TEE BITBBLE.^^ OF UFIE BROIKEN BY ©EATM. ♦s-^ife; DEATH'S DOINGS PRINTED BY C. H. DAVIDSON, m^LAJlD YAHIV, DOCTOlls' COMMONS. TWENTY FOUK PLATES, AUTHORoF 'select GEMS teom the ANTIQI^t'&c "WITH Th/; /riend/v c:mf7-ih/jf7on.: nfVarit?r/.; Writers. 'Ay, ay! quo lie, aii sliook Ms iead, 'Its een. a lang, Tang' fene indeed 'Sin I TDpg-an to mck tke tlireatL, "Aii ctoke the treath: "Tolk maTtn do something for tlieii- tread, j^iri so maiui Death.. Sax thonsand years are near iand fled 'Sin I -was to the "batclmig- bred, An mony a scheme in vaiu's been laid, To stap or scar lue; <^^""'"^^-*.v 3vsy\v. Printed for J. -^ndrews, 167 IX ew Boud Sti-eet, and W. Cole 10 yievzq:^xe 5u-! DEATH'S DOINGS; CONSISTING OF NUMEROUS ORIGINAL COMPOSITIONS, IN THK FRIENDLY CONTRIBUTIONS OF VARIOUS WRITERS; J'RINCII'A t.I.V INTENDED AS ILLUSTRATIONS OF TWENTY-FOUR PLATES, DESIGNED AND ETCHED BY R. DAG LEY, AUTHOR OF " SELECT GEMS FROM THE ANTIQUE," &c. LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. ANDREWS, 167, NEW BOND STREET; AND W. COLE, 10, NEWGATE STREET. TO FRANCIS DOUCE, Esq. WHOSE UNWEARIED RESEARCHES AND LIBERAL COMMUNICATIONS HAVE SO GREATLY EXTENDED ^f^c i^notoletigf of >Tirtu AND ENRICHED THIS VOLUME IS, WITH THE GREATEST RESPECT, DEDICATED, BY HIS OBLIGED AND OBEDIENT SERVANT, RICHARD DAGLEY. CONTENTS. CONTRIBUTORS. I'age The Last of the Graces . . . . H. A. Driver .... xiii Introduction R. Daglcy 1 The Poet . Alfred 25 ,^ , , , „ i Rev, H. Stehbinq, Au- Death and the Poet J , , ,^ "'. . < thor of " Network,'\fc. 27 The Pilgrim L. E. L 31 The Scroll L. E. L 33 ^John Fitzgerald Pennie, The Artist .^ Author of " Scenes in \_ Palestine," ^-c. . . . 35 Death and the Artist Ephraim Hardcastle . 41 The Artist R. Dagleji 48 The Game of Life ; or, Death i , ^ . , , 4 'V. Maunder .... 53 among the Cricketers . . . > Death and the Cricketer . . . Barnard Batwell ... 57 Death and the Captive .... Rev. Henry Stebbing . 63 The Captive Alfred 67 The Serenade L. E. L 69 ^ , . _ ., , Author of " The Lol- Death at the Toilet > , , „ ( lards 73 Lucy ; or, The Masked Ball . . A.T.T. 80 The Mother Mrs. Hofiand .... 99 To the Memory of my Infant Niece S. Maunder .... 101 The Ball Mrs. Hofiand .... 105 Hypochondriana J. Oilier 113 Spleen Edward 116 The Hypochondriac: a Tale . . An Eye -Witness . . . 117 Life's Assurance T. Harral 145 The Assurance Office .... W. H. IVutts . . . .153 The Antiquary Cheviot Tichhvrn . . .169 b 2 VIU CONTENTS. CONTRIBUTORS. Page Antiquarian Researches . . . . R. D 162 Death in " The Ring" .... S. Maunder .... 173 The Fancy A Querist 176 The Apoplectic A.T.T. 183 The Complaint of the Stomach . Anon 191 The Bacchanalians H. D 193 The Last Bottle W. Jerdan 195 Elixir VitfB fV. H. Leeds .... 203 Death and the Hunter .... John Fitzgerald Pennie 213 The Fatal Gate H. D 218 The Hunter's Leap Simon Surefout . . . 219 Contentment, the true Alchvmv ) .. ^^ ^^, ^ ^ [H. D 223 of Life S The Alchymist J. J. Leathwick . . . 225 Alchymy G. Field 226 Academic Honours Barry Cornwall . . . 235 The Academic Aspirant . . . J.J. Leathwick . . . 236 The Martyr Student N. T. Carrington . . 238 Academic Pursuits Proteus 242 The Empiric . S. Maunder .... 247 The Men of Physic; an Eastern -^ Author of ^'^ Glances from Tale S the Moon" . . . .250 Death and the Gay Cliarioteer . John Fitzgerald Pennie 269 The Phaeton Anon 276 The Foreboding : a Sketch . . . C. Oilier 283 Death (a Dealer) to his London j „^ ,' [W.J. Forbes .... 297 Correspondent .,..•) An Auxiliary of Death .... Hatchment .... 301 Death and the Lawyer : a Dialogue S. Maunder .... 307 Law Peter Plaintiff . . . 318 Death, the Sage and the Fool . . Anon 323 The Sage and the Fool . . . . D 330 The Fool and the Philosopher . A.T.T. 332 Death's Epilogue, and Address ) « ,-^ , „,„ ' *' ' \S. Maunder . ... 349 Recapitulatory ' PREFACE. Although a Preface, when an Intro- duction lias been given, may appear too much like going on to " more last words," yet an apology may be found in an author's anxiety to acquit himself on every ground connected with the nature and character of his publication : in the course of which many things may arise that require explanation. There are hopes, fears, and wishes to be expressed ; in doing this, it is no easy task to steer between the extremes of presump- tion and servility — few writers could now be found to approach the tribunal of an in- telligent and discerning public in the fol- lowing strain : — X PREFACE. " My fears are lighter than iny expecta- tions ; I wrote to please myself, and I pub- lish to please others : and this so universally, that I have not wished to rob the critic of his censure, or my friend of the laugh. * * * * * * I have learnt, tliat where the writer would please, the man should be unknown. An Author is the re- verse of all otiier objects, and magnifies by distance, but diminishes by approach. His private attachments must give place to pub- lic favour ; for no man can forgive his friend the ill-natured attempt of being thought wiser than himself." * This may now be considered a curiosity in literature, and it exhibits a perfect contrast to the inflated Dedications and pompous Prefaces of the period in which it appeared. * Preface to " Fables for tlie Female Sex," fourth edition : London, printed for T. Davies, in Russell Street, Covent Gar- den, ami .1. Dodslry, Pall Mall, 1671. PREFACE. XI In the volume now presented to the Pub- lic, my part is little besides that of having projected the work, and furnished the de- signs. It is to the kind contributors who have so amply and ably illustrated the sub- jects of my pencil, that I must attribute any success that may attend the work ; and to them I embrace this opportunity of return- ing my most grateful acknowledgments. Of the motives of some for concealing their names, it does not become me to speak ; though it is hardly possible but in many instances they may be recognised. ** By their fruits ye shall know them." In the etchings I have endeavoured to show the way in which a certain class of writing may be embellished, without incur- ring the expense of those laboured and highly finished engravings, which, while they ex- hibit the talents and taste of our native ar- Xll PREFACE. tists, in many instances exclude the works they ornament from general purchase. On the part of the Publisher, every thing- has been done to render the volume worthy the attention of the Public, in all that re- gards the typographical department. That I have my hopes and fears on the present occasion, I will not deny ; and though time and experience have done much to damp the ardour of the one, and to di- minish the effect of the other, yet still I re- tain enough of deference for public opi- nion, to render me solicitous with respect to the result. R.D. XIU THE LAST OF THE GRACES.* By the Author of " The Arabs." Let the chill Stoic look upon thy reign, Beauty ! as a pageant, fleet and vain, — Whate'er, through life, his varied course may be, Man's pilgrim heart shall turn, sweet shrine, to thee. Not thine the fault, if false allurements claim The fool's blind homage in thy sacred name : They are not fair who boast but outward grace — The naught but beautiful of form or face ; They are the lovely — they in whom unite Earth's fleeting charms with Virtue's heavenly light ; Who, though they wither, yet, with faded bloom, Bear not their all of sweetness to the tomb. 1 had a dream, which, in my waking hour. Seemed less the work of Fancy's airy power Than Reason's deep creation ; for the hue Of life was o'er it : — life approves it true. * Written as an Illustration of the Skeleton Trio in the Vig- nette Title-page. Xiv THE LAST OF THE GRACES. Methought that I was wandering in a room. Whose air was naught but music and perfume ; A thousand lights were flaming o'er my head ; And all around me flitted feet, whose tread Roused not the listening echoes, for each bound Was but the mute response to softest sound. Sweet eyes, whose looks were language, and bland tongues, Whose accents died into Eolian songs. Were there the things of worship ; and man's sigh The incense of his heart's idolatry. High swelled each breast within that proud saloon ; For midnight there was Fashion's sparkling noon : The vain beheld a sun in every gem ; — That room was all the universe to them. But they were not the happy : — who can hide Th' intranquil heart? — their looks their lips belied. Stiff in the gorgeous masquerade of state. The miserably rich, the joyless great. The beautiful, whose beauty was a care More deep than wrinkles, sighed, yet would not share E'en the dull calm which mere exhaustion throws O'er silken couches — soft without repose. Foremost, and most conspicuous of the dance, J now beheld three glowing forms advance. THE LAST OF THE GRACES. XV Who seemed the envy or the boast of all : — For they were deemed the Graces of the ball. The first, — in spangled vesture — as she came, Shot from her eye keen Wit's electric flame. Whose sparks, tho' playful, like the lightning's dart. Fall on the cold, alike, and feeling heart. The next had veiled beneath a dazzling dress Of vain adornments her own loveliness. Resembling but that elegant deceit, The rose of Art — superb, without a sweet. The last was gentlest; but her soul — all love, Unveiled as Venus in her Paphian grove — Burned on her lips and quickly-heaving breast. As they were things but purposed to be prest. With arms entwined, these Graces of a night, — Wild Wit, False Taste, and Amorous Delight, Praised by the many, by the few admired. Performed their part, then suddenly retired : — The dance stood still — men watched the closing door ! Sighed— turned — and all went gaily as before. Contemplating the scene, my sight grew dim ; — The ceaseless whirling made my senses swim : Quick o'er my frame there came a torpid chill ; The tapers died ; and all was dark and still ; XVi THE LAST OF THK GRACES. All, save the glimmerings ol a sullen lamp. And the cold droppings of sepulchral damp, Which, falling round me, through the lurid gloom. Told that I trod the charnel of the tomb. It was a mausoleum, vast and high, Whose soil was reeking with mortality: There, in the midst, O sight of horror ! stood Three forms whose aspect chilled my vital blood : Grouped on a grave's cold slab, like things that breathed, Three skeletons their flesh less arms enwreathed ; But moveless—silent as the ponderous stone Whereon they stood : — and I was all alone ! '* O for the Ethiop's sable charms to hide Those hideous vestiges of Beauty's pride !" To this I heard a hollow voice reply, " Behold the Graces ! — mortal, feast thine eye !" But I did turn me, sickening with disgust ; For I beheld them mouldering into dust ** And is this all, O Beauty ! — this the close Of thy brief transit ? — this thy last repose ?" As thus I spake, a slow expanding ray Broke through the gloomy mist, like opening day ; Unfolding to my gaze a spacious scene rHK LAST OF THE GRACES. xvii Of hill and valley, clothed iii fadeless green. On every side, a thousand varied flowers Seemed dropping from the sun, in odorous showers : And there were groves and avenues, all graced With Temples and with monuments of Taste; Where Sculpture, Painting — all that polished Art, Combined with useful Science, could impart. Blended harmonious ; whilst th' ethereal soul Of Music poured its sweetness o'er the whole. I looked around ; and, in the east there shone Three stars of beauty, burning 'neath the sun. E'en with increase of splendour ; for their rays Were such as wooed the brightness of his blaze. But tho' they seemed like spheres of heavenly birth. Their path was not in heaven, but o'er the Earth ; And they advanced towards me : — as they came. Their orbs dilated into thinner flame ; And, softly from the circumambient light. Three Angel forms emerged upon my sight. The first — if either first engaged mine eye — Bore in her own the tear of sympathy : Ne'er looked the sun upon a fairer cheek ; Ne'er met his glance a glance more mild and meek. The next had, in her delicate caress, Far more of majesty than playfulness : And tho' her eye was kind — 'twas chastely clear As fountain-drops, beneath the moon's pale sphere. XVin THE LAST OF THE GRACES. The last — possessed of woman's sprightlier charm Bloomed like the blush-rose, pure, get inly warm : Pure as its leaves the thoughts her bosom bore — Her generous heart as glowing as its core. Linked hand in hand, I saw them onward move. Until they faced the rosy bower of Love ; — When, mingled with the music, breathing near. These gladsome accents fell upon mine ear : "Hail, Pity! Chastity! Benevolence! Sweet is the calm your gentle smiles dispense ! Hail, Sister Graces, who adorn the Fair! Fresh be your garlands — happy they who wear !" And, thus proceeding, all on which they cast Their radiant glances, brightened as they passed : And I did follow them with eye and heart, Until I saw their fading forms depart : Again they slowly melted into light ; Again like stars became distinctly bright ; And, hovering o'er the dimmed horizon, shed Soft rays like those which linger o'er the dead — Those lovely halos which dispel the gloom When Memory hangs o'er Virtue's early tomb. Thus did I gaze until some flickering beam Of Fancy passed, and broke my fitful Dream. 29eat1&^;8! Boina0^ " Ay, ay ! quo' he, an' shook his head, It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, An' choke the breath : Folk maun do something for their bread, An' so maun Death. Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin I was to the hutching bred, An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid. To stap or scar me." Burns. " Death came dryvyng after, and all to dust pushed Kings and kaysers, knightes and popes ; Many a lovely lady, and lemman of knightes, Swoned and swelted for sorrowe of Death's dyntes." Vision of Pierce Plowman, 1350. DEATH'S DOINGS. INTRODUCTION. It is difficult, it' not impossible, in this our day of accumulated literature, to start any thing new ; yet, rather than close their labours for " lack of argument," our literary adventurers ransack every corner for subject matter ; and, to stimulate the public appetite, old viands are served up in new dishes, either of plate, china, or delf, as best may suit the taste or the means of the bookish epicure. How far the subject now offered may be relished by the generality, remains to be tried. It will not want the seasoning of antiquity to recom- mend it, being nearly as old as the Creation ; and, if a judgment may be formed from the number of works, both literary and graphic, which have ap- B 2 DEATH S DOINGS. peared in ancient and modern times, and the avidity with which they have been received, it may reasonably be expected, that the present at- tempt to serve up a sort of Graphic Olio, with suitable garnishes of prose and verse, may not be unacceptable to the general reader ; and the more so, as the endeavour has been to give (if not altogether a new), at least a more appropriate reading to the old version of the Dance of Death. There is little to apprehend in the way of ob- jection, from any application of the designs con- tained in the work to individual concerns or pur- suits, as — " All men think all men mortal but themselves ;" and there will be no want of claimants to the heir-looms either of safety or of longevity. At any rate, the greater part of mankind will- assume the privilege of exemption from such incidental ca- sualties as are pointed out in the course of the illustrations here exhibited, and will find a clause in their own favour. Thus, for example, the sportsman will readily observe, — INTR(tDU*;ri()N. 3 " I have hunted, leapt gates, hedges, and ditches, and cleared all that came in my way ; but, then, my skill and my horse brought me safe off. The foolish fellow that broke his neck the other day could expect nothing else ; instead of minding what he was about in taking his leap, he was looking another way ; and, then, the hack he rode !" " That poor devil of an artist," observes one of the same profession, " laboured his pictures till he was nearly blind, toiling till nature became exhausted ; he could hardly be said to breathe the vital air ; the effluvia of his colours had entirely penetrated his system ; and it is no wonder he fell a victim to his confinement and his exer- tions together." " Ned is gone at last," says a bon-vi- vant to his companion ; *' but it is not surpris- ing, — he was a careless drinker; I told him his wine-merchant sold him poison." In this, or in some such way, all will argue in favour of themselves ; while the machine of life b2 4 UICATIF S DOINGS. drives on heedlessly and rapidly. It is true, the check-string may occasionally be drawn by the observing traveller, to point out to his fellow pas- sengers some remarkable spot, stamped by some striking event connected w ith mortality ; but the pause will be brief, and the vehicle will again be in motion with as little care as before it was stopped. And this, in some measure, must be the case while we continue to be creatures of this world : even the gloomy ascetic will some- times steal a look fnmi his cloisters or his cell upon the beauties of the creation, and become a momentary sceptic to his monastic notions, and pine at the vegetative character of his own ex- istence. With whatever success the labours of the moral- ist, the philosopher, or the preacher, may have been attended in bringing into view the skeleton remains of the human frame as an emblem of Death, to warn and awaken mankind to a sense of the condition to which they must come at last, the satirist has seldom failed of exciting atten- tion to the characteristic structure of this human INTRODUCTION. 5 machinery, stripped of those lineaments and (air proportions which in life were its charm and pride ; but with this difference, that his views of the sub- ject have ever tended to the ludicrous. Such appears to have been the case even in those days of superstitious ignorance when the minds of men were subject to the domina- tion of monkish power ; for, as soon as the first impression of alarm made by the ghastly phan- tom, as exhibited in their churches, was over, and the object became familiar, — ridicule took place of fear; and farcical representations of Death on the stage and by the pencil succeeded, in numbers and extent, perhaps, beyond those of any other subject. One of these farcical moralities is hinted at by our immortal bard, in his play of " Measure for Measure :" — " Merely thou art Death's fool: For him tliou labourest, by thy flight, to shun. And yet runn'st toward him still." This passage is explained in a note, thus: — 6 death's doings. " In the simplicity of the ancient shows upon our stage, it was common to bring in two figures, one representing a fool, and the other. Death or Fate ; the turn and contrivance of the piece was, to make the fool lay many stratagems to avoid Death, which yet brought him more immediately into the jaws of it." It is more than probable that Shakspeare had seen and considered many of the paintings and designs on the subject of Death, and with his powerful touch concentrated the spirit of all that had been said or done in the various works then extant, still keeping up the character of the bur- lesque, united with the deepest pathos: — " For A\itlun the lioUow crown Tliiif rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps Dealli his rniirt : and there the antic sits, Mocking his state and grinning at his pomp ; Allowing liim a breath, a little scene To monarchize, be foar'd, and kill with looks ; Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh, whidi walls about his life, Were brass impregnable : and, humoured thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle walls, and — farewell king!" INTROUUCTION. 7 The same play has the following monitory passage, equally expressive of the frailty and folly of man, who, — " Most ignorant of what he's most assured, — His glassy essence," — is apt to play the game of life with too much con- fidence. Some there are who make Death the whole business of life: shutting their eyes on the fair face of nature, they think a snare is set in every beauteous object by which they are surrounded, and plunge at once into the gloom of solitude, lest the light of heaven should dazzle their sight and darken their understanding, and work them perdition by tempting to the indulgence of those feelings it was meant to inspire ; — " And thus, in one continued strife, 'Twixt fear of Death and love of life," they pass their existence in a state of deadening apathy or of feverish self-denial; immolating the charities of life and the best affections of the heart at the shrine of superstition. True, the tenure of 8 death's doings. our being cannot be beneficially held without occasionally adverting to the terms on which it has been granted ; and it is sometimes necessary to call in aid the admonitions of the wise and the reflecting, to bring our truant thoughts to a proper estimate of life. In this view, most of the designs of skeleton forms have been presented to the contemplation of the careless and unthinking; but, as has been before observed, few of them have been so ma- naged as not to border on the ludicrous. Of their capability of and tendency to the caricature, a very recent instance appeared in some examples of death-like figures engaged in a variety of oc- cupations, as gambling, dancing, boxing, &c. &c. These designs were chalked on a wall bordering the road from Turnham Green towards Kew Bridge; they were drawn of the natural size, and displayed, on the part of the unknown artist, no small skill in composition and character. Of the artist's intentions there can be no question : it was to exhibit forms the most strikingly gro- tesque. But they arc now swept away, like many INTRODUCTION. 9 other eflbrts of art, to give place to the names and nostrums of the charlatans of the day. The subject of Death has continued to employ the pen and the pencil, with more or less of cha- racter, down to the present time ; though the pro- ductions of recent date possess less point, and have, perhaps, more of the grotesque than works more remote, and do not, in their graphic form, exhibit the higher qualities of art, which are seen in the performances of the old masters; but are principally addressed to the eye and understand- ing of the many, rather than to those of the artist or amateur. It should appear, however, from the reception and extensive sale of some of these subjects, that they have been equally acceptable to the present as they were to past times. Among the most striking and popular designs of this class, are two which have long occupied a place in the print-shop in St. Paul's Church Yard ; and in which the skeleton shape appears as one half of a gorgeously dressed human form. These prints re- present a male and female thus powerfully con- trasted, and, it must be confessed, hold out as 10 death's doings. perfect an example as can well be imagined to show us what we arc, and to warn us what we are to be. Another specimen of the monitory kind is a re- presentation of a heathen philosopher, contem- plating the structure of a human skeleton, and thence inferring the existence of a Deity. Of the more whimsical and pointed of these moral lessons, is one where a man is draining an enormous bowl, and Death stands ready to confirm the title of the print, — *' The Last Drop." There is also, among the varieties of this sort, an etching representing a gay couple vi- siting a tomb. It is called, *' An Emblem of a Modern Marriage :" in the background of the piece is a view of a noble mansion, behind which appears a rising ground ; beneath the print are the following lines : — " No smiles for ns the godhead wears, His torch inverted, and his face in tears," answering to the figure of a Cupid in the act INTRODUCTION. 11 of flight, which the artist has also introduced into his subject. This etching is the performance of a lady, Mrs. Hartley, the wife of D. Hart- ley, Esq., who constructed a building on Putney Common, which he rendered incombustible. The original was sketched with a diamond on a pane of glass, and the print published in 1775. There can be little doubt that this curious design had a reference to some individual of the time ; but its application might be made to every unhappy and fatal marriage that has taken place, or may take place, any where and at any time. These later productions (as was before ob- served) possess little of art in the composition, or skill in the execution, to recommend them, though some of them have probably outlived the expectations of the inventors. It was for the ar- tists of an earlier period to combine in these subjects every quality of painting, whether of design, composition, character, or expression. An example of excellence in this way, is a drawing from the collection of the late Paul 12 death's doings. Sandby, R. A., where Death is exhibited as preaching from a charnel-house, amidst skulls and bones; another skeleton form is introduced as making- a back on which to rest the book from which the phantom is discoursing; and, though highly ludicrous in point of character, the groups and composition are in the best style of art. The auditors of the grim preacher are of every age and class, and are happily contrasted : the peasant and the ruler, the matron and the gayly attired female, the cavalier and the person of low degree, all disposed with skill in their ap- propriate and varied postures of attraction. Part of a cathedral-like building forms the back- ground, which, together with the picturesque cos- tume of the period, composes a picture that would do credit to the pencil of the best artists of its time, Rubens and Vandyke. The drawing is at- tributed to Van Venne or Otho Vajnius, the mas- ter of Rubens. Mr. Dou9e has a very beautiful and finished painting by the hand of this master, in which Death is intimating his approach to an old man by the tinkling of a musical instru- ment. INTRODTCTION. 13 Mr. D'Israeli, in his " Theory of the Skele- ton," has shown that a tendency similar to that which has just been noticed pervaded many of the writers on the subject of Death. " When," observes this ingenious and intelli- gent author, " the artist succeeded in conveying to the eye the most ludicrous notions of Death, the poet also discovered in it a fertile source of the burlesque. The curious collector is ac- quainted with many volumes where the most extraordinary topics have been combined with this subject. They made the soul and body de- bate together, and ridiculed the complaints of a damned soul ! The greater part of the poets of the time were always composing on the subject of Death in their humorous pieces. " Of a work of this nature, a popular favour- ite was long the one entitled, ' Le Faut Mourir, et les Excuses Inutiles qu'on apporte a cette Ne- cessity ; a tout en vers burlesques, 1656.' Jaques Jaques, a canon of Aubrun, was the writer, who humorously says of himself, that he gives his 14 death's doings. thoughts just as they lie on his heart, witliout dissimulation ; ' for I have nothing double about me except my name. I tell some of the most im- portant truths in laughing, — it is for thee d'y pen- ser tout a hon'" Mr. D'Israeli goes on to remark, — " Our canon of Aubrun, in facetious rhymes, and with the naivet6 of expression which belongs to his age, and an idiomatic turn fatal to a translator, excels in pleasantry; his haughty hero condescends to hold very amusing dialogues with all classes of so- ciety, and delights to confound their excuses inu- tiles. The most miserable of men, — the galley- slave, the mendicant, alike would escape when he appears to them. ' Were I not absolute over them,' Death exclaims, ' they would confound me with their long speeches ; but I have business, and must gallop on !' " Our monumental effigies, where the figure of Death is introduced, are not entirely free from a cast of the ludicrous, though, from the nature and character of sculpture, fewer offences this way INTRODUCTION. 15 are exhibited. Like the muse of history, the dignity of sculpture would be lessened in the service of comedy : the temple and the tomb are its proper sphere ; deities, heroes, statesmen, and poets, are the objects it contemplates ; and the ideal perfection of grace and beauty is its princi- pal aim. Under the hand of sculpture, the familiar may, however, in some degree become exalted, and modern costume be made subservient to the pur- poses of fine art. But it requires the skill of a Roubiliac, a Chantrey, or a Baily, to mould folds and cast form into that character which judg- ment and taste can sanction or approve. Of the power to mould and fashion form and costume into the character of grandeur, Roubiliac's figure of Handel, in Westminster Abbey, is a strik- ing example ; and, while contemplating the dig- nified attitude of the portrait, the arrangement of the accessories, and its composition throughout, it is impossible to imagine it could be improved, even by the introduction of what is termed the 16 UF.ATll's DCJINGS. classic ill art, — the costume ui" Greece and Rome. In this artist's monument of Lady Nightingale, he has necessarily employed a drapery suitable to the introduction of an ideal character, — that of Death ; and has, in his personification of the phan- tom, enveloped the figure with a loosened drapery, in order, it may be readily conceived, as much as possible to avoid the skeleton shape. The same artist has introduced, in the monu- ment of William Hargrave, one of the finest alle- gorical representations that has ever been ima- gined, — that of Time's victory over Death : yet, here the skill with which the bony structure of the struggling skeleton is executed, is apt to attract the regard of the vulgar (like the deceptive in painting), rather than the sublimity and character of the composition, and its reference to the im- mortality of the soul and the resurrection of the body. ' While thus treating of subjects connected with INTRODUCTION. 17 the Abbey of Westminster, it is impossible not greatly to regret, that from the inspection of these monumental remains — these efforts of sculptured art, past and present, the public should be barred, without the payment of an admission-fee ; a regula- tion which, while it debases the character of a na- tional exhibition, excludes the generality of the people, and defeats every legitimate purpose for which these memorials of the great and good were erected. An additional evil is, that the visitor is hurried over a space and spectacle whose very essence is destroyed if not traversed and seen with freedom, quiet, and calm contemplation. Under the present regulations of abbey economy, the charm is almost dissolved which would otherwise preserve the memory of those heroic achievements of our fleets and armies, — those labours of the statesman and the legislator, of the man of science and the poet, all of rank and of literature, to which these testimonials of a nation's gratitude have been raised, by public or private expense. It is not only interring the body, but burying the monument too ; and the lament has been hardly more for the departed, than for the labours of art, c 18 death's doings. the value of which is so much depreciated by this miserable expedient to obtain money. It is humi- liating to reflect on the debasing character which the mischievous atrocities of a few ignorant or unthinking individuals have, in some degree, brought upon the nation at large, and which, it is said, have led to these obnoxious regulations, and given us, in the eyes of foreigners, at once the stamp of a mercenary and a barbarous peo- ple ; but it is, however, to be hoped that, with an increasing knowledge of the fine arts, the pro- gress of instruction, and the consequent preva- lence of good sense, a way may be found to pro- tect these records of our country's glory and ta- lent, without imposing a tax upon those who might benefit by such examples in the endeavour to imi- tate them. From the tombs and monuments within, is but a step to those without; from the church to the churchyard — whence, as the poet says, — " The voice of nature cries." But, like many other poetical assertions, this is somewhat equivocal, for little dependence can be placed on these " frail INTRODUCTION. 19 memorials," many of which, like the old morali- ties, are calculated to excite a laugh rather than serious or sober reflections. In some places, in- deed, scarce a stone is raised but a jest is raised with it. It is hardly possible to touch on the subject of epitaphs, but a train of uncouth rhymes follow, in the shape of serious foolery or ignorant bur- lesque. Nor is this folly confined to the obscure village dormitory, or to times long past: there is scarcely a churchyard within the metropolis or its suburbs, but will aff"ord some modem ex- amples of gross ignorance or inflated nonsense; such as, — " God has chosen her as a pattern for the other angels." This exquisite piece of extravagance, to say no more of it, was intended doubtless to convey an exalted idea of the departed ; no reflection what- ever being made on the absurdity of the hyper- bole. It is somewhat remarkable, that men should be c2 20 death's doings. so very anxious in life that their remains should not be disturbed after death, and yet take no heed of what may be said upon their tombs ; men write their auto-biographies, and why not their own epitaphs ? — Virgil did. Or why not have recourse to the Vicar of Wakefield's plan, who w rote his wife's epitaph when living, commending in it the virtues he wished her to practise ? At all events, it might be imagined that either the pulpit or the press would have come in aid to check this pre- valent absurdity ; that, if men chose to make " life a jest," they should not be permitted to carry one on in their tombs. But, not to dwell longer on churchyard regula- tions, let us take a brief view of mortality as ex- hibited under the refined sentiment of the Greek mythology and of Grecian art. " The ancients contemplated death without terror, and met it with indifl'erence. It was the only divinity to which they never sacrificed, con- vinced that no human being could turn aside its stroke. They raised altars to Favour, to Mis- . INTRODUGI'ION. !>1 fortune, to all the evils of life; for these might change. But, though they did not court the pre- sence of Death in any shape, they acknowledged its tranquillity in the beautiful fables of their alle- gorical religion. Death was the daughter of Night and the sister of Sleep, and ever the friend of the unhappy. " If the full light of revelation had not yet broken on them, it can hardly be denied that they had some glimpse and a dawn of the life to come, from the many allegorical inventions which describe the transmigration of the soul : — a butter- fly on the extremity of a lamp, — Love with a me- lancholy air, leaning on an inverted torch, ele- gantly denoted the cessation of life."* It was in contemplating this touching and ap- propriate representation, as it appears in an engraved gem, that Mr. Croly produced those beautiful lines in his Illustrations of Antique Gems : — * J. D'Israeli's Curiosities of Lit(!raturc, Second Series, vol. 2. 22 death's doings. " Spirit of the drooping wing, And the ever-Aveepingeye, TIvou of all earth's kings art king: Empires at thy footstool lie. Beneath thee strew'd. Their multitude Sink like waves upon the shore, — Storms shall never rouse them more. " What's the grandeur of the earth To the grandeur of thy throne? Riches, glory, beauty, birth. To thy kingdom all have gone. Before thee stand The wond'rous baud, — Bards, heroes, side by side, Who darkened nations when tliey died ! " Earth has hosts, but thou canst show Many a million for her one : Through thy gate the mortal flow Has for countless years roU'd on. Back from the tomb No step has come ; There fix'd, till the last thunder's sound Shall bid tliy prisoners be unbound." Beautiful as the emblem of Mortality in the weeping infant, with Hie inverted torch, certainly is, that of the butterfly is no less apt in represent- ing the soul. The purity and lightness of its na- ture, its ambrosial food, the gayety and splendour INTRODUCTION. :»3 of its colours, — above all, its winged liberty when bursting from its tomblike confinement, in which it appeared to sleep the sleep of Death, aflbrd so powerful a contrast exhibited in the same crea- ture, that it could not fail to strike the intelligent among the heathen world as a fit symbol of Im- ilftortality. It is no very extravagant stretch of fancy, to imagine the souls of some gifted individuals em- bodied agreeably to their intellectual endowments. What a contrast might then be seen to the low, grublike, insignificant forms under which many a genius has been cloaked, in the exalted, noble, and imposing shapes which they would then as- sume ; while others, whose vacant minds have been hid beneath a fair exterior, would sink in the scale, and become in appearance the insects or reptiles best suited to their real character. Neither is this " considering the matter too cu- riously ;" for it is in perfect accordance with the apostle's views of the resurrection. 24 death's doings. " But some men will say, — how are the dead raised up 1 and with what body do they come ? " Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die." And then he thus goes on, — " There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars ; for one star diflfereth from another star in glory. ** So also is the resurrection of the body : it is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption ; it is sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory ; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power." THE POET. 35 THE POET. Thou art vanish'd ! Like the blast Bursting from the midnight cloud ; Like the lightning thou art past, — Earth has seen no nobler shroud ! Now is quench'd the flashing eye. Now is chill'd the burning brow. All the poet that can die ; Homer's self is but as thou. Thou hast drunk life's richest draught. Glory, tempter of the soul ! Wild and deep thy spirit quaflF'd, There was poison in the bowl. 26 death's doings. Then the haunting visions rose, Spectres round thy bosom's throne. Poet ! what shall paint thy woes. But a pencil like thine own ? Thou art vanish'd ! Earthly Fame, See of what thy pomps are made ! Genius ! stoop thine eye of flame ! Byron's self is but a shade. Alfred. 27 DEATH AND THE POET. A DREAM of darkness and of dread Hath pass'd upon my brain — A vision of the past — the dead — That ne'er may come again ; And there was on my weary heart The weight of many years. And woes that were the sternest part Of all its griefs and fears. I have not wept — no ! I may weep — Nor sigh again for aught. It was a long and dreary sleep Of the heart's inward thought ; I saw the frowns of worldly men. The scorner and the proud — I felt my spirit dark as when It first beneath them bow'd. 28 death's doings. But hail thee Death ! thy bitterness And fearful sting are past — I feel but now the weariness Of one whose lot was cast, With curbless heart and reckless mind To toil for what he scorns. Upon a land where few e'en find The rose amid its thorns. Yet life has been to me the clue Of an enchanted grove. Where over paths of varied hue. We track the bower of love. I've seen upon this troublous earth At times a heavenly gleam. That warn'd the spirit of its birth. As in a glorious dream. I've felt, oh yes ! they knew not how Who trod this earth with me — How deep hath been the kindling glow. The bosom's inward glee. When thought hath borne itself along, A pilgrim of delight. And found, like its own realm of song, A realm for ever bright. DEATH AND THE POET. 29 My lot hath been a lonely one — The loneliness of mind. That makes us while the heart is young Half scorners of our kind ; The panting of the soul that yearns For love it hath not known. The stoic pride of souls that spurn At love not like its own. These have, at times, it may be, shed A gloom upon my path, Hope — baffled hope — and passion fed, The spirit — and its wrath — But what my earlier wrongs have been. It boots not now to think. There was too clear a light within. For holier hope to sink. 'Twas well — I have not felt in vain — liife's weariness and woe. The thoughts that wring the heart with pain. None but itself can know. Have better taught my soul to dare. Its own high path of bliss, Unmov'd— unbow'd— unchang'd — to bear. Far darker pangs than this. :30 DKATIl'S DOINGS. Oh Death ! thou com'st to me as when Thy step was o'er the tide. And thou unveild'st thy form to men. Where He, th' Athenian died ; Or, gentler, when with vigils sweet. Upon the midnight air. Thou com'st where chasten'd souls repeat Their last and cheeriest prayer. I see the land where hope hath made Her everlasting rest. And peace, that was long wont to fade. Leaves not my soothed breast ; The strains that o'er my slumbers hung, The forms my pathway crost. The lov'd in thought — each perish'd one, The sear'd heart loved, and lost — They are around me, bright'ning still. From their ethereal clime. Not clouded, as before, with ill. With mortal woe or crime — And far away with them I track, Thy deep, unfathom'd sea — Hail to the hour that calls us back ! Pale Vision, hail to thee ! H.S. 31 THE PILGRIM. And Palmer, grey Palmer, by Galilee's wave. Oh! saw you Count Albert, the gentle and brave. When the crescent waxed faint, and the red cross rushed on. Oh ! saw you him foremost on Mount Lebanon. The ladye sat in her lonely tower, — She woke not her lute, she touched not a flower ; Though the lute wooed her hand with its silver string. And the roses were rich with the wealth of spring : But she thought not of them, for her heart was afar. It was with her knight in the Holy war. She look'd in the west; — it was not to see The crimson and gold of the sky and sea. 32 death's doings. Lighted alike by the setting sun, As rather that day than night were begun ; But it was that a star was rising there. Like a diamond set in the purple air. The natal star of her own true knight — No marvel the maiden watched its light: At their parting hour they bade it be Their watch and sign of fidelity. Amid the rich and purple crowd That throng the west, is a single cloud. Differing from all around, it sails. The cradle of far other gales Than the soft and southern airs, which bring But the dew and the flower-sigh on their wing ; Like some dark spirit's shadowy car. It floats on and hides that lovely star. While the rest of the sky is bright and clear. The sole dark thing in the hemisphere. But the maiden had turned from sea and sky. To gaze on the winding path, where her eye A pilgrim's distant form had scann'd : He is surely one of the sacred band TEE SXmOLL. THE SCROLL. 33 Who seek their heavenly heritage By prayer and toil and pilgrimage ! She staid not to braid her raven hair, — Loose it fiow'd on the summer air ; She took no heed of her silvery veil, — Her cheek might be kiss'd by the sun or the gale : She saw but the scroll in the pilgrim's hand. And the palm-branch that told of the Holy Land. L. E. L. -THE SCROLL. The maiden's cheek blush'd ruby bright. And her heart beat quick with its own delight ; Again she should dwell on those vows so dear, Almost as if her lover were near. Little deemed she that letter would tell How that true lover fought and fell. The maiden read till her cheek grew pale — Yon drooping eye tells all the tale : D 'M DKATH'S DOINGS. She sees her own knight's last fond prayer. And she reads in that scroll her heart's despair. Oh ! grave, how terrible art thou To young hearts bound in one fond vow. Oh ! human love, how vain is thy trust; Hope ! how soon art thou laid in dust. Thou fatal pilgrim, who art thou, As thou fling'stthe black veil from thy shadowy brow ? I know thee now, dark lord of the tomb, By the pale maiden's withering bloom : The light is gone from her glassy eye. And her cheek is struck by mortality ; From her parted lip there comes no breath. For that scroll was fate — its bearer — Death. L. E. L. THE AIRTIST.. 35 THE ARTIST. And what is genius ? — 'Tis a ray of Heaven, Illuming dim mortality ; a gleam That flashes on our gloominess by fits. Like summer lightnings, which, in radiant lines, Inwreath the midnight clouds with tints divine ; It gilds Imagination's darkest scenes With splendid glory, like those meteor gems That spread their richness o'er the polar skies. O, 'tis a straggling sunbeam, through the storm. Flung on the cluster'd diamond, which reflects. In burning brilliancy, the borrow'd blaze : It is the morning light, outpouring all Its flood of splendour on the bloomy bowers Of God's own Paradise ! Though hapless oft His fate, how bless'd the artist who beholds, d2 JiO DRATIl'S DOINGS. With mind inspir'd and genius-brif^htcn'd eye, Those beauties Avhich eternally shine forth. Nature, in all thy works ! To him, hij^h wrapp'd In passionM fancies, feelings so allied To something heavenly, that to all on earth They give their own rich tinting. What delight The morning landscape yields ; when the young sun Flings o'er the mountain his first bickering ray, And tips with wavering gold the embattled tower ; When the first rosy gleam the waters catch. Like smiling babe just waking from soft sleep On its fond mother's bosom ; while the woods. That ring with bird-notes sweet, are dimly wrapp'd In mistiness and shade. What joy is his. Amid the forest depths to wander on, O'er flower-empurpled path, and list the tones Of the deep waterfall, at silent noon. Drowning the woodlark's song ; and, then, to view Its angry flood, headlong from rock to rock. Leaping in thund'rous rush, with silvery arch,— Melodiously sublime ! while o'er its mists. That to the sun a mimic rainbow spread. The guardian oaks bend lovingly their arms. And drink the pearly moisture : in their shade TIIK ARTIST. 37 The lily blossoms on its mossy bank, And through their boughs wildly the summer breeze, An ever-wandering harper, sings unheard. And, oh ! how sweet to him the sunset hour. When, high amid the evening's glowing pomps That light the west, the mountain lifts its head, — A rich empurpled pillow lor the God Of Day to rest on, as he, like a king In coronation splendour, gaily bids His worshippers farewell, ere he retires With Ocean's potentates, his rosy wine To quaff amid their gem-wrought banquet bowers ; Then on the painter's ear the hymn of love Falls in full harmony;— the lake outspreads. With all a brother artist's beauteous skill. Another landscape to his ravish'd eye. Gorgeous with radiant colouring ; deep the groves Are cast into the shade, where flocks and herds Are wandering homeward to the tinkling sound Of their own tuneful bells, and pastoral reed And song of milkmaid fill up every pause In Nature's vesper anthem, while the spire And sun-gilt tower glow with the day's last beam. 38 death's doings. To him what grand sublimity appears In the vast ocean, with its cloud-wreathed cliflfs. Rocks, shores, and isles, and vessels wind-caress'd. Sheeted in glittering sunshine, or enwrapp'd In all the tempest's dark magnificence ! And, oh ! to him, how sweet, when copying all The coy bewitching charms of moonlight eve ! Then the rich woods voluptuously their gold Fling loose t' th' wanton winds, whose amorous song Is heard amid their inmost bowers, where rests The love-talking nightingale, discoursing sweet To her patroness, the radiant queen of Heaven. Then, bathed in dew, the full-blown roses fling Their odours all abroad, and jasmine flowers And rich carnation buds their honey-cups With nectar fill, and to the night-breeze yield. Like virgin bride, their richest treasur'd sweets ; While flow the streams in silver, and the towers Of time-worn castles, and dismantled aisles, Of pillar'd abbeys, break the shadowy mass. With beamy outline, of the deep obscure. 'Tis not the soft and beautiful alone The youthful painter loves to imitate : THli ARTIST. 39 The strife of arms is his— the battle-field. Where rings the stormy trumpet, is the scene Where oft he pants to win immortal fame ; Great as the hero who, with spear-riven arms, Mows down with his red brand whole ranks of foes ; While chariot-wheels and war-steed's iron hoof Trample the dead and dying in the dust. Deeds, too, of holy history often fill His waking dreams, till his wide canvass glows With characters divine — with wond'rous acts. Miraculous, of Him who lived and died To save a guilty world. But, oh ! what toils. What studies, night and day, — what hopes, what prayers. What aspirations, what ecstatic thoughts. And wild imaginings of fancy bright. Are his, as up the weary steep he climbs- To win renown, — to win that glory which Must only shine upon his early grave ! Oh ! he had hop'd to gain renown as great As that which to Italia's sons belong ; To blend his name with Raffacle, Angelo, 46 death's doings. Parmeggiano, Titian, and Vandyke ; Hop'd that the radiant tints would all be his Of Rubens, — his that painter's grand effects, Combin'd with every excellence that graced Albano's sweetness and Corregio's taste. Alas ! ill-fated artist, thy proud hopes Were, like the bard's, to disappointment doomed ! Thy expectations all cut off — thyself Left in thy prime to wither, like the bud, — The flower-bud rich of promise, bj'^ the frost Cut off untimely ! With thy beauteous tints Thy tears were mingled oft ; the dart of Death At length, in pity, smote thy burden'd heart. And gave thee freedom : dying, thou didst think, — Painfully think, of what thou mightst have been. Had fortune on thy opening merit smil'd, — Then slept to wake in bliss ! And now mankind. In generous mockery, pay that tribute due To thy transcendant talents, and the grave That hides thy cold remains with laurels deck ! J. F. P. 41 DEATH AND THE ARTIST ** The pale-faced artist plies his sickly trade," saith the poet. And what then ? The daring ge- nius will not be appalled in his pursuit of glory ; the enthusiastic painter would yet spread the pig- ments on his palette, though the King of Terrors were at his elbow, playing the part of levigator. A fig for life, to gain a deathless fame ! Death, the everlasting bugbear to wights of com- mon mould, hath no terror to the philosopher, whether he be poet, painter, sculptor, or other, bent on those scientific pursuits that lead to im- mortality. Let sordid souls tremble at his name — these mental heroes start not for worthless gold, but run the race for glory. The poet takes his flight above the region of 42 death's doings. terrestrial things ; and, though allied to earth before the time allotted to baser souls, ere he quits his mortal tenement, leaves, in imagination, earth be- hind, and revels midst a world of spirits ; and, but for the loud rapping of the dun, would not awaken from his reverie, till Death, reminding him of life, translates him to eternity. So the sculptor chips the rude block, and la- bours on, inspired, heedless of sublunary things, until the cold marble breathes beneath his ani- mating hand ; and then that hand which gave it life is cold itself as marble. Glorious end ! for, ere the enthusiast's tongue is mute, or eye is dim, he smiles on Death, and, dying, cries — Behold, I live for ever in that wondrous statue. So with the happy hero in this piece : wrapped in his art, he heeds not him who is so close at hand, regardless of that hole that is about to ope beneath his feet, deep as eternity. He labours on serene, and, having given the last finishing to Time, yields to him who is Time's vassal, and calmly receives that dart which linishcs himself. DEATH AND THE ARTIST. 43 Yet, as he sinks beneath the blow, he points him at his handy-work in exultation, and, with his last breath, taunts the despot on his impotency, touch- ing that living fame which never dies ! He is most wise who fears the despot least ; for, grim sprite, all bones, as he was seen when Ap- pelles hight his picture drew, or as this hero of the grave came forth of Phidias' chisel, some twenty centuries ago, or as we see the said dread spectre. Death, carved to the life, by Roubilliac, within the last hundred years — Immortal still — he is the same — and come he will, in his own time, when least expected : and, when he comes, it is well for those who stare him in the face if face he has that flesh hath not, and greet him as your men of science have been wont to do, with — Well, ho! thou art come at last; then welcome, king! Death ! — What is he not ? Assuming far more shapes than ever did Italian posture-master, — yea, more forms than Proteus himself!- So swift of foot, that even Mercury, were he a mortal, for all 44 death's doings. his winged feet, could not outstrip the speed of this pursuer; so sudden in his movements, too, that even Argus, with his hundred eyes, might yet be pounced upon, with all his vigilance ! The wily enemy waylays the alderman in the last spoonful of turtle ; he makes the gamester his own in a losing card ; seizes the agile tumbler in the midst of his somerset ; grasps the hand of the close-fisted miser, as he opens the iron- chest to add another guinea to his hoard : he de- frauds the gaolor of his fee, by arresting the mid- night burglar at the mouth of a blunderbuss; lays his never-erring hand alike upon the careless and the wary, and holds tight in his grasp the strong and the weak — the evil and the good — the wise man and the fool — the poor and the rich. Even gold cannot swerve this agent of the grave from his duty; for, though the chief of universal cor- ruption, he is impartial in his office, and himself incorruptible. Vain, indeed, were the attempt to elude this monarch of the grave; for who shall ken his hid- DEATH AND THE ARTIST. 45 ing-placc ? The soldier is sent to seek him in that field where murderous bullets fly in showers, as thick as hail, but meets him not in war : yet, when least expected, finds him lurking between the sheets, in a damp bed, beneath the roof of peace. The sea-tossed mariner, with glaring eyes and hair erect, — with mournful oaths in lieu of prayers, looks for the spectre in each rolling wave, though thence he cometh not. Now safe on shore, all danger past, as it should seem, he tempts him with the cheerful bowl, and trips him up as he, with other jovial wights, is reeling home, — and there's an end of him. Hogarth, who drew from the living that mortal drama which immortalized his genius and his name, having accomplished his great and multifa- rious works, took up his palette and his other painting tools to make that last study, — finis, which, with his usual fitness, being about to bid adieu to Life, he dedicates to Death. Where will you name the hero who met the mortal enemy like he ? 40 UEATIl's DOINGS. A lew mouths before this genius was seized with the malady which deprived society of one of its greatest ornaments, he proposed to his match- less pencil the work in question ; the first idea of which is said to have been elicited in the midst of his friends, whilst the convivial glass was circu- lating round his own social board. '' My next subject," said the moral painter, ** shall be the END OF ALL THINGS." " If that be your determination," said one, " your business will be finished; for then will be the end of the painter's self." *' Even so," returned the artist; "therefore, the sooner my work is done, so much the better." Accordingly, he began the next day, continuing his design with all diligence, seemingly with an apprehension that he should not live to com- plete the composition. This, however, he did, and in the most ingenious manner, by grouping every thing which could denote the end of all things: a broken bottle — an old broom worn to the stump — the butt-end of an old musket — a cracked bell — a bow unstrung — a crown tumbled DEATH AND TIIK ARl'IST. 47 in pieces — towers in ruins — the sign-post of a tavern, called The World's End, tumbling — the moon in her wane — the map of the globe burn- ing — a gibbet falling, the body gone, and the chain which held it dropping down — Phoebus and his horses dead in the clouds — a vessel wrecked — Time, with his hour-glass and scythe broken, a tobacco-pipe in his mouth, the last whiflf of smoke going out— a play-book opened, with exeunt omnes stamped in the corner — an empty purse — and a statute of bankruptcy taken out against nature. " So far, so good," exclaimed Hogarth ; " nothing remains but this," — taking his pencil in a sort of prophetic fury, and dashing off the simi- litude oi ?i painter's palette broken, — " Finis," ex- claimed the painter; " the deed is done — all is over." It is remarkable, that he died within a month after the completion of this tail-piece. It is also well known, that he never again took the pencil in hand. Ephraim Hardcastle. 48 THE ARTIST. The pursuits of art, like those of literature, have their flowers, their fruits, and, it may be added, their thorns. Like the spring, they are full of hope and blossom : but, like the spring, they are subject to blights and nipping frosts ; so that the summer fruits fall short of the fair ma- turity which might have been expected from the culture and toil bestowed upon the plant of pro- mise. And even when the fruits of art are cherished and ripened by the sun of encourage- ment or the hotbeds of patronage, there is a bit- ter mixed up with their sweets, or a thorn spring- ing up with their growth. But, to wave metaphor, nothing can be more delightful than the pursuit of art ; for few things are more ])roductivc of pleasure and advantage THE ARTIST. 49 than the cultivation of that knowledge which is essential to the practice of it. The pleasure and advantage are so obvious, that to point them out (at least to the intelligent) would almost be an insult to the understanding. But there is a reverse to this picture. — The devotedness with which the votaries of art cling to their favourite study is liable to so many rude shocks, is attended by so many privations, often from the free air and common light of heaven, but more especially arising from neglect and the various contingencies attending the developement of talent, — that it is not wonderful the frame should be shaken, and the mind at length alienated or rendered incapable of enjoying pleasures that dawned upon the first efforts in art. Those who see nothing but the results of the painter's skill, who hear nothing but the praises (often exagge- rated) that are bestowed upon his works, catch only at the in ^rmation given by sight or hearsay, and imagine the path to be that of pleasure, or of contentment at least. Neglect, however, is sometimes overcome by perseverance, and op- E 50 dkath's doings. position by toil and industry ; but the sorest evils of all are the remarks of the ignorant and the sar- casms of the critic : — Whate'er may be the painter's merit, — Though Raphael's genius he inherit, Though all the skill of all tlie tribe To aid his pencil should subscribe, He will not, in the critic's view. Be any thing while he is new. Alive ! his works are all a blunder ; But dead — all join in praise and wonder: His forms are melted into grace, And none a blemish now can trace; His colours, though with time they're fled. Leave fancied beauties in their stead ; Death gives a sanction to liis name, And hands him o'er to future fame ! * * * * Imagination, too, can preach Of something even out of reach, — Can prate of miracles in art That only in the fancy start. The painter still must bear the lash, E'en though the terms be " vile !" or " trash !" And this, too, blurted in his face By some pretender of the race THK ARTIST. 'A Of connoisseurs, who having found Through fortune some advantage-ground, Some smattering of virtu or taste, And, fearing it should run to waste. Deals out his blunders by the dozens — The wonder of his country cousins. These are some of the drawbacks on the pro- fession : — But yet there i? in art the power To give to life its sweetest hour ; To show the charms on Nature's face, To fix the forms of truth and grace. And whether on Creation rude. Or rock, or desert solitude, — O'er ocean, cloud, or tranquil sky, The painter rnrows a heedful eye ; And not a shrub, a flower, a tree. But holds some latent mystery, To which the artist's skill alone Can give substantial form and tone. Yes ! and while the elasticity of his mind re- mains, he can draw pleasure from stores ever at hand. His imagination can range the wilds of his own creation, and see no bounds to the power of his art. Seduced by the delusive na- ture of his employment, Time glides imper- ceptibly away, while he paints him at rest; and K 2 52 death's doings. the insidious foe to life marks, in the ardour of his pursuit and the intenseness of his applica- tion, the seeds of destruction, and, in the flame that lights up his genius, the consumer of his days. R. D. I'UK CIUVKE 53 THE GAME OF LIFE; <©r, SJcatl^ among tfje atvictettr^* When men are in a moralizing strain, And gravely talk about the brittle stuff Of which poor human life is made, 'Tis ten to one, That, ere they've done. They shake their heads, and make this sage reflection ; That Life is transitory, fleeting, vain — A very bubble ! With pleasures few and brief — but as for pain. And care, and trouble. There's more than quantum suff. — Nay, quite enough To make the stoutest heart afraid. And cloud the merriest visage with dejection ! And then, what dismal stories are invented About this " vale of woe" — Zounds ! 'twere enough to make one discontented, Whether one ivonld, or no ! 54 death's doings. Now Life, to me, has always seem'd a Game — Not a mere game oi chance, but one where skill Will often throw the chances in our way — Just like (my favourite sport) the Game of Cricket; Where, tho' the match be well contested, still A steady Player, careful of his fame. May have a good long Innings, with fair play. Whoever bowls, or stops, or keeps the wicket. Softly, my friend! (methinks I hear Death cry) Whoever bowls, you say ! sure you forget That in Life's feverish fitful game i am the Bowler, and friend Time "keeps wicket:" — Well! be it so, old boy, — is my reply ; I know you do— but. Master Drybones, yet My argument remains the same. And I can prove Life's like the Game of Cricket ! Sometimes a Batsman's lull'd by Bowler Death, Who throws him off his guard with easy balls; Till presently a rattler stops his breath — He's oiit! Life's candle's snufV'd — his wicket falls ! In goes another mate—Di'.\Ti\ bowls away — And with such art each practis'd method tries. THE GAME OF LIFE. 55 That now the ball winds tortively along, Now slowly rolls, and now like lightning flies, (Sad proof that Death's as subtle as he's strong!) But this rare Batsman keeps a watchful eye On every motion of the Bowler's hand. And stops, or hits, as suits the varying play ; — Though Death the ball may ground, or toss it high, The steady Striker keeps his self-command, And blocks \\'\ih care, or makes it swiftly fly: — Still bent on victory. Old Dry bones plies With patient skill — but every effort fails. Till Time — i\\?ii precious Enemy — prevails. O envious Time! to spoil so good a game! Fear'dst thou that Death at last had met his match. And ne'er could bowl him out, or get a catch ? Yea, verily. Old Time, thou seem'dst to doubt The Bowler's skill — and so, to save his fame. Didst watch the popping -crease with anxious eye. Until the msh'd-for opportunity Arriv'd, when thou couldst stump the Batsman out ! Oh, what a Player ! how active, cheerful, gay ! His " Game of Life" how like a summer's day ! But yet, in vain 'gainst Death and Time he tries To stand his ground — they bear away the prize — And, foil'd at last, he yields his bat, and — dies! 56 death's doings. Some are bowl'd out before they've got a notch, But mates like these can helpmates scarce be reckon'd ; Some knock their wickets down — while others botch And boggle so, that w hen they get a run, It makes Time laugh,— Death, too, enjoys the fun. Shakes his spare ribs to see what he has done, — Then out he bowls the bunglers in a second! And yet, although old Messieurs Death and Time Are sure to come off winners in the end, There's something in this " Game of Life" that's pleasant; For though " to die!" in verse may sound sublime — (B/awA; versel mean, of course — notdoggrel rhyme). Such is the love I bear for Life and Cricket, Either at single or at double wicket, I'd rather play a good long game, and spend My time agreeably with some kind friend, Than throw my bat and ball up— jw.s^ at present ! S. M. 57 DEATH AND THE CRICKETER. " Hold, cricketer ! your game has now been long, Your stops and battings, numerous and strong ; But see ! Time takes the wicket, I tlie bowl — 'Tis vain to block — your innings are all full." This allegory of Time and Death, though of general application, has also a reference to an in- dividual, whose skill at an advanced age gave rise to the affixed design, which was suggested by a friend and companion. The follovi^ing sketch of his character is given by one who knew him long and well. Poor T B ! little did I image to my- self in your boyish days of fifty, that I should have witnessed the wreck of so much buoyant mirth and spirits ; have seen a kindness of heart bordering on childish weakness, sinking be- neath the pressure (not of misfortune, or the 58 death's doings. common calamities of lite, but) ol' an ill-placed coniidence, and the " sharp-toothed unkindness ol" a trusted friend." — But a truce with this — Death has not indeed quite bowled thee out; but Time has taken thy wicket — thou art only a looker-on. T B , like many other men, had his hobby, — it was cricket; but then he had his hacks for ordinary occasions. There was his pu- gilistic hack, — his game of draughts — of marbles — yes — insignificant as these playthings may seem in the eyes of the sober, the learned, and the scientific, it would have amazed them to see the steadiness of his hand, the correctness of his eye, and the certainty of his shot. Not the most skilful billiard-player could pocket his ball under the most adverse circumstances, better than could B take his adversary's taw in the most difficult situation. It was like magic. The brain of a philosopher might have been set at work by it to consider the wonderful connexion between the eye and the hand, or an engineer have taken a hint from it for directing his opera- tions in the art of gunnery. DEATH AND THE CRICKETER. 59 With what pride would our veteran of the bat relate the notches that he made, and the bets that were laid on his skill, and the odds that were taken in his favour, both at cricket and at taw! If you are not proud, reader, you may in ima- gination accompany me to the sign of , at Walworth, or to the , at Battersea, or any other sign in that neighbourhood, that signifies the presence of pipes, ale, and tobacco; where you will see a smooth piece of ground, on which is marked a ring, filled with marbles. But this is not the grand match, it is only the rehearsal ; yet the players are no less in earnest, nor the specta- tors less intent on the play, or sapient in remarking on the various hits and misses that take place; and each fancies he can tell how this or that player might have made better shots. But there is a silent observer, who appears to take no part except that of a looker-on, and who at the end of the rehearsal approaches our hero, with this question, — " Are you not, sir, to play a match at ?" — " Yes," was the reply. — '* Then I'll not play; I'll pay the forfeit." (>0 death's doings. This was one of the many triumphs poor B obtained, in marbles and at cricket ; in draughts, too, equal success awaited his skill ; and it was his oivn powers that gained him his victories. It was not his horse, or his dog, that gave him credit, as by proxy. Is the man at Doncaster, York, or Newmarket, an inch the taller, or a whit the better, that the strength or speed of his mare or gelding wins the race? Even his brethren of the turf think him not a skilful, but a lucky dog. It may so happen that the possessor and the thing possessed may have mutual relations, and reflect credit the one on the other. The pos- sessor of an English house and grounds may be a man of taste ; the collector of pictures, a man of judgment; that of antiquities, a man of virtu; and so on ; but to suppose that any or all of these should obtain credit from tlie mere possession, would be idle in the extreme: we might just as well attribute to the vase the sweetness of the flowers it contains, or praise the pedestal that sustains the statue, or panegyrize the frame that holds the picture. DEATH AND Tin-: CRICKETER. ()l But it is the game of cricket that should occupy the principal place in these remarks, and though it is not apparently so connected with Danger and Death as war, or the hunting of wild animals, it is yet a service of danger, and has been fatal to many: and I remember it is related by Wraxall, that his present Majesty's grandfather got his death (though not immediately) by the blow of a cricket- ball : — to say nothing of the many fractures and con- tusions incident to this manly and skilful exercise. Nothing is known of the origin or history of this game but that it is purely English ; and it perhaps deserves as many encomiums as Roger Ascham bestows on his favourite archery, or Isaac Walton pours forth when descanting on the art of angling. What Dr. Johnson has so judiciously and so elegantly applied in a dedication to Payne's Treatise on the Game of Draughts, might equally be said of the game of cricket, or even of that of marbles.* * This dedication, under the name of Payne, is "To the Right Honourable William Henry, Earl of Rochford, &c." ()2 death's doings. " Triflers," observes the profound critic, " may find or make any thing a trifle ; but since it is the characteristic of a wise man to see events in their causes, to obviate consequences, and to ascertain contingencies, your lordship will think nothing a trifle by which the mind is inured to caution, foresight, and circumspection. The same skill, and often the same degree of skill is exerted in great and in little things." It may also be observed that in drawing a paral- lel between the game of life and that of cricket, there is more aptness of allusion than may at first strike the reader ; for in the former, as in the latter game, there is much to do, and much to guard against ; and if any runs are made, in the way of speculation, whether of pleasure or of gain, they must be made with caution, skill, and vigour; or the presumptuous adventurer, through some ad- verse event, will inevitably be bowled out ! Barnard Batwell. THE rAPTIVK, 63 DEATH AND THE CAPTIVE. Liberty ! Liberty ! * thou hast heard My weary prayer at length, But the plumeless wing of the captive bird Is shorn of its buoyant strength ; I am too weary now to roam Through sun-light and the air. To bear me to my mountain home. Or joy if I were there. Liberty ! Liberty ! thou hast been The prayer of my burning heart. Till the silent thoughts that were within Into life and form would start ; And, oh ! the glorious dreams that roll'd. Like scenes of things that be. And voices of the night that told — " The captive and the earth are free !" * The author, in order, as it would appear, to avoid the almost inevitable monotony of the subject, has represented the Captive as at first mistaking the Vision of the King of Terrors for that of Liberty — the burning passionate hope of the heart, cherished through years of gloom, may well, indeed, be ima- gined to have this effect in the feverish excitement of struggling nature. — Editor. 64 death's doings. Liberty ! Liberty ! 1 have prayed To see thy form again, And borne, with spirit undecayed. The dungeon and the chain ; But darkling art thou come to me, In silence and in dread. And round thee many a form I see Of thine own tombless dead. Oh! altered is that glorious mien. That burning brow of pride. That shone before me in the scene Where patriot thousands died ; Oh ! changed since when 1 bore the brand In glory and in youth. And saw my leagued brothers stand For Freedom and the truth. Long years of woe have chill'd my breast. And faint my spirit grows, — Here now my drooping head might rest. And here could find repose ; But darkly as thy shadow gleams Before my weary gaze. Thou bast brought back the blessed dreams Of youth's unclouded days. DEATH ANU IHI-: CAPTIVE. 65 Oh ! lead me forth where'er thy reign. Where'er thy dwelling be ; I would bear all I've borne again, To feel one moment free ; To feel my soul no longer press'd By this dim night of woe, — To know, where'er this heart may rest, The living light shall flow. Frown not ! I once could brave for thee The dagger at my side, — And I have borne the misery That few could bear beside. There were who loved me, — where are they ? Friends, country, home, and name, — They have passed like a dream away. But left my heart the same. I've bartered all to see thee smile Upon my native shore ; Nor change I, though my rest the while Be on a dungeon-floor. The love of woman, or man's praise, I sigh not now for them, — It is enough that distant days Shall wear thy diadem. F 06 death's doings. Yet leave me not again to lie Through untold years of gloom, I would once more behold the sky And earth's unwasted bloom ; Not yet hath hung the chilly air So murky in my cell, — The heavy darkness seems to glare. The dreary night-gales swell. And art thou she — the holy one ! Whose banner o'er the world. Before their destined race was run. Chiefs, prophets, saints, unfurled ; Art thou the starry form that bowed Beside the patriot's shield. When, with clos'd lips and bosom proud. They bore him from the field ? Thou art not she, — I know thee now ! The glorious dream is past, — There is a fever on my brow. And life is ebbing fast. Unmoved I bow me to thy power. Stern friend of human kind ! Thou canst not make the spirit cower, A dungeon could not bind. H. S. 67 THE CAPTIVE. €^0 meat))* Who treads my dungeon, wild and pale ? Or do my weary eyeballs fail ? And art thou of the shapes that swim Across my midnight, sad and dim. Where in one deep confusion blend The forms of enemy and friend ? Shut out by mountain and by wave. Or slumbering in the ancient grave. Ha! fearful Thing !— I know thee now. Thy hollow eye, thy bony brow, — I feel thy chill, sepulchral breath ; Spare me, — dark King ! pale Terror ! Death ! Still let me, on this bed of stone. Pour to the night the captive's groan ; Still wither in the captive's chain, — Still struggle, hope, in vain — in vain ; f2 08 DKATIl's DOINGS. Still live the slave of other's will, — But let me live, grim Spectre, still ! I faint; thy touch is on me now — I feel no sting, no fiery throe : My fetters fall beneath thy hand ! I see thee now before me stand. No shape of fear ! My fading eyes Behold thee. Servant of the Skies ! Crowns thy bright brow the immortal wreath. Celestial odours round thee breathe. Spreads on the air thy splendid plume, — AYelcome, thou angel of the tomb I Alfred. THE SE]RE^L\1)E. G9 THE SERENADE. 'Tis midnight, and there is a world of stars Hanging in the blue heaven, bright and clear, And shining, as if they were only made To sparkle in the mirror of the lake. And light up flower-gardens and green groves. By yonder lattice, where the thick vine-leaves Are canopy and curtain, set with gems Rich in the autumn's gift of ruby grapes, A maiden leans : — it is a lovely niglit. But, lovely as it is, the hour is late For beauty's vigil, and to that pale cheek Sleep might give back the roses watching steals. Slumber, and happy slumber, such as waits On youth, and hope, and innocence, was made To close those soft blue eyes. What can they know Of this world's sorrow, strife, and anxiousness? What can Wealth be to the young mind that has A mine of treasure in its own fresh feelings ? And Fame, oh woman ! has no part in it ; and Hate, Those sweet lips cannot know it ; and Remorse, That waits on guilt, — and Guilt has set no sign On thatp ure brow : 'tis none of these that keep 70 death's doings. Her head from its down pillow, but there is A visitant in that pale maiden's breast Restless as Avarice, anxious as Fame, — Cruel as Hate, and pining as Remorse, — Secret as Guilt; a passion and a power That has from every sorrow taken a sting, — A flower from every pleasure, and distilled An essence where is blent delight and pain ; And deep has she drained the bewildering cup. For Isadore watches and wakes with Love. Hence is it that of the fair scene below She sees one only spot ; in vain the lake Spreads like a liquid sky, o'er which the swans Wander, fleece-clouds around the one small isle. Where lilies glance like a white marble floor. In the tent made by pink acacia boughs ; In vain the garden spreads, with its gay banks Of flowers, o'er which the summer has just pass'd. The bride-like rose, — the rich anemone, — The treasurer of June's gold ; the hyacinth, A turret of sweet colours ; and, o'er all. The silver fountains playing:— but in vain! Isadore's eye rests on that cypress grove : A bright warm crimson is upon her cheek. And her red lip is opened as to catch THE SERENADE. 71 The air that brought the sound upon the gale. There is a sweet low tone of voice and lute. And, oh ! Love's eyes are lightening, — she has caught A shadow, and the wave of a white plume Amid those trees, and, with her hair flung back. She listens to the song : — Lady sweet, this is the hour Time 's loveliest to me ; For now my lute may breathe of love, And it may breathe to thee. All day I sought some trace of thine. But never likeness found ; But still to be where thou hast been Is treading fairy ground. I watched the blushing evening fling Her crimson o'er the skies, — I saw it gradual fade, and saw. At length, the young moon rise. And very long it seemed to me Before her zenith hour. When sleep and shade conspire to hide My passage to thy bower. 72 death's doings. I will not say — wake not, dear love, — I know thou wilt not sleep ; Wilt thou not from thy casement lean. And one lone vigil keep ? Ah ! only thus to see thee, love. And watch thy bright hair play Like gold around thine ivory arm. Is worth a world of day. Gradual he had drawn nearer and more near. And now he stood so that his graceful shape Was visible, and his flashing eyes were raised With all the eloquence of love to her's : She took an azure flower from her hair. And flung it to him. — Flowers are funeral gifts,- And, ere his hand could place upon his heart The fragile leaves, another hand was there — The hand of Death. Alas for her proud kinsmen ! 'Tis their work ! the gallant and the young Lies with the dagger in his faithful breast, — The destiny of love. L. E. L. THE TnTI,y.T 73 DEATH AT THE TOILET. {By the Author of" The Lollards" " Witchjinder ," Sfc. ifC.) It seems that every bard, or clown, or lord, Finds Death a striking subject to talk o'er, He who counts syllables, in each long word, AVith rhyme, his hapless relatives to bore. And he who strikes the highest-bounding chord. Who with immortal eloquence can soar ; Yet nothing make of Death, with all this fuss. But, that he nothing means to make of us. And some appear intolerably grieved. While dolefully lamenting earthly woes. To think that they must one day be relieved : And gain through him, a season of repose. But I, thank Heaven ! have never yet perceived That I am likely to be one of those : For, gratefully admiring Nature's plan. Death seems to me the comforter of man. 74 diiath's doings. From this folks may presume that I am heir To some old gentleman of property. Or ancient dame, who to assuage my care Has been sufficiently polite to die ; Or else a widower, whose blacic despair Has after six long mourning weeks gone by. But J, though Death is certainly my pet, Have to acknowledge no such favours yet. I like him for the lesson he gives pride. And those we * groundlings' call ' of high degree.' The heartless rich, by him laid side by side. Are fairly levelled with poor rogues like me. Thus feeling, sometimes I have almost cried. Death's circumstances so reduced to see. For vaccination— stomach-pumps — and peace, I thought would make mortality decrease. " Great king of terrors ! I commiserate Thy lot severe, for deeply thou must feel. Through peace, the long postponement of the fate Of thousands, whom the grave would else conceal. No longer used for stocking thy estate Are powder, conflagration, lead, and steel ; Whilst undertakers in the general joy Turn suicides, their workmen to employ !" DEATH AT THE TOILET. 75 Tims I exclaimed, when lo ! before me stood Grim Death himself. I must confess this hurt My feelings rather, but his civil mood Restored composure, nay, I soon grew pert. Though to my blushing face, up rushed the blood. At being thus with one who wore no shirt; With one indeed, it may be said, who owns Not even a skin to hide his naked bones. Yet skeletons I like to view, because No veil there screens a mean perfidious heart ; No vertebrae inclines, to feign applause Where scorn is felt, but finished life's brief part The limbs with seeming dignity can pause. Nor shake with terror nor with fury start ; And Death as seen by me, was I must own A very gentlemanly skeleton. We spoke of various matters — of Life's ills Of sportive subjects now, and now of grave ; I, (thinking of my aunt's and grannam's wills) Lamented cooking Kitchener should save. Or Abernethy with his d — ns and pills So many, whom of right Death ought to have; And still, to give discourse a friendly turn, On his account expressed sincere concern. 76 death's doings. ** Your love I thank," said he, and grinn'd a smile ; " 1 will explain, but must be brief and free. For I to-night shall journey many a mile. And you would hardly wish to go with me. Rightly you have imagined that my toil Makes life a little like what it should be. Few, very few , w ould care on earth to stay. Were I for one whole century away. " For how terrijfic were the tyrant's rod. Had he no dread that Death might be at hand ! And how relentlessly would Avarice plod. How domineering would be all the grand. If me they could forget, as they do God, And hope to live for ever in the land ! I make proud affluence the poor befriend. Or bring its sordid projects to an end. " This, my vocation, sternly I pursue. In peace or war, submission I compel. The latter, 'twill sound wonderful to you. My lists, perceptibly could never swell ; Nay, joined with steam, balloons, safe coaches too. Ne'er furnished out a half per-centage knell. My blows are most repeated, are most sure — Where wealth and comfort whisper ' all's secure.' u K A T H A r r 1 ii: 1' () I [. ET . 77 " I choose not for my arms, the beggar's meals, His tatters, or his lodging on the ground ; No ; but magnificence my arrow feels. Where pomp presides and luxuries abound : In dainty viands, to life's source it steals ; And costly wines, my instruments are found. These— these to Death far richer harvest yield, Tlian all the slaughter of the battle-field. ** More would you learn, to Beauty's toilet go And see my weapons, in the fair array Which all around her careful hand may throw, To decorate her for the festive day. There, in her gauzes, nets, and muslins know. My formidable host in ambush s ay. But hast thou seen a nymph, both young, and fair. For conquest, and for revelry prepare ?" " Yes," I replied, and transport at the thought Prompted unwonted energy of speech, *' But yesterday, a blissful glimpse I caught Of that which mortal excellence may reach ; And this idea to my mind it brought, However eloquently churchmen preach. Though with it strange extravagance breaks loose, Yet's love's idolatry, claims some excuse. 78 death's doings. " I gaz'd on all that's fra^ant, gay, and bright, In Heaven above, on earth, or in the sea. Celestial blue in Chloe's orbs of sight. And starry lustre there enchanted me. The blushing rose, and lily, now delight With pearl and coral, in soft unity. It was a picture, radiant!— glorious ! — rare ! Divine epitome of all that's fair ! " Superb embellisher of human life ! How dear the joy thy influence can impart! Blest recompense for scenes of care and strife ! Loved tyrant of the subjugated heart! Beauty ! resistless still in maid or wife ! Through being's course — but here you almost start Afraid that I shall covet when I die, O Mahomet! thy sweetly peopled sky! *' Source of our bliss ! but fountain of our sighs ! The poor for beauty pant — the rich adore ; The madman's vows, the homage of the wise. In every age are thine, on every shore. Thy smile inspires our noblest energies. The warrior's prowess, and the poet's lore ; And our sublimest deeds confess thy sway. As flowers and fruits date from the sun of May !" DEATH AT THE TOILET. 79 " But saw'st thou," Death inquired, " altho' so fair And almost more than mortal to behold. How Chloe, dressing, to her aid called there Wreaths, toys and gewgaws, more than canbe told?' " I did, and marvelled at the fruitless care. Thus whitening snow, or gilding purest gold. And still, when all as I thought had been tried, Her milliner, new finery supplied." " And while you leisurely could this descry,'' Said Death, " who waited on her did you ask ? Know the attendant you beheld — was I ! 'Twas I who wore the officious servant's mask ! The fair was destined in life's bloom to die ; To hand the fatal trappings was my task : Wholly superfluous I deemed open force. And let the thoughtless beauty take her course. " 'Tis thus that Death accomplishes his aim : Most human beings sigh for what destroys ; Mirth, Vanity, and Pleasure, play my game. And crush life's hopes beneath deluding joys. More perish from caprice, and Fashion's whim. Than by the cannon, battle's rage employs — But I must hence, — another glass is out, And I am going to my lady's rout." 80 LUCY; OR, THE MASKED BALL. A TALE. "Who, wandering at early hour. While devvdrops hang on every flower, And twinkle, in the slanting rays. Like stars with irridescent blaze ; While birds, from copse and limber spray, Welcome with song the infant day : — Who, wandering then, can coldly view The smiling Daisy bathed in dew ; The Violet, from her leafy bed. The sweetest colours round her spread ; And blushing, as her buds disclose Her all-unrivalled charms, the Rose, Lovely with Nature's simple grace ! And ever wish to change their place? The Daisy in the rich parterre Would, cheerless, smile unnoticed; there. Vainly, the Violet dispense Her perfume on the pamper'd sense. LUCY; OR, THE MASKKl) BALL. 81 Which scarce can rouse from apathy The scents of Ind and Araby; And, but contemned her native grace, Droop the wild Rose in such a place. Like these young Lucy blossomed, ere Her bosom knew the pangs of care : A floweret meet for peaceful vale. Green glen, or still sequestered dale ; A village maid, in simple dress. All meek retiring loveliness : Her joys so pure and innocent. She scarcely knew that Discontent, Corroding Envy, Hate, and Care, Inhabitants terrestrial were: For, in the hamlet where she dwelt. Their pestilence had not been felt; — Her world, within whose narrow bound Those gentle sympathies were found. Which harmonize frail human kind As earth and heaven were conjoin'd. But, where from earth is Grief exil'd? Young Lucy was Afiliction's child! G 82 death's doings. Her sire had for his country bled And died, on Honour's gory bed ; And, far from towns, his widow sped ; Hoping, in this sweet solitude. She might the scorn of Pride elude; For well she knew, that the world's eye Falls cold upon adversity. In a green glen, embowered in trees. Yet open to the western breeze. Lay the small village, where she chose To seek for shelter and repose. Few were its habitants, and these Nature's rude sons; yet, if they knew But little, vice was absent too. The only solace that beguiled Her melancholy, was her child. Whose smile of love and fond caress Oft cheer'd her spirit's loneliness ; And as she hung with pure delight Upon her neck, in colours bright, Hope would the future paint, and through Her grief-cloud ope a spot of blue ; LUCY; OR, THE MASKED BALL. 83 A fitful gleam, which passed; and, then, Gloom settled over all again. Time wings his flight, the rosebud blows ; The child to lovely woman grows; The beauty of the infant face Is heightened by maiden grace; Lucy is artless Lucy still. But, in her swelling bosom, thrill Feelings and thoughts, which all declare The infant is no longer there. The archness of her blooming face To modesty hath yielded place ; Her cheek glows with a fainter red. Save when quick kindling blushes spread Their damask flush, and tint the snows Of her bosom's lilies with the rose : Her eye, a sparkling diamond set Within the lustre-softening jet Of the fringed lid, no more repays Responsive every passing gaze ; The parted lip, the dimple's wile, Only betray the chastened smile ; G 2 84 UKATIl's DOINGS. While, beaming with expression sweet. For angel woman truly meet, Each feature bears the stamp of mind, By culture moulded and refin'd. For her sole parent strove to store Her opening mind with useful lore ; Spread Nature's volume to her eye. Pure fount of true philosophy. Source whence the streams of knowledge flow. And of the flowers that round them blow. And, save her sacrifice to heaven. To Lucy all her hours were given ; For Lucy all her bosom's care. Her morning hymn, her evening prayer. Oft, as the mother's eye survcy'd The change Time in her child had made. And onward glanced, although a tear Would now, and now a smile appear, As Fear and Hope, alternate, threw Their clouds and sunshine on the view. Yet, in the future, would she see The promise of felicity. LUCY; OR, THE MASKED BALL. 85 As when autumnal morning breaks, And earth from her soft slumber wakes. While the first rays scarce pierce the clouds That all the dewy valley shrouds. Above the sea of mist, is seen Some tufted knoll, like islet green. Or summit of gigantic oak, Or hidden cot's blue rising smoke; Till, as if dream of phantasy, The orb of day, uprising high. Flings back the vapoury veil, and lo ! The landscape glitters bright below. But, ah ! ere noontide hour, is gone The splendour which we gazed upon ! And who hath found, who shall e'er find Fortune immutable and kind ? The purest flake of fallen snow Is crushed the peasant's foot below; The brightest stream of mountain spring Runs troubled in its wandering ; And Lucy's life, through sun and shower. Was chequered to its closing hour. S(5 death's doings. And, now, across the stubbled field The fowler stalked, and, harshly, peal'd The gun's hoarse note. The timid hare Cowers closer in her sheltering lair ; And, as her brood she gathers round. Scared by the death-denouncing sound. Whose booraings, borne upon the gale. Startle the silence of the vale. The partridge feels her little breast With all a mother's cares opprest. 'Twas in that season — the last beam Of Even shed a golden gleam. When Lucy stood beside the rill Which turned the hamlet's little mill. And, chaffering its pebbles white. Glittered beneath the parting light ; Half lost in thought, half listening To its sweet chidings, when the spring Of a dog startled her: — amazed — She turned — a youth upon her gazed. Whose garb and bearing, form and face Bespoke him of a gentle race. As the doc starts, when the loud horn Bursts on her ear at early morn, LUCY; OR, THE MASKED BALL. 87 And forward springs with winged bound. Then stops and listens, glancing round Quick panting, yet delays to fly ; So Lucy meets the stranger's eye, All perturbation : and, as turn Homeward her trembling feet, and burn Her cheeks with blushes, as impell'd By some strong power, while onward held Her trembling limbs, each step she flies. Turn backward her inquiring eyes ; While the fond youth, her cause of care. Stands moveless as he marble were. " Such matchless beauty ! such a mien ! Is she a mortal I have seen 1 Do dreams on waking sense obtrude ? Or, in this earthly solitude. Exiled awhile from heaven's bourne, Is sent an angel to sojourn ?" So mused the youth. — O'er Lucy stole A pensive listlessness of soul : In sleep, her dreams, — awake, her thought The rill before her ever brought ; And, when eve came, she wist not why. Turned there her steps unconsciously. 88 death's doings. Need we describe the lover's eyes Encountering in Love's emprise ? How oft they met, and gazed, and strove To give an utterance to love ; Yet, silent gaz'd, as if afraid The air would whisper what they said ? For thus, since Love on earth has dwelt. Have looked his votaries and felt. At length, a tongue each bosom found. And vows were pledged, and hearts were bound ; And holy rites and blessings o'er, Lucy and Edmund part no more. The moon hung in the vault of sky, A thousand bright stars twinkling nigh : Dancing beneath her silver sheen The ripples of the rill were seen ; But, as if soothed their chaflerings, They babbled in low murmu rings. The soft light spread a soothing gleam On bank and brae, on cot and stream ; And, straggling through the leafy grove. Chequered the path of whispering love : LUCY; OR, THE MASKED BALL. 89 While the breeze scarcely breathed a sigh As it kissed the flowers in passing by, Stealing the odours of their breath For incense to the sleeping earth : For Nature lay in balmy rest Soft as babe's on a mother's breast ; And all on earth, in air, in sky. Seemed tuned to perfect harmony. Such was the night when Lucy took A last and melancholy look Of her loved vale. Can words impart The conflict of the bursting heart. When, to the spot our childhood knew And loved, we bid a first adieu? Where path, and bank, and stile, and tree Have witnessed our felicity, And seem as friends, who still should share Our bosom's pleasures and its care ? 'Tis vain ! — Say we, that Lucy's mind. Yet scarcely to her fate resign'd. That deep affliction keenly felt As on the past it fondly dwelt. Her arms were round her husband flung. And, weeping, on his neck she hung. 90 death's doings. The past was all a fairy dream, A joyous hour, a sunny gleam: While Doubt upon the future flings His dark, foreboding shadowings. But tears, in lovers' bridal hour, * Are droppings of a summer shower, Soon spent: and, if to man be given A foretaste of the bliss of heaven, It is, when, at Affection's shrine. Two faithful hearts their fates conjoin. Alas ! that all so short should be Their dream of young felicity ! Like scene, depicted by the eye Of Fancy, on an evening sky ; Scarce formed, before it fades from sight Behind the curtain of the night. For since, in Paradise, began The influence of Love on man. The hour of rapture still hath been Short as the twilight's closing scene. Now changed the daisied mead, the hill, The vine-clad cot, the grove, the rill. LUCY; OR, THE MASKED BALL. 91 Nature and all her green retreats For squares, and palaces, and streets: And Lucy, simple village maid. As Fashion's votary arrayed. Gracing with beauty Rank and Pride, Is hailed as wealthy Edmund's bride. But true to Nature, for a while Lucy saw only splendid toil In fashion, and oft sighing, cast A wistful look upon the past : But Edmund still was kind ; and he Declaimed of wealth's felicity ; And she believed ; and quickly shone Of Fashion's stars the brightest one. Her mother wept the change, in vain. And sought her solitude again : While midnight hours, routes, concerts, balls. The feverish sleep till noon, the calls Of heartless visitors, the ride For morning air at eventide ; Meeting old dowagers in shops. The gossip of intruding fops. 92 death's doings. Scandal, the fulsome flattery Of those who prey on vanity. Dress, news, the opera, the play, Fill'd Lucy's hours from day to day. But, ah ! no more the blushing rose Of health upon her soft cheek glows ; For Death, beneath whose blasting lower Already drooped the fragile flower. Had glared on her. The toilet nigh Tended he oft assiduously ; And whispering soft, as Bridget dare. What slight habiliments to wear. What rouge the faded cheek could dye In mock of Nature's mastery. On her fair bosom breathed : — the air, Envenomed, chilled the current there Of life's warm flood, and its fell load Left in that bosom to corrode. Poor Lucy ! weetless of thy fate. Like bird by serpent fascinate. Pleasure allures thy careless heart. But rankles there the poison's smart ! LUCV; OK, TUfi MASkKl) 15AIJ.. 1)3 Why that commotiou ? wherefore all Those ornaments in room and hall ? Upon the walls are festoons hung, With roses and with lilies strung ; While ivy wreaths the columns bind, By nicest skill of art design'd ; And, carved in purest gold, the vine Their lofty capitals entwine. • Pictured upon the floor, is seen The story of Cytherea's queen Just risen from the waves, while nigh Cupids on wanton pinions fly. From sculptured urns, fresh flowers distil Their sweetest scents the air to fill ; And, Art with Nature striving, seem All realized which poets dream ; And Edmund's house a temple smiles For Pleasures' ever-witching wiles. The cards are sent, the night draws nigh For the masked ball's festivity : And, with the toilet's tasteful cares, Lucy to meet her guests prepares. Her graceful ringlets, trained to throw Soft shadows on the bosom's snow. 94 death's doings. Are bound with wreath, where rubies made The flowers, on leaves oi' diamond laid. Strings of pale, orient pearls lie On that fair bosom's ivory. Whose heaving charms the kerchief's gauze Scarce from the wandering eye withdraws ; While, on the cheek, is lightly spread The rouge's softly blended red. For the live rose that blossomed there Withered in Fashion's atmosphere. Circling her slender waist, the zone Was clasped with a large onyx stone. On which was carved, all disarray'd. Of beauteous form, a stooping maid Laving her feet with crystal wave That issued from a gelid cave. But, vainly, dress and jewels try Her native charms to amplify ; And, vainer still, to stay the dart Death levels at her youthful heart. He, grisly tyrant ! silently In the pearly lustre of her eye. Marking how slow his poison wrought. Impatient, for an instant, thought lucy; or, the masked ball. 95 To strike the blow : but paused, and o'er Her bosom breathed as before. Like northern sleety blast it fell And froze life's current to its well ; Shook her whole frame, through limb and arm. And all was horror and alarm : But, soon revived, Lucy is found The gayest of the festive round. What needs it that gay scene describe. The dazzling lights, the masked tribe. The music's melody, the feet That, glancing to its measures beat; What needs it say, how were display'd The characters in masquerade ? The matron, in the maid's attire, Cloaking with modesty desire ; The sober squire of seventy Tottering in guise of chivalry ; The widow, in her second weeds. As nun devout with cross and beads ; The faithless wife as vestal pure ; The rake in clericals demure; The clown, the king, the saint, the thief. Lawyers who never saw a brief. 96 death's doings. Priests, soldiers, madmen, England, France, Love, Folly, Death, all mingled in the dance. What youth is he, whom Lucy's eye Still follows so assiduously f Who ever tracks, from place to place, That nymph in habit of a Grace, Whose interchange of amorous glance Bespeaks the future dalliance? Oh ! hapless moment! — weight of woes! 'Tis Edmund, and him Lucy knows. Can words the wounded feelings speak That flushed with ire her angel cheek? Can language paint the deep distress Which changed that flush to pallidness? Now swims the room before her eyes ; Quenched seem the lights, the music dies ; She feels a horror o'er her creep ; She sobs, but tries, in vain, to weep; But, uttering shrieks of wild dismay. Sinks to the ground and swoons away. Is there a sight more full of woe In the wide range of ills below, LUCY; OR, THE MASKED BALL. i)7 Than youthful loveliness, when laid. Bereft of sympathetic aid, On couch of sickness? — and is nigh No breast, on which the head may lie. No hand, to wipe away a tear. No voice, to whisper in the ear Sweet words of Hope : — but her last moan The sufferer must breathe alone? Ah ! none : — yet such was Lucy's fate. Though crowds of menials on her wait. When Death's fell breathings tainted all. Even the cup medicinal. Still, wildly, her delirious eye Would roll, her mother to descry ; And, " mother," that endearing name, Her tongue a thousand times exclaim. Ah, Lucy ! when it was too late. Thy mother, and thy faithless mate, Both wept beside thee. — Woke to shame, A humbled penitent he came And pardon craved. — She turned her eye, Like a pure angel from the sky H 98 death's doings. Smiling in peace, and mildly said — " Edmund/tis given," — then droop'd her head. 'Tvvas o'er — but, yet, the smile remain'd : — 'Twas all of Lucy Death had gained. A. T. T. THE MOTHER. 99 THE MOT HE H. Ah ! never may that thoughtless, heartless thing, The painted gossamer of Fashion's bowV, Presume to take the hymeneal ring. Or dare usurp a Mother's tender pow'r ; — Enough for her to " roll the giddy eye," To dance, and sparkle, in the midnight hour — Unheard her feeble infant's pleading cry, Unmark'd the withering of that blighted flow'r. Canst thou to menial vice and skilless care Leave the sweet babe that nestling seeks thy breast. Its home, its being ? — Fragile as 'tis fair. And in its own endearing weakness blest — Canst thou do this, and smile ? nay, canst thou liv^e Beneath the sense of such deep guilt opprest ? — Guilt which one sinner only can forgive. The pander parent, whom e'en friends detest. h2 100 death's doings. Unhappy in thy error — know, to thee (For thou art human) pain, and age, advance ; That blooming cheek shall fade — those bright eyes see New beauties far outshine their waning glance. Disease on those light limbs her hand shall lay, (That stern destroyer of Life's young romance) And Time compel thee, with the old and gray. To take thy place in Death's terrific dance. Ah! hope not then, that kindly pious friend Shall soothe thy suff 'ring hour with precept mild. That o'er thy couch in sympathy shall bend The tender husband, or the sorrowing child — Far other guests on that dread scene encroach, (No longer now neglected or revil'd) Regret, remorse, and ceaseless self-reproach, There howl in fierce revenge their descant wild. B. H. 101 TO THE MEMORY OF MY INFANT NIECE, E. B [Ob. Feb. 6, 1826— .et. 2.] For ever gone? — sweet bud of spring ! Yes ; — from its parent stem 'tis riven ! Scarce had it drank the morning dew. Or oped its petals to our view, Ere destin'd 'twas, aside to fling Its earthly form, and bloom in Heaven ! Yes — thou art gone ! — nor pray'rs, nor sighs Can aught avail ! — 'twas Death who sought thee ! Those cherub smiles, that lisping tongue. Those arms which round thy Mother clung. Had mark'd thee for the Tyrant's prize, — And in his cold embrace he's caught thee ! 102 death's doings. How oft, when lulling- thee to sleep, I've seen thy Mother fondly press thee ! How often, kiss away thy tears. And hush thy cries, and calm thy fears, — And when thou still wouldst sob and weep, With what affection she'd caress thee ! For as she watch'd thy opening bloom. Predicting future days of pleasure. She little thought misfortune's blight So soon would wither her delight ; — She dreamt not that an early tomb Would close upon her infant treasure ! Great were her hopes ! — yet, doubtless, fears With all her cheering hopes were blended ; For, haply, none like Parents feel The hopes and fears they'd fain conceal, — Increasing with increasing years. Till Life and all its cares arc ended. Yet, who could view thy dimpled cheek. And look for aught but years of gladness ;— Or see thy laughing dark-blue eye. MY INFANT NIECli. 103 And think that sorrow was so nigh ; — Or hear thee firgt essay to speak. And then forebode this scene of sadness ? But, ah! our prospects — oh, how vain ! Our anxious cares— oh, how requited ! A Mother's love — a Father's pride — How near to misery allied ! Their joy, how soon exchanged for pain ! Their every hope, how quickly blighted ! And is it weakness, then, to mourn. When thus our dearest hopes are thwarted ? — When in the arms of icy Death A spotless babe resigns its breath ! To see it from its kindred torn ! A Mother from her Infant parted ! Oh, no ! — it weakness ne'er can be. When woe-begone, to show our feeling ! — To shed the sympathetic tear In mournful silence o'er the bier Of one so lov'd in infancy ! — Such grief, alas, there's no concealing ! 104 death's doings. But since the fatal die is cast, And unavailing, now, is sorrow, — O grant, kind Heav'n ! that future joy And bliss serene, without alloy. Exchanged may be for troubles past. And skies unclouded gild the morrow ! S. M. 105 THE BALL. *' Even if I were not prevented by this unlooked- for engagement from accompanying you to the ball to-night, ray love," said the Honourable Alfred Seymour to his beautiful young wife, " you must nevertheless have declined it, for the child is evidently unwell ; look how the pulses throb in this little throat, Sophia !" — " So they always do, 1 believe. I really wish you were less of a croaker and caudle-maker, my dear ; however, to make you easy, I will send for Doctor Davis im- mediately : as to the ball, as I am expected, and have gone to the trouble and expense of a new dress, and have not been out for such a long, long time, really I think I omjht to go." *' You would not leave my boy. Lady Sophia, if" — " Not if there is the least danger, certainly; nor if the doctor should pronounce it ill; but I 10(> death's DOINGS- do not believe it is so — I see nothing particular about the child, for my part." As the young mother said this, she cast her eyes on the child, and saw in its little heavy eyes some- thing which she felt assured ivas particular — she saw moreover, more strikingly than ever, the like- ness it bore to a justly beloved husband, and in a tone of self-correction added, " Poor little fellow, I do think you are not quite the thing, and should it prove so, mamma will not leave you for the world. '^ The countenance of the father brightened, and he departed assured that the claims of nature would soon fully triumph over any little lingering love of dissipation struggling for accustomed indulgence ; and as he bade her good by, he did not wonder that a star so brilliant desired to exhibit its rays in the hemisphere alluded to, which was one in the highest circle of fashion. Nevertheless, as he could not be present himself, he thought it on the whole better that she should be absent. A young nobleman, who had been his rival and wore the THE BALL. 107 willow some time after their marriage, had lately paid marked attention to a young beauty every way likely to console him; and Mr. Seymour thought it would be a great pity if his lady, whom he had not seen for some months, should by appear- ing before him in the full blaze of beauty (unac- companied by that person whose appearance would instantly recall the sense of her engage- ment) indispose his heart for that happy connexion to which he had shown this predilection. Unfortunately, the fond husband gave indication of his admiration alike in his looks and words ; and as the fair young mother turned from him to her mirror, she felt for a moment displeased that her liege lord should be less solicitous than her- self to " witch the world" with her beauty ; and whilst in this humour she called her maid to show her the turban and dress " in which she intended to appear." " Lauk, my lady ! why sure you intends it yet — did ever any body hear of such a thing as going for to stay at home when you are all prepared. Why, 108 death's doings. you've been out of slight ever so long because you was not lit to be seen, as one may say ; but now that you are more beautilullcr than ever, by the same rule you should go ten times as much — do pray, ray lady, begin directly — ah ! I knows what I know. Miss Somerville may look twice ere she catches my lord, if so be he sees you in this here plume ; cold broth is soon warm, they say." Could it be that this vulgar nonsense — the senseless tirade of low flattery and thoughtless stimulation to error — could aft'ect the mind of the high-born and highly educated Lady Sophia? Alas ! yes — a slight spark will ignite dormant va- nity, and the love of momentary triumph surpass the more generous wish of giving happiness to others in a sphere distinct from our own. The new dress was tried on ; its effects extolled by the maid, and admitted by the lady, who re- membered to have read or heard of some beauty whose charms were always most striking when she first appeared after a temporary confinement. THE BALL. 109 The carriage was announced, and she was actu- ally descending when the low wail of the baby broke on her ear, and she recollected that in the confusion of her mind during the time devoted to dress and anticipated triumph, she had forgotten to send for the medical friend of the family. Angry with herself, in the first moment of repent- ance she determined to remain at home, but un- fortunately reconsidered, and went before the ar- rival of the doctor; — 'tis true she left messages and various orders, and so far fulfilled a mother's duties, but she yet closed her eyes to the evident weakness of her boy, and contented herself with determining to return as soon as it was possible. But who could return while they found them- selves the admired of all, and when at least the adoration of eyes saluted her from him whom she well knew it was cruelty or sin to attract. The observation forced upon her of Miss Somer- ville's melancholy looks told her this, and com- pelled her to recollect that she was without her husband, and therefore critically situated ; and as 110 death's doings. " in the midst of life we are in deatli," so she proved that in the midst of triumph we may be humbled — in the midst of pleasure be pained ; and she resolved to fly from the scene of gaiety more quickly than she had come. But numerous delays arose, each of which har- rassed her spirits not less than they retarded her movements, and she became at length so annoyed, as to lose all her bloom and hear herself as much condoled with on her looks as she had a few hours before been congratulated ; — she felt ill, and was aware that she merited to be ill, and had a right to expect reproaches from her husband, not less on account of herself than her child ; and whilst in this state of perplexity was summoned to her carriage by her servants, who, in the con- fusion occasioned by messengers from home as well as from herself, had increased her distress. The young mother arrived in time to see the face of her dying child distorted by convulsions, and to meet from her husband anger, reproach, and contempt. She was astonished, even ter- THE HALL. Ill rifled, by witnessing the death of the innocent Jjeing she had forsaken in a moment so cri- tical ; and bitter was the sorrow and remorse which arose from offending him who had hitherto loved her so fondly and esteemed her so highly. These emotions combining with other causes, rendered her soon the inhabitant of a sick-bed, and con- verted a house so lately the abode of happiness and hope, into a scene of sorrow, anxiety, and death. Lady Sophia, after much suffering, reco- vered her health ; but when she left her chamber she became sensible that although pity and kindness were shown to her situation, esteem and confidence were withdrawn. She had no child to divert the melancholy of her solitary hours, and, what was of more consequence, no husband who could condole with her on its loss — silence of the past was the utmost act of tenderness to which Mr. Seymour could bring himself on this subject, which recurred to him with renewed pain when his anxiety was removed for the life of one still dear, though no longer invaluable. And all this misery, the fearful prospect of a 112 death's doings. long life embittered by self-reproach, useless re- gret, and lost afl^ction, was purchased by a new dress and an ignorant waiting-maid — a risk so full of danger and so fatal in effect was incurred, to strike a man already refused, and wound a woman who never injured her. Such are the despicable efforts of vanity for temporary distinction, and such the deplorable consequences of quitting the tender offices of affection and transgressing the re- quisitions of duty. B. H. TEE HYPOCHONBBIAC. 113 HYPOCHONDRIANA. THE LAMENT. Of all the ills foredoomed by Fate, That haunt and vex this mortal state. None holds such firm and dismal sway, Augmenting night, and darkening day,— As the foul pest — accurst, unholy. Sad-eyed, soul-sinking Melancholy ! The fears that come without a call. The shade that, like a thrice-heaped pall. Drops o'er the shuddering, unstrung sense. In wide and drear omnipotence ! The aimless blank, the sightless stare. The nerve, with all its fibres bare ; The shapes grotesque that start to view. And, as their victim shrinks, pursue ; The sickening languor, " last not least," That spreads o'er all the damp chill breast, I 114 death's doings. Unnerves the will, and racks the head, And brings the tears into their bed ; These are amongst the horrors, thou. Dread Demon, heapest on my brow. Reader ! these are no fancied woes. For could I to thy view disclose The visions that torment my sight ; Each grinning elf, each grisly sprite, — • However strong thy nerves may be. Thou wouldst not mock, but pity me. % ^ 1^ ^ ^ ^ ^ V Ah ! see you not that monstrous birth Engendered by yon teeming hearth ? Mark that fantastic shapeless frame. All head and legs, \vith eyes of flame ! My vision reels * * * * * * * * * * Maddening, 1 to my window crawl, — Alas, alas, discomfort all ! HYPOCHONDRIANA. 115 Rain, rain, eternal rain descending, My weather-glass no change portending;— The black wet mass of yesterday In loosening torrents drowns the May ! Oh, happy climate ! beauteous Spring ! Last Winter was the self-same thing. Why not at once give all the slip ? — Yon sleepy potion tempts my lip: The waning hour-glass seems to say, " Thy sand, like mine, has drained away ;'' And by the Death's head on the ground Again my straining sight is bound. — One glass suffices — shall I try, And shift this clinging agony ? — Shall I * * * Here the desponding MS. from which these lines are copied abruptly breaks off"; and we are left in doubt whether the wise suggestion of the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet was adopted by the writer or not. J. o. [ 2 U6 SPLEEN. Canker of Life! beneath whose baneful sway The kind affections wither and decay. Whose torpid influence and whose dark control Can ** freeze the genial current of the soul ;" With self-inflicted fears the bosom's lord. In every dreaded semblance finds accord. Shaping a horrid chaos on the brain. To forms and colours of the darkest stain. — Ah, wherefore had the tyrant-monster birth. To blot the fairest prospects of the earth ! Veiling the richest treasures of the skies, — Damping the sounds of pleasure as they rise, — Stamping its horrid coinage on the thought. Where the base image into vision 's brought ; Seems like a substance — that wc cannot hold ; Speaks like a legend — that may not be told ; Whose import's felt — imparted without breath — Shades to the sight, — but every shade a Death. Edward. 117 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. A TALE. BY AN EYE-WITNESS. Tom WuNDERLiCH was the son of Jacob Wun- derlich, an honest sugar-baker, on Fish-Street Hill, who, having acquired an ample fortune in trade, was anxious to elevate his descendants, above the humble German stock from which he sprung, by marrying into some patrician family of his adopted country, to whom his wealth and interest in the city would make him acceptable. He fixed his choice upon the eldest daughter of Sir Roger Penny, a Baronet, of an ancient family, with much pride, two sons, eleven daughters, and twelve hundred a-year; but the match was not concluded without the stipulation that he would get himself previ- ously knighted, a matter which, although at va- riance with his sugar-baking ideas, yet, he was 118 death's doings. convinced, was consistent with the object of his marriage ; and, having accomplished it, he quickly transformed Miss Penny into Lady Wunderlich. My lady gained some long-anticipated points by her marriage. She had acquired the same title as her mother, and, although the rank of her husband was inferior to that of her father, yet, his fortune turned the scale greatly in her favour. She had much at her command ; and by her power of occasionally obliging the old lady in pecu- niary matters, she obtained an ascendancy over her mamma which consoled her for deficiency of rank. Poor Wunderlich, on the contrary, found that he had spread his bed with nettles. His sugar-baking concern he willingly relinquished, as his fortune was ample ; but to quit Lloyd's ; his old cronies and city habits ; to be forced to enter into the beau-monde ; to pay and receive forenoon calls with my lady; attend evening parties, give at homes, balls, and suppers ; and, to use his own expressions, " to have his house turned inside out," without daring to exclaim, *' My Got, meine la- die ! this will not do" — was too much for the THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 119 wortliy knight ; whose chagrin, having brought on an attack of confirmed jaundice, terminated his disappointment and his life, a few months after the birth of our hero. Previous to his death, however. Sir Jacob had made a will, leaving a very moderate jointure only to Lady Wunderlich ; and the reversion of his property to his son; failing whom it was to devolve upon a nephew who had succeeded him in the sugar-baking con- cern. This deed blasted the hopes of any second alliance, in the mind of Lady Wunderlich, and obliged her to devote her life to the superintend- ence of the health and education of her son, on whom all her expectations now rested. " I recollect Tom" (says the writer of this narrative,) " at school ; a fine spirited boy ; a little wilful, perhaps, and too timid in the play- ground, if a shower threatened, or the wind blew from the north-east. But then, although all the boys quizzed him, yet, they pitied him ; for his mamma sent every morning to inquire after his health. Mr. Bolus, the apothecary, saw him re- gularly twice a week, when he was well, and 120 death's doings. twice a day if labouring under the slightest symp- toms of indisposition ; and, frequently, when the boys, on a half-holy day, were at cricket on the common, a servant would ride over from the Pavi- lion, to see whether Tom had cast his jacket ; or, if the air happened to be chilly, whether his neck were encompassed with one of the numerous bandanas her ladyship had sent for that purpose in his trunk. Tom was not devoid of ability, but Doctor Bumpem was ordered not to overstrain his mind ; for being a delicate boy, an only child, and the heir to a large fortune, learning was quite a secondary concern; health was every thing, and to secure that all other considerations were to yield. Tom was, nevertheless, a mild, good-na- tured, friendly boy ; and, although he was fre- quently laughed at, as much on account of his mother's weaknesses as his own, yet, he was uni- versally liked. But, as he did little in the way of classical literature, he quitted Bumpem's with the character of being a good-natured, idle, soft- headed boy ; whom the doctor said it would be useless to send to Eton or to Harrow ; and, therefore, in order to (it him for Oxford, in THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 121 which university his fortune, in her ladyship's opinion, rendered it necessary he should sojourn, he was placed under the care of a clergyman, near Cheltenham. This arrangement was formed by Lady Wunderlich, in order that Tom, whilst his head was stored with classics by his tuJ;or, should have the health of his body confirmed by the constant use of the waters ; to superintend which, her ladyship took a house in that modern Sinope. From this time I lost sight of Tom for nearly ten years, during three of which I have been in- formed he had lived in Exeter College, Oxford, where he kept a couple of horses and a servant ; that, four years after leaving the University, he had travelled to Italy, attended by Dr. Bolus ; for the quondam apothecary had procured an Aber- deen diploma, at her ladyship's request, in order to confer dignity on himself, and to add to that of his patron, in the eyes of foreigners. The doctor was chosen for this important office, because he had been acquainted with Tom's constitution from his infancy ; and not less on account of his know- ledge of that of her ladyship, who was to be the 122 death's doings. companion of her son and the doctor ; for the lat- ter of whom, it was scandalously reported, she had a more than ordinary attachment. How Tom passed through this journey, and what harvest of knowledge he reaped from travel, I could never learn ; although I have heard him declaim against the continent generally for its want of comfort and of medical talent ; and once descant feelingly on the insupportable heat of Naples and the infernal scorching sirocco which he felt at Nice. Tom, however, having become of age when on his tra- vels, her ladyship and the doctor contrived to wheedle him out of twenty thousand pounds ; and, having united their destinies, Mr. and Mrs. Bolus remained behind at Naples ; whilst their son re- turned to England with a young Scotch physi- cian, who was glad of an opportunity of being franked home. Tom had arrived ten days only, when I happened to meet him in Hyde Park. It was towards the middle of May : the wind was blowing rather sharply from the north-east, when looking in at the window of a chariot, which formed one of the line of vehicles that moved THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 123 slowly along on each side of rae as I walked my horse up the drive, I perceived a gentleman, whom I thought I ought to recognise, seated in the cor- ner of the carriage, muffled up in a fur cloak. He seemed also to he actuated by the same feeling, for, as if by a simultaneous impulse, his fingers were tapping at the glass at the moment I was turning my horse's head to beckon him to let down the window. I soon perceived he was my old schoolfellow, and waited for a minute expecting the carriage- window to be opened ; but finding that, from the shake of his head and his signs, he wished me to go round to the leeward side of the carriage; which, with some difficulty, I was enabled to efl^ect; in a few minutes I was con- vinced, from the shake of his hand, that my friend Wunderlich carried in his bosom the same heart, as a man, which had beaten so warmly in it as a boy. " Hah ! Dick, my worthy fellow !" said he, " how happy I am to meet you. Let me see ! it is ten years since we parted at old Bumpem's : — how is the old boy? — Ten years! i'faith time has al- tered both of us, Dick; I have been over half of Europe since we parted, and it is only ten days since 124 death's doings. I arrived from Italy. But," continued he, holding a handkerchief to his mouth, " this cursed, variable climate will kill me. Indeed, my dear friend! you must excuse me from talking more at present: but come to me this evening. I have lodgings at the bookseller's, in Holies Street : — went there to be near my doctor :— good bye, Dick ! don't fail to come, good bye ! adieu !" and drawing up the win- dow, he beckoned to the coachman to drive on. I had returned my friend's salutation with all the warmth in my nature ; but after the first " how d'ye" — could not wedge in a single sentence ; and remained, as it were, rivetted to the spot, for a few minutes after his carriage drove on, uncertain whe- ther the whole was not a delusion. " If it be not so," thought I, " the poor fellow must be either on the verge of insanity, if not already insane : but I will determine the point this evening, by calling at his lodgings :" and, turning my horse, I rode home to dinner, revolving in my mind the oddness of our meeting, after so long an absence. It was nine o'clock in the evening, when I en- tered Tom's lodgings. He was seated before a THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 125 large fire, in an elbow-chair, rolled in a chintz dressing-gown, with his night-cap on, and his feet pushed into a pair of red-morocco slippers lined with fur. On a small table near him, lay his watch, six apothecary's phials, full of medicine, one of which, by the label, was to be taken every fourth hour, and a pill-box containing half a dozen pills. On the same table, also, was a pair of scales, in which I perceived he had been weigh- ing two ounces of biscuit ; and a graduated pint measure, which contained one ounce and a half of distilled water. Tom rose and shook me warmly by the hand as I entered the room ; but his eye had lost the animation it displayed when we first recognised one another in the park ; and he was more emaciated than I had anticipated I should find him. ** I am truly grieved to see you in this plight, my dear friend !" said I, glancing my eye upon the garniture of the little table ; " what are your complaints?" " Ah!" replied he, forcing a faint smile, " there's the rub! — Were my com- plaints but known, there would be no difficulty in curing them. At least, so says Dr. Frogsfoot, who, however, assures me that it is a gastric affection ; 126 death's doings. and that the uneasy state of my head is merely symptomatic, depending on the connexion be- tween the par vagrum, the symptomatic nerve, and the great semilunar ganglion." I saw I had hit upon a wrong key. " My learning, ray dear Tom !" said I, " does not enable me to follow you into the depths of physic which these terms im- ply." — " I know nothing of them either," replied he, " I only give you the doctor's words." He, however, with the greatest politeness changed the matter of our discourse, which gradually be- came extremely animated ; and taking me kindly by the hand, as I rose to depart, he acknowledged that my visit had done him an essential service ; that the pain in his eye, which he was apprehen- sive was an incipient cataract, had completely left him ; and he earnestly begged that I would re- peat my visits every evening, whilst I remained in town. My hand was upon the handle of the room-door, and he had rung the bell for his ser- vant to attend me to the street-door, when I turned round, recollecting that I had not inquired after his mother ; and merely asked " how and where she was?" He started up and approached THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 127 me — " You must," said he, " sit down, only for ten minutes, to hear that part of my story." I sat down accordingly. " You know that d -d fel- low Bolus ? — but, I am forgetting," looking at his watch, " it is time to take my pill and draught." He instantly placed one of the pills upon his tongue, and washed it down with a draught, which he emptied into his mouth from the phial, without evincing the least reluctance to it, in any feature of his face; and, having sat down, again began his narrative. " You know that fellow Bolus ? He became a physician and attended me on my travels, in which my mother also formed a party. He quite mistook my case, and treated me improperly from the be- ginning ; but, at length, he formed a design upon my poor mother ; and, as his suit advanced with her, he became more and more negligent of his pa- tient, until he had the impudence to tell me, that my complaints were all imaginary ; although the rascal knew that my liver was in the most torpid state, and the secretions consequently vitiated ; that my stomach had lost its digestive functions ; that 128 death's doings. the bowels were in such a sluggish condition as to require the constant aid of art ; all which had so shaken ray nerves that life was a burden to me, and I would have given a thousand pounds to any wretched bravo, to have blown my brains out." Here my poor friend sunk back in his chair, and seemed almost ailected to tears with the recollec- tion of what he regarded as the height of inhumanity in Dr. Bolus. It was in vain for me to interfere. I said nothing, and he soon recovered his self-pos- session. *' I really believe," continued he, " that the fellow would have poisoned me if I had re- mained longer his patient." I soon convinced him, that the Doctor could have no interest in his death, as his fortune would pass to his cousin, and not to his mother, with the detail of whose marriage with Bolus he had concluded his story. He ap- peared struck that he should have forgotten this fact ; and then, as if he thought I also doubted the validity of his complaints, beseeched me to meet Dr. Frogsfoot on the following day ; and con- cluded by assuring me, that he believed he had water on his brain, for that, " this morning, two drops of as clear fluid as ever distilled from a rock. THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 129 dropped iVom his nose whilst he was at breakfast." I promised to be present at Dr. Frogsfoot's next visit, and hurried out of the house, happy again to get into the world of reality ; fearful that my own imagination might become infected, were I to re- main long in the imaginary atmosphere of evils which surrounded my unhappy friend. I entered Tom's apartment, on the following day, at one o'clock, and in less than two minutes the Doctor was announced. He was a tall, spare man, of much gravity of demeanor, rather ad- vanced in years, with a thin sharp visage, an ample forehead, deeply sunk eyes, hollow cheeks, and a hanging of the nether lip, as Shakspeare w^ould express himself, which gave a marked pe- culiarity of expression to his countenance. He made a slight inclination with his head as he en- tered the room, and, having seated himself close to my friend, inquired, in a soft undertone of voice, how he felt himself; whilst, at the same time, he took out his watch, and placed his fingers upon the' pulse of his patient. Tom said nothing until this ceremony was over, after which he put out his K 130 death's doings. tongue, then drew a deep inspiration, and imme- diately commenced a voluble detail of all his symp- toms and feelings since the doctor's last visit, not forgetting an exact account of the ingesta, and the quality and aspect, to the nicest shade of colour, of the egesta. He had had pains in his legs, arms, head, and heart; he was certain his complaint was retrocedent Gout ; he was alamied this morning with straitness in the swallow, indicative of Dys- phagia ; his perspirations were sometimes so great, that he conceived he must be the first victim to a return of the Sudor Anglicus ; and concluded by seriously inquiring, whether Phlegmasia dolens ever attacked the arm, as his right arm was so much swelled in the morning, that he was certain it could not have entered the sleeve of his coat, if the swell- ing had not greatly fallen. I heard, with amaze- ment, Tom's knowledge of diseases, and their names ; the doctor listened to him with patience ; and, at the end of each sentence, ejaculated the word — " Aye !" He then made a few remarks ; told him that he must be galvanized again, on the follow- ing day ; wrote on a sheet of paper, *' Pergat in usu medicamentorum," took his fee, said, " Good THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 131 day," in his soft, low voice, with a gentle smile on his features ; and, again gently inclining his head, left the room. ** This is really too much," said Tom as the door closed upon Frogsfoot; " that is the tenth fee which I have given the Doctor, without receiving any more satisfaction than you have heard to-day, or one new prescription. As for his galvanism — my skin is excoriated with the heat of it where the brushes are placed ; and I am certain, that if that hot stream is passed through my spine and liver much longer, I shall be burnt to a cinder. I will write him, this instant, to discontinue his attend- ance ; and procure some other advice. Do you know any good physician? my dear Dick?" As I was convinced that this hasty determination of poor Wunderlich afforded rae an excellent oppor- tunity to try the effects of change of air, scene, and social intercourse, in diverting his mind from his corporeal ailments, in which I could not help thinking that fancy had a considerable share, I told him that I knew an excellent physician, who lived near me in the country, and who I was satis- K 2 132 death's doings. fi^d could cure him. He caught at the informa- tion. *' But," continued I, " you must go with me into Worcestershire ; the air of the Malvern hills, the pure water, the skill of the doctor, and my own good nursing, will do wonders for you. I shall be here, to-morrow, with my travelling-car- riage, at twelve : so have every thing in readiness — I will take no refusal." He looked seriously at me, for a few seconds; and then said, " I thank you greatly ; but I cannot stand the fatigue of such a journey." — " Nonsense, Tom! trust that to me. Be ready at twelve :" and I abruptly left the house before he had time to utter a negative. *' A pretty scrape I have got into," thought I, as I walked down Regent Street : " to volunteer myself as the keeper of an hypochondriac on the verge of in- sanity ! — yet — he is my friend ; and I am rescu- ing a drowning man, which is the duty of every passenger who sees his danger, be he friend or foe." I had ordered the carriage to be in Holies Street at twelve precisely ; and, anxious to secure my friend, walked to his lodging immediately after THI'l HYPOCHONDRIAC. 133 breakfast. I was surprised to find the knocker of the door muflled ; but only supposing from it that his landlady was in the straw, I inquired hastily of his servant if his master Avas packing ? "Lord, Sir!" said John, "he is in bed." The look of John told me something was wrong, but I was not willing to take the hint; and, stepping into the dra\ving-room, said, carelessly, "Tell your master I am here." Whilst I waited the return of the servant, I took up several books, which were all upon medical subjects : for instance, the Ga- zette and the Oracle of Health : — Paris on Diet and Digestion: — Abemethy's Works : — Thomson's Loudon Dispensatory : — and Good's Study of Me- dicine. — *'Alas! poor Tom! if this be your course of reading, my efforts to wean you from your malady will prove fruitless," said I, solilo- quizing aloud, as John entered the room to con- duct me to his master. I found my friend in bed, in a deplorable state. He informed me that he had been attacked with spasms in the night, and could not have survived but for the skilful aid of Doctor Palm, whom he 134 death's doings. had sent lor, and who he, momentarily, expected would repeat his visit. He had scarcely uttered his name, when the bed-room door opened, and the doctor was announced. I had no time to make my physiognomical observations, before the learned gentleman was at the bed-side, which he approached with a light, springy step, on tiptoe ; and seizing my friend's hand between both of his hands, and leaning forwards, inquired with all the apparent warmth and anxiety of an old associate, into the state of his present feelings. " I trust, my dear Sir !" said he, " that the medicines which I prescribed speedily relieved those frightful spasms ?" And, without waiting for a reply, turn- ing to me, with the sweetest smile, voice, and manner imaginable, " I found Mr. Wunderlich in a very ciitical state." He then seated himself, still holding the hand of his patient, and recom- menced his professional queries. I had now an opportunity of observing the doctor. He was below the ordinary stature, and of a meagre form ; plainly, I should almost say shabbily, attired ; but his head might have been selected by an artist as the finest model for that of a philosopher. It THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 135 was partly bald ; the forehead beautiful, broad, and elevated ; the eyes small and shaded ; the cheek bones rather high; the nose straight and projecting, and the mouth large and compressed. The forehead was, indeed, the finest I had ever seen ; and although he could not be called good- looking, yet his countenance bore the impression of superior intellect, great gentleness, and an anxious desire to please. When he had finished his inquiries and written his prescription, he po- litely addressed himself to me; — spoke of the news of the town ; inquired if I had read the last Edinburgh Review, made many just and critical remarks upon its merits, and those of its rival, the Quarterly ; and entering a little into the cha- racters of some of the leading members of both parties in Parliament, displayed powers for con- versation truly enviable. As he rose to take his leave, he again pressed his patient's hand be- tween both of his hands ; promised to see him in the evening, and left the room with the same light springy step, with which he had entered it. " Ah ! my dear Dick I" said Tom, looking after 136 death's doings. the doctor, " if 1 had met with that worthy man two years ago, how much misery I should have escaped. Would you believe it, I had, besides Bolus, three different physicians at Naples, five at Rome, two at Geneva, three at Paris, my young Scotch travelling companion and Dr. Frogsfoot since my return, and not one of them understood my case. Now I feel that I shall get well ; and be able to visit you, in comfort, in Worcestershire. Did you not admire the tact with which Dr. Palm conducted his inquiries'? He is the man." I nodded an assent ; and, telling my poor friend that I expected, on my return to town, in eight or ten days, to find him quite recovered, I took my leave, pondering on the delusions which ty- rannize over reason, in certain states of our habit ; and raising a thousand metaphysical conjectures on the nature of the connexion between body and mind. Having been detained longer in the country than I expected, twelve days had elapsed before I had an opportunity of again calling in Holies Street. On answering my knock, John received THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 137 me with a significant smile as he made his usual bow. " We are still here," said he ; '* and master in the old way. The doctor is with hira just now^; but you, — I am sure you may walk up. My mas- ter is in the drawing-room." I followed John; and was kindly received by my poor friend. I ex- pected to have seen, also, my late acquaintance. Dr. Palm ; but the individual who now supplied his place, was the antipode, both in form and manner, of that fascinating disciple of Hippo- crates. He was a little, portly figure, with a round, fresh-coloured, pleasant face ; and his head, which was rather large, covered with a pro- fusion of white hair, dressed in the fashion of the close of the last century. Indeed, his entire figure and dress were those of a substantial citizen of 1790. He did not rise when I entered ; but merely made a slight inclination of his head, and waved his left hand, which held his hat, raising it from his knee on which it rested. He then fixed his eyes steadfastly upon me, whilst I addressed my friend. After a few minutes, turning suddenly round to his patient, he abruptly inquired, " Have you any thing more to say V Tom assured him 138 death's doings. that he had not ; that he fully understood his or- ders; " But the pain" — ** Stop !"— ejaculated the little man, — " I know what you arc going to say : it is all fudge. If you know my orders, follow them." Notwithstanding this specimen of his abrupt manner, I ventured to address the doctor; and stated, as my opinion, that my friend would benejfit greatly by a change of air and scene. He again eyed me, for a few seconds, and demanded, " Are you a physician. Sir?" — '' No."-^" Are you a surgeon V'~" No." — " Then, Sir, what right have you to form an opinion on the subject ?" — and, without waiting for a reply, rose from his seat and left the room. '* Your new doctor is the pink of politeness, my dear Wunderlich ;" said I, as he shut the room door with a bang. " He is a character ;" replied my friend. " You must have heard of him : Mr. Mybook, the eminent surgeon ; a man of great learning, consummate skill in his profession ; and although ajiparently rough and abrupt in his man- ners, yet, I am informed, possessed of the kindest and most benevolent disposition." He, at this THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 139 moment, again opened the door; and having peeped in and said " Friday ;" shut it, this time, in a more gentle manner. *' What a pity," said I, " that the diamond has not passed through the hand of the lapidary ! But what has become of my favourite. Doctor Palm ?" Here Tom informed me, that he and the doctor had gone on very well together for a week ; but at length, coming to a stand still, he thought he would try Mr. Mybook, whose work he had perused, and under whom, although he had been only four days, he really thought he was improved. '* He relies little upon medicine," said Tom, " of which, he says, I have taken too much, but greatly upon diet and regi- men. I ride out twice a day, dine at an early hour, and eat a certain quantity only of food at each meal ; after which I lie down on the carpet for an hour, and then crawl, on my belly, to the comer of the room for my tumbler of water, which is all the liquid he allows me. — You smile, Dick ! but, trust me, all this is done upon principles, which experience has verilied." I smiled at the gra- vity with which my friend had gone through these details: telling him, at the same time, that I ap- 140 death's doings. proved much of that part of his plan which referred to horse exercise; ou which account the country was the best place for him ; and that I had come, on purpose, to take him into Worcestershire. He thanked me, but said he could not accept my offer: that he was in the search of health, and must be near advice. I perceived it was a hope- less case ; and shaking my poor friend by the hand, with a melancholy foreboding departed. It was not until the end of August, whilst I was busied in preparing for the shooting season, that I again heard of Tom Wunderlich. I was think- ing, one morning at breakfast, how much I was to blame for having neglected so long to inquire after him, and wondering whether he was now well enough to bring down a partridge, when a letter from the poor fellow was put into my hands. It entreated me, earnestly, to come to see him, in the vicinity of Dorking, where he had taken a cot- tage ; and, as his health was worse than ever, he hoped nothing w ould prevent me from forthwith seeing him. The epistle, indeed, was written in a strain which left me one mode only of decision : THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 141 and, therefore, ordering my tilbury, I drove over to Gloucester ; threw myself into the mail ; and on the afternoon of the following day, found my- self seated in the little parlour of my friend's cottage. He could not at that moment be dis- turbed ; but John informed me, that he feared his master was now ill in good earnest ; that he had retained nothing on his stomach for four days ; was delirious, and reduced to *' an atomy." I inquired what he had been doing. " Ah ! Sir !" said John, " you know how fond he is of new doc- tors : he has had twenty since you saw him ; and has taken a waggon-load of physic. Lord, Sir! I have turned many a good penny on the empty phials ; but it wont do. I really fear that the poor gentleman is dying." In a few minutes my friend was ready to see me, and I entered his bed- room. Alas ! what a change ! a young man, not twenty- six, metamorphosed to an old, infirm invalid of seventy ; his skin yellow and shrivelled, his cheeks sunk, and his wan eyes almost lost within their bony sockets. He could not rise to welcome me ; 142 death's doings. but stretched out his skinny hand, and with a hoarse yet scarcely audible voice, said : " God bless you, my dear Dick ! This is indeed a visit of true friendship." I took hold of his hand and sat down by him, for my heart was too full to speak. He perceived the state of my feelings ; and as he feebly returned the pressure of my hand, a hectic smile passed over his countenance, to check a tear which stood in the corner of his eye. "Ah! Dick!" said he, "this is a severe trial. After finding that all the regular faculty had mis- taken my case, and having at length found a re- medy for it, to be unable to avail myself of the blessing." Here he paused to fetch his breath, for the least effort exhausted him ; and although he was up, yet he had scarcely strength to sup- port himself in the chair. I ventured to inquire of what remedy he spoke. " It is," said he, shud- dering as he uttered the words, " a live spider; and I have the most implicit faith in the prescrip- tion : but I cannot overcome my aversion to the insect. I see a spider in every article of food I swallow; and it, consequently, does not remain a moment on my stomach. Two nights ago I THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 143 dreamt that I saw a spider, with a body the size and exact resemblance of a human skull, and legs like those of a skeleton. It crawled up to my mouth, which it was about to enter; and — " Here he was again forced to pause to draw breath: a cold sweat stood upon his forehead, and his fleshless hand was bedewed with an icy moisture. He heaved a deep sigh, and looked me full in the face; and, then, as if recollecting himself, he con- tinued his detail. " This spider haunts me day and night, so constantly, that I have a perfect con- sciousness of its existence ; and I am also aware that it is the identical one which I must swallow." At this idea he became so much convulsed, that I called aloud for John, and ordered him instantly to fetch a doctor. My poor friend seemed in- sensible to the sound of my voice and the order I had given. I felt that he was making an in- effectual effort to push back his chair, and I saw that his eye was following, as it were, something on the ground. " Do you not see there," said he, pointing with the finger of his right hand, which he could scarcely raise from his knee — " there !" " I see nothing, my dear Wunderlich ! — it is your 144 death's doings. imagination which is thus distorted by your dis- ease." He drew himself up with horror: "No! no !" he feebly exclaimed, " it is not fancy : — see, it has crawled up my leg : there — there — it is on my heart — I feel it ;" and he sunk into his chair. I thought he had fainted ; but in a few seconds, he gave a convulsive sob ; which was succeeded by another at an equal distance of time : these were then followed by a hissing, expiratory sound ; his limbs became powerless, and he would have fallen on the floor, if I had not supported him in the chair. The doctor entered the room : but it was only to confirm my apprehensions. The force of the delusion had overwhelmed his nervous system ; and, in this doing, Death, in his triumph over mor- tality, had demonstrated that life may be expelled from her fortress by a phantom of the imagina- tion. LIFE'S ASSUIRAHCE. 145 LIFE'S ASSURANCE. 'Twas a wild dream ! — I had grown old — Dim was my aching sight — and cold The blood that crept, in languid course. Through each dried vein. Tired Nature's force Was spent ; yet, yet I longed to live — To mingle in earth's crowd— to give Another sigh, another tear. To those who were by kindred dear — To those my heart best loved. I wept. In the dark thought that Time had swept. Remorseless, many a blooming flower. The sunshine of my spirit's hour Of happiness, away ! — Alone I wandered forth : no soothing tone — No blessing breathed, in accents dear — No " Speed thee. Heaven I" to charm and cheer- Was mine. I came — and went ; a sigh Hailed me with its sad minstrelsy ; L 146 death's doings. Shrieks of despair the rude gale swelled. And demons of the night-storm yelled. At my departure. — Could it be — She, the beloved one! — where was she? Ha ! 'twas a sudden flash ! that spire. Seen through the lightning's lurid fire. Had met my gaze before ! Deep, deep. In Memory's page, awake, asleep. It dwelt in sacred vividness. Through weal, through woe, my soul to bless. Mary ! — My vows ! — ^The bright, bright ray That shone upon our favoured day — ■ The joyous peal that on our ear Rang its glad changes, full and clear — The words that, 'neath that sacred shrine. Proclaimed thee mine— /or ever mine! — Yet sweetly haunted me — when, lo ! A change came o'er my dream of woe I It was a rapid, sudden change. To darkness — mist — moonlight — a range Of mountains in the distance ; then, A desert heath, from press of men Removed ; and then, a fitful sky Of battling clouds — of anarchy — LIFE S ASSURANCE. 147 From which the moon, with sullen ray. Looked down on mortal man's decay. The place of tombs was frowning there : Beneath that beam, so coldly fair. The bones of beauty, youth, and age. Were bleaching. Winter's fiercest rage. And summer's gale — the breeze, the blast — O'er that lone scene unheeded passed. Nor waked the sleepers. Midnight dews — Damp graves — and night's pale flowers, diiSiise A chilling sadness. — Hark ! What sound Is that from yonder humble mound Of ungrassed earth? — Poor Fido here? Man's fond unfailing friend, whose fear. Whose hope, joy, sorrow, peace, and love. Dwell in his master's eye ! Above The world's cold Janus-smile I greet Thy honest welcome at my feet ! What means that look— that piteous moan ? Ah, 'tis a recent grave! The stone — l2 148 death's doings. Sad land-mark, reared by hands of earth O'er the last home of buried worth — The name — tlie story — may reveal. Of him who now has ceased to feel The thrill of bliss— the throb of woe — The pang young minds are doomed to know. When Disappointment's withering glance Dissolves the spell of fond romance That on the heart's proud beatings hung. And songs of hope and gladness sung — Paeans that told of future fame— The heaven-born lay — the deathless name! I read : — " Mary, the honoured wife" — Mary !— my worshipi)ed love ! the life Of life ! Ml) Mary — art thou gone? ***** Another change. — Lo, now there shone A glorious sun in Heaven; — and yet The yew-tree's sable pall was wet AVith tears of night; — and yet the mound — Not grassless now, but osier-bound — Was there; — and still the moaning gale Sighed o'er that stone — that tribute frail. life's assurance. 149 But time had dimmed its freshness — moss Crept o'er the words that spoke the loss My widowed soul had known. — Beneath A rank and deadly nightshade wreath These broken lines I read: — " Here sleeps Her husband" — " Life's Assurance" — " weeps"— " In anguish weeps" The vision fled — I was no more amongst the dead — The world's swift stream — the rushing throng — Carried me with its tide along, Like a seared leaf that yet lives on, AVhen all its kindred leaves are gone. — Strange, that amidst the ceaseless strife. Though joy was dead, I longed for life! Those words — those words — that vision still Haunted my heart and brain. The will. Without the power to live, was mine ! O, for some voice — some voice divine — To whisper to my secret ear, " Life — Life's Assurance — waits thee Here!" That instant, smiling through the storm, My mental glance descried a form, 150 death's doings. Attired in robes of dazzling white. With lip of rose, and eye of light. That lip — that eye— had blessed ray gaze In other, brighter, happier days — When love was warm, when life was new. And years like minutes swiftly flew ! In her white hand a cup she bore — The cup I quaffed in days of yore. 'Twas Hope — and thus she spake: — " O, drink! And though upon the gloomy brink Of the dark grave, yet thou shalt live — The draught shall Life's Assurance give !" Life! Life! — O, magic words, whose power Wrought on my heart in that wild hour Of visioned woe!— I drained the bowl — That nectar of a fainting soul ! Would gracious Heaven my days prolong? Yes ! for methought my limbs grew strong; My breast no longer owned despair. For Hope — the syren Hope — was there! I gazed around — what words were those? What mansion that so stately rose? life's assurance, 151 Ha! " Life's Assurance!"— Breathe I yet! I rushed within the gate — I met The fleshless form — the orbless eye — The breast without a heart — a sigh — That man's worst foe declared ! Around — Huge folios — bags of gold— embrowned With dust of time:— Was gold the price Of earth's still longed-for Paradise ? " Ah ! give me years of vigour — health — And take, O, take my sordid wealth !" The spectre grimly smiled, and said : — '* Thou fool — go, rest thee with the dead ! Behold yon feeble withered crone- Like thee, she'd breathe, a thriftless drone- Like thee, she'd live o'er life again. Through years of feverish grief and pain. To-morrow, she must meet her doom — To-morrow, rest within the tomb ! " Thy days are numbered, too. Away! Thy mother earth now chides thy stay ! Go — and, within her silent home. Await the life — the life to come .'" 152 death's doings. With gaunt and outstretched arm he gave A scroll — my passport to the grave. I shrank; and read with gasping breath — " T/ii/LiFE's Assurance is alone through Death!" T. H. 153 THE ASSURANCE OFFICE. " I'll make assurance doubly sure, And take a bond of fate." — Shakspeare. To persons ignorant of commercial and financial mysteries, the notion of insuring life seems a strange one. How a house or a ship may be in- sured is easily comprehended ; for the first may probably never be burnt, nor the second wrecked. But man must, at some time or other, die ; and yet, against death, not only the young and vigo- rous, but the aged and valetudinary, find no diffi- culty in obtaining, on various conditions, what is technically called a policy of insurance. Is it not rather a sentence of execution, the term of which is not precisely defined ? Slanderers of human nature deny that there is such a thing as friendship. Even the less misan- thropic consider themselves remarkably fortunate 154 death's doings. if they possess one true friend. Shall I inform you how you may make yourself certain of having at least eight staunch hearty friends, who will feel the greatest interest in you during the whole course of your existence? Go, and insure your life, for a good round sum, at the office of one of the assurance companies. From the very mo- ment of your doing so, the directors of that com- pany will become your warm and sincere friends ; friends, whom no neglect of yours, except neg- lecting to pay your annual premium, can alienate. The " how d'ye do 1" of other people is merely the conventional phrase by which conversation is commenced, but with the gentlemen to whom I allude it is a bond-fide inquiry. To them your health is an object of constant solicitude. They watch with anxious sympathy the expression of your countenance ; exult when your eye sparkles with vivacity, and are depressed when your cheek is invaded by " the pale cast" of sickness. And when at length the awful moment shall arrive, — " For come it will, the day decreed by fate," — that is to terminate your earthly career, their THE ASSURANCE OFFICE. 156 grief at your loss will be unmingled with the slightest hypocrisy. Why ? The event which puts your nearest connexions in possession of twenty thousand pounds, takes exactly the same sum out of the pockets of these gentlemen. Yes, my dear madam ; notwithstanding what you hasten to tell me about " the emotions of conjugal affec- tion," and " the tears of filial sensibility," I main- tain that the most inconsolable mourners over a man's grave are the directors of the company by whom his life has been insured. There is no rule, however, without an excep- tion. Among the conditions on which a policy of life assurance is granted, is generally one, which it is difficult to describe in terms of suf- ficient delicacy. The benefits of the policy are withheld from that particular casualty to which a want of due regard for the lives and property of others may unhappily subject any man. In plain English, the insurance company declare that if the person insured should be hanged, they will be hanged if they pay a farthing to his heirs, execu- tors, administrators, and assigns. He and the 156 death's i>oings. policy drop together. It is clear therefore that this unamiable reservation is likely to produce a little deviation from the otherwise uniformly warm tone of friendship to which I have been adverting. In fact, it must create an anomaly of feeling ra- ther curious. " My dear sir, I have the highest regard for you, and put up daily prayers for your health and prosperity ; I am delighted at the rud- diness of your complexion, and the firmness of your step; — but it would give me infinite plea- sure to hear of your making an exhibition, about eight o'clock one of these fine mornings, before the Debtors' Door, Newgate." — Such is not ex- actly the address one would wish from one's friends. It has puzzled me for the last half-hour, and if you, my gentle reader, are not clearer-headed than I am, it will puzzle you for the next, to de- termine whether this awkward proviso be or be not advantageous to the interests of morality. They say, '* and I believe the tale," that the love of money is a great temptation to crime. But here the love of money is a great temptation to THK ASSURANGIi OFFICE. 157 abstinence from crime. We may be tolerably certain that a person of any nous, who has insured his life at a life-insurance office, will take care not to be easily betrayed into the commission of bur- glary or murder; were it only that he would be ashamed of showing himself so deficient in worldly knoAvledge. — On the other hand, is that altogether fair towards the insurance company? Ought a humane and honourable man to check his evil propensities, because their indulgence would be beneficial to a certain portion of his fellow-crea- tures ? Is it honest on his part to do all he can by his good conduct to disappoint calculations and expectations founded on a just view of the depra- vity of human nature ? These are questions which I strongly recommend for discussion at the West- minster debating-club. After all, and notwithstanding my nice scruples, I believe it must be conceded that the institution of these societies has been productive of great good. By a return which was laid on the table of the House of Commons during the last session of Parliament, it appears that the number of stamps 158 death's doings. issued for policies of life assurance, has more than doubled during the last ten years. After making every proper allowance for the increase of popula- tion, this fact is a strong proof of the growth of kind and moral habits. That man cannot be a very worthless member of the community, whose natural affection induces him to deny himself all, or many of the luxuries of life, and in some cases even to abridge what the self-indulgent consider its absolute necessaries, in order that, when he is cold in the grave, his wife, or his children, may be placed in circumstances of ease and inde- pendence. " Go, and do thou likewise." W. H. W. THE Ar^TlOlTARY. 159 THE ANTIQUARY. " There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors." Decker's Old Fortunatus. The Antiquary, wrapt in busy dreams Of old world things, the dead alive he seems, — The living record of the time gone by, — The chronicle of the first century : His eye faint glimmering 'neath o'erhanging brow. Bespeaks entire forgetfulness of " now :" To modem lore he makes but small pretence, And drops the prfcsent for the preterite tense. Ask of his garb ? — He wears the same cut coat Dryden might wear when Dryden lived and wrote. His politics? — To state and country true; Beyond, he knows or cares no more than you. His mansion's chequered walls attract the eye. And round his roof ancestral ravens fly. Within — but none save he that now may know The wealth of that prodigious raree-show ; 160 death's doings. There in his day-dreams, blest, he musing sits, And roams o'er every by-gone age by fits ; Pores o'er the forms heraldic labours tend. Or pens a prosing letter to a friend : For Anno Domini writes A. U. C, Or heads his letter with a kind S. D. In fancy o'er the Via Sacra walks. Or with a Pliny or a Strabo talks ; At Horace' Villa culls his early beans. Or in Etruscan kettles boils his greens. With rising pride he views his swelling store Of wonders never mortal owned before ; Strange relics of all tribes that spoke or speak — Assyrian, Turkish, Jewish, Roman, Greek. Busts, statues, images, involved in dust, — Swords, helmets, javelins, precious in their rust ; Black-letter books, some grass from Trojan's park. An ephod, and a piece of Noah's ark. Whatever useless rarity you name Of ancient date, look here, you find the same : These he collects, these gathers night and day, — For these, pounds, shillings, pence, he flings away ; And though reputed in his senses sound. He for a Roman penny gives a pound. TMH ANTIQUARY. 161 But say — what prize, what treasure meets his sight Unseen before, — what promise of delight? A shield of price ! with rust corrosive traced. The true aurigo of an antique taste. " And whence," he cries, ** the gift? What gen'- rous friend Has fate propitious tempted this to send ? Say, say from whom ?" his rapture stays his breath; Brief the reply — "From me it comes," quoth Death. He starts — he sees upon the shield his name. And feels a tremour stealing through his frame ; Beholds the grinning messenger with fear. And grieves to find Antiquity too near ; He drops the shield with fearful import rife. And quits at once his treasures and his life. Cheviot Tichburn. 102 ANTIQUARIAN UE8EARCHES. " A plague/' says Time to Thomas Hearne, " Whatever I forget you learn." Our poetical contributor has taken a view of the Antiquary under the idea of what Doctor Johnson calls ** Curiosity in Excess,'' where straws and trifles occupy that time which might be more seriously or advantageously employed. But this spirit of imagination may be pardoned in a stranger to the pleasures of virtu, when one of its most ardent votaries indulged in the ridicule of a profession he both followed and admired. But Grose, while caricaturing pretensions to con- noisseurship, did not consider that a handle might be made of this satire to draw down the contempt of some, ignorant of the pleasure and advantage of antiquarian research ; in which there is more than is dreamt of, in the philosophy of many, who won- ANTIQUARIAN RESEARCHES. 163 der that men should be found to puzzle themselves about tlic pasty when there is so much to be done with the present.* * Under the head Miscellanea Critica in Blackwood's Magazine for this month (September, 182G), is an article which prominently introduces the subject we are now attempting to illustrate, and from which we beg to be allowed to glean a few sentences. It thus begins i^—" One use of Poetry is to nurse in us the feeling of the Beautiful. Another, among many others, to cherish, or produce, the love o/" Antiquity." After shewing how " essentially poetical" are the manners and trans- actions of past ages, and what a high-wrought interest the Poet feels in the " remembrance of long-buried generations of our kind," the writer thus proceeds : — " If there be in the Past, as such, the natural aptitude here supposed for affecting the Imagination, the affection will be en- hanced by intercourse with that Art, which not only especi- ally awakens this Faculty, — but greatly delights to lay open, and draw forth, these particular sources of its pleasure." And how this is effected, we learn from the following sensible ob- servations : — " In the extension of our sympathy witli hu- man kind, taking in that portion which may least require it, indeed, the dead — but, further, those living, in whom the old times imaged, live yet: — In the wider field put under the dominion of thought ; since that which we learn to love we then first understand : — In the solemnity added to our meditations on man's nature : — In loftier, calmer, juster views of human aifairs: — In increased love of our country, itself ancient: — Lastly — among a high-cultivated people a consideration of no slight importance — In the ampler materials placed under the hand of those inventive, beautiful m2 1C4 deatM's doings. The labours of the Antiquary serve to trace things up to their source, — to throw light upon the old for the improvement of the new, — to show the advance in some, and the failure of others towards that perfection, which is the ultimate aim of art, science, and literature. There is, besides what belongs to the useful and important in antiquarian researches, an innocent pleasure and a harmless gratification, that per- Arls, which are much of the brightness, and give much of tlie happiness, of distinguished civilization: — if it may not seem too much arguing in a circle, to say that Poetry is useful, by enlarging its oivn powers. — What is this Love of Antiquity? Not the coldly-curioHS taste, sometimes seen, of research into parts of knowledge from most minds hid by rareness, or sepa- rated by want of evident, common, compelling interest, — but a feeling placed half in imagination, half in our social nature, by which we accept our union of brotherhood with our kind, take concern in them, most distantly divided from us by time, and confess a title to affect us, in their memory, by whatever shapes of matter it may be borne. " Men, for the most part, love the Present. The joy given them in the consciousness of their living being, is of tlie hour, the moment: which it fills with animating, sparkling, fires. But the urn of the Past they can believe to contain only ex- tinct and cold ashes, — misjudging, — nor aware how 'even in our ashes live their wonted fires.' " ANTIQUARIAN RESEARCHES. 155 haps more exclusively belong to the collector of antiquities than to most other pursuits. By the aid of his treasures, he can call up past ages, and as it were make them refund the riches they had secreted. His minerals, his fossils, and his gems, discover in part the organization of the material world ; his coins and medals connect many links in the chain of history that would otherwise be lost.* His ambition raises no armies to disturb the peace or destroy the happiness of mankind ; his triumphs are not sprinkled with blood, nor is his path to fame washed with the tears of the widow or the orphan : a more perfect tome, a more rare example of virtu than has yet been ac- quired fills him with delight; the flame of his ambition is fed on the hopes of obtaining some antique lamp or other curiosity ; and while the thoughts of the greater part of mankind are bent * In these relics of antiquity he can contemplate the features of an Antoninus, a M. Aurelius, or other of the ancient wor- thies, in a style of execution whose stamp is a guarantee for their fidelity. 16() death's doings. on the pursuit of honours or wealth, his may be more quietly engaged in admiring the beauties of an Etruscan vase, or commenting on the form and use of a lachrymatory : " Behold I have put tliy tears in my bottle." Here a passage of scripture is explained, — there a mine of inquiry is sprung, and the ore of the in- telligent and useful revealed. Antiquarian researches are like vessels of disco- very, — sometimes fraught with the marvellous, at others laden with cargoes of the richest materials, the produce of every clime and of every shore ; or if these fail, there is matter at hand which, though not of so costly a quality, may by an alchymy (well known to the initiated) be converted into a sub- stance more valuable than intrinsically belonged to it. Such are the legendary tales of the olden time, with their quaint language or grotesque or- naments; beneath whose homely features and rude address are often concealed some important lesson, some stroke of satire or shrewd research; where. ANTIQUARIAN RESEARCHES. 167 if the laugh is raised, it is at tlie expense of vice or folly ; or if the bells arc ginglcd, it is for the purpose of obtaining attention to some moral in- struction. Examples of this kind might be multiplied far beyond the limits of this brief notice, which was only intended to bring into view those capabili- ties (as Brown would call them) which the study of virtu is calculated to exhibit. It is true, conjecture and fancy will mix them- selves up with the solid materials, or in some in- stances become substitutes for the true meaning, but then they are often so ingenious and inven- tive, that the resemblance is readily admitted, as in the case of the Scotch novels, where history and fiction unite so imperceptibly as not easily to be discovered, and what may be lost by the absence of the one is gained by the skill and the amuse- ment found in the other. Our design goes simply to show that the Anti- quary may be surprised by Death in the midst of 168 death's doings. his treasured relics ; and that, while recording the wonders of antiquity, a monumental record may be preparing for himself. Not that it would have been impossible to introduce Death as a consequence of antiquarian researches. He might inoculate himself with the canker by licking a coin, or be poi- soned in tasting the liquors used in the preserving of certain bodies ; he might die of chagrin, when missing the purchase of a unique or a non-de- descript. There are other instances in which, like Jonathan Oldbuck, the Antiquary's temper and even frame might receive a shock, when told that his antique of 400 years had by some awkward discovery been deprived of an 0. But Antiquaries do not die of chagrin, — whether there is any " cause in nature," or in the study of virtu, that fortifies the heart and keeps the brain cool, in the disap- pointed views, the accidents, or mistakes that at- tend these pursuits, is not perhaps known or has not become an object of inquiry. True it is, there are men of such phlegm, or of such philosophy, as to bear up against mortifications that would anni- hilate persons of more morbid sensibilities; nor are there wanting instances in which the most fatal ANTIQUARIAN RESEARCHES. 1G9 effects have followed the mortification of a plan, de- stroyed eitiicr by design or by accident. Madame Sevign6 relates a melancholy instance of this keen and desperate sensibility, as it may be called, where the maitre-d'hote of a French nobleman fell upon his sword and expired, because the roti was ill served or ill cooked. After all, may it not be the number and variety of his resources which give to the Antiquary's mind a nerve, an elasti- city, that he shall recover you a blow or a fall by which another man shall be stunned or killed outright. For had it been possible for an Anti- quary to have died of chagrin, it must have oc- curred in the case below cited,* which we have * Arch^oi.ooical Anecdote, 1789. " We hear, that a valuable morsel of antiquity, containing a Saxon inscription, commemorative of particulars attending the deatli of HardykniUe, has been discovered among the foundations of his Palace in Kennington Lane. This memo- rial is in Saxon characters, sculptured on white marble, which, though discoloured by damps, is still in higli and excellent preservation. " The curiosity before us, but for an accident, might have returned to its former obscurity. An able and intelligent draughtsman luckily saw it in a window at a cutler's shoj) on the Surrey side of Blackfriars Bridge. It was subsequently 170 death's doings. copied from the European Magazine lor March, 1790, where a learned professor is described as examined and authenticated by the learned Director of the An- tiquary Society; and by him, or his order, was copied and sent (no beautiful detrition, conciliating freckle, or picturesque fis- sure, omitted) to the Reverend and very acute Mr. Samuel Pegge. He expeditiously furnished an ample comment upon it, which was lately read, to the general improvement of its au- ditors, in Somerset Place, when formal thanks were unani- mously voted for so erudite a communication. Such, indeed, was the effect of this discourse, that the personages present at its recital (as Lydgate observes of the fortunate Trojans who beheld the carbuncle that illuminated the Hall of King Pria- mus) ' " mervayled ech one, Soche lyghte ysprang out of thylk stone.' " The inscription aforesaid is expressed with that simple but majestic brevity which marks the performances of ancient times. It states, in unaffected terms, that Hardyknute, after drenching himself with a horn of wine, stared about him, and died. Our language, however, will not do complete justice to those harmonious and significant words, ymbstarud (or, as it should rather have been written — starudc,) and swelt. — The sculpture of the fatal horn itself, decorated with the Danish raven, affords suflicient room for belief that the imitative arts, even at that early period [1042], were not luisuccessfully cul- tivated in England. — The public is now waiting, witli every mark of impatience, for a plate representing this precious mar- ble, as well as for a perusal of Mr. Pcyye's illustration of it, in the next volume of the Society's Arch;eological Collections. " But, notwithstanding this venerable relic has passed the ordeal of such well-instructed and microscopic eyes, a set of ri- ANTIQUARIAN RESEARCHES. 171 having been betrayed by a hoax into a situation the most mortifying and trying to the temper that diculous and shallow critics are to be met with, who either ig- norantly or maliciously pronounce the whole inscription, &c. to be the forgery of some modern wag. They say, that it was designedly left with the cutler, as a trap for a certain anti- quary, who deliberately and obligingly walked into it : — that its exhibition was accompanied with a specious request from its clandestine owTier, that he might be assisted by the learned, in ascertaining the quality of the stone, and the true import of the mystic characters upon it ; though he perfectly knew that the substance containing these letters, &c. was no other than a bit of broken chimney-piece, Saxonified by himself in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine. — The same ma- lignant junto likewise disseminate a report, that the capitals in question are not engraved, but corroded by aqua-fortis, a chy- mical invention posterior to the reign of Hai'dykmite. Nay, to such extremes do real or affected prejudices against a genu- ine piece of Saxon literature transport these scoffers, that they venture to assert that all the captivating discolourations on its surface are the mere effects of repeated urinary sprinkles, which, by degrees, induced a mellow cast of antiquity over the whole tablet. — They moreover declare, that ij)se doli fabricator contrived to procure admission for some of his associates, on the very evening when the dissertation of Mr. Pegge was read by a Pro-Secretary ; and that these accomplices are every where describing it as a production intentionally jocular ; and add, that it was as unsuspectingly listened to by the Society, as was the performance of a Dutch translation of Fielding's Tom Thumb, which the Burgomasters of Amsterdam received, from first to last, with that profound and silent attention wliich be- comes an enlightened audience at a deep tragedy. — Lastly, 172 death's doings. can be imagined. As, from the distance of time, and the scarcity of the work, some of the particu- lars may not be unacceptable to the reader, and, as it may also serve as a beacon or warning voice to the tyro in virtu, we hope to be excused for having made so long an extract. they would wantonly persuade their hearers, that the senior Secretary (if experiments were thought needful on the occa- sion) most zealously oftered to drain a horn of equal dimen- sions with that of Hardyknute, provided it were first reple- nished with ancient and sound port, such as he, the said Secre- tary, had often quaffed (though with strict moderation, and merely to wash down the cobwebs of Archaeology) on Thurs- day evenings, at the Somerset CotFee-house, in the Strand. " How much is the impertinent levity of this age to be de- plored ! — Pity it is, that the poems of Rowley, and the record of Hardyhnute's death were destined to emerge during such an aera of laughter, scepticism, and incredulity." R. D. iraE iCEAMPItW. I7;3 DEATH IN " THE RING Well ! so I've * floor'd' these ' fancy' fighting-cocks. And ' finish'd' them in style ! Presumptuous fellows ! They ' chafF'd'of »S'cj€?jce — and, forsooth, would box With one whose ' hits' are sure to touch tlie • bellows !' Conceited mortals ! thus to ' spar' with Death, Whose fame's almost as old as the Creation ! — For knock-down blows, which take away the breath, I've ever had a first-rate reputation: And yet these heroes of the science fistic, — Poor stupid drones ! — Thinking I couldn't ' come it pugilistic,' Tlirewup their ' castors,' stak'd the ' ready bustle,' * Peel'd,' and prepar'd with Death to have a tussle — As though iheix flesh, and blood, and muscle. Were proof against my hones! 174 death's doings. They talk ot championship !— what next, 1 wonder ! Did they imagine Death would e'er * knock under?' Could they, in fact, suppose / car'd about their blows ? /.' who can ' draw the claret' when I please — ' Fib,' or ' cross-buttock' 'em, or close their ' peepers V I! who can * double up' the ' swells' with ease. And make 'em senseless as the seven sleepers !* Not I, indeed; — and so, it seems, they found, For there they all lie sprawling on the ground : They'll never ' come to time' again — no, never — At least, not here — For, 'twill appear. When / their business do, 'tis done for ever ! * Whether Death here alludes to the seven giants, who, lying down to sleep on Salisbury Plain, slept " to wake no more,'' as an old west-country nursery legend so truly tells; or whether the simile has reference to some seven animals (the dormouse, &c.) whose torpid existence during the winter months has given them the appellation of the " seven sleepers," we pretend not to determine. That there should, however, be a degree of mystery attached to the metaphor will by no means be considered a poetical defect ; and as it may probably induce certain learned commentators to discuss tlie question, and to favour the world with many a curious hypothesis in eliciting the truth, we are right glad, for the sake of mankind in general, that Drath was not more communicative on the subject. DEATH IN "the RING." 175 The greatest champions that the world e'er saw. By turns have bow'd obedient to my law. Look back at History's page. In every clime and age. You'll find I ' mill'd' the mightiest of them all ; No matter how they sparr'd. My blows were sure and hard. And when I threw them, fatal was their fall. From Alexander down to Emperor Nap, Whene'er I chose to give the rogues a slap. Not one could parry olF a single rap ; — No, no ! — nor had the> each a thousand lives. Could they have stood against my rattling ' bunch of fives !' t t Death has not merely the authority of Pierce Egan, Lex- icographer and Chronicler to " The Fancy," for using the scientific terms here introduced, and specially marked for the benefit of the uninitiated, but he is also sanctioned by the classic Blackwood, in whose pages may be found some high encomiums on the transcendant merits of that eloquent style of composition vulgarly called fiash. And is not its use also sanctioned by the sweetest of all sweet poets — the " bard of Erin ?" — What better precedents would the Critics have ! S. M. 17(» THE FANCY. With a disposition little inclined to the violent, either in exercise or in amusement, I am some- times prevailed on to mix with the multitude, and am then generally carried along with the impulse of feeling and curiosity excited by the occasion. I have an aversion to all brutal sports (as they are called), yet I nevertheless make a distinction between those which are voluntary, and those which are inflicted : by the voluntary, I mean pugilistic combats, in contradistinction to those imposed on animals, which, having no choice of their own, are instigated by the will of others who have the power over them. Having accepted the invitation of a friend to witness some of those trials of skill in the noble art of self-defence, as practised at the Fives Court, I prepared my mind for the expected no- THE FANCY. 177 velty, and bent my attention to the nature of what I was to expect. 1 was perfectly aware that there was nothing new or peculiar to the present day in the prac- tice, of which I was about to visit the exhibition. I was only puzzled at the name chosen to designate the amateurs in the science of boxing. To be one of the " Fancy" might, by a foreigner, be readily supposed to apply to something of the imagina- tion, — some matters of taste or virtu, in which gentlemen of fancy were engaged, I had met with fancy bakers, fancy brushes, and fancy dresses ; but of the application of such a word to the sports of the Bear Garden ! It was at least an odd fancy. The entrance to the Fives Court was surrounded by expectant groups of spectators, eager to catch a glance of those who entered, happy if they could recognise a Cribb, a Belcher, a Spring, or any of the other noted bruisers, as he made his way to the chosen spot; and envying those whose means N 178 death's doings. could procure them admission to so gratifying a spectacle. After securing our pockets as well as we could, we elbowed our way through the motley crowd without, to as motley a crowd within. By this time my own eagerness became apparent, and I was glad to find we were in time, for I was a^ fearful of missing a blow as any of the combatants could be. Before the sparring began, I employed myself in observing the various company brought together on this interesting occasion; and no- thing could exhibit more of contrast than this mixture of high and low, from the well-dressed amateur to the aproned cobbler. The hum of conversation and the shifting of stations were at length broken and interrupted by notes of prepa- paration. The acting manager of the pugilistic stage announced that and were about to set-to, and, calling them forward, they came from among the crowd, with small marks of likelihood cither in their dress or address : the elder, a man little short of fifty, mean in his THE FANCY. 179 appearance, and with a head so bald, that it might well be imagined a warm night-cap would be better suited to it than an exposure to the bufFetings of his antagonist ; who appeared much younger, but whose habiliments and demeanour aftbrded sufficient evidence that he was one of the same class and character. They made their bow in the true style of the Fancy, and, after having had their gloves tied on by the aforesaid manager, were left to pursue their sport, divested of their clothes, which showed the body to great advantage even in men not of the best make ; and the animation of the countenance at once obliterated the character of meanness. The head thrown back, and the chest forward ; the wary eye, the compressed lips, and the firm sta- tion of the legs, bespoke their practice. A short in- terval was spent in feints and manoeuvring, when blows were given and parried with much dexte- rity, succeeding in rapidity till fresh breathing was required : several rounds went on in this way, till, as if by mutual consent, the first pair of pu- gilists made their retiring bow, amidst the shouts n2 180 death's doings. of the company and the rattling of pence, which, to the eternal disgrace of heroism, were carefully picked up and pocketed. There now followed several others, most of them very young; these sprigs of laurel showed but little science compared with the combatants whom I have described, their principal object being, to all appearance, to lay on blows till they were out of breath. We came at length to the scientific and skilful men who had distinguished themselves in the severest conflicts. — Belcher and Pullen were announced. They ascended the stage with a bounding elasticity, and, merely throwing off their coats and waistcoats, they went to work with a lightness and dexterity which gave a grace and interest to the sport. It need hardly be men- tioned, that here no largess of copper coin (which in this elegant school I learnt was denominated browns) was offered. Richmond the Black and Isle of Wight Hall came next. The former I had observed among the spectators : his countenance had an expres- THE FANCY. 181 sioii of menace even in his ordinary address, but when stripped and opposed to his man it assumed a higher character ; steady and wary at the onset, it became gradually darker, and, as the rounds in- creased, was ferocious to a degree. This appeared the more striking, from the contrast it afforded, both in expression and colour, to Hall, whose fea- tures never once lost the temper and good humour with which he set out, or rather set-to. Names of note continued to be given,, and frames of the finest athletic proportion divided the attention, and, to the eye of the anatomist or the artist, afforded subjects of the first class for contemplation. The most manly forms among the antique statues can boast of nothing superior to what was here exhibited ; and to the flexibility and varied action of the muscles, a light and shade, and colour were added, from which the painter might have taken his finest tints. Nearly three hours were spent in witnessing these exploits, when my friend and I thought we had seen enough to satisfy our curiosity. Upon 182 death's doings. our legs during the whole time, the sameness now became tedious, and we left the Court a little before the sports of the day were brought to a close. The impressions made upon my mind by the novelty of the spectacle remained for some time ; and, in the reflections which followed, I clearly convinced myself that, whether it elevated or de- graded the national character — whether it gave to Englishmen true courage or ferocity — still it was not an amusement suited to my " fancy." But so much has been said, and so ably said, both for and against the " manly science," that I dare not trust myself in delivering an opinion upon that which, while it has found advocates and patrons even among the most distinguished of our senators, has been denounced by others as a blackguard and vicious pastime, calculated not only to check the growth of all that is amiable in the human heart, but to sink man below the level of a brute. A Querist. TME GLFTTO^^. ^ 183 THE APOPLECTIC. A TALE. This metaphor each rustic knows,— Frail man is like the flower that blows At morn : before the beam of day, In air the dew-drop melts away, The evanescent blossom fades ; And, long before the mellow shades Of Even cover tower and tree, And all the varied scenery Like a pale shroud, it withering lies Before the mower's scythe and dies. Death is the mower ; — and who can Deny his mastery o'er man? Fond man! who eyes the coming hour As if already in his power, O'erlooking all that lies between The foreground and the distant scene ; Or, drawing large from Fancy's store. Bids fairy landscapes spread before 184 death's doin'gs. His raptured gaze, till he believe All real, and himself deceive. Too late, he finds the dazzling gleam Reflects nor lake, nor glittering stream; The mead, the forest, flowery glade. The rocky dell, the dark cascade. The gelid fount, the mystic grot. And all on that romantic spot And rich imaginative scene Vanish as they never had been. Tom Dewlap thought time made for him. So us'd it to indulge his whim ; And, equally, believing all The good on this terrestrial ball Created for his sole delight. Lived but to please his appetite. His sire, (Tom was an only son). Had Fortune's choicest favours won ; A careful citizen, who knew Man may with toil all things subdue; That pence grow shillings, and these rise To pounds in purses of the wise : A man, who thought the world was made But as materials for trade. THE APOPLECTIC. 185 He fell, as other mortals fall. And Tom became the heir of all His cash, his lands, his bonds, his stock. Which greatly weakened the shock To the heir's nerves ; and the old man Had measur'd out his mortal span. As the pent torrent sleeps in rest, Reflecting from its lucid breast. Scarce rippled by the sighing breeze. The sky, the clouds, rocks, banks, and trees; But, in a moment, burst the mound. It rolls in thunder o'er the ground ; In circling eddies boils afar. Involving in the wat'ry war Fields, gardens, cottages ; till, wide Spreading a lake from side to side, It sinks, exhales, or scarcely fills The scanty channels of some rills : So wealth, like water, bursts the cords That bind it in the miser's hoards ; And, though, beneath his Argus' eye. The counted ingots safely lie. Yet, spite of all his sleepless care, They will be scatter'd by his heir. 186 death's doings. Tom knew this fact, and thought it just That wealth should circulate, and must : The only truth, at Brazen-nose, Which in his mem'ry would repose ; And, now, like philosophic wight. He proved it practically right. For this, he hired cooks, who knew Not the old-fashioned roast and stew ; But how to concentrate a leg Of beef in compass of an egg ; The essence from a ham express ; Display a turbot in full dress ; Make perigot and lobster-pie. And tickle oysters till they cry, With the excess of ecstasy, " Come eat me ! eat me ! or I die." Such were Tom's cooks, his table owned Their excellence, and deeply groaned With their productions, formed to make The dullest appetite awake. Philosophers may boast of mind ; Wits of the wreaths by Fancy twined ; Churchmen discourse of Paradise Prospective for the good and wise ; THE APOPLECTIC. 187 Heroes of Fame, kings of their power, — Enough for Tom that blissful hour. When steaming viands graced the board That owned him as its bounteous lord. Death, like a cormorant, stood by. Watching these doings silently : Smiled forth a smile of grim delight. Like lightning flash at dead of night. And, cogitating on the way That should secure Tom as his prey. Resolved the masquerader's art To try, and chose a waiter's part. He something of the craft had seen At civic festivals, I ween ; And, like his friends assembled there. Death thinks of business ev'ry where. Besides, he had improved his skill In varying the modes to kill ; Studied attentively the books Of Kitchener and other cooks ; And found the contents of a cruet As well as sword or pill would do it. Of pill he knew the power, for he Had dwelt with an apothecary, 188 death's doings. And, olten, been witliin the walls Of many famous hospitals. He could a nervous fibril prick To sap life's citadel with tick ; Rupture a vessel in the brain The apoplectical to gain ; And cherish the bright crimson streak That paints the hectic maiden's cheek. Like the wild rose-bud's vermil bloom Warming the marble of the tomb. With these acquirements Death stood by,» And watch'd Tom's doings eagerly. 'Twas near the close of a bright day. In infancy of lovely May, Tom sat, half dozing, in his chair. Alike devoid of thought and care; Dreaming of what he had designed, A dinner suited to his mind, A cod's head dressed as head should be, Chef-d'ouvre of good cookery. He, too, expected, as his guest, A friend of kindred soul and taste. A man exact, — Tom eyed the door; — He gave two minutes and no more ; THE AFOFLKCTIC. 189 His watch proclaimed the moment gone. His maxim was to wait for none : The bell the summons spoke ; were placed The chairs, the head the table graced. Swallowed a dinner-pill, and in The napkin tuck'd beneath the chin, Tom look'd as joyous and elate As monarch in the pride of state. But had he seen, through his disguise, ^he spectre form of Death arise; The naked skull, the sockets void. The lipless mouth from side to side, The hollow ribs, the fleshless legs, Tom, spite of his poor gouty pegs. Had fled ; and left, for once at least, The much-anticipated feast. Nor saw, nor thought he danger nigh. Death ranged the sauces in his eye ; Extolling this, — none could that match, Burgess, nor Harvey, norCorrach. Tom knew the whole, but smiled to find His man such skill and taste combin'd ; Then picked, with practised hand, each bit His palate critical to hit ; 190 death's doings. Mingled the sauce ; and then — ah ! then. Sad destiny of mortal men. Whose hopes, while yet they blossom, die ; Whose joys like rainbow colours fly ; Whose expectations, still, appear Like shadows of things coming near Which ne'er arrive, an airy train Pictured by Fancy on the brain. — Ah ! then — what means that vacant stare ? Why sinks Tom backwards in his chair? Why start his eyeballs from his head? ^ His face with purple is o'erspread ! That snorting sound ! is he asleep! Those gurgles in his bosom deep ; That sob convulsive ; that lon^ pause; That deep-fetched breath, the last he draws. And those contortions, all declare A deed of Death is doing there. A. T. T. 191 THE COMPLAINT OF THE STOMACH. I FEAR, said the Stomach, addressing the Brain, That my efforts to serve you \vill soon be in vain ; For such is the weight you compel me to bear. And such are the labours that fall to my share. That, unless in your wisdom you lighten the load. My strength must soon fail, — I shall drop on the road. ****** Then the cargo of viands in flesh, fowl, and fish, Which serve as a whet to some favourite dish. With the compound of peppers and sauces to aid. Or rather to force on the market a trade — Are really too much for my delicate frame ; And to burden me thus is an absolute shame. But I do not complain, altho' hard is my case, As many would do, were they put in my place, Nor am I so senseless as not to perceive. That some other members have reason to grieve ; 192 death's doings. There's your legs and your feet, that once bore you about. Are now useless as logs, with the dropsy or gout; And your hands arc so feeble, you scarcely can pass To your neighbour the bottle, or fill him a glass. — And further the Stomach had gone on to state. When the Tongue, 'tis imagined, took up the debate. " Did you speak to the Brain ?" said a low piping voice ; (It was just before dinner), I much should rejoice To find such a being you wot of, my friend. But he and his measures have long had an end ; A nondescript substance now fills up the space In that once intellectual thought-breeding place. By some 't'as been thought that your chymical skill (Which now, it is known, has the power to kill). And your fumes have destroyed all the power of thinking. So that no sense remains but of eating and drinking. What is said in the Bible has long been forgot. Of the passage which told, there was ' Death in the pot.' — But the sauce is preparing to season the fish ; When too late 'twill be found, there is Death in the dish." T^niE LAST BDTl'I.]!^ U)3 THE BACCHANALIANS. Whilst Reason rules the glass, and Friendship flings Its Claude-like tint o'er life's convivial hours. Heart towards heart with generous fervour springs. And Fancy wreaths the social board with flowers. But, when the glass o'er prostrate Reason rules, And all Ebriety's dull vapours rise. Lost in the mist, the wisest, changed to fools. Take thorns for flowers, and whips for social ties. Look now on yon bibbers — how wildly they laugh And exult o'er the poison they fearlessly quafi"; Their mirth grows to madness, and loudly they call On the waiter ; — he enters — Death waits on them all : They jest at his figure ; — 'tis meagre and bare. But soon his *' pale liv'ry" the proudest shall wear. o 194 death's doings. That last fatal bottle the mischief shall work ; Their last vital breath shall be drawn with that cork : Its odour is fetid — it smells of the dead, 'Tis a type of their fate, for their spirits have fled : The glass of hilarity reels in their hand. But there is another glass — flowing with sand ; Its grains are fast falling — they trickle — no more : Those glasses are drained — the carousal is o'er. H. D. 19.' THE LAST BOTTLE. An' if it be the last bottle, Death is quite wel- come; for then Life hath run to very dregs and lees, and there is nothing more in it which can be called enjoyment. Ah, whither have ye sped, ye jovial Hours, which on bright-winged glasses, far different from yon sandy remembrancer, floated away so blissfully ; as the bird poised high in air, the trouble of the ascent over, glides without effort or motion, through the brilliant pleasures of yield- ing space. How ye sparkled and ran on, like gay creatures of the element gifted with more than magic powers. Beautiful and slight ephemera, fragile as you seemed, what mighty loads of cares did you easily bear off in your aerial flight! Pon- derous debts which might weigh nations down; the griefs of many loves, enow to drown a world ; the falsehoods of friends, the malice of enemies ; o2 IIH) DKATIl'jS DOINGS. anxieties, fears, troubles, sorrows — all vanished as drinking ye proceeded in your mystic dancfe ! I picture ye in my fancy, now, ye Hours, as spark- ing, joyous, and exquisite insects, flitting past with each a burden of man's miseries on his shoulders sufficient to break the back of a camel, and borne from the lightened hearts of your true worship- pers. But, alas ! alas ! for all things mortal — we must come to the last at last. Yet let the grim tyrant approach at any time, sith it must be so, and at what time can he ap- proach when we should less regard his frown. Like the unconscious lamb, which ** licks the hand just raised to shed its blood," we play with his bony fingers as he presents the latest draught; and, let his dart be dipped in the rosy flood, we die feeling that wine gives to Death itself a pang of joy. Herodotus must have been wrong when he told us that the Maiieros of the Egyptians was a mournful and wailing song ; and Plutarch's is the best authority, for he says it was a joyous chant. So believed the merry party assembled in our faithful picture: their round of song, of THE LAST BOTTLE. 197 toast, of cheer, of laughter, and of shout, was su«h as Plutarch paints of the wisdom of anti- quity, when the figure of a dead man was shown to the convivial souls, and they melodiously joined the chorus — Behold that breathless corpse ; You'll be like it when you die: Therefore drink without remorse, And be merry, merrily. Ai-lun, Ai-lun, Ai-luu,* quo' he I Our only night, no sky light, drink about, quo' we. Time, they tell us, waits for no man ; — Cimc anlr ULilJt ifor ito man tiirr. But here we can make Death himself a waiter, while the cup is drained and the jocund catch goes round. Hark, whose voice among the happy set is that which sings — While here we meet, a jovial band, No Son of Discord's impious hand Dare fling the apple, fire the brand, To mar our social joy : * Literally in the Greek, " Behold that corpse ; you will re- semble it after your death : drink now, therefore, and be merry." — (See Herodotus and Plutarch, on the Egyptian Ma- neros, passim). The fine chorus of Ai-lun. " He is dwelling with the night," is, wc trust, pathetically rendered. 198 death's doings. Free, as our glorious country free, Prospering in her prosperity, With wine, and jest, and harmony, We Pleasure's hours employ. But lo, he whose face is halt concealed by that arm uplifted with the sparkling glass, he has drunk till the tender mood of philosophy steals over his melting soul. His maudlin eye would moisten with a tear at a tale of sorrow or a plaintive air; and it is thus he gives vent to his soothing melan- choly sensations — Death comes but once, the philosophers say, And 'tis true, my brave boys, but that once is a dcncher : It takes us from drinking and loving away. And spoils at a blow the best tippler and wencher. Sing Ai-lun, though to me very odd it is, Yet I sing it, too, as my friend quotes Herodotus. And Death comes to all, so they tell us again. Which also I fear, my brave boys, is no fable ; Yet the moral it teaches, to me is quite plain : ^Tis to love all we can and to drink all we're able. Sing, again, Ai-lun, tliough to me odd it is; liut 'tis Greek, very good I hope, and conies from Herodotus. The old Trojan himself tucks his napkin under his arm, the whetting of his scythe is f(>rgotten, and he wishes (miserable sinner), that, instead of THE LAST UOTTLIi. 199 sand, his double glass were wetted full with bur- gundy. How it would refresh and revivify his dry ribs ! how it would re-create and beautify his filthy skeleton form! but he must do his thankless office, while he listens to that third glee which he with the plumed bonnet trolls forth : — Let tlie sparkling glass go round, The sparkling glass where care is drowned ; For while we drink, we live, we live ! Let the joyous roof ring with the measure, The sweetest of the muses' treasure That Music's voice can give. Thus crowned, the present beams with pleasure, The memory of the past is lighter, The prospect of the future brighter — And while we drink, we live, we live. Chorus. — We live, we live, we live, we live. For while we drink, we live, we live. Another cork is drawn. At the smacking sound cares, fears, pains, fly from the unruffled soul of man, as wild fowl fly from the placid lake at the report of the fowler's gun. The undulating agi- tation of the instant, — the centric, concentric, elliptic, parabolic, and every imaginary shape into which its glancing bosom is broken, ripples and sparkles with light, and all then gently sub- 200 death's doings. sides into smoothness and serenity. — The calm is delicious, and the bowl becomes more and more brimmed with inspiration as the flood within it ebbs. Whose turn is it now to entertain us ? What, Square-cap ! thou hast stood or rather sat the brunt of many a deep-drenched table; the words of discretion must flow from thy lips so often steeped in the fountains of truth and wis- dom. Oracle of the holy well — the " Trine, trine, trine," of Rabelais drops from them as empha- tically as upon the ear of the weary Panurge : — Alexander and Caesar have vanished avray ; And Plato and Cicero now are hut clay ;— The brave, and tlic learned, and the good, and the wise. All come to the same simple close of " Here lies." Then let ns employ Our moments in joy — And before the sure end make the best use of Time. 'Twere folly to pine O'er generous wine, Since sadness is madness, and gloom is life's crime, " Trine, trine, trine,''* — I speak, Frencli words and French wines are far better tiian Greek. * When the oracle of the Holy Bottle was pronounced by the trinlilinf) of the drops which fell from it, quoth Panurge, " Is tliis all that the Trismigistian Bottle's words mean ? In ^ THE LAST BOTTLE, 201 Look along the bright board, like a river it flows With a liquid whose sparkling no water e'er knows ; While the banks are with friends in good fellowship crowned. Who bathe deep in the stream and ne'er fear being drowned, 'Tis Bacchus' hour, So let him out-pour All his treasures, while we make the best use of Time ; Friendship and wine Are union divine. And when drunk, mortal drunk, mortal man is sublime ! " Trine, trine, trine," — I speak, French words and French wines are far better than Greek. Encore, encore — no more, no more : the last mea- sure is full, the last verse is sung, the last cork has left the neck of the last bottle open. The gloomy assassin strikes — He who has been so often dead drunk, what is he now ? At the next meeting there was one chair empty, one jolly dog absent — Ai-lun. And what said his disconsolate companions — they missed him, they mourned, they lamented, no doubt: — aye, and they joked too. One said he had never paid any debt till truth I like it extremely, it went down like mother's milk." — " Nothing more," returned Bacbuc (the high priest), " for TRiNC is a Panomphean word, that is, a word understood, used, and celebrated by all nations, and signifies Drink. — See Rabelais for this adventure of Pantagruel and Panurge. 202 death's doings. he paid the debt of Nature; another remarked that he was just wise enough to prefer a full to an empty bottle ; and the third wrote his epitaph over the third bottle per man: — HABEAS CORPUS! HIC JACET! Here lies William Wassail, cut down by the Mower; None ever drank faster or paid their debts slower — Now quiet he lies as he sleeps with the Just. He has drank his Last Bottle, and fast, fast he sped it o'er. And paid his great debt to his principal Creditor ; And compounded with all the rest, even with Dust. 203 ELIXIR VIT^. " Wine does wonders every day." From the time when the juice of the grape was first concocted into beverage, to the present day — the day of Charles Wright, of champagne ce- lebrity — wine has ever been lauded as one of Nature's most valuable gifts to man. It is the true aurum potabile, the genuine elixir vit(B, in- vigorating the heart, inspiring the fancy, and re- calling to the veins of age the genial glow of youth. Accordingly, many, very many, are the excellent sayings that have been uttered in com- mendation of this generous liquor ; and many, very many, too, are the good things, the bright thoughts, the flashes of wit and eloquence it has suggested ; for when, indeed, has it ever proved ungrateful ? Not unfrequently has the bottle been the Helicon whence bards have drawn inspira- 204 death's doings. tion, if not excictly immortality : it has also been compared to the fountain of youth, or to that wonder-working cauldron in which Medea* re- animated with fresh vigour and vitality the aged limbs of her parent, infusing into his veins a warmer, luller current. Nevertheless, although the bacchanalian be steeped in his all-potent liquor as deeply as possible, and although he be rendered proof against all the cares and anxieties that beset us in this mortal passage, — though he bear a " charmed life," and daily inhale new vigour from " tired nature's sweet restorer," balmy wine; like him who was dipped in the waters of Styx, he is not all invulnerable, there being ever some little spot assailable by the fatal dart of the * Stripped of its allej^orical veil, tlie fable of Medea is no- thing more than the record of some of those magnificent achievements of certain of the medical profession, which we find so eloquently narrated in those pithy compositions, hight advertisements, according to the unpoetical matter-of-fact spi- rit of modern times, so diil'erent from that of antiquity ; not but there may be, and undoubtedly is, a considerable degree of both fancy and invention in those productions. ELIXIR VlTyE. 205 grisly spectre. Death, indeed, pays not much respect to the bon vivaiit ; and, regardless of him as the professed toper may appear, or seldom as he sings a memento mori over his bowl, or utters one in the form of a toast, it must be acknow- ledged that he more often rehearses the final scene of life than his fellow mortals, by get- ting dead-drunk, thus anticipating, as it were, that state of insensibility, that utter oblivion of sublunary things, that characterizes Death. As the bee extracts sweetness from the vilest plants, so does the moralist collect lessons of wisdom and deep reflection from scenes that seem capable of furnishing little instruction of this nature. We may be pardoned, therefore, if we prose a little on that truly poetical and classi- cal subject, a bacchanalian* group, when the * For the benefit of those who delight to indulge in bold etymological speculations, and supply the pedigree of words from conjecture, we will here record an anecdote that may elucidate the origin of this epithet : — " So, I hear, Mrs. Sim- kins, that your good man had quite a bacchanalian party the other evening," remarked an acquaintance to the spouse of a retired cheesemonger. " I would liave you to know, sir," 206 death's doings. competitors having indulged in unsparing liba- tions to the genius loci, the deity of the banquet- ting-room, sink in oblivious repose and death-like insensibility. Here the full tide of existence that so lately animated the joyous circle, and raised them above the ordinary pitch of mortality, is stopped; the jest, the repartee, the witticism, the quaint remark, the pun, the anecdote — the en- thusiastic toast, and the rushing torrent of words supplied by the grape-god, whose bottle inspires louder eloquence than Pieria's fount ; — all are now hushed, and succeeded by silent torpidity; so closely have the actors in this mystery or mo- rality, adhered to the progressive course marked by Nature herself, who, from the midst of health returned the lady, all her injured dignity lighting up her face in the most glowing, picturesque manner imaginable — quite in the style of a sunset, by Claude — " I would have you to know, sir, that Mr. Simkins is above such low doing. Bacca and ale party, indeed ! — no, we can afl'ord to treat our friends with wine, quite as well as our neighbours." This reminds us of an exceedingly whimsical dealer in the " Indian weed," who put up at his door, instead of the usual figure of a Highlander, one of Bacchus, as the god Jiacco, and wlio nluays used the choice Italian oath i'orpo di Bacco, which he said meant the frater- nity or corps of tobacconists. ELIXIR \ITJE. 207 and life, prepares decay and dissolution. If we gaze on these fallen heroes of the bottle, we shall perceive that some have quite drained their glasses, while others have fallen victims to stupor and insensibility, the bright liquor still sparkling before their eyes. So far we might not seldom derive a moral lesson from a not particularly mo- ral subject. But there are occasions when Death literally takes his place at the festive board, and mars the merriment of the hour devoted to joy, " with most admired disorder." He does not stand upon the form of coming, well knowing that he cannot be denied. He is the dun that comes to demand the payment of the great debt of nature, and against him all subterfuges, however ingenious, are unavailing. Scorning and setting at naught all form and etiquette, he will intrude in spite of porter or groom of the chambers. Nevertheless, he will occasionally use a little finesse and stratagem, although certain of being able to gain forcible ad- mission — vi et armis. Here he comes in the disguise of a boon companion, for a while to en- 208 death's doings. tertain the company with his erudition in ooio- logy ; and descant most learnedly on the pedi- grees of wines, showing himself deeply learned in the lore of a Henderson, and quite au fait in the science of the drawing-room, — that is, the room where they draw corks ; which, by the by, in the opinion of a great many connoisseurs, is the finest style of drawing ever invented. But whe- ther the liquor he proffers be claret or champagne, — " that might create a soul beneath the ribs of death," — or whether it be eau-de-vie itself, it becomes a fatal poison, if Death takes upon himself to act the part of cup-bearer. If, how- ever, wine do sometimes prove a poison, it must be acknowledged to be infinitely the most agree- able of any mentioned or not mentioned in any treatise on toxicology, and by far the most pa- lateable and generous way of committing suicide yet discovered. Many have declaimed vehemently, if not elo- quently, against the " sweet poison of misused wine," attributing to it the most pernicious effects on the human frame ; forgetting that the mischief ELIXIR VITyE. 209 is occasioned, not by the quality ol" the medi- cine, but by the excess of the dose. In other words, the fault lies in the patient himself, which is, we presume, invariably the case whenever any infallible nostrum works not the desired cure. If wine has hurried many out of the world sooner than they would otherwise have departed, so has physic, and more especially that sort of physic that has professed to accomplish the most mira- culous effects, and remove all disorders. Indeed, to do these universal panaceas justice, they do most effectually remove every complaint by des- patching the patient himself into the other world ; and this is, perhaps, one reason why we hear of so few failures in those wonder-working drugs that promise to protract existence to an antedi- luvian length of days. Life has been compared to a voyage, and hence many, interpreting the expression some- what too literally, have actually steered their course through a Red Sea of port and claret ; sailed across a Pacific Ocean of burgundy and champagne ; navigated a Rhine whose stream p 210 death's doings. has been genuine Rhenish ; and cruized up and down a gulf of choice Malaga ; visiting alter- nately Madeira and the Cape; now touching at the Canaries and now at Oporto or Lisbon ; — in short, circumnavigating the whole globe, and studying the geography of difl'crent regions, while their bottles circulated round the polished ex- panse of the mahogany dining-table, that reflected their sunny faces on its countenance. In wine they fancied they had discovered the nectar of the immortals— a Lethe for all the cares and anx- ieties of human existence. And most assuredly the liquor with which they deluged themselves was often not very dissimilar in its effect from that attributed to that fabled stream ; for many have drank till they have forgotten their cre- ditors, their families, and even themselves. It is not, therefore, surprising that they should not have recollected, that, let them steer with what skill they might,— however they might be favoured with fair breezes and prosperous gales, and escape tempests, gales, and squalls, they must finish their voyage in the Dead Sea. ELIXIR VITiE. 211 When Death officiates as butler, as we here see him, and draws the cork, it is from the waters of that horrid lake he pours out the nauseous beverage that all arc compelled to drain from his hand. At his bidding the wine-bibber must visit other shades* than those whither he has * Having here alluded to the well-known Shades at the foot of London Bridge, and recollecting that a rhyming friend once put into my hands an extemporaneous effusion, which he wrote while we were enjoying ourselves in that shady retreat, and which I happened to preserve, I take the liberty of in- serting it ; particularly as every blow of the pile-driving mon- key announces that ere long these Shades shall be sought in vain. THE SHADES. I sing not of Shades which they tell of below, Where Pluto and Proserpine reign ; But I sing of the Shades whither wine-bibbers go, Where a stream of Oporto doth constantly flow — A Lethe to wash away pain. The Lethe of Tartarus, poets declare, Oblivious virtues possess'd ; But the Lethe we mean, metamorphoses care, — It inspires us to love and to cherish the fair, And warms e'en the Anchoret's breast. Oh, haste to the Shades, then, where wine-bibbcrs meet, Oh, liaste to that fav'rite resort, Where, in wet or dry weather, in cold or in heat. All care is forgot in a snug elbow seat. When of port you have drank a full (juart. M. I' 2 212 death's doings. often so willingly repaired to partake of the in- spiring glass, heedless of the ominous name. The Shades ! — what a memento mori in that aw- fully-sounding word, which is nevertheless daily uttered by so many with so much gaiety ! Hardly do they seem to reflect that the grisly spectre will ere long summon them from the wine-vault to that narrow vault where, instead of finding a ban- quet for their thirsty palates, they must them- selves afford a banquet to the worm ; to those shades where they themselves will be as shadows, where their glass will be broken, their bottle emptied, no more to be replenished ; and their revelry silenced for ever. THE HFNTEFvL':! LEA]P, 213 DEATH AND THE HUNTER. Her beams all rosy the morning flings O'er valley and hill, where music rings,— But 'tis not the sky-bird's song so sweet. Nor the wood-thrush that cheers the fawn's retreat ; It is not the nightingale's tuneful spell That swells the wild depths of the forest along. For she to our isle hath bid farewell. And sung to the groves her parting song — Shed their last blossoms the weeping shades. When through the forest's lone arcades Sighed the last echoes of her lay. As to fairer climes she winged her way. Where brighter moons and richer flowers Illume and deck her gorgeous bowers. And now, — no thrilling midnight song Is heard the desolate woods among, 214 death's doings. Save the voice of the ruflian winds that rove With hxwless force abroad, and rend The rich-tinted wreaths from bower and grove, That beneath their gusty tyranny bend ; While as in their might and their wrath they roam. They fright the dove from her ravaged home. And now, — no harmony by day Is heard, save the redbreast's pensive lay ; His warbled dirge-notes o'er the grave Where summer, wrapped in rose-leaf shroud, Sleeps while the wintery tempests rave. Till the sun in splendour waxes proud. And to life the spell-bound goddess wakes. Who, as onward, rejoicing, her path she takes. Pomp, beauty, and odours, and riches showers. Turning our clime into Eden's bowers ! What music floats then on the early gale Down Autumn's long-withdrawing vale ? It is the shrill and mellow horn That wakes the echoes of the morn. And with it come the hunter's yell, And death-cry in harmonious swell. Of the dew-snufling hounds from far. With all the rout of sylvan war. DEATH AND THE HUNTER. 215 Heart-buoyant as the amber-coloured cloudlet rent By the wanton winds 'mid the firmament; With cheek of the morn, and joy-lighted eye That rivals the tint of the sunny sky; And merry as the lark that floats embowered In that cloudlet, with gold so splendidly showered. The gay youthful hunter backs his steed And urges him with headlong speed O'er moorland, heath, wilds mountainous. Nor fears down rugged steeps to rush. The antlered king of the shades to chase. Whose swiftness long maintains the race. Hark, the fierce halloo through the forest resounds ! As full in sight the wild stag bounds ; Then darts away, like a beam of light. While the hunters pursue like a thunder-cloud of night ! Caps high are waved to cheer the glad rout. While the valleys re-echo with their hoarse savage shout. But there is one of that motley crew On a shadowy steed of ghastly hue, 'Tis Death on his pale horse who follows the throng. But joins not the laugh, the shout, or the song. 21() i)1;atii's doings. iJa ! who lies there with blood-streaming wound? The young hunter his courser hath dashed to the ground ! With that sad groan fled his last breath — Thy human game is won, O Death ! On, on his gay companions speed, They heard not his fall, they saw not his steed Beside his master groaning lie. Lingering out life in agony ! Rose cloudless the hunter's moon that night. As the horse and his rider together lay ; On the blood-stained stones fell her pale light. That trembled at the crimson hue, Now blended with the evening dew. While paler than that pale moon-ray The hunter youth, at morn so gay. Stretched his cold limbs, forgetful quite Of the merry chase and the banquet night ! Silence reigned round that lonely place. Far, far away were the sons of the chase ; Amid the hall in noisy glee At feast and tipsy revelry. DEATH AND THE HUNTER. 2V7 Far, lar away was the maid of truth. Who fondly loved that hunter youth ; She gazed on the radiant star of night. She thought on her lover, and chid his stay. She watched the clouds in their lofty flight As they crossed the moon in dim array ; Then sadly told the lingering hour. As the clock struck slow from the village tower ! Ah ! little did she think that moon. To the night-wearied pilgrim so rich a boon — On the gore-clotted locks of her lover were flinging Its pitying beam, as cold he lay. With death-glazed eye by his " gallant gray," While round him the shadowy woods were ringing With the dirge of the screech-owl, whose frightful tones Were mingled with the dying courser's groans ! J. F. P. 218 THE FATAL GATE. Stay — stay — young Nimrod ! rein thy steed, For there is one who mocks thy speed ; I see him on thy path obtrude ; — Pursuer ! — thou hast been pursued. Expert thou art, and strong thy horse. But what avails or skill or force ? That hoof of horn is cased in steel — An arrow pierced Achilles' heel. Then pause awhile, the peril shun. Tempt not yon bar — Fate lurks beneath ; Infatuate fool ! — the deed is done ; That gate hath proved the gate of Death. H. D. 219 THE IiUiNTER\S LEAP. Tom Headlong was a lover of the chase — We want a stronger name than that of lover — His day was but a long-continued race. The only plan Tom had to get time over. Who thought Life's movements nothing had to boast. Unless its rate was that of going post. His conversation had no other course Than that presented to his simple view ; Of what concerned his saddle, groom, or horse. Beyond this theme he little cared or knew : Tell him of beauty, and harmonious sounds. He'd show his mare, and talk about his hounds. Oh, fam'd Pythagoras ! would but thy plan Of transmigration find belief in many, 'T would check at least some cruelty in man. To think he must become the brute, if any Had suffered from him in its worldly station. For then he'd fear a just retaliation. 220 death's doings. But this, you'll say, is nothing but digression — Contrivance to prolong a simple tale — Or else to make a figure in expression, A sort of make-weight if your story fail, — So, to be brief, we'll use no more delay, But put the mighty Hunter on his way. The gallant bay that Headlong mounted, then. Would something have to urge in its defence, If in its course of speed it fail'd, and when It barely cleared the mound, the dyke, the fence. That in its hoof a nail was pressing sore. And damped its ardour, though it could no more. But now the scent is gaining on the wind. The sounds of sylvan war are on the ear ; The generous courser, never left behind. Springs to the cry,— his rivals in the rear Follow, but where his onward pace is bent, As if to yield the palm they gave consent. Awhile the efforts of the generous steed (Cheer'd by the hounds and hunter's loud halloo). Sustained the conflict with his wonted speed, — And now the distant game is in his view ; But here a check, a momentary pause; And for the lea]), the hunter bridle draws. THE hunter's leaf. 221. Nor slack the gallant bay — his chest he bears In act to spring, when now the topmost bar Strikes the pain'd hoof — and vainly now he rears — His eiiorts fail, — he falls — and distant far The prostrate rider feels (with parting breath And shortened sobs) the icy hand of Death. The merry sportsmen pass him by. And deem some stunning blow Has laid him, and they let him lie. While on they cheering go. But none take warning by his fate. Though Death upon the leap should wait. Simon Surefoot. 222 BRIEF THOUGHTS ON HUNTING. It is hardly possible for any man of sedate habits, whose employment is of a sedentary kind, and whose only movements are from the desk to the table, to imagine the joyous hilarity, the ar- dent feelings, the breathless ecstasy, that belongs to the pleasures of the chase. Motion is imagined by some to be favourable to thought : they tell us that the wings of imagination are assisted by it. Thus a walk may be best suited to musing melan- choly or to sober prose; a trot to something of a more lively character ; while the gallop or the race, partaking more of the hero or the conqueror, will generate, perhaps, the thoughts of war and mad ambition. But whether this theory be true or not, certain it is, that the paces of Pegasus are sometimes as rapid as the fleetest courser; and that the hunter after literary fame, whether on hack or hobby, often experiences perils that the boldest sportsman would never dare to encounter. Q. THE ALCHYMIST™ 223 CONTENTMENT, THE TRUE ALCHYMY OF LIFE, Ag^s roll on ; but man, unchanging still. O'er Mammon's furnace bends with ceaseless care. Fans it with sighs, and seeks, with subtlest skill. The mystic stone ; — yet never finds it there. What if possest?— its price is faded health ; Death comes at last, and speaks these words of Fate :— *' If all were gold, then gold no more were wealth !" Too fatal truth! — and learnt, alas ! too late. Contentment ! angel of the placid brow ! Thine is the bright and never-fading gem — The stone of true philosophy, which thou Hast placed beyond the regal diadem. 224 death's doings. Sweet Alchymist ! for thee how few will spurn Wealth's glittering chains, though happier far to hold That hallowed talisman whose toucli can turn Life's seeming ills to more than Fortune's gold. Thine is the Eldorado of the heart : The halcyon clime of cloudless peace is thiuQ : Angel ! to me that sacred gift impart, And let me ever worship at thy shrine. H. D. 225 THE ALCHYMIST. Toiling from eve to morn, and morn to eve, Himself deceiving — others to deceive. Behold the Alchymist ! On dreams intent. The better portion of his life is spent ; Though disappointed ever, — still the same. He calmly lays on accident, the blame; Nor palsied form, pale face, and sunken eye. Can to his firm opinions give the lie. Existence wanes amid these dreary sports. His only friends are crucibles, retorts ; Jealous of fame — yet certain to excel. He labours lonely in his secret cell ; What shadowy form doth now his bellows ply, And smiles a ghastly smile on Alchymy ! 'Tis Death ! — th' elixir's spilt — and lost the prize. And in the folly of his life he dies. J. J. L. 226 ALCHYMY. " To solemnize tliis day, the glorious Sun Stays in his course, and plays the Alchymist, Turning with splendour of his precious eye The meagre cloddy earth to glitt'ring gold." Shakspeare. " [An explosion within."\ " Svhtle.^GoA, and all Saints, be good to us ! What's that '. Face. — O, Sir, we are defeated ! All the works Are flown in fumo : ev'ry glass is burst — Furnace and all, rent down ! — As if a bolt Had thunder'd thro' the house, Retoi'ts, receivers, pellicans, holt-heads. All struck in shivers ! [Subtle falls doun.] Help, good Sir ! Alas, Coldness and Death invade him !" Ben Jonson's Alchymist. Alchymy, the pretended art of prolonging life by a panacea, of transmuting the baser metals into gold and other wonders, affects also the highest antiquity ; it is however probably the fruit of ignorance, grafted upon the remains of ALCHYMY. 227 ancient chymistry about the time of the revival of learning in Europe. Its evil was in giving birth to some of those bubbles by which knavery is ever preying upon folly and avidity : its good has been the fortuitous discoveries to which we owe the progress of medicine, chymistry, and the arts — a Lavoisier, a Cavendish, and a Davy ! If still there is any one who aims at the alkahest, universal solvent, or elixir of life, — if he would ob- tain the philosopher s stone which transmutes the metals, or if he would discover the elements of matter, let him not apply to Sir Humphrey for his electro-chymical apparatus which severed the alkalis, — nor seek, with safety in the midst of danger, the explosive mines of the earth by the light of his Davy, — nor tempt the ocean in search of these wonders sheathed and shielded by his Protectors : — let him not trouble himself with the salt, sulphur, and mercury of the Adepti.* * The Alchymists have a tradition, that there are always twelve Adepti, or possessors of the philosopher's stone, panacea, &c. ; and that, as frequently as they are exploded by Death, their places are supplied by new Adepts. q2 228 death's doings. Above all, let him not seek the aid of Aureolus Philippvs Paracelsus Theophrastus Bomhastus de Hoenheim,* for they will all equally fail him ; while there is one so rich and knowing in hermetic art, that the elements, the philosopher's stone, and the alkahest, are all at his finger's ends, — one (the sole hope of the alchymist) who can analyze all, transmute all, and dissolve all ! — The greatest of chymists ! — the Davy of Davys ! OLD DAVY ! ! Accordingly, in the design before us, the artist * Paracelsus boasted of being able, by his elixir proprietatis, to prolong the life of man to the age of Methusalah, — nor is this wonderful in one who declared he held conversation with Galen and Aviceniia at the gates of Hell, and obtained secrets in physic from the Devil himself. — Nevertheless, Death, en- vious of his power, overturned his elixir, and took him oft' in revenge, at little more than 40 years of age, that he might not depopulate by his art the grim empire of the King of Terrors. His followers believe, however, " that he is not dead, but still lives in his tomb, whither he retired," (like Johanna Southcot, and like her too,) " weary of the vices and follies of mankind ! " Notwithstanding all the extravagances of Para- celsus, the world is indelited to him for many useful discoveries ; and it is still a question whether himself or Carpue, a name again to be associated with a Harvey, an Ahernethy, and a Hunter, first introduced mercury into medicine I A Leu V MY. 229 lias introduced the Alchymist at his furnace, anxiously watching his crucible, while the elixir of life is running out, and Death, unperceived, is blowing the coals, holding in his hand the powder of projection which is about to consummate by an explosion the deluded Alchymist and his vain endeavours. But who, let us seriously inquire, and what, is this all-potent Alchymist, Death ? " Death is Life, and Life is Death," said Euripides ; and so said Plato, and so said the Eastern Sages. If then Death be Life, as the wise and virtuous of all ages have believed, the question recurs, what is Life ? Life, says the Beauty, is admiration and gay attire ; — it is dice and dash, says the Spend- thrift;— it is gain, says the Merchant and the Miser ; it is power, says the Prince. Yet the Alchymist looks for it in an elixir. But Death dethrones the Prince — breaks the Merchant and Miser — out-dashes the Spendthrift and the Belle, and spills the elixir of Life. 230 DEATHS DOINGS. Life is action, says the Cricketer ; — it is a feast, says the Glutton ; — it is a bubble, says the Philo- sopher : but Death bursts the Philosopher's bub- ble, gormandizes the Glutton, and bowls out the Cricketer. It is fees, says the Physician ; — it is judgment and execution, says the Judge ; — it is all vanity, says the Parson : but Death humbles the Parson's vanity, executes the Judge and his judgments, and takes fee of the Physician and his Patients too! Thou art then a very Proteus, Death, at once a Miser, a Merchant, and a Prince, — thou art a Game, a Glutton, and a Bubble, — thou art Jus- tice to the injured, a Physician to the sick, and a humbler of Vanity, — thou art Master of the Ceremonies of Life, sporting with it in every form, and we have sported with thoc ! Thus, view them however wc may. Life and Death are endless paradoxes ; the love of the one, and the fear oi the other, arc unquestionably imprinted in our nature for wise purposes — they ALCHYMV. :231 gain and lose strength, — they rise and fall — and in all their movements they dance together. That these passions, however useful and neces- sary, relatively to our natural state, are equally vain and fallacious in an absolute and moral sense, has long been admitted by the philosopher ; and that they may be so to common sense, we have only to consider that it is as natural to die as to be born — that Death and Life are merely figurative of the two general relations, being and cessation ; and that Death, in particular, the grim King of Terrors, is only a personitication — the Pluto of the Poets — an animated skeleton, or anatomie vivante of the imagination ; so that, as we cannot paint white without black, we cannot represent Death without Life. If however these passions are ever so vain and illusive, their effects are no less actual and cer- tain, and of difficult mastery : it eminently de- serves our concern, therefore, that we should so cultivate and control them, that we may continue life with enjoyment, and quit it without regret; 2^ death's doings. and since it is a fact, that man loves and desires only good, and fears only ill, — so long as life is a good he loves it, and when it becomes an evil he loathes it. The sum of our aim then is, that as evil is but the consequence of ill action, and we dread not Death nor desire Life for themselves, we have only to act well, that we may live with- out fear, and die without despair. These impressions are accordingly strongest in early life, and, when our course is right, they appear to decline as we advance, and to become ultimately feeble and extinct ; so that by degrees, beautifully suited to a virtuous progress. Heaven disengages us altogether from the love of Life and the fear of Death. Having disposed of the great Transmuter and his elder children, let us turn our eye, ere we close, to the more recent offspring of the Plutonic family, many of whom are no less worthy of ce- lebrity than their elder brethren, and of whom, particularly deserving of record, are Goldman, formerly of the King's Mews, — Peter Woulfe, ALCHYMY. 233 of Barnard's Inn, and the renowned Sigismiitid BiBstrom, (with whose prefixes and affixes we are not acquainted, but) whose father was (as he averred) physician to Frederic the Great. There are yet living those who mourn the memory of Baestrom, who, alas ! having consumed all the gold he could lay his hands on in search of the philo- sopher's stone,— Jitiished his projection a debtor in the King's Bench. As to , he CONSUMED his coals at an apartment in the Mews, which he enjoyed through royal bounty, and where, deeply engaged one night amid his retorts and athanors by the glimmer of a small lamp, a luckless wight of a chimney-sweeper, or as some say a stoaker, crept in unperceived, and peeped over the old man's shoulder, who, happening to turn round, and seeing, as he imagined, the Devil at his elbow, became so alarmed, that he never recovered the shock, but died — and with him, perhaps, one of the last of the Adepti. We say perhaps? For the ashes of Alchymy 234 death's doings. are still hot. That it should yet occupy ardent imaginations amid the gloom, poverty, and oppres- sion of the forests of Germany, is not so astonish- ing, as that it should still have votaries in the metropolis of Britain, where the light shines upon the free, and so many easier ways of making gold are known, and that there should be still found persons of reputed understanding who are willing to be deluded by men, wretchedly poor, who profess the art of making gold ! But imagination has ever been the tyrant of the mind, exciting enthusiasm, of w hich knavery takes advantage, and folly is the food it feeds on. \* Those who would enter further into the history of Alchymy, may consult Boerhaave ; and for later information, " A Sketch of the History of Alchymy," by Mr. Brande, in the New Annual Register for 1819. G. F. ArA:iDF '\^' 'I "' 'PI ^.)HOM§„ 235 ACADEMIC HONOURS. Under the shadow of green laurel leaves The poet marcheth, with unfaltering breath ; And from the glory which his fancy weaves Draws strength, which tincteth the wan cheeks of Death : Under the shadow of the laurel green The soldier smileth ; and wayfaring men Piercing the desert with proud looks are seen. And hoary seamen face wild waves again : But chief, 'midst hopes untried, with fear afar, The young pale scholar seeks some dim renown. Misled by influence of deceitful star. To where Death hides behind the laurel crown: Alas, grey age and pallid youth the same ! All leave fair truth, to clutch the phantom — Fame ! Barry Cornwall. 236 THE ACADEMIC ASPIRANT. With form attenuated by disease, With paly cheek, and bloodless lip, he stands The victim of his worth. All save the eye Hath sadly changed ; — that undismayed yet gleams The noble beacon of a noble soul ! Consumption shakes the tendons of his life. And holds a fevered revel in his heart ; — lie heeds it not — but as his body wastes. The spirit gathers greater strength, and sheds On the admiring world supernal light. Renown, on its swift pinion, blazons forth The glory of his name, and sages hail And praise him — fairest lips recite his verse. And nations arm them when he sings of war. Alas, that eloquence will soon be mute — That harp, unstrung, shall lose its loveliness. Nor know its own sweet sound again. No more Shall woman's eye behold its light approach,— THE ACADKMIC ASPIRANT. '237 No more her dulcet voice (by passion taught), To her young soul shall whisper dreamy love. And make her startle even at herself. Love and its light are now evanishing ; Life and its bliss do tremble at the Shade That stands before him. He beholds it not — See, in its sallow hand is held a wreath Of laurel leaves, so fresh, they seem to mock That withering grasp. A smile is on his cheek — His eye looks dark with thought — his dreams are of The coming time — and Hope is bright within — Slowly the wreath now falls — the hand of Death Hath placed the fadeless verdure on his brow. And he is not of life. J. J. L. 238 THE MARTYR STUDENT. {By the Author of " Dartmoor.'^) " O Avliat a noble lieart was here undone, When Science' self destroy 'd her favourite son ! Yes ! she too much indulg'd thy fond pursuit, — She sow'd the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit." Byron. List not Ambition's call, for she has lur'd To Death her tens of thousands, and her voice. Though sweet as the old syren's, is as false! Won by her blandishments, the warrior seeks The battle-field where red Destruction waves O'er the wild plain his banner, trampling down The dying and the dead ; — on Ocean's wave Braving the storm — the dark lee-shore — the fight- The seaman follows her, to fall — at last In Victory's gory arms. To Learning's sons She promises the proud degree — the praise THE MARTVK STUDENT. 239 Of academic senates, and a name That Fame on her imperishable scroll Shall deeply 'grave. O, there was one who heard Her fatal promptings — whom the Muses mourn And Genius yet deplores ! In studious cell Immur'd, he trimm'd his solitary lamp. And morn, unmark'd, upon his pallid cheek Oft flung her ray, ere yet the sunken eye Reluctant clos'd, and sleep around his couch Strew'd her despised poppies. Day with night Mingled — insensibly — and night with day ; — In loveliest change the seasons came — and pass'd — Spring woke, and in her beautiful blue sky Wander'd the lark — the merry birds beneath Pour'd their sweet woodland poetry — the streams Sent up their eloquent voices — all was joy And in the breeze was life. Then Summer gemm'd The sward with flowers, as thickly strewn as seem In heaven the countless clustering stars. By day The grateful peasant pour'd his song, — by night The nightingale; — he heeded not the lay Divine of earth or sky— the voice of streams — Sunshine and shadow — and the rich blue sky; — '240 death's doings. Nor gales of fragrance and of lile that cheer The aching brow — relume the drooping eye — And fire the languid pulse. One stern pursuit — One master-passion master'd all — and Death Smil'd inly as Consumption at his nod Poison'd the springs of life, and flush'd the cheek With roses that bloom only o'er the grave ; And in that eye, which once so mildly beam'd. Kindled unnatural fires ! Yet hope sustain'd His sinking soul, and to the high reward Of sleepless nights and watchful days — and scorn Of pleasure, and the stern contempt of ease. Pointed exultingly. But Death, who loves To blast Hope's fairest visions, and to dash. In unsuspected hour, the cup of bliss From man's impatient lip — with horrid glance Mark'd the young victim, as with fiutt'ring step And beating heart, and cheek with treach'rous bloom Sufi^us'd, he press'd where Science op'd the gates Of her high temple. THE MARTYR STUDENT. 241 There beneath the guise Of Learning's proud professor, sat enthron'd The tyrant— Death: — and as around the brow Of that ill-fated votary, he wreath'd The crown of Victory — silently he twin'd The cypress with the laurel; — at his foot Perish'd the " Martyr Student!" N. T. C. 24'i ACADEMIC PURSUITS. " There's honour for you !" — Shakspeare. Like yon such grinning honour? You will probably answer. No. Why, then, before you en- gage in the widely-diflerent, but no less hazardous warfare of words and arguments, propositions and disquisitions, reply and rejoinder, with the long train of important etccBteras, do, my young and sanguine friend, take a peep into a pericranium — examine the filmy texture of the brain, and the cobweb character of those fibres which com- pose its substance ; from thence descend to the region of the stomach, and view the connexion of its digestive power, which, as well as the brain, depend upon the quiet operation of thought, — which the hurry of passion, the ardour of pursuit, or the no less dangerous tendency of ACADEMIC PURSUITS. 243 rigid and intense application, may destroy — and you may perhaps be inclined to pause upon the adventure, to examine your strength for the combat, to weigh the chances of the game, and to look a little more minutely at the nature of the trophies you expect to carry away ; and then, having taken a cool and deliberate view of the question, you may venture to ask — Can I sit quietly down under these laureled honours, to the enjoyment of books, '' friendship, and re- tired leisure ?" Retired leisure ! where is it to be found ? Not in this bustling, cheating, and worrying world. No; not even " stalled theology" will now allow it. We do not live in monkish times ; there are duties to be performed, there are hungry expectants, — enemies to be watched, vigilant to observe omis- sions, and ready to mark or make lapses in your conduct. In short, the path to preferment has not been Macadamized ; but, on the contrary, such deep ruts have been made by the jostling and jumbling of every sort of vehicle on the road, r2 244 death's doings. that, through the haste of some, and the tardiness of others, not one in ten arrives at his Living in a whole skin, or, at least, without having been in imminent danger of destruction. I see you smile ; — you have been at Oxford, — have some skill in driving, and can quarter the road with any four- in-hand whip among them. Well, sir ! take your own course ; but remember, if you attain to a mitre, it will not be decorated like that of a Leo, but plain, cumbrous, and heavy, like the dispropor- tioned and enormous caps of our grenadiers. You must toil under its pressure. Again you smile. — Oh, the church is not your aim ? — it is literature, polite literature ; aye, that is quite another thing — I see you are viewing a garland in imagination, made up of the flowers of literature, and feasting upon the fruits in the same Barmecide way. To be sure, there are a few thorns in that passage to fame and fortune ; which, in the shape of critics, catch at you as you pass, till you arrive ragged and striptat the end of your journey. But should the contrary of this happen, you have no- thing to do but to reach the mansion of your book- ACADEMIC PURSUITS. 245 seller, the haven where you would be — and present yourself to the porter at the gate — a sort ofCastle- of-Indolence-man, but only so in appearance ; lor he will first look narrowly at your dress, and if it has come off without many rents from the afore- said thorns, he will let you into the hall or entry, and, according to your appearance, will desire you to take a chair, or, perhaps, refreshments; but have a care of this, and remember what is said in the Proverbs about " deceitful meat.'' Here you will undergo a sort of craniological examina- tion. Your skull must serve various purposes; will the OS frontis do for a battering-ram? — can it be levelled with advantage against church or state? — has it the organ of forgetfulness suffi- ciently marked for a convenient oblivion of what you advance one day to be denied on the next? These, with various other powers and capabilities, will be carefully noted ; and last, and not the least of his inquiries, will be (but this will be managed aside), whether your skull will make a good drinking-cup, and whether its shape and texture are best suited to hold port, claret, or champagne. 24G UJiATH's DOINGS. What ! you are grinning still, and you don't be- lieve a word of this ? You can get an introduc- tion to Mr. M y ; aye, it may be so, — or to the King's Bench, — or to Bedlam, — or * * ***** Well there I'll leave you. Proteus. THE EM]PIM.jfl' 247 THE EMPIUIC. Quacks! high and low— whate'er your occupation — 1 hate ye all !— but, ye remorseless crew. Who, with your nostrums, thin the population, A more especial hate I bear tow'rds you — You, who 're regardless if you kill or cure, — Who lives, or dies — so that of fees you're sure ! " What !" saith the moralist, " are any found So base, so wondrous pitiful?" — " Aye, many:— In this metropolis vile Quacks abound. Who'd poison you outright, to get a penny; — Monsters ! who'd recklessly deal death around. Till the whole globe were one vast burial-ground !" " Rail on ! abuse us. Sir !" cries Doctor Pill : "While you're inhealth it all sounds mighty clever; But if, perchance, again you're taken ill, I shall be sent for, just the same as ever ; When groaning with the gout, or teaz'd with phthisic, You'll gladly call me in, and take my physic!" 248 DliATIl's DOINGS. " Save me, kind friends, from Doctor Pill, J pray ! And try to find an honest one and skilful- Like Doctor Babington or Surgeon Wray, Who none can charge with blunders weak or wilful ; But let no Quack approach my humble bed, To feel my pulse, and shake his empty head !" Rather would I " throw physic to the dogs ;" For, oh ! through Quacks, what ills from physic flow ! It saps our vitals — all our functions clogs — And makes our lives a scene of pain and woe : Alas ! what tortures patients undergo, None but the sufF'ring quack-duped patients know! And if, by chance, you 'scape their murderous fangs, Gods ! what a fuss they make about your cure ! But if, worn out with agonizing pangs, You die — why, then, the malady was sure To kill ! — in truth, 'twas ivouderfnl, they'll say. That Death so long could have been kept away ! See yon poor wretch ! mere efligy of man ! He'd faith] — and all their " grand specifics" tried ; For while he trusted to the charlatan. He little thought grim Death was by his side : And yet to him the Tyrant prov'd a friend. By bringing all liis torments to an end. THE KMIMRIC. 249 Oh, bounteous Nature ! friend of human kind ! Who every heartfelt joy of life dispenses. To their best interests were not mortals blind. Or would but rightly use their boasted senses. They'd gratefully obey thy wise commands. Nor trust their lives in sordid Emp'rics' hands. Hygeia, hail ! I'll drink at thy pure spring. Where Temperance and Exercise preside ; And, while life's dearest boon thy handmaids bring. Though from the wine-press flow the purple tide. The tempting goblet from my lips I'll fling, Scorning the gifts by luxury supplied. Hail ! then, Hygeia, hail ! " thee, goddess, I adore," For, blest with health, I'm rich, — though scanty be my store ! S. M. 250 THE QUACK TO HLS PATIENT. Have courage, Patient! though your pulse is low. The healing art shall make life's current flow ; Be but your faith as potent as your purse. Your malady should yield, though it were worse- Nay, never glance at him, — 'tis not by books That we know authors, or men by their looks. He is my agent, and he bears the balm That smooths the brow of pain, and gives a calm To all the features;— such a tranquil rest That yields to no disturbance of the breast : Not even outward ills have power to shake The frame ot him who shall this julep take. But not in one prescription lies my power, — I've one for every day, nay, every hour ; For all diseases I've the remedy. But men arc yet so foolish — they v. ill die : THE QUACK TO HIS PATIENT. 251 In me you see the wonder of an age That counts up thousands on its ample page : Me doctors never listed in their corps, Do what they will, my practice can do more : So! — good my Patient, swallow (quick as thought) The liquid life, with every virtue fraught ; Nay, do not wince, but take it from a hand That will compel, as well as can command. ***** The draught he takes — now filmy vapours rise. And as the vision flits before his eyes. He starts convulsive, gasps for breath, and— dies! Phial. 252 THE MEN OF PHYSIC AN EASTERN TALE. By the Author of " Glances from the Moon." It happened that a certain absolute and capri- cious despot of an eastern province, on perceiving, after a few years' domination, that the number of his subjects had considerably decreased, instead of instituting a cautious inquiry into the possible causes of this lowered population, determined to lay the whole charge, the wonder, and the mis- chief, on the professed practisers of what was there termed the healing art, but, according to his princely suspicion, the art of poisoning and de- stroying. Long did he cherish, whether warranted or otherwise doth not clearly appear, this peculiar sentiment, strengthened by progressive observa- tion, and now matured into immoveable convic- tion : and, indeed, as his province had neither been THK MKN Ol' PflVSJO, 253 lately desolated by war, visited by pestilence, nor reduced by famine, it becomes possible — just possible I mean — that the notion which this prince had conceived of the blundering ways and means exercised by the men of physic, might not have proved so fallacious or unjust, as, on first hearing, it should seem to threaten : the less so, because the class of these physicians, or leeches, was the only one which had escaped the late ex- amples of extraordinary fatality; a phenomenon which was referred, for its solution, to the com- monly believed fact, that the physician exerciseth not his art upon himself. — But, let that pass. And now, whether sanctioned by a rational pro- bability of a successful result, or not — whether right or wrong — he determined to put the matter at issue to one grand and decisive experiment. He published an edict, ordering every practitioner of the medical craft, of whatever degree, to quit the province in the course of ten days. Remon- strance had been vain : it was the mandate of despotic authority : no appeal remained ; obe- dience was prompt and universal; not one pro- 254 death's doings. fessor, not a single minister of physic, dared to hold back and linger within the lines of demar- cation after the expiration of the period limited by the edict. Now, when the news of this extraordinary de- cree had reached and crept into the ear of Death, his jaws were presently screwed into a con- temptuous grin, while meditating his purpose. " Opposition to my power," he said, " has always proved vain in the result, though whilom ridiculously obstinate and contentious. This prince shall quickly understand how unequal is the contest which he appears rash enough and weak enough to wage with a power, known by universal experience to be paramount and irre- sistible." ! ■ Thus muttered the Destroyer. Hence we pass on to the expiration of that measure of time sufficient for the ascertaining whether the expectations of tlie prince were founded and supported. THE MEN OF PHYSIC. 255 Twelve months had now elapsed, when, on a numerical comparison of deaths with those of the preceding year, they were found in a ratio greatly diminished, calculating for the lessened number of souls occasioned by the absence of the leeches. The discontent of the people against their prince, and their alarm for themselves, changed into re- verence and composure. His pride and self-gra- tulation rose in proportion — perhaps something out of proportion, a mistake committed occasion- ally even by sovereigns — to flattery and applause : but this prince had never enjoyed the privilege of reading the poetic works of Robert Burns, where, amidst numerous pithy hints for the correction of self-misunderstanding, he might have dropped upon, and profited by, the following stanza :— " Oh, would some power the gifty gee us, To see ourselves as others see us; It wad frae many a blunder free us, And silly notion ; And airs in gait and dress would lea' us, And> e'en, devotion." But, so it was ; time was moving on smoothly and kindly between prince and subject; each conci- 25() death's doings. liated more to each, and all partaking of that increase of pleasurable feelings which is wont to accompany and improve a condition of bodily and mental health. Thus might this happy province — happy in its delivery from the leeches — have become the asylum of health, and the promise of longevity ; but — give me huts and ifs, as a bold man was wont to say, and I'll fight the D ; but, — that the dark malignant spirit of the man w^hose '' bones are marrowless," urged at length by the bitterness of disappoint- ment into deadly wrath at the decrease of fune- rals and of mourners, where his depredations had long proved so extensive and so frequent, deter- mined to bestir himself for the recovery of his business. "I have," muttered Death, as he stalked the ground, which shrank and blackened at his tread, " two considerations to resolve : first, what pro- mises to furnish the surest plan for the restoration of the wonted, full, and gloomy callings of my office ; secondly, by what measures I shall most THE MKN OF PHYSIC. '2-)t easily and speedily succeed in it. Touching the first consideration," said Death, " I perceive it admits of instant decision. The effects of the de- cree, by which I find that the leeches were my supporters, my most eflective friends, serve to teach me that the decree must be unconditionally reversed; the men of physic must be recalled; they must be reinstated in all their privileges and immunities, and be let loose as heretofore upon the inhabitants of the province — of the capital, more especially — in the unbridled exercise of their accustomed practices. The man of dry and naked bones received that sensation of sullen gra- tification, when reflecting upon his plan, which no other man could feel. A half- formed smile would have passed over his ghastly countenance, signi- ficant of anticipated success, but it was repulsed and chased away from a visage so hostile to its character, by a withering and rigid grin which ad- mitted not a glimpse of relaxation. Still this resolution extended and embraced the first and easiest division, only, of what he in- tended to perform : the object of his more ardu- s 268 death's doings. ous consideration remained behind, viz.: the adoption of means sure and effectual for the execution of this purpose. It was not till after a long-protracted interval that thus the Destroyer counselled with himself. " I have held a long and vast communion with the sons of men who walk this earth, and all who have disappeared from it were removed by me. This is not all : known it is to me, by ages of ex- perience and the use of observation, that the pas- sion of fear is among the strongest felt by mortals, and that of nothing are they so horribly afraid as of my threatenings and my power to enforce them. How is this ? that the man who has courage to contemn and to oppose the requisitions of justice; to admit and to encourage the foulest offences against the charities of humanity and the con- sciousness of moral obligation ; to cherish the cor- ruption of, and to perpetrate the blackest crimes against, the fellowship of men ! that the same identical man of flesh and blood, on whom the fear of me is so deeply impressed, should ever fail to tremble while thinking upon the crimes, the THE MEN OF PHYSIC. 259 outrages, the murders he may have committed? All this must be left to the discussion oi" wiser skulls than mine. " By my life," said Death, " it is most worthy of marvel and recordance, that one and the same man shall dare to commit and brave the most atrocious wickedness, no less in the face of all the world than in the secret chambers, and yet shake with horror at an accidental change of feeling in his mortal frame, not occasioned by any guilty deed that he hath done, but resulting inevitably from the established laws and conditions of that animal economy, ordained to experience the enjoyments of health and the inflictions of disease ; to live, and think, and act, while the movements of the nice and wonderful machine are in perfect harmony and correctness ; to languish, and finally to decay, when these are interrupted and gradually stopped. " Yes, the solution of a mystery like this must be submitted to the philosophers ; enough for me, that the dread of my approach is uppermost amidst mortal fears, and that few would be found, s2 ^<>0 dkath's doings. who, when the hour of decision should arrive, would refuse to compromise, on any terms, for a longer beholding the light of the sun and of all the natural objects which it illumines and presents: yet to what do these amount, in comparison with the animated and social nature, with the world of kindred, of relatives, and friends ? " Fortunate for my commanding thraldom, man- kind are not conscious that the ' fear of death,' ab- stractedly considered, ' is most in apprehension ;' or that, ' imagination's fool and error's wretch, man makes a death which nature never made, then on the point of his own fancy falls, and feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.' No, no — the Prince, nursed and wrapped in the splendour and luxuries of a gay and rich metropolis, has not been conversant with disquisitions of this sort; if he ever thinks upon, he also shudders at the con- templation of my blow." Death paused. — This was the time for taking up what he had proposed for the second consideration of his subject, viz. : the mode to be adopted for securing the comple- tion of his plan. It required not a protracted ru- THK MEN OF PHYSIC. 261 mination. Death knew the certainty of his power, and he resolved on its early application. It was amidst the lone " and witching time of night, when church-yards yawn," that, personified, " ut ejus est mos" in the attire of a human skeleton, he made his way to the palace and the dormitory of his royal enemy, as he does to the cot and pallet of the poor. He beheld the prince stretched in the blandishments and the wonted security of sleep ; in " the perfumed chamber," " beneath the canopy of costly state." Directly he stalked up ; the hard and bony tread awaked the sleeping prince, and he beheld the horrid fi- gure placed before him, holding a dimly-burning taper in his left hand, while in his right, elevated as if to strike, was poised the shaft which never fails, and which now threatened the execution of a fatal purpose. Confounded by the spectacle, he made an effort to spring up ; but the first effect of fear is debi- lity: he fell backward, yet with outstretched arms and clasped hands, shrinking from the dreadful ob- 262 death's noiNGS. ject of his vision — " I come," said the horrible appearance — fixing upon his victim the dismal ca- vities where eyes had been — '' I come, armed as at all times, to strike and to destroy. But even beneath the shaft, and within the grasp of Death, conditions of mercy may exist. Mark ! — I come unto the despot, who, with violence and injustice, has expelled from their establishments and their homes, the men of physic, my ministers and agents, and to oifer him one or the other of two things : will he consent to recall and to reinstate the said men of physic or leeches, never again to be by him disturbed, or forbidden to cultivate and to use their arts ; or will he prefer that this uplifted hand dis- charge the arrow which he beholds, thus winged for its deadly mission, and ready to fulfil it ? Your re- solve ! — speak ! — answer, even now — or — " The prince observed the arm rising higher, and drawing a little backward : a moment, and it might be too late ; in agony of haste he called out, — " Hold ! spare me, spare me ! I will execute thy com- mands: I will instantly recall the leeches; I will do whatever thou demandest : 1 will do it now, even now." Death lowered his arm, and pro- THE MEN OV PHYSIC. 268 ceeded : — " Promises, at a moment like this, have often been found faithless, and have dis- solved 'into thin air;' therefore," giving to the prince a scroll — " look upon that ; unfold and read : be instant— bind thy soul, as the words therein point out, to the prompt execution of my pleasure." Here he began to raise his hand of bone, still armed with the deadly missile : — " Hold ! hold !" the prince ejaculated ; " I swear as this scroll requires." What was written therein has never been divulged. Death well knew that flesh and blood dared not to violate the oath. He was accordingly satisfied ; and now, under the guise in which he had stalked into the royal cham- ber, he abandoned it, in malignant triumph that, his purpose had succeeded, and that the recom- mencement and augmentation of his harvest awaited only the return of the doctors ; more especially of those who should occupy their sta- tions and exercise their crafts in the metropo- lis. It is there he stands in gloomy watch, or stalks about in cynic grin, delighted with the hurry, dexterity, and slight-of-hand visits paid by the doctor to his catalogue of patients, agreeably :2G4 1) Kami's doings. to the situations of their residences ; many of whom, after hours of languor, distress, and pain, are now startled into being from their pittance of merciful unconsciousness, by the outrageous but fashionable violence, the storm of knocking raised at the door of the wretched patient's residence, by one of Death's subordinate agents, who drops from the fore or aft of the doctor's chariot, and having done all this wanton and inhuman mis- chief, throws open the door for the descent, and then the introduction of that which is to follow. Thus it is manifest that Death may be detected in the personification of an outside or an inside passenger ; on the box or in the chariot. The question may be asked, — what place does not Death occupy, — what person of the drama can he not assume and fill? We have seen him blind- ing the eyes of physicians and their patients, and converting medicines into poisons. AVe may also trace this sly and rapacious fellow more insi- diously introducing poisons into the wholesome nutiiment of life, into our viands and our drinks. For (he former, gaze upon that alarming row of rilE MEN OF PHYSIC. 265 red and fiery-looking metal, with which our shelves, whether in kitchen or elsewhere, are so frightfully supplied ! The metal is copper, poi- sonous and deadly, as many wise housekeepers and cooks are at length beginning to believe ; but which, still, in defiance of the sun, or by taking ad- vantage of the tenderer light of moon or taper, they continue to use, because peculiarly conducive, in their opinions, to the good colouring and pre- servation of pickles and of conserves. For the latter, namely, our drinks, behold and examine the professed malt and hop decoctions of our public breweries — malt and hops! pshaw! — vinegar and bullock's blood. Once more, look, and look closely when you are about it, to your cider and perry mills, lest you should purchase your hogs- head of either of these liquors from a mill, in the construction of which the metal of lead, another of Death's ministers, has been largely employed, and which, when acted upon by the juices of the fruits, communicates to the liquor a poisonous quality. The effects of this carelessness, or obsti- nacy, have been long and seriously felt in cider counties; in the county of Devonshire more parti- 2(i(i death's doings. cularly, producing therein tliat painful disease, known by the appropriate term, Devonshire Colic, terminating in Palsy. But the time would fail, were we to attempt to show this Man of Bones in all his asserted places of domination, or to bolt him from his secret lurking-holes. We will leave him, for the time being, in his awful and favourite retreat, an English wine-vault^ the depot oi foreign wines. There he sits, enthroned upon a cask of fiery sherry, which, among other pernicious com- binations, he dispenses far and wide, adminis- tering all of them more or less largely as his ca- price may choose to delight itself in a larger or scantier accumulation of victims. We will pro- ceed no further in the pursuit of a topic and a theme which would remain interminable; neither w^ould it prove fair nor charitable to cast the Bony Man in no other character than that which, to the bulk of mankind, represents him most unwelcome, cruel, and severe. By certain of the sons of men he has been received not only with resignation and composure, but his approach has been hailed as a boon and a deliverance. Besides, he pos- sesses such traits, or perhaps faculties, in his com- THE MEN OF PHYSIC. 207 position, as might challenge our approbation and our reverence. In the class of these we desire to rescue from oblivion his acknowledged impar- tiality ; his frequent prevention of greater evil than he brings; his endurance of perpetual labour; his just claim to universality; his courage; snatching away the monarch, surrounded by his life guards, just as a Bengal tiger springs into a little company of men seated at their social meal upon the turf, and, seizing on his victim, drags him to the jungle. We must recount, because it evinces an honour- able and lofty sentiment, that, as he stalked away after his midnight visit to the prince whom he had terrified into an instant and shaking submission, a voice was heard through the palace, and by the sentinels, as, invisibly, he moved along : — " Cow- ard and slave, who hast consented to sell thy people's pleasant health, the term of their life, with all its consolations and enjoyments ; their title, it might have been, to longevity; — that thou thyself mightst be suffered to crawl, in infamy and abhorrence, a little longer between heaven and earth ! ! ! — It well nigh grieves me that I permitted 2G8 death's doings. the wretch to outlive his meanness and his base- ness. " But wherefore — I desire to ask and to be an- swered — wherefore are the sons of men so hostile to my charter, and so fearful of its exercise ? — A charter, too, of which I myself foresee and dread the expiration ?" Can none develop and explain this mystery ? T]Bi;j^: •.roN, 260 DEATH THE GAY CHARIOTEER. The sun, in splendour, was setting bright, And the west was sheeted in ruby light. The hymn of the woodland choir was singing. And the winds o'er the forest their incense flinging. The grove its leaves of gold was waving. The mountain its summit in glory bathing. The flowers for day's departure weeping. And the wolf in his cave yet soundly sleeping. When young Cytheron, e'en as Hylas fair. With cheek of the damask rose, and hair In darkly beauteous ringlets flowing. And lip like the piony richly glowing. With a smile like summer's morn, and eye That no maiden could look on without a sigh. Met Comus, as on he journeyed, gay And thoughtless, life's primrose- scattered way. 270 death's doings. Comus invited the youth to spend the night At his magic pahice of pomp and delight, To rest himself after the toils of the day. And chase the tardy-footed hours away With banquet and song, and care-killing glee, Music, and wine, and jollity. Young Cytheron, regardless of what might betide. Turned joyous to follow his laughing guide. Who led him on through a solemn wood. Where tall colonnades of cedar stood. And verdant palms in long array. That shone with the tints of departing day ; While the dew-brightened flowers caught the sun's last smile. And rivalled the pomp of the evening sky, Where a pageant of mountain, lake, and isle. In glory unearthly met the eye ! Amid the forest, sweetly embowered. Were seats of green moss, with roses showered, And each fragrant hyacinthine bed Was o'er-canopied with the rich web DEATH AND THE GAY CHARIOTEER. 271 Of tissued blossoms, in nature's loom Wove gorgeous, and bright with radiant bloom. The gleams of an alabastrian pile. With pillared form of classic style. Shone down the opening vista far. Like the softened light of Neptune's star ; When the midnight winds part the fleecy cloud. And she walks forth in her beauty and splendour proud. It was the bright magic palace reared By Pleasure, to ensnare the idle and vain, — A temple it seemed with glory ensphered. But Death dwelt there in her fatal train ! Young Cytheron before the portal stood, — Then entered with enraptured eye. When round him poured a rainbow flood Of dazzling light, while harmony Angelic came on his ravished ears. Rich-toned as the music of the spheres ! The palace court with pillars was hemmed Of flaming carbuncle, and gemmed '27'2 dfath's doings. The tesselated floor, save where Bloomed bowers of myrtle, and orange, and lime. Pomegranates, and aloes, that gave to the air The exquisite odours of Araby's clime. These bowers, rich with the rose of Cashmere, Of a thousand birds were the blessed haunt. Whose plumes did like clustered gems appear As they w^arbled their wild melodious chant. Now forth from the inner palace came. Whose walls outshone the sapphire flame, — A lady, who leant on a damsel fair. That for beauty might e'en with Calypso compare ! Intemperamce was the portly dame. And Wantonness the damsel's name. Whose eye shot forth such thrilling fires As fill'd young Cytheron with fond desires; Her form is voluptuous, her cheek outglows The blush of young Venus as from the deep she first rose. They welcomed glad Cytheron, and smiling led To an arbour with roses fresh-blooming spread. Acanthus, and myrtle, and luscious woodbine. And o'erhung with the fruit-empurpled vine. DEATH AND THE GAY CHARIOTEER. 273 There on couches of emerald and Tyrian dye, In pomp and luxurious ease they lie. While the lady Intemperance in her cup of gold Pressed the musky clusters that o'er them hung. And gave to her guest * * The magic draught made him proud and bold. And joyous, — then soft airs were sung. By attendant virgins fair and young; And the fountains their rainbow streams out-flung. And music breathed from harp and lute. From sacbut, theorbo, and flute ; While youths and maidens, bright as the Hours, Danced along the green arcade of bow^ers That, torch-lit, showed like Eden's shades When angel shapes thronged its moonlight glades. Again the chalice of gold the youth drains, Which flowed like fire through his glowing veins ! Then dallies with the damsel on beds of roses. Till wearied with sport in her arms he reposes. Whence summoned by music to the banquet-hall. He feasts high on his lordly stall. O what a proud display was there. Of thronging chivalry and ladies fair! 274 ukath's doings. Of richest viands, wines, fruits, and flowers. That deck young Summer or Autumn's bowers, Amid that gorgeous hall of might. Where the columns, formed of jewels rare. Seemed each a shaft of sunny light ! But what grim unbidden guest sits there. With eyeless sockets and ribs all bare. And grinning so hideously upon The laughter-loving Cytheron? 'Tis Death ! who marks him for his prey. Long ere the close of another day ! 'Tis dawn, — come, rouse thee, who didst rejoice And sport with the young loves and pleasures. The harp and the viol have ceased their voice. And the lute its soft preluding measures ; Arise with the lark and the dappled fawn. And brush the dews from the cowslip lawn ; Mount the proud seat of thy glittering car. Which in silvery splendour beams afar; Pleasure hath harnessed thy horses, all eager to run. Fiery and swift as the steeds of the sun ! *' Ah, this is life, happiness, splendour, and glee ; Mount, mount, my sweet damsel, and journey with me." DEATH AND THE GAY CHARIOTEER. 275 But, ah ! that grim king, who sat at the feast. Hath followed the track of thy chariot wheel ; He heeds not the cry of anguish for rest. Nor the sorrows that time will never heal. Nor the captive's sigh for sweet release. Nor the exile's prayer for the dark grave's peace ; No, — he follows thee, thou gay and vain. And all thy schemes of pride will mar. He takes the wheel from thy splendid car And hurls thee prostrate on the plain ! Nature heeds not thy parting groan No more than thou didst the beggar's moan ; The skylark amid the full sun-blaze is singing. While down the lone valley thy death-shriek is ringing ! Ah ! what are worldly pomp and glory ? An empty shadow, a noisy story ! While earthly pleasure is a fleeting dream. And honour but the meteor's gleam ! J. F. P. T-2 27G THE PHAETON. TfiF, lofty, light, and elegant vehicle, which took its name from the ambitious charioteer of antiquity, is now almost discarded ; and, in its stead, the stage coach form and character is adopted ; in which the closest resemblance, in all its accompa- niments of guard, coachman, and passengers, is rigidly observed. The close inspector (if indeed any one can inspect closely that which moves at the rate of twelve miles an hour) may detect a small coronet and arms upon the well-varnished pannel, and not be led into a mistake similar to the one which we are about to mention. A female of genteel appearance having failed to secure a place in one of the stages that run be- tween Brentford and London, hailed one of these perfect imitations : it stopped at her bidding ; and inquiries being made as to what part of London she THE PHAETON. 277 was going, she was very quietly admitted to the inside, of which she was the sole occupant. The vehicle stopped in Piccadilly, at a harness-ma- ker's, where, to her astonishment and confusion, her driver on the box was accosted by the tradesman by the title of " My Lord." Abashed, however, as she was by the discovery, she kept her self-pos- session, and, on the steps being let down for her to alight, quietly asked what was the fare, and was as quietly told she was very welcome. Doubtless this aftorded the good-natured peer an opportunity of regaling his friends with a rare joke, and the Four-in-hand Club must have allowed that he had topped his part. That men should wish (however unphilosophical and silly the desire) to be taken for their betters, is not to be wondered at ; but that any should be found solicitous to sink in the scale of appearance, and assume the rank of inferiors, may create sur- prise ; except in those who are acquainted with the caprices of wealth, and the ever-veering weather- cock of fashion, turning as it does from one point 278 death's doings. to another ; and that most frequently in the very opposite direction. The story of Phaeton applies very justly to the high-mounted of every age, but it may be ques- tioned if any country can show more numerous examples of driving characters than England. The turf and the stable have their students, and divide with our colleges and halls the education of our nobles. Were it necessary to quote examples in which the fall of Phaeton has been exemplified by our modern charioteers, they would perhaps be too numerous to detail : the danger of driving is suffi- ciently obvious to justify the shape of Death assumed in the design given in the plate on this subject. But the warning intended by the artist will be to little purpose, while the love of distinc- tion, and of that noble animal the horse, remains. This folly has, at least in appearance, degraded the gentleman to the groom ; but it is not good to play with edged tools : and there have not been THE PHAETON. 270 wanting instances in which squandered lortunc has placed the gentleman Jehu on the box of a real stage-coach as a dernier resort. It is not difficult to trace this predilection to its source in childhood. A whip in the hand of a youngster is sufficient to give a bias to his mind ; his training for the turf or the course will follow as eifect follows cause ; the moment he is re- leased from the shackles of restraint, he will com- mence his career, and the Four-in-hand Club may probably finish what the toy began. It may be, that this whip and spur speed of our riders and drivers had its origin in Rousseau's notion, that motion accelerated thought: for it is certain that pacing up and down the room has helped many an author to a word or a thought as well as it did the philosopher; when gnawing and twitching his pen, or fidgetting on his seat, has failed. In this view it would be perverse indeed not to wish success to our phaetons, young or old, in 280 death's doings, their pursuit of thought. It also may be quite in- correct to suppose that the break-neck speed with which the carriages of our nobles and gentles drive over our pavements, is prompted by any other motive than their owners having the most im- portant matters in hand ; which induces them thus to risk their own lives, and the lives of his ma- jesty's subjects. It cannot be believed that all this haste is to purchase a riband or to leave a card. No, it must be to obtain thoughts — a fact indeed which may be fairly inferred by the produc- tions of titled authors and authoresses that have recently appeared in the gallop of verse, or the more modest pace of prose ; many of which may justly serve to show that they have not run their course in vain. Had this motive for driving and motion been suggested to the caricaturist, Gilray, it would have spared him the trouble of satirizing, in a whimsi- cal print, an Honourable, Avho, he thought, sought only distinction by driving his phaeton in the full- town season through Bond Street, Pall Mall, and St. James's Street : for, while the graphic sati- THE PHAETON. 281 rist imagined the honourable personage was merely turning the wheels of his carriage, he might be all the while turning a thought, and therefore not be deserving the sarcastic allusion in the following lines, which were affixed to the print : What can little T— O— do? Why, drive a Phaeton and two ; Can little T — O — do no more ? Yes — drive a Phaeton and four. As well might the lines in " Hints on a Horse- race," apply to the profound and calculating thinkers on the turf, when proposing or hedging a a bet : — " In this harlequin jumble, Where great men are humble, A groom for a duke Is easy mistook ; But whichever you choose, The same are their views : To be talked of ai.d praised For the steeds they have raised. Should the good of the land Ever be at a stand, They are ready to bet On the national debt; But the whip and the spur They at all times prefer 282 death's doings. To the welfare of nations. Or the good of relations. * * » * For the virtues it breeds, And the numbers it feeds, What must not give place To a drive or a race ?" Far less should the splenetic couplet be relied on, which insinuates that any individual, either of Oxford or Cambridge, in order completely to imi- tate the coachman's habits, goes such lengths , — " That, with the vulgar mania bit, He'd lose a tooth to learn to spit." Such scandalous insinuations can have arisen only from Stable Talk, the title of an intended work, said to be written for the use and amuse- ment of the Fancy, &c. That difiiculty and peril attend the wheels of the ambitious charioteer cannot be denied, and that — " Sometimes the taking off a wheel May stop the driver's maddening reel, And plunge him, with his youthful breath. Into the icy arms of Death. But what then ! — the more danger the more ho- nour Proteus. 283 THE FOREBODING: A SKETCH. " Loathed Melancholy." — Milton. " If you please. Sir Henry, the curricle is quite ready." *' Very well," replied the master to his servant ; " bring me my boots, and desire her maid to ac- quaint your mistress that the carriage is waiting." The footman left the library, and Sir Henry Buckingham, going to the window which com- manded a view of his noble park, exclaimed to himself, " This will be a glorious day for our drive ! the sun will be tempered by those troops of soft clouds which are sailing about so quietly, throwing their grave shadows on the earth — the air is mild— last night's rain has filled the herbage 284 death's doings. with fragrance ; and the trees seem to rest, after the refreshing shower, in motionless and satisfied repose. All is as I could wish it to be, for my dear wife's sake, to whose spirits the airing will certainly be beneficial. This open, smiling, gentle scene, upon which I cannot look and de- spair, must assuredly infuse something of its healthiness into her mind." Here he paused in his soliloquy ; but whether to brood on the comfort of the thought, or to ex- amine its validity, was not at first apparent. It was soon, however, evident, that the feeling was one of misgiving, for his meditations again finding words, he said : " Yet why do I flatter myself thus ? The in- fluence of spring could not save her from the attack of the mind-sickness which weighs her down, neither will the laughing summer drive it away. My unhappiness, I fear, is irremediable! What avail my many worldly advantages, — fortune, youth, health, the possession of her whom I so long have loved ? Darkness is thrown over all THE FOREBODING. 285 by one misfortune, which is the more miserable, because, being causeless, I know not what to do to insure a remedy." Here a female servant entered the library with a request that Sir Henry would step into his lady's room, which, with a sigh laden with wretched an- ticipation, he obeyed. Lady Buckingham was a confirmed ennuyee. The two first years of her marriage passed hap- pily and even joyously ; but the last twelve months had been characterized by great and mys- terious depression, — a constant but undefined fear of some impending calamity, which shook her in- nocent heart to its very centre. Every change alarmed her. The seasons, in their diversity, ap- proached like portents ; and the coming-on of dawn, no less than the deepening shadows of even- ing, filled her with intolerable tremour. During the noon, either of night or day, she seemed to en- joy some little respite from her apprehensions, for then the hours appeared to pause ; but she could not divest herself of the dread that every obvious 286 death's doings. change was only the prologue of an unutterable tragedy. In vain her afiectionate husband tried to reason her out of these fears — in vain he ex- patiated on the simplicity of her character, on the whiteness of her conscience, and on her duty to be thankful to her Creator for the worldly bless- ings he had been pleased to bestow on her. She acknowledged the reasonableness of all this, and then, after a struggle, sank again into her dejec- tion, as though some invisible demon were prac- tising upon her his numbing spells ! Her very beauty was tainted with this melan- choly ; but still she was a lovely creature, — pale, indeed, and too thin for the perfection of feminine grace, though from the outline of her figure it was evident that nature had intended to fashion her shape in the full luxury of womanhood. Her voice was sweet beyond expression ; and formerly her words were simple, gentle, timid, even girlish ; and from the charm of their innocent spell it was not possible to escape. Alas ! this part of her character was now fearfully altered by the over- informing tyranny of her distemper, which had, as THE FOREBODING. 287 it were against her will, lifted her mental facul- ties out of their simplicity, perplexed them with " thick-coming fancies," and, by a painful pro- cess, filled them with premature knowledge and the command of lofty eloquence ! Her eyes were ever restless, glancing hither and thither with eager scrutiny ; but in other respects she was le- tliargic. Sir Henry, on entering her room, found that his wife had not yet risen, and that she had been weeping. " Why, my dear," said he, " I expected you would have been ready to accompany me in the little airing we spoke of last night, and now I find you dejected and in tears. For heaven's sake, arouse yourself in time from this melan- choly, or it will gather strength in proportion as you yield to it, until at last you will be its ab- ject slave." " I am that already," she replied ; " I am the victim of a throng of hideous fears, which scare away my wits. I do not dare to leave my bed ; and (jeer me as you may) I must tell you that I 288 death's doings. am warned, by my evil genius, — nay, smile not, for the fiend of destiny haunts me — that my death, and your's too, will be the consequence of my ac- companying you this morning." " Nothing, my dear," replied Sir Henry, " can be more unreal (I should say, ridiculous, did I not respect even your weakness) than these fears'. They are the oflFspring of ill health, to which you reduce yourself by persisting in so sedentary a life. You must not be offended, if, for once, I em- ploy the authority of a husband, and require that you forthwith prepare yourself for exercise and fresh air. Come, let me woo thee in the words of the holy oriental song : ' Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo ! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone ; the flowers ap- pear on the earth ; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle-dove is heard in our land.'" The heartfelt kindness of this solicitation was not lost on the lady, who, after a struggle with her apprehensions, arose, and dressed herself for THE POREUODING. 289 the morning ride, and joined her husband in the library. That the exercise might be more efficacious. Sir Henry extended the drive farther than he had at first contemplated, and, when about ten miles from home, called at the house of a friend, with whom he and his lady were prevailed on to partake of an early dinner. The jaunt and the cheerful society seemed to have a beneficial influence on the spirits of the hypochondriac. They returned in the evening. Twilight was coming on, and, as it deepened, gigantic clouds were observed lifting themselves uncouthly above the horizon, and congregating in sullen masses. This was succeeded by weak flashes of lightning, accompanied by heavy sultriness, and an unna- tural quiet. The leaves of the trees, which had rustled pleasantly during the day, were now still; the shallow brooks, which had made music with their fresh rippling, seemed now like stagnant pools; the cattle crouched together and became mute. Meanwhile the lightning grew stronger, though u 290 death's doings. still not blue or forked, or attended l)y thunder. Darkness at length ensued ; and, of a sudden, there came a blast of air like a mighty whirlwind, which tore the branches from the heavier trees, and bent the light ones till their tops swept the ground, even as though they were bowing in wor- ship of the Angel of the Storm ! The whole earth appeared to stagger ; when a terrific dart of light- ning ran, like a huge serpent, down the sky, mak- ing rifts in the dense clouds, and affording awful revelations of the interior heaven. This was instantly succeeded by a stunning and continued peal of thunder, and a descent of rain, like the be- ginning of another deluge. The lightning now was incessant ; sometimes appearing to dash broad floods of light with force upon the ground, and at others to throw a blue and ghastly illumination against the severed masses of the clouds, which had assumed the grand forms of mountains and pyramids and colossal temples ! What a frightful hour must this have been for our poor afflicted lady ! It shook even the strong nerves of her husband ; whose agitation was in- THE FOREBODING. :291 creased, when, on looking round at his wife, he perceived she had fainted, O ! how he blamed his pertinacity in urging her to take the excursion. There was, however, no time for reflection : his presence of mind and skill were required in the management of his horses ; for death seemed in- evitable, should they, by becoming wild, get be- yond his control. He, therefore, merely drew his lady's cloak nearer about her, and concentrated his attention on the reins, which he held with a strong and wary hand, and thus driving through the terrors of the night, he at length reached his own gates in safety. The lady was restored sooner than the fears of Sir Henry had allowed him to expect. She passed a calm night of refreshing sleep, and in the morn- ing, which was fine and bright, talked over, with cheerfulness, the danger of the preceding evening. This unlooked-for amendment of her spirits con- tinued for some time, and gave her husband rea- son to indulge in confident hopes of her settled re- covery. Her former distemper furnished a theme even for raillery, during which she not only mani- u2 292 death's doings. Icsted no signs of impatience, but even joined in the pleasantry, and wondered at her own delusion. Alas! this was not of long duration. A relapse came on ; and one morning at breakfast, after a long silence, she suddenly burst out as follows: " O ! my husband, I have had a ghastly dream, which w eighs upon me like the announcement of fate^ and will not be shaken off. That fearful ride ! The memory of it has haunted me all night. Some of its terrors, indeed, were diminished ; but then, others more fatal, more tremendous, more maddening, were substituted. Methought we were, as then, in that open carriage — it was broad day, clear, cloudless, and with a deep blue sky. Every thing seemed happy, and you and I en- joyed to the full the blessed tranquillity. As I looked about me, however, I became gradually aware of a minute stain in the lower atmosphere, like a blot, which moved near and around us, now here, now there, in a strange manner. I endea- voured once or twice to push it aside ; but at this, it only seemed to hang closer to my eyes. I was THE FOREBODING. -21)3 about to call your attention to it, when, of a sud- den, it swelled into size and shape, and I beheld, flying at my side, a bony spectre, — the king of terrors — Death ! The horses had an instinctive re- cognition of the phantom, for they moaned dis- mally, their nostrils were dilated, the whole of their frame was seized with convulsive shudder- ings, and they struggled as though to escape from the trammels of the harness. I was distracted with terror, when the gaunt and execrable monster, touching me, whispered in my ear, ' Thou art mine ^-this night shalt thou sleep in ray everlasting cave !' As it said this, the hateful thing shifted its position, and when I turned round I saw it had crouched under one of the wheels, which it lifted up, and threw the carnage over the brink of a deep precipice. I shrieked aloud, and, as I fell, the de- mon, with a laugh of exultation, caught me in his arms, and bore me into the darkness of the chasm." " Do not distress yourself so, my dear," said Sir Henry ; " forget this vain dream — forget it, I be- seech you. Your spirits shall no more be put to a trial so severe as that which you had to en- counter the other night ; for I plainly sec, in spite •2iH dkath's doings. ol" the apparent cheerfulness which subsequently elevated you, that the recollection of the tempest has been engendering these hideous phantasms. You shall not again trust yourself in that vehicle." " And yet," she replied, " my spirits were re- lieved by the former excursion, notwithstanding my reluctance to engage in it ; and, it may be, that the storm which seemed so full of danger, but, in the event, was so harmless, served to con- vince me of the vanity of my alarms. I shall al- ways be under the dominion of this dream, if I do not prove its fallacy. For this purpose, I will make a strong effort, and beg you to take me again with you in that very carriage and along that very road, and I shall doubtless return home liberated from the haunting terror." " I congratulate you, from my heart, on your resolution," said Sir Henry, embracing his wife. " We will go, and, as you say, yim shall have abundant demonstration of the groundlessness of your dread." To put her determination in practice was, how- THE FOREBODING. 295 ever, as she had premised, a painful effort on the part of the lady. She trembled as she stepped into the carriage, and dropped into her seat, with the desparate air of one obliged to submit to some extreme calamity. With such a white face and forced composure, did Tell level the arrow against the apple on his dear boy's head ; and so looked Brutus as he assumed the judgment-seat to pro- nounce sentence of death on his son ! It was a lovely day, with fresh airs breathing about, and a sky deeply blue like that of the South. In the course of the journey, they turned, they scarcely knew how it happened, into a lane in which they did not recollect to have ever been before. It was a solitary spot ; the road was exceedingly un- even, and the swaying of the carriage to and fro was occasionally not without danger. They had pene- trated the avenue so far that it was not advisable to return ; yet, although the way was so uncouth, they could hardly fear an accident, as the horses were known to be stea'^y, and the mid-day light was so strong and clear. Presently they came to a break in the hedge on one side, and this shewed them that they were on the brink of a sudden 296 death's doings. descent into a deep dell. The lady shuddered vio- lently as she saw this ; but Sir Henry, in an at- tempt to re-assure her, said : " There is nothing here to fear, although it must be confessed this pit looks ugly enough. You know I am an approved good charioteer, and, see, yonder we shall have the fence again. Cheer up, ray love." He had no sooner said these words than a large bird darted out from the opposite hedge with a rushing noise across the eyes of the horses, who, taking fright thereat, pulled different ways, and grew utterly unmanageable. The lady had only time to shriek out, " Sec the horses ! the dream, the dream !" — when the carriage rolled on one side, and then was precipitated over the edge of the steep. Some peasants, who accidentally strayed into that unfrequented place the same evening, found the carriage among briars and underwood, at the bottom of the dell, the horses mangled and dying, and the luisbaud and wife folded in each others' arms, «lcad and cold! C. O. iOEATH'S ME'GISTEE. DEATH (A DEALER), TO HIS LONDON CORRESPONDENT. Sept. 1, 1826. Per post, sir, received your last invoice and letter. No consignment of your's ever suited me better : The burnt bones (for flour) far exceeded my wishes. And the coculus-indicus beer was delicious. Well, I'm glad that at last we have hit on a plan Of destroying that long-living monster, poor man : With a long-neck'd green bottle I'll finish a lord. And a duke with a pdte d, la perigord ; But to kill a poor wretch is a different case, For the creatures will live, though I stare in their face. Thanks to you, though, the times will be speedily alter'd. And the poor be got rid of without being halter'd : 298 death's doings. For ale and beer drinkers there's nothing so proper as Your extracts of coculus, quassia, and copperas — Call'd ale, Irom the hundreds that ail with them here. And beer, from the numbers they bring to their bier !* In vain shall they think to find refuge in tea — That decoction's peculiarly favoured by me ; Sloe-leaves make the tea — verdigris gives the bloom — And the slow poison's sure to conduct to the tomb. As for coffee, Fred. Accum well knows the word means Naught but sand, powder, gravel, and burnt peas and beans. But let us suppose that they drink only water — I think there may still be found methods to slaughter A few of the blockheads who think they can bam me By swallowing that tasteless liqueur. — Well, then, d — me ■ IJofli these puns have been consecrated by Bishop An- drews, in his ex-ale-tation of ale. This poem has also been as- cribed to Beaumont. D 15 A T H ( A D li A L E R . ) 29}) (You'll pardon my wrath), they shall drink till they're dead From lead cisterns — to me 'twill be sugar of lead ! When deeper-purs'd fellows, addicted to swill, would Drink port — I'll make use of your load of Brazil wood : But I wish you'd send more laurel-leaves and sweet brier For such as may like sherry flavoured much higher ! For the bottles, — you know, sir, I'm fairly entrust- ing 'em To your tartrate of potash for tinely incrusting 'em. Laurel-water, oak saw-dust, and quicklime, have come Just in time to be mix'd with the brandy and rum. Beer, tea, coffee, wine, rum, brandy, water — I think We've prepared for the stomachs of all those who drink ; And you'll kindly assist me to work a like feat By pois'ning the stomachs of all those who eat. Alum, clay, bones, potatoes, shall mix in theirbread. And their Gloucester derive its deep blush from red lead! 300 death's doings. But why do I mention such matters to you, Who without my poor hints know so well what to do ? You provide for the grocer, the brewer, the baker. As they in their turn do for the undertaker. P. S. — By the by, let me beg you, in future, my neighbour. To send me no sugar that rais'd hy free labour. Unless you can mingle a little less salt In the pound — for the public presume to find fault With the new China sweefning — and though they allow That they'll take the saints' sugar (attend to me now). Even cum grano salts — they do say that such An allowance as 30 per cent, is too much. Your's, &c. 301 AN AUXILIARY OF DEATFl. It was in the tranquil reign of , when neither war, pestilence, nor famine, swept the sub- jects of his kingdom from the face of the earth, that the grim Monarch of the Tomb began to think himself defrauded of his rights, and to devise how to remedy the wrongs which he concluded had been inflicted upon him. And, first, he called before him his regulating agent. Old Father Time, upbraiding him with lengthening the years of the inhabitants of this favoured empire, and especially by unnaturally prolonging the duration of peace. With this Time said he had nothing to do, but that he could perhaps give a guess at one of the causes that kept this portion of the human race a longer period than heretofore on earth. It was 302 death's doings. that a learned and skilful leech* had succeeded in quelling a direful malady; and that not only this pestilent disorder, but others of a very ma- lignant kind, had been greatly mitigated by the progress of knowledge which had of late years di- minished the practice of medicine. At this information. Death cast a withering look around him, and, in a sepulchral tone, com- manded some of the principal destroyers of the human race to appear in his presence. And now a low, but portentous sound was heard, as coming from a remote part of the cavern in which Death held his court, which gradually became more audible and terrific, until a form, gi- gantic in size, and furious in aspect, stood re- vealed. The uproar which immediately preceded his approach resembled the discharge of artillery, the clashing of swords, and the shouts of combat, mixed with the groans of dying men. — It was the Demon of War. * Some presume that Dr. .Tenner, of vaccine celebrity, is here alluded to. — Ed. AN AUXILIARY OF DKATII. 303 This fell destroyer was, however, soon dis- missed ; his readiness to serve was not at all questioned : and, if Death had to complain of the want of supplies. War had to grumble at his want of employment. — He accordingly filed ofl' with marks of approbation, and an assurance that his vacation would not last long . The phantom that next appeared was preceded by no sounds, but a chilling atmosphere seemed to invade even the chamber of Death, and the gaunt figure of Famine, with its meagre and wasted visage, stood before the grim Monarch of the Tomb. Upon being questioned why he had not visited the favoured land and given his powerful assist- ance in forwarding the works of the Destroyer, he readily answered, that he acted only on com- mission, and by the decrees of a higher power. True, he had his substitutes, the monopolists ; — some how or other, however, their measures were defeated by the bounty of Providence, or the vigi- lance of the government ; but he had an all- 304 death's doings. powerful friend and ally whom he would pre- sently introduce, with the permission of his mighty Commander, who had already made no inconsiderable inroads on the human frame by mixing himself in every society, where he seldom failed in planting his baneful influence, and in ac- celerating the march to the tomb. Desirous of being acquainted with the ally and friend of Famine, Death gave instant orders for his admission; and accordingly a low breathing was first heard, which gradually increased to deep sighs, and, on a signal given by Famine, a figure started into view : his pace sudden and irregular, his looks eager and penetrating, his visage sal- low and gaunt like that of his precursor, and, hi- deous to relate, he was in the act of feeding upon a human heart ; while the looks that he cast around him seemed to evince an insecurity of enjoyment of the hateful meal. The auxiliary now brought into the awful pre- sence was Care, who, tremulous from anxiety, suspended awhile his operation of devouring, in AN AUXILIARY OF UKATFI. 305 obedience to the commands of so absolute an interrogator. In exhibiting his means to effect the destruction of the human race, he produced a mixture which had the power so to canker and corrode the heart it once entered, that neither wealth nor great- ness could withstand its baneful influence; and, while the fiendlike power was describing the va- rious characters that had sunk beneath the effects of this subtle poison, it seemed as if Care himself could be diverted from carefulness when ardently employed. The details of his operations, and the artifices used by the afilicted parties to disguise their malady, threw a fitful gleam over the coun- tenance of the grim tyrant, that gave a momentary emotion to his ghastly features ; but whether the expression was surprise, or triumphant malignity, was not easily to be determined. A pause of some length ensued, after which Care was permitted to touch, by way of approbation, the icy hand of Death, and to receive a regular commis- sion enlisting him into the various forces employed X 30fi death's doings. in the destruction of the human species. Hence he carries on his operation in courts, in camps, in the palace of the monarch, and in the cottage of the villager. But it is in civilized life, and amid scenes of leisure and retirement (where his pre- sence is least suspected) that his power is mostly felt : indeed, a laugh is no unfrequent disguise that his victims put on, and his place of concealment is often a bed of roses. Hatchment. THE JLAWYER, :}()/ DEATH AND THE LAWYER A DIALOGUE. DEATH. Good morrow, Sir! my call, I trust, is Agreeable to Law and Justice ; — You see, I've got a cause in hand. So brought the brief— * The writer of this imperfect sketch feels himself bound to make an apology for the crude state in which it appears — not for the purpose of deprecating fair and liberal criticism (for no one ought to flinch from that under any circumstances), but merely as his excuse for treating so fertile a theme as Law in so barren a manner. The fact is, that " Death's Doings" had been publicly announced to appear on the 2d of October ; and the Printer waited till the last moment (Sept. 27) in expectation of receiving a poetical contribution on law, from the pen of a gentleman who had promised one — and who, doubtless, would have written on it far more to the purpose — when the mortifying intelligence arrived, that owing to indisposition he was unable to fulfil his promise. This was an awkward dilemma ; for, as not one Plate had been dismissed without some poetical Illus- tration, Law, by such a marked omission, would, it was thought, have appeared to have been treated contumeliously ; at the pressing request of the artist, therefore, this colloquial bagatelle was attempted, and in a few hours sent to the Printer *' with all its imperfections on its head." x2 308 ukath's doings. LAWYER. I understand — But, truly, when at first you enter'd. To raise my eyes I scarcely ventur'd ; So very like a ghost you look'd, I almost fancied I was book'd. DEATH. And so I think you are, my bold one — Book'd for a passage to the old one. [Aside. Ah, Sir ! so wondrous thin I'm grown. That urchins cry out Daddy Bone ; While full-grown wags indulge their whim. And, jeering, call me Gaffer Grim ! LAWYER. The varlets ! do they ? — that's a lihel, As sure as truth is in the Bible ; Scan. mag. at least, and defamation, To any gent, of reputation. My dear Sir, let me bring an action Against the rogues — and satisfaction. In damages, you'll get, depend on't; — Nay, that alone mayn't be the end on't; For, if I can, a bitter pill I'll give them in a Chancery bill ; DEATH AND THE LAWYER, 301) And when I once have got them there, Such affidavits I'll prepare, That though they swear with all their might, I'll prove, if need be, black is v/hite. That right is wrong, and wrong is right ; And — what to them the greatest curse is — However full, I'll drain their purses. DEATH. 1 dare say your advice is proper — But, Sir, these chaps have not a copper To spend in law — LAWYER. Oh, never mind — The money, somewhere, I would find ! Indeed, I feel for you sincerely. And fain would punish them severely. — But what's your present business, pray ? DEATH. Why, Sir, I wait on you to-day. To bring the brief and a retainer — [^Gives a retaining fee. 310 death's doings. LAWYER. I hope, dear Sir, you'll be a gainer. [ Pockets the fee, and bows. DEATH. You hope so, eh? — you'll change your story When you've discover'd who's before ye. [Aside. The brief, I think, you'd better read. And afterwards we may proceed To see what course we should pursue ; The facts I'll fairly state — and you Can then judge what you ought to do. LAWYER. Why, as to reading briefs, the fact is, 'Tis not exactly modern practice ; However, I can skim it through. And make a marginal or two — That 1 can do in half a minute — 13ut, good or bad your cause, I'll win it ! [Takes the brief, —reads, — but soon appears dreadfully agitated.] DEATH AND THE LAWYER. 311 DEATH. Why look you. Sir, with such surprise ? Why shakes your frame — why roll your eyes ? — Your client ! see — without disguise ! [Death throws off his clothing . LAWYER. Dread Spectre ! are you what you seem — Or am I in a frightful dream ? — And oh ! — the brief \ — what dreadful pain Now racks my poor distracted brain ! "What horrid vision of the night Is this which stands before my sight. And fills me with such dire affright ? Hence — hence ! — I pray ye— hence ! DEATH, Not I! Before I go, the cause we'll try : — My case, at full, I'll fairly state ; You, as your brethren's advocate. Must meet the charges I shall bring. — Thus, then, as counsel for the King, 312 dkath's doings. I am instructed to maintain. That all the money you obtain, The produce is of woe and pain ; That dire contention and confusion Are brought about by your collusion ; That law and endless litigation (Which ruin more than half the nation. Entailing mis'ry on mankind) Delight your mercenary mind ; That civil broils, domestic jars, Seduction, rapine, murders, wars. Men's own misfortunes and their neighbours'. Are all encouraged by your labours : What say you, Sir ? LAWYER. With due submission, I'd humbly state, no fair decision I possibly can here obtain For, if by right I were to gain The cause, I'm almost sure ye Would constitute both judge and jury : I therefore do submit, by law, We ought, Ihis action to withdraw. DEATH AND THE LAWYER. 313 DEATH. D'ye doubt my justice ? — Zounds and fury ! LAWVKR. Justice ! we that leave to the Jury ; The Law knows nothing (although odd it is) Of justice, truth, and such commodities. DEATH, Ah ! say you so ? — what is Law, then ? LAWYER. Law is a trade — by which some men Arrive at honours, wealth, and state ; Others there are, less fortunate. Who drive a harmless goose's quill From morn to night with no small skill. And yet can ne'er their bellies fill ; But they are simpletons — and whoso Knows their fate, will never do so. DEATH. How, Sir I explain ! — but no digression.— 314 death's doings. LAWYRR. This trade— or, rather, " the profession," Requires, you see, a man of parts, One who has learnt the useful arts. DEATH, " The useful arts!"— pray, which are they? LAWYER. For little work, to get great pay ; — But if he see no hopes of booty. Of course he should perform no duty; — Thus, if he can his int'rest serve. And get rewarded, he may swerve From any needy half-starv'd client ; — In short, to int'rest be compliant Eternally — no earthly reason Should put self-int'rest out of season ; — With Lawyers 'tis a standing dish,— Their meat and drink ! — DEATH. Come, Sir, I wish DEATH AND THE LAWYER. 315 You'd cut the matter rather short. Or else, perhaps, I may resort To means which may be not quite pleasant. LAWYER, Pray do not mention them at present ! You bade me tell — what our arts are, — I've told you truly, I declare; And I should hope, that so much candour. Without a syllable of slander. Would e'en from you some kind regard Beget — indeed 'twere very hard That I should thus expose my friends. And you not make me some amends. DEATH. Sir, you presume ! — remember I Came here, a ticklish cause to try ; Though, possibly, put off I may The trial to another day ; — But, come — I'll hear a little more About the " useful arts" of your " Profession." 3l() death's doings. LAWYER. Proud am I to say. That no one can these arts display Better than he who stands before ye. — Thus, then, I now resume my story : — A Lawyer ought to take delight in All kinds of broils, abuse, and fighting ; For, few things likelier are to fill His pocket than a swingeing bill, Obtain'd through any civil action. When parties, seeking satisfaction, Go to the Bench or Common Pleas — For clever Lawyers there, with ease. Get fame, as well as lots of fees ! He should no legal mode neglect. The public's /o^/ie.s to correct ; By this I mean, a good tactician Should fearlessly perform his mission, Nor suflFer any threadbare maxim 'Bout want of honesty to tax him— DEATH, Hold ! hold !— for Honesty's abus'd. Whene'er the word'a by Lawyers us'd. I've heard enough ! — so, come with me. DEATH AND THK F.AWYKR. 317 LAWYER. Oh, no ! we never should agree ; Besides, you said, some other day You'd call, when I was in the way. DEATH. I own I did — then, be it so. And when you feel dispos'd to go. Perhaps you'll kindly let me know : — As to the cause I had to try With you — why, let it e'en stand by- Some other time will do — I'll now. With your permission, make my bow; But don't forget me ! if you do, I'll certainly remember you, And you shall recollect this warning : — Good morning to you. Sir — good morning ! — Next time you'll go!— I'll not be flamm'd. \_Exit Death. LAWYER (solus). Go ! — if I do go, S. M. «18 LAW. Law, while it is an exhausting, is also an in- exhaustible subject. The arrows of outraged jus- tice have so long been directed in vain at the abuses of the profession, that it is hardly now expected they should penetrate, and no wonder is felt at seeing them fall harmless at the feet of those who appear to " bear a charmed life." Still, as the grievances of the law's delay and its injustice exist, complaint and abuse will equally continue to assume the shapes of satire or raillery, in the chance of bringing down an adver- sary. One of these shapes is as follows : — " To him who goes to law, nine things are re- quisite. First, a good deal of money ; secondly, a good deal of patience ; thirdly, a good cause ; fourthly, a good attorney ; fifthly, a good counsel ; LAW. 319 sixthly, good evidence ; seventhly, a good jury ; eighthly, a good judge ; and, ninthly, good luck:' Law has been most aptly compared to an ab- sorbent pipe or channel, through which, T\hatever is poured into it, never passes ; and its delay and expense have been exemplified by a chancery suit, which, having maintained its conductor for thirty years, is left as a notable legacy to his heir. It has been made a question, whether more than half the estates in this kingdom would not change pos- sessors, was their legality properly sifted. Few, it is thought, would bear the ordeal touch of the lawyer's quill ; " flaws in the best" might be found — some are " flaw all over." Law-terms may, in a great measure, be under- stood for their opposites ; thus : — For Action, read Confinement. — Brief, Length or Delay. — Securities, Uncertainties. — Deeds, Words. — Settlement, Contentious. — Suit, Rags to the Client; though warm clothing to the Lawyer. 320 death's doings. As for justice, it is an obsolete term,, thought by some to signify the largest fee ; many doubt its existence on earth, and compare it to the perpe- tual motion, the philosopher's stone, the grand elixir, or any other chimera of the imagination. It may well be said, that what is one man's meat is another's poison ; since it is found that there are those of so perverse a disposition, that they cannot live without litigation, and must be handling the net of the law till they get entangled in its meshes. Characters of this description are principally found in country places, where causes spring up as fast as weeds, and are sure to encumber the richest soils ; then there is the game — what a prolific source of envy, hatred, and malice is the protection of game ! How many wrongs do the rights of man generate ! What a cause of bitterness to a sportsman is the full bag of a permitted shot ! From a box of game may have sprung evils almost as various as those which issued from that of Pandora; and while the London epicure is pick- LAW. 321 ing his teeth after his savoury meal, the purveyor may he payin<;j the expenses in a law-suit, shot in a poaching broil, or taking a trip to Botany Bay. " Have you got an attorney aboard V cried old Hawser Trunnion, as he approached an inn ; nor could he be induced to enter, till it was ascer- tained the coast was clear. Such was the pointed satire that Smollet levelled at the birdlime quality of law. The spirit of the law is indeed founded in equity, but it is the business of the litigators to quench that spirit; — hence arises all kind of legal distress, both in town and in country ; hence, all that load of wretchedness and misery, that God bless my soul! what have I been writing about? — Why surely it is not actionable? — I don't know that ; to be sure of it, it will be necessary for me to examine carefully ; let me see — units, tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of — I'll count no more. " Let me not think on't, that way madness lies ;" the vision of such mighty volumes would ap- pal the stoutest heart. Y S22 - death's uoings. But what, it may be asked, has Death to do with the lawyer, any more than with the member of any other profession ? It comes to him as it comes to all. It may i)e so; but there arc not wanting in- gtances where the finer network of the brain, and a higher-wrought sensibility of the nerves, have given way to the entanglements and multi- plied intricacies of law; till Reason, tottering on its throne, has been at last extinguished by Death. But though this observation may not be univer- sally applicable, yet we believe it would be difli- cult to find a character to whom the approach of the King of Terrors would frequently be more ill- timed ; for, under the circumstances of profes- sional engagements, every thing that should be done for every body, may be left, in chaotic con- fusion, to be handled by the unskilful, or scat- tered into fragments to furnish matter for fresh li- tigation. Peter Plaintiff, 323 DEATH, THE SAGE, AN J) THE I OOL * 1. Henck with thy rhapsodies — the world — the world ! — Weuds on his reckless course the gay — the young— Where Fashion hath her gonfalon unfurled. And Beauty's Circe-lips have loudest sung ! What, though the roses which fond childhood flung O'er his calm breast, are scorch'd by Passion's flame. And all is desolate where they blushing sprung ; — He seeks enjoyment, and loud laughs at fame, — He gains it — bitter gain : a mockery — but a name ! * F/f/e Frontispiece. y2 324 death's doings. II. Yet, though— albeit, in his wild career. He join in midnight dance and revelry, — And doth, like tipsy pilot, madly steer His reeling bark through Passion's ruthless sea,— Unchecr'd, unlustred by bright Beauty's eye, Long wont to shine, and kindly guidance give — (A constant cynosure from laughing sky). Yet hath been his to some (sad) purpose live. And have a goal in life, though not a name survive ! III. But 'tis not thus with cold and cloistered Sage, AVasting in calculating dreams his day ; Till his shorn temples are besprent by age, And manhood's sunshine yields to evening gray ! One constant task his rolling years display, — His task of visioned mystics ; whilome health Fades like a morning mist away — away, — And grim Death stalks with solemn-pacing stealth. To mar his full-blown hopes, — his heart's long- hoarded wealth I DEATH, THE SAGE, AND THE FOOL. 825 IV. Then — then what boots the philosophic fire, That lit the sacred mansion of his breastf Freedom tVom Passion's thrall and young Desire, — And stern rebuke of Beauty's soft behest. Sighing and pining to be fond carest ? Hath he enjoyed the loveliness of life. Alone by Reason's Prosper-wand confess'd ? Alas ! his feverish dreams and visions rife Have mildewed judgment, — thought, — though far re- moved from strife. V. Land of the storied brave, — though now the tread Of the dull slave unechoed walk the ground. Yet, glorious land, thine — thine the learned dead ! There his wise saws the Citian* sage around To wondering crowds proclaimed; there— there was found The heaven-blest doctor of the Academe ; Thence the Aristotelian thunder's sound Issued, and glow'd the philosophic beam ; Yet light-sped it has pass'd, and all is but a dream ! * Zeiiu, tlic stoic. 326 death's doings. VI. Death and obstruction* now their empire hold Where once was angry jar and hot dispute; Fame, that would aye their endless praise have told ! Hath silenced now her hoarse unheeded suit To hard posterity ; — and all is mute. Save the loud jibes of envious Mockery's tongue. Such is of earthly Worth the bitter fruit ; While o'er its tomb her scornful laugh hath rung, When pointing at the 'scutcheon Age would high have hung ! VII. And thy lot, wisdom-scoftcr, is the same. Though mock'st thou Cynic tub and Stoic school ! Yea, Folly ne'er will fail her own to claim, — Her mark denounces thee, cold heartless fool. For wasting life without design or rule ! Oh, foolishness ! to gaze upon the land. And idly deem Creation but the tool To feed thy sluggishness with impious hand — And, for thee, wonders work, as erst on Egypt's strand ! * " To lie ill cold obstruction ;iiul to rot." — SliAKsrEAiiii. DEATH, THE SAGE, AND THE FOOL. 327 VIII. Enthusiast — impious boaster, — think'st tlic eartli In gladness yields to summer's hot embrace. Only to lengthen thy impassioned mirth ; So thou, exalted in thy pride of place, Deem thyself only favoured of thy race? The while, to waste is thine sole idle care, In bubbled fancies, youth and manhood's grace ; And, having dreamt of pleasure — new, bright, fair. In rapture wild thou snatchest, — and Death's hand is there ! IX. Bold madman — fool, — save bauble, crest, and bell ! Nurtured hadst thou that seed kind Heaven hath sown Within thy bosom, — and who — who shall tell But it to glowing vigour might have grown, And yielded richer fruit than e'er hath blo\\Ti Within the Hesperian dragon-warded meads ? But years on swallow-wings have rapid flown. Whilst thou art yet to learn that there must needs. To immortalize thy name, be bright immortal deeds ! 328 death's doings. X. Read ye the page of history : Greece had sous Such as have never lived iu other land ! Think ye the glory which through ages runs In loud acclaim of that most glorious band, Who scorn'd to yield, and died with glaive in hand, Was but the work of chance? — No; Spartan laws. Which they were taught full well to understand. And Lacedemonian discipline — the cause ! Persuasion only from his cell Perfection draws. XI. 'Tis not for all, with honied words, to lull The storm-urged fury of the vulgar crew, — Nor Nature's gems from their dark mines to cull, — Nor drink at Inspiration's fount, where few Quailed, and of old poetic phrenzy drew ! 'Tis not the child's from cradle forth to move, Prankt in the array of grace and wisdom true. Like Pallas springing from the head of Jove, Clad in the dazzling panoply of Heaven above! DEATH, THE SAGE, AND THE FOOL. 329 XII. Yet on, o'er spring-flowered earth, o'er wintry seas. Reckless ye haste, with never-tarrying speed. Clouded by Folly's thousand fantasies ; — Shadows your aim, — and Death the well-earned meed ! On — on ye pass, — and thousands quick succeed ! Such is the scope of human joys and fears ! Thrice blest in hope, and trebly cursed in deed ! Ye clutch the bow that high in Heaven appears. As though some new delight, — ye clutch a bow of tears ! 330 THE SAGE AND THE FOOL. •' The air hath bubbles as the water hath. * * * * and do but blow them to their trials, tlio bub- bles are out." SHAKSPEAUli. " How he marks his way With dreadful waste of what deserves to shine! Art, genius, fortune, elevated power, — With various lustres these light up the world, Wiiidi Death puts out, and darkens human race." — YouNt; When this globe of the earth First sprang into birth, A^nd man on its surface 'gan crawl, 'Twas knowledge he sought, — But a bubble he caught. And gave for an apple his all. And we hear, too, beside, That the bubble ol" pride Drove a host of the angels from Heaven ; Is it, then, such a wonder That mortals should blunder, And break the command that was given? THE SAGE AND THE FOOL. 331 So, ever since then, 'Tis the practice of men To shape all their courses in trouble ; Yet in colours so briglit, That they dazzle the sight. But end, like their hopes, in a bubble. Thus, ambition and fame. While they glitter in name. And show in the prospect so fair ; Yet, ere hold you can take. The gay phantoms break. Or vanish, like bubbles, in air. Even friendship and love. Like stars from above. That brighten our paths as we go. Too often we find Of the same brittle kind, — As bubbles in colour and show. Then the fool and the sage. In every age. Lift their schemes into life with a breath ; Or of science or wealth. They escape as by stealth. Or are presently put out by Death. D. 832 THE FOOL AND THE I^HILOSOFHEU. A VISION. It was a delightful evening in the middle of August: the sun, shorn of his beams and like a vast globe of fire, majestically descending, spread a warm and mellow lustre over the western sky; and, fringing with gold the edges of the wavy lines of purple clouds, which stretched athwart the azure concave, produced one of those rich effects, which defies the pencil of the artist, and captivates the mind with pleasing wonderment. All was calmness around; even the pendent birches on the craggy face of Ben Ain were moveless ; not a breath of air stirred ; and but for the gurgle of the mountain streams and the rush of a large cascade, close to the little inn of the Trosacks, at the window of which I was seated, the stillness would have been profound and most impressive. I had been perusing a few pages of Pierce Plowman ; and had TFJR POOL AND THE PHILOSOPHER. :i03 just rested the book on my knee, to admire the mag- nificent scene which lay before me: every swell- ing knoll and abrupt crag on the huge back of Ben Venue, and all the feathery crest of the leafy gar- niture of the Trosacks brightly illuminated by the declining beam, softened off and lost in the deep purple shadows of the glens and hollows. As I gazed, the last segment of the solar disk sunk behind the mountain, blending the distance of the landscape in one deep mass of shade, but mark- ing more strongly the grand outline of Ben Venue and his stupendous congeners ; strikingly displaying the superior sublimity of scenery still bearing the impress of the finger of Nature over the proudest eflforts of aspiring mortals. Full of the romantic; — the place, the hour, the monoto- nous sound of the neighbouring waterfall, and the universal stillness which prevailed, threw me into a reverie which, gradually settling into sleep, pro- duced the following dream. The scene upon which I had been gazing, and which had laid such hold upon my imagination as to continue present to my mind for some time after 334 death's doings. I was asleep, suddenly disappeared, and chanp^ed to a valley of most singular aspect. Although ol vast extent, yet it was enclosed, on every side, by stupendous mountains, the rugged and hoary sum- raits of which seemed to pierce the sky. Within these, rose inferior hills of the most diversified forms and character; some rocky and naked; others clothed with verdure to their summits, or bearing on their sides ample forests, through which pro- jected rocks with the richest garniture of brown and purple heath cushioning every shelf and crevice, and, mixed with the most luxuriant and varied foliage. Between these hills, lay gardens and orchards rich with every description of fruit; and watered by streams which the eye traced on the sides of the mountains, dashing from preci- pice to precipice and forming chains of cascades, till, brawling along their channels in the valley and meandering in a thousand directions, they peacefully mingled their waters in a lake, which spread its ample mirror at the base of the moun- tains. As 1 looked upon the scene, it seemed continually changing. At one time, the valley re- sounded with the notes of the feathered choristers ; THE FOOL AND THK Pnil-OSOPIIER. 335 at another the growl of the storm redoubled its peals among the echoing rocks. Sometimes, em- bowered among the trees, appeared the village with its simple pointed spire ;— whilst I gazed, it be- came a magnificent city with crowded streets, porticos, splendid palaces, and venerable fanes. Now a gaudy procession of princes and priests and knights and ladies would seem to issue from its gates ; and sports and tournaments were held. I looked again, and anon a real battle raged beneath its walls. The opposing armies, the charges of the chivalry, the smoke, the retreat, the pursuit were all visible. I could even fancy I heard the clamour of the fray, the shouts of the victorious and the groans of the vanquished; when, suddenly, not a trace remained of the city, the processions, the combatants ; all had passed away and given place to some other illusion. As I turned my eyes towards the lake, it would sometimes appear expanded to an ocean bear- ing on it navies. At one moment, the sun shin- ing upon the white, swelling sail, the gallant ship danced gaily on the lightly rippled bosom of the deep ; at another, the congregated clouds freighted 336 death's doings. with storm, seemed to mingle with the waves, and pouring their fury upon the flexile element, the vessel struck upon a rock and split into a thou- sand pieces. The shrieks of the drowning ma- riners reached my ears ; I saw them struggling with the waves and dashed to death upon the rocks, over which the boiling breakers roared : the sight was too horrific : T hid my face in my hands ; and, when I removed them, lo ! again the placid lake, reflecting the downward mountains, the hills and all their leafy tracery spread before my eyes. Astonished and bewildered with what I had seen, I looked in vain for some one to solve the mystery ; for although the valley seemed crowded with moving objects, apparently men and women occupied in every possible manner, yet, as I approached them they instantly vanished; like a picture in a Camera Obscura, all seemed natural and animated, yet nothing was tangible. " This is surely the Valley of Deception," exclaimed I, thinking audibly : " nothing is what it appears to be." " It is then a true picture of the world," THE FOOL AND THE PHILOSOPHER. 337 whispered a voice behind me, " turn and see." I turned and beheld, on a little elevation, at the dis- tance of twenty or thirty feet from me, two indivi- duals seated at the base of a small pyramid : but the voice did not proceed from them, for it again uttered behind me, " advance and satisfy your doubts ;" whilst at the same moment I was invo- luntarily impelled towards the pyramid. The two persons seated at its base were of the most oppo- site characters. One of them, from his motley garb, cap, ears and bells, appeared to be of that class of knaves, who were formerly the compa- nions of kings and princes ; and who enjoyed the sole privilege of speaking truth at court ; the other seemed from his habit to be a disciple of Zeno, or to belong to that sect of philosophers, which the Greeks termed Stoics : both, however, were engaged in the same occupation, — blowing soap- bubbles. At the foot of a pedestal, on which the Fool rested his arm, lay a bishop's mitre, an open music-book, the palette of an artist, and a spear ; the Philosopher rested his elbow upon an open volume, the title of which I perceived was " Surn- mum homim Virtus;" a scroll covered with logical z 338 death's doings. aphorisms lay at the base of the pedestal, and a celestial globe was behind it. 1 stood for some minutes contemplating both of these characters, who were not, in any degree, disconcerted by my approach. " There goes an Emperor," said the Fool, as he threw off a bubble from the bulb of his pipe, and followed its course in the air with his large protruding eyes. " See how his splendid robe glitters in the sunbeam ! Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, bright as the irridescent hues of the rainbow. Hah ! the ambi- tious dog ! — how he mounts above his fellows ! Now he has topped the summit of his flight — there ! there ! his golden dream is over — his bud- ding hopes are blasted — his pride for ever hum- bled — the bubble is burst ; and not a trace re- mains. Hah, ha, ha!" — and he shook his head, jingling the sonorous ornaments of his cap ; and, opening his capacious mouth, laughed long and loud. Another bubble less buoyant was thrown off as a Philosopher. " There he goes," said the fool, " with a drop at his tail to demonstrate the effect of gravity: — see, he turns like a whirling THE FOOL AND THK I'H i [.OSOPHER. 33iJ dervise! — he has, certainly, discovered the per- petual motion : happy soul ! the world will now be blessed, and he will be immortal. — Alas ! is it come to this? To fall in the moment of victory — to sink when the hand already grasps the prize — but so it is — gone like his precursor, and none knows whither." Again he shouted with joy; and held his sides with laughter : and in this man- ner the knave apostrophized each bubble which he blew, well maintaining the credit of the ancient craft of which he seemed the worthy representa- tive. It was in vain to address such a being, and therefore I turned to the Philosopher, who at that instant had thrown off a bubble from the point of a quill, and was following its course, with a look of intense interest, as it floated upon the breeze, until it was lost to the sight. " Mortal !" said he as he turned towards me his complacent counte- nance, ** Mortal! I already read your thoughts. Your laudable curiosity shall be satisfied : — sit down in peace, and listen to the voice of truth." I sat down, and he thus continued — " Mortal ! tlie z2 340 death's ijoings. valley which lies before you is a typification of the world. Its mountains and rugged rocks represent the difficulties and obstacles which beset man in his journey ; whilst they are also the true causes of the transitory felicity that he attains on earth ; for what enjoyment does he possess when not ac- quired by fatigue and industry, which does not be- come insipid and distasteful ? Ease and indolence and certain security soon pall upon the mind, which, restless, and never satiated with toil, rather than it will endure the torment of apathy, courts dangers and even finds a charm in Death. Say — without this allurement, would the patriot sacri- fice himself for the interests of his country, for the phantom Fame? Would the hero seek the bubble Reputation in the cannon's mouth ? Or the philosopher, spurning from him the enticements of Pleasure and heedless of the vicissitudes of life, waste the midnight oil and immure himself in the solitary cell, merely to be assured of an immortal fame among all the sons of men ? On the other hand, mortal! the hills, the vales, the forests, gardens, lakes, and streams which have charmed your sight, demonstrate the benevolence of Na- THE FOOL AND THE PHILOSOPHER. 341 ture, and show that amidst difficulties, horrors, changes, deceit, and wickedness, the world sup- plies the principles of harmony and proportion, and produces true felicity as the result of their conspiring order. Man alone is a paradox, and yet the whole race can be arranged under two classes, of which you behold us the representa- tives, the wise and the foolish ; this prolific and teeming with myriads of every country and kin- dred; that inrolling a very scanty proportion only upon its list, but these the true intellectual nobility of the earth. Like this fool, so is the mass of mankind occupied with the veriest trifles ; their projects as empty and as fragile as the bubbles which he commits to the air, blown only to be broken. They laugh at the idea of making man happy by reason; contented to believe that their senses and passions were bestowed only to be gratified, they are impatient of restraint and are convinced that the only road to happiness is to be found in following the dictates of Nature. Hap- less, infatuated beings ! who have brought dis- ease into the world, and have yielded to Death the (>mpirc of mortality : and who too late discover •342 dkath's doings. that it is difficult long to support pleasure, and that its invariable termination is satiety and dis- gust. " It is the object of the wise, on the contrary, to employ the senses only as the inlets of know- ledge, to cultivate the soil which Nature has planted with every material for the exercise of in- dustry, and to rein the passions under the control of reason. On these grounds I have founded a sys- tem which I am about to propound to you; which will banish physical evils from the earth and con- fer immortality upon the human race. This py- ramid is the emblem of my theory ; its broad base founded upon a rock and its apex pointing to the heavens, it scorns the rage of the conflicting ele- ments, and even defies the overwhelming power of Time." He paused : I raised my eyes to inquire the cause of the interruption, when to my astonish- ment I perceived a shadowy figure which I had not before observed, seated between my compa- nions ; grinning a ghastly look of contempt upon THE FOOL ANU THE FIIILOSOPHER. J343 the speaker, and in the act of touching both the sage and the fool with a dart tipped with fire, which he grasped in his fleshless hand. The eye- balls of the Fool seemed starting from their sockets — his face was turgid and purple, his breath gur- gled for a second in his throat, and after a con- vulsive gasp, he fell a lifeless mass at the foot of the Destroyer. The Philosopher lay for a few minutes as in a faint, his jaw fallen, his features pale and shrunk, and his eye filmed ; he fetched a deep sigh, and seemed to revive ; then turning his languid eye upon me, the placidity of his counte- nance unaltered, in scarcely audible accents uttered these words — '' Alas ! fellow mortal, experience only can teach wisdom : it has convinced me that my system is a vain hypothesis : man is still under the dominion of Death : but, in yielding to the ty- rant, I have the satisfaction of knowing that the change will enable me to solve the greatest of all secrets." As he calmly yielded up his breath, the ground seemed shaken as if by an earthquake, and the pyramid crumbled into dust. Awe-struck and trembling, I expected to be involved in the ge- neral ruin, when the voice which I had before heard •344 death's doings. again addressed me : " Mortal ! such is the frailty of humanity — virtue alone can render life happy : but austerity is not virtue ; to trifle time away is to waste life — to endeavour to reduce life to exact rule and method is commonly a painful task, oft, also, a fruitless occupation. While we are rea- soning concerning life, life is gone ; and Death, though perhaps they receive him diflerently, yet treats alike the Fool and the Philosopher." * A. T. T. * Hume's Essays — The Stoic. 345 THE BUBBLES. Of all the metaphorical allusions derived from objects either in nature or in art, to describe the evanescent character of life and its pursuits, that of a Bubble is perhaps the most perfect. Even the fair form of Creation, with its " pomp of groves and garniture of fields," has not inaptly been compared to the same object : its buoy- ancy in space, its excavated interior, and its par- tial explosions, bear out the resemblance, and have furnished philosophers, moralists, and di- vines, with their world of vanity, emptiness, and disappointment. " Lean not on earth, — 'twill pierce thee to the heart; A broken reed at best, but oft a spear, On whose sharp point Peace bleeds and Hope expires." Young. The world and its emptiness have been quaintly described by Quarl, in his Emblems : a man is re- 346 ni'.ATn's doings. presented as strikinj; upon a torrcstiial globe, and listening to the sound that proceeds from a thing so hollow. But, however apt the allusion of the figure and character of our globe may be to a bub- ble, the schemes and projects of its inhabitants resemble it still more strikingly. Some no sooner appear than they burst ; while others, buoyant for a time, become the objects of admiration and ap- plause, according to the degree of altitude they at- tain, or the brilliant colours they exhibit ; still their duration is but evanescent, and at length they vanish into air. Thus it is with the visions of Ambition, of Science, and of Wealth ; the re- semblance may readily be traced, and, though the observation may be trite, it is just. Then there is the skull, with its spherical form : its teeming brain, like the vapour in an alembic, is ever in motion ; till, exhausted by its cllbrts, it expires, or becomes, like Hamlet's, a " distracted globe." Every age has its bubbles, great and small ; and iheir history would furnish no uninteresting sul)- THE BUBBLES. 347 ject for the pen or the pencil. In such a history the builders of Babel would be among the first and most prominent actors : how that bubble burst is well known. The builders of the pyramids had duration for their object : knowing that Death would put out the bubble of their existence, they imagined they could perpetuate the memory of their names and exploits by a work that the hand of Time could not destroy ; but where is the his- tory of their makers, or the names they were meant to perpetuate ? But, leaving the bubbles of antiquity, our own times have had their full share, both in magni- tude and importance ; nor have their effects been less on the civilized world than any that have preceded them; and, though the mightiest of them has burst, the recollection of its character still remains, and will long remain impressed on the minds of the present generation. The bubble alluded to, and its final breaking at St. Helena, will doubtless be anticipated ; for still, " in the mind's eye," its portentous form is 348 death's doings. coutemplatcd. How it soared and glittered in the sun, intercepting its beams and overshadowing the nations ! Great as was the admiration which this bubble excited in the minds of some ; there were those who regarded the mighty phenomenon as destined to burst, and to have its fragments scat- tered ; but who would have imagined that the perspective of time would have exhibited such an ending, — of one, too, who compassed the earth in his mind's grasp, — confined to a little island, playing the mock emperor, and vapouring at des- tiny only to be released by the hand of Death ! Here let the sons of " vaulting ambition" pause, contemplate the mighty bubble, and then pursue their projects " with what appetite they may." Proteus. EFILOl'-'I^E, 349 THE EPILOGUE, ADDRESS RECAPITULATORY S^poftcn tj? Beats in fS^avatttr. Pray don't alarm yourselves! — 'tis only J! Just come to speak the Epilogue, — and try To make my bow, for once, before the curtain — Behind I've play'd an active part, that's certain : Aye, aye — sharp work I've had of late, I trow — Important " Doings," both with high and low ; The rich, the proud, the humble, and the poor. The learned sage, and the unletter'd boor. Have all succumb'd — and so must thousands more. Why, bless me, how you start ! how pale you look ! You tremble, eh, lest you be " brought to book ?" Nay, do not fear ! I now come but to speak, — Perhaps on business I may call next week : — Next week's too soon, you say? — well, then, I'll give A further respite, if you needs must live 350 death's doings. A little longer in this world of sorrow — But, stay^I'll think again of this to-morrow; For strange, aye, " passing strange" it doth ap- pear. That you, so often as you've call'd me here. Should, now I'm really come, shrink back thro' fear. What if the tragi-comedy of Life Be ended, with its ever-shifting strife Of pain and want, of trouble and alarm. Of passion's tumult — pleasure's fitful harm — Can that be cause for grief — that make you moan ? Short-sighted mortals ! you should clap — not groan ; Yes — were you wise, my presence you would hail ; And not, like dolts, your hapless fate bewail : Instead of sitting there, to sob and sigh. Your plaudits, long and loud, would rend the sky. And " Bravo, Death! bravissimo !" you'd cry. I know that all some " grand excuse" may plead. Some worldly reason, or some urgent need. For tarrying longer on this earthly ball ; — Indeed, there's nothing new in that, at all. One has not yet an ample fortune made ; Another wishes just to change his trade ; EPILOGUE. -351 A third protests his death is not expedient ; A fourth declares the time is inconvenient.— O what a scene of shuffling, shifting, shirking ! What paltry lies — what quibbling, and what quirk- ing! The Soldier hopes, when fools and tyrants quarrel. To grace his brows with never-fading laurel ; And begs I'll let him win some noble prize. Before he sheathes his sword, and prostrate lies. No, madman ! thy career of blood is o'er — No longer shalt thou dip thy hands in gore ; No longer fulminate the martial thunder. Nor glut thyself with rapine, blood, and plunder: List to the Widow's and the Orphan's cry ! Thyself prepare ! for Retribution's nigh ! With many an artful touch of special pleading. The Lawyer comes ; — but hopes that, through good- breeding, I'll " do the civil thing" by the Profession, And not arrest him till a future session. Bold as he is before a half-starv'd client. To me he's wondrous mealy-mouth'd and pliant ; 352 death's doings. And, oh ! what lame and impotent excuses, The rogue invents, to hide his vile abuses ! — All, all alike are — full of contradictions. Pleas, errors, counterpleas, demurrers, fictions ! Ready, most ready all, to " make averment," That services like theirs, should meet preferment ; And 'twould be hard, they say, — oh, very hard. If from " preferment" they should be dcbarr'd: — Such meek and gentle lambs ! so wondrous civil ! To hurry them so quickly to the Devil ! — Sweet babes of grace ! it matters not a straw How soon the Devil on you claps his paw ; Have you he will — he's issued his subpoena — I must obey — and will not, dare not, screen ye ; This world has seen too much of you — so go To kindred Demons in the Courts below ! The portly Priest, with expectation high. Entreats, for Virtue's sake, I'll pass him by. Virtue means purity, and good intention ; Now, what his virtues are, perhaps he'll mention ; For though, on duty bent, one day in seven. He proves his own's the only way to Heaven ; Yet such the force of carnal appetite, RPILOGUH. 353 That " loaves and fishes" form his chief delight, His constant thoughts by day, his dreams by night. But hold — 'twere well, ere we proceed, to see What arguments support " The Pastor's Plea" : — " To mortals, bending 'neath the cumbrous load That weighs them down, he shows the heavenly road ; Without his aid, their feet would devious stray. And half his flock would go — the other way !" — And dost thou really think, my reverend wight. That what thou say'st is rational and right ? Dost thou the will of God presume to scan_, And dare usurp his judgment-seat ? vain man. Remember what thou art, and what thou know'st. And thou wilt find thy knowledge is, at most, A cloud of error and an empty boast ! When modes of faith are variously profess'd. And different sects are found, — north east, south, west — Who shall decide which wisest is, or best ? — Although he call himself a true believer, A BIGOT is, at best, a self-deceiver ;* * These observations have reference to the spiritual teachers of no one sect in particular, but are intended to apply to all wlio are so blind, and so bigoted to their own tenets, as to preach uj) the absurd and uncharitable doctrine o( exclusive salvation. 2 A :i54 DKATIl's UOINGS. And he who hopes by faith alone to stand. Erects a tottering column on the sand. Be just and liberal — to your counti*y true — High Hcav'n revere— your neighbour's good pursue; Let virtue, honour, meekness, fill your breast, And to Almighty Goodness leave the rest : — Do this — and, trust me, you shall find the way To the bright regions of eternal day ! — Oh ! if the path that leads to Heaven's gate, Were like a labyrinth, dark and intricate. How few, how very few would enter there! How few to tread the mystic path would dare ! Yon Maiden, peeping through her ivory fan. Would fain improve her mind, by studying — Man ! While that spruce Beau, who ogles her, declares. For youth and beauty I should not lay snares. Nor interrupt their tender sighs and kisses. But give them time t' enjoy connubial blisses ! — Now, should I grant these turtles their request. Although you'd think they were supremely blest. Yet such would be the bickerings and strife To interrupt that blessed state of life. That 'ere twelve months had o'er the couple roll'd. He would a tyrant prove, and she a scold ; KPILOGUK. '^.Y) And each would call on me, by night and day, To come and take the other one away ! Don't chuckle. Sir ! the time is well nigh come When you'll be summon'd, without beat of drum. You wish to live, it seems, to play the Rake, And every dastardly advantage take Of unsuspecting innocence and youth. In spite of honour, manliness, and truth, I saw you throw your lure for yonder beauty. And try to wean her from the path of duty ; And yet, a wife more spotless none can claim, Nor one more kind, than she who bears thy name. Wretch that thou art ! in crime and folly grey ! What! wouldst thou, reckless, rush upon thy prey. And from her aged mother take her stay ? Rob her of all on earth that's worth possessing, And make a curse where Nature meant a blessing? Will no compunction check thy fierce desire ? — None, monster! none? — then /must quench thy fire. Know then, that while each sense is wrapt in gloom. Disease .shall bring thee to a cheerless tomb ; For thee to Heaven no prayers shall ascend. And thou, despis'd, shalt die — without a friend ! 2 A 2 356 death's doings. In yonder row a Widow meets my view, — My buxom dame, 'tis you I mean — yes, you ! I saw how tremblingly alive you were. When I alluded to the amorous pair ; Your marriage was a happy illustration Of my remarks — 'twas just your situation. Indeed it was — deny it if you can — How oft you call'd on me to take the man! And oh ! how oft you vow'd, that ne'er again Would you be bound by Hymen's galling chain. I took him ! — and the well-dissembled tear Of " decent sorrow" fell upon his bier ; Yet now, when fairly rid of him, you bait Your hook — and I (good-natur'd sprite) may wait Whilst you go fishing for another mate ! Believe me, widow, I must have my due ; You shall your promise keep, or I'll keep you. But, come — a truce to truths which seem unpleasant, And of my " Doings" past let's speak at present; I'll not disturb the ashes of the dead. Though some brief sentences must needs be said. By which T trust to prove to demonstration, That none with greater zeal e'er fill'd his station ; EPILOGUE. :357 Meanwhile (although, perhaps, 'twill tire your pa- tience To wait while I recount my operations) I hope to give you ample satisfaction. That from the purest source sprang every action ; And that, to none allied of flesh and blood. No motive sway'd me but the common good : — This is a merit I can fairly claim — " Pro bono publico" was e'er my aim, The basis upon which I rest my fame ! THE POET. Although I quench'd the sacred flame That glow'd within his breast, The Bard obtain'd a deathless fame — A haven, too, of rest : The laurels of poetic praise Which now adorn his tomb, Had, but for me, been blighted bays. To wither — not to bloom. 358 death's uoiNGs. THE PILGRIM. In Pilgrim's guise I brought the fatal scroll. Which told a Maiden ol licr lover's death ; Grief took possession of her ardent soul, — She bless'd his memory, and resign'd her breath : Oft had she vow'd to love no other youth ; That vow she kept, — an instance rare of truth ! THE ARTIST. Mine was the task to stop the Artist's hand. Ere age had brought his genius to a stand ; He'd finish'd Time — and therefore 'twas my whim. Just at that nick of time, to finish him : \.nd as I knew he meant a Dance to lead me. To shew his skill in graphic witticisms, I took his brush away ! — and made him heed me, — And saved him thus from friendly criticisms ! THE CRICKETER. In the Cricketer's care-killing game There was something so manly and gay. That his pastime 1 never could blame. But cheerfully join'd in the play : EPILOGlJli. 351) And if Time had not thought it a sin. For ever to stand behind wicket ; The Batsman might still have been in. And Death might have still play'd at cricket ! THE CAPTIVE, 'Twas I who set the wretched Captive free, And eas'd him of his load of misery — In mercy bore him from a dungeon's gloom, And laid his body in the silent tomb : His mortal part commingled with its kindred dust — His spirit took its flight, to join " the good and just." THE SERENADER. Would you know why so slily I grasp'd the stiletto. And slew young Adonis, the gay Serenader ? I had just before seen, in a foul lazaretto, A fair one expire : — it was he first betray'd her ! No longer, said I, shall thy strains, tho' melodious. Their aid lend to lead lovely woman astray ; Not a chord shalt thou strike for a purpose so odious — So haste, Serenader ! Death calls thee away ! ?3(>0 dkath's doings. the toilet. A lady so fair, or a maid half so sly. At a Toilet were never yet seen. As on that fatal night — when, in masquerade, I Attended on Laura (none other was nigh) And clad her in raiment so sheen. But Laura coquetted — for Laura was vain — And though she professed to return Young Edward's true passion — {I speak it with j)aiu) He perish'd, the victim of cruel disdain, — And his ashes now rest in yon urn ! So the false one I took ! though I deck'd her so gay With trinkets, and jewels, and gold ; — And the gossips still talk of that terrible day. When Death, as a Waiting-maid, bore her away To the charnel-house, darksome and cold ! THE MOTHER. Methinks i hear some pitying Mother say. Why snatch a helpless Infant thus away? EPILOGUB. 361 Why turn to clay that cheek on which was spread The lily's whiteness with the rose's red ? Why close those ruby lips — those deep-fring'd eyes ? Why seize so young, so innocent a prize ! — Hold ! hold ! nor murmur at the wise decree That set a lovely earth-born seraph free, And gave it bliss and immortality ! THE HYPOCHONDRIAC!. Immers'd in apathy and mental gloom, The wasted form of Hypochondria sits; And as the phantoms flit around his room. With fear he shakes — or falls, convuls'd, in fits ! The workings of his melancholy mind Present horrific spectres to his sight; He sees no friend, beneficent and kind — But life, to him, is one dark cheerless night. O Melancholy ! bane of peace and health ! When thy sad reign contaminates the breast. Nor pleasure's glittering charms, nor love, nor wealth Can give repose:— in DEATfi alone there's rest! 362 death's doings. lifk's assurance. Saw you that aged man, whose tottering feet Could scarce support him to the office door ? He was a Life Assurer ;— and, though poor. Deposits from his pittance made, to meet His oflfspring's need. O happiness complete, When man so dies ! The miser's store May serve some idle spendthrift! — seldom more; But competency thus acquir'd is sweet ! Sweet 'tis to hi7n who, providently kind. Protects his wife and children from the blast Of Poverty ; — and oh, how sweet they find The succour it affords !— such joys will last! — Who blames me, then, for keeping Life'^ Assurance ? Thro' Death, you see. Life may be worth endurance. THE antiquary. What wild illusions mock their sight. When Antiquaries pore O'er mouldering relics, day and night. With patient, plodding lore ! — Life's meant for rational enjoyment ; And if, while here below, Man seeks not — finds not — wise employment. To Davy let him go ! EPILOGUE. 363 THE CHAMPION. O mourn not for prize-fighting kiddies inglorious ; Lament not the fate of those swells of the Ring: The Championship's mine ! for I'm ever victorious. And fam'd Boxiana my prowess shall sing! Then hoist the black fogle — let marrow-bones rattle — And push round the skulls which with claret o'er- flow; Drink, drink to the Champion, who, fairly in battle, The famed men of muscle for ever laid low ! THE GLUTTON. No matter what — flesh, fowl, or fish — If man become a Glutton ; With goiit he feeds from ev'ry dish — Veal, ven'son, beef, or mutton. Eating — drinking — panting — pufiing ! — O the dear delights of stuffing ! But when the greedy Epicure A god thus makes his belly, t mix some poison — slow, but sure — In gravy, soup, or jelly. On the couch, then, see him lying ! — Writhing — groaning — gasping — dying! 364 UhATH's DOlNOy. THE BACCHANALIANS. Tho' Bacchanals boast of their ivy-crowu'd ^od, And sing of the bright sparkling glass, With the juice of the grape, how they hiccup and nod, — How it likens a man to an ass ! The balm of the bottle, they say, lightens care, — But far more it lightens the purse ; While it brings to its vot'ry a load of despair. It l)rings, too, his heaviest curse — The groans of the parent, the child, or the wife. Who famish while Bacchanals swill ! Then say, can you blame me for taking the life Of such as so recklessly kill ? THK HU NT KR. The fearless Hunter took his dangerous leap; For though I wam'd, he held my warning cheap. At length he fell — another fill'd his place. And, like him, heedless, follows in the chase. EPILOGUE. :^5 THE ALCHYMIST. His time and health the Alchymist destroys. In vain pursuit of visionary joys ! What if he find the rare and hidden treasure. More pain his golden prize would bring than pleasure. Gold ! Gold ! thou bane of life ! thou fancied good. Thy use to Man, how little understood ! ACADEMIC HONOURS. Should I the Martyr Student's portrait draw, And shew that genius, with each good combin'd. That virtue, and that nobleness of mind. Were his, without a blemish or a flaw — You'd blame me for my act — and yet 'twas kind ! For well I knew, although he'd worth and merit. Posthumous fame was all that he'd inherit; And those, indeed, who court fame ought to know, That Death alone can lasting fame bestow. THE EMPIRIC. The Quack kill'd his patient, and I kill'd the Quack ; Thus a fool and a knave were got rid of at once ; But tho' I contriv'd to lay him on his back. Behind he's left many a death-dealing dunce ! 36G DEATH S DOINGS. THE PHAETON. Behold, my love, how fine the day ! Cried Charles, as he the Phaeton mounted ; His heart was light, his spirits gay, And tales of love the youth recounted. But false as fair the syren he That day had honour'd with his name ; And I resolv'd to set him free From private grief and public shame. death's register. An ancient worthy, when of Man he wrote, Permitted me his Register to quote ; And as I know I cannot make a better, I'll quote it fairly, to the very letter : — " Man's bodie's like a house : his greater bones Are the main timber ; and the lesser ones Arc smaller splints ; his ribs are laths, daub'd o'er, Plaistcr'd with flesh and bloud : his mouth's the doore His throat's the narrow eiitrie, and his heart Is the great chamber, full of curious art : His midriffe is a large partition-wall 'Twixt the great chamber and the spacious hall : FPlLOGUt:. f}()7 His stomach is the kitchen, where the meat Is often but half sod, for want of heat : His splene's a vessell, nature does allot To take the skumme that rises from the pot : His lungs are like the bellows, that respire In every office, quick'ning every fire : His nose the chimney is, whereby are vented Such fumes as with the bellows are augmented : His bowels are the sink, whose part's to drein All noisome filth, and keep the kitchen clean : His eyes are chrystall windows, clear and bright ; Let in the object, and let out the sight. And as the timber is or groat or small. Or strong, or weak, 'tis apt to stand, or fall : Yet is the likeliest building, sometimes known To fall by obvious chances ; overthrown Oft-times by tempests, by the full-mouthM blasts Of heaven ; sometimes hy fire; sometimes it wastes Through unadvis'd neglect ; put case the stufi*e Were ruin-proofe, by nature strong enough To conquer time and age ; put case it should Ne'er know an end, alas our leases would. What hast thou then, proud flesh and bloud, to boast ? Thy dayes are bad, at best ; but few, at most ; 3()8 death's doings. But sad, at merriest ; and but weak, at strongest ; Unsure, at surest ; and but short, at longest." THE LAWYER. I freely spoke my mind before, concerning this fra- ternity. Nor would I do aught less or more, if I talk'd to all eternity ! If any mortal doubt my word — to Law, then, let him go, — A greater curse 'twere quite absurd to wish one's bitterest foe. « THE BUBBLE-BLOWERS. There are bubbles above and below, — On land, and at sea, and in air; But none of the bubbles I know. With the bubbles of Britain compare : — Such wonderful bubbles are they ! What puffing it took, and what trouble. To blow all these bubbles at first ! And the trouble was more than made double. When the bubbles of Britain all burst ! — What troublesome bubbles were they ! EPILOGUE. 3G9 But why should you mourn over bubbles, That arc puff'd in and out with a breath. When the greatest of bubbles and troubles Are, one and all, puff'd out by Death! — The bubbles and troubles of Life ! Vain, inconsistent, self-deluded race, Whose vision's limited to finite space. You grasp some idle phantom of the brain, And, maniac-like, would clank and hug your chain. All — all is vanity beneath the sun ! Whene'er the sand of Life its course hath run — Or soon, or late — 'tis then the proper time This grovelling world to quit, and seek the clime Where Life's eternal, glorious, and sublime ! LIST or PLATES. Page 1. The Poet . . . . . . .25 2. The Pilgrim 31 3 The Scroll 33 4. The Artist 35 5. The Cricketer 53 6. The Captive . ...... 63 7. The Serenade 69 8. The Toilet .... . . .73 9. The Mother .... . .99 10. The Hypochondriac . . , . .113 11. Life's Assurance . . . . . 145 12. The Antiquary . . . . 159 13. The Champion . . . . . 173 14. The Glutton . . .183 16. The Last Bottle . .193 16. The Hunter . . . . . . 213 17. The Alchyraist . . .223 18. Academic Honours .... -236 19. The Empiric . . . . 247 20. The Phaeton . . ... 269 21. Death's Register . . .297 22. The Lawyer . . . . .307 23. The Bubbles of Life broken by Death, — to face the En- graved Title. 24. The Epilogue . . . • -349 PRlNTtD BY G. II. DAVIDSON, ihfiand vard, doctors' commons. THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. Series 9482 nb.