follow about thirty pages of Holiday Notices; a sort of running
commentary on the Calendar. The spaces of the days, however, are sadly
disproportioned. Shrove Tuesday occupies upwards of two pages; Good
Friday and Easter are pruned into the same space; May Day has upwards of
four pages, more than half of which are taken up with the author's own
embellishment: still, not a word has he on the _poetry_ of the Day
beyond his motto from Herrick. Field Sports, as Hawking and Archery,
occupy the next thirty pages; but Mr. Smith is wofully deficient in the
latter department: for instance, how is it that he has not even
mentioned the archery at Harrow School,[4] and the existence of archery
clubs in the present day.--Bull-fights and Baiting of Animals occupy the
next forty pages in two chapters, one of which has been mostly
transcribed from the Encyclopaedia Britannica. An original account of a
Spanish Bull Fight occupies twenty pages, and is interesting, but rather
out of place among English sports. Dancing has thirty pages, for which
the Encyclopaedia Britannica has also been very freely taxed. Morris
Dancers have ten pages. Jugglers have about the same space, chiefly from
Strutt and Brand: Beckmann's chapter might have been added. Music and
Minstrels have thirty pages, from Hawkins and Burney. Mr. Singer's
curious work has furnished about twenty pages on Playing Cards. Chess is
compressed within ten pages! The English Drama, thirty pages, is
acknowledged from Hawkins's History of the English Drama, Cibber, and
Victor; but "more especially from the Biographia Dramatica," we should
say, the weakest source of the four. Malone's Supplement to his Edition
of Shakspeare has entirely supplied thirteen pages of Playhouse
Notices;--and here the curtain falls--sans Index, or the Author's
Farewell.
There are three Engravings--a stunted Frontispiece from Wouverman's
Hawking Party, a Plan of Olympia, and the Tomb of Scaurus--the two
latter belonging, to use Mr. Smith's words, rather to "learned lore
and antiquarian pedantry," than a book of popular interest. Even had
Mr. Smith selected cuts of the Archery Meeting at Harrow, or the
Staffordshire Morris Dance Window, he would better have consulted the
gratification of his readers. In short, there are few subjects that
admit of more delightful illustration, literary or graphic, than the
"Festivals, Games, and Amusements" of "Merry England;" yet, to do these
topics justice, requires careful compilation, condensation, and tasteful
arrangement, upon neither of which points can we congratulate Mr.
Smith's judgment in the specimen before us. Probably the author has been
so long accustomed to indulge his fancy in ten shilling volumes of
"historical tales," that he finds it difficult to restrain himself to
books of facts: if this be the case, we should say that Mr. Smith is not
just the person to furnish the "nation" with a history of "Festivals,
Games, and Amusements, Ancient and Modern."
[4] See Mirror, vol. xiii. p. 259.
* * * * *
LORD BYRON.
(_From Moore's "Life,"_ Vol. II.)
To those who have, from his childhood, traced him through these pages,
it must be manifest, I think, that Lord Byron was not formed to be
long-lived.--Whether from any hereditary defect in his organization--as
he himself, from the circumstance of both his parents having died young,
concluded--or from those violent means he so early took to counteract
the natural tendency of his habit, and reduce himself to thinness, he
was, almost every year, as we have seen, subject to attacks of
indisposition, by more than one of which his life was seriously
endangered. The capricious course which he at all times pursued
respecting diet--his long fastings, his expedients for the allayment of
hunger, his occasional excesses in the most unwholesome food, and,
during the latter part of his residence in Italy, his indulgence in the
use of spirituous beverages--all this could not be otherwise than
hurtful and undermining to his health; while his constant recourse to
medicine--daily, as it appears, and in large quantities--both evinced,
and, no doubt, increased the derangement of his digestion. When to all
this we add the wasteful wear of spirits and strength from the slow
corrosion of sensibility, the warfare of the passions, and the workings
of a mind that allowed itself no sabbath, it is not to be wondered at
that the vital principle in him should so soon have burnt out, or that,
at the age of thirty-three, he should have had--as he himself drearily
expresses it--"an old feel." To feed the flame, the all-absorbing flame,
of his genius, the whole powers of his nature, physical as well as
moral, were sacrificed;--to present that grand and costly conflagration
to the world's eyes, in which,
"Glittering, like a palace set on fire,
His glory, while it shone, but ruined him!"[5]
[5] Beaumont and Fletcher.
* * * * *
SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURUNALS.
* * * * *
AN UNEDUCATED POET.
One of the best papers in the _Public Journals_ for the present
month is in the _Quarterly Review_, No. 87. It purports to be a
notice of "Attempts in Verse, by John Jones, an Old Servant. With some
Account of the Writer, written by himself: and an introductory Essay on
the Lives and Works of our Uneducated Poets. By Robert Southey, Esq."
We extract such portion of the paper as relates to JONES, reserving
a few notices of other uneducated poets for a future number.
In the autumn of 1827, Mr. Southey was spending a few weeks with his
family at Harrowgate, when a letter reached him from John Jones, butler
to a country gentleman in that district of Yorkshire, who, hearing that
the poet laureate was so near him, had plucked up courage to submit to
his notice some of his own "attempts in verse." He was touched by the
modest address of this humble aspirant; and the inclosed specimen of his
rhymes, however rude and imperfect, exhibited such simplicity of thought
and kindliness of disposition--such minute and intelligent observation
of Nature--such lively sensibility--and, withal, such occasional
felicities of diction--that he was induced to make further inquiries
into the history of the man. It turned out that Jones had maintained,
through a long life the character of a most faithful and exemplary
domestic, having been no fewer than twenty-four years with the family,
who, still retaining him in their service, had long since learned to
regard and value him as a friend. The poet laureate encouraged him,
therefore, to transmit more of his verses, and the result is the volume
before us--not more than a third of which, however, is occupied with the
'Attempts' of the good old butler of Kirby Hall, the rest being given to
a chapter of our literary history from his editor's own pen, which, we
venture to say, will be not less generally attractive than the "Life of
John Bunyan," reviewed in our last Number.
"There were many," says Mr. Southey, "I thought, who would be pleased at
seeing how much intellectual enjoyment had been attained in humble life,
and in very unfavourable circumstances; and that this exercise of the
mind, instead of rendering the individual discontented with his station,
had conduced greatly to his happiness; and if it had not made him a good
man, had contributed to keep him so. This pleasure should in itself,
methought, be sufficient to content those subscribers who might kindly
patronize a little volume of his verses."
John Jones's own account of the circumstances under which his "Attempts"
have been produced, cannot fail to impress every mind with the moral
lesson thus briefly pointed to by the editor. After a simple chronicle
of his earlier life, he thus concludes:--
"I entered into the family which I am now serving in January, 1804, and
have continued in it, first with the father, and then with the son, only
during an interval of eighteen months, up to the present hour, and
during which period most of my trifles have been composed, and some of
my former attempts brought (perhaps) a little nearer perfection: but I
have seldom sat down to study any thing; for in many instances when I
have done so, a ring at the bell, or a knock at the door, or something
or other, would disturb me; and not wishing to be seen, I frequently
used to either crumple my paper up in my pocket, or take the trouble to
lock it up, and before I could arrange it again, I was often, sir, again
disturbed. From this, sir, I got into the habit of trusting entirely to
my memory, and most of my little pieces have been completed and borne in
mind for weeks before I have committed them to paper. From this I am led
to believe that there are but few situations in life in which attempts
of the kind may not be made under less discouraging circumstances.
Having a wife and three children to support, sir, I have had some little
difficulties to contend with; but, thank God, I have encountered them
pretty well. I have received many little helps from the family, for
which I hope, sir, I may be allowed to say that I have shown my
gratitude, by a faithful discharge of my duty; but, within the last
year, my children have all gone to service. Having been rather busy this
last week, sir, I have taken up but little time in the preparation of
this, and I am fearful you will think it comes before you in a
discreditable shape; but I hope you will be able to collect from it all
that may be required for your benevolent purpose: but should you wish to
be empowered to speak with greater confidence of my character, by having
the testimony of others in support of my own, I believe, sir, I should
not find much difficulty in obtaining it; for it affords me some little
gratification, sir, to think that in the few families I have served, I
have lived respected, for in none do I remember of ever being accused of
an immoral action; nor with all my propensity to rhyme have I been
charged with a neglect of duty. I therefore hope, sir, that if some of
the fruits of my humble muse be destined to see the light, and should
not be thought worthy of commendation, no person of a beneficent
disposition will regret any little encouragement given to an old servant
under such circumstances."--pp. 179, 180.
The tranquil, affectionate, and contented spirit that shines out in the
"Attempts" is in keeping with the tone of this letter; and if Burns was
right when he told Dugald Stewart that no man could understand the
pleasure he felt in seeing the smoke curling up from a cottage chimney,
who had not been born and bred, like himself, in such abodes, and
therefore knew how much worth and happiness they contain; and if the
works of that great poet have, in spite of many licentious passages,
been found, on the whole, productive of a wholesome effect in society,
through their aim and power to awaken sympathy and respect between
classes whom fortune has placed asunder, surely this old man's verses
ought to meet with no cold reception among those who appreciate the
value of kindly relations between masters and dependents. In them they
will trace the natural influence of that old system of manners which was
once general throughout England; under which the young domestic was
looked after, by his master and mistress, with a sort of parental
solicitude--admonished kindly for petty faults, commended for good
conduct, advised, and encouraged--and which held out to him, who should
spend a series of years honestly and dutifully in one household, the
sure hope of being considered and treated in old age as a humble friend.
Persons who breathe habitually the air of a crowded city, where the
habits of life are such that the man often knows little more of his
master than that master does of his next-door neighbour, will gather
instruction as well as pleasure from the glimpses which John Jones's
history and lucubrations afford of the interior machinery of life in a
yet unsophisticated region of the country. His little complimentary
stanzas on the birthdays, and such other festivals of the family--his
inscriptions to their neighbour Mrs. Laurence, of Studley Park, and the
like, are equally honourable to himself and his benevolent superiors;
and the simple purity of his verses of love or gallantry, inspired by
village beauties of his own station, may kindle a blush on the cheeks of
most of those whose effusions are now warbled over fashionable
piano-fortes.
The stanzas which first claimed and won the favourable consideration of
the poet laureate were these 'To a Robin Red-breast:'
"Sweet social bird, with breast of red,
How prone's my heart to favour thee!
Thy look oblique, thy prying head,
Thy gentle affability;
"Thy cheerful song in winter's cold,
And, when no other lay is heard,
Thy visits paid to young and old,
Where fear appals each other bird;
"Thy friendly heart, thy nature mild,
Thy meekness and docility,
Creep to the love of man and child,
And win thine own felicity.
"The gleanings of the sumptuous board,
Convey'd by some indulgent fair,
Are in a nook of safety stored,
And not dispensed till thou art there.
"In stately hall and rustic dome,
The gaily robed and homely poor
Will watch the hour when thou shall come,
And bid thee welcome to the door.
"The Herdsman on the upland hill,
The Ploughman in the hamlet near,
Are prone thy little paunch to fill,
And pleased thy little psalm to hear.
"The Woodman seated on a log
His meal divides atween the three,
And now himself, and now his dog,
And now he casts a crumb to thee.
"For thee a feast the Schoolboy strews
At noontide, when the form's forsook;
A worm to thee the Delver throws,
And Angler when he baits his hook.
"At tents where tawny Gipsies dwell,
In woods where Hunters chase the hind,
And at the Hermit's lonely cell,
Dost thou some crumbs of comfort find.
"Nor are thy little wants forgot
In Beggar's hut or Crispin's stall;
The Miser only feeds thee not,
Who suffers ne'er a crumb to fall.
"The Youth who strays, with dark design,
To make each well-stored nest a prey,
If dusky hues denote them thine,
Will draw his pilfering hand away.
"The Finch a spangled robe may wear,
The Nightingale delightful sing,
The Lark ascend most high in air,
The Swallow fly most swift on wing,
"The Peacock's plumes in pride may swell,
The Parrot prate eternally,
But yet no bird man loves so well,
As thou with thy simplicity."
Among many affectionate tributes to the kind family in whose service he
has spent so many years, not the worst are some lines occasioned by the
death of Miss Sadlier Bruere, written a few months afterwards (December
1826) at Tours:
"Thou wert miss'd in the group when the eye look'd around,
And miss'd by the ear was thy voice in the sound;
Thy chamber was darksome, _thy bell was unrung_,
Thy footstep unheard, and thy lyre unstrung:
_A stillness prevail'd at the mournful repast_;
In tears was the eye on thy vacant seat cast.
Each scene wearing gloom, and each brow bearing care,
Too plainly denoted that death had been there.
* * * * *
To earth we consign'd thee, and made an advance,
The thought to beguile, to the vineyards of France.
But 'twould not be cheated; of all that was rare,
Fond Nature kept whispering a wish thou could'st share:
No air softly swelling, no chord struck with glee,
But awoke in the bosom remembrance of thee.
Even now, as the cold winds adown the leaves bring,
We sigh that our flow'ret was blighted in spring."
* * * * *
THE NECROMANCER.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
"Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please?
Resolve me of all ambiguities?
Perform what desperate enterprises I will?
I'll have them fly to India for gold,
Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,
And search all corners of the New-found World
For pleasant fruits and princely delicates."
MARLOWE'S _Faustus_.
An old man on his death-bed lay, an old, yet stately man;
His lip seemed moulded for command, tho' quivering now, and wan;
By fits a wild and wandering fire shot from his troubled eye,
But his pale brow still austerely wore its native mastery.
There were gorgeous things from lands afar, strewn round the mystic room;
From where the orient palm-trees wave, bright gem and dazzling plume:
And vases with rich odour fill'd, that o'er the couch of death
Shed forth, like groves from Indian isles, a spicy summer's breath.
And sculptured forms of olden time, in their strange beauty white,
Stood round the chamber solemnly, robed as in ghostly light;
All passionless and still they stood, and shining through the gloom,
Like watchers of another world, stern angels of the tomb.
'Twas silent as a midnight church, that dim and mystic place,
While shadows cast from many thoughts, o'er-swept the old man's face:
He spoke at last, and low and deep, yet piercing was the tone,
To one that o'er him long had watched, in reverence and alone.
"I leave," he said, "an empire dread, by mount, and shore, and sea,
Wider than Roman Eagle's wing e'er traversed proudly free;
Never did King or Kaiser yet such high dominion boast,
Or Soldan of the sunbeam's clime, girt with a conquering host.
"They hear me, _they_ that dwell far down where the sea-serpent lies,
And they, th' unseen, on Afric's hills, that sport when tempests rise;
And they that rest in central caves, whence fiery streams make way,
My lightest whisper shakes their sleep--they hear me, and obey.
"They come to me with ancient wealth--with crown and cup of gold,
From cities roof'd with ocean-waves, that buried them of old;
They come from Earth's most hidden veins, which man shall never find,
With gems that have the hues of fire deep at their heart enshrined.
"But a mightier power is on me now--it rules my struggling breath;
I have sway'd the rushing elements--but still and strong is Death
I quit my throne, yet leave I not my vassal-spirits free--
Thou hast brave and high aspirings, youth!--my Sceptre is for thee!
Now listen! I will teach thee words whose mastery shall compel
The viewless ones to do thy work, in wave, or blood, or hell!
But never, never mayst thou breathe those words in human ear,
Until thou'rt laid, as I am now, the grave's dark portals near."
His voice in faintness died away--and a sudden flush was seen,
A mantling of the rapid blood o'er the youth's impassion'd mien,
A mantling and a fading swift--a look with sadness fraught--
And that too pass'd--and boldly then rush'd forth the ardent thought.
"Must those high words of sovereignty ne'er sound in human ear?
I have a friend--a noble friend--as life or freedom dear!
Thou offerest me a glorious gift--a proud majestic throne,
But I know the secrets of _his_ heart--and shall I seal mine own?
"And there is one that loves me well, with yet a gentle love--
Oh! is not _her_ full, boundless faith, all power, all wealth above?
Must a deep gulf between the souls--now closely link'd, be set?
Keep, keep the Sceptre!--leave me free, and loved, and trustful yet!"
Then from the old man's haughty lips was heard the sad reply--
"Well hast thou chosen!--I blame thee not--I that unwept must die;
Live, thou beloved, and trustful yet! No more on human head,
Be the sorrows of unworthy gifts from bitter vials shed!"
_Blackwood's Magazine._
* * * * *
A MOORE-ISH MELODY.
Oh! give me not unmeaning smiles,
Though worldly clouds may fly before them;
But let me see the sweet blue isles
Of radiant eyes when tears wash o'er them.
Though small the fount where they begin,
They form--'tis thought in many a sonnet--
A flood to drown our sense of sin;
But oh! Love's ark still floats upon it.
Then give me tears--oh! hide not one;
The best affections are but flowers,
That faint beneath the fervid sun,
And languish once a day for showers.
Yet peril lurks in every gem--
For tears are worse than swords in slaughter:
And man is still subdued by them,
As humming-birds are shot with water.
_Monthly Magazine_
* * * * *
THE LAST WORDS OF A MOTH.
I burn--I die--I cannot fly--
Too late, and all in vain:
The glow--the light--charmed sense and sight--
Now naught is left but pain.
That wicked flame, no pencil's aim,
No pen can e'er depict on paper;
My waltz embraced that taper waist,
Till I am wasted like a taper.
Worthy the brightest hours of Greece
Was that pure fire, or so _I_ felt it;
Its feeder towered in steadfast peace,
While I believed for me it melted.
No use in heighos! or alacks!
My cure is past the power of money;
Too sure that form of virgin wax
Retained the bee's sting with the honey.
Its eye was blue, its head was cold,
Its round neck white as lilied chalice;
In short, a thing of faultless mould,
Fit for a maiden empress' palace.
So round and round--I knew no better--
I fluttered, nearer to the heat;
Methought I saw an offered letter--
Now I but see my winding-sheet.
Some pearly drops fell, as for grief---
Oh, sad delusion;--ah, poor Moth!
I caused them not; 'twas but a thief
Had got within to wrong us both,
Now I am left quite in the dark,
The light's gone out that caused my pain;
Let my last gaze be on that spark--
Kind breezes, blow it in again.
Then snuff it well, when once rekindled,
Whoe'er about its brilliance lingers,
But though 'twere to one flicker kindled,
Be careful, or you'll burn your fingers.
It sought not me; and though I die,
On such bright cause I'll cast no scandal--
I fled to one who could not fly--
Then blame the Moth, but not the Candle.
_Ibid._
* * * * *
THE GATHERER.
"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."
SHAKSPEARE.
THE LAST FRIEND.
A respectable character, after having long figured in the gay world of
Paris, was at length compelled to live in an obscure retreat in that
city, the victim of severe and unforeseen misfortunes. He was so indigent
that he subsisted on an allowance from the parish every week; a quantity
of bread was sent to him sufficient for his support; and yet, at length,
he demanded more. On this the curate sent for him--he went. "Do you live
alone?" said the curate. "With whom, sir," answered the unfortunate man,
"is it possible I should live? I am wretched, you see that I am, since
I thus solicit charity, and am abandoned by all the world." "But, sir,"
continued the curate, "if you live alone, why do you ask for more bread
than is sufficient for yourself?" The other was quite disconcerted, and
at last, with great reluctance, confessed that he had a dog. The curate
did not drop the subject; he desired him to observe "that he was only
the distributor of the bread that belonged to the poor, and that it was
absolutely necessary that he should dispose of his dog." "Ah! Sir,"
exclaimed the poor man weeping, "and if I lose my dog, who is there then
to love me?" The good pastor melting into tears, took his purse, and
giving it to him, "Take _this_, sir," said he, "this _is_ mine; this I
_can_ give you."
W.G.C.
* * * * *
ELECTIONEERING PIETY.
In the year 1768, the following printed notices were stuck upon the
doors and walls of the churches in the City of London, one Sunday
morning:--"The prayers of this congregation are earnestly desired for
the restoration of liberty, depending on the election of Mr. Wilkes."
J.R.S.
* * * * *
FAZIO.
"They have brought out _Fazio_ with great and deserved success at
Covent Garden: that's a good sign. I tried during the directory, to have
it done at Drury Lane, but was overruled."--_Byron's Letters_.
* * * * *
THE DEVIL AMONG THE PRINTERS.
In the year 1561, a work was printed, entitled the _Anatomy of the
Mass._ It contained one hundred and seventy pages, accompanied with
errata of fifteen pages! The author, a monk, in an advertisement
prefixed to the errata states, that the devil, to ruin the fruit of
his work, employed two very malicious frauds, by first drenching the
manuscript in the kennel, reducing it to a most pitiable state, and
rendering some parts altogether illegible, and then obliging the
printers to commit such numerous blunders, never before equalled in so
small a work. To combat this double machination of Satan, he was obliged
carefully to reperuse the work, and to form this singular list of the
blunders of printers working under the influence of the devil.
W.A.R.
* * * * *
CHARTER.
_Translation of "a Charter, originally written in Saxon, and granted
by William the Conqueror to the Inhabitants of London:"_
"William, King, greets William, Bishop, and Godfrey Portgrave" (the
same in office as Lord Mayor) "and all the Borough of London, French and
English friendly. And I now make known to you, that you are worthy to
enjoy all those laws and privileges which you did before the decease of
King Edward. And it is my will that every child be his father's heir
after his father's decease. And I will not suffer any man to do you
wrong. God you keep."
J.H.N.
* * * * *
A "SPECTATOR" NEWSPAPER.