Volume 2 — Vol. II.—48.

Source of the Ravensbourne.

Source of the Ravensbourne.

*

Before I had seen Keston I heard, at West Wickham, that it had been the site of a Roman camp, and that a Roman bath was still there. It was from curiosity towards this piece of antiquity that I first visited the spot, in company with my friend W——. The country people, whom we met on our way, spoke of it as the “Old Bath,” and the “Cold Bath,” and as a water of great virtue, formerly bathed in, and still resorted to, by persons afflicted with weak or sprained limbs, which by dipping in this bath became cured.

Our walk from Wickham was remarkably pleasant; we passed noble oaks of many centuries’ growth, and descended from the broad open highway into an old road on our left, a ravine, or intrenchment perchance, clothed with tendril plants and blossoming briars, festooning and arching over wild flowers growing amid the verdure of its high banks. Here we paced up hill, till we reached an open, lofty tract of heathland, in a rude, uncultivated, picturesque state, with a few houses in distant parts, surrounded by thriving plantations. On our left were the woodlands of the pleasant village of Hayes, remarkable for having been the seat of the great earl of Chatham, and the birthplace of his well-remembered son. On our right were the heights of Holwood, and fine forest scenery. Near a cluster of cottages immediately before us there was a mill, with its sails going; these we scarcely glanced at, but made our way to an old alehouse, the sign of the Fox, where an ancient labourer, sitting at the door, directed us to “the Bath.” We found it in a romantic little bottom, immediately under the gates of Holwood.

The delightful landscape, from the opening of this dell towards London and beyond it, so much engaged our attention, that for a while we forgot the “Bath,” on the brink of which we were standing. There is no appearance of its having been a bathing-place, and certainly it has not the least character of a Roman bath. It is simply a well of fine pellucid water, which gently overflowing threads a small winding channel in the herbage, and suddenly expands, till it seems bounded by an embankment and line of trees. This is the road to the pleasant inn “Keston Cross.” In the distance are the Kentish and Essex hills, with the dome of the metropolitan cathedral. Presuming that information respecting the spring might be obtained at Holwood we reascended, and inquired of several labourers employed in levelling and gravelling the avenue; but we derived nothing satisfactory till a Keston man, working at a distance, came up, and told us that it was the source of the Ravensbourne.

I had formerly heard and read of a tradition respecting this spring, and now that I unexpectedly found myself upon its margin, recollection of the story heightened the interest of the scene. The legend runs, that when Cæsar was encamped here his troops were in great need of water, and none could be found in the vicinity. Observing, however, that a raven frequently alighted near the camp, and conjecturing that it was for the purpose of quenching its thirst, he ordered the coming of the bird to be watched for, and the spot to be particularly noted; this was done, and the result was as he anticipated. The object of the raven’s resort was this little spring; from thence Cæsar derived a supply of water for the Roman legions, and from the circumstance of its discovery the spring was called the Raven’s bourne, or the Raven’s brook. From the lodge at Holwood, W. obtained the loan of a chair, and taking his seat on the brink of the well, sketched the view represented in his engraving of it above.

If the account of Holwood[465] in 1792 be correct, this spring, there called “Cæsar’s Spring,” was then a public cold bath, ornamented with trees, and a dressing-house on the brink. Hasted, in 1778,[466] gives a view of the Roman intrenchments on Holwood Hill, and figures the ancient road to the spring of the Ravensbourne, as running down to it from where Holwood gates now stand: he also figures the spring with twelve trees planted round it. Now, however, there is not a vestige of tree or building, but there are in the ground the stumps of a poled fencing, which was standing within recollection. On further examination I found the well bricked round, but the bricks at the top edge had decayed, or been thrown in; and the interior brickwork is lined with hair moss and other water-weeds. On the side opposite to that whereon a man is represented in the engraving. I traced the remains of steps for descending into the well as a bath. Its circle is about nine feet in diameter. At what time it commenced, or ceased, to be used as a bath, is uncertain.

Here, then, about twelve miles from London, in a delightful country, is a spring, rendered venerable by immemorial tradition and our ancient annals; and which, during eighteen centuries, from the time of its alleged discovery by Cæsar, has remained open to general use. Sorry therefore am I to add, that there are rumours of a wish to enclose this public relic of bygone ages. I invite public attention to the place and to the report. Even at this season the lover of natural scenery will find charms at the source of the Ravensbourne, and be able to imagine the beauty of the surrounding country in summer. Had I a right of common on Keston Heath, rather than assist in a base “homage,” to colourably admit the enclosure of “Cæsar’s Spring,” I would surrender my own right, and renounce community and neighbourhood with the heartless hirelings, who would defraud themselves and the public of the chief attraction to Keston Common. At so small a distance from London I know of nothing so remarkable in history as this spring. On no pretence ought the public to be deprived of it. There are rights of nature as well as of property: when the claims of the latter are urged too pertinaciously against the former, it is time to cry out; and if middle men do not interfere to prevent the oppression, they will, in their turn, cry aloud when there will be none to help them.

Garrick Plays. No. XLII.

[From “Thyestes,” a Tragedy, by John Crowne, 1681.]

Atreus, having recovered his Wife, and Kingdom, from his brother Thyestes, who had usurped both, and sent him into banishment, describes his offending Queen.

Philisthenes, the Son of Thyestes, at a stolen interview with Antigone, the daughter of Atreus, is surprised by the King’s Spies: upon which misfortune Antigone swooning, is found by Peneus.

Antigone. Peneus, an ancient retainer to the Court of Mycenæ.

Atreus, to entrap his brother Thyestes; who has lived a concealed life, lurking in woods, to elude his vengeance; sends Philisthenes and old Peneus to him with offers of reconciliation, and an invitation to Court, to be present at the nuptials of Antigone with Philisthenes.

Thyestes. Philisthenes. Peneus.

Thyestes is won from his retirement by the joint representations of Philisthenes and Peneus, of the apparent good faith, and returning kindness of his brother; and visits Mycenæ:—his confidence; his returning misgivings.

Thyestes. Philisthenes. Peneus.

The day of the pretended Nuptials.—Atreus feigns a returning love for his Queen.

Peneus to Atreus, dissuading him from his horrid purpose.

Atreus. Thyestes.

A Table, and a Banquet.

(Thyestes drinks. A clap of thunder. The lights go out.)

C. L.

For the Table Book

THEATRALIA.

Tom Durfey

Once got fifty guineas (according to tradition) for singing a single song to queen Anne in ridicule of “the princess Sophia, electress and duchess dowager of Hanover,” (as she is called in the oath of allegiance,) naturally no great favourite with the then reigning monarch. The only lines of this satirical production that have come down to us are the following; and, until now, only the two first of the stanza have been preserved by Durfey’s biographers:—

“Merry Tom” had sung before the king in the former reign, and Charles II., as is well known, was very fond of his company.

Liston’s Marriage.

The following got into circulation just after Mr. Liston was united to Miss Tyrer but never was published:—

Charles Jennens, Esq.

One of the most singular characters of his day was Charles Jennens, Esq., a sort of literary Bubb Doddington. Being born to a good estate, from his boyhood he was ridiculously fond of show and pomp, and his style of writing was of a piece with his style of living. It has been said, that he put together the words of Handel’s “Messiah:” that he had something to do with them is true; but he had a secretary of the name of Pooley, a poor clergyman, who executed the principal part of the work, and, till now, has obtained no part of the credit. Charles Jennens, Esq. took it into his head, (perhaps the most rational notion he had ever indulged,) that the majority of Shakspeare’s commentators were mere twaddling antiquaries, without taste or talent; but he adopted an unfortunate way of proving it: he himself published an edition of Hamlet, Lear, Othello, and one or two more tragedies. He was of course laughed at for his attempt, and George Steevens tried to show a little of the wit, for which his friends gave him credit, and of the ill-nature for which he deserved it. Jennens published a pamphlet in reply, the greater part his own writing, which for years was his delight and solace: his poor secretary used to have the task of reading it from beginning to end, whenever his patron called for it, on giving an entertainment to his friends. Jennens commented, explained, and enforced, as he proceeded. In some of the biographical accounts of this personage it is asserted gravely, that for some time after the appearance of this tract he carefully looked over the newspapers every day, to learn if the success and severity of his attack had not compelled Dr. Johnson, Malone, Steevens, or Warburton, to hang themselves. This depends upon the following epigram, written at the time, and now only existing in MS., but which obtained a wide circulation, and is attributed, perhaps correctly, to Steevens. The only objection to this supposition is, that if it had been Steevens’s it is strange how his vanity could keep it out of the public prints, though after all it possesses but little merit:—

When we called Jennens a literary Bubb Doddington, we ought to have remembered that Doddington had talents, but Jennens had none.

Elliston’s Epigram.

The following has been handed about as from the pen of Mr. Elliston, now of the Surrey theatre. It may be his or it may not, but whichever way the fact be, it can do him no harm to publish it. The point is in the Greek Anthology, though we do not suppose that Mr. E. went there for it.

The best Wine.

Sir John Hill

Was a Polish knight and an English physician, more celebrated by Garrick’s epigrams than by his own dramatic compositions, consisting of two farces, The Maiden’s Whim and The Rout. He wrote books enough on all subjects “to build his own papyral monument,” if the grocers and trunk-makers had not committed such havoc among them, even before his death. That event was produced by taking his own remedy for the gout, and it is thus commemorated.

On the Death of Doctor Hill.

GOUT.

The contest among medical men for the most proper mode of curing this complaint cannot but produce a smile, when we recollect that the afflicted have recourse to various and opposite remedies with success.

We have heard of a man who would find his pains alleviated by drinking a wineglass full of verjuice, while a table-spoonful of wine would torture him almost to distraction.

There were two counsellors, some years ago, who generally cured themselves in a very pleasant manner; one, who was accustomed to drink water constantly, would cure himself by drinking wine; and the other, who invariably took his bottle or more of wine a day, was constantly cured by the use of water.

Others, by living on a milk diet only, have entirely cured themselves.

Some years ago there was a man in Italy who was particularly successful in the cure of the gout: his mode was to make his patients sweat profusely, by obliging them to go up and down stairs, though with much pain to themselves.

A quack in France acquired great reputation for the cure of this malady, by the use of a medicine he called “Tincture of the Moon,” of which he administered some drops every morning in a basin of broth. It was never used by any but the richest persons; for the price of a bottle full, not larger than a common sized smelling bottle, was eighty louis d’ors. Furetière mentions this quack, and says he possessed many valuable secrets. He adds, that the surprising cures, to which he was witness, by the “Tincture of the Moon,” astonished all the faculty at Paris. The operation of this medicine was insensible.

Stories OF THE Craven Dales. No. II.[470]

The Legend of the Troller’s Gill.

The above ballad is founded on a tradition, very common amongst the mountains of Craven. The spectre hound is Bargest. Of this mysterious personage I am able to give a very particular account, having only a few days ago seen Billy B——y, who had once a full view of it. I give the narrative in his own words; it would detract from its merit to alter the language.

Billy B——’s Adventure.

“You see, sir, as how I’d been a clock-dressing at Gurston [Grassington], and I’d staid rather lat, and may be gitten a lile sup o’ spirit, but I war far from being drunk, and knowed every thing that passed. It war about 11 o’clock when I left, and it war at back end o’t’ year, and a most admīrable [beautiful] neet it war. The moon war varra breet, and I nivvr seed Rylstone-fell plainer in a’ my life. Now, you see, sir, I war passin down t’ mill loine, and I heerd summut come past me—brush, brush, brush, wi’ chains rattling a’ the while; but I seed nothing; and thowt I to mysel, now this is a most mortal queer thing. And I then stuid still, and luik’d about me, but I seed nothing at aw, nobbut the two stane wa’s on each side o’t’ mill loine. Then I heerd again this brush, brush, brush, wi’ the chains; for you see, sir, when I stuid still it stopped; and then, thowt I, this mun be a Bargest, that sae much is said about: and I hurried on towards t’ wood brig, for they say as how this Bargest cannot cross a watter; but lord, sir, when I gat o’er t’ brig, I heerd this same thing again; so it mud either hev crossed t’ watter, or gone round by t’ spring heed! [About thirty miles!] And then I becam a valliant man, for I war a bit freeten’d afore; and thinks I, I’ll turn and hev a peep at this thing; so I went up Greet Bank towards Linton, and heerd this brush, brush, brush, wi’ the chains a’ the way, but I seed nothing; then it ceased all of a sudden. So I turned back to go hame, but I’d hardly reach’d t’ door, when I heerd again this brush, brush, brush, and the chains going down towards t’ Holin House, and I followed it, and the moon there shone varra breet, and I seed its tail! Then, thowt I, thou owd thing! I can say Ise seen thee now, so I’ll away hame. When I gat to t’ door, there war a girt thing like a sheep, but it war larger, ligging across t’ threshold of t’ door, and it war woolly like; and says I, ‘git up,’ and it wouldn’t git up—then says I, ‘stir thysel,’ and it wouldn’t stir itsel! And I grew valliant, and I rais’d t’ stick to baste it wi’, and then it luik’d at me, and sich oies! [eyes] they did glower, and war as big as saucers, and like a cruelled ball; first there war a red ring, then a blue one, then a white one; and these rings grew less and less till they cam to a dot! Now I war nane feer’d on it, tho’ it girn’d at me fearfully, and I kept on saying ‘git up,’ and ‘stir thysel,’ and t’ wife heerd as how I war at t’ door, and she cam to oppen it; and then this thing gat up and walked off, for it war mare feer’d o’ t’ wife than it war o’ me! and I told t’ wife, and she said it war Bargest; but I nivver seed it since, and that’s a true story!”

In the glossary to the Rev. Mr. Carr’s “Horæ Momenta Cravenæ,” I find the following—“Bargest, a sprite that haunts towns and populous places. Belg. birg, and geest, a ghost.” I really am not a little amused at Mr. Carr’s derivation, which is most erroneous. Bargest is not a town ghost, nor is it a haunter “of towns and populous places;” for, on the contrary, it is said in general to frequent small villages and hills. Hence the derivation may be berg, Germ., a hill, and geist, a ghost; i.e. a hill ghost: but the real derivation appears to me to be bär, Germ., a bear, and geist, a ghost; i.e. a bear ghost, from its appearing in the form of a bear or large dog, as Billy B——’s narrative shows.[475]

The appearance of the spectre hound is said to precede a death; which tradition will be more fully illustrated in my next legend, “The Wise Woman of Littondale.” Like most other spirits Bargest is supposed to be unable to cross a water; and in case any of my Craven readers should ever chance to meet with his ghostship, it may be as well to say, that unless they give him the wall he will tear them to pieces, or otherwise illtreat them, as he did one John Lambert, who, refusing to let him have the wall, was so punished for his want of manners, that he died in a few days.

This superstition has in one instance been productive of good. A few years ago an inhabitant of Threshfield kept a huge he-goat, which the wags of the village would sometimes turn into the lanes, in the night-time, with a chain about his neck, to frighten the farmers on their return from Kettlewell market. They once determined to terrify a badger, or miller, as he returned from the market, by driving the animal with the chains, &c. into the lane through which the man of meal was to pass. About ten o’clock the miller, on entering Threshfield with his cart, espies the goat; and hearing the chains, overwhelmed with terror, he conjectures it to be Bargest, that was sent to take him away for his dishonest dealings; the miller stops his cart, and kneeling down in it, thus prayed, to the great amusement of the young rogues behind the wall:—“Good Lord, don’t let the devil take me this time, and I’ll never cheat any more; do let me get safe home, and I’ll never raise my meal again so extravagantly as I have done of late.” He did get safe home, and was as good as his word till he discovered the trick, when he returned to his old malpractices; exemplifying the old epigram—

In the second verse of the legend of “The Troller’s Gill,” it is said,

Elboton is the largest of five or six very romantic green hills, that seem to have been formed by some tremendous convulsion of nature, at the foot of that fine chain of fells, which extends from Rylstone to Burnsall, and is said to have been, from “time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary,” the haunt of faëries; numbers of these pretty little creatures having been seen there by several men of honour and veracity in this neighbourhood, one of whom has had a faëry in his hand! The elfin train has been visible in many parts of our district, but I know of no place they frequent more than Elboton. One of these diminutive beings, called Hob, is reputed to be a watchful preserver of the farmer’s property, and a most industrious workman. At Close-house, near Skipton in Craven, Hob used to do as much work in one night as twenty human workmen could in the same time; and, as I have been informed by an individual, who resided there about twenty years ago, Hob was accustomed to house the hay, stack the corn, and churn the butter, as well as perform several other offices, which tended materially to lessen the labour of the husbandman and the dairy maid. The occupier of Close-house at that time, thinking to make Hob some return for his kindness and assiduity, laid out a new red cloak for him, which so offended the good faëry, that he ceased his labours, and left the place. On the spot where the cloak was left, the following stanza was found,

Loupscar, alluded to in the third verse, is a place in the Wharfe near Burnsall, where the river is pent in with rocks, and boils along in a confined channel, and then discharges itself into a pool of tremendous depth, forming, as Dr. Whitaker says in his history, “a scene more dreadful than pleasing.” The channel of the Wharfe is in general craggy, and the river abounds with similar vortices to Loupscar; the two most celebrated of which are the Gastrills above Grassington, and the Strid, in Bolton woods. The latter will be recognised by the poetical reader, as the fatal gulf where the Boy of Egremond was drowned, whose story Rogers has versified with such exquisite pathos.

“The Troller’s Gill” is in Skyram pastures, beyond Appletreewick. I visited it a few days ago, when the torrent was considerably swollen by the recent heavy rains amongst the mountains. The roar of the water, the terrific grandeur of the overhanging crags, and its loneliness, united to heighten the terrors of the place. To an inhabitant of London, the scene of the wolf’s glen, in the Drury version of “Der Freischütz,” may give some faint idea of it. Dr. Whitaker thought Troller’s Gill “wanted the deep horror of Gordale,” near Malham. There is certainly more sublimity and grandeur about Gordale; but as to horror, I think it nothing to “the Troller’s Gill.” This, however, is a matter of taste.

The last verses allude to the beautiful and ancient custom, still universally prevalent throughout our district, of chanting a solemn dirge at funerals, till the corpse reaches the church-yard gateway. I know of nothing more affecting to a stranger than to meet, at evening, a funeral train proceeding along one of our romantic vallies, while the neighbouring rocks are resonant with the loud dirge sung by the friends of the departed. Long may this custom continue! Too many of our old customs fall into misuse by the ridicule thrown on them by dissenters, as being popish, &c.; but I am happy to say, that in Craven the dissenters are great encouragers of funeral dirges. In Mrs. Heman’s sacred melody, “Last Rites,” this stanza alludes to the practice:—

Grassington in Craven, T. Q. M. Nov. 6, 1827.

The Second Series of WHIMS AND ODDITIES, With Forty Original Designs, BY THOMAS HOOD.

“What demon hath possessed thee, that thou wilt never forsake that impertinent custom of punning?”

Scriblerus.

If I might be allowed to answer the question instead of Mr. Hood, I should say, that it is the same demon which provokes me to rush directly through his new volume in preference to half a dozen works, which order of time and propriety entitle to previous notice. This book detains me from my purposes, as a new print in a shop-window does a boy on his way to school; and, like him, at the risk of being found fault with for not minding my task, I would talk of the attractive novelty to wights of the same humour. It comes like good news, which nobody is ignorant of, and every body tells to every body, and sets business at a stand-still. It puts clean out of my head all thought of another engraving for the present sheet, though I know, good reader, that already “I owe you one”—perhaps two:—never mind! you shall have “all in good time;” if you don’t, I’ll give you leave to eat me. With such a tender, the most untender will, or ought to be, as content as “the blacks of Niger at its infant rill,” seated at their “white-bait,” the thirty-eighth cut—in Mr. Hood’s book, very near “the end,”—a very inviting one to Shylock-kind of people, who have not

Mr. Hood begins—to be modest—with pleading guilty to what he calls “some verbal misdemeanours,” and then, leaving “his defence to Dean Swift, and the other great European and oriental pundits,” puts himself upon his country. But by whom is he arraigned, save a few highwaymen in the “march of intellect,” who sagely affirm, that “a man who would make a pun would pick a pocket!”—a saying devised by some wag, to the use and behoof of these doldrums, who never hear a good thing, but they button up their pockets and features, and walk off with nothing about them of likeness to humanity but the biforked form. For capital likenesses of such persons, turn to the story of “Tim Turpin,” and look first, to pay due honour, at the engravings of “the Judges of a-size,” and then at “Jurors—not con-jurors.” Portraits of this order could not have been drawn by any other than a close and accurate observer of character. Indeed, that Mr. Hood is eminently qualified in this respect, he has before abundantly testified; especially by “The Progress of Cant,” a print that must occupy a distinguished place in a history of Character and Caricature, whenever such a work shall be written.[477] In this new series of “Whims and Oddities,” he presents a sketch, called “Infant Genius;”—a little boy delighted with having rudely traced an uncouth figure; such a “drawing” as excites a good mistaken mother to declare, “the little fellow has quite a genius, and will be very clever if he only has encouragement:”—and thus many a child’s talent for fine-drawing—which, at the tailoring trade, might have secured the means of living—has been misencouraged to the making up of fifth-rate artists with a starvation income. The engraving of the “Infant Genius” illustrates the following poem.

The Progress of Art.

In verification of the old saying, “Once a man, twice a child,” Mr. Hood tells of “A School for Adults,”—and gives a picture of aged men, baldheaded and wigged, whose education had been neglected, studying their A, B, C. A letter from one of them at a preparatory school is exceedingly amusing. The article is preceded by a dramatic scene.

Enter three old men, with satchels, singing.

“The Antipodes,” by R. Brome.

No reader of the first series of the “Whims and Oddities” can have forgotten “The Spoiled Child” of “My Aunt Shakerly,” or the unhappy lady herself; and now we are informed that “towards the close of her life, my aunt Shakerly increased rapidly in bulk: she kept adding growth unto her growth,

till the result was worthy of a Smithfield premium. It was not the triumph, however, of any systematic diet for the promotion of fat,—(except oyster-eating there is no human system of stall-feeding,)—on the contrary, she lived abstemiously, diluting her food with pickle-acids, and keeping frequent fasts in order to reduce her compass; but they failed of this desirable effect. Nature had planned an original tendency in her organization that was not to be overcome:—she would have fattened on sour krout.

“My uncle, on the other hand, decreased daily; originally a little man, he became lean, shrunken, wizened. There was a predisposition in his constitution that made him spare, and kept him so:—he would have fallen off even on brewer’s grains.

“It was the common joke of the neighbourhood to designate my aunt, my uncle, and the infant Shakerly, as ‘Wholesale, Retail, and For Exportation;’ and, in truth, they were not inapt impersonations of that popular inscription,—my aunt a giantess, my uncle a pigmy, and the child being ‘carried abroad.’”—This is the commencement of an article entitled “The Decline of Mrs. Shakerly.”

A story of “the Absentee,” and of the “absent tea,” on a friend’s visit to him, is painfully whimsical. Akin to it is an engraving of a person who had retired to rest coming down stairs in his shirt, and shorts, and great alarm, with a chamber-light in his hand, and the top of his nightcap in a smothering blaze, exclaiming

“Don’t you smell Fire?”

There are ballads in the “New Series” that rival “Sally Brown and Ben the Carpenter” in the former volume. Of this class are “Mary’s Ghost;” the story of “Tim Turpin,” mentioned before; and another of “Jack Hall,” showing, how Jack was an undertaker’s mute—how Jack sometimes drove the hearse—how Jack was in league with resurrection-men, and stole the bodies he buried—how Death met Jack in St. Pancras burying-ground, and shook hands with him—how Death invited Jack home to supper—how Jack preferred going to the Cheshire Cheese, and Death didn’t—how Jack was brought to Death’s door, and what he saw there—how Jack was obliged to go in, and Death introduced him to his friends as “Mr. Hall the body-snatcher”—how Jack got off without bidding them good night—how Jack was indisposed—how twelve doctors came to visit Jack without taking fees—how Jack got worse, and how he confessed he had sold his own body twelve different times to the twelve doctors—how the twelve doctors did not know Jack was so bad—how the twelve doctors disputed in Jack’s room which should have his body till twelve o’clock—how Jack then departed, the twelve doctors couldn’t tell how—and how, as Jack’s body could not be found, the twelve doctors departed, and not one of them was satisfied.

In the forementioned ballads there are many “verbal misdemeanours,” at which the author cautiously hints in his preface with some tokens of deprecation:—“Let me suggest,” he says, “that a pun is somewhat like a cherry: though there may be a slight outward indication of partition—of duplicity of meaning—yet no gentleman need make two bites at it against his own pleasure. To accommodate certain readers, notwithstanding, I have refrained from putting the majority in italics.” He is equally sinful and considerate in his prose: as, for instance, in the following character, which fairly claims a place with those of bishop Earle, sir Thomas Overbury, and even Butler.

“A Ballad Singer

Is a town-crier for the advertising of lost tunes. Hunger hath made him a wind instrument; his want is vocal, and not he. His voice had gone a-begging before he took it up and applied it to the same trade it was too strong to hawk mackerel, but was just soft enough for Robin Adair. His business is to make popular songs unpopular,—he gives the air, like a weathercock, with many variations. As for a key, he has but one—a latch-key—for all manner of tunes; and as they are to pass current amongst the lower sorts of people, he makes his notes like a country banker’s, as thick as he can. His tones have a copper sound, for he sounds for copper; and for the musical divisions he hath no regard, but sings on, like a kettle, without taking any heed of the bars. Before beginning he clears his pipe with gin; and he is always hoarse from the thorough draft in his throat. He hath but one shake, and that is in winter. His voice sounds flat, from flatulence; and he fetches breath, like a drowning kitten, whenever he can. Notwithstanding all this his music gains ground, for it walks with him from end to end of the street.

“He is your only performer that requires not many entreaties for a song; for he will chant, without asking, to a street cur or a parish post. His only backwardness is to a stave after dinner, seeing that he never dines; for he sings for bread, and though corn has ears, sings very commonly in vain. As for his country, he is an Englishman, that by his birthright may sing whether he can or not. To conclude, he is reckoned passable in the city, but is not so good off the stones.”

An incurable joker subjects himself to the inconvenience of not being believed, though he speak the truth; and therefore the following declaration of the author of “Whims and Oddities” is questionable. He says:—

“A Mad Dog

Is none of my bugbears. Of the bite of dogs, large ones especially, I have a reasonable dread; but as to any participation in the canine frenzy, I am somewhat sceptical. The notion savours of the same fanciful superstition that invested the subjects of Dr. Jenner with a pair of horns. Such was affirmed to be the effect of the vaccine matter—and I shall believe what I have heard of the canine virus, when I see a rabid gentleman, or gentlewoman, with flap ears, dew-claws, and a brushtail!——

“I put no faith in the vulgar stories of human beings betaking themselves, through a dog-bite, to dog-habits: and consider the smotherings and drownings, that have originated in that fancy, as cruel as the murders for witchcraft. Are we, for a few yelpings, to stifle all the disciples of Loyola—Jesuits’ bark—or plunge unto death all the convalescents who may take to bark and wine?

“As for the hydrophobia, or loathing of water, I have it mildly myself. My head turns invariably at thin washy potations. With a dog, indeed, the case is different—he is a water-drinker; and when he takes to grape-juice, or the stronger cordials, may be dangerous. But I have never seen one with a bottle—except at his tail.

“There are other dogs who are born to haunt the liquid element, to dive and swim—and for such to shun the lake or the pond would look suspicious. A Newfoundlander, standing up from a shower at a door-way, or a spaniel with a parapluie, might be innocently destroyed. But when does such a cur occur?”

Mr. Hood answers the question himself by “hydrophobia” of his own creation, namely, an engraving of a dog, on whom he makes “each particular hair to stand an end;” and whom he represents walking biped-fashion; he hath for his shield, as Randle Holme would say, an umbrella vert, charged with the stick thereof, as a bend or.

“The career of this animal,” says Mr. Hood, “is but a type of his victim’s—suppose some bank clerk. He was not bitten, but only splashed on the hand by the mad foam or dog-spray: a recent flea-bite gives entrance to the virus, and in less than three years it gets possession. Then the tragedy begins. The unhappy gentleman first evinces uneasiness at being called on for his New River rates. He answers the collector snappishly, and when summoned to pay for his supply of water, tells the commissioners, doggedly, that they may cut it off. From that time he gets worse. He refuses slops—turns up a pug nose at pump water—and at last, on a washing-day, after flying at the laundress, rushes out, ripe for hunting, to the street. A twilight remembrance leads him to the house of his intended. He fastens on her hand—next worries his mother—takes a bit apiece out of his brothers and sisters—runs a-muck, ‘giving tongue,’ all through the suburbs—and finally, is smothered by a pair of bed-beaters in Moorfields.

“According to popular theory the mischief ends not here. The dog’s master—the trainer, the friends, human and canine—the bank clerks—the laundresses—sweet-heart—mother and sisters—the-two bed-beaters—all inherit the rabies, and run about to bite others.”

But, is not this drollery on hydrophobia feigned? Is it not true that a certain bootmaker receives orders every July from the author of “Whims and Oddities,” for boots to reach above the calf, of calf so inordinately stout as to be capable of resisting the teeth of a dog, however viciously rabid, and with underleathers of winter thickness, for the purpose of kicking all dogs withal, in the canicular days? These queries are not urged upon Mr. H. with the tongue of scandal; of that, indeed, he has no fear, for he dreads no tongue, but (to use his quotation from Lord Duberly) the “vermicular tongue.” This little exposure of his prevailing weakness he has provoked, by affecting to discredit what his sole shakes at every summer.

The “New Series of Whims and Oddities” abounds with drolleries. Its author’s “Forty Designs” are all ludicrous; and, that they have been engraven with fidelity there can be little doubt, from his compliment to the engraver. “My hope persuades me,” he says, “that my illustrations cannot have degenerated, so ably have I been seconded by Mr. Edward Willis; who, like the humane Walter, has befriended my offspring in the wood.”[478] Though the engravings are indescribably expressive, yet a few may be hinted at, viz.

“Speak up, sir!” a youth on his knees, vehemently declaring his love, yet in a tone not sufficiently loud, to a female on a sofa, who doth “incline her ear” with a trumpet, to assist the auricle.

“In and out Pensioners,” exemplifying the “Suaviter in modo,” and “Fortiter in re.”

“The spare bed,” uncommonly spare.

“Why don’t you get up behind?” addressed by a donkey-rider—who does not sit before—to a boy on the ground.

“Banditti,” street minstrels.

“Dust O!” Death collecting his dust—critically speaking, this might be objected to.

“Crane-iology;” a crane, with its bill calliper-wise, speculating on a scull, and ascertaining its developements.

“A Retrospective Review;” very literal.

“She is all heart;” a very hearty body.

“The last visit;” quacks.

“The Angel of Death;” one of them—very fine.

“Joiners;” Vicar and Moses.

“Drill and Broadcast;” nature and art.

“High-born and Low-born;” odd differences.

“Lawk! I’ve forgot the brandy!” abominably provoking—only look!

“Comparative Physiology” is “a wandering camel-driver and exhibitor, parading, for a few pence, the creature’s outlandlish hump, yet burthened himself with a bunch of flesh between the shoulders.”—

Mr. Hood’s talents are as versatile as his imagination is excursive: and it would be difficult to decide, whether he excels in the ludicrous or the grave. He depicts a pathetic scene with infinitely delicate and discriminative touches, and his powers are evidently equal to a high order of poetical grandeur. His “Sally Holt and the Death of John Hayloft,” is an exquisite specimen of natural feeling.

“Nature, unkind to Sally Holt as to Dogberry, denied to her that knowledge of reading and writing, which comes to some by instinct. A strong principle of religion made it a darling point with her to learn to read, that she might study in her Bible: but in spite of all the help of my cousin, and as ardent a desire for learning as ever dwelt in scholar, poor Sally never mastered beyond A-B-ab. Her mind, simple as her heart, was unequal to any more difficult combinations. Writing was worse to her than conjuring. My cousin was her amanuensis: and from the vague, unaccountable mistrust of ignorance, the inditer took the pains always to compare the verbal message with the transcript, by counting the number of the words.

“I would give up all the tender epistles of Mrs. Arthur Brooke, to have read one of Sally’s epistles; but they were amatory, and therefore kept sacred: for plain as she was, Sally Holt had a lover.

“There is an unpretending plainness in some faces that has its charm—an unaffected ugliness, a thousand times more bewitching than those would-be pretty looks that neither satisfy the critical sense, nor leave the matter of beauty at once to the imagination. We like better to make a new face than to mend an old one. Sally had not one good feature, except those which John Hayloft made for her in his dreams; and to judge from one token, her partial fancy was equally answerable for his charms. One precious lock—no, not a lock, but rather a remnant of very short, very coarse, very yellow hair, the clippings of a military crop, for John was a corporal—stood the foremost item amongst her treasures. To her they were curls, golden, Hyperian, and cherished long after the parent-head was laid low, with many more, on the bloody plain of Salamanca.

“I remember vividly at this moment the ecstasy of her grief at the receipt of the fatal news. She was standing near the dresser with a dish, just cleaned, in her dexter hand. Ninety-nine women in a hundred would have dropped the dish. Many would have flung themselves after it on the floor; but Sally put it up, orderly, on the shelf. The fall of John Hayloft could not induce the fall of the crockery. She felt the blow notwithstanding; and as soon as she had emptied her hands, began to give way to her emotions in her own manner. Affliction vents itself in various modes, with different temperaments: some rage, others compose themselves like monuments. Some weep, some sleep, some prose about death, and others poetize on it. Many take to a bottle, or to a rope. Some go to Margate, or Bath.

“Sally did nothing of these kinds. She neither snivelled, travelled, sickened, maddened, nor ranted, nor canted, nor hung, nor fuddled herself—she only rocked herself upon the kitchen chair!

“The action was not adequate to her relief. She got up—took a fresh chair—then another—and another—and another,—till she had rocked on all the chairs in the kitchen.

“The thing was tickling to both sympathies. It was pathetical to behold her grief, but ludicrous that she knew no better how to grieve.

“An American might have thought that she was in the act of enjoyment, but for an intermitting O dear! O dear! Passion could not wring more from her in the way of exclamation than the tooth-ache. Her lamentations were always the same, even in tone. By and by she pulled out the hair—the cropped, yellow, stunted, scrubby hair; then she fell to rocking—then O dear! O dear!—and then Da Capo.

“It was an odd sort of elegy; and yet, simple as it was, I thought it worth a thousand of lord Littelton’s!

“‘Heyday, Sally! what is the matter?’ was a very natural inquiry from my aunt, when she came down into the kitchen; and if she did not make it with her tongue, at least it was asked very intelligibly by her eyes. Now Sally had but one way of addressing her mistress, and she used it here. It was the same with which she would have asked for a holiday, except that the waters stood in her eyes.

“‘If you please, ma’am,’ said she, rising up from her chair, and dropping her old curtsey, ‘if you please, ma’am, it’s John Hayloft is dead;’ and then she began rocking again, as if grief was a baby that wanted jogging to sleep.”——

The many “stories of storm-ships and haunted vessels, of spectre shallops, and supernatural Dutch-doggers—the adventures of Solway sailors, with Mahound in his bottomless barges, and the careerings of the phantom-ship up and down the Hudson,” suggest to Mr. Hood a story entitled “The Demon-Ship.” This he illustrates by an engraving called “The Flying-Dutchman,” representing the aerial ascent of a native of the Low Countries, by virtue of a reversal of the personal gravity, which, particularly in a Hollander, has been commonly understood to have a tendency downwards. Be this as it may, Mr. Hood’s tale is illustrated by the tail-piece referred to. The story itself commences with a highly wrought description of a sea-storm, of uncommon merit, which will be the last extract from his interesting volume that can be ventured, viz.:—