THE SKETCH BOOK.

NO. XLIII.

THE BUTCHER.

Wolsey, they tell us, was a butcher. An alliterative couplet too was made upon him to that import:—

Notwithstanding which, however, and other similar allusions, there have arisen many disputes touching the veracity of the assertion; yet, doubtless, those who first promulgated the idea, were keen observers of men and manners; and, probably, in the critical examination of the Cardinal's character, discovered a particular trait which indubitably satisfied them of his origin.

Be this as it may, I am inclined to think there is certainly something peculiarly characteristic in the butcher.

The pursuit of his calling appears to have an influence upon his manners, speech, and dress. Of all the days in the week, Saturday is the choicest for seeing him to the best advantage. His hatless head, shining with grease, his cheeks as ruddy as his mutton-chops, his sky-blue frock and dark-blue apron, his dangling steel and sharp-set knife, which ever and anon play an accompaniment to his quick, short—"Buy! buy!" are all in good keeping with the surrounding objects. And although this be not killing day with him, he is particularly winning and gracious with the serving-maids; who (whirling the large street-door key about their right thumb, and swinging their marketing basket in their left hand) view the well-displayed joints, undecided which to select, until Mr. Butcher recommends a leg or a loin; and then he so very politely cuts off the fat, in which his skilful hand is guided by the high or low price of mutton fat in the market. He is the very antipode of a fop, yet no man knows how to show a handsome leg off to better advantage, or is prouder of his calves.

In his noviciate, when he shoulders the shallow tray, and whistles cavalierly on his way in his sausage-meat-complexioned-jacket, there is something marked as well in his character as his habits, he is never moved to stay, except by a brother butcher, or a fight of dogs or boys, for such scenes fit his singular fancy. Then, in the discussion of his bull-dog's beauties, he becomes extraordinarily eloquent. Hatiz, the Persian, could not more warmly, or with choicer figure, describe his mistress' charms, than he does Lion's, or Fowler's, or whatever the brute's Christian name may be; and yet the surly, cynical, dogged expression of the bepraised beast, would almost make one imagine he understood the meaning of his master's words, and that his honest nature despised the flattering encomiums he passes upon his pink belly and legs, his broad chest, his ring-tail, and his tulip ears!—Absurdities, in Prose and Verse.

CONFIDENCE AND CREDIT.

(For the Mirror.)

JESSE HAMMOND.

CURIOUS SCRAPS RELATING TO CELEBRATED PERSONS.

(For the Mirror.)

When the famous Cornelia, daughter of the great Scipio, was importuned by a lady of her acquaintance to show her toilette, she deferred satisfying her curiosity till her children, who were the famous Gracchi, came from school, and then said, "En! haec ornamenta mea sunt."—"These are my ornaments."

Cyneas, the minister of Pyrrhus, asked the king (before their expedition into Italy) what he proposed to do when he had subdued the Romans? He answered, "Pass into Sicily." "What then?" said the minister. "Conquer the Carthaginians," replied the king. "And what follows that?" says the minister. "Be sovereign of Greece, and then enjoy ourselves," said the king. "And why," replied the sensible minister, "can we not do this last now?"

The emperors Nerva, Trajan, Antoninous, and Aurelius sold their palaces, their gold and silver plate, their valuable furniture, and other superfluities, heaped up by their predecessors, and banished from their tables all expensive delicacies. These princes, together with Vespasian, Pertinax, Alexander, Severus, Claudius the Second, and Tacitus, who were raised to the empire by their merit, and whom all ages have admired as the greatest and the best of princes, were always fond of the greatest plainness in their apparel, furniture, and outward appearance.

Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, who lived unknown and disgraced in Spain, was scarcely able to obtain an audience of his master Charles V.; and when the king asked who was the fellow that was so clamorous to speak to him, he cried out, "I am one who have got your majesty more provinces than your father left towns."

Camoens, the famous Portuguese poet, was unfortunately shipwrecked at the mouth of the river Meco, on the coast of Camboja, and lost his whole property; however, he saved his life and his poems, which he bore through the waves in one hand, whilst he swam ashore with the other. It is said, that his black servant, a native of Java, who had been his companion for many years, begged in the Streets of Lisbon for the support of his master, who died in 1579. His death, it is supposed, was accelerated by the anguish with which he foresaw the ruin impending over his country. In one of his letters he uses these remarkable expressions: "I am ending the course of my life; the world will witness how I have loved my country. I have returned not only to die in her bosom, but to die with her."

Henrietta, daughter of Henry IV. of France, and wife of Charles I. of England, was reduced to the utmost poverty; and her daughter, afterwards married to a brother of Louis XIV., is said to have lain in bed for want of coals to keep her warm. Pennant relates a melancholy fact of fallen majesty in the person of Mary d'Este, the unhappy queen of James II., who, flying with her infant prince from the ruin impending over their house, after crossing the Thames from abdicated Whitehall, took shelter beneath the ancient walls of Lambeth church a whole hour, from the rain of the inclement night of December 6th, 1688. Here she waited with aggravated misery till a common coach, procured from the next inn, arrived, and conveyed her to Gravesend, from whence she sailed, and bid adieu to this kingdom.

Pascal, one of the greatest geniuses and best men that ever lived, entertained a notion that God made men miserable here in order to their being happy hereafter; and in consequence of this notion, he imposed upon himself the most painful mortification. He even ordered a wall to be built before a window in his study, which afforded him too agreeable a prospect. He had also a girdle full of sharp points next his skin; and while he was eating or drinking any thing that was grateful to his palate, he was constantly pricking himself, that he might not be sensible of any pleasure. The virtuous Fenelon submitted without reserve to the arbitrary sentence of the pope, when he condemned a book which he had published, and even preached in condemnation of his own book, forbidding his friends to defend it. "What gross and humiliating superstitions (says their biographer) have been manifested by men, in other respects of sound and clear understandings, and of upright, honest hearts."

In the churchyard of St. Ann's, Soho, says Pennant, is a marble, erected near the grave of that remarkable personage, Theodore Antony Newhoff, king of Corsica, who died in this parish in 1756, immediately after leaving the king's-bench prison, by the benefit of the act of insolvency. The marble was erected, and the epitaph written, by the honourable Horace Walpole:—

"The grave, great teacher, to a level brings

Heroes and beggars, galley-slaves and kings;

But Theodore this moral learn'd ere dead—

Fate pour'd its lesson on his living head,

Bestow'd a kingdom, and denied him bread."

He registered his kingdom of Corsica for the use of his creditors. His biographer says, "He was a man whose claim to royalty was as indisputable as the most ancient titles to any monarchy can pretend to be; that is, the choice of his subjects, the voluntary election of an injured people, who had the common right of mankind to freedom, and the uncommon resolution of determining to be free."

P.T.W.

"THE LILY BELLS ARE WET WITH DEW."

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

Sir,—I have taken the liberty of transmitting to you a piece of a Latin ode, which appears to me to be the original of the song—"The lily bells are wet with dew," in Miss Mitford's "Dramatic Scenes," which appeared in your miscellany of June 23, 1827.

It is copied from an old book published in the year 1697, by Charles Elford, entitled "Gemmae Poetarum."

If you think it worthy insertion, I should feel obliged by its appearance. Yours respectfully,

J.T.S.

I have translated it thus, which you may perceive is strictly literal:—

The lilies are wet with the dew—the sunbeams with a kiss gently touch the flower of the roses.—O the garden is rich of scent—is bright of hue.—Arise Feronia and weave the garland even now to braid thy ravenlike hair, lest at mid-day the sun should spoil the flowers.—In the sky there is a little cloud, gentle whisperings come with the gale—they tell of rain or snow.—Arise Feronia and carefully weave the garland to bind up thy hair, lest the threatening storm should come.