Imatges de pÓgina

we only amuse ourselves with painting brilliant figures and smiling landscapes on the walls of our prison, whilst we see on all sides the boundary which confines us; when I consider these things I am silent: I examine myself; and what do I find? Alas! more vague desires, presages, and visions, thau conviction, truth, and reality.

The happiest are those, who, like children, think not of the morrow, amuse themselves with playthings, dress and undress their dolls, watch with great respect before the cupboard where mamma keeps the sweetmeats, and when they get any, eat them directly, and cry for more; these are certainly happy beings. Many also are to be envied, who dignify their paltry employments, sometimes even their passions, with pompous titles; and who represent themselves to mankind as beings of a superior order, whose occupation it is to promote their welfare and glory. But the man who in all humility acknowledges the vanity of these things; observes with what pleasure the wealthy citizen transforms his little garden into a paradise; with what patience the poor man bears his burden; and that all wish equally to behold the sun yet a little longer; he too may be at peace. He creates a world of his own, is happy also because he is a man; and, however limited his sphere, he preserves in his bosom the idea of liberty.


For the Table Book.

The flower is faded,

The sun-beam is filed, The bright eye is shaded, The loved one is dead: Like a star in the morningWhen, mantled in Aurora is dawningShe vanish'd away.


Like the primrose that bloometh
Neglected to die,

Though its sweetness perfumeth
The ev'ning's soft sigh-
Like lightning in summer,
Like rainbows that shine
With a mild dreamy glimmer
In colours divine-

The kind and pure hearted,
The tender, the true,
From our love has departed
With scarce an adieu :
So briefly, so brightly
In virtue she shone,

As shooting stars nightly
That blaze and are gone.

The place of her slumber
Is holy to me,
And oft as I number

The leaves of the tree, Whose branches in sorrow Bend over her urn,

I think of to-morrow
And silently mourn.
The farewell is spoken,
The spirit sublime

The last tin has broken,
That bound it to time;
And bright is its dwelling
Its mansion of bliss-
How far, far excelling

The darkness of this!

Yet hearts still are beating, And eyes still are wetTrue, our joys are all fleeting. But who can forget?

I know they must vanish
As visions depart,
But oh, can this banish
The thorn from my heart?

The eye of affection,
Its tribute of tears
Sheds, with fond recollection
Of life's happy years;
And tho' vain be the anguish
Indulg'd o'er the tomb,
Yet nature will languish
And shrink from its gloom.
Those lips-their least motion
Was music to me,

And, like light on the ocean, Those eyes seem'd to be: Are they mute-and for ever? The spell will not break; Are they closed-must I never Behold them awake?

When distress was around me
Thy smiles were as balm,
That in misery found me,
And left me in calm:
Success became dearer
When thou wert with me,
And the clear sky grew clearer
When gaz'd on with thee.

Thou art gone-and tho' reason
My grief would disarm,
I feel there's a season

When grief has a charm ; And 'tis sweeter, far sweeter To sit by thy grave, Than to follow Hope's meteor Down time's hasty wave.

In darkness we laid thee-
The earth for thy bed-
The couch that we made thee
Is press'd by thee dead:

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About 1605, Henry IV. of France attempting to enforce some regulations respecting the annuities upon the Hotel de Ville, of Paris, several assemblies of the citizens were held, in which Francis Miron, the prévôt des marchands, addressed the king's commissioners against the measures with fervour and firmness. It was rumoured amongst the people of Paris, that their magistrate was threatened, for having exerted himself too warmly in their behalf; they crowded about his house, in order to defend him, but Miron requested them to retire, and not to render him really criminal. He represented that nothing injurious was to be apprehended, for they had a king as great and wise, as he was beneficent and just, who would not suffer himself to be hurried away by the instigations of evil counsellors. Yet those whose conduct Miron had arraigned, endeavoured to persuade Henry to punish him, and deprive him of his office, for disobedient actions,

and seditious discourse. The king's answer contained memorable expressions:— "Authority does not always consist carrying things with a high hand: regard must be paid to times, persons, and the subject-matter. I have been ten years in extinguishing civil discord, I dread its revival, and Paris has cost me too much for me to risk its loss; in my opinion, it would unquestionably be the case, were 1 to follow your advice; for I should be obliged to make terrible examples, which, in a few days, would deprive me of the glory of clemency, and the affection of my people; and these I prize as much, and even more than my crown. I have experienced, on many occasions, the fidelity and probity of Miron, who harbours no ill intentions, but undoubtedly deemed himself bound, by the duties of his office, to act as he has acted. If unguarded expressions have escaped him, I pardon them, on account of his past services; and, should he even desire a martyrdom in the public cause, I will disappoint him of the glory, by avoiding to become a persecutor and a tyrant."

Henry ended the affair by receiving the apology and submission of Miron, and revoking the orders concerning the annuities, which had occasioned the popular alarm.*



On the 26th of January, 1607, a pleasant farce was acted at the Hotel de Bourgogne, at Paris, before Henry IV., his queen, and the greater part of the princes, lords, and ladies of the court. The subject of the piece was a quarrel between a married man and his wife. The wife told her husband, that he staid tippling at the tavern while executions were daily laid upon their goods, for the tax which must be paid to the king, and that all their substance was carried away. It is for that very reason," said the husband in his defence," that we should make merry with good cheer; for of what service would all the fortune we could amass be to us, since it would not belong to ourselves, but to this same noble king. I will drink the more, and of the very best: monsieur the king shall not meddle with that; go fetch me some this minute; march." "Ah, wretch!" replied the wife, "would you bring me and your children to ruin?" During this dialogue, three officers of justice came in, and demanded the tax, and, in default of payment, prepared to carry away the furniture. The wife began a loud

• Perefixe.

lamentation; at length the husband asked them who they were? "We belong to Justice," said the officers: "How, to Justice!" replied the husband; "they who belong to Justice act in another manner; I do not believe that you are what you say." During this altercation the wife seized a trunk, upon which she seated herself. The officers commanded her, "in the king's name," to open it ; and after much dispute the trunk was opened, and out jumped three devils, who carry away the three officers of justice.

The magistrates, conceiving themselves to have been insulted by this performance, caused the actors to be arrested, and committed them to prison. On the same day they were discharged, by express command of the king, who magnanimously told those that complained of the affront, "You are fools! If any one has a right to take offence, it is I, who have received more abuse than any of you. I pardon the comedians from my heart; for the rogues made me laugh till I cried again."*


The fish-market is held on the sands, by the sides of the boats, which, at low water, are run upon wheels with a sail set, and are conducted by the fishermen, who dispose of their cargoes in the following manner.

One of the female fishmongers inquires the price, and bids a groat; the fishermen ask a sum in the opposite extreme: the one bids up, and the other reduces the demand, till they meet at a reasonable point, when the bidder suddenly exclaims, "Het !" This practice seems to be borrowed from the Dutch. The purchase is afterwards retailed among the regular, or occasional surrounding customers.

For the Table Book.

How many thoughts from thee I cull,
Music's humblest vehicle !

From thy caravan of sounds,
Constant in its daily rounds,
Some such pleasure do I find
As when, borne upon the wind,
The well-known "bewilder'd chimes "
Plaintively recall those times,
(Iong since lost in sorrow's shade,)
When, in some sequester'd glade,
Their simple, stammering tongues would try
Some heart-moving melody.--
Oldest musical delight

Of my boyish days! the sight

L'Etoile, Hist. d'Henri IV.

Or sound of thee would charm my feet, And make my joy of heart completeHow thou luredst listeners

To thy crazy, yearning airs !—
Harmonious, grumbling volcano !
Murm'ring sounds in small piano,
Or screaming forth a shrill soprano,
Mingled with the growling bass:
Fragments of some air I trace,
Stifled by the notes which cram it-
Scatter'd ruins of the gamut!—
Sarcophagus of harmony!
Orpheus' casket! guarded by
A swain who lives by what he earns
From the music which he churns:
Every note thou giv'st by turns.—
Not Pindar's lyre more variety
Possess'd than thou no cloy'd satiety
Feel'st thou at thy perpetual feast
Of sound; nor weariness the least:
Thy task's perform'd with right goodwill.-
Thou art & melodious mill!

Notes, like grain, are dribbled in,
Thou grindest them, and fill'st the bin
Of melody with plenteous store.
Thy tunes are like the parrot's lore,
Nothing of them dost thou wot,
But repeatest them by rote.-
Curious, docile instrument!
To skilless touch obedient:
Like a mine of richest ore,
Inexhaustible in store,
Yielding at a child's command
All thy wealth unto its hand.
Harmonicon peripatetic!
What clue to notes so oft erratic
Hast thou, by which the ear may follow
Through thy labyrinthine hollow,
Which its own echo dost consume,
As stoves devour their own fume.-
Mysterious fabric! cage-like chest!
Behind whose gilded bars the nest
Of unfledg'd melodies is hid
'Neath thaf brazen coverlid.-
In thy bondage-house of song,
Bound in brazen fetters strong,
Immortal harmonies do groan!
Doleful sounds their stifled moan.
A vulture preys upon their pangs,
Round whose neck their prison hangs,
Like that tenanted strong box
By eagle found upon the rocks.
Of Brobdingnag's gigantic isle.
Like Sysiphus, their endless toil
Is hopeless: their tormentor's claw
Turns the wheel (his will's their law)
Which all their joints and members racks,
Ne'er will his cruelty relax.-

Miniature in shape and sound

Of that grand instrument, which round
Old cathedral walls do:h send

Its pealing voice; whose tones do blend The clangor of the trumpet's throat, And the silver-stringed lute.

To what else shall I compare thee?—
Further epithets I'll spare thee.
Honest and despised thing,
To thy memory I cling.
Spite of all thy faults, I own
I love thy "old, familiar" tone.



A gentleman who had been long attached to cardinal Mazarine, reminded the cardinal of his many promises, and his dilatory per formance. Mazarine, who had a great regard for him, and was unwilling to lose his friendship, took his hand, and explained the many demands made upon a person in his situation as minister, which it would be politic to satisfy previously to other requests, as they were founded on services done to the state. The cardinal's adherent, not very confident in his veracity, replied, 66 My lord, all the favour I now ask at your hand is, that whenever we meet in public, you will do me the honour to tap me on the shoulder in an unreserved manner." The cardinal smiled, and in the course of two or three years tapping, his friend became a wealthy man, on the credit of these attentions to him; and Mazarine and his confidant laughed at the public security which enriched the courtier at so little expense to the state.


"I'M A GOING!" For the Table Book.

Barbers are not more celebrated by a desire to become the most busy citizens of the state, than by the expert habit in which they convey news. Many a tale is invented out of a mere surmise, or whisper, for the gratification of those who attend barbers' shops. An old son of the scissors and razor, well known at Portsmouth, was not, however, quite so perfect a phiziologist, as his more erudite and bristling fraternity. One evening, as he was preparing his fronts, and fitting his comb "to a hair," two supposed gentlemen entered his shop to be dressed; this being executed with much civility and despatch, a wager was laid with old Dudley, (for that was his name,) that he could not walk in a ring three feet in diameter, for one hour, and utter no other words than "I'm a going!" Two pounds on each side was on the counter; the ring was drawn in chalk; the money chinked in the ear, and old Dudley moved in the

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In the reign of George I. the sister of judge Dormer being married to a gentleman who afterwards killed a man very basely, the judge went to move the king for a pardon. It was impossible that he could offer any thing to the royal ear in extenuation of the crime, and therefore he was the more earnest in expressing his hope that his majesty would save him and his family from the infamy the execution of the sentence would bring upon them. 66 So, Mr. Justice," said the king, "what you propose to me is, that I should transfer the infamy from you and your family, to ine and my family; but I shall do no such thing." Motion refused.


To the Editor.

Sir-In reply to the inquiries of your correspondent G. J. D. at p. 136, I beg to state, that the person he alludes to was the translator of Hesiod, immortalized by Pope in his Dunciad.

The Rev. Thomas Cooke was a profound Greek and Latin scholar, and consequently much better versed in the beauties of Homer, &c. than the irritable translator of the Iliad and Odyssey: his remarks on, and expositions of Pope's glaring misconceptions of many important passages of the ancient bard drew down the satirical vengeance of his illustrious translator.

It would, however, appear that Pope was not the assailant in the first instance, for in the Appendix to the Dunciad we find "A list of Books, Papers, and Verses, in which our author (Pope) was abused, before the publication of that Poem;" and among the said works "The Battle of the

Poets, an heroic Poem, by Thomas Cooke, printed for J. Roberts, folio, 1725," is particularly mentioned. In book ii. of the Dunciad, we have the following line,

"Cooke shall be Prior, and Concanen Swift ;"


to which the following note is ar ended:
"The man here specified a thing
called The Battle of the Poets
Philips and Welsted were the heves, and
Swift and Pope utterly routed."

Cooke also published some "malevolent things in the British, London, and daily journals, and at the same time wrote letters to Mr. Pope, protesting his innocence."

His chief work was a translation of "Hesiod, to which Theobald writ notes, and half notes, which he carefully owned."

Again, in the testimonies of authors, which precede the Dunciad, we find the following remark :—


"But in his other works what beauties shine,
While sweetest music dwells in ev'ry line!
These he admir'd, on these he stamp'd his praise,
And bade them live t' enlighten future days!"

presume, with his own hand, each having the signature "Thomas Cooke," on the blank leaves at the commencement of the book.

It is possible that at some future time I may be able to enlarge upon this subject, for the better information of your corres pondent; and I beg, in the interim, to re

"Mr. Thomas Cooke,

mark that there is no doubt the Annual Register, from about the year 1750 to 1765, or works of that description, will

"After much blemishing our author's fully satisfy his curiosity, and afford him Homer, crieth out

much more explanation relative to Mr. Cooke than any communications from existing descendants.

In Mr. Cooke's copy of "The Battle of the Poets," the lines before quoted run thus:

It is presumed, however, that misfortune at length overtook him; for we find, in the "Ambulator, or London and its Environs," under the head "Lambeth," that he lies interred in the church-yard of that parish, and that he died extremely poor: he is, "the celebrated moreover, designated translator of Hesiod, Terence, &c."

On my return from the continent, I shall have no objection to intrust this literary curiosity to your care for a short time, giving you the liberty of extracting any (and all if you think proper) of the pieces written on the interleaves: and, in the mean time, I will do myself the pleasure of selecting one from the number, for insertion in the Table Book, which will, at least, prove that Mr. Cooke's animosity was of transient duration, and less virulent than that of Pope.

I have somewhere read that Cooke was a native of Sussex; that he became famous for his knowledge of the Greek and Latin languages while at Cambridge; and was ultimately settled in some part of Shropshire, where he soon became acquainted with the family of the young lady celebrated by his muse, in the fifth number of the Table Book, and where he also greatly distinguished himself as a clergyman, and preceptor of the younger branches of the Oxford, Jan. 29, 1827. neighbouring gentry and nobility may in some measure account for the respectable list of subscribers alluded to by G. J. D.


I have seen the poem entitled "The Immortality of the Soul," mentioned by G. J. D., though I have no recollection of its general features or merit; but of "The Battle of the Poets" I have a copy; and what renders it more rare and valuable is, that it was Mr. Cooke's own impression of the work, and has several small productions upon various occasions, written, I

"But in his other works what beanties shine-
What sweetness also dwells in ev'ry line!
These all admire-these bring him endless praise,
And crown his temples with unfading bays !"

I remain, sir,
Your obedient servant and subscriber,



POPE! though thy pen has strove with heedless rage
To make my name obnoxious to the age,
While, dipp'd in gall, and tarnish'd with the spleen,
It dealt in taunts ridiculous and mean,
Aiming to lessen what it could not reach,
And giving license to ungrateful speech,
Still I forgive its enmity, and feel
Regrets I would not stifle, nor conceal;

For though thy temper, and imperious soul,
Needed, at times, subjection and controul,
There was a majesty-a march of sense-
A proud display of rare intelligence,
In many a line of that transcendent pen,
We never, perhaps, may contemplate again-
An energy peculiarly its own,
And sweetness perfectly before unknown!

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