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numerous

17i& friendly Contributions of various Writers;
PRINCIPALLT INTENDED AS
T2JZmW£WM£ 2©S?Ts§of TIMIETTIPILATI
Designed and Etched
BY R. DAGLEY,
Author of "SELECT GEfMS from the.AWTIQUE"&c

"But God forbid, that a thief should die
Without his share of the laws !
So I nimbly whipt my tackle out,
And soon tied up "his claws. —
I was judge, myself, and jury, and all

And solemnly tried the cause?

Sooi.

TEE SECOIVD EDITION WJTE CON.'VDEthiBZE ADDITIONS.

VOL: 11.

LOTtfDOisr;
.7. ANT)-R-EW$-\67, NEW BOND STREET.

DEATH'S DOINGS:

CONSISTING OF NUMEROUS

ORIGINAL COMPOSITIONS,
IN
THE
FRIENDLY CONTRIBUTIONS OF VARIOUS WRITERS ;
PRINCIPALLY INTENDED AS
ILLUSTRATIONS
OF
THIRTY COPPER-PLATES,
DESIGNED AND ETCHED
BY R. DAGLEY,
AUTHOR OF " SELECT GEMS FROM THE ANTIQUE," &c.
VOL. II.

SECOND EDITION,
WITH CONSIDERABLE ADDITIONS.

LONDON:
J. ANDREWS, 167, NEW BOND STREET ; AND W. COLE,
10, NEWGATE STREET.
1827.

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1
THE LAST BOTTLE.

225

THE LAST BOTTLE.

An' if it be the last bottle, Death is quite wel
come ; for then life hath run to the very dregs and
lees, and there is nothing more in it which can be
called enjoyment. Ah, whither have ye sped, ye jo
vial Hours, which on bright-winged glasses, far dif
ferent 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 yielding
space. How ye sparkled and ran on, like gay crea
tures 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! Ponderous
debts which might weigh nations down ; the griefs of
many loves, enough to drown a world ; the false
hoods of friends, the malice of enemies ; anxieties,
fears, troubles, sorrows — all vanished as drinking ye
proceeded in your mystic dance ! I picture ye in my
Q

226 death's DOINGS.
fancy, now, ye Hours, as sparkling, joyous, and ex
quisite 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 worshippers. 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 approach
when we should less regard his frown . Like the un
conscious 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
Maneros of the Egyptians was a mournful and wail
ing 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 toast, of cheer, of laughter, and
of shout, was such as Plutarch paints of the wisdom
of antiquity, when the figure of a dead man was
shown to the convivial souls, and they melodiously
joined the chorus—

THE LAST BOTTLE. 227
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-lun,* quo' he !
Our only night, no sky light, drink about,
quo' we.
Time, they tell us, waits for no man ; —
Cime atrtr Cilre
jfor no man iitse.
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 :
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 half concealed by that arm
uplifted with the sparkling glass, he has drank till
* Literally in the Greek, " Behold that corpse; you will resemble
it after your death : drink now, therefore, and be merry." — (See He
rodotus and Plutarch, on the Egyptian Maneros, passim). The fine
chorus of Ai-lun, " He is dwelling with the night," is, we trust, pa
thetically rendered.
Q2

228 death's DOINGS.
the tender mood of philosophy steals over his melt
ing 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 melancholy sensa
tions- Death comes but once, the philosophers say,
And 'tis true, my brave boys, but that once is a clencher :
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, though to me odd it is;
But 'tis Greek, very good I hope, and comes from
Herodotus.

The old Trojan himself tucks his napkin under his
arm, the whetting of his scythe is forgotten, and he
wishes (miserable sinner), that, instead of sand, his
double glass were wetted full with burgundy. 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 : —

THE LAST BOTTLE. 229
j
Let the 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 re
port of the fowler's gun. The undulating agitation
of the instant, — the centric, concentric, elliptic, pa
rabolic, and every imaginary shape into which its
glancing bosom is broken, ripples and sparkles with
light, and all then gently subsides 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 ta
ble ; 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 emphatically
as upon the ear of the weary Panurge : —

230 death's DOINGS.
Alexander and Ccesar have vanished away ;
And Plato and Cicero now are but clay ;
The brave, and the learned, and the good, and the wise,
All come to the same simple close of " Here lies."
Then let us 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,
French words and French wines are far better than
Greek.
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 measure
* When the oracle of the Holy Bottle was pronounced by the trink-
ling of the drops which fell from it, quoth Panurge, " Is this all that
the Trismigistian Bottle's words mean ? In truth I like it extremely, it
went down like mother's milk." — " Nothing more," returned Bacbuc,
" for tbinc is a Panomphean word, that is, a word understood, used,
and celebrated by all nation?, and signifies Drivk.—See Rabelais for
this adventure of Pantagruel and Panurge.

THE LAST BOTTLE.

231

is full, the last verse is sung, the last cork has left
the neck of the last bottle open. The gloomy assas
sin 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 he paid the debt of Nature ; an
other remarked that he was just wise enough to pre
fer 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.

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232

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 quaff;
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.

THE BACCHANALIANS.

233

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.

234

ELIXIR VITiE.

1 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 celebrity
— wine has ever been lauded as one of Nature's
most valuable gifts to man. It is the true aurum
potabile, the genuine elixir vitce, invigorating the
heart, inspiring the fancy, and recalling to the veins
of age the genial glow of youth. Accordingly, many,
very many, are the excellent sayings that have been
uttered in commendation 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 inspiration,
if not immortality : it has also been compared to the
fountain of youth, or to that wonder-working caul-

ELIXIR V1TM. 235
dron in which Medea* re-animated with fresh vigour
and vitality the aged limbs of her parent, infusing
into his veins a warmer, fuller current.
Nevertheless, although the bacchanalian be
steeped in his all-potent liquor as deeply as possi
ble, 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 grisly spectre. Death, indeed, pays
not much respect to the bon vivant ; and, regardless
of him as the professed toper may appear, or sel
dom as he sings a memento mori over his bowl, or
utters one in the form of a toast, it must be ac
knowledged that he more often rehearses the final
scene of life than his fellow mortals, by getting
* Stripped of its allegorical veil, the fable of Medea is nothing 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 unpoelical
matter-of-fact spirit of modern times, so different from that of antiquity ;
not but there may be, and undoubtedly is, a considerable degree of
both fancy and invention in those productions.

236 death's doings.
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 wis
dom and deep reflection from scenes that seem ca
pable of furnishing little instruction of this nature.
We may be pardoned, therefore, if we prose a little
on that truly poetical and classical subject, a bac
chanalian* group, when the competitors having in
dulged in unsparing libations to the genius loci — the
deity of the banqueting-room, sink in oblivious re
pose and death-like insensibility. Here the full tide
* For the benefit of those who delight to indulge in bold etymolo
gical speculations, and supply the pedigree of words from conjecture, we
will here record an anecdote that may elucidate the origin of this epi
thet : — " So, I hear, Mrs. Simkins, that your good man had quite a bac
chanalian party the other evening," remarked an acquaintance to the
spouse of a retired cheesemonger. " I would have you to know, sir,"
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
afford 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 High
lander, one of Bacchus, as the god Bacco, and who always used the
choice Italian oath Corpo di Bacco, which he said meant the fraternity
or corps of tobacconists.

ELIXIR VIT.E. 237
of existence that so lately animated the joyous cir
cle, 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 enthusiastic toast, and the rushing torrent of
words supplied by the grape-god, whose bottle in
spires louder eloquence than Pieria's fount ; — all are
now hushed, and succeeded by silent torpidity ; so
closely have the actors in this mystery or morality,
adhered to the progressive course marked by Na
ture herself, who, from the midst of health 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 insensibi
lity, the bright liquor still sparkling before their
eyes. So far we might not seldom derive a moral
lesson from a not particularly moral 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

238 death's doings.
of nature, and against him all subterfuges, however
ingenious, are unavailing. Scorning and setting at
naught all form and etiquette, he intrudes in spite
of porter or groom of the chambers. Nevertheless,
he will occasionally use a little finesse and strata
gem, although certain of being able to gain forcible
admission— vi et armis. Here he comes in the dis
guise of a boon companion, for a while to entertain
the company with his erudition in oenology; and
descant most learnedly on the pedigrees of wines,
showing himself deeply learned in the lore of a Hen
derson, and quite aufait in the science of the draw
ing-room, — that is, the room where they draw corks ;
which, by the by, in the opinion of a great many con
noisseurs, is the finest style of drawing ever in
vented — at least so it is held by those practitioners
who operate as bottle dentists, and pique them
selves on the skill with which they extract their
teeth, and drain their veins— not of blood, but of the
generous and potent ichor, for which they are so
esteemed. But whether the liquor he proffers be
claret or champagne, — " that might create a soul be
neath 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, however,
wine do sometimes prove a poison, it must be ac-

ELIXIR VITjE. 239
knowledged to be infinitely the most agreeable of any
mentioned or not mentioned in any treatise on toxi
cology, and by far the most palateable 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 is
occasioned, not by the quality of the medicine, but
by the excess of the dose. In other words, the fault
lies in the patient himself, which is, we presume, in
variably the case whenever any infallible nostrum
works not the desired cure. If wine has hurried
many out of the world sooner than they would other
wise have departed, so has physic, and more espe
cially that sort of physic that has professed to ac
complish the most miraculous effects, and remove
all disorders. Indeed, to do these universal pana
ceas justice, they do most effectually remove every
complaint by despatching 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 antediluvian length of days.

240 death's doings.
To those who like to indulge in fanciful compari
sons, the festive table, covered with well-freighted
decanters, shows itself like a calm sea on which
stately ships and rich argosies are sailing along in
gallant trim, fearing neither storms, nor shoals, nor
rocks ; but steer their way among goodly dishes
laden with luscious fruits, that stud the bright ex
panse like so many fertile islands, and form an ar
chipelago of sweets. And, to continue the simile,
how many goodly promontories and capes do we
discern around ! Yonder is a fiery proboscis that
serves as a flaming beacon — a moral light-house to
warn the inexperienced : not far from this, a mouth
that expands itself like some capacious haven.
Continuing our course, we come to a nose, a jutting
promontory with a mole at its extremity rivalling
that of Genoa. There a snowy head meets the eye,
reminding us of Etna ; — there a face with an eruption
that marks it at once, by its fiery appearance, as Ve
suvius : yet as men are not deterred from approach
ing that mountain, so neither is our bon-vivant
scared from his crater— in plain prose, his glass— by
the fiery glare of his own countenance ; or perhaps
its reflection serves only to lend a deeper ruby tint
to his wine. Let us not be accused of being too

ELIXIR VIT/E. 241
fantastic and obscure in our allegorical picture ; for
surely the image is natural enough.
Life itself has been compared to a voyage, and
hence many, interpreting the expression somewhat
too literally, have actually steered their course
through a Red Sea of port and claret ; sailed across
a Pacific Ocean of burgundy and champagne ; navi
gated a Rhine whose stream has been genuine Rhe
nish ; and cruized up and down a gulf of choice
Malaga ; visiting alternately 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 different 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 im
mortals — a Lethe for all the cares and anxieties 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 creditors, their families, and
even themselves. It is not, therefore, surprising
that they should not have recollected, that, let them

242 death's doings.
steer with what skill they might, — however they
might be favoured with fair breezes and prosperous
gales, and escape tempests and squalls, they must
finish their voyage in the Dead Sea.
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 are compelled to drain from his hand. At
his bidding the wine-bibber must visit other shades
than those whither he has often so willingly repaired
to partake of the inspiring glass, heedless of the
ominous name. The Shades ! — what a memento mori
in that awfully-sounding word, which is nevertheless
daily uttered by so many with so much gaiety!
Hardly do they seem to reflect that the grisly spec
tre 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 themselves
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.
W. H. L.

THE SHADES.

[Allusion having been made in the foregoing article to the well-known
" Shades" at the foot of old London Bridge, but which shady
retreat will, ere long, be swept away, that its site may form a part
of the entrance to the new one, we take the opportunity of insert
ing the following trifle, as a memento of that favourite resort,
where, like good citizens, we have often paid our devoirs to Bacchus,
and at the same time admired, with feelings natural to an English
man, the wealth and commerce of the world borne majestically along
on the bosom of " Old Father Thames."]

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.
r2

244 death's doings.
The sons of gay Bacchus their nectar here quaff—
And Sorrow, that " thirsty old soul,"
With the children of Momus, delighted, will laugh,
And swear that he ne'er was so happy by half
As when up to his chin in the bowl.
Wine, wine is the balm that assuages our pains ;
Come, fill — and the glasses push round ;
It cherishes love — so, take courage, ye swains,
And drink while a drop of the cordial remains —
For without it no bliss can be found.
Grim Death for a while shall his dart lay aside,
And even old Time shall stand still,
While mortals, enjoying the rich rosy tide,
Shall laugh at " dull Care," — and, with true civic
pride,
Of wine, like the gods, take their fill.
Oh, haste to the Shades, then, where wine-bibbers
meet,
Oh, haste 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 quart.

M.

UJJlcci: "1 SAY— LOOK HEEE. 1 TOLD YOU TO GO TO PADDINGTON, AND YOU 'EE GOING IN THE OPPOSITE DIEECTION."
Taxi-Dliccr. " OEL EIGHT — OEL EIGHT! XOU'EE LUCKY TO GET A CAB AT ALL, INSTEAD OP GEUMBLIN' ABAHT WHEEE YER WAKTS
IKE GO TO !"

THE NEW MRS. MARKHAM.
CONVERSATION ON CHAPTER LX.
2Ia)i/. I wish, Mamma, that there
were not so many shocking stories in
history. Mis. M. History is, indeed, a sad
catalogue of human miseries, and one
is glad to turn aside from the horrors
of war to the amenities of private life.
Shall I tell yon something of the do
mestic habits of the English in the
early twentieth century ?
Mary. Oh do, Mamma ; I shall like
that very much.
Mrs. M. The nobility and the well-
to-do classes no longer lived shut up
in gloomy castles, but made a point of
spending most of their time in public.
They never took their meals at home,
but habitually frequented large build
ings called restaurants, fitted up with
sumptuous and semi-Sultanie splen
dour. In these halls, while the guests
sat at a uumber of tables, they were
entertained by minstrels and singers.
It was even said that they acquired
the habit of eating and drinking in
time to the music. They were waited
upon for the most part by foreigners,
who spoke broken English, and what
with the babel of tongues, the din of

the music and the constant popping of
corks, for alcohol had not yet been
prohibited, the scene beggared de
scription. Richard. Well, I am sure I would
rather dine in our neat little dining-
room, with our silent wireless waiter,
than partake of the most extravagant
repasts in those sumptuous halls.
George. I must just ask you, Mamma,
about one thing that has all along
puzzled me very much. What was the
House of Lords about all this time
that they let the House of Commons
govern the country and have their own
way in everything ?
Mrs. M. I am afraid, my dear George,
that you are animated by a somewhat
reactionary bias in favour of feudalism,
which in your own best interests you
would do well to curb. It is enough
to say that some of the peers supported
the House of Commons, and the ma
jority were too timid to make any
stand against the numbers and violence
of the other House. Nowadays, thanks
to the wide diffusion of peerages and
the fact that they are conferred far
more freely on persons of advanced
political views, this lack of independ
ence has largely been eliminated.
Richard. I am sure we must all

thank you for the trouble you took to
explain about Free Trade and Protee
tion ; but if you are not too tired wil.
you kindly tell us something about the
learned and clever men who lived a(
this time ?
Mrs. M. You know, my dear boy,
that I am always happy to impart
information, and am pleased to have
such attentive listeners. The authoress
of your favourite poems, Mary, lived in
this reign. I mean Mrs. Ella Wheeler
Wilcox. The Rev. H. G. Wells, the
famous theologian who abolished the
Latin and G reels grammars ; the Bar
oness Corkscrew — to call her by the i
name under which she was ultimately r.
elevated to the peerage— who wrote so
many beautiful historical romances that
she quite superseded Sir Walter Scott ;
Sir John Oxenham, one of England's
greatest poets ; and Lord Hall-Caine,
author of Isle of Man Power, were
commanding figures in this period.
Richard. Oh, Mamma, did not Lord
Hall-Caine discover the North Pole ?
Mrs. M. Not that I am aware of, my
dear boy, though it is quite possible.
But you are probably confusing him
with the Arctic explorer, Dr. Kane.
Among the scientific men I must men
tion Sir William Robertson Nicoll,

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

The Kaiser. " STOP ! STOP ! I 'M TIRED."
Death. "I STARTED AT YOUR BIDDING; I STOP WHEN I CHOOSE.'

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.— October 17, 1917.

Fkr&vA*/& 7*0

TME WAMMOl.

245

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.

" Aye, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume
On a proud and fearless brow !
I am the lord of the lonely tomb,
And a mightier one than thou !
" Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief !
Bid her a long farewell !
Like the morning's dew shall pass that grief —
Thou comest with me to dwell !
" Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep,
Thy steed o'er the breezy hill ;
But they bear thee on to a place of sleep,
Narrow, and cold, and still !"
" Was the voice I heard thy voice, O Death ?
And is thy day so near?
Then on the field shall my life's last breath
Mingle with Victory's cheer !

246 death's doings.
" Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note,
Above me as I die,
And the palm-tree wave o'er my noble grave,
Under the Syrian sky.
" High hearts shall burn in the royal hall,
When the minstrel names that spot;
And the eyes I love shall weep my fall —
Death ! Death ! I fear thee not."
" Warrior ! thou bearest a haughty heart,
But I can bend its pride !
How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part
In the hour of Victory's tide 1
" It may be far from thy steel-clad bands,
That I shall make thee mine ;
It may be lone on the desert-sands,
Where men for fountains pine !
" It may be deep amidst heavy chains,
In some strong Paynim hold —
I have slow dull steps, and lingering pains,
Wherewith to tame the bold !"

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. 247
" Death ! Death ! I go to a doom unbless'd,
If this indeed must be !
But the cross is bound upon my breast,
And I may not shrink for thee !
" Sound, clarion, sound ! — for my vows are given
To the cause of the holy shrine ;
I bow my soul to the will of heaven,
O Death! and not to thine !"
F. H.

248

THE WARRIOR.

It came upon the morning wind
One loud and thrilling tone,
And distant hills sent forth their voice,—
The trumpet-call was blown.
And sterner grew each stately brow
As that war-blast pass'd by,
And redder grew each warrior cheek,
Brighter each warrior eye.
But other cheeks grew pale to hear,
And other eyes grew dim ;
Woman shares not man's battle joy, —
That joy is all for him.
The same blast lights the glance of flame,
Darkens the martial frown ;
At which a woman's rose-lip fades, —
At which her heart sinks down

THE WARRIOR. 249
Proudly that trumpet sweeps thy hills,
Land of the sword and shrine,
It calls the soldier of the cross
To fight for Palestine.
It roused one tent, which stood apart
Within the barrier made
By many a green and creeping shrub
And one tall palm-tree's shade.
It roused a warrior and his bride —
His bride ! What doth she there?
Oh, rather ask, when led by love,
What will not woman dare ?
Said I, her timid nature was
Like her cheek's timid hue ;
But fearful though that nature be,
She hath her courage too.
Go ask the fever couch, the cell
Of guilt ; she hath no part
In courage of the head and hand,
She hath that of the heart.

250 death's DOINGS.
"Tis this has brought that gentle one
From her fair Provence bower,
Where in her husband's halls she dwelt,
Nurs'd like a lovely flower.
That trumpet-call, it roused them both
From a sweet dream of home,
Roused him to hopes that with such sound
To gallant spirits come.
And she, — at least she hid the fears
That clouded her fair brow, —
Her prayers had guarded him in fight,
Might they not guard him now ?
She armed him, though her trembling hand
Shook like a leaf the while ; —
The battle had his onward glance,
But she his lingering smile.
She brought the blue and broidered scarf,
Her colours for his breast ;
But what dark dreary shape has brought
His helm and plumed crest ?

THE WARRIOR. 251
Fell Shade ! they see, they heed thee not,
Thou of the noiseless wing,
The viewless shaft, the sudden call —
O Death, here is thy sting.
The lips would close in pious hope,
The eyes in willing sleep,
But for the tears, the bitter tears,
That love is left to weep.

'Tis evening— and the blood-red west
Has not so deep a red,
As hath that slaughter-field where lie
The dying and the dead.
'Tis midnight — and the clang of steel,
The human shout and cry,
Are silent as if sleep and peace
Were upon earth and sky.
The strife is past like other storms,
Soldier and chief are gone,
Yet lightly falls a woman's step —
What doth she there alone ?

252

DEATH'S DOINGS.

'Tis she! the Provence Rose'; oh, well
Such name beseems her now,
The pale and stony dead around
Wear not more ghastly brow.
Woe for her search — too soon she finds
Her valiant knight laid low ;
Thou fatal helm, thou hast betrayed
His head to the life-blow.
One blasting gaze — one loud wild shriek, —
She sinks upon his breast:
O Death ! thou hast been merciful, —
For both, both are at rest.
L. E. L.

253

THE WARRIOR'S FAREWELL.

I.
The Warrior's soul is kindling now
With wildly-blending fires,
He fondly breathes each raptured vow
That faithful love inspires ;
But not those whispered words alone
Arrest the Maiden's ear,
A prouder strain — a loftier tone,
Awakes the throb of fear !
II.
They hear the war-notes on the gale,
Before the tent they stand,
His form is clad in glittering mail,
The sword is in his hand ;
Her scarf around his arm is twined,
For love's remembering spell.
Ah ! would that kindred skill could bind
The links of life as well !

254 death's doings.
III.
The battle-steed is waiting nigh,
Nor brooks his lord's delay;
And eager troops are trampling by,
And wave their banners gay.
Nor boding dream, nor bitter care,
In that proud host are found,
While echoing through the startled air
The cheerful trumpets sound.
IV
The Maid, with mingled pride and grief,
Faint hopes, and withering fears,
Still gazes on the gallant Chief
Through dim impassioned tears.
He sees but Victory's golden wreath,
And love's unfading flame,
Nor thinks how soon the form of Death
May cross the path of fame !
V.
" A last farevjell — a last embrace,
And now for glory' s plain !"
Those parting accents left a trace
Of phrensy on her brain.

THE WARRIOR S FAREWELL.

255

And when the Warrior's helm was brought
To crown his forehead fair,
Alas! the shuddering Maiden thought
'Twas Death that placed it there !
D. L. R.

256

THE VOLUNTEER.

The clashing of my armour in my ears,
Sounds like a passing bell ; my buckler puts me
In mind of a bier ; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe
To dig my grave." The Lover's Progress.

'Twas in that memorable year
France threaten'd to put off in
Flat-bottom'd boats, intending each
To be a British coffin, —
To make sad widows of our wives
And every babe an orphan.
When coats were made of scarlet cloaks,
And heads were dredg'd with flour, —
I listed in the Tailors' Corps
Against the battle hour ;
A perfect Volunteer, — for why ?
I brought my " will and pow'r."

THE VOLUNTEER. 259
One dreary day — a day of dread,
Like Cato's — overcast, —
About the hour of six, (the morn
And I were breaking fast), —
There came a loud and sudden sound
That struck me all aghast !
A dismal sort of morning roll
That was not to be eaten ;
Although it was no skin of mine
But parchment that was beaten,
I felt tattooed through all my flesh
Like any Otaheitan.
My jaws with utter dread enclos'd
The morsel I was munching,
And terror lock'd them up so tight,
My very teeth went crunching
All through my bread and tongue at once,
Like sandwich made at lunching.
My hand that held the teapot fast,
Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady,
Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'er
The cup in one long eddy,
Till both my hose were mark'd with tea
As they were mark'd already.

260 death's DOINGS.
I felt my visage turn from red
To white — from cold to hot,
But it was nothing wonderful
My colour changed I wot,
For, like some variable silks,
I felt that I was shot.
And looking forth with anxious eye
From my snug upper story,
I saw our melancholy corps
Going to beds all gory ;
The pioneers seem'd very loth
To axe the way to glory.
The captain march'd as mourners march,
The ensign too seem'd lagging,
And many more, although they were
No ensigns, took to flagging ;
Like corpses in the Serpentine,
Methought they wanted dragging.
But while I watch'd, the thought of Death
Came like a chilly gust,
And lo ! I shut the window down,
With very little lust
To join so many marching men
That soon might be March dust.

THE VOLUNTEER. 261
Quoth I, " Since Fate ordains it so,
Our coast the foe must land on ;" —
I felt warm beside the fire
I cared not to abandon ;
And homes and hearths are always things
That patriots make a stand on.
" The fools that fight abroad for home,"
Thought I, " may get a wrong one ;
Let those that have no homes at all
Gobattle for a long one."
The mirror here confirmed me this
Reflection by a strong one.
For there, where I was wont to shave
And deck me like Adonis,
There stood the leader of our foes,
With vultures for his cronies,
No Corsican, but Death himself,
The Bony of all Bonies.
A horrid sight it was, and sad,
To see the grisly chap
Put on my crimson livery,
And then begin to clap
My helmet on— Ah, me ! it felt
Like any felon's cap !
s 2

262

death's doings.

My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse,
An undertaker's crest ;
My epaulettes like coffin plates ;
My belt so heavy press'd,
Four pipeclay cross-roads seemed to lie
At once upon my breast.
My brazen breastplate only lack'd
A little heap of salt
To make me like a corpse full dress'd,
Preparing for the vault,
To set up what the Poet calls
My everlasting halt.
This funeral show inclin'd me quite
To peace : — and here I am !
Whilst better Lions go to war,
Enjoying with the Lamb
A lengthen'd life, that might have been
A Martial epigram.

T. H.

263

THE RIVAL DEATHS.

A BATTLE SCENE.

It was at Agincourt ! and proudly waved
The gory bannerols ; and falchions fell,
From either host, right greedily ; while groans
And imprecations deep, foul oaths and prayers
The clangour swell'd !— Thus Goldsmith's page de
clares.
But, spite of things unseemly; spite of legs,
From hip-bones torn, of arms where legs should be,
Quick-sighted wights, that love of laughter plagues,
'Mong bloody trunks, will cause for grinning see.

In front of Henry's knights a warrior stood,
Perfum'd and whisk'rified, with val'rous ribands
strew'd,
For ribands gave (my chronicler doth hold)
A wondrous sight of soul to men of old :
They fought for silken knots and ladies' eyes ;
For broken limbs we seek another prize ;

264 death's doings.
And though so many boast of glorious scars,
For trophies such, alone, few covet wars.
Our Gallic Baron was of high descent :
To Clovis traced ; his blood still farther went ;
For Pharamond, he oft persisted in,
Was " ligne ignoble" and " moderne origine."
Desamere,* not a word, save Pistol's jest,
Or Falstaff's broader hint, that told the rest.
Talbot swore loud ; his blade stern Bedford drew ;
The warrior bow'd, and thus : " ecoutez tous.'f
Mon Isabelle, I declare,
Is de fairest of de fair !
Qui me dedit, qu'il avance !
Vive Isabelle et la FRANCE \"%
He scarce, thrice bowing, this great nasal spoke,
When angry Warwick's mace his nasum § broke :
In scented rills now ran the purple tide,
And scarf alike and precious ribands dyed.
* Poor girl ! to be mated, so hasty was she,
She forgot there were banns, and a pastor, and fee.
t List, all of you !
X Who says nay -. behold my lance !
Praise my love, and honour FRANCE !
$ His nose.

the rival deaths. 265
One soothing thought, at least, his mistress calmed —
Long ere the baron fell, he was embalmed.
To the grave now consign'd, with the gifts of his
queen,
O'er the warrior's remains a contention arose ;
And the combatants both were the strangest of foes,
Sith neither had flesh or an eye to be seen.*
The first, in the kingdom of Albion held sway,
And his pow'r not a monarch on earth could control ;
The next through the regions of Gaul took his prowl,
And claw'd up all mortals that came in his way.
ALBION.
" He is mine, by the laws of my land, I protest,
For I claim'd the fair mould in the which he was cast,
Beyond a full score of long years that are past,
When the baron, his sire, in Britain was blest."
GAUL.
" And he's mine, by the bones of a trillion of dead !
Mort ou vif, c'est a moi que le drdle appartient. f
* The rival Deaths : Albion and Gaul.
f Full of life and of musk, or of maggots, he's Mine !

266 death's doings.
Will you steal from a parent the child it has bred 1
C'est du pere, et tout seul, qu'un garcon nous pro-
vient !" * ALBION.
" From the mother he springs !"
GAUL.
" Point du tout, c'est du pere!"f
ALBION.
" Take thy bones to thy care ;
Else, thou leanest of things,
I shall break them, I swear !"
GAUL.
" De mes os, beau Luron,
Je ferai mon affaire ;
II mefaut le baron,
Quelqu' en soit le salaire!"X

* To the fathers the boys all your sages assign.
t " From the father the heir !"
I 'Bout my bones, my jolly buck,
Are ye sure of your good luck ?
But the body I shall take,
Even were my bones at stake !

THE RIVAL DEATHS. 267
Then, prattling and battling, the rattling grew loud ;
Your Briton with cuffs, and your Gallic Avith kicks ;
O ! never were wrestlers so rich in fine tricks,
As these quarrelsome Deaths for a chap in a shroud!
Alas ! what dreadful woes from trifles spring !
For oris, a dog is wroth ; — for less, a king.
There's death in nods, and death in tennis-balls ; *
Let but a mistress f pout, yon nation falls.
On couch of sable down, great Pluto napp'd ;
Black sheets of spiders' web the god enwrapp'd ;
And bats and owls about his temples flapp'd,
To keep him cool : no barking at the porch ;
No light from furnace blaze, or Gorgon torch ;
The Cyclops stood asleep with hammers up,
And Vulcan, stretch'd, had quaff'd his nectar cup,
When in the champions rush'd. Oh, plaguy hap !
How hard so soon to break such kindly nap !
" Swiftly, bid Minos to the council speed !"
The monarch cried. " Let all our victims bleed ;
Whirl, whirl your racks and spits; your caldrons fill;
Give Albion flesh ; bring blood for Gaul to swill :
* Tennis-balls were sent by the Dauphin of France to Henry V. of
England, to mock him as a child unfit for war.
•)¦ Madame de Maintenon often altered the resolutions of Louis XP7.

268 death's DOINGS.
No friends have we,
By land or sea,
So zealous, sure, with sword and ball to slay,
As England, first, no doubt ! and France the gay."
AUX DAMES.
Now, my gentlest of readers, to you let me state
What became of the baron's poor carcass at last ;
Not a word shall escape on the quibbles that pass'd,
So well it is known you detest a debate.
His brains, to be short, in sweet lavender boil'd,
Were decreed as pomatum for Proserpine's hair ;
His soul, it was prov'd an immortal affair,
Then left on red coals for its sins to be broil'd.
To carnivorous Britain, the judges declar'd,
Should all but the bones of the warrior be given ;
Tho'for smell, had he never from England been driven,
None with Gaul to contest for the morsel had dar'd.
But touching the ribands there seem'd much ado,
As though 'twas a case so perplexing to settle ; —
Should not satin for shackles outvalue rough metal,
To fetter, Fair Readers, such sinners as you?
M. de L. V.

TffiE c&LTTTTOIT.

269

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

270 death's doings.
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 though they ne'er had been.
Tom Dewlap thought time made for him,
So used 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.
He fell, as other mortals fall,
And Tom became the heir of all

the apoplectic. 271
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.
Tom knew this fact, and thought it just
That wealth should circulate, and must:

272 death's doings.
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 ;
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.

the apoplectic. 273
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,
And, often, been within 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 ;

274 death's doings.
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 :
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.

THE apoplectic 275
But had he seen, through his disguise,
The 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, nor Corrach.
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 ;
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 ?

276

DEATH S DOINGS.

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 long pause ;
That deep-fetched breath, the last he draws,
And those contortions, all declare
A deed of Death is doing there.
A. T. T.

277

THE

COMPLAINT OF THE STOMACH.

I fear, said the Stomach, addressing the Brain,
That my efforts to serve you will 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 ;
T 2

278 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 are 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 1" 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."

THE ET^TEBS iEAP.

279

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 echo 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,
Save the voice of the ruffian winds that rove
With lawless force abroad, and rend
The rich-tinted wreaths from bower and grove,
That beneath their gusty tyranny bend ;

280 death's DOINGS.
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-snuffing hounds from far,
With all the rout of sylvan war.
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:

DEATH AND THE HUNTER. 281
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 here 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.
Ha ! 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 !

282 death's DOINGS.
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.
Far, far 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 !

death and the hunter.

283

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.

284

THE FATAL GATE

Stay — stay — young Nimrod ! reign 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.

285

THE HUNTER'S LEAP.

Tom Headlong was a lover of the ohase —
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,
'Twould 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.

286 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 leap, the hunter bridle draws.

THE HUNTER S LEAP.

287

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 efforts 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, — so 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.

288

»•€ CHILDE THE HUNTER.

(By the Author of " Dartmoor")

Few roam the heath, e'en when the sun
The golden sun is high ; —
And the leaping, laughing streams are bright,
And the lark is in the sky.
But when upon the ancient hills
Descends the giant cloud,
And the lightning leaps from Tor to Tor,
And the thunder-peal is loud : —
Heaven aid that hapless traveller then
Who o'er the wild may stray,
For bitter is the moorland storm,
And man is far away.

Yet blithe the highland hunter leaves
His cot at early morn,
And on the ear of Winter pours
The music of his horn : —

CHILDE THE HUNTER. 289
The eye of highland hunter sees
No terrors in the cloud ;
His heart quakes not at the lightning flash,
Nor the thunder long and loud !
Yet oft the shudd'ring peasant tells
Of him in days of yore,
Who in the sudden snow-storm fell —
The Nimrod of the moor !
And when the Christmas tale goes round
By many a peat fireside,
The children list, and shrink to hear
How Childe of Plymstoke died.
The lord of manors fair and broad, —
Of gentle blood was he, —
Who loved full well the mountain chase
And mountain liberty.
Slow broke the cheerless morn — the cloud
Wreathed every moorland hill ;
And the thousand brooks that cheer'd the heath
In sunny hours, were still.

290 death's DOINGS.
For Winter's wizard spell had check'd
Their all-rejoicing haste ;
And flung a fearful silence o'er
The solitary waste.
When Childe resolved with hound and horn,
To range the forest wide ;
And seek the noble red-deer where
The Plym's dark waters glide.
Of sportsmen brave, who hunted then
The leader bold was he,
And full in the teeth of the dread north wind
He led that company.
They rous'd the red-deer from his lair,
Where those dark waters glide ; —
And swifter than the gale he fled
Across the forest wide.
With cheer and with shout, the jovial rout
The old Tor hurried by ;
And they startled the morn, with the merry horn
And the stanch hound's echoing cry.

CHILDE THE HUNTER. 291
The moorland eagle left his cliff —
The hawk soar'd far away —
And with that shout and cheer they scar'd
The raven from his prey.
They followed through the rock-strew'd glen ;—
They plung'd through the river's bed ; —
And scal'd the hill-top where the Tor
Uplifts his hoary head.
That gallant deer with an arrow's speed
Launch'd by an archer strong,
O'er hill and plain — through brake and fen
Bore still his course along.
Now through the flashing stream he darts,
The wave aside he flings ; —
Now o'er the cataract's bright arch
With fearless leap he springs !
And many a chasm yawning wide
With a desperate bound he clears ; —
Anon like a shadow he glances by
The rock of six thousand years !
u

292 death's DOINGS.
But now swift sailing on the wind
The bursting cloud drew near ;
And there were sounds upon the gale,
Might fill the heart with fear !
And one by one, as fast the clouds
The face of heav'n deform,
Desert the chase and wildly shun
The onset of the storm.
And some there were, who deem'd they heard
Strange voices in the blast ; —
And some — that on the shudd'ring view,
A form mysterious pass'd ; —
Who rode a shadowy courser, that
A mortal steed might seem ; —
But left no hoof-mark on the ground,
No foam upon the stream !
'Twas fancy all ; — yet from his side,
The jovial crew are gone ;
And Childe across the desert heath
Pursues his way — alone.

childe the hunter. 293
He threaded many a mazy bog, —
He dashed through many a stream ; —
But lost — bewilder'd — check'd his steed,
At evening's latest gleam.
For far and wide the highland lay
One pathless waste of snow,
He paus'd — the angry heav'n above,
The faithless bog below.
He paus'd ! — and soon through all his veins
Life's current feebly ran ;
And — heavily — a mortal sleep
Crept o'er the dying man : 
The dying man — yet Love of Life
In this his hour of need,
Uprais'd the master's hand to spill,
The heart-blood of his steed !
And on th' ensanguin'd snow that steed
Hath stretched his noble form ; —
A shelter from the biting blast —
A bulwark to the storm : —
u2

294 death's doings.
In vain — for swift the bleak wind pil'd
The snow-drift round the corse ;
And Death, his victim struck within
The disembowell'd horse.
Yet one dear wish — one tender thought
Came o'er that hunter brave ; —
To sleep at last in hallow'd ground,
And find a Christian grave —
And ere he breath'd his latest sigh,
And day's last gleam was spent,
He with unfaltering finger wrote
His bloody * testament.

* ffifjc fgrtste ttjat fgnlres ana brings mr to rug grsbf
©fie lantrs of glgmstnftc fje sjal fjabe.
A tradition has existed in the Moor, and is noticed by several au
thors, that John Childe, of Plymstoek, a gentleman of large posses
sions, and a great hunter, whilst enjoying that amusement during an
inclement season, was benighted, lost his way, and perished through
cold, near Fox Tor, in the south quarter of the forest ; after taking the
precaution to kill his horse, and, for the sake of warmth, to creep into
its bowels, leaving a paper denoting that whoever should bury his body
should have his lands at Plymstoek.
Childe had previously declared his intention to bestow his lands on
the church wherein he might be buried, and these circumstances com-

CHILDE THE HUNTER.

295

ing to the knowledge of the monks of Tavistock, they eagerly seized
the body and were conveying it to that place ; but learning, on the
way, that some people of Plymstoek were waiting at a ford to intercept
the prey, they cunningly ordered a bridge to be built out of the usual
track, thence pertinently called Guile Bridge, and, succeeding in their
object, became possessed of, and enjoyed the lands until the dissolution,
when the Russel family received a grant of them, and it still retains
them. In memory of Childe a tomb was erected to him in a plain a little
below Fox Tor, which was standing about fifteen years since, when
Mr. Windeatt, having received a new take or allotment, in which the
tomb was included, nearly destroyed it, by appropriating some of tlie
stones for building and door steps ! (Its form is correctly preserved in
one of the vignettes belonging to the poem Dartmoor). The whole,
when perfect, wore an antique and impressive appearance.
The author of this note found the socket and groove for the cross,
and part of the cross itself, during an excursion in the south quarter of
the moor, in the summer of 1824. The socket had been sunk into the
ground by some friendly hand, and the remains of the cross placed in
it; but as it was near the road side leading from Cadaford Bridge to
Ivy Bridge, he took the cross out, and placed it by the side of the
groove, to prevent the too probable mischief which its prominent situa
tion might occasion to it from any Visigoth who might be disposed
still further to injure the venerable remains.
N. T. C.

'THE TWO GENEEATrONS.

296

RTHE 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.

THE ALCHYMIST.

HMs

JLR. CHAMBERLAIN IN HIS ORCHID HOUSE.

297

CONTENTMENT,

THE TRUE ALCHYMY OF LIFE.

Ages 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.

298

DEATH S DOINGS.

Sweet Alchymist! for thee how few will spurn
Wealth's glittering chains, though happier far to
hold
That hallowed talisman whose touch 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 thine :
Angel ! to me that sacred gift impart,
And let me ever worship at thy shrine.
H. D

299

A L C H Y M Y.

" To solemnize this 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." Sliakspearc.

" [An explosion withini]
" Subtle. — God, 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.
Retorts, receivers, pellicans, bolt-heads,
All struck in shivers ! [Subtle Jails dotoni]
Help, good Sir ! Alas,
Coldness and Death invade him !"
Ben Jomon'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 an
tiquity; it is however probably the fruit of igno
rance, grafted upon the remains of ancient chymistry

300 death's DOINGS.
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 discove
ries to which we owe the progress of medicine, chy
mistry, 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 mat
ter, let him not apply to Sir Humphrey for his elec-
tro-chymical apparatus which severed the alkalis, —
nor seek, with safety in the midst of danger, the ex
plosive 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 mer
cury of the Adepti* Above all, let him not seek
the aid of Aureolus Philippics Paracelsus Theo-
phrastus Bombastus de Hoenheim,f for they will all
* 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
•iupplied by new Adepts.
t Paracelsus boasted of being able, by his elixir proprietatis, to pro-

ALCHYMY. 301
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 has
introduced the Alchymist at his furnace, anxiously
watching his crucible, while the elixir of life is run
ning 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.
long the life of man to the age of Methusalah, — nor is this wonderful
in one who declared he held conversation with Galen and Avicenna at
the gates of Hell, and obtained secrets in physic from the Devil him
self. — Nevertheless, Death, envious of his power, overturned his elixir,
and took him off in revenge, at a 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 Paracelsus, the world is indebted 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 Aherntthy,
and a Hunter, first introduced mercury into medicine !

302

DEATH S DOINGS.

But who, let us seriously inquire, and what, is this
all-potent Alchymist, Death?
" Death is Life, and Life is Death," said Euri
pides ; and so said Plato, and so said the Eastern
Sages. If then Death be Life, as the wise and vir
tuous of all ages have believed, the question recurs,
what is Life 1
Life, says the Beauty, is admiration and gay at
tire ; — it is dice and dash, says the Spendthrift ; — 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. Life is action, says the Cricketer; — it is a feast,
says the Glutton ; — it is a bubble, says the Philoso
pher: but Death bursts the Philosopher's bubble,
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,

ALCHYMY. 303
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 Justice to the in
jured, a Physician to the sick, and a humbler of Va
nity, — thou art Master of the Ceremonies of Life,
sporting with it in every form, and we have sported
with thee !
Thus, view them however we may, Life and Death
are endless paradoxes ; the love of the one, and the
fear of the other, are unquestionably imprinted in
our nature for wise purposes— they gain and lose
strength, — they rise and fall — and in all their move
ments 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

304 death's doings.
Death, in particular, the grim King of Terrors, is
only a personification — the Pluto of the Poets— an
animated skeleton, or anatomie vivante of the ima
gination ; so that, as we cannot paint white without
black, we cannot represent Death without Life.
If however these passions are ever so vain and il
lusive, their effects are no less actual and certain,
and of difficult mastery : it eminently deserves our
concern, therefore, that we should so cultivate and
control them, that we may continue life with enjoy
ment, and quit it without regret ; 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 without 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.

ALCHYMY. 305
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 celebrity than
their elder brethren, and of whom, particularly de
serving of record, are Goldman, formerly of the
King's Mews, — Peter Woulfe, of Barnard's Inn, and
the renowned Sigismund Bcestrom, (with whose pre
fixes 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 philosopher's stone,— finished 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 glim
mer of a small lamp, a luckless wight of a chimney
sweeper, or as some say a stoaker, crept in unper-
ceived, 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.

306

death's doings.

We say perhaps ? For the ashes of Alchymy are
still hot. That it should yet occupy ardent imagi
nations amid the gloom, poverty, and oppression of
the forests of Germany, is not so astonishing, 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 which knavery takes
advantage, and folly is the food it feeds on.

%* Those who would enter further into the history of Alchymy
may consult Boerhave; and for later information, " A Sketch of the
History of Alchymy," by Mr. Brande, in the New Annual Register
for 1819.

G. F.

AC ABIC MIC HO WOK 2

307

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.

308

THE MARTYR STUDENT.
(By the Author of " Dartmoor.")

O what a noble heart 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
Of academic senates, and a name
That Fame on her imperishable scroll

the martyr student. 309
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 ;
Nor gales of fragrance and of life 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
x 2

310 death's doings.
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 flutt'ring step
And beating heart, and cheek with treach'rous
bloom
Suffus'd, he press'd where Science op'd the gates
Of her high temple. There beneath the guise
Of Learning's proud professor, sat enthron'd
The tyrant — D eath : — 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.

311

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 ; —
He 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, —
No more her dulcet voice (by passion taught),

312

death's doings.

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.

313

ACADEMIC PURSUITS.

" There's honour for you !" — Shakspeare.

Like you such grinning honour? You will pro
bably answer, No. Why, then, before you engage
in the widely-different, but no less hazardous war
fare of words and arguments, propositions and dis
quisitions, reply and rejoinder, with the long train of
important etceteras, 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 compose its substance ; from
thence descend to the region of the stomach, and
view the connexion of its digestive powers, which,
as well as the brain, depend upon the quiet opera
tion of thought, — which the hurry of passion, the
ardour of pursuit, or the no less dangerous tendency
of rigid and intense application, may destroy — and
you may perhaps be inclined to pause upon the ad
venture, to examine your strength for the combat,
to weigh the chances of the game, and to look a

314 death's doings.
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 retired leisure V
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 omissions, 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, 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 bo decorated like that of a Leo, but plain,

academic pursuits. 315
cumbrous, and heavy, like the disproportioned 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 stript at the
end of your journey. But should the contrary of
this happen, you have nothing to do but to reach the
mansion of your bookseller, the haven where you
would be— and present yourself to the porter at the
gate — a sort of Castle-of-Indolence-man, but only so
in appearance; for he will first look narrowly at
your dress, and if it has come off without many rents
from the aforesaid thorns, he will let you into the
hall or entry, and, according to your appearance,
will desire you to take a chair, or, perhaps, refresh
ment ; 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 exami
nation. Your skull must serve various purposes ;
will the os frontis do for a battering-ram 1 — can it be

316

DEATH S DOINGS.

levelled with advantage against church or state ? —
has it the organ of forgetfulness sufficiently 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 whe
ther its shape and texture are best suited to hold
port, claret, or champagne. What ! you are grin
ning still, and you don't believe a word of this ?
You can get an introduction 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,

¦¦HM

THE "BLACK ART" HEALER MUST GO.

s # t

',-">'

:.-.!rt*'^

317

THE EMPIRIC.

Quacks ! high and low — whate'er your occupation-
I 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 in health it all sounds mighty clever;
But if, perchance, again you're taken ill,
J shall be sent for just the same as ever ;
When groaning with the gout, or teas'd with phthisic,
You'll gladly call me in, and take my physic !"

318 death's doings.
" Save me, kind friends, from Doctor Pill, I 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 wonderful, they'll say,
That Death so long could have been kept away !
See yon poor wretch ! mere effigy 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 his torments to an end.

THE empiric.

319

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.

320

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 in
stituting a cautious inquiry into the possible causes
of this lowered population, determined to lay the
whole charge, the wonder, and the mischief, on the
professed practisers of what was there termed the
healing art, but, according to his princely suspi
cion, the art of poisoning and destroying. Long did
he cherish, whether warranted or otherwise doth not
clearly appear, this peculiar sentiment, strengthened
by progressive observation, and now matured into
immoveable conviction: and, indeed, as his pro
vince had neither been lately desolated by war, vi-

THE MEN OF PHYSIC. 321
sited by pestilence, nor reduced by famine, it be
comes possible — just possible I mean — that the no
tion which this prince had conceived of the blunder
ing 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 commonly
believed fact, that the physician exerciseth not his
art upon himself. — But, let that pass.
And now, whether sanctioned by a rational proba
bility 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. Remonstrance had been vain :
it was the mandate of despotic authority : no appeal
remained ; obedience was prompt and universal ;
not one professor, not a single minister of physic,
dared to hold back and linger within the lines of de-
markation after the expiration of the period limited
by the edict.

322 death's doings.
Now, when the news of this extraordinary decree
had reached and crept into the ear of Death, his
jawrs were presently screwed into a contemptuous
grin, while meditating his purpose. " Opposition to
my power," he said, " has always proved vain in the
result, though whilom ridiculously obstinate and con
tentious. 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 irresis
tible." Thus muttered the Destroyer.
Hence we pass on to the expiration of that mea
sure of time sufficient for the ascertaining whether
the expectations of the prince were well founded
and supported.
Twelve months had now elapsed, when, on a nu
merical comparison of deaths with those of the pre
ceding year, they were found in a ratio greatly di
minished, 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 reverence

the men of physic. 323
and composure. His pride and self-gratulation rose
in proportion — perhaps something out of proportion,
a mistake committed occasionally even by sove
reigns — 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-misunderstand
ing, 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 conciliated
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 de
livery from the leeches — have become the asylum of
health, and the promise of longevity; but — give me
bnts and ifs, as a bold man was wont to say, and I'll
fight the D  ; but, — that the dark malignant spirit

324 death's doings.
of the man whose " bones are marrowless," urged at
length by the bitterness of disappointment into
deadly wrath at the decrease of funerals and of
mourners, where his depredations had long proved
so extensive and so frequent, determined 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 promises
to furnish the surest plan for the restoration of the
wonted, full, and gloomy callings of my office ; se
condly, by what measures I shall most easily and
speedily succeed in it. Touching the first consider
ation," said Death, " I perceive it admits of instant
decision. The effects of the decree, by which I find
that the leeches were my supporters, my most effec
tive 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 pri
vileges and immunities, and be let loose as hereto
fore 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 grati
fication, when reflecting upon his plan, which no

THE MEN OF PHYSIC. 325
other man could feel. A half-formed smile would
have passed over his ghastly countenance, signifi
cant of anticipated success, but it was repulsed and
chased away from a visage so hostile to its charac
ter, by a withering and rigid grin which admitted not
a glimpse of relaxation.
Still this resolution extended and embraced the
first and easiest division, only, of what he intended
to perform : the object of his more arduous consider
ation 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 experience and
the use of observation, that the passion of fear is
among the strongest felt by mortals, and that of no
thing are they so horribly afraid as of my threaten-
ings and my power to enforce them. How is this ?
that the man who has courage to contemn and to op
pose the requisitions of justice ; to admit and to en
courage the foulest offences against the charities of
y 2

326 death's doings.
humanity and the consciousness of moral obligation ;
to cherish the corruption 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
outrages, the murders he may have committed ? All
this must be left to the discussion of 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 estab
lished 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 ma
chine are in perfect harmony and correctness; to
languish, and finally to decay, when these are inter
rupted and gradually stopped.

THE MEN OF PHYSIC. 327
" 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, 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 contemplation 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 se-

328 death's doings.
curing the completion of his plan. It required not a
protracted rumination. 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 be
held the horrid figure 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 ex
ecution of a fatal purpose.
Confounded by the spectacle, he made an effort to
spring up ; but the first effect of fear is debility : he
fell backward, yet with outstretched arms and
clasped hands, shrinking from the dreadful object
of his vision — " I come," said the horrible appear
ance — fixing upon his victim the dismal cavities

THE MEN OF PHYSIC 329
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 ex
pelled from their establishments and their homes,
the men of physic, my ministers and agents, and
to offer 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 dis
turbed, 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 commands : I will in
stantly recall the leeches ; I will do whatever thou
demandest : I will do it now, even now." Death
lowered his arm, and proceeded : — " Promises, at a
moment like this, have often been found faithless,
and have dissolved ' into thin air ;' therefore," giv
ing to the prince a scroll — " look upon that ; unfold
and read : be instant — bind thy soul, as the words

330 death's doings.
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 ac
cordingly satisfied ; and now, under the guise in
which he had stalked into the royal chamber, he
abandoned it, in malignant triumph that his purpose
had succeeded, and that the recommencement and
augmentation of his harvest awaited only the return
of the doctors ; more especially of those who should
occupy their stations and exercise their crafts in the
metropolis. It is there he stands in gloomy
watch, or stalks about in cynic grin, delighted with
the hurry, dexterity, and sleight-of-hand visits paid
by the doctor to his catalogue of patients, agreeably
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 un
consciousness, 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

the men of PHYSIC. 331
and inhuman mischief, 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 in
side 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 blinding
the eyes of physicians and their patients, and con
verting medicines into poisons. We may also trace
this sly and rapacious fellow more insidiously intro
ducing poisons into the wholesome nutriment of life,
into our viands and our drinks. For the former,
gaze upon that alarming row of red and fiery-looking
metal, with which our shelves, whether in kitchen or
elsewhere, are so frightfully supplied ! The metal
is copper, poisonous 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 advantage of the tenderer light of moon or
taper, they continue to use, because peculiarly con
ducive, in their opinions, to the good colouring and
preservation of pickles and of conserves. For the
latter, namely, our drinks, behold and examine the
professed malt and hop decoctions of our public

332 death's doings.
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 hogshead of either of
these liquors from a mill, in the construction of
which the metal of lead, another of Death's minis
ters, 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 obstinacy, have been long and
seriously felt in cider counties ; in the county of De
vonshire more particularly, producing therein that
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 domina
tion, 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 de-
p6t oi foreign wines.* There he sits, enthroned upon
* We sincerely hope this sentence cannot be construed into a libel,
though, after what has lately taken place, we confess we have some
qualms about it ; but this we can conscientiously aver, that however
well it may be thought to apply to some of these " depots of foreign
wines," our esteemed contributor had no " wine-merchant" in particu
lar in his eye, when he wrote the article. This apologetic explanation
will therefore, we trust, shield us from any action for damages ! — Ed.

the men of physic. 333
a cask of fiery sherry, which, among other pernicious
combinations, he dispenses far and wide, adminis
tering all of them more or less largely as his caprice
may choose to delight itself in a larger or scantier
accumulation of victims.
We will proceed no further in the pursuit of a
topic and a theme which would remain interminable ;
neither would 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 unwel
come, 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 possesses
such traits, or perhaps faculties, in his composition,
as might challenge our approbation and our re
verence. In the class of these we desire to rescue
from oblivion his acknowledged impartiality; his
frequent prevention of greater evil than he brings ;
his endurance of perpetual labour ; his just claim to
universality ; his courage ; snatching away the mo
narch, surrounded by his life guards, just as a Ben
gal 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.

334

death s doings.

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 sen
tinels, as, invisibly, he moved along : — " Coward
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 the wretch to out
live his meanness and his baseness.
" 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 1 — A char
ter, too, of which I myself foresee and dread the ex
piration?"

Can none develop and explain this mystery ?

S/ei.~. <#oZ.

ENTERING THE METROPOLIS
ET THE N. T. CENTRAL.

THE MZSEIL

335

THE LOST TREASURE.

Idol of all, the world's imperial lord,
Thou peerless bullion dug from sleeping earth,
As sways the despot o'er his fettered horde,
So thousands bow the minions of thy worth : —
To groans and midnight tears thou givest birth,
Enchanting master of the frown and smile ; —
Alike creator of our woes and mirth,
The nurse of cloudy hate, and venomed guile,
Diffusing mantling grandeur on the tumid vile !

Thou yellow slave of Eastern rifled mine,
There gleams from thee a long unweakened charm ;
A fatal essence is for ever thine
That time's corroding changes cannot harm ;
The same magnetic spell in every form —
A dumb memorial of the ages fled,
When, love for thee, woke up the civic storm ; —
For thee, the pulsing breast was gored and red,
And savage warriors trampled on the piling dead :

336 death's doings.
There is a moral on thy graven face,
When, damp before us, from thy burial-ground,
With eager ken, we scan the fading trace
Of some triumphant record, crusted round ;
Or regal brow, with braiding garland bound.
Where now is he, the image of thy rust ?
The tyrant, perhaps, that made the war-whoop sound,
And vanquished cities rear his sculptured bust 
Like thee, disfigured remnant of his wormy dust !
In burning zones, and far exotic clime,
Where gorgeous nature daunts the lifted eye, —
The daring Briton wastes his lusty prime,
Apart from native hills, and genial sky :
The dripping tears of love — th' unbosomed sigh,
The farewell pang prophetic — all forgot !
When, flushed, his pluming spirit longs to fly
From thrifty ease and patrimonial spot —
And slow return with wealth and fevered veins his
lot!
With sinking cheek, pale lip, and pensive glance,
And locks that pine upon their heated brow,
Alone, with pauseful step, and mute advance,
Behold a martyred genius passing now !

THE lost treasure. 3.37
His eyes still flash, — but mournful shadows throw
Betraying sadness round his inward gloom : —
The soul is lit, inspired, — but poor, and low,
No gold creative to resist his doom,
Like sunshine's fading light, he weakens to the tomb.
On clotted turf, within a murky vale,
The blood-red dagger in his quaking hand,
His guilty visage hued by moonlight pale, —
The murderer bodes — as if Remorse's wand
Had fixed him there. Upon the still brigand,
The victim opes his eyes — which then reclose,
While from his wounds the bubbling streams expand:
For gold, thus, oft the wasted life-spring flows —
For thee, vile ore, how many woo the grave's repose !
A long farewell endears the faithful soul,
And warmer kindness will spring up from woe, —
But spelling gold perverts the heart's control,
And finds a parent for the infant's foe !
Malignant guile, the darksome traitor's blow,
The death-bed curse, and lip of venomed scorn, —
The sternest pangs enduring hearts can know,
Are but the deeds of gold : — and years unborn,
Shall bring thine endless victims, that for thee shall
mourn.

338 death's doings.
But see! thy abject slave:— a lurking fear,
Spreads o'er his face a dark prevailing shade ;
Wakeful, though scowled his gaze : — that icy sneer,
Before whose chill a baby smile would fade, —
Is th' intense pride of treasure unbetrayed :
Few are his words — in them the wily tone
Conveys reserveful dread ; — as if it bade
The miser fear himself: — his wealth once known,
'Twould seem departed, though it still remained his
own !
A miser's heart is like the damp cold tomb,
Embalming but the noisome ; — dark abode
Of blighted feeling and of selfish gloom : —
And yet 'tis not repose ; a burdening load
Of teasing dreams, at home, and on the road,
From risen mora till eve — prevent his rest :
One haunting thought, the self-inflicted goad —
Is ever at his soul. With heavy breast
And pulsing terror, is his canvass pillow pressed !
This beauteous world, and its enchanting scene,
The silken clouds of morn, and moony night,
The tinted fruits, and meadow's matchless green,—
Its flowers and streams — for him yield no delight ! —
The sunbeams warm his brow, and bless his sight,

the lost treasure. 339
The breezes kiss his lips— but he's the same : —
As if his mind was darkened o'er with blight,
And Nature quite unfelt — a gloomy frame
Where all, but avarice, is motionless and tame.
And has he bliss? — 'tis buried in the ground !
No kindly ease is bought above : vile, mean,
Blank to the eye, and deaf to sorrow's sound,
With unpartaking modes and bilious spleen,
He crawls his way — unsought and seldom seen : —
Strange homage this, that Fancy gets
For her delusions ! E'er since time hath been,
Hearts weave their own deceits : — the miser frets,
But bears the willing thraldom while his soul re
grets !
With lowering front, and dim withdrawing eye,
Suspiciously he creeps : — his morbid glance
Turned round on heaven and earth most fretfully ; —
Disturbing fears, as near his steps advance
To see the buried gold — and hopeful trance, —
Attend him with their phantoms. — Each limb shakes,
And tremulous, the chills of dubious chance
Thrill through his person : — till again he takes
Another glutting stare,— oh ! how his bosom aches !
z

340

death's doings.

The spot is gained : — beneath a tree decayed
His treasure's hid. Upon its topmost bough
A raven sits — foreboding hope betrayed.
Here, on the ground, the miser kneeling now,
Digs up the turf : — but list ! the shrieking vow
And arms infuriate raised — the torture's trace —
Proclaim the heap is gone ! — no tears can flow,
But inward anguish maddens in grimace,
While Death, with mocking purse, grins in his mar
tyr's face.
R. M.

GOING TO HARVEST.

I

THE PHAETON.

341

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.
Comus invited the youth to spend the night
At his magic palace of pomp and delight,
z2

342 death's doings.
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
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,

death and the gay charioteer. 343
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
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,

344

death s doings.

Whose plumes did like clustered gems appear
As they warbled 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 !
Intemperance 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.
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,

death and the gay charioteer. 345
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 bowers
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.
0 what a proud display was there,
Of thronging chivalry and ladies fair !
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,

346 death's doings.
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."
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,

death and the gay charioteer.

347

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.

348

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 Buck
ingham, going to the window which commanded 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 sha
dows on the earth — the air is mild — last night's rain
has filled the herbage with fragrance ; and the trees
seem to rest, after the refreshing shower, in motion
less and satisfied repose. All is as I could wish it

the foreboding. 349
to be, for my dear wife's sake, to whose spirits the
airing will certainly be beneficial. This open, smil
ing, gentle scene, upon which I cannot look and de
spair, must assuredly infuse something of its healthi
ness into her mind.
Here he paused in his soliloquy ; but whether to
brood on the comfort of the thought, or to examine its
validity, was not at first apparent. It was soon,
however, evident, that the feeling was one of mis
giving, for his meditations again finding words, he
said: " Yet why do I flatter myself thus? The influence
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 by one misfortune,
which is the more miserable, because, being cause
less, 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

350

DEATH S DOINGS.

room, which, with a sigh laden with wretched antici
pation, he obeyed.
Lady Buckingham was a confirmed ennuyee. The
two first years of her marriage passed happily and
even joyously ; but the last twelve months had been
characterized by great and mysterious depression, —
a constant but undefined fear of some impending ca
lamity, which shook her innocent heart to its very
centre. Every change alarmed her. The seasons,
in their diversity, approached like portents ; and
the coming-on of dawn, no less than the deepening
shadows of evening, filled her with intolerable tre-
mour. During the noon, either of night or day, she
seemed to enjoy some little respite from her ap
prehensions, for then the hours appeared to pause ;
but she could not divest herself of the dread that
every obvious change was only the prologue of an
unutterable tragedy. In vain her affectionate hus
band tried to reason her out of these fears — in vain
he expatiated 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 blessings
he had been pleased to bestow on her. She ac
knowledged the reasonableness of all this, and then,
after a struggle, sank again into her dejection, as

the foreboding. 351
though some invisible demon were practising 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, and even girlish ; and
from the charm of their innocent spell it was not
possible to escape. Alas ! this part of her cha
racter was now fearfully altered by the over-inform
ing tyranny of her distemper, which had, as it were
against her will, lifted her mental faculties out of
their simplicity, perplexed them with "thick-coming
fancies," and, by a painful process, filled them with
premature knowledge and the command of lofty elo
quence ! Her eyes were ever restless, glancing hi
ther and thither with eager scrutiny ; but in other
respects she was lethargic.
Sir Henry, on entering her room, found that his
wife had not yet risen, and that she had been weep
ing. " Why, my dear," said he, " I expected you

352

death s doings.

would have been ready to accompany me in the
little airing wo spoke of last night, and now I find
you dejected and in tears. For heaven's sake,
arouse yourself in time from this melancholy, or it
will gather strength in proportion as you yield to it,
until at last you will be its abject 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 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 accompa
nying 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 offspring of ill health, to which you reduce
yourself by persisting in so sedentary a life. You
must not be offended, if, for once, I employ the au
thority 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 oriental song :
' Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

the foreboding. 353
For, lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and
gone ; the flowers appear on the earth ; the time of
the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the tur
tle-dove is heard in our land.'"
The heartfelt kindness of this solicitation was not
lost on the lady, who, after a struggle with her apr
prehensions, arose, and dressed herself for the morn
ing 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 unnatural
quiet. The leaves of the trees, which had rustled

354 death's doings.
pleasantly during the day, were now still ; the shal
low brooks, which had made music with their fresh
rippling, seemed now like stagnant pools ; the cat
tle crouched together and became mute. Mean
while the lightning grew stronger, though still not
blue or forked, or attended by 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 worship of the Angel of the
Storm! The whole earth appeared to stagger; when
a terrific dart of lightning ran, like a huge serpent,
down the sky, making 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 beginning of another deluge. The light
ning 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 illumina
tion against the several masses of the clouds, which
had assumed the grand forms of mountains and pyra
mids and colossal temples !
What a frightful hour must this have been for our

the foreboding. 355
poor afflicted lady ! It shook even the strong nerves
of her husband ; whose agitation was increased,
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, how
ever, no time for reflection : his presence of mind
and skill were required in the management of his
horses ; for death seemed inevitable, should they, by
becoming wild, get beyond his control. He, there
fore, 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 allowed him to expect. She passed a calm
night of refreshing sleep, and in the morning, which
was fine and bright, talked over, with cheerfulness,
the danger of the preceding evening. This unlooked-
for amendment of her spirits continued for some
time, and gave her husband reason to indulge in con
fident hopes of her settled recovery. Her former
distemper furnished a theme even for raillery, dur
ing which she not only manifested no signs of impa-
2a

356 death's doings.
tience, but even joined in the pleasantry, and won
dered 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 weighs 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 madden
ing 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 enjoyed to the full the
blessed tranquillity. As I looked about me, how
ever, 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 endeavoured once or twice to push it
aside ; but at this, it only seemed to hang closer to
my eyes. I was about to call your attention to it,
when, of a sudden, it swelled into size and shape,

THE FOREBODING. 357
and I beheld, flying at my side, a bony spectre, —
the king of terrors — Death ! The horses had an in
stinctive recognition of the phantom, for they
moaned dismally, their nostrils were dilated, the
whole of their frame was seized with convulsive
shudderings, 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 my 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 carriage over the brink of a deep preci
pice. I shrieked aloud, and, as I fell, the demon,
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 encounter
the other night ; for I plainly see, in spite of the ap
parent cheerfulness which subsequently elevated
you, that the recollection of the tempest has been en-
2 a2

358 death's doings.
gendering these hideous phantasms. You shall not
again trust yourself in that vehicle."
" And yet," she replied, " my spirits were relieved
by the former excursion, notwithstanding my reluc
tance 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 convince me of the vanity of
my alarms. I shall always 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 re
solution," said Sir Henry, embracing his wife. "We
will go, and, as you say, you shall have abundant
demonstration of the groundlessness of your dread."
To put her determination in practice was, however,
as she had premised, a painful effort on the part of
the lady. She trembled as she stepped into the car
riage, and dropped into her seat, with the desperate
air of one obliged to submit to some extreme cala-

the foreboding. 359
mity. With such a white face and forced compo
sure, did Tell level the arrow against the apple on
his dear boy's head ; and so looked Brutus as he as
sumed the judgment-seat to pronounce 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 steady, 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 descent into a
deep dell. The lady shuddered violently as she saw
this ; but Sir Henry, in an attempt to re-assure her,
said :
" There is nothing here to fear, although it must

360

DEATH S DOINGS.

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, my love."
He had no sooner said these words than a large
bird darted out from the opposite hedge with a rush
ing noise across the eyes of the horses, who, taking
fright thereat, pulled different ways, and grew ut
terly unmanageable. The lady had only time to
shriek out, " See 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 car
riage among briers and underwood, at the bottom of
the dell, the horses mangled and dying, and the hus
band and wife folded in each others' arms, dead and
cold!

CO.

Nearly every
one has read
Du Maurier's
, story of "Tril-
\by" and how
I she lived for
V years under
/'the hypnotic
spell of
\ "Sveng-ali"
and then
| broke the
spell only to
die. There
-j^p- -=~ are tens of
H fj thousands of
women to-day
"living under the spell of a
" Svengali " from which
they will only awaken to
die. Their "Sveng-ali " is
jfll-health.

PRIVATE LIVES
ARE
PUBLIC PROPERTY.

i

READ NEXT \\ ]
SUNDAY'S EDITION

HUMAN NATURE
IS WEAK.

J~V*

TH LI

DISCOVERY!!
A MAN WHO 15 NOW A GOOD
CITIZEN AND ABOVE REPROACH-
AT ONETIME IN HIS LIFE
KISSED A GIRL!!
¦Jt
1 r^

%

o

KEATTfS REGISTER.

;i<;i

DEATH (A DEALER),

TO HIS LONDON CORRESPONDENT.

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 a 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 :
For ale and beer drinkers there's nothing so proper as
Your extracts of coculus, quassia, and copperas —

362 death's doings.
Call'd ale, from 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
(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 :
* Both these puns have been consecrated by Bishop Andrews, in
his ex-ale-tation of ale. This poem has also been ascribed to Beau
mont.

DEATH (A DEALER.) 363
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 finely incrusting 'em.
Laurel-water, oak saw-dust, and quicklime, have
come
Just in time to be mixed 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 their bread,
And their Gloucester derive its deep blush from red
lead!
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's rais'd by free labour,

364

DEATH S DOINGS.

Unless you can mingle a little less salt
In the pound — for the public presume to find fault
With the new China sweet'ning — and though they
allow
That they'll take the saints' sugar (attend to me now,)
Even cum grano salis — they do say that such
An allowance as 30 per cent, is too much.

Your's, &c.

Bt&tt),

365

DEATH AND HIS ALLIES.

'Tis said, — and when we find in rhyme
These words, to doubt them were a crime ;
'Tis said, — although I greatly fear
I can't exactly tell you where,
That Death one day began to think
His trade was just upon the brink
Of bankruptcy : so few there came
To his grim regions that he wanted game.
He thought his labours nearly o'er,
So little mischief was there brewing
To save him, as it seemed, from ruin.
" It was not thus," he cried, " of yore,
When many a great and glorious fray
Sent myriads to me in a day.
But men are grown so chicken-hearted
Since they with chivalry have parted,
They will not venture now their lives,
E'en for their better halves — their wives.
But live so prudently and quiet,
Without debauchery, war, or riot,

366 death's doings.
That scarcely one per day arrives
At this our court. — It was not thus
When great Achilles made such fuss ;
When Alexander, Csesar, and a score
Of others sent me ample store
Of human victims, daily — duly, —
Those wholesale butchers whom I love so truly !
Nor was it thus when pious Mary,
Of dear subjects' lives ne'er chary,
Grilled heretics ; and for my dinner
Served up full many a roasted sinner.
Oh ! for some war — no matter what,
Profane or pious, — not a jot.
Murder is but a retail trade,
A petty, sneaking, smuggling game :
'Tis not by that my gains are made,
But war and glory, honour, fame ! —
'Tis these who for me still prepare
A plenteous banquet worth my care,
But now — in truth 'tis very plain
That I must try some aid to gain."
He called ; a numerous train appear
T' espouse his cause, — his mandates hear.
Mars first of course vowed to stand by him ;
And swore he only need to try him.
" Go then ; but take the fair disguise
Of Glory : so we win the prize !

death and his allies. 367
And cheat the world, and gain our ends,
And each our honest trade commends —
The fair — the coward — and the cruel.
War ! — on my word, it is a jewel !
But you, fair lady — what can you
For Death, in these sad times, now do 1"
" Sir," cried the dame, —of winning mien,
For fairer sure, was never seen ;
" Full many a good turn have I done ye,
And many a noble prize have won ye.
And though I scorn myself to praise
A stancher friend, in all your days,
Was never Mars, nor wanton Bacchus —
I like that jolly rogue Iacchus ! —
Nor notwithstanding all their toils,
Have they e'er brought you richer spoils.
There's been some business, sir, between us —
You can't forget sure, your friend Venus ?
And here's my comrade Mercury —
A trustier dog you ne'er shall see.
Also the worthy JEsculapius :
A very pretty sort of knave he is,
Although he looks so meek and pious ;
You know him well, — and he'll stand by us."
The leech now spoke, and said he'd pill all —
And drug, and undertake to kill all — "

368 death's doings.
Ills, he'd have said, had not a cough
Unlucky lopped the sentence off.
At hearing him of killing speak,
A ghastly smile o'erspread the cheek
Of Death, for very well he knew
He'd kill diseases and — the patients too :
"Go, iEsculapius, then ; be ready
To take the form of Doctor 
Go then, and London's walls shall see
Your name, which there shall blazoned be."
One now advanced with a book, —
" Sir Death, your servant, — I'm a cook —
Have done some service — Here, sir, look —
Here are receipts and savoury dishes
That to your net will bring some fishes.
I, with friend Bacchus and Sir Gout,
Will never let your stock be out —
I warrant me, we'll suit your wishes.
Aye ; quite as well as Famine, Pest,
Friend Mars — or any of the rest.
As for old Nature she is drowsy,
But we — you shan't complain — we'll rouse ye."
Honour stepped forth, and made his bow,
His pistols showed, and with a vow
Swore he would send him fools enow.
Death grinned a smile of approbation,
And thus addressed the convocation,

death and his allies. 369
" My best and worthiest friends, to you
All praise and thanks from me are due.
I know, Sir Mars, your noble spirit ;
And Venus, well I prize your merit.
With Honour, Glory, Mars, and Bacchus —
Oh ! who shall dare now to attack us !
With Venus, Doctor, Mercury —
Now the whole world I may defy;
Nor ought I too to overlook
The services of Master Cook,
Nor of Dame Fashion, who has sent
At times a pretty compliment,
A nice tid-bit, in gauzy drapery,
Just fit to put into my apery.
'Tis you, my stanch allies and friends,
On whom success so much depends.
Nature ! — with her I ne'er had plenty :
Where she sends one, you send me twenty.
Were 't not for you, my noble peers,
I should be greatly in arrears.
More trusty friends I need not ask,
To you I delegate the task
To hunt me game — beneath your mask.
Your merits are so great, I vow,
To whom the preference to allow
I hardly know,
Or where the palm I should bestow.

370

death s doings.

Which to prefer would much perplex,
Then let take place the fairer sex ;
And Venus, Honour, Glory, ye
Shall my fair train of Graces be.
Ye look so bright, ye are so winning,
The world will ne'er desist from sinning.
Then stir up lust, and war, and hate,
And all the ministers of fate,
Riot, and luxury, and vice, —
Excuse my terms not over nice —
Thus mortals will my presence court,
And fancy Death to be but sport.

W. H. L.

371

AN AUXILIARY OF DEATH.

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 length
ening 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 that
2 B

372 death's doings.
a learned and skilful leech* had succeeded in
quelling a direful malady ; and that not only this
pestilent disorder, but others of a very malignant
kind, had been greatly mitigated by the progress of
knowledge which had of late years diminished the
practice of medicine.
At this information, Death cast a withering look
around him, and, in a sepulchral tone, commanded
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 be
came more audible and terrific, until a form, gi
gantic in size, and furious in aspect, stood revealed.
The uproar which immediately preceded his ap
proach 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. Jenner, of vaccine celebrity, is here
alluded to. — Ed.

an auxiliary of death. 373
This fell destroyer was, however, soon dismissed ;
his readiness to serve was not at all questioned :
and, if Death had to complain of the want of sup
plies, War had to grumble at his want of employ
ment. — He accordingly filed off with marks of ap
probation, 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 universal devas-
tater of mankind.
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-pow
erful friend and ally whom he would presently
2 b2

374 death's doings.
introduce, with the permission of his mighty Com
mander, who had already made no inconsiderable
inroads on the human frame by mixing himself
in every society, where he seldom failed in plant
ing his baneful influence, and in accelerating 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 sallow
and gaunt like that of his precursor, — and, hide
ous 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
obedience to the commands of so absolute an inter
rogator.

an auxiliary of death. 375
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 greatness
could withstand its baneful influence ; and, while
the fiendlike power was describing the various
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 afflicted parties to disguise
their malady, threw a fitful gleam over the counte
nance of the grim tyrant, that gave a momentary
emotion to his ghastly features ; but whether the ex
pression 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
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

376

death's doings.

of leisure and retirement (where his presence is
least suspected) that his power is mostly felt : in
deed, a laugh is no unfrequent disguise that his
victims put on, and his place of concealment is often
a bed of roses.
Hatchment.

Wallraf-Ri&artc-Muscitm, Coin.

Totentanz

y. Winkei

/e«

. e e d ;

1 : :BI

t:i

LAWYER

377

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—
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.
Ah, Sir ! so wondrous thin I'm grown,
That urchins cry out Daddy Bone ;

[Aside.

378 death's doings.
While full-grown wags indulge their whim,
And, jeering, call me Gaffer Grim !
lawyer.
The varlets ! do they ? — that's a libel,
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 ;
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 white,
That right is wrong, and wrong is right ;
And — what to them the greatest curse is —
However full, I'll drain their purses.
DEATH.
I dare say your advice is proper —
But, Sir, these chaps have not a copper
To spend in law —

death and the lawyer. 379
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 fee.
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 ;

380 death's doings.
However, I can skim it through,
And make a marginal or two —
That I can do in half a minute —
But, good or bad your cause, I'll win it !
[ Takes the brief, — reads, — but soon appears
dreadfully agitated.]
death.
Why look you, Sir, with such surprise 1
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 : —

DEATH AND THE LAWYER. 381
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,
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 :

382 death's doings.
I therefore do submit, by law,
We ought, this action to withdraw.
DEATH.
D'ye doubt my justice? — Zounds and fury !
LAWYER.
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! explain !— but no digression. —

DEATH AND THE LAWYER. 383
LAWYER.
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 1
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
You'd cut the matter rather short,
Or else, perhaps, I may resort
To means which may be not quite pleasant.

384 death's doings.
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." 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 ;

DEATH AND THE LAWYER. 385
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 follies to correct;
By this I mean, a good tactician
Should fearlessly perform his mission,
Nor suffer any threadbare maxim
'Bout want of honesty to tax him —
DEATH.
Hold ! hold ! — for Honesty's abus'd,
Whene'er the word's by Lawyers us'd.
I've heard enough ! — so, come with me.
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,

386

DEATH S DOINGS.

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.

" To him who goes to law, nine things are requi
site. First, a good deal of money ; secondly, a
good deal of patience ; thirdly, a good cause ;|
fourthly, a good attorney ; fifthly, a good counsel J
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, whatever may
be poured into it, nothing 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 possessors,
was their legality properly sifted. Few, it is
thought, would bear the ordeal touch of the lawyer's
quill ; " flaw in the best" might be found— some
are " flaw all over."
2c

388 DEATH'S DOINGS.
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,  Contentions.
— Suit,  Rags to the Client ; though warm clothing
to the Lawyer.
As for justice, it is an obsolete term, thought by
some to signify the largest fee ; many doubt its ex
istence on earth, and compare it to the perpetual mo
tion, 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 !

law. 389
From a box of game may have sprung evils al
most as various as those which issued from that of
Pandora ; and while the London epicure is picking
his teeth after his savoury meal, the purveyor may
be paying the expenses in a law-suit, shot in a
poaching broil, or taking a trip to Botany Bay.
" Have you got an attorney aboard 1" cried old
Hawser Trunnion, as he approached an inn; nor
could he be induced to enter, till it was ascertained
the coast was clear. Such was the pointed satire that
Smollett 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 country ; hence, all that load of wretched
ness 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 appal the
stoutest heart.
2 c2

390 death's doings.
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 be so ; but there are not wanting instances
where the finer network of the brain, and a higher-
wrought sensibility of the nerves, have given way
to the entanglements and multiplied 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 difficult
to find a character to whom the approach of the
King of Terrors would frequently be more ill-timed ;
for, under the circumstances of professional engage
ments, every thing that should be done for every
body, may be left, in chaotic confusion, to be handled
by the unskilful, or scattered into fragments to fur
nish matter for fresh litigation.
Peter Plaintiff.

OUR EXPANSIVE UNCLE.
BUT IT'S ONLY TEMPORARY.

THE' ANGiEE.

391

THE ANGLER.

' I in these flowery meads would be :
These crystal streams should solace me ;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise
I with my angle would rejoice ;

And angle on, and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave."

Isaac Walton.

Thou that hast lov'd so long and well
The vale's deep quiet streams,
Where the pure water-lilies dwell,
Shedding forth tender gleams ;
And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of spring ;
Oh ! lone and lovely haunts are thine,
Soft, soft the river flows,
Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs ;
And in the midst, a richer hue,
One gliding vein of heaven's own blue !

392 death's doings.
And there but low sweet sounds are heard —
The whisper of the reed,
The plashing trout, the rustling bird,
The scythe upon the mead ;
Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.
'Tis not the stag that comes to lave,
At noon, his panting breast ;
'Tis not the bittern, by the wave
Seeking her sedgy nest;
The air is fill'd with summer's breath,
The young flowers laugh — yet look ! 'tis Death !
But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and sage,
Hath learn'd to read the words of love
That shine o'er nature's page ;
If holy thoughts thy guests have been
Under the shade of willows green ;
Then, lover of the silent hour
By deep lone waters pass'd,
Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last ;
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
Mayst calmly bid thy streams farewell
F. H.

393

DEATH AND THE ANGLER.

There is a happy set of men whose dispositions
are so well fitted to every station, that, in whatever
rank or situation we meet them, they are always
found pursuing pleasures most precisely adapted to
their condition, and making the most of every circum
stance that can conduce to their quiet or enjoyment.
The whole wisdom of life is, perhaps, comprehended
in this habitual choice and quick relish of attainable
comforts. There are doubtless situations which af
ford more opportunities and a greater variety of
pleasures than others ; but still, however confined
may be the little range of their recreations, some men
will make so much of them, bring so many of their
pleasantest thoughts and feelings to bear upon the
present object, and so happily deceive themselves
into the idea of their pursuits and enjoyments being
the very best imaginable, that they will have a
greater stock of happiness to draw from than others
who possess much better opportunities of obtaining

394 death's doings.
it. The felicity of such a disposition consists in not
looking far beyond our present condition for objects
of enjoyment, and so not wasting the time in search
ing for good which might be passed in its fruition.
Another of its principles lies in choosing such plea
sures as may not depend exactly on our being at all
times in the same circumstances of rank and fortune,
and so not exposing ourselves to the hazard of dying
of chagrin and melancholy, should we lose our money
or fall out with our acquaintances.
Books, and habits of thought and contemplation,
have ever been the favourite prescription for insuring
this happy state of mind, and remedying both the real
and imaginary evils we may meet with in life : and
they are justly so, where the medicine is adapted to
the constitution ; for, generally speaking, it is as in
dependent in its power of affording comfort and con-
lation, as the mind is itself of slavery or confine
ment; but it is too refined and subtle to work on
every nature. The gross humours of flesh and blood
are not always to be purified, or their turbulent ris
ings to be subdued, by this aether-like draught; and,
to be applied with success, it requires a previous
chastisement of the heart and mind, — a preparation
of character and feeling, which only years of thought

death and the angler. 395
and, perhaps, of trial, can produce. But, happy it
is, the sources of pure and innocent pleasure are not
confined to the few whose minds are thus raised and
spiritualized. The benevolent author of our being
has not left us so dependent upon ourselves for en
joyment, or been so niggard in the furniture of the
world, as to leave men without external objects of
delight, fitted to produce that satisfaction and
quietude of mind which others may perhaps obtain
from their own internal resources. The pleasant
sights and sounds of the country, the thousand forms
the spirit of life assumes, and the combinations of
thought and employment springing from these, are
the natural wealth of the mind ; and the class of men
of which we have been speaking, are principally
happy because they know how to enjoy it, and refuse
to barter its possession for the fictitious riches of the
world. Few men, therefore, are happier than the
true lovers of the angle. Tranquil and contented,
they become assimilated to the scenes they fre
quent, lose all worldliness of spirit, and acquire
that gentle and subdued tone of feeling which, if it
raise them not above their fellow men, makes them
at least more benevolent and happy. We can of
course say these things only of such as pursue the
art with diligence and a true fondness for its plea-

396

death s doings.

sures ; and I have had in my eye an old and faithful
disciple of Izaac Walton, whom I often accompanied
when a boy, in his favourite rambles. He was, in
truth, the beau ideal of an angler, and I loved him,
as well for his true kindness of disposition, as for his
patience in instructing me in the art.
Of a mind naturally disposed to retirement, and
somewhat visionary in its complexion, he found a
resource in this amusement which his slender income
would have denied him if sought in other pursuits;
and he passed a long life of sober, peaceful happi
ness, with as little dependence on fortune or the
world, as can fall to the lot of most men. He was
hot naturally studious, but he had, some how or
other, picked up a vast variety of knowledge which,
floating through his mind like a quiet stream, and
blending with the fancies of his own thoughts, gave a
somewhat learned and imaginative tone to his con
versation, which has lured me through many a day
along the sequestered arid solitary paths which led
to his favourite spots. I always remarked that he
chose for his stations the most picturesque of the
kind that could be found ; and I have had often
occasion to observe in other persons fond of this
pursuit, that they almost invariably fixed upon the

death and the angler. 397
spots which a poet or painter would have chosen for
the exercise of his art.
My old friend would travel miles to one of these
favourite places ; and there was scarcely a stream or
brooklet, far and near, by which he had not stood
and mused. There were the broad meadow waters,
the deep and narrow forest stream, the rivulet of the
hills, the clear gushing brook, and the troubled fall ;
by all these he had, winter and summer, passed
hour after hour, intensely occupied with his sport
and unrestrained speculations. When he had ar
rived at one of these places, and fairly begun his
operations, his countenance gradually assumed an
expression of the most perfect tranquillity, and he
would begin to talk of his experience and the plea
sure of the pursuit, till he brought all the fairest
branches of art and knowledge to bear upon the sub
ject. He would first number the wonderful pro
perties of the element which afforded him such de
light; wander from the banks of the river, over
which he was leaning, to the mighty floods that tra
verse distant regions, — to the haunted streams of
northern glens, or to those which are renowned
in story for some great and noble enterprise. He
would thence take occasion to narrate some of the
many curious facts that were stored up in his me-

398

DEATH S DOINGS.

mory; adduce, with a serious and devout air, pas
sages from holy writ, in illustration of his remarks,
and moralize with such a serene and benevolent
tone of voice, that his discourse was like that music
of philosophy of which Milton speaks.
I always looked forward to a day's excursion with
this, my old and kind instructor, with the highest
pleasure ; and, as I was somewhat of a favourite, I
had frequent opportunities of accompanying him in
his rambles. It occurred, however, sometimes, that
he determined on going to some distant part of the
neighbourhood, and he then made especial arrange
ments for the excursion, which was generally de
ferred till the weather should be particularly propi
tious. The last time I enjoyed with him his favour
ite pursuit, was on an occasion of this kind. It was
in the early part of the autumn, and we had been
waiting some days for an encouraging morning.
One at length arrived, and we set off before the ear
liest bird had begun its song. After having left the
village, our path lay along the banks of the stream,
which we had to follow for some miles, before we
could gain the desired spot.
The heavy mists of an autumn night were just be
ginning to be agitated by the stir of awakening day,

DEATH AND THE ANGLER. 399
and their thick masses were coloured here and there
with gleams of changing light. As the darkness
rolled away, and the quiet yellow-tinted woods, to
wards which we were journeying, became visible,
first one and then another bird twittered a few low
notes; and these, with the whisperings of the
stream, the sigh of the gale among the old gray wil
lows, and the uncertain murmur of the distant
echoes, were well in harmony with the pleasant mys
tery of the pensive half-veiled landscape. Many
were the musings of my old friend as we picked our
path through the long dewy grass ; and, whether or
no it was but imagination, I know not, but I thought
he seemed more desirous than I had ever yet found
him, though his reflections had often had that ten
dency, of finding resemblances between seen and
unseen things, and seizing on the sweet voices and
revealings of nature as illustrations of the knowledge
he had gained from a clearer source.
We at length arrived at our destination, and, after
all due ceremony and preparation, set ourselves
down by the side of as clear a brook, and under the
sylvan shade of as green a canopy, as could be
found in this fair land of landscape. It is almost
impossible to watch the silent flow of water for any

400 death's DOINGS.
length of time, without feeling the thoughts steal
away into the far future ; and when they catch a
hue of beauty from surrounding objects, and the
mind is at ease, there is no situation perhaps more
soothing. Our reflections of course had the differ
ent character of youth and age. Mine rested in the
fairy world of untried humanity : his were borne
beyond the confines of time, and blending the expe
riences of a long life with the elevated and solemn
joy that attends the consciousness of its close.
Hour after hour had passed away in this manner,
and the deep hush of noon had lulled our little
solitary covert into repose. My companion was
still sunk in reverie ; but, as it was our usual time
for repast, I rose to unpack our wallet under the
shade. As soon as I had done this, I returned to
rouse him, but received no answer to my summons;
I called again, and a low sigh made me conclude
the heat had overpowered him with drowsiness.
At .this moment, however, his head sank heavily on
his breast, and the angle, which I had never before
seen loosened in his hand, dipped low in the stream.
The gentle spirit of my old friend had passed away,
and Death, the mighty fisher of men, held him, un
resisting, in his grasp.
H. S.

401

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES.

" Blest silent groves, oh may you be
For ever Mirth's best nursery !
May pure contents
For ever pitch their tents
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains,
And Peace still slumber by these purling fountains :
Which, we may every year
Meet when we come a-fishing here." Sir H. Wotton.

Scene I. — The River lichen, below Winchester.
Piscator, Socius, andTYRO.
Piscator, (soliloquizing). The world may say what
they will of an Angler's life — your men of fashion
may laugh at it — your men of business may affect to
despise it — but, for quiet recreation and innocent en
joyment, its parallel is not to be found on earth. O
what a pleasant sight it is to view the young fry
playing in the silver stream ! how sweet to hear the
sedges rustling in the breeze, and to listen to the
gurgling music of the waters ! The rippling current
and the placid lake have at all times their peculiar

402 death's DOINGS.
charms ; but when the finny tribe are eager for the
bait, and the lynx-eyed Trout, darting from his bed
of river-moss, seizes the May-fly, as it glides on the
surface of the stream, how it rejoiceth the heart of
an honest Angler ! he hails it as a goodly omen ; then
carefully, but tenderly, fastening to his hook (as I
now do) the pretty little gossamer-winged insect, he
skilfully throws out his line, and, like the pious Fish
ermen of old, patiently waits for his reward ! — Ha !
who do I see yonder? — verily, my old friend and bro
ther of the Angle, Socius, walking hitherward, and in
deep converse with his well-beloved kinsman, Tyro.
Good morrow, gentlemen ; how fares it with you ?
Socius. Hale and hearty, brother ; never better.
But how goes sport to-day, Piscator ?
Piscator. Hush ! hush ! — stand aside, I pray ye,
or you'll frighten away as fine a fellow as ever swal
lowed a hook. There !— steady— steady ! — now I
have him : here, give me the landing-net, or I may
yet lose my labour, for he is a strong fish and seems
to be none of the lightest. So ! what think you of
him? Tyro. He's a rare trout, truly ; hog-backed and

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES. 403
well speckled, and weighs, as I should guess, two
pounds or more. But you have not resolved the
question my Master Socius put to you—" how goes
sport to-day ?"
Piscator. How ? why, as it generally goes with
one who practises his art till he becomes perfect in
it ; though, to say the truth, the fish are unusually
abstemious this morning : however, I have now
made up three brace, and as I see you are more bent
on conversation than on Angling, with your good
leave, I will join you in company, and we will walk
towards the Dolphin, at the village of Twyford, hard
by, where our hostess shall dress the fish and pro
vide for us a good, plain, comfortable dinner ; after
which we will endeavour to amuse ourselves, with
innocent discourse and pleasant recollections, till
night-fall. Socius. Agreed. Come, Tyro, thou shalt carry
the spoil ; for the back of a lusty young fellow of
five-and-twenty is more fitted for a burthen, than that
of a man who is well nigh three-score-and-ten.
Tyro. 'Tis an honourable office, and I will per
form it right willingly. 2 D

404 death's doings.
Piscator. I thank you, my worthy friends ; not
that I absolutely need such assistance ; but let a
man be ever so careful of his health, yet as old age
creeps on, his bodily ailments come with it, and he
needs no monitor but Time to warn him that his
strength endureth not for ever. Look at yonder hol
low trunk ! — that was once as fine and flourishing a
tree as ever graced the margin of a stream. Well
do I remember that in my boyhood its outspreading
limbs o'erhung the river, and often have I reclined at
its foot to enjoy its umbrageous shelter ; but little
did I then imagine that I should live to see it shorn
of its beauty, and despoiled of its towering branches ;
but, alack! all things here must have an end ; and I
feel that, like that once noble tree, I am not only
stript of my verdure, but fast hastening to decay ;
and that —
Socius. Hold, hold ! I beseech you ; if you moral
ize thus, I fear the seriousness of your discourse will
spoil my appetite, although I am at this moment as
hungry as a hawk. Come, come, cheer up ! you do
not often indulge iu melancholy reflections ; and you
know full well that few can boast of such a vigorous
old age as yourself.  -See, we have arrived within
a few yards of the house ; so let us take a turn in

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES. 405
the garden, and give another turn to our conversa
tion, while dinner is preparing.
Tyro. Do so, my right noble Masters; meanwhile
your Scholar will help our hostess to prepare the
frugal meal. [Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room at the Dolphin, Twyford. The
Cloth removed; and Liquor, Syc. on the Table.
Tyro. Yes, yes, my worthy Master, doubtless I
could succeed with the Angle if I knew some of its
secrets. — 'Tis an art and mystery, as a body may say.
Piscator. A fiddlestick's end ! Secrets indeed !
Why, were I to tell thee all I know concerning it, I
should then fall short in many things which my vene
rable friend and instructor, my ever-dear Izaak Wal
ton, has set down in his matchless treatise. Study
that, Tyro, and it will afford thee food for the mind,
while it furnishes thee with a store of knowledge as
an Angler.
Socius. Rightly argued, Piscator. I have often
told him to read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest
2 d 2

406 death's doings.
the Complete Angler ; but^ I fear Tyro has too little
patience ever to become an expert master of the rod
and line. Still, I pray thee, answer his interroga
tories, or he will grow disheartened.
Piscator. Thou knowest that, without diligence,
observation, and practice, it would be to no purpose,
or I would freely answer them ; for he that hath not
patience to read Izaak Walton's book till its max
ims are engraven on his memory, must not aspire to
become one of our fraternity, neither doth he deserve
the pleasure which your truly contemplative man
feels from it ; and he who can read the piscatory in
structions which it contains, and not profit by the
pleasant tales and serious reflections so ingeniously
interwoven amongst them, must have a harder heart
and a softer head, methinks, than my friend Tyro.
Tyro. Nay, nay, Piscator, chide me not. Believe
me, I have read the Complete Angler with delight,
and thereby gleaned much valuable knowledge.
And if you will but inform me which are the best
places to resort to for the sport on the divers
branches of this stream, I will speedily endeavour to
prove, by my performance, that your advice has not
been unseasonably bestowed.

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES. 407
Piscator. Answered like a promising Scholar ; and
thou mayst rest assured I will not only satisfy thy
longing upon that score, but thou shalt practise with
me, and note what I do. But let us replenish our
glasses, and then, like good fellows, proceed with
our harmony.
Socius. Agreed, my old Trojan. What shall it be?
Piscator. What? let me see. Why, the three-part
song that honest Izaak used to delight in, and
which he has often taken a part in when we were
wont to regale together after a fishing excursion. I
do love to recal that prince and patriarch of Anglers
to my mind ; though I am free to confess that the
Angler's Glee savours but little of his own incompar
able vein of sober humour.

THE ANGLER'S GLEE.
Right socially we live, and never disagree,
Troll away, troll away, my boys !
Our hearts, like our purses, are open, light, and free,
And if the fish bite, who so happy as we,
Or who feel such innocent joys ?
Then when from sport returning,
Each Angler takes his glass,
To toast some favrite lass
For whom Love's torch is burning,
The merry catch goes round, or the care-killing glee;

408 death's doings.
Time employing cheerily,
Life enjoying merrily ;
Free from discord, noise, and strife,
Is an honest Angler s life,
For his rod and line by day are the source of true delight,
And a cheerful welcome home is his sure reward at night.
Troll, troll, troll aicay — troll, troll, troll away,
Troll away, troll away, my boys!
Piscator. Fill your glasses ; fill, fill to the brim !
and I will give you a right honest sentiment. — Here's
to the memory of Izaak Walton ; and may his fame
float upon the stream of Time, as long as fishes
swim, or rivers flow ! — Ah ! well do I remember
the last day's sport I had with him ; 'tis now up
wards of forty years ago. It was a lovely day in June,
and Izaak had tui;ned his eighty-eighth year. I called
for him, according to custom, at his kinsman's, the
Doctor's,* and we began our operations just below
the College Mill, sauntering along, and throwing in
here and there, till we reached Brambridge Shallows.
We had excellent luck — excellent! but Izaak —
poor old Izaak— found out, at last, that to walk
so far when on the verge of ninety was too much for
his strength, and from that time he never ventured
* Dr. Hawkins, a prebendary of Winchester, and the son-in-law of
Izaak Walton, at whose house he resided several years before his
death; which, according to the inscription on the stone erected to his
memoiy in the cathedral of that city, took place in December, 1683,
Walton having attained his ninetieth year. Izaak Walton was born in
August, 1593. — Wood's Athena Oxon.

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES. 409
farther than St. Cross meadows or the foot of St.
Catherine's hill, in pursuit of his much-loved di
version. Socius. I never hear St. Cross mentioned without
reflecting, with gratitude, on its noble asylum for age
and poverty : a more perfect relic of the pious bene
volence of our forefathers is not to be found in Bri
tain than this goodly Hospital of St. Cross — this
calm and tranquil retreat from the busy world of
care and folly. Tyro and I came that way hither,
and on passing the porter's lodge, craved the custo
mary boon of a crust of bread and a horn of beer — not
exactly as poor wayfaring men would do, certainly ;
for we put a piece of silver in the porter's palm as a
token of our gratitude.
Piscator. Ah, that was just our Father Walton's
usual manner. He has done the self-same thing in
my company many times. I have often heard him
speak, too, of the pleasure he felt in whiling away
an hour in the heat of the day in that cool seques
tered spot, perambulating the shady cloisters, and
picking up some of those amusing traditions with
which the intelligent old " brother" Peter used to
delight Jiis hearers. Aye, and many a time and oft

410 DEATH'S DOINGS.
have I there met him with young Master Izaak, Dr.
Hawkins, or the late Master of St. Cross, Dr. Mark-
land, and passed hours in the most happy and in
structive converse. Trust me, although Izaak was
not a native of our city, no one was more delighted
with its pleasant site, or prouder of its ancient glories
and its still existing charities.
Tyro. So I have often heard before; and therefore
have I thought it somewhat strange that he should
have passed the latter part of his life at Win
chester, and say little or nothing in his Complete
Angler concerning the trout streams which flow
through the city, and give such freshness and beauty
to the surrounding country.
Piscator. Thou wilt not marvel thereat, Tyro,
when thou hearest that his book was writ some
years before he came to dwell there ; but he saith,
and saith truly, that " Hampshire exceeds all Eng
land for swift, shallow, clear, pleasant brooks, and
store of trouts." This he knew right well, from hav
ing visited the country in his early days, and fished
both in the lichen and the Test ; * and I have often
* The River Itchen rises a little above Alresford Pond, and empties
itself into the Southampton Water. Excellent trout fishing com-

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES. 411
heard him confess, that the great delight and com
fort of his old age consisted in living in a place so
congenial to his taste and pursuits.

mences at Alresford, continues so at Itchen Stoke, Avington, the seve
ral Worthys, Barton, St. Cross, Twyford, Brambridge, Bishop's-Stoke,
and terminates at Woodmill. In the pond at Alresford are particu
larly large trout, which are never in good season until August. The
trout at the before-mentioned places are good from the latter end of
March until August. Among the favourite places for Fly-fishers may
be considered Itchen Common, Martyr's Worthy Shallows, King's
Worthy River, Bullbridge Shallows, Cryptshott, St. Cross Mill-Pond,
Brambridge Shallows, Bishop's-Stoke deep water, and farther on to
wards Woodmill.
On the Test, the best fishing is to be found at the following places :
namely, at Chilbolton, Leckford, Longstock, Stockbridge, Mersh
Court, Bossington Brook, Baybridge, Stanbridge, Broadlands, Test-
wood, and farther on to Redbridge, where the said river falls into the
Southampton Water. The water in this river is so very pellucid,
that the fish are very rarely taken except by doubling rods.
The trout caught in the River Test are infinitely superior to any
other (almost in England), being considerably larger and firmer, and
are certainly of a different nature from the trout taken in the Itchen,
which are, however, very good of their kind.
For the information contained in the foregoing note, our thanks are
due to a gentleman of W inchester, whose urbane manners and skill as
an Angler justly entitle him to the appellation of a true disciple of Izaak
Walton. Though our own local recollections helped us to the text,
we confess that our knowledge of " the art" is much too limited
to have supplied the note. Luckily for us, Walton himself furnishes
us with an excuse for our ignorance, in the following words : — "Ang
ling is somewhat like poetry, men are to be born so ;" and " he that
hopes to be a good Angler, must not only bring an inquiring, search
ing, observing wit ; but he must bring a large measure of hope and
patience, and a love and propensity to the art itself."

412 death's doings.
Socius. I verily believe, Piscator, that had Izaak
Walton resided among us Wintonians at an earlier
period, we should have heard less of his favourite
Tottenham High Cross, and more of my favourite
Saint Cross. Nay, it has more than once presented
itself to my mind, that he would have made an admi
rable historian of our ancient city, could he have been
persuaded to set about so praiseworthy an under
taking. You know he was not sparing of his labour
in research, as his excellent biographical works at
test;* — and what a rich mine he might have dug in
here, where the bones of Alfred, Egbert, and a host
of other sovereign princes still repose ! with what
delight would he have descanted on the pious la
bours of those who lie buried in the church of the
Holy Trinity ! how pathetically would he have de
scribed the virtues and eulogised the bounty of its
patrons and benefactors, from the days of St.
Swithin to those of William of Wykeham !
Piscator. I cannot fall in with thy notion, Socius,

* Walton was the Biographer of Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Donne,
Sir Henry Wotton, Mr. George Herbert, and Mr. Richard Hooker, all
eminent men of their day ; and that he acquitted himself in a manner
highly creditable to his talents may be gathered from the testimony of
learned contemporaries.

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES. 413
however much I may be disposed to laud the splen
did talents and great attainments of my venerated
friend. Antiquity is a study, methinks, that was
not so well suited to his taste as the description of
Nature in her quiet peaceful vales, where wild
flowers bloom, birds carol their sweet notes, clear
brooks meander, and fishes leap for joy.
Tyro. Pardon me there, Piscator, but I judge that
honest old Izaak, like his pupil, felt more pleasure in
hooking a fish than in seeing one leap for joy.
Piscator. I know, boy, thou art fond of raillery on
this head, and I forgive thee ; though I doubt not
that if the ghost of Izaak Walton were to appear be
fore thee, he would prove, to thy confusion, that our
favourite diversion is a merciful method of thinning
the over-teeming rivers, and not a cruel sport, as
some blasphemously pronounce it to be ; nay, that
Angling is as pleasant a pastime for the fish as for
the fisherman . Thou must have seen, by his book, that
he loathed all barbarous amusement ; but, as for Ang
ling, he urges divers unanswerable arguments in fa
vour of its practice, observing that many of the pa
triarchs and prophets of old were fishers, as were also
four of Christ's apostles ; and, besides enumerating

4L4 death's DOINGS.
many pious men of later times who lived virtuous and
temperate lives and delighted in Angling, he referreth
to profane history as well, and shows that the greatest
of men — aye, and women too— recreated themselves
with the sport of fishing: there were Antony and
Cleopatra, and 
Socius. Enough — proof enough, in all conscience"!
— isn't it, Tyro? That jade Cleopatra was a queen
of fishers, and well knew how to bait her hook, — eh,
boy? Tyro. Aye, marry, did she ; and, if I mistake not,
your female Anglers, now-a-days, understand the art
of catching gudgeons quite as well as Egypt's volup
tuous queen did.
Piscator. Experientia docet — doth it not, Tyro ?
I verily think the cherry-cheeked daughter of our
hostess hath got thee at the end of her line.
Tyro. Expert as thou art, Piscator, at catching
fish, thou wilt not catch me. I pray ye remember,
Master, that I was brought up at Wykeham's Col
lege, and the first lesson they teach us there is to tell
no tales out of school. Still I hope thou wilt allow

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES. 415
that a man may be a true Lover, though he be but a
sorry Angler.
Piscator. It would be bad indeed for the softer sex,
Tyro, if it were otherwise ; and I frankly own that
I commend thy silence in a matter so delicate ; but,
for true love's sake, thou shalt indulge us with a
love-song. Tyro. Well, if you will have it so, I will make an
attempt ; and if I fail therein, let my want of prac
tice be an excuse for my inability : but —
Socius. No bids, Tyro, but the song ; — come, boy,
give us thy love-song, without a prologue.
TYRO'S SONG, entitled SLY CUPID.
Though Huntsmen may sing of the joys of the chase,
And Anglers, of line, hook, and rod,
The joy of all joys, which to none can give place,
Springs from Cupid — sly Cupid the god —
Whose bundle of arrows and neat little bow,
Which so carelessly hang by his side,
Are far more effective than Dian's, I trow,
When properly they are applied :
0 Cupid, thou dear little god!

416 death's DOINGS.
Though Soldiers may boast of their glorious scars,
Til wager, though you think it odd,
That many more wounds than are given by Mars,
Come from Cupid — sly Cupid the god —
Whose bundle of arroios and neat little bow,
Which so carelessly hang by his side,
Are more than a match for all weapons below,
When -properly they are applied :
O Cupid, thou dear little god !
Though the sons of gay Bacclais take pleasure in wine —
I'll swear, when they stagger and nod,
Their pleasures are painful; but pleasures divine
Spring from Cupid — sly Cupid the god —
Whose bundle of arrows and neat little bow,
Which so carelessly hang by his side,
Give exquisite pleasure, as all of us know,
When properly they are applied.
O Cupid, thou dear little god !
Piscator. Thanks, Tyro, thanks. Here's to thee
and thy song. And now, methinks it is high time to
depart : so step out, and, as thou art purse-bearer
to-day, pay our good hostess her charge for this en
tertainment ; and, hark ye, Tyro, when thou givest
her daughter (as I guess thou dost intend to do) a
parting kiss, don't whisper in her ear too much
about " sly Cupid."
Tyro. I shall not come to thy confessional, Mas
ter, if I do ; but — verbum sap. [Exit.

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES. 417
Scene III.— The Road leading to Winchester.
Socius. How calm and refreshing is the air ! See,
Piscator, how beautifully the golden rays of the set
ting sun are reflected against the numerous windows
of yon noble pile ! Alas, old Winchester ! — once fa
voured city of the west, how are thy glories vanished !
it seemeth that the hand of Fate is against thee, and
that thou never, never shalt revive.
Piscator. And dost thou really think, Socius, that
this ought to be a cause for regret ? What, if the
unfinished palace of Charles the Second frown in so
litary state, and the ruins of Wolvesey show marks
of desolation, are we not exempt from the vices
which congregate in a metropolis? If the surround
ing country were enclosed for the convenience and
private enjoyment of royalty and royal retainers, — in
the name of goodness, would not our purling streams
and verdant meadows have been shut out from us ?
Think of that, Socius — think of that, as my dear
friend Walton would say, " with tears of gratitude
in thy eyes."
Socius. True, true ; yet I cannot regard its former
magnificence without something like a feeling of re-

418 death's DOINGS.
gret ; but I own thou art more of a philosopher, and
viewest things as they ought to be viewed— closely
and justly. Still when I consider that even in the
time of the Celtic Britons " the White City," (for
such was the name they gave to Winchester, from
the chalky cliffs which overhang and surround it)
was one of the most celebrated places in this island ;
and that afterwards, under the dominion of its va
rious conquerors, the Belgae, the Romans, and the
Saxons, it was the seat of power ; nay, that even
some three or four centuries ago, it was the capital
of the kingdom, — thou must not wonder that a love
for the antique and romantic will occasionally beget
a sigh, as my mind retrospectively glanceth at the
by-gone glories of my native town.
Piscator. Believe me, I can more than pardon thy
feelings ; I respect them, though I feel not like thee.
— But see, how Tyro lags behind. The lad, I war
rant, is musing on the red lips and sloe-black eyes
of that pretty wench at the Dolphin. I'faith ! now I
look again, I see that, as he walks along, he is
writing : 'tis some love epistle, or a new copy of
verses, mayhap, about the bow and arrows. —Tyro !
slow-footed Tyro, what engageth thy attention so
deeply? Come hither, man.

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES. 419
Tyro. I crave your pardon, my good Masters, for
my tardy pace ; but I will presently overtake you.
Socius. He hastens towards us. Now, Tyro, tell
us with candour, what thou hast been employed
about so busily.
Tyro. Truly, I have been thinking so much of the
pleasant discourse we have had this afternoon — am
so much in love with an Angler's life — and withal so
highly esteem the memory of Piscator's early friend
and monitor, that, as I walked along, I have been
tempted to tack together a few lines in verse re
specting him.
Piscator. Thy labour I regard as a compliment
paid to myself; and I trust thou wilt not only read
what thou hast written, but give thy manuscript to
me. I rejoice, too, to hear thee express thy love for
an Angler's life. O, who would not be an honest
Angler ! " Let me tell you," as my ever-dear Izaak
expresseth himself, " there be many who have forty
times our estates, that would give the greatest part
of it to be healthful and cheerful like us ; who with
the expense of a little money have eat and drank, and
laughed, and angled, and sung, and slept securely ;
2 E

420 death's DOINGS.
and rose next day, and cast away care, and sung,
and laughed, and angled again, which are blessings
rich men cannot purchase with all their money."
Tyro. And if I remember rightly, he further saith,
" We see but the outside of the rich man's happiness :
few consider him to be like the silkworm, that, when
she seems to play, is, at the very same time, spin
ning her own bowels, and consuming herself."
Socius. Dip where we will, the page of Izaak
Walton ever instructeth — ever delighteth. But —
read thy lines ; for see, we have nearly reached
King's-gate, and thou knowest that Piscator must
leave us not many yards from that spot.
Piscator. Aye, boy ; read, read. If an Angler's
stock of patience could be exhausted, I declare this
delay would be the sure means of exhausting it.
Socius. For patience' sake, then, read.
Tyro. Before I begin, Piscator, I should tell thee
it is in the form of an Epitaph on thy friend ; for
though I know thou wouldst say it were sacrilege to
displace that which the younger Izaak caused to be
raised in the Cathedral to his beloved father's me-

WALTONIAN REMINISCENCES. 421
mory, yet I have often heard both thee and Socius
lament that the tablet did not more fully paint
his life and matchless character. What they were
I have learned from thee : therefore think me not
presumptuous, I beseech thee, in having attempted
to describe one whose virtues I fain would imitate,
though to do that effectually would, I know, re
quire far more fortitude, meekness, piety, and self-
denial, than generally fall to the lot of man.
TO THE MEMORY OF IZAAK WALTON.
Stay, Reader, stay ! and let the pious tear
Attest thy love for him who sleepeth here :
Tis IZAAK WALTON!—" honest Izaak" hiyht—
He who in Angling took such rare delight;
He who, when musing by the silent brook,
Equipt with angle-rod, with line, and hook,
E 'er studied Nature from her living book ;
Her laws he lov'd— for Nature's laws are mild —
And Nature own'd him as her fav'rite child.
Calm was his life and like a river clear ;
His heart was manly, open, and sincere ;
Of peaceful habits he, of holy mind,
Of cheerful converse, of affections kind;
Of ready wit, but void of all offence ;
Of simple manners, but of sterling sense ;
Though frugal, lib'ral—gen'rous too, but just—
Possess'd of virtues, as it were, in trust
To use them for the benefit of others,—
For all mankind to Izaak were as brothers.
2 e2

422 death's DOINGS.
Piscator. I thank thee, Tyro. Those lines thou
must give to me ; and I promise thee that, for
Izaak's sake and thine, I will carefully preserve
them. And now, my kind friends, we are come to
the very spot where, to seek our several homes, we
must part. Good night ; and God be with you both !
Socius. And so say I.
Tyro. And I. Good night!
S. M.

Walton was buried, according to his own request, in the most
unostentatious manner possible. He lies in Prior Silksteed's Chapel,
in Winchester Cathedral, and the grave-stone which covers his re
mains has the following inscription: —
Hebe eesteth the body of
MR ISAAC WALTON,
H
WHO DYED THE 15 OF DECEMBER
1683.
Alas ! hee's gone before,
Gone to returne noe more !
Our panting Breasts aspire
After their aged Sire
Whose wellspent life did last
Full ninety years and past,
But now he hath begun
That which will ne're be done,
Crown'd with eternall blisse,
We wish our Souls with his.
Votis modestis sic Jlerunt liberi.

423

DEATH, THE SAGE, AND THE FOOL.

I.
Hence with thy rhapsodies — the world — the
world ! —
Wends 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 !
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,—

424 death's doings.
Uncheer'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,
Wasting 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 !
IV.
Then — then what boots the philosophic fire,
That lit the sacred mansion of his breast ?
Freedom from 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,

DEATH, THE SAGE, AND THE FOOL. 425
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 !
VI.
Death and obstruction f 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

* Zeno, the stoic.
•j- " To lie in cold obstruction and to rot."— Shakspeare.

428 death's doings.
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
Quaffed, and of old poetic phrensy 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 !
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 !

DEATH, THE SAGE, AND THE FOOL.

429

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 !
Randolph Fitz-Eustace.

430

TO DEATH.

SONNET I.

Lord of the silent tomb ! relentless Death !
Fierce victor and destroyer of the world !
How stern thy power ! The shafts of fate are hurled
By thine unerring arm ; — and swift as breath
Fades from the burnished mirror, — as the wreath
Of flaky smoke, from cottage roofs upcurled,
Melts in cerulean air, — as sear leaves whirled
Along autumnal streams, — as o'er the heath
The forms of twilight vanish — so depart,
Nor leave a trace of their oblivious way,
The meteor dreams of man ! Awhile the heart
Of eager Folly swells — his bubbles gay
Float on the passing breeze, — but ah ! thy dart
Soon breaks each glittering spell of Life's delusive
day!
D. L. R.

SONNETS TO DEATH.

431

SONNET II.
Insatiate fiend ! at thy blood-dropping shrine
In vain unnumbered victims wait thy will ;
The life-streams of the earth thy thirst of ill
Shall never quench, till that bright morning shine
That bursts the sleep of ages. All repine
At thy severe decrees;— and thy terrors thrill
The hero and the sage, though pride may still
The voice that would reveal them. Hopes divine,
Of Faith and Virtue born, alone may cheer
Mortality's inevitable hour.
Nor phrensied prayer, nor agonizing tear,
May check thine arm, or mitigate thy power.
Ruin's resistless sceptre is thy dower,
Thy throne, a world — thy couch, Creation's bier !
D. L. R.

432

THE SAGE AND THE FOOL.

" The air hath bubbles as the water hath,
* * * * and do but blow them to their trials, the bub
bles are out." Shakspeare.
" 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,
Which Death puts out, and darkens human race." — Young.

When this globe of the earth
First sprang into birth,
And 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 of 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. 433
So, ever since then,
'Tis the practice of men
To shape all their courses in trouble ;
Yet in colours so bright,
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.

434

THE

FOOL AND THE PHILOSOPHER.

A VISION.

It was a delightful evening in the middle of Au
gust : 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, fring
ing 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 just rested the book on
my knee, to admire the magnificent scene which lay

THE FOOL AND THE PHILOSOPHER. 435
before me : every swelling knoll and abrupt crag on
the huge back of Ben Venue, and all the feathery
crest of the leafy garniture 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 dis
tance of the landscape in one deep mass of shade,
but marking more strongly the grand outline of Ben
Venue and his stupendous congeners ; strikingly dis
playing the superior sublimity of scenery still bear
ing the impress of the finger of Nature over the
proudest efforts of aspiring mortals. Full of the
romantic; — the place, the hour, the monotonous
sound of the neighbouring waterfall, and the univer
sal stillness which prevailed, threw me into a re
verie which, gradually settling into sleep, produced
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
I was asleep, suddenly disappeared, and changed to
a valley of most singular aspect. Although of vast
extent, yet it was enclosed, on every side, by stu
pendous mountains, the rugged and hoary summits
2f

436 death's doings.
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 projected 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, dash
ing from precipice 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 mountains.
As I looked upon the scene, it seemed continually
changing. At one time, the valley resounded with
the notes of the feathered choristers ; at another the
growl of the storm redoubled its peals among the
echoing rocks. Sometimes, embowered among the
trees, appeared the village with its simple pointed
spire ;— whilst I gazed, it became 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

THE FOOL AND THE PHILOSOPHER. 437
seem to issue from its gates ; and sports and tourna
ments were held. I looked again, and anon a real
battle raged beneath its walls. The opposing ar
mies, the charges of the chivalry, the smoke, the re
treat, 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 bearing on it navies.
At one moment, the sun shining upon the white,
swelling sail, the gallant ship danced gaily on the
lightly rippled bosom of the deep ; at another, the
congregated clouds freighted 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 thousand pieces. The shrieks of the
drowning mariners 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 : I 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
2 f 2

438 death's doings.
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 no
thing was tangible. " This is surely the Valley of
Deception," exclaimed I, thinking audibly : " no
thing is what it appears to be." " It is then a true
picture of the world," whispered a voice behind me,
" turn and see." I turned and beheld, on a little
elevation, at the distance of twenty or thirty feet
from me, two individuals 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 mo
ment I was involuntarily impelled towards the pyra
mid. The two persons seated at its base were of the
most opposite 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

THE FOOL AND THE PHILOSOPHER. 439
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 " Summum bonum Virtus;" a scroll
covered with logical aphorisms lay at the base of the
pedestal, and a celestial globe was behind it.
I stood for some minutes contemplating both of
these characters, who were not, in any degree, dis
concerted at my approach. " There goes an Em
peror," 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 th^ irridescent hues of
the rainbow. Hah ! the ambitious dog ! — how he
mounts above his fellows ! Now he has topped the
summit of his flight — there ! there ! his golden dream
is over — his budding hopes are blasted — his pride for
ever humbled — the bubble is burst ; and not a trace
remains. Hah, ha, ha!" — and he shook his head,
jingling te sonorous ornaments of his cap ; and,
opening his capacious mouth, laughed long and

440 death's doings.
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 dervise ! — he has, cer
tainly, discovered the perpetual motion : happy soul!
the world will now be blessed, and he will be im
mortal. — 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 precur
sor, and none knows whither." Again he shouted
with joy ; and held his sides with laughter : and in
this manner the knave apostrophized each bubble
which he blew, well maintaining the credit of the an
cient craft of which he seemed the worthy represen
tative. It was in vain to address such a being, and there
fore 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 countenance, " Mortal !
I already read your thoughts. Your laudable cu
riosity shall be satisfied : — sit down in peace, and
listen to the voice of truth." I sat down, and he

THE FOOL AND THE PHILOSOPHER. 441
thus continued—" Mortal ! the valley which lies be
fore you is a typification of the world. Its moun
tains and rugged rocks represent the difficulties and
obstacles which beset man in his journey; whilst
they are also the true causes of the transitory feli
city that he attains on earth ; for what enjoyment
does he possess when not acquired by fatigue and
industry, which does not become insipid and dis
tasteful? Ease and indolence and certain security
soon pall upon the mind, which, restless, and never
satiated witli toil, rather than it will endure the tor
ment of apathy, courts dangers and even finds a
charm in Death. Say — without this allurement,
would the patriot sacrifice 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 vicissi
tudes of life, waste the midnight oil and immure him
self 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 Nature,
and show that amidst difficulties, horrors, changes,
deceit, and wickedness, the world supplies the

444 death's doings.
fetched a deep sigh, and seemed to revive ; then
turning his languid eye upon me, the placidity of his
countenance unaltered, in scarcely audible accents
uttered these words — " Alas ! fellow mortal, expe
rience only can teach wisdom : it has convinced me
that my system is a vain hypothesis : man is still un
der the dominion of Death: but, in yielding to the
tyrant, I have the satisfaction of knowing that the
change will enable me to solve the greatest of all se
crets." 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 general
ruin, when the voice which I had before heard again
addressed me : " Mortal ! such is the frailty of hu
manity — 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 reasoning con
cerning life, life is gone ; and Death, though perhaps
they receive him differently, yet treats alike the Fool
and the Philosopher."*
A. T. T.
* Hume's Essays — The Stoic.

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THE EPILOGUE,

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AND

ADDRESS RECAPITULATORY.

Spolteti is 3Beanj, tit €fiaracter.

Pray don't alarm yourselves ! — 'tis pnly I!
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

446 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 ;
A third protests his death is not expedient ;
A fourth declares the time is inconvenient. —

epilogue. 447
O what a scene of shuffling, shifting, shirking !
What pal try lies— what quibbling, and what quirking !
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 ;
And, oh ! what lame and impotent excuses,
The rogue invents, to hide his vile abuses! —
All, all alike are — full of contradictious,
Pleas, errors, counterpleas, demurrers, fictions !
Ready, most ready all, to " make averment,"
That services like theirs, should meet preferment;

448 death's doings.
And 'twould be hard, they say, — oh, very hard,
If from " preferment" they should be debarr'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 your 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 owns the only way to Heaven ;
Yet such the force of carnal appetite,
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 !" —

epilogue. 449
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;*
And he who hopes by faith alone to stand,
Erects a tottering column on the sand.
Be just and liberal — to your country true —
High Heav'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,
* These observations have reference to the spiritual teachers of no
one sect in particular, but are intended to apply to all who are so
blind, and so bigoted to their own tenets, as to preach up the absurd
and uncharitable doctrine of exclusive salvation.

450 death's doings.
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 ;
And each would call on me, by day and night,
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 ;

epilogue. 451
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 an 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 I 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 !
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
2g

452 death's doings.
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 I trust to prove to demonstration,
That none with greater zeal e'er fill'd his station ;
Meanwhile— although, perhaps/twill tire your patience
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 !

I began — let me see — oh, my "Doings" began
With a Sermon. "Asermon? — a sermon?" say you,
" Why, surely, to preach is to say, not to do ;"—

EPILOGUE. 453
Egad ! so it is ; — well, I'll alter my plan,
And hereafter keep but my Doings in view ;
But should you require more scriptural knowledge
Than gownsmen in general pick up at college,
(Alma Mater ! pray pardon the libel ;)
Leave logical lumber to heads metaphysical,
Leave " Valentine Verses," to ladies who're phthisical,
Leave " Mayoralty Visits" — by all that is quizzical —
O leave them, — and study your Bible !
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.
THE PILGRIM.
In Pilgrim's guise I brought the fatal scroll,
Which told a Maiden of her 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 !
2 g 2

454 death's doings.
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 :
And as I knew he meant a Dance to lead me,
To show 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 I never could blame,
But cheerfully join'd in the play :
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 epilogue. 455
the gamester.
Mark'd ye that convulsive start ?
Saw ye how his eyeballs roll'd ?
Vultures gnaw the Gamester's heart ! —
Fearful truths that sigh has told !
Now the fatal die he throws ; —
Heard ye that hysteric laugh ?
'Twas to hide his deep-felt woes : —
See him now the poison quaff !
See his frame with anguish shake !
See his wildly-starting eyes !
The play was deep — 'twas life at stake —
And the victor claims his prize.
Transient pleasure ! — endless pain !
Gamester ! the enchantment's o'er ;
Passion and the lust of gain
Give to Death one victim more !
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 !

456 death's doings.
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 !

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 pain)
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 epilogue. 457
the mother.
Methinks I hear some pitying Mother say,
Why snatch a helpless Infant thus away?
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 death alone there's rest !

458 death's doings.
life'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 offspring'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 him 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's 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 !

THE EPILOGUE. 459
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 BACCHANALIANS.
Tho' Bacchanals boast of their ivy-crown'd god,
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 brings, 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 ?

460 death's doings.
the warrior.
With martial port the Warrior seeks the field,
Where waves Destruction's banner in the wind,
And, though in combat wounded, scorns to yield,
For "love and glory" fire his ardent mind :
Now, see, he proudly mounts the blood-stain'd car,
And leads his squadrons to the fierce affray ;
His gallant bearing turns the tide of war —
The adverse army recreant flee away ;
But, oh! when just within his grasp the prize,
His life-blood flows — a film o'erspreads his eyes —
He faints — and in the hour of vict'ry dies !
THE GLUTTON.
No matter what — flesh, fowl, or fish —
If man become a Glutton ;
With gout he feeds from ev'ry dish —
Veal, ven'son, beef, or mutton.
Eating — drinking — panting — puffing !
O the dear delights of stuffing !
But when the greedy Epicure
A god thus makes his belly,
I mix some poison — slow, but sure —
In gravy, soup, or jelly.
On the couch, then, see him lying ! —
Writhing — groaning — gasping — dying !

THE EPILOGUE. 461
THE HUNTER.
The fearless Hunter took his dangerous leap ;
For though I warn'd, he held my warning cheap.
At length he fell — another fill'd his place,
And, like him, heedless, follows in the chase.
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 show 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 that, maugre 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 ;

462 death's doings.
But tho' I contriv'd to lay him on his back,
Behind he's left many a death-dealing dunce !
THE MISER.
The wretch who hoards, while others pine
In want, and pain, and woe,
Content must be at Pluto's shrine
Penance to undergo ;
For though he hold the lucre fast,
And hoard up every shilling,
To Pluto he must go at last,
And there expect a grilling.
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 ;

EPILOGUE. 463
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
Are smaller splints ; his ribs are laths, daub'd o'er,
Plaister'd with flesh and bloud: his mouth's the doore:
His throat's the narrow entrie, 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:
His stomack 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 great 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

464 death's DOINGS.
Oft-times by tempests, by the full-mouth'd blasts
Of heaven ; sometimes by fire ; sometimes it wastes
Through unadvis'd neglect ; put case the stuffe
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 ;
But sad, at merriest ; and but weak, at strongest ;
Unsure, at surest; and but short, at longest."
the lawyer.
I told you naught but truth before, concerning this
fraternity,
Nor should I aught do less or more, tho' 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 ANGLER.
Though a jest-loving wight* has thought fit to define,
In sportive derision, each Angling brother,
As " a stick and a string (id est, rod and line)
With a worm at one end and a fool at the other ;"
* Dean Swift.

THE EPILOGUE. 465
Yet, believe me, no fool is the man who in quiet
Can sit down contented amid the world's din ;
'Tis Fashion's blind vot'ry, who, dwelling in riot,
The slave is of Folly, of Care, and of Sin.
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 !
But why should you mourn over bubbles,
That are 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,

466

DEATH S DOINGS.

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 !
S. M.

THE END.

PRINTED BY G. H. DAVIDSON, IRELAND YARD, DOCTORS' COMMOftS.

THIS CHILD KNOWS EVERY BONE IN THE
HUMAN BODY.

"ALL CLEAR"
Copyright, 1926, New York Trlbiihe Inc.

SMI

^^^^^^

- 'vJ^J^Ji

-W--J^g ^ 

^llililillii

-<^^^S

Last NfgBt on the Radi

For those who riould give their un
divided attention to the loudspeaker
for two and a quarter hours on a
Sunday afternoon the WJZ-WBZ broad
cast of the exercises attendant upon
the rededication of historic Faneuil
Hall in Boston was a memorable radio
event. As usual, the ceremonies got
away to a delayed start, a circum
stance to which the band rose nobly
and the announcer not at all. Loud
applause, a martially stentorian "Pre
sent arms!" and an unmistakable
bugle call apprised the listeners of
the fact that Pershing and Dawes, with
the other guests of honor, had finally
arrived. Mayor Curley's voice, follow
ing close upon a brief but extraor
dinarily laudatory introduction, rose to
oratorical heights in treating with past
glories and present dangers of our
country. A gavel of historic import
was presented to Vice-President Dawes,
and was accepted in a speech which
in spite of its brevity was not without
several of the explosive moments so
characteristic of the speaker. Twenty
seconds of the address were lost to the
radio audience through one of the un
explained cut-offs peculiar to such
broadcasts. Music, said to have been
singing by the entire audience (the
pick-up was terribly hashed here), a
compilation of little known facts con
cerning Faneuil Hall, old and new;
more so-called singing, a reading by
one Dennis McCarthy, introduced as
"Boston's poet laureate"; still more
"singing" and an excellent address fit
ting the occasion with ' glove-like

Bright Spots for To-day
Local
WJZ (8:40 p. m.)— Holy Cros
College Musical Clubs.
WOR (9:30 p. m.)— "Battle t
Lexington Anniversary Program."
For DX Fans
KOA, Denver, 322 meters (10:1
p. m. Eastern Standard Time)-
Studio classical program.

smoothness by General Pershing, w
had also received a gavel.
And then the thrill. Boy Scout Jam
Thomas Smith stepped to the platfo
and received the personal comment
tion of General Pershing for havi
saved the life of a comrade who h
fallen through the ice last Februa:
The simplicity and genuineness of t
commendation made it effective to t
ultimate degree. * « *
The American Orchestral Socie
chose to present a concert of decided
lighter composition than has been
custom during previous WJZ broa
casts. The usual full-length sympho
was replaced by two finely interpret
numbers, overture to "Leonore"
Beethoven's and Tchaikovsky's "Rom
and Juliet Fantasy." The concerto f
piano by Ribinstein, played by Franc
Hall,- was an excellent example of ju
how perfect a pick-up and transmissi
job WJZ can do under favorable co
ditions. And we do like Announc

To-day's Radio Progr

MONDAY, APRIL 20
WJZ — NEW YORK CITT — 155

Pauline
Dorothy

4:30

10 a. m. — Mrs. Julian Heath.
10:20 a. m. — "Shopper's Guide,
Peck.
10:30 a. m. — "Home Decoration.
• Walsh.
10:40, a. m. — Talk.
10:60 a. m. — Eleanor Gunn's fashion talk.
11 a. m. — "Coming in to New York."
1 p. m. — Ambassador Trio.
A p. m. — Baseball scores.
02 p. m. — Paul Lowenkron, violinist.
p. m. — Baseball scores.
p. m. — Joseph Knecht's tea music.
6:30 p. m. — Market reports.
6 p. m. — Baseball scores.
7 p. m. — Bernhard Levitow's Orchestra.
8 p. m. — Financial review.
8:10 p. m. — N. Y. U. Air College; "Ameri
can History." Isaac B. Harrell.
8:40 p. m.— Holy Cross College Musical and
Glee Club concert; Philharmonic Orches
tra.
10:^0 p. m. — Joseph Knecht's dance music.
W1AF-SEW YORK CITY— 492
0:46-7:46 a. m. — Health exercises.
4 p. m. — Jeanettc Baranello, soprano.
4:10 p. m. — Elementary French lesson.
4:25 p. in. — Jeanette Baranello, soprano.
4:40 p. m. — Dorothy Cole, reader.
, _ -.. Trr-i^„,t A.,^g ^Irnar mn.ir

10 p. m. — Frank Ziramer, tenor.
10:25 p. m. — Dance orchestra.
Nearby Stations
WIP— PHILADELPHIA— 500
7 a. m.— Setting-up exercises.
10 a. m. — Menu and talk.
1 p. m. — Luncheon music.
3 :I5 p. m. — Artist recital.
4 p. m. — "Gardening," Chas. HalloweH.
6:05 p. m. — Dinner music.
7 p. m. — Bedtime Btory ; dance lessons.
WLIT— PHILADELPHIA— 395
12 :05 p. m. — Organ ; concert orchestra.
2-3 p. m.— Orchestra ; Artists' Happy Hou:
4:30 p. m.— Artist recital.
5 p. m. — Educational talks.
7 :30 p. m. — Dream Daddy.
8 p. m. — "Short Agro-Waves."
8 :10 p. m. — Concert orchestra,
8:30 p. m. — Chorus.
9:20 p. m. — Movie review. i
9 :30 p. m. — Stanley Theater features.
10. p. m. — Dance orchestra. ,
10 .'25 p. m. — Vaudeville features.
lfl :45 p. m. — Jimmy Jones's orchestra.
WOO— PHILADELPHIA— 503
11 a. m. — Org-an recital.
12 noon— Luncheon music.

i