“A QUARTER BEFORE.”
Industry is of little avail, without a habit of very easy
acquirement--punctuality: on this jewel the whole machinery of
successful industry may be said to turn.
When lord Nelson was leaving London on his last, but glorious,
expedition against the enemy, a quantity of cabin furniture was ordered
to be sent on board his ship. He had a farewell dinner party at his
house; and the upholsterer having waited upon his lordship, with an
account of the completion of the goods, he was brought into the
dining-room, in a corner of which his lordship spoke with him. The
upholsterer stated to his noble employer, that every thing was finished,
and packed, and would go in the waggon, from a certain inn, at _six
o’clock_. “And you go to the inn, Mr. A., and see them off.” “I shall,
my lord; I shall be there punctually _at six_.” “A quarter _before_ six,
Mr. A.,” returned lord Nelson; “be there a quarter _before_: to that
_quarter of an hour_ I owe every thing in life.”
Vol. I.--26.
[Illustration: ~Reading the Newspaper.~]
The folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not even critics criticize.--_Cowper._
A venerable old man is, as the reader of a newspaper, still more
venerable; for his employment implies that nature yet lives in
him;--that he is anxious to learn how much better the world is on his
leaving it, than it was when he came into it. When he reads of the
meddlings of overlegislation, he thinks of “good old times,” and feels
with the poet--
But times are alter’d; trade’s unfeeling train
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn where scatter’d hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
And ev’ry want to luxury ally’d,
And ev’ry pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that ask’d but little room;
Those healthful sports that grac’d the peaceful scene
Liv’d in each look, and brighten’d all the green;
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
He reads of proposals for extending the poor-laws to one part of the
United Kingdom not yet cursed with that sure and certain means of
increasing the growth of poverty--he reads of schemes of emigration for
an alleged surplus of human beings from all parts of the empire--he
reads of the abundance of public wealth, and of the increase of private
distress--and he remembers, that
A time there was, ere England’s griefs began,
When ev’ry rood of ground maintain’d its man:
For him light labour spread her wholesome store.
Just gave what life requir’d, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
The old man, who thus reads and recollects, has seen too much of
factions to be a partisan. His only earthly interest is the good of his
country. A change in the administration is to him of no import, if it
bring not blessings to the present generation that entail a debt of
gratitude upon posterity. Alterations in public affairs, if violently
effected, he scarcely expects will be lasting, and loves human nature
too well to desire them; yet he does not despair of private undertakings
on account of their novelty or vastness; and therefore he was among the
earliest promoters of vaccination, and of Winsor’s plan for lighting the
streets with gas. He was a proprietor of the first vessel navigated by
steam, and would rather fail with Brunel than succeed at court.
The old man’s days are few. He has discovered that the essential
requisites of human existence are small in number; and that in strength
itself there is weakness. He speculates upon ruling mankind by the law
of kindness; and, as a specimen of the possibility, he kindles good-will
with the materials of strife.
*
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXIII.
[From the “Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon,” an Historical
Play, by T. Heywood, 1601.]
_Chorus; Skelton, the Poet._
_Skelton_, (_to the Audience_). The Youth that leads yon virgin
by the hand
As doth the Sun the Morning richly clad,
Is our Earl Robert--or your Robin Hood--
That in those days was Earl of Huntingdon.
_Robin recounts to Marian the pleasures of a forest life._
_Robin._ Marian, thou see’st, tho’ courtly pleasures want,
Yet country sport in Sherwood is not scant:
For the soul-ravishing delicious sound
Of instrumental music, we have found
The winged quiristers, with divers notes
Sent from their quaint recording pretty throats,
On every branch that compasseth our bower,
Without command contenting us each hour.
For arras hangings and rich tapestry,
We have sweet Nature’s best embroidery.
For thy steel glass, wherein thou wont’st to look,
Thy chrystal eyes gaze in a chrystal brook.
At Court a flower or two did deck thy head;
Now with whole garlands it is circled:
For what we want in wealth, we have in flowers;
And what we lose in halls, we find in bowers.
_Marian._ Marian hath all, sweet Robert having thee;
And guesses thee as rich in having me.
_Scarlet recounts to Scathlock the pleasures of an Outlaw’s life._
_Scarlet._ It’s full seven years since we were outlaw’ first,
And wealthy Sherwood was our heritage.
For all those years we reigned uncontroll’d,
From Barnsdale shrogs to Nottingham’s red cliffs.
At Blithe and Tickhill were we welcome guests;
Good George-a-green at Bradford was our friend,
And wanton Wakefield’s Pinner loved us well.
At Barnsley dwells a Potter tough and strong,
That never brook’d we brethren should have wrong.
The Nuns of Farnsfield, pretty Nuns they be,
Gave napkins, shirts, and bands, to him and me.
Bateman of Kendal gave us Kendal green,
And Sharpe of Leeds sharp arrows for us made.
At Rotherham dwelt our Bowyer, God him bliss;
Jackson he hight his bows did never miss.
_Fitzwater, banished, seeking his daughter Matilda (Robin’s Marian) in
the forest of Sherwood, makes his complaint._
_Fitz._ Well did he write, and mickle did he know,
That said “This world’s felicity was woe,
Which greatest states can hardly undergo.”
Whilem Fitzwater in fair England’s Court
Possest felicity and happy state,
And in his hall blithe Fortune kept her sport;
Which glee one hour of woe did ruinate.
Fitzwater once had castles, towns, and towers;
Fair gardens, orchards, and delightful bowers;
But now nor garden, orchard, town, nor tower
Hath poor Fitzwater left within his power.
Only wide walks are left me in the world,
Which these stiff limbs will hardly let me tread:
And when I sleep, heavn’s glorious canopy
Me and my mossy couch doth overspread.
_He discovers Robin Hood sleeping; Marian strewing flowers over him._
_Fitz._--in good time see where my comfort stands,
And by her lies dejected Huntingdon.
Look how my Flower holds flowers in her hands,
And flings those sweets upon my sleeping son.
_Feigns himself blind, to try if she will know him._
_Marian._ What aged man art thou? or by what chance
Camest thou thus far into the wayless wood?
_Fitz._ Widow, or wife, or maiden, if thou be;
Lend me thy hand: thou see’st I cannot see.
Blessing betide thee! little feel’st thou want;
With me, good child, food is both hard and scant.
These smooth even veins assure me, He is kind,
Whate’er he be, my girl, that thee doth find.
I poor and old am reft of all earth’s good;
And desperately am crept into this wood,
To seek the poor man’s patron, Robin Hood.
_Marian._ And thou art welcome, welcome, aged man,
Aye ten times welcome to Maid Marian.
Here’s wine to cheer thy heart; drink, aged man.
There’s venison, and a knife; here’s manchet fine.--
My Robin stirs: I must sing him asleep.
_A Judgment._
_A Wicked Prior. Servingman._
_Prior._ What news with you, Sir?
_Serv._ Ev’n heavy news, my Lord; for the light fire,
Falling in manner of a fire-drake
Upon a barn of yours, hath burnt six barns,
And not a strike of corn reserv’d from dust.
No hand could save it; yet ten thousand hands
Labour’d their best, though none for love of you:
For every tongue with bitter cursing bann’d
Your Lordship, as the viper of the land.
_Prior._ What meant the villains?
_Serv._ Thus and thus they cried:
“Upon this churl, this hoarder up of corn,
This spoiler of the Earl of Huntingdon,
This lust-defiled, merciless, false Prior,
Heav’n raineth judgment down in shape of fire.”
Old wives that scarce could with their crutches creep,
And little babes that newly learn’d to speak,
Men masterless that thorough want did weep,
All in one voice with a confused cry
In execrations bann’d you bitterly.
“Plague follow plague,” they cried; “he hath undone
The good Lord Robert, Earl of Huntingdon.”
* * * * *
[From “Phillis of Scyros,” a Dramatic Pastoral, Author Unknown, 1655.]
_True Love irremovable by Death._
_Serpilla. Phillis._
_Serpilla._ Thyrsis believes thee dead, and justly may
Within his youthful breast then entertain
New flames of love, and yet therein be free
From the least show of doing injury
To that rich beauty which he thinks extinct,
And happily hath mourn’d for long ago:
But when he shall perceive thee here alive,
His old lost love will then with thee revive.
_Phillis._ That love, Serpilla, which can be removed
With the light breath of an imagined death,
Is but a faint weak love; nor care I much
Whether it live within, or still lie dead.
Ev’n I myself believ’d him long ago
Dead, and enclosed within an earthen urn;
And yet, abhorring any other love,
I only loved that pale-faced beauty still;
And those dry bones, dissolved into dust:
And underneath their ashes kept alive
The lively flames of my still-burning fire.
_Celia, being put to sleep by an ineffectual poison, waking believes
herself to be among the dead. The old Shepherd Narete finds her, and
re-assures her of her still being alive._
_Shepherd._ Celia, thou talkest idly; call again
Thy wandering senses; thou art yet alive.
And, if thou wilt not credit what I say,
Look up, and see the heavens turning round;
The sun descending down into the west,
Which not long since thou saw’st rise in the east:
Observe, that with the motion of the air
These fading leaves do fall:--
In the infernal region of the deep
The sun doth never rise, nor ever set;
Nor doth a falling leaf there e’er adorn
Those black eternal plants.
Thou still art on the earth ’mongst mortal men,
And still thou livest. I am Narete. These
Are the sweet fields of Scyros. Know’st thou not
The meadow where the fountain springs? this wood?
Enro’s great mountain, and Ormino’s hill;
The hill where thou wert born?
_Thyrsis, upbraided by Phillis for loving another, while he supposed her
dead, replies--_
_Thirsis._ O do not turn thy face another way.
Perhaps thou thinkest, by denying thus
That lovely visage to these eyes of mine,
To punish my misdeeds; but think not so.
Look on me still, and mark me what I say,
(For, if thou know’st it not, I’ll tell thee then),
A more severe revenger of thy wrongs
Thou canst not have than those fair eyes of thine,
Which by those shining beams that wound my heart
Punish me more than all the world can do.
What greater pain canst thou inflict on me,
Than still to keep as fire before my face
That lovely beauty, which I have betray’d;
That beauty, I have lost?