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5

THE PETITION OF AN OLD UNINHABITED HOUSE IN PENZANCE.


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Thus, Sir, you have brought an Old House about your ears.
Parl. Deb.

Merito celebratur in Digressionibus Pindari felix audacia.
Lowth de Poes. Heb. p. 351.


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THE PETITION.

Since Atoms, Guineas, Frogs, and Mice

See the Adventures of an Atom, Chrysal, &c.


Can take their pen up in a trice,
And fill the Novel-vender's sale
With merry, or with mournful tale,
Don't be surpriz'd, my honor'd Master,
If your Old House in sad disaster
Should find a tongue to lay before ye
(Excuse the pun)
Its upper,

The writer's diffidence avoided the use of the synonyme “Attic,” through fear of the Critics.

lower, and middle Story

In zig-zag ruin on my brow,
Of tottering rails

These rails have fallen down, since the first edition of this epistle. Part of Stonehenge has fallen, since Dr. Stukely's last description of it; and Athens is by no means in the state in which it was when described by Wheeler and Wood. Such must be the consequences attending all “Writings on ruins.” Etiam periere ruinæ.

a rotten row

Cry out, “Take care,” to all below;
Nay, sparrows, with admonitory pecks,

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Warn off their young ones, lest they break their necks.
My mould'ring walls in many a hideous chasm
Require some healing Mason's cataplasm:—
From side to side, so crack'd my ruins are,
That, if you will not grant them some repair,
Pray, on each gap inscribe, “This is no Thorough-fare.”
The Passengers, who daily pass,
Peep through my broken panes of glass,
But cobwebs with a friendly veil
My inward solitudes conceal.
Alas! Arachne, tho' no sweeping broom
Brush down the labors of thy loom;
Where there's no sugar, cream, nor pie,
To lure the scent of wand'ring fly,
Thou'rt doom'd a slower death to meet,
And thine own Web's thy winding-sheet:
Thy tap'stry dark, which clouds my shatter'd panes,
Waving, like banners, o'er thy starv'd remains.

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My Scraper's gone, for none my threshold needs;
My Steps are strewn with emblematic weeds;
To thund'ring knocker, and to tinkling bell,
My moveless Door has bid a long farewell;
For who would knock, or who would ring the bell,
To hear the hollow echoes sadly tell,
“There's nobody at home:—'tis Desolation's cell!”
Once the firm Guardian of the racy wines
Against the wall my Cellar-door reclines
Unlock'd, unhing'd; while thro' the dark profound
The empty Pipe emits a mournful sound.
Of cork-less Carcases a dreary row
Moulder in catacombs, that gape below,—
Sons of the social hour, shed sorrows here!
If e'er ye wept, weep o'er the Bottled Bier.

I the Author do positively assert that “Bier” is the right word. If empty bottles are called “dead men,” surely it is not too bold a metaphor to style the shelf, which supports them, a Bottled Bier. If I had not made this positive declaration in my lifetime, it is pleasant to imagine what would have been the conjectural emendations of those learned, but yet unborn Doctors A. B. C. D. &c. if my Epistle should have been found in the corner of an old chest some centuries hence.

“Bottled Bier.” A mere mistake of the printer: for “Bier, read Beer.” Bottled Beer was a common article in the cellars of Gentlemen in the 19th century. Dr. A.

The reading proposed by Dr. A. is certainly right; Bottled Beer, or Porter, was not only a common beverage in those days, but it was an article of exportation; as appears by the Registers of the Custom-house, which by the kind permission of those patrons of Literature, the Lords of the Treasury, I have been permitted to search. It is strange how “Bier” should be found in three editions! Dr. B.

I agree with Dr. A. and Dr. B. in their happy emendation of the text. Had they attended to the Association of Ideas, they would not have been at a loss to trace the origin of the error. The words “carcases” and “catacombs” occur in the preceding lines, and the Editor's mistake of Bier for Beer was natural: it is evidently not a mistake of the printer. Dr. C.

I am at all times willing to pay every respect to the acuteness of a Dr. A. the sagacity of a Dr. B. and the profundity of a Dr. C. but as Bier is the reading of every edition, three of which were published in the Author's lifetime, I must think that it is right, and that Bier was the name of some liquor then in vogue, though now unknown. I am informed that upon digging near the spot, where the Old House stood, a bottle has lately been found with wires twisted over the neck of it: no doubt with an intention to confine the cork, and perhaps the “Bier” (for I never can consent to think it was “Beer”) was contained in such bottles. Dr. D.

Dr. D. is certainly correct. I have seen the bottle; it has an E. upon it, the initial of the owner of the house, and is now in the British Museum. The cork was not quite destroyed, and a little liquid was still remaining in the bottle. That never to be sufficiently admired Chemist Dr. G. is engaged in analysing it, and there can be little doubt of his discovering what were the ingredients of that (now unknown) liquor called “Bier.” Dr. F.

Oh! Shakespear, Brother Bard, if thou hadst used my precaution, Thou wouldst not so have suffered by Commentators!


Why starts my Muse? why trembling turns her head?
Views she some friend amid the mighty dead?
She views thy corpse, O Port, and mourns thy spirit fled.

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Shelves unburthen'd with a plate,
Chimnies yawning for a grate,
Knives and forks without a handle,
Candlesticks without a candle;
Nail'd-up doors, and hinges rusty;
Here the Dry-Rot, foul and dusty,
There the Mildew damp and musty;
Cupboards wide, in cruel mockery,
Oping doors to shew no crockery;
Corn-less Binns, and horse-less Stables,
Salt-less Salt-box, meatless Tables;
Chairs untouch'd by mortal bottom,
(If worms have not already got'em,
Time may at his leisure rot'em;)
Bats that stilly flit around,
Owls at home

My fashionable readers understand the meaning of this phrase.

in dose profound,

Skeleton of famish'd cat
Vainly watching for a rat;—
All is cheerless, melancholy,
Save that now and then a Soli-

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tary Cock

Mediis horum verborum litteris omissis, Lector, viri clarissimi nomen habes, cui domûs clavis, absente magistro, cura est—Soly Cock. Soli alias Soly vulgaris est diminutio (quid non vulgus audet?) Solomonis. Non minus audax Poeta noster, et ævo et nomine Prior, Aristotelem, philosophorum vere Gallum, obtruncat, ut infra

Tho' the renowned Grecian Aristotle, and the moderns vary.

just struts about,

Gives a peep, and then struts out.
With inward moan and secret tears
I've wailed my fate for many years,
But now, how strangely chang'd the case is!
My neighbours all have wash'd their faces:

The stone fronts of many houses have been merely scrubbed with soap and water, and the cleanliness and freshness of appearance, which it has given them, is truly surprising.


Stead of mortar, brick, and trowel,
Using soap, and brush, and towel;
And so flaunt away, and flare it,
That really, Sir, I cannot bear it.
If Penzance, like Bodmin Town,

A learned Judge on the circuit observed to the Mayor of Bodmin, that the whole town appeared to have been built at one time. Why do you think so? said the Mayor: because it is all tumbling down together, replied the Judge.


Look'd like one great Tumble-down,
Where the buildings, “one and all,”
Bend in sympathetic fall;
In such a fellowship of grief
My sorrow might find some relief:
But now, from Back to Betty's Lane,
From Morrop stile to Ponsendane;

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From north to south, from east to west,
Where Jennies spin, or Hides are drest;
Elliott's Square, and Will Toll's Bakehouse,
Humphry's Shop,

In an attack made by the Spaniards in 1595 on the Inhabitants of Penzance, a Constable (vide Carew) was knocked down. In a second attack by some of the same nation, in 1810, a similar circumstance happened. Mr. Humphry R— Barber and Constable,

Whose Pole a double emblem shews
Of power, to the beholder,
As Barber he attacks your nose,
As Constable, your shoulder,

in defence of his pole official received several knocks on his pole natural, and, according to his own account, the blows made his “eyes strike fire.” If he had recollected the following line in Virgil he would have quoted it.—

Intonuere Poli: crebis micat ignibus.
and Phillpott's Cakehouse;

Woolcock's Back-let,

Posterior pars vicorum sic dicitur. Eadem venusta et polita oratione utentes pro Asino dicimus Jack Bottom, Jack Behind, et alia similia.

Market-jew street,—

Every where, 'tis like a new street.
The Butcher's shop

Perhaps the new and splendid appearance of this neighbouring mansion first excited the envy of the Old House.

of him hight Hannibal,

Which erst appear'd like den of cannibal,
Is clear'd from cobwebs, dirt and muck-O,

Euphoniæ causa. See Byshe's Art of Poetry. So in our English Lyrics, “Will you come to the fair O,” &c. &c.


With lime-ash'd floors,

This alludes to a celebrated composition by Mr. Colman, entitled “A First Floor, or Lodgings to Let.”

and walls in stucco:

His mutton, hung on crooks so neat,
Would tempt an epicure to eat;
And his Cream proclaims some Rara
Avis

This is surely a Misnomer; for Mr. Hannibal B.'s Servant declares that her name is Margaret, and not Avis.

tends his cows and dairy.

Nay, Michael Angelo, thy Art
Finds in our Signs

The splendid exhibition in Alvern Street justifies this eulogy.

its counterpart;

And Admiration cries, Odsnooks! is
This by Appelles done, or Zeuxis?

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Fishes and Beasts, an Archer with his bow,—
Such are the Signs that in the Zodiac glow:
Shine on, ye Signs above; Penzance has Signs below.
The Gutters which, in muddy pride,
In mid-street roll'd their mingled tide,
Now more politely turn aside:
Of Porticoes, that used to meet
More than midway in the street,
Forcing horsemen, gigs, and chaises,
To whirl through crincum crancum mazes;—
Of heavy Penthouses, which frown'd
A shadowy horror on the ground,
No trace remains;—but all is bare,
And smooth as cheek of lady fair.
Swoll'n with its tributary rills,
Devolving from the Maddern hills,
The Shoot, which at its foamy spout
Wash'd all the filth of Rabble-rout,

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Now—
Purely sweet, a crystal stream,

The Classical Reader will compare this with Brother Horace's description of the Blandusian fountain. Our Shoot appears the most pure: The fountain of Blandusia was “splendidior vitreo,” and it was a place of great chit-chat for the young women who filled their pitchers at it;—hence the beauty of the expression—

Loquaces
Lymphæ desiliunt tuæ:

but the cattle of the neighbourhood were invited to its brink

------tu frigus amabile
Fessis vomero tauris
Prœbes, et pecori vago.

Not so at the Shoot of Penzance; as may be seen by perusing “impositam ilicem” i.e. the Board which is fixed against the Wall.

Nothing, that can pollute, shall touch our pure stream! How different the Blandusian fountain, which was often stained with cabbage tops and goat's blood.

------Non sine floribus,
Cras donaberis hœdo.
------nam gelidos inficiet tibi
Rubro sanguine rivos
Lascivi soboles gregis.

For this and many other improvements in the town thanks to Dr. Borlase, the present Mayor, A.D.1811.


Sparkles in the solar beam:
And as the Muses erst were seen
Circling the fount of Hippocrene,
Thy Damsels, Buriton,

An old name of Penzanee, as appears by the Liber Valorum.

here bend in turns

To fill their morning and their evening urns.
Beneath the canopy of deep calash,
Our Dames of old defied the torrent's dash;
And as no Lamps upon the night
Then pour'd a galaxy of light,
Maid Betty's lantern, trim with scollop'd paper,
Shed the tame twinkling of a tallow taper,
To guide the cautious toe, in patten neat,
Through the wet horrors of the muddy street:
But now, then Phaeton much madder,
Cracks his loud whip the Jehu Dadder;
—His glowing axle burns:
From eastern to the western Green

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Mingled Beaux and Belles are seen
Dashing in the Kitareen:
To Dinner, Supper, Tea, and Dancing
The Horses of the Storm

Poetically so called, as they are chiefly on the gallop in bad weather. The Horses of the Sun, “Equi Solis,” were Æthon, Pyroeis, Eous, and Phlegon. The Horses of the Storm are denominated Doctor and Smiler. I had their names from their Driver's own mouth, who stopped at a moment, and very readily informed me. Not so Phaeton (vide Ovid),

Nec retinere valet, nec nomina novit equorum.
are prancing

In quick successive turns.—
Some Wives and Matrons more sedately go,
In stately ease, majestically slow,
Pois'd on the balanc'd Poles of Kitty Ben

Vocabulum “and” hoc loco non negligenter omissum est. Sicut apud Ægyptiacos Leo et Virgo unum animal formant, quod Sphinx nominatur, sic apud Penzantienses Kitty et Ben, uxor et maritus, uno nomine designantur, et unico splendore nitent.

Roscrow.

Hail! Kitty, hail!
While Hacks are handy, and while Soap can clean,
Penzance thy praise shall sing;
Of Grooms—Thy Spouse the King;
Of Starchers—Thou the Queen.
If immortality my verse could give,
Thy little Dog should aye for ages live;
Sweet quadruped! whose flea-less flaxen hairs
Proclaim the combings of thy cleanly cares.
But to quit the mazy road
Of wildly devious Episode,
So in the web of Epic Song sublime
The bard Mæonian interweaves the charm
Of gentle Episode, yet leaves unbroke
The golden thread of his majestic theme.

Mason. Eng. Gard.



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Which leads astray, and makes a man turn
Out of his way, like Jack o'lantern,
And to proceed—
Old Market-house, that look'd so grim,
Is now a Beau, quite spruce and trim:
The Baptist's head

The arms of the town, sculptured over the market-house door by Mr. Isabel, of Truro. Penzance means Holy Head, i.e. Holy Headland, and it was so called because on the projecting point near the present quay there was a Chapel dedicated to St. Anthony. When it was necessary to adopt Arms for the Town, the real meaning was forgotten, and the Holy Head of St.John adopted.

in profile larger,

Spreads o'er the margin of the Charger,
Et marmore ostendit duro,
How great a Phidias lives at Truro.
In cupola with arches Grecian,
And greenly splendid blinds Venetian,
A Clock—far truer than the sun—
Tells market-folks how minutes run.
The Vane above with glittering glare
“Streams like a meteor to the troubled air.”
Our Ball-room too has few compeers:
See, see, those blazing Chandeliers!
What Music! ravishing the spheres!

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And ah! what pretty little Houris,
Whose charms are more than ample dowries,
Lightly thread the mazy dance!
—Say, say, ye Gods, is this Penzance?
Yes, Master, yes, and more my Muse could tell
Of Justice Dinners at the Grand Hotel;
Of crouded News-rooms, where in stern debate
Some stir the nation up, and some the grate;

The spirit of reform is never more troublesome, than when it has a pyrotechnical turn. Furor arma ministrat. The fire-reformer seizes the poker, and chokes those, who were previously comfortable, (tho' in a news-room, as in the world, all cannot have front seats near the fire,) with dust, and smoke, and ashes.


Of Gents' and Ladies' Book-clubs, Promenades,
Of Concerts, Picnics, Hum-drums, Routs, and Cards:
But what have I with them to do?
Houses warm, they're made for you.
Once on a time I had my heyday;
But now from Michaelmas to May-day
I hear no Music, see no Lady,
Nor know what 'tis to have a gay day.
Oh! then, my ever honor'd Master,
Have pity on my sad disaster,
And call for mortar, brick, and plaister.
No more I'll moan, no more I'll fret,

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If once I see in our Gazette
Your House in Alvern Street “To Let.”

Gentle Reader

If you think Poetic diction
Adopts the sauce piquant of fiction,
And that Penzance with all its gaieties
Is not so splendid as I say it is,
Peruse some prose-hints

This Letter appeared in the Cornwall Gazette, November 15th, 1803.

to that droll man

The comic Writer, Mr. Colman.