!--busy Man--
A world of warring passions, hopes and fears;
Good, evil--all within one little span!
Pride, meanness; wisdom, folly; smiles and tears;
Th' oppressor, the oppress'd; the coward, brave;
Fate's foot-ball from the cradle to the grave!
These records of thy studious days and eves,
Thy musings and experience, are to me
A moral, that this sure impression leaves;
Man never yet was happy--ne'e?' can be!
The feverish bliss, my friend, that dreamers feign,
Binds him a prisoner faster to his chain.
The miser to his treasure, and the proud
To pride and its dominion;--to his gorge
The glutton;--and the low promiscuous crowd
To sordid sensualities, that forge
The unseen fetters, which so firmly bind,
Are all ignobly bound in body;--mind.
He only is a free man, who, like thee,
Does stand aloof, and mark the wild uproar
That shakes the depths of life's tempestuous sea;
And steers his fragile bark along the shore.
The swelling canvass and the prosperous gale
Herald the shipwreck's melancholy tale!
Nature, all beauteous Nature!--thou hast sung
In prose poetic, through each various scene;
And when thy harp upon the willows hung,
She kept thy form erect, thy brow serene;
And breathed upon thy soul; and peace was there:
The soft, still music of a mother's prayer.
She gave thee truth, humility, content;
A spirit to return for evil good;
A grateful heart for bliss denied, or sent;
And sweet companionship in solitude!
Candour, that wrong offence nor takes, nor gives;
A brother's boundless love for all that lives!
Pursue thy solemn theme.--And when on a Man
The curtain thou hast dropp'd, return once more
To Nature. She has Beauties yet to scan,
New Harmonies, Sublimities, in store!
She will repay thy love; and weave, and spread,
A garland--and a pillow--for thy head.
Uncle Timothy.
Winding through a verdant copse, we suddenly came in sight of an elegant
mansion. From a flower-woven arbour, sacred to retirement, proceeded the
notes of a guitar.
“Hush!” said the Lauréat, colouring deeply,--
“breathe not! Stir not!” And a voice of surpassing sweetness sang
Farewell Autumn's shady bowers,
Purple fruits and fragrant flowers,
Golden fields of waving com,
And merry lark that wakes the mom I
Earth a mournful silence keeps,
See, the dewy landscape weeps!
Hark! thro* yonder lonely dell
Gentle zephyrs sigh farewell!
Call'd ere long by vernal spring,
Trees shall blossom, birds shall sing;
The blushing rose, the lily fair
Deck sweet summer's bright parterre--
Flocks and herds, the bounding steed
Shall, sporting, crop the flowery mead,
And bounteous Nature yield again
Her ripen'd fruits and golden grain.
Ere the landscape fades from view,
As behind yon mountains blue
Sets the sun in glory bright--
And the regent of the night,
Thron'd where shines the blood-red Mars,
With her coronet of stars,
Silvers woodland, hill and dell,
Lovely Autumn! fare thee well.
Was Mr. Bosky in love with the songstress or the song? Certes his manner
seemed unusually hurried and flurried; and one or two of his forced
whistles sounded like suppressed sighs. So absent was he that, not
regarding how far we had left him in the rear, he stood for a few
minutes motionless, as if waiting for echo to repeat the sound!
We thought--it might be an illusion--that a fair hand waved him a
graceful recognition. At all events the spell was soon broken, for he
bounded along to us like the roe, with
“Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires at a mile-a.”
The laughing Autolicus! It was his blithesome note that first made us
acquainted with Uncle Timothy!
The remembrance of boyhood is ever pleasing to the reflective mind. The
duties that await us in after-life; the cares and disappointments that
obstruct our future progress cast a shade over those impressions that
were once interwoven with our existence. But it is only a shade; recall
but one image of the distant scene, and the whole rises in all its
freshness and verdure; touch but one string of this forgotten harmony,
and every chord shall vibrate!
“Arma, vi-rump que cane-o!” exclaimed the Lauréat, pointing to his old
schoolmaster, who was leaning over his rustic garden-gate, reading his
favourite Virgil. And how cordial was their greeting! The scholar played
his urchin pranks over again, and the master flourished a visionary
birch. Mr. Bosky hurried us into the playground; (his little garden
was still there, but it looked not so trim and gay as when he was its
horticulturist!) led us into the school room, pointed out his veritable
desk, notched at all corners with his initials; identified the
particular peg whereon, in days of yore, hung his (too often) crownless
castor; and recapitulated his boyish sports, many of the sharers of
which he happily recognised in the full tide of prosperity; and not a
few sinking under adverse fortune, whose prospects were once bright and
cheering, and whose bosoms bounded with youth, and innocence, and joy!
“Let me die in autumn! that the withered blossoms of summer may bestrew
my grave, and the mournful breeze that scatters them, sigh forth my
requiem!”
These were the words of the poor widow's only son, at whose tomb, in the
village church-yard, we paused in sorrowful contemplation. Its guardian
angels were Love and Pity entwined in each other's arms. Uncle Timothy,
after recording the name and age of him to whom it was raised, thus
concluded the inscription:--
Mysterious Vision of a fitful dream!
Pilgrim of Time thro* Nature's dark sojourn!
Then cast upon Eternity's wide stream--
To Know Thyself is all thou need'st to learn:
And that thy God, omnipotent and just,
Is merciful, remembering thou art Dust!
--When the friends of our youth are fast dying away; when the scenes
that once delighted us are fading from our view, and new connections
and objects ill repay the loss of the old, how welcome the summons that
closes our disappointments and calls us to rest! The mourners walk the
streets, but the man is gone; the body dissolves to dust, but the spirit
returns to Him that gave it!
The Village Free-School was at hand, (the morning hymn, chanted by
youthful voices, rose on the breeze to heaven! ) and the Alms-houses,
where Uncle Timothy first met the poor widow and the good pastor.
A troop of little children were gathered round one of the inmates,
listening to some old wife's tale. 'Tis the privilege of the aged to be
reminiscent: the past is their world of anecdote and enjoyment. Let us
then afford them this pleasure, well nigh the only one that time has not
taken away; remembering, that we with quick pace advance to the
closing scene, when we shall be best able to appreciate the harmless
gratification they now ask of us, and which we, in turn, shall ask of
others.
The ancient church spire rising between the tall elms, and the neat
Parsonage House gave an exquisite finish to the surrounding scenery.
Happy England! whose fertile hills and valleys are spotted with these
Temples of the Most High, where “the rich and the poor meet together,
for the Lord hath made them all and the humble dwellings of the
shepherds of his flock. The good pastor scattered blessings around him.
His genius and learning commanded admiration and respect; his piety,
and Christian charity conciliated dissent; and his life exemplified the
beauty of holiness.” He had confirmed the faithful; fixed the wavering;
and reclaimed the dissolute.
“The wretch who once sang wildly--danc'd and laugh'd,
And suck'd down dizzy madness with his draught,
Has wept a silent flood--reversed his ways--
Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays.”
Place us above the sordid vulgar; light us on that enviable medium
between competency and riches, and there we shall find the domestic
virtues flourishing in full vigour and grace. In the rank hotbed of
artificial life spring up those noxious weeds that choke and destroy
them.
We now arrived at Uncle Timothy's cottage, reared in the midst of a
flower garden. In a summer-house fragrant with roses, woodbine, and
jessamine sat our host and the good pastor. A word of introduction soon
made us friends; and from the minister's kind greeting, it was clear
that
Uncle Timothy had not been niggard in our praise.
An old lady in deep mourning walked slowly up the path. Uncle Timothy
went forth to receive her. It was the poor widow! The mother of that
only son!
“Welcome, dear Madam! to this abode of peace. To-day--and what a day! so
cool, so calm, so bright! we purpose being your guests.”
“Mine?” faltered the poor widow, anxiously.
“Yours!” replied Uncle Timothy; “sit down, my friends, and I will
explain all.
“My childhood was sorrowful, and my youth laborious. A near relation
wasted my patrimony; and with no other resource than a liberal
education, wrung from the slender means of my widowed mother, I began
the world. In this strait, a generous friend took me by the hand; first
instructing me in his own house of business, and then procuring me an
eligible appointment abroad. From time to time I acquainted him with my
progress, and received in return substantial proofs of his benevolent
and watchful care. Years rolled away,--fortune repaid my ardent
endeavours,--and I resolved to revisit my native land. I embarked for
England; when, almost in sight of her white cliffs, a storm arose, the
ship foundered, and I lost half my possessions. Enough still remained
to render me independent. My mother and sister were spared to bid me
welcome,--my early oppressor (the infidel may laugh at retribution; but
retribution begins, when a man is suspected in the society of others,
and self-condemned in his own) had descended remorseful to the
grave,--and my noble benefactor--
'O grief had changed him since I saw him last;
And careful hours, with time's deforming hand,
Had written strange defeatures in his face--'
by pecuniary embarrassments, heightened by ingratitude, was brought very
low. Cheerfully would I have devoted to him my whole fortune, and began
the world again. For then I possessed strength and energy to toil. But
ere I could carry this my firm resolution into effect, three days after
my arrival,
'As sweetly as a child,
Whom neither thought disturbs nor care encumbers,
Tired with long play, at close of summer day,
Lies down and slumbers!'
he pressed his last pillow, requiting my filial tears with a blessing
and a smile.
“My debt of gratitude I hoped might still in part be paid. My friend had
an only daughter--Did that daughter survive?
“The most diligent inquiries, continued for many years, proved
unsuccessful. On the evening of an ill-spent and wearisome day, Heaven,
dear sir, (addressing the good pastor) led me to your presence while
performing the sacred duty of comforting the mourner. What then
took place I need not repeat. You will, however, remember that on a
subsequent occasion, while looking over the papers of the widow's son,
we discovered a sealed packet, in which, accompanying a mourning ring,
presented to his mother, were these lines:--
Pledge of love for constant care
Let a widow'd mother wear;
Filial love, whose early bloom
Proves a garland for the tomb.
Ever watchful, ever nigh,
It breaks my heart, it fills my eye
To see thee hide the falling tear,
And hush the sigh I may not hear!
Heaven thy precious life to spare
Is my morning, evening prayer,
When I rise, and sink to rest,
'Tis my first and last request.
If, when deep distress of mind
Press'd me sorely, aught unkind
I have said or done, forgive!
Error falls on all that live.
Beneath the sod, where wave the trees,
And softly sighs the whispering breeze,
Fain I would the grassy shrine,
Mother! guard my dust and thine.
What are grief and suffering here?
Are they worth a sigh or tear?
What is parting?--transient pain,
Parting soon to meet again!
The second enclosure was the miniature of his grandfather. But that
miniature! Gracious God! what were my sensations when I beheld the
benignant, expressive lineaments of my early benefactor. The object of
my long and anxious inquiries was thus miraculously discovered! 'Till
that moment I had never felt true happiness. This cottage, dear Madam,
with a moderate independence, the deed I now present secures to you; in
return, I entreat that the miniature may be mine: and I hope some kind
friend (glancing at his nephew) will, in death, place it upon my bosom.”
“What darkness so profound,” exclaimed the good pastor, “that the
All-seeing Eye shall not penetrate? What maze so intricate and perplexed
that our Merciful Father shall not safely guide us through? 'Throw thy
bread upon the waters, and it shall return to thee after many days.'”
The village bells rang a merry peal; for the good pastor had given the
charity children a holiday. They were entertained with old English fare
on the lawn before the cottage, and superintended in their dancing and
blindman's-buff by Norah Noclack and the solemn clerk. Nor were the aged
inmates of the bountiful widow's Almshouses forgotten. They dined at the
Parsonage, and were gratified with a liberal present from Uncle Timothy.
And that the day might live in grateful remembrance when those who now
shared in its happiness found their rest in the tomb, the Lauréat of
Little Britain (some, like the sponge, require compression before they
yield anything; others, like the honey-comb, exude spontaneously their
sweets,) expressed his intention of adding two Alms-houses to the goodly
number, and liberally endowing them.
Many a merrier party may have sat down to dinner, but never a happier
one. It was a scene of deep and heartfelt tranquillity and joy. The
widow--no longer poor--presided with an easy self-possession, to which
her misfortunes added a melancholy grace.
Time passed swiftly; and the sun, that had risen and run his course in
splendour, shed his parting rays on the enchanting scenery. Suddenly
a flood of light illumined the chamber where we sat with an almost
supernatural glory, beaming with intense brightness on the countenance
of Uncle Timothy, and then melting away. Ere long in the distant groves
was heard the nightingale's song.
“One valued relic” said the widow, addressing
Uncle Timothy, “I have ever carefully preserved. You, dear sir, were
an enthusiast in boyhood: and when, as your senior, I once presumed to
counsel you, this was your reply.”
And she read to Uncle Timothy his youthful fancy.
Let saving prudence temper joy,
Curtail of wit the social day;
Excitement's pleasures soon destroy,--
The spirit wears the frame away.
Thanks, gentle monitor! I greet
This friendly warning, well design'd;
For Stellas voice is ever sweet,
And Stellas words are ever kind!
I would not lose, to linger here,
One happy hour of wit and glee;
If e'er of death I have a fear,
It would with friends the parting be!
Then wear, my frame, and droop, and fade,
And fall, and dust to dust return;--
With friendship's rites sincerely paid,
'Tis sweeter to be mourned than mourn.
For mourn we must--it is a pain,
A penalty that man must pay
For dreaming childhood o'er again,
And sitting out last life's poor play.
Sad privilege! too dearly bought,
To sorrow over those that sleep;
Sadder, in apathy and naught,
To lose the will, the power to weep!
Ere thought and memory are obscur'd,
Let me, kind Stella! say adieu;
I would not ask to be endur'd,
No, not by e'en a friend like you!
Love, friendship, interchange of mind,
Celestial happiness hath given;
These glorious gifts she left behind,
Her foot-prints as she fled to Heaven!
“And so, Eugenio,” said Uncle Timothy, “you intend to visit the Eternal
City, and muse over the mouldering ruins of the palaces of the Cæsars.
But rest not there--take your pilgrim's staff and pass onward to that
Land made Holy by the presence of our Redeemer! Would that I could
accompany you to the sacred hills of Zion!”
“O for such a guide!” exclaimed Eugenio. “But I should be too--too
happy--and I may no more expect light without darkness, than joy without
sorrow.”
“If Uncle Tim goes, I go!” whispered the Lauréat. “With him I am
resolved to live--with him it would be happiness--” the last few words
were inaudible.
“Eugenio,” said the good pastor, laying his hand on the young
traveller's head, who knelt reverently to receive his blessing, “you
are in possession of youth, health, and competence. How enviable your
situation!--how extensive your power of doing good! Fortune smiled not
on the widow's son,--yet, to him belongs a far higher inheritance; the
inexhaustible treasures of Heaven, the eternal affluence of the skies!
A man's genius is always, in the beginning of life, as much unknown to
himself as to others; and it is only after frequent trials, attended
with success, that he dares think himself equal to certain undertakings
in which those who have succeeded have fixed the admiration of
mankind. Be then what our lost friend would have been, under happier
circumstances. A stagnant, unprogressing existence was never intended
for man. Action is the mind's proper sphere, ere time obscures its
brightness and enfeebles its powers. And carry with you these truths,
that the foundation of domestic happiness is faith in the virtue of
woman; the foundation of political happiness is confidence in the
integrity of man; the foundation of all happiness, temporal and
eternal, is reliance on the goodness of God. If, amidst more important
occupations, the Muse claim a share of your regard, let not the
ribald scorn of hypercriticism discourage you on the very threshold of
poetry--f Know thine own worth, and reverence the Lyre--'”
The night proved as lovely as the day. But with it came the hour of
parting. Parting!--What a host of feelings are concentrated in that
little word! The Lauréat bore up heroically.--The glare of the candles
being too much for his eyes, he walked in the moonlight, while Eugenio
sang--
Our sails catch the breeze--lov'd companions, adieu!
Farewell!--not to friendship--but farewell to you!
When Alps rise between us, and rolls the deep sea,
Shall I e'er forget you? Will you forget me?
Ah! no--for my hand you at parting have press'd,
In memory of moments my brightest and best!
How sad heaves my bosom this tear let it tell,
How falters my tongue when it bids you farewell!
Eugenio was on ship-board early the following morn. His friends
attended, to wish him _bon voyage_ and a safe return. And as the noble
vessel moved majestically along the waters, high above the rest waved
_adieu_ the hand of _Uncle Timothy!_
CONCLUSION.
|Thus, gentle reader, we have led thee through a labyrinth of strange
sights, of land-monsters and sea-monsters, many of man's own making,
others the offspring of freakish nature, of Jove mellow with nectar
and ambrosia. If the “proper study of mankind is man,” where can he be
studied in a greater variety of character than in the scenes we have
visited? The well-dressed automaton of a drawing-room, (a tailor made
him!) fenced in with fashions and forms, moving, looking, and speaking
but as etiquette pulls the wires, exhibits man in artificial life, and
must no more be taken as a fair sample of the genus, than must pharmacy,
in the person of the pimple-faced quack * mounted on his piebald pad, or
charlatan's stage.
* “Quacksalvers and mountebanks are as easy to be knowne as
an asse by his eares, or the lyon by his pawes, for they
delight most commonly to proclaime their dealings in the
open streets and market-places, by prating, bragging, lying,
with their labells, banners, and wares, hanging them out
abroade.” Morbus Gallicus, 1585, by William Clowes.
“In the yeare 1587, there came a Flemming into the cittie of
Gloceter (Gloucester) named Wolfgang Frolicke, and there
hanged forth his pictures, his flagges, his instruments, and
his letters of marte, with long labells, great tassels,
broad scales closed in boxes, with such counterfeit showes
and knackes of knauerie, coesining the people of their
monie, without either learning or knowledge.” A most
excellent and compendious Method of curing Wounds, &c.
translated by John Read, 8vo. 1588.
We have shewn thee to what odd inventions men are put to provide fun for
their fellows, and food for themselves. Yet if we ascend the scale of
society it will be found that the Merry-Andrew is not the only wearer of
the Fool's coat; that buffoons and jesters are not exclusively confined
to fairs; that the juggler, * who steals his five pecks of corn out of a
bushel.
* The following description of an itinerant juggler of the
olden time is exceedingly curious, and probably unique.
“The third (as the first) was an olde fellowe, his beard
milkewhite, his head couered with a round lowe-crownd rent
silke hat, on which was a band knit in many knotes, wherein
stucke two round stickes after the jugler's manner.
Hisierkin was of leather cut, his cloake of three coulers,
his hose paind with yellow drawn out with blew, his
instrument was a bagpipe, and him I knew to be William
Cuckoe, better knowne than lou'd, and yet, some thinke, as
well lou'd as he was worthy.” Kind-Hart's Dreame.
Hocus Pocus, junior, in his Anatomy of Legerdemaine, 1634,
mentions one “whose father while he lived was the greatest
jugler in England, and used the assistance of a familiar; he
lived a tinker by trade, and used his feats as a trade by
the by; he lived, as I was informed, alwayes betattered, and
died, for ought I could hear, in the same estate.”
The nostrum-vender who cures all diseases in the world, and one disease
more; the Little-go man and thimble-rigger have their several prototypes
among the starred and gartered; the laced and tinselled “Noodles”
and “Doodles” of more elevated spheres, where the necessity for such
ludicrous metamorphoses does not exist; except to shake off the ennui
of idleness,--and idleness, said the great Duke of Marlborough, is a
complaint quite enough to kill the stoutest General. How, gentle reader,
has thy time been spent? If Utilitarian, * thou wilt say “Unprofitably!”
* “To set downe the jugling in trades, the crafty tricks of
buyers and sellers, the swearing of the one, the lying of
the other, were but to tell the worlde that which they well
knowe, and, therefore, I will ouerslip that. There is an
occupation of no long standing about London, called broking,
or brogging, whether ye will; in which there is pretty
juggling, especially to blind law, and bolster usury. If any
man be forst to bring them a pawne, they will take no
interest, not past twelve pence a pound for the month:
marry, they must haue a groat for a monthly bill, which is a
bill of sale from month to month; so that no advantage can
be taken for the usurie.
I heare say it's well multiplied since I died; but I
beshrewe them, for, in my life, many a time haue I borrowed
a shilling on my pipes, and paid a groat for the bill, when
I haue fetclit out my pawne in a day.” William Cuckoe to all
close juglers, &c. “c.--Kind-Hart's Dreame. O the villany of
these ancient pawnbrokers!
If Puritan, “Profanely Presuming,” however, that thou art neither the
greedy, all-grasping nor the over-reaching, preaching second; but a
well-conditioned happy being, with religion enough to shew thy love to
God by thy benevolence to man, thou wilt regard with an approving smile
the various recreations that lighten the toil and beguile the cares of
thy humbler brethren; and thy compassion (not the world's,--Heaven save
them and thee from the bitterness of that!) will fall on the poor Mime
and Mummer, whose antic tricks and contortions, grinning mask of red
ochre and white paint, but ill conceal his poverty-broken spirit, hollow
ghastly eyes, and sunken cheeks--and thou wilt not turn scornfully from
the multitudes (none are to be despised but the wicked, and they rather
deserve our pity) that such ( perhaps to thee) senseless sights can
amuse.
Self-complacent, predominant Self will be lost in generous sympathy, the
electrical laughing fit will go round, and, though at the remotest end
of the chain, thy gravity will not escape the shaking shock. Believing
that thou art merry and wise; sightly, sprightly; learned, yet nothing
loth to laugh; as we first met in a mutual spirit of communication and
kindness, so we part. And when good fortune shall again throw us into
thy company, not forgetting Mr. Bosky and the middle-aged gentleman with
the satirical nose! we shall be happy to shake thy hand, ay, and thy
sides to boot, with some merry tale or ballad, * (“Mirth, in seasonable
time taken, is not forbidden by the austerest sapients,”) if haply time
spare us one to tell or sing. Till then, health be with thee, gentle
reader! a light heart and a liberal hand.
* Henry Chettle, in his Kind-Hart's Dreame, gives the
following description of a Ballad Singer. “The first of the
first three was an od old fellow, low of stature, his head
was couered with a round cap, his body with a side-skirted
tawney coate, his legs and feete trust vppe in leather
buskins, his gray haires and furrowed face witnessed his
age, his treble violl in his hande assured me of his
profession. On which (by his con-tinuall sawing, hauing left
but one string,) after his best manner, he gaue me a
huntsvp: whome, after a little musing, I assuredly remembred
to be no other but old Anthony Now now.” Anthony Munday is
supposed to be ridiculed in the character of cc Old Anthony
Now now the latter was an itinerant fiddler, of whom this
curious notice occurs in The Second Bart of the Gentle
Craft, by Thomas Deloney, 1598.
“Anthony cald for wine, and drawing forth his fiddle began
to play, and after he had scrapte halfe a score lessons, he
began thus to sing:--
“When should a man shew himselfe gentle and kinde? When
should a man comfort the sorrowful minde?
O Anthony, now, now, now,
O Anthony, now, now, now.
When is the best time to drinke with a friend?
When is the meetest my money to spend?
O Anthony, now, now, now,
O Anthony, now, now, now.
When goeth the King of good fellows away,
That so much delighted in dancing and play?
O Anthony, now, now, now,
O Anthony, now, now, now.
And when should I bid my good master farewell,
Whose bounty and curtesie so did excell?
O Anthony, now, now, now,
O Anthony, now, now, now.
“Loe yee now, (quoth hee,) this song have I made for your
sake, and by the grace of God when you are gone, I will sing
it every Sunday morning under your wives' window.* *
“Anthony in his absence sung this song so often in S.
Martin's, that thereby he purchast a name which he never
lost till his dying day, for ever after men cald him nothing
but Anthony now now.”
Braithwait thus describes one of the race of “metre ballad
mongers.”
“Now he counterfeits a natural base, then a perpetual
treble, and ends with a counter-tenure. You shall heare him
feigne an artfull straine through the nose, purposely to
insinuate into the attention of the purer brother-hood.”
APPENDIX.
Well might Old England * have been called “Merrie,” for the court had
its masques and pageantry, and the people their plays, ** sports, and
pastimes. There existed a jovial sympathy between the two estates, which
was continually brought into action, and enjoyed with hearty good-will.
Witness the Standard in Cornhill, and the Conduit in “Chepe;” when
May-poles were in their glory, and fountains ran with wine.
* The English were a jesting, ballad-singing, play-going
people. The ancient press teemed with “merrie jests.”
The following oddities of the olden time grin from our
bookshelves. “Skelton's merrie Tales;”
“A Banquet of Jests, Old and New” (Archee's); “A new Booke
of Mistakes, or Bulls with Tales, and Bulls without Tales;”
“The Booke of Bulls Baited, with two Centuries of bold Jests
and nimble Lies “Robin Good-Fellow, his mad Pranks and merry
Jests “A merry Jest of Robin Hood “Tales and quicke
answers;”
“xii. mery Jests of the Wyddow Edyth “The merry jest of a
shrewde and curste Wyfe lapped in Morrelles-skin for her
good behavyour “Dobson's Drie Bobbes. Sonne and Heire to
Scoggin, full of mirth and delightful recreation;”
“Peele's Jests “Tarlton's. Jests “Scoggin's Jests “The Jests
of Smug the Smith;”
“A Nest of Ninnies,” &e. &e.
** There were not fewer than seventeen playhouses in and
about London, between 1570 and 1629.
A joyous remnant of the olden time was the coart-fool. “Better be a
witty fool than a foolish wit.” What a marvellous personage is the
court-fool of Shakspeare! His head was stocked with notions. He wore
not Motley in his brain.
The most famous court-fools were Will Summers, or Sommers, Richard
Tarlton, and Archibald Armstrong, vulgo Archee, jester to King Charles
I. Archee was the last of the Motleys; unless we admit a fourth, on the
authority of the well-known epigram.
“In merry old England it once was a rule,
The king had his poet and also his fool;
But now we're so frugal, I M have you to know it,
Poor Cibber must serve both for fool and for poet!”
Will Summers * was of low stature, pleasant countenance, nimble body and
gesture; and had good mother-wit in him! A whimsical compound of fool
and knave. He was a prodigious favourite with Henry the Eighth.
* Under a rare print of him by Delarem, are inscribed the
following lines:--
“What though thou think'st mee clad in strange attire,
Know I am suted to my owne deseire:
And yet the characters describ'd upon mee,
May shewe thee, that a king bestow'd them on mee.
This home I have, betokens Sommers' game;
Which sportive tyme will bid thee reade my name:
All with my nature well agreeing too,
As both the name, and tyme, and habit doe.”
That morose and cruel monarch tolerated his caustic satire and laughed
at his gibes. When the king was at dinner, Will Summers 'would thrust
his face through the arras, and make the royal gormandiser roar heartily
with his odd humour and comical grimaces; and then he would approach
the table “in such a rolling and antic posture, holding his hands and
setting his eyes, that is past describing, unless one saw him.”
[Illustration: 0291]
But Will Summers possessed higher qualities than merely making the
Defender of the Faith merry. He used his influence in a way that few
court favourites--not being fools!--have done, before or since. He tamed
the tyrant's ferocity, and urged him to good deeds; himself giving the
example, by his kindness to those who came within the humble sphere of
his bounty. Armin, in his Nest of Ninnies, 4to. 1608, thus describes
this laughing philosopher. “A comely foole indeed passing more stately;
who was this forsooth? Will Sommers, and not meanly esteemed by the king
for his merriment; his melody was of a higher straine, and he lookt as
the noone broad waking. His description was writ on his forehead, and
yee might read it thus:
“Will Sommers borne in Shropshire, as some say,
Was brought to Greenwich on a holy day,
Presented to the king, which foole disdayn'd,
To shake him by the hand, or else asham'd,
Howe're it Avas, as ancient people say,
With much adoe was wonne to it that day.
Leane he was, hollow-eyde, as all report,
And stoope he did too; yet, in all the court,
Few men were more belov'd than was this foole,
Whose merry prate kept with the king much rule.
When he was sad, the king and he would rime,
Thus Will exil'd sadness many a time.
I could describe him, as I did the rest,
But in my mind I doe not think it best:
My reason this, howe're I doe descry him,
So many know him, that I may belye him.
Therefore, to please all people one by one,
I hold it best to let that paines alone.
Only thus much, he was a poore man's friend,
And helpt the widdow often in the end:
The king would ever graunt what he did crave,
For well he knew Will no exacting knave;
But wisht the king to doe good deeds great store,
Which caus'd the court to love him more and more.”
Many quaint sayings are recorded of him, which exhibit a copious vein
of mirth, and an acute and ready wit. Upon a festival day, being in
the court-yard walking with divers gentlemen, he espied a very little
personage with a broad-brimmed hat; when he remarked, that if my Lord
Minimus had but such another hat at his feet, he might be served up to
the king's table, as between two dishes.
Going over with the king to Boulogne, and the weather being rough and
tempestuous, he, never having been on ship-board before, began to
be fearful of the sea; and, calling for a piece of the saltest beef,
devoured it before the king very greedily. His majesty asked him why he
ate such gross meat with such an appetite, when there was store of fresh
victuals on board? To which he made answer, “Oh! blame me not, Harry,
to fill my stomach with so much salt meat beforehand, knowing, if we be
cast away, what a deal of water I have to drink after it!”
He was no favourite with Wolsey, who had a fool of his own, one Patch,
that loved sweet wine exceedingly, and to whom it was as natural as milk
to a calf. The churchman was known to have a mistress; Holinshed terms
him “vitious of his bodie,” and Shakspere says, “of his own body he was
ill,” which clearly implies clerical concupiscence. Summers improvised
an unsavoury jest upon the lady, which made the king laugh, and the
cardinal bite his lip. He was equally severe upon rogues in grain, for,
said he, “a miller is before his mill a thief, and in his mill a thief,
and behind his mill a thief!” and his opinion of church patronage was
anything but orthodox. Being asked why the best and richest benefices
were for the most part conferred on unworthy and unlearned men, he
replied, “Do you not observe daily, that upon the weakest and poorest
jades are laid the greatest burdens; and upon the best and swiftest
horses are placed the youngest and lightest gallants?”
On his death-bed a joke still lingered on his lips. A ghostly friar
would have persuaded him to leave his estate (some five hundred
pounds--a large sum in those days!) to the order of Mendicants; but
Summers turned the tables upon him, quoted the covetous father's own
doctrine, and left it to the “Prince of this world,” by whose favour he
had gotten it.
Tarlton * is entitled to especial notice, as being the original
representative of the court-fool, or clown, upon the stage. Sir Richard
Baker says, “Tarlton, for the part called the clowne's part, never had
his match, and never will have.”
* Bastard, in his Chrestoleros, 1598, has an epigram to
“Richard Tarlton, the Comedian and Jester” and, in Nash's
Almond for a Parrot, he is lauded for having made folly
excellent, “and spoken of as being extolled for that which
all despise.”
The music to “Tarleton's Jigge” is preserved in a MS. in the
Public Library, Cambridge (D d. 14, 24). This manuscript is
one of six, containing a number of old English tunes,
collected and arranged for the lute, by John Dowland, and
among them are the music to many of Kemp's Jigs. “Most
commonly when the play is done,” says Lupton, in his London
and the Countrey Carbonadoed and Quatred into seuerall
Characters, 8vo. 1632,) “you shall haue a jig or a dance of
all treads: they mean to put their legs to it as well as
their tongues.” According to the author of Tarltoris News
out of Purgatory, the jig lasted for an hour. The pamphlet,
says he, is “only such a jest as his (Tarlton's) jig, fit
for gentlemen to laugh at an hour.”
[Illustration: 0295]
He excelled in tragedy as well as comedy, a circumstance that has
escaped the research of all his biographers. This curious fact is
recorded in a very scarce volume, “_Stradlingi ( Joannis) Epigrammata_,”
1607, which contains verses on Tarlton. He was born at Condover in the
county of Salop; was (according to tradition) his father's swineherd,
and owed his introduction at court to Robert Earl of Leicester. Certain
it is that Elizabeth took great delight in him, made him one of her
servants, and allowed him wages and a groom. According to Taylor the
water poet, (“Wit and Mirth”) “ Dicke Tarlton said that hee could
compare Queene Elizabeth to nothing more fitly than to a sculler; for,”
said he, “neither the queene nor the sculler hath a fellow.” He basked
all his eccentric life in the sunshine of royal favour. The imperial
tigress, who condemned a poor printer to be hanged, drawn, and
quartered, for publishing a harmless tract, civilly asking her, when
tottering and toothless, to name her successor, listened with grinning
complacency to the biting jests and waggeries of her court-fool;
grave judges and pious bishops relaxed their reverend muscles at his
irresistible buffooneries; while the “many-headed beast,” the million,
hailed him with uproarious jollity. Here * I must needs remember
Tarlton, in his time with the queen his soveraigne, and the people's
generall applause.
“Richard Tarlton, ** for a wondrous plentifull, pleasant, extemporal
wit, was the wonder of his time. He was so beloved that men use his
picture for their signes.”
“Let him *** (the fanatic Prynne) try when he will, and come upon the
stage himself with all the scurrility of the Wife of Bath, with all the
ribaldry of Poggius or Boccace, yet I dare affirm he shall never give
that contentment to beholders as honest Tarlton did, though he said
never a word.”
* Heywood's Apology for Actors.
** Howes, the editor of Stowe's Chronicle.
*** Theatrum Redivivum, by Sir Richard Baker.
--“Tarlton, when his head was onely seene,
The tire-house doore and tapistrie betweene,
Set all the multitude in such a laughter,
They could not hold for scarse an houre after.” *
* Peacham's Thalia's Banquet, 1620.
In those primitive times (when the play was ended) actors and audiences
were wont to pass jokes--“Theames,” as they were called--upon each
other; and Tarlton, whose flat nose and shrewish wife made him a general
butt, was always too many for his antagonist. If driven into a corner,
he, as Dr. Johnson said of Foote, took a jump, and was over your head in
an instant. In 1611 was published in 4to. “_Tarlton's Jests, drawn
into Three Parts: his court-witty Jests; his sound-city Jest's; his
country-pretty Jests; full of delight, wit, and honest mirth_.” This
volume is of extraordinary rarity. In the title-page is a woodcut of
the droll in his clown's dress, playing on his pipe with one hand, and
beating his drum with the other. In _Tarlton's News out of Purgatory_,
the ancient dress appropriated to that character is thus described. I
saw one attired in russet, with a buttoned cap on his head, a bag by
his side, and a strong bat in his hand; so artificially attired for a
clowne, as I began to call Tarlton's woonted shape to remembrance;
and in Kind-Hart's Dreame (1592), “The next, by his suit of russet, his
buttoned cap, his taber, his standing on the toe, and other tricks, I
knew to be either the body or resemblance of Tarlton, who living, for
his pleasant conceits, was of all men liked, and dying, for mirth left
not his like.” This print * is characteristic and spirited, and bears
the strongest marks of personal identity. When some country wag threw up
his “Theame,” after the following fashion:--
“Tarlton, I am one of thy friends, and none of thy foes,
Then I prethee tell me how cam'st by thy flat nose:
Had I beene present at that time on those banks,
I would have laid my short sword over his long shankes.”
The _undumpisher_ of Queen Elizabeth made this tart reply:--
“Friend or foe, if thou wilt needs know, marke me well,
With parting dogs and bears, then by the ears, this chance
fell:
But what of that? though my nose be flat, my credit for to
save,
Yet very well I can, by the smell, scent an honest man from
a knave.”
* Of the original we speak, which Caulfield sold to Mr.
Townley for ten guineas! This identical print, with the
Jests, now lies before us. Caulfield's copy is utterly
worthless.
Once while he was performing at the Bull in Bishopsgate-street, where
the queen's servants often played, a fellow in the gallery, whom he had
galled by a sharp retort, threw an apple, * which hit him on the cheek:
Tarlton, taking the apple, and advancing to the front of the stage, made
this jest:--
“Gentlemen, this fellow, with his face of mapple, **
Instead of a pippin, hath throwne me an apple;
But, as for an apple he hath cast me a crab,
So, instead of an honest woman, God hath sent him a drab.”
The people laughed heartily, for he had a queane to his wife. ***
Gabriel Harvey, in his “Four Letters and certain Sonnets,” 1592,
speaking of Tarlton's “famous play” (of which no copy is known) called
“_The Seven Deadly Sins_,” says, “which most deadly, but lively playe,
I might have seen in London, and was verie gently invited thereunto at
Oxford by Tarlton himselfe; of whom I merrily demanding, which of the
seaven was his own deadlie sinne?
* Tom Weston, of facetious memory, received a similar
compliment from an orange. Tom took it up very gravely,
pretended to examine it particularly, and, advancing to the
footlights, exclaimed, “Humph! this is not a Seville (civil)
orange.” On reference to Polly Peachem's Jests (1728) the
same bon-mot is given to Wilks.
** Mapple means rough and carbuncled. Ben Jonson describes
his own face as rocky: the bark of the maple being
uncommonly rough, and the grain of one of the sorts of the
tree, as Evelyn expresses it, “undulated and crisped into a
variety of curls.”
*** It was the scandal of the time, that Tarlton owed not
his nasal peculiarity to the Bruins of Paris-garden,but to
another encounter that might have had something to do with
making his wife Kate the shrew she was.
He bluntly answered after this manner, 'the sinne of other gentlemen,
letchery!'” Ben Jonson's _Induction to his Bartholomew Fair_, makes
the stage-playur speak thus: “I have kept the stage in Master
Tarlton's time, I thank my stars. Ho! an' that man had lived to play
in Bartholomew Fair, you should ha seen him ha' come in, and ha' been
cozened i' the cloth * quarter so finely!”
“There was one Banks (in the time of Tarlton) who served the Earle
of Essex, and had a horse of strange qualities: and being at the
Crosse-keyes in Gracious-street, getting money with him, as he was
mightily resorted to; Tarlton, then (with his fellowes) playing at the
Bell by, (should not this be the Bull in Bishopsgate-street?) came into
the Crosse-keyes (amongst many people) to see fashions; which Banks
perceiving, (to make the people laugh,) saies, f Signor,' (to his
horse,) 'go fetch me the very est foole in the company.' The jade comes
immediately, and with his mouth drawes Tarlton forth. Tarlton (with
merry words) said nothing but 'God a mercy, horse!' In the end Tarlton,
seeing the people laugh so, was angry inwardly, and said, 'Sir, had I
power of your horse, as you have, I would doe more than that.' 'Whate'er
it be,' said Banks, (to please him,) 'I will charge him to do it.'
'Then,' saies Tarlton, 'charge him to bring me the veriest wh--e-master
in the company.' 'He shall,' (saies Banks,) 'Signor,' (saies he,) '
bring Master Tarlton the veriest wh--e-master in the company.' The horse
leads his master to him.
* Cloth Fair, where the principal theatrical booths were
erected.
_Then God a mercy, horse, indeed!_' saies Tarlton. The people had much
ado to keep peace; but Banks and Tarlton had like to have squared,
and the horse by to give aime. But ever after it was a by-word thorow
London, '_God a mercy horse!_' and is to this day.”
“Tarlton, (as other gentlemen used,) at the first coming up of tobacco,
did take it more for fashion's sake than otherwise, and being in a
roome, set between two men overcome with wine, and they never seeing the
like, wondered at it; and seeing the vapour come out of Tarlton's nose,
cried out, 'Fire! fire!' and then threw a cup of wine in Tarlton's
face.” With a little variation, Sir Walter Raleigh is reported to have
been so treated by his servant. There are some curious old _tobacco
papers_ extant representing the fact. It was a jug of beer, not a cup of
wine.
“Tarlton being at the court all night, in the morning he met a
great courtier coming from his chamber, who, espying Tarlton, said,
'Good-morrow, Mr. Didimus and Tridimus.' Tarlton being somewhat abashed,
not knowing the meaning thereof, said, 'Sir, I understand you not;
expound, I pray you,' Quoth the courtier, 'Didimus and Tridimus are fool
and knave.' 'You overload me,' replied Tarlton, 'for my back cannot bear
both; therefore take you the one, and I will take the other; take you
the knave, and I will carry the fool with me.' And again; there was
a nobleman that asked Tarlton what he thought of soldiers in time of
peace?
'Marry,' quoth he, 'they are like chimneys in summer.” Tom Brown has
stolen this simile.
“Tarlton, who at that time kept a tavern in Grace-church-street, made
the celebrated Robert Armin * his adopted son, on the occasion of the
boy (who was then servant to a goldsmith in Lombard-street) displaying
that ready wit, for which Tarlton himself was so renowned.
“A wagge thou art, none can prevent thee;
And thy desert shall content thee;
Let me divine: as I am,
So in time thou'lt he the same:
My adopted sonne therefore he,
To enjoy my clowne's suit after me.
“And so it fell out. The boy reading this, loved Tarlton ever after,
and fell in with his humour; and private practice brought him to public
playing; and at this houre he performs the same, where at the Globe on
the Bank-side men may see him.”
* Robert Armin was a popular actor in Shakspere's plays. He
was associated with him and “his fellowes” in the patent
granted by James I. to act at the Globe Theatre, and in any
other part of the kingdom. He is the author of “The History
of the Two Maids of More-clacke” 4to. 1609, in which he
played Simple John in the hospital. His “true effigie”
appears in the title-page: as does that of Green (another
contemporary actor of rare merit), in “Tu Quoque.”
Many other jokes are told of Tarlton; how, when he kept the sign of
the Tabor, a tavern in Gracechurch street, being chosen scavenger, he
neglected his duty, got complained of by the ward, shifted the blame to
the raker, who transferred it to his horse, upon which he (Tarlton)
sent the horse to the Compter, and the raker had to pay a fee for the
redemption of his steed! And how he got his tavern bill paid, and a
journey to London scot-free, by gathering his conceits together, and
sending his boy to accuse him to the magistrates for a seminary priest!
the innkeeper losing his time and charges, besides getting well flouted
into the bargain.
In the year 1588 Tarlton gave eternal pause to his merriments. He was
buried, September 3, in St. Leonard's, Shoreditch.
In the books of the Stationers' Company was licensed “_A Sorrowful new
Sonnette,” intituled Tarlton's Recantation upon this Theame given him by
a gentleman at the Bel Savage without Ludgate (now or els never) being
the last Theame he songe; and Tarlton s repentance and his farewell
to his friendes in his sickness, a little before his death._“In “Wits
Bedlam,” 1617, is the following epitaph on him:--
“Here within this sullen earth
Lies Dick Tarlton, Lord of Mirth;
Who in his grave still laughing gapes,
Syth all clownes since have been his apes:
Earst he of clownes to learne still sought,
But now they learne of him they taught:
By art far past the principall,
The counterfeit is so worth all.”
The following epitaph, quoted by Fuller,
“Hic situs est cujus poterat vox, actio, vultus,
Ex Heraclito reddere Democritum,”
is thus varied in Hackett's “_Select and remarkable Epitaphs_”--
“Hie situs est, cujus vultus, vox, actio posset
Ex,” &c. &c.
Archibald Armstrong * in no way disgraced his coat of Motley; though the
author of an epitaph on Will Summers speaks of his inferiority:--
“Well, more of him what should I say?
Both fools and wise men turn to clay:
And this is all we have to trust,
That there's no difference in their dust.
Rest quiet then beneath this stone,
To whom late Archee was a drone”
He was an attached and faithful servant, a fellow of arch simplicity and
sprightly wit; and if he gave the public not quite so rich a taste
of his quality as his predecessors did, let it be remembered that two
religious factions were fiercely contending for supremacy, neither of
which relished a “merrie jest” It seems, however, that Archee, who had
outwitted many, was, on one occasion, himself outwitted.
* There are two rare portraits of Archee prefixed to
different editions of his Jests: one by Cecil, 1657; and one
by Gay-wood, 1660. Under that by Cecil are inscribed the
following lines:--
“Archee, by kings and princes graced of late,
Jested himself into a fayer estate;
And in this booke doth to his friends commend
His jeeres, taunts, tales, which no man can offend.”
And under that by Gaywood, the following:--
“This is no Muckle John, nor Summers Will,
But here is Mirth drawn from the Muse's quill;
Doubt not (kinde reader), be but pleased to view
These witty jests: they are not ould, but new.”
“Archee coming to a nobleman to give him good-morrow upon New-Year's
day, he received a very gracious reward from him, twenty good pieces
of gold in his hand. But the covetous foole, expecting (it seemes) a
greater, shooke them in his fist, and said they were too light. The
nobleman took it ill from him, but, dissembling his anger, said, 'I
prithee, Archee, let mee see them again, for amongst them is one piece
that I would be loath to part with.' Archee, supposing he would have
added more unto them, delivered them back to my lord, who, putting'em up
in his pocket, said, 'Well, I once gave money into a foole's hand, who
had not the wit to keep it.'”
Archee was “unfrocked” for cracking an irreverend jest on Archbishop
Laud, whose jealous power and tyrannical mode of exercising it, could
not bear the laughing reproof of even an “allowed fool.” The briefe
reason of Archee's banishment was this:--A nobleman asking what he would
doe with his handsome daughters, he (Archee) replyed, he knew very well
what to doe with them, but hee had sonnes, which he knew not well what
to doe with; he would gladly make schollars of them, but that hee feared
the archbishop would cut off their eares! *
* “Archys Dream, sometime jester to his majestie; but exiled
the court by Canterburies malice,” 4to. 1641.
These were the three merry men of the olden time, who, by virtue
of their office, spoke truth, in jest, to the royal ear, and gave
home-thrusts that would have cost a whole cabinet their heads. If
their calling had no other redeeming quality but this, posterity would
be bound to honour it.
THE END.