Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse Consisting of the Epistolary Correspondence of Many Distinguished Characters. With Notes and Illustrations. By the Rev. R. Polwhele |
 | I. |
 | II. | VOL. II. |
| III. |
 | Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse |  |
II. VOL. II.
6
SONNET, Written February 24th, between three and four in the afternoon, when the funeral procession was advancing towards Truro, and the minute bell at St. Mary's tolling:—
Dunstanville! is it not the funeral knellThat deepens, amidst visionary glooms,
The long, long shadows of the nodding plumes,
O'er “down and dell,” to where thy Fathers rest?
Again—again—I hear its solemn swell,
Sad monitor of frail mortality!
Oh! in that sudden stillness—in that pause
“Without a breath,” my bosom beats to applause
That shames the shouts of millions. Every eye
7
Set on thy Coronet—in sooth to say;
Number'd on earth amongst the great and good,
Be thine, in blessing others only blest,
The incorruptible Crown, through Heaven's eternal day!
49
Madam Cant to Miss Pert.
“La, Aunt! how very stern you look!
I don't deserve such sharp rebuke.”—
Now in her teens, cried Miss—“You blame,
I'm sure, what's neither sin nor shame;
As if 'twere wrong to while away
The evening of a winter's day
Just in a little healthy hop!
Sure, 'tis no harm to play at Pope!
Am I an owl, condemn'd to mope?
A sparrow on the lone house-top?
A pelican?—How hard my case is!
Forgive me, if I use your phrases.
It seems I'm a conceited minx!—
‘Evil to her who evil thinks!’
Then you are always croaking—croaking,
About my finery:—so provoking!
Who in the world could e'er believe
You'd make a fuss about a sleeve?
This morning, when to tie my sandal,
Coz. Greatheart stoop'd, your look was scandal.
You tell me I do nought but loll,
Or jerk my pretty parasol.
And you attack my poor pelisse,
Too good for such a flaunting niece;
And next you scoffing cry, ‘So—so—ah!’
Ringing you changes on my boa;
Nor cease to boar me with broad hints,
As if I doated on my chintz,
A present from my cousin Greatheart—
At once it seems set down ‘a sweetheart!’
And next, more harassing than all,
You turn and twist my Indian shawl,
And rank me, with a sapient sneer,
Among the beauties of Cashmeer!
La! would you have me wear, like you,
A satin sack, nor black nor blue,
Stuck up, in stomacher and stays,
The fashion of my grandame's days?”
Stiff was, indeed, her bodice-busk;
And her old satin was subfusk.
I don't deserve such sharp rebuke.”—
Now in her teens, cried Miss—“You blame,
I'm sure, what's neither sin nor shame;
As if 'twere wrong to while away
The evening of a winter's day
Just in a little healthy hop!
Sure, 'tis no harm to play at Pope!
Am I an owl, condemn'd to mope?
A sparrow on the lone house-top?
A pelican?—How hard my case is!
Forgive me, if I use your phrases.
It seems I'm a conceited minx!—
‘Evil to her who evil thinks!’
Then you are always croaking—croaking,
About my finery:—so provoking!
Who in the world could e'er believe
You'd make a fuss about a sleeve?
This morning, when to tie my sandal,
Coz. Greatheart stoop'd, your look was scandal.
You tell me I do nought but loll,
Or jerk my pretty parasol.
And you attack my poor pelisse,
Too good for such a flaunting niece;
And next you scoffing cry, ‘So—so—ah!’
Ringing you changes on my boa;
Nor cease to boar me with broad hints,
As if I doated on my chintz,
A present from my cousin Greatheart—
At once it seems set down ‘a sweetheart!’
And next, more harassing than all,
You turn and twist my Indian shawl,
And rank me, with a sapient sneer,
Among the beauties of Cashmeer!
La! would you have me wear, like you,
A satin sack, nor black nor blue,
50
The fashion of my grandame's days?”
Stiff was, indeed, her bodice-busk;
And her old satin was subfusk.
And now, with every creature-comfort,
The patent chimney of Count Rumford,
The blaze, that warm'd so cheerily
Her crimson carpet and settee,
Her tables, chairs from wood of rose,
Scents to regale her snuffy nose,
From cedar boxes black as jet,
In gilding bright, her cabinet;
And through Venetian blinds, half-seen,
The balsam, first in vernal green;
And duly as the clock struck two,
The relish of the high ragout,
And many a spicy viand rich in
The cookery of a genial kitchen;
And malmsey—and perhaps cogniac!
—“A little for the stomach's sake.”—
With all these luxuries blest or curst,
The impatient Aunt her eyebrows purs'd,
And, opening wide her jallow jaws
For utterance in Religion's cause,
(One tooth projecting—quite a tusk)
With passion shook, and stunk of musk;
And fluttering on the wing to pounce
Fierce on her prey, exclaim'd—“Renounce
Your lying vanities; and know,
If you would fly from wail and woe,
Shunning the world's deceitful meshes,
Know what to mortify the flesh is;
This very night Pope Joan abjure,
And read”—she sigh'd and look'd demure—
“Your Bible. This will work your cure;
To read with us will much avail!”—
“Yea,” cried the Niece, “to read and rail! ”
Thinks I—“Her answer's flippant—curt!—
But if the Niece we name Miss Pert;
Without a scruple, the old Aunt
Well may we christen—Madam Cant.”
The patent chimney of Count Rumford,
The blaze, that warm'd so cheerily
Her crimson carpet and settee,
Her tables, chairs from wood of rose,
Scents to regale her snuffy nose,
From cedar boxes black as jet,
In gilding bright, her cabinet;
And through Venetian blinds, half-seen,
The balsam, first in vernal green;
And duly as the clock struck two,
The relish of the high ragout,
And many a spicy viand rich in
The cookery of a genial kitchen;
And malmsey—and perhaps cogniac!
—“A little for the stomach's sake.”—
With all these luxuries blest or curst,
The impatient Aunt her eyebrows purs'd,
And, opening wide her jallow jaws
For utterance in Religion's cause,
(One tooth projecting—quite a tusk)
With passion shook, and stunk of musk;
And fluttering on the wing to pounce
Fierce on her prey, exclaim'd—“Renounce
Your lying vanities; and know,
If you would fly from wail and woe,
Shunning the world's deceitful meshes,
Know what to mortify the flesh is;
This very night Pope Joan abjure,
And read”—she sigh'd and look'd demure—
“Your Bible. This will work your cure;
51
“Yea,” cried the Niece, “to read and rail! ”
Thinks I—“Her answer's flippant—curt!—
But if the Niece we name Miss Pert;
Without a scruple, the old Aunt
Well may we christen—Madam Cant.”
Thus I have heard many females run themselves “out of breath.” Miss Pert indeed is not “quite up” to a volubility which is of daily occurrence.
There has been a vast deal of cant in many of our recent publications. Gray's Elegy, for instance, wants Christianity. To infuse a little Christian spirit into it, a few pretty or petty stanzas have been inserted—enough to leaven the whole lump!
What can be more beautiful to the true believer, than—
“On some fond breast the parting soul relies;Some pious drops the closing eye requires!”
56
[Alas! such idle hours are fled]
Alas! such idle hours are fledAs leave my spirit ill at ease!
The watch suspended o'er my head
Hangs like the sword of Damocles!
[His perilous state if not resembling]
His perilous state if not resembling,Still his disquietude I share;
And feel in every tick with trembling
The menace of the single hair!
57
THE LAMP.
Priscilla and her husband at variance about a place in the ceiling where a lamp was to be suspended.
“Not there,” her husband straight replied:
“'Tis a wrong place—you'll have to mend it;
“I like not that position;
“And, dear Priscilla! your decision—
“I wish you would suspend it.”
“Be sure,” (she said) “Tom! Tom!—a little faster!”
“Stop—if you do it in that fashion—
“Hang me,” he utter'd in a passion.
“Tom! do you hear? quick—quick, obey your master!”
THE GOUT.
When, sated with rich Caillipee,
I had my claret quaff'd, good me!
And scoop'd the fragrant melon;
Lo! ghastlier than he whilom was,
Gout, grinning on the ruby glass,
Handcuff'd me like a felon!
I had my claret quaff'd, good me!
And scoop'd the fragrant melon;
Lo! ghastlier than he whilom was,
Gout, grinning on the ruby glass,
Handcuff'd me like a felon!
Why thus incontinently groan?
His entrails almost eaten out,
The Spartan utter'd not a moan.—
The Spartan—oh, had not the gout!
His entrails almost eaten out,
The Spartan utter'd not a moan.—
The Spartan—oh, had not the gout!
THE TARTAR.
Wives are in lecturing oft so sharp,
Their husbands they to ire provoke,
So long on the same string they harp,
In troth their scolding is no joke!
Their husbands they to ire provoke,
So long on the same string they harp,
In troth their scolding is no joke!
58
Day after day Madge made a rout,
On generous Port denouncing woe—
“Die—die! a martyr to the gout!
The Tartar 'tis torments thee so.”
On generous Port denouncing woe—
“Die—die! a martyr to the gout!
The Tartar 'tis torments thee so.”
“Too true (quoth he); but check thy tongue,
That dooms me thus to die a martyr;
For, whether thou art right or wrong,
I'm certain I have caught [the] [a] Tartar!”
That dooms me thus to die a martyr;
For, whether thou art right or wrong,
I'm certain I have caught [the] [a] Tartar!”
The Tartar of Port wine has such an effect with me, that three or four glasses are sure to produce a fit of the gout.
The last-left Evening Primrose
Of all my loved PrimrosesThat wooed the Evening-hour,
One—one alone its petals pale discloses—
The last-left lingering flower.
To every breeze—to every breath
It feebly flits and trembles,
And my frail self resembles—
Just shivering into death!
On an Apple-tree full of blossom, Sept. 11th
Where shivering through the leafy shade
September breathes a gloom,
Lo! yonder apple-tree arrayed
In all its vernal bloom!
September breathes a gloom,
Lo! yonder apple-tree arrayed
In all its vernal bloom!
Say, did Pomona bid it blow
At Meliora's suit?
Portentous in its lovely glow,
Behold forbidden fruit.
At Meliora's suit?
Portentous in its lovely glow,
Behold forbidden fruit.
59
Then, Meliora! with thine hair
Such blossoms if thou weave;
Alas! unweeting girl! beware
The fate of Mother Eve.
Such blossoms if thou weave;
Alas! unweeting girl! beware
The fate of Mother Eve.
[------“'Twas my lot, ere long to roam]
------“'Twas my lot, ere long to roamA listless exile, far from home—
Far from these walls that mark my birth,
To rear my unambitious hearth,
Where Courtenay's turrets crown the groves,
And vermeil meads that Isca loves!
'Twas then on topographic lore,
Some evil genius bade me pore;
Borne on swift steed of keen research,
Hunt out a ruin or a church,” &c.
[The historian tells us, that Caligula—]
The historian tells us, that Caligula—But 'tis a lie, I think too big, oh la!
E'en for credulity to swallow,
Deem'd new creations of such force,
He made a consul of his horse!
Yet hath my Printer beat him hollow;
That emperor's rival, Master Nichols,
No doubt for admiration stickles;
And (well with wonder may you stare), he
Hath made my “steed” an antiquary!
63
TRURO.
Our parson, poor Karkeek, bemoan'd his plight,When stuttering Crety made him black and white;
When with the Sexton—groping blind as moles—
He scarce could get a spark from Crowgey's coals;
And then—when he belaboured his lean poney—
Alas! “notandus Creta, an carbone?”
The coincidence of her abbreviated Christian name with Creta, is curious, and of carbone with Crowgey's coals—emitting a spark to point an epigram.
Truro Ten-pounders.
My townsmen erst were pleasant folks,
From Keyhead to the Castle:
At every corner cracking jokes!
'Twas one continual wassal.
From Keyhead to the Castle:
At every corner cracking jokes!
'Twas one continual wassal.
With no proud gait—no scowling eye,
No sanctified grimaces,
From Atty White to parson Pye,
They all had happy faces.
No sanctified grimaces,
From Atty White to parson Pye,
They all had happy faces.
The merry dames—they boil'd their crocks—
Ah! not for dolts or loons:
The Corporation clung to cocks —
Their wives to macaroons.
Ah! not for dolts or loons:
The Corporation clung to cocks —
Their wives to macaroons.
64
But now, alas! through all the streets,
If Truro look around her,
She shudders at a hiss, or meets
The strut of a Ten-pounder.
If Truro look around her,
She shudders at a hiss, or meets
The strut of a Ten-pounder.
From almost every mother's son
She hears some fearful rumour;
And sighs to think, that scarcely one
Hath either wit or humour!
She hears some fearful rumour;
And sighs to think, that scarcely one
Hath either wit or humour!
There was one quaint saying of old Pye, which ought to be recorded, as it may be of practical use. A clergyman offering him a burial-fee, Pye—certainly not averse to money—refused to take it. “No, no,” said he: “pig never eats pig.” Perhaps I ought not to repeat his remark, “Truro is in one respect only like the ‘Kingdom of Heaven’—‘they are neither married nor given in marriage.’”
no woodcock on the 9th of October (the mayor-choosing day) incurring the forfeiture of their charter.
Truro was famous for macaroons. Dr. Wynne used to say, (one of our clerical fashionists, resident in London) that it were worth while to come down to Truro, for the sake of the macaroons.
[Lunching with Baucis and Philemon]
Lunching with Baucis and Philemon,Two strangers, each a god or demon,
By no means left them in the lurch,
But made their domicile a church—
And dubb'd him vicar, and to bless
His spouse, hail'd her a vicaress!
65
Ripe for the grave—(what saith the Bard?)
Was buried in his own Church-yard:
Where (as the fat of parsons gross is)
From an obesity so rich.
There sprang up quick a bulky Beech.
Just so—I told our Mayoress—
An Alderman of plump address,
From asthma wheezing like a priest,
After a corporation-feast,
Died of a surfeit, to the sorrow
Of his big brethren of the borough.
And where (it is by all averr'd)
This corporate-body was interr'd
(The story terribly appall'd her)
That alder rose, which you can't span:
Thus (wond'rous to relate) the alder
Was once an Alder-man!
70
[Herod the bawling brats of Bedlam]
Herod the bawling brats of Bedlam
Into their schoolroom drew:
And many a suckling (fat as fed lamb)
For peace's sake be slew.
Into their schoolroom drew:
And many a suckling (fat as fed lamb)
For peace's sake be slew.
'Twas then were hush'd the Hebrew boys
All (in a dead calm) quiet!
But, hark! what an unearthly noise!
What shrieking! what a riot!
All (in a dead calm) quiet!
But, hark! what an unearthly noise!
What shrieking! what a riot!
Is it, that screaming to our cost
They are let loose (oh! crimini!)
(In limbo long) each little ghost—
Who “flentes” were “in limine?”
They are let loose (oh! crimini!)
(In limbo long) each little ghost—
Who “flentes” were “in limine?”
From Bedlam (or the shades) again
Be sure it may appear odd,
We thus have conjur'd back the slain,
And e'en out-herod Herod!
Be sure it may appear odd,
We thus have conjur'd back the slain,
And e'en out-herod Herod!
81
The Impromptu
On hearing the Penny Magazine called the Flying Mercury.
Indeed 'tis a Mercury!—with flash after flash
To dazzle and blind us, how swift on the wing;
A thief too, like Mercury, it steals away cash!
Then may we not call it a catchpenny thing?
To dazzle and blind us, how swift on the wing;
A thief too, like Mercury, it steals away cash!
Then may we not call it a catchpenny thing?
All alert with their pennies from hamlet or cottage
Lo! Deborah the gossip, and old uncle Dick!
Blithe girls in full bloom and grey crones in their dotage:
Not a stationer's stall but is Penny-come-quick.
Lo! Deborah the gossip, and old uncle Dick!
Blithe girls in full bloom and grey crones in their dotage:
Not a stationer's stall but is Penny-come-quick.
And conjuring his coin from the villager's purse,
The Radicals, certes, themselves will confess,
That, whether it be for the better or worse,
Every week in a house there is one penny-less.
The Radicals, certes, themselves will confess,
That, whether it be for the better or worse,
Every week in a house there is one penny-less.
Over mountains and moors so Philosophy flies,
From the high to the low, from the meek to the mule-ish:
And if all the people be thus penny-wise,
The Reformers, their leaders, I'm sure, are pound-foolish.
From the high to the low, from the meek to the mule-ish:
And if all the people be thus penny-wise,
The Reformers, their leaders, I'm sure, are pound-foolish.
The old name of Falmouth, whose origin is traced to a little shop of all sorts, where pennies came in so quick, as to enrich the retailer.
107
THE PARENTS TO THEIR CHILDREN ON THE 1ST OF JANUARY, 1834.
O! in the oblivion of afflictions pastMay this new year shine happier than the last!
But vain—though echoed from the lyre of Pope—
Prayers without zeal, or wishes without hope!
Ah vain, 'midst greetings of the season told,
The salutation where the heart is cold!
If gracious Heaven appease the throbs of pain,
From fainting give us to ourselves again,
Bid doubts that dim the vision, fleet far hence,
And calm the anxieties of sick suspense;
May we bow down in fervent gratitude
To thee, O God, thou fountain of all good!
But, if our lot be yet those ills to bear,
In anguish pining, or perplex'd by care,
Is it for us, poor reptiles, to repine?
O righteous Father! the just doom is thine.
Yet, yet remember!—many a heavy grief
In mutual tenderness finds sweet relief.
108
Youth's wild desires, the impatience of old age,
Than the kind look, the soft confiding smile,
That speaks a bosom “above guilt or guile”?
Than mild forbearance, ever prompt to prove
The brother's and the sister's cordial love;
Than heavenly harmony, that binds the whole
In golden links—one body and one soul?
Ah, what can more the selfish passions still
Than meek submission to a parent's will;
Than fond affection, sedulous to cure
A parent's morbid weakness, or endure—
Assiduous to sustain declining years;
To chase distrust; to wipe off sorrow's tears:
And, whilst the storms of life may chafe and rave,
To smooth our passage to the quiet grave!
113
THE SABBATH-EVENING WALK.
The Sabbath-sunset—how serene!How pleasant all this summer-scene!
A day devoutly pass'd in prayer,
Unvext by any earthly care.
Our path (the brooklet wandering by)
We trace—“the happy Family;”
And mark, as down the glimmering glade
The purple hues of Evening fade,
Flowers that their cups of incense close,
Birds of the air that seek repose;
And (darkening though the coppiced dale
Faints from the sight) yon Village hail,
Which high along the rock hath won
To its still roofs the lingering sun;
The thatch whilst golden tints disstain,
Or kindle in the glittering pane,
Till now the duskier shadows fall,
And holy Peace hath curtain'd all.
There—(as we deem, reveal'd to view,
Dear to the heart the illusion true)—
We fancy, with a glorious ray,
Once more Emmaus lights our way!
There, as the two disciples walk'd,
And mournful in communion talk'd,
And trembled between hope and fear,
The Saviour suddenly drew near:
114
May Jesus to ourselves draw nigh!
And may to us our heavenly Lord,
Opening his everlasting word,
“The promise of the Father give,
And bid us go—believe and live!
Here I had interposed:—
“Behold, he brake and blessed the bread;And doubt from every bosom fled!”
but in this (to use a pictorial phrase) there would be a want of keeping.
In Charles's days, the Puritans prohibited servants and children from walking in the fields on the sabbath-day. Here, also, we follow them up, pretty closely. Some of my brethren, who pretend to dislike them, tread upon their heels.
[A tissue but of joy and grief]
A tissue but of joy and grief,
Smiles followed fast by Tears—
Such Life however long or brief—
Such are our chequer'd years!
Smiles followed fast by Tears—
Such Life however long or brief—
Such are our chequer'd years!
But oft 'tis from a carnal source
The specious Smile we borrow;
And shed, to damp our earthly course,
The Tear of deadly sorrow.
The specious Smile we borrow;
And shed, to damp our earthly course,
The Tear of deadly sorrow.
O may the Smile with Heaven accord
For secret sins subdued!
And for thy mercies, gracious Lord!
The Tear from gratitude!
For secret sins subdued!
And for thy mercies, gracious Lord!
The Tear from gratitude!
[Ah! who are they that have not lost]
Ah! who are they that have not lost
Relations they deplore;
A moment we enjoy at most
Friends to be seen no more.
Relations they deplore;
A moment we enjoy at most
Friends to be seen no more.
Yes! such is our frail mortal race
To life that lasts for ever;
'Tis but a little moment's space,
Till Death our bonds dissever!
To life that lasts for ever;
'Tis but a little moment's space,
Till Death our bonds dissever!
115
Father of Light! thy Paraclete
To thy poor suppliant send,
And bid him consolation meet
Where sleeps his earliest friend!
To thy poor suppliant send,
And bid him consolation meet
Where sleeps his earliest friend!
129
[Where roars the Westering surge—“Lo! Methodism]
Where roars the Westering surge—“Lo! MethodismTriumphant!” cries a stormy son of schism.
“It is a Hercules—say what you please—
“Invincible—another Hercules!”
The impression of the foot, from strength to strength,
I mark—each stride was of gigantic length;
And the firm foot, still firmer as it waxes,
On the μετωπον κριου ne'er relaxes:
130
Shall bid its vestige vanish from the Lizard;
And, spite of all your hissing and your hooting,
Beyond the κριου we have gained a footing:
Determining its progress, we exclaim,
Judge from this foot—ex pede Herculem!”
—Nay, nay! the further eastward as you go,
Faint are the traces of a heel or toe;
And trembling from weak knees and bandy legs,
Your mighty giant must have trod on eggs!
On pede Herculem you run a rigg may—
Judging ex pede I detect a pigmy!
139
[Peace officers! four doughty fellows!]
Peace officers! four doughty fellows!So skilfully ye blow the bellows
To kindle fuel into flame,—
Pray, how did ye acquire the name?
If, to prevent a bloody nose,
The constable should interpose,
So little doth he leave men quiet,
He vaunts his interest in a riot.
And Peace—is she well coupled, burn ye!
With pettifogger or attorney,
Who, whilst he bounces like a rocket,
Steals six and eightpence to his pocket?
And say, though he may come forth, big
In all the majesty of wig,
Say, will the man of wig or gown
The breakers of the peace put down?
Certes, he may cry out: “Ahem!
“If they see ‘forte, virum quem,
140
[Silent, stant auribus erectis”—]
Silent, stant auribus erectis”—In vain. I 'll tell you what the fact is,
Better than Bard or could or can,
E'en though he were a Tru-Roman:
Ten-pounders do not stand in awe
Of any worthy of the law.
To crown the whole, perhaps your trust is
In an old sputtering silly justice;
Who, in his dotage each poor elf
Committing, oft commits himself;
And, as he deems it not uncivil
To send beer-tipplers to the devil,
Pries into every kidlewink—
The more 'tis stirr'd, the more 'twill stink!
145
[Though here, not much renown'd for Beauty]
Though here, not much renown'd for Beauty,
Venus a fair-one seldom greets,
Late, sedulous to do her duty,
O'er three she breath'd ambrosial sweets.
Venus a fair-one seldom greets,
Late, sedulous to do her duty,
O'er three she breath'd ambrosial sweets.
A soul all fancy—eye all fire,
To Copinger allured the Muses;
Nor did they cease or lute or lyre,
Till the wild girl had caught Trefusis.
To Copinger allured the Muses;
Nor did they cease or lute or lyre,
Till the wild girl had caught Trefusis.
But, in the cause of merit staunch,
They joy'd to rescue from oblivion
The melting charms of Betsy Cranch;
And triumph'd when she won a Vivian.
They joy'd to rescue from oblivion
The melting charms of Betsy Cranch;
And triumph'd when she won a Vivian.
Rise, Dickenson!—eclipse them both!
Shine out, and carry all before ye!
Venus is happy to make oath—
Thy radiant orb is Truro's glory!
Shine out, and carry all before ye!
Venus is happy to make oath—
Thy radiant orb is Truro's glory!
149
[“Nor Roman prow, nor daring Tyrian oar]
“Nor Roman prow, nor daring Tyrian oarEre dash'd the white wave foaming to my shore:
Nor Greece nor Carthage ever spread the sail
On these my seas to catch the trading gale.
You, you alone have dared to plough my main,
And with the human voice disturb my lonesome reign.”
The Lusiad, B. V.
[Lo, at long intervals, the rage is]
Lo, at long intervals, the rage isThe darkest countries to explore;
Thus, in three very distant ages,
Three voyagers traced Afric's shore.
Old Egypt had her Pharo-Necho;
Her Gama well may Lisbon boast;
Yet is their fame a feeble echo
To Lander's trump from Cornwall's coast!
And we assert—nor into fiction wander—
Necho and Gama vanish'd before Lander!
| Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse | |