In 1641, Hollar etched a print of Francis Battalia, an Italian, who is
said to have eaten half a peck of stones a day. Respecting this
individual, Dr. Bulwer, in his “Artificial Changeling,” says he saw the
man, that he was at that time about thirty years of age; and that “he
was born with two stones in one hand, and one in the other, which the
child took for his first nourishment, upon the physician’s advice; and
afterwards nothing else but three or four pebbles in a spoon, once in
twenty-four hours.” After his stone-meals, he was accustomed to take a
draught of beer: “and in the interim, now and then, a pipe of tobacco;
for he had been a soldier in Ireland, at the siege of Limerick; and upon
his return to London was confined for some time upon suspicion of
imposture.”
[86] Gentleman’s Magazine.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. IX.
[From the “Two Angry Women of Abingdon,” a Comedy, by Henry Porter,
1599.]
_Proverb-monger_.
This formal fool, your man, speaks nought but Proverbs;
And, speak men what they can to him, he’ll answer
With some rhyme-rotten sentence, or old saying,
Such spokes as th’ Ancient of the Parish use
With “Neighbour, it’s an old Proverb and a true,
Goose giblets are good meat, old sack better than new:”
Then says another, “Neighbour, that is true.”
And when each man hath drunk his gallon round,
(A penny pot, for that’s the old man’s gallon).
Then doth he lick his lips, and stroke his beard,
That’s glued together with the slavering drops
Of yesty ale; and when he scarce can trim
His gouty fingers, thus he’ll fillip it,
And with a rotten hem say, “Hey my hearts,”
“Merry go sorry,” “Cock and Pye, my hearts;”
And then their saving-penny-proverb comes,
And that is this, “They that will to the wine,
By’r Lady, mistress, shall lay their penny to mine.”
This was one of this penny-father’s bastards;
For on my life he was never begot
Without the consent of some great Proverb-monger.
* * * * *
_She Wit._
Why, she will flout the devil, and make blush
The boldest face of man that ever man saw.
He that hath best opinion of his wit,
And hath his brain-pan fraught with bitter jests
(Or of his own, or stol’n, or howsoever),
Let him stand ne’er so high in’s own conceit,
Her wit’s a sun that melts him down like butter,
And makes him sit at table pancake-wise,
Flat, flat, and ne’er a word to say;
Yet she’ll not leave him then, but like a tyrant
She’ll persecute the poor wit-beaten man,
And so be-bang him with dry bobs and scoffs,
When he is down (most cowardly, good faith!)
As I have pitied the poor patient.
There came a Farmer’s Son a wooing to her,
A proper man, well-landed too he was,
A man that for his wit need not to ask
What time a year ’twere need to sow his oats,
Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reap,
To plow his fallows, or to fell his trees,
Well experienced thus each kind of way;
After a two months’ labour at the most,
(And yet ’twas well he held it out so long),
He left his Love; she had so laced his lips,
He could say nothing to her but “God be with ye.”
Why, she, when men have dined, and call’d for cheese
Will strait maintain jests bitter to digest;
And then some one will fall to argument,
Who if he over-master her with reason,
Then she’ll begin to buffet him with mocks.
* * * * *
_Master Goursey proposes to his Son a Wife_.
_Frank Goursey._ Ne’er trust me, father, the shape of marriage.
Which I do see in others, seems so severe,
I dare not put my youngling liberty
Under the awe of that instruction;
And yet I grant, the limits of free youth
Going astray are often restrain’d by that.
But Mistress Wedlock, to my summer thoughts,
Will be too curst, I fear: O should she snip
My pleasure-aiming mind, I shall be sad;
And swear, when I did marry, I was mad.
_Old Goursey._ But, boy, let my experience teach thee this;
(Yet in good faith thou speak’st not much amiss);
When first thy mother’s fame to me did come,
Thy grandsire thus then came to me his son,
And ev’n my words to thee to me he said;
And, as thou say’st to me, to him I said,
But in a greater huff and hotter blood:
I tell ye, on youth’s tiptoes then I stood.
Says he (good faith, this was his very say),
When I was young, I was but Reason’s fool;
And went to wedding, as to Wisdom’s school:
It taught me much, and much I did forget;
But, beaten much by it, I got some wit:
Though I was shackled from an often-scout,
Yet I would wanton it, when I was out;
’Twas comfort old acquaintance then to meet,
Restrained liberty attain’d is sweet.
Thus said my father to thy father, son;
And thou may’st do this too, as I have done.
* * * * *
_Wandering in the dark all night._
O when will this same Year of Night have end?
Long-look’d for Day’s Sun, when wilt thou ascend?
Let not this thief-friend misty veil of night
Encroach on day, and shadow thy fair light;
Whilst thou comest tardy from thy Thetis’ bed,
Blushing forth golden-hair and glorious red.
O stay not long, bright lanthern of the day,
To light my mist-way feet to my right way.
The pleasant Comedy, from which these Extracts are taken, is
contemporary with some of the earliest of Shakspeare’s, and is no whit
inferior to either the Comedy of Errors, or the Taming of the Shrew, for
instance. It is full of business, humour, and merry malice. Its
night-scenes are peculiarly sprightly and wakeful. The versification
unencumbered, and rich with compound epithets. Why do we go on with ever
new Editions of Ford, and Massinger, and the thrice reprinted Selections
of Dodsley? what we want is as many volumes more, as these latter
consist of, filled with plays (such as this), of which we know
comparatively nothing. Not a third part of the Treasures of old English
Dramatic literature has been exhausted. Are we afraid that the genius of
Shakspeare would suffer in our estimate by the disclosure? He would
indeed be somewhat lessened as a miracle and a prodigy. But he would
lose no height by the confession. When a Giant is shown to us, does it
detract from the curiosity to be told that he has at home a gigantic
brood of brethren, less only than himself? Along _with_ him, not _from_
him, sprang up the race of mighty Dramatists who, compared with the
Otways and Rowes that followed, were as Miltons to a Young or an
Akenside. That he was their elder Brother, not their Parent, is evident
from the fact of the very few direct imitations of him to be found in
their writings. Webster, Decker, Heywood, and the rest of his great
contemporaries went on their own ways, and followed their individual
impulses, not blindly prescribing to themselves his tract. Marlowe, the
true (though imperfect) Father of our _tragedy_, preceded him. The
_comedy_ of Fletcher is essentially unlike to that of his. ’Tis out of
no detracting spirit that I speak thus, for the Plays of Shakspeare have
been the strongest and the sweetest food of my mind from infancy; but I
resent the comparative obscurity in which some of his most valuable
co-operators remain, who were his dear intimates, his stage and his
chamber-fellows while he lived, and to whom his gentle spirit
doubtlessly then awarded the full portion of their genius, as from them
toward himself appears to have been no grudging of his acknowledged
excellence.