Imatges de pÓgina

trous worship, they beset them with trees; and thence arose the consecration of groves and woods, from whence also their idols were often named. At length certain choice and select trees began to be consecrated. The French magi, termed Dryadæ, worshipped the oak; the Etrurians worshipped an elm-tree; and amongst the Celta, a tall oak was the very idol of Jupiter.

Amongst the Israelites, idolatry began under the judges Othniel and Ehud, and became so common, that they had peculiar priests, whom they termed the prophets of the grove and idols of the grove.

Christians, in the consecration of their churches, make special choice of peculiar saints, by whose name they are called. The heathens consecrated their groves to peculiar idols; whence in profane authors we read of Diana Nemorensis, Diana Arduenna, Albunea Dea, &c., all receiving their names from the groves in which they were worshipped. The idol itself is sometimes called a grove-" Josiah brought out the grove from the house of the Lord." It is probable, that in this idol was portraited the form and similitude of a grove, and that from thence it was called a grove, as those similitudes of Diana's temple, made by Demetrius, were termed temples of Diana.

These customs appear exemplified by inscriptions on coins, medals, in churchyards, and the various buildings commemorated by marble, flowers, and durable and perishing substances. J. R. P.

The groves round London within a few years have been nearly destroyed by the speculating builders.

J. R. P.'s note may be an excuse for observing, that the "grove" best known, perhaps, to the inhabitants of London is that at Camberwell-a spacious roadway and fine walks, above half a mile in length, between rows of stately trees, from the beginning of the village and ascending the hill to its summit, from whence there is, or rather was, the finest burst of scenery the eye can look upon within the same distance from London. The view is partially obstructed by new buildings, and the character of the "grove" itself has been gradually injured by the breaking up of the adjacent grounds and meadows into brickfields, and the flanking of its sides with town-like houses. This grove has been the theme of frequent song. Dr. Lettsom first gave celebrity to it by his writings, and pleasant residence on its eastern extremity;

and it was further famed by Mr. Maurice in an elegant poem, with delightful engravings on wood. After the death of the benevolent physician, and before the decease of the illustrator of "Indian Antiquities," much of the earth, consecrated by their love and praise, "passed through the fire" in sacrifice to the Moloch of improveinent. In a year or two "Grove Hill" may be properly named "Grove Street."

Hampstead, however, is the "place of groves;"-how long it may remain so is a secret in the bosom of speculators and builders. Its first grove, townward, is the noble private avenue from the Hampstead-road to Belsize-house, in the valley between Primrose hill and the hill whereon the church stands, with Mr. Memory-Corner Thompson's remarkable house and lodge at the corner of the pleasant highway to the little village of West-end. In the neighbourhood of Hampstead church, and between that edifice and the heath, there are several old groves. Winding southwardly from the heath, there is a charming little grove in Well Walk, with a bench at the end; whereon I last saw poor Keats, the poet of the "Pot of Basil," sitting and sobbing his dying breath into a handkerchief,— gleaning parting looks towards the quiet landscape he had delighted in-musing, as in his Ode to a Nightingale.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk :
Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,-
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of sammer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth !
O for a beaker full of the warm south,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale,and spectre-thin, and dies
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow



West Wickham Church, Kent.

-From Beckenham church we walked about two miles along a nearly straight road, fenced off from the adjoining lands, till we reached West Wickham. It was from a painted window in this church that I made the tracing of St. Catherine engraved in the Every-Day Book, where some mention is made of the retired situation of this village.

"Wickham Court," the ancient manor house adjacent to the church, was formerly the residence of Gilbert West, the translator of Pindar, and author of the "Observations on the Resurrection of Christ," for which the university of Oxford conferred on him the degree of doctor of laws. "He was very often visited by Lyttelton and Pitt, who, when they were weary of faction and debates, used, at Wickham, to find books and quiet, a decent table, and literary conversation." It was in West's

Dr. Johnson

society, at Wickham, that lord Lyttelton was convinced of the truth of Christianity. Under that conviction he wrote his celebrated "Dissertation on the Conversion and Apostleship of St. Paul," which, until the appearance of Paley's "Hora Paulina," was an unrivalled treatise. Mr. Pitt, (the great earl of Chatham,) during his intimacy with West, formed a walk at Wickham Court. In a summer-house of the grounds, Mr. West inscribed the following lines, in imitation of Ausonius, a Latin poet of the fourth century, " Ad Villam :"

Not wrapt in smoky London's sulphurous clouds, And not far distant stands my rural cot; Neither obnoxious to intruding crowds,

Nor for the good and friendly too remote. And when too much repose brings on the spleen, Or the gay city's idle pleasures cloy; Swift as my changing wish I change the scene, And now the country, now the town enjcy.

The ancient manor of West Wickham was vested in sir Samuel Lennard, bart., from whom it passed to his daughter Mary, the present dowager lady Farnaby, who resides in the manor-house, and with whose permission we were permitted a look at the hall of the mansion, which contains in the windows some painted remains of armorial bearings on glass, removed from the windows of the church. A view in Hasted's "History of Kent" represents the towers of this mansion to have been surmounted by sextagon cones, terminated at the top with the fleur de lis, a bearing in the family arms; these pinnacles have been taken down, the roofs of the towers flattened, and the walls castellated. By a charter of free warren, in the eleventh year of Edward II., a weekly market was granted to West Wickham, but it is no longer held, and Wickham, as a town, has lost its importance.

The manor-house and church are distant from the village about half a mile, with

an intervening valley beautifully pleasant, in which is a road from Hayes Common to Addington and Croydon. The church is on a hill, with an old lich-gate, like that at Beckenham, though not so large. At this spot W. sat down, and made the sketch here represented by his graver. Although I had been in the edifice before, I could not avoid another visit to it. At the north-east corner, near the communion table, are many ancient figured tiles sadly neglected, loose in the pavement; some displaced and lying one upon the other. Worst of all,-and I mean offence to no one, but surely there is blame somewhere,—the ancient stone font, which is in all respects perfect, has been removed from its original situation, and is thrown into a corner. its place, at the west end, from a nick (not a niche) between the seats, a little trivetlike iron bracket swings in and out, and upon it is a wooden hand-bowl, such as scullions use in a kitchen sink; and in this hand-bowl, of about twelve inches diameter, called a font, I found a common blueand-white Staffordshire-ware halfpint basin. It might be there still; but, while inveighing to my friend W. against the depravation of the fine old font, and the substitution of such a paltry modicum, in my vehemence I fractured the crockery. I felt that I was angry, and, perhaps, I sinned; but I made restitution beyond the extent that would replace the baptismal slop



The fragments of old painted glass in the windows of this church are really fine.

The best are, St. Anne teaching the virgin to read; whole lengths of St. Christopher wading, with the infant Saviour bearing the globe in his hand; an elderly female saint, very good; and a skeleton with armour before him. Some years ago, collectors of curiosities paid their attentions to these windows, and carried off specimens: since then wires have been put up on the outside. On the walls are hung pennons, with an iron helmet, sword, spurs, gloves, and other remains of a funereal pageant. A small organ stands on the floor: the partitions of some of the pewings are very ancient




The wild-flower waves, in lonely bloom,
On Godstow's desolated wall:
There thin shades fit through twilight gloom,
And murmured accents feebly fall.
The aged hazel nurtures there
Its hollow fruit, so seeming fair,
And lightly throws its humble shade,
Where Rosamonda's form is laid,

The rose of earth, the sweetest flower
That ever graced a monarch's breast,
In vernal beauty's loveliest hour,

Beneath that sod was laid to rest.
In vain the bower of love around
The Dædalean path was wound:
Alas! that jealous hate should find
The clue for love alone designed !

The venomed bowl,-the mandate dire,-
The menaced steel's uplifted glare,-
The tear, that quenched the blue eye's fire,-
The humble, ineffectual prayer :-
All these shall live, recorded long
In tragic and romantic song,
And long a moral charm impart,
To melt and purify the heart.
A nation's gem, a monarch's pride,
In youth, in loveliness, she died:
The morning sun's ascending ray
Saw none so fair, so blest, so gay:
Ere evening came, her funeral knell
Was tolled by Godstow's convent Bell.

The marble tomb, the illumined shrine,

Their ineffectual splendour gave:
Where slept in earth the maid divine,
The votive silk was seen to wave.
To her, as to a martyred saint,
His vows the weeping pilgrim poured

The drooping traveller, sad and faint,
Knelt there, and found his strength restored:
To that fair shrine, in solemn hour,

Fend youths and blushing maidens came,
And gathered from its mystic power

A brighter, purer, holier flame :
The lightest heart with awe could feel
The charm her hovering spirit shed
But superstition's impious zeal

Distilled its venom on the dead!

The illumined shrine has passed away;
The sculptured stone in dust is laid:
But when the midnight breezes play
Amid the barren hazel's shade,
The lone enthusiast, lingering near,

The youth, whom slighted passion grieves,
Through fancy's magic spell may hear
A spirit in the whispering leaves;
And dimly see, while mortals sleep,

Sad forms of cloistered maidens move, The transient dreams of life to weep, The fading flowers of youth and love!


A small chapel, and a wall, enclosing an ample space, are all now remaining of the Benedictine nunnery at Godstow. A hazel grows near the chapel, the fruit of which is always apparently perfect, but is invariably

found to be hollow.

This nunnery derives its chief interest from having been the burial-place of Rosamond. The principal circumstances of her story are thus related by Stowe: "Rosamond, the fair daughter of Walter lord Clifford, concubine to Henry II., (poisoned by queen Eleanor, as some thought,) died at Woodstock, (A. D. 1177,) where king Henry had made for her a house of wonderful working; so that no man or woman might come to her, but he that was instructed by the king, or such as were right secret with him touching the matter. This house, after some, was named Labyrinthus, or Daedalus work, which was wrought like unto a knot in a garden, called a maze : but it was commonly said, that lastly the queen came to her by a clue of thread, or silk, and so dealt with her, that she lived not long after but when she was dead, she was buried at Godstow, in a house of nuns, beside Oxford, with these verses upon her tomb:

Hic jacet in tumbâ, Rosa mundi, non Rosa munda:

Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet."

After her death, she appears to have been considered as a saint, from the following inscription on a stone cross, which, Leland says, was erected near the nunnery:

Qui meat huc, oret, signumque salutis adoret, Utque sibi detur veniam, Rosamunda precetur. A fanatical priest, Hugh, bishop of Lincoln, visiting he nunnery at Godstow, and observing a tomb covered with silk, and splendidly illuminated, which he found, on inquiry, to be the tomb of Rosamond, commanded her to be taken up, and buried without the church, lest the Christian religion should grow into contempt. This brutal order was instantly obeyed: but "the chaste sisters," says Speed," gathered her bones, and put them in a perfumed bag, enclosing them so in lead, and laid them again in the church, under a fair large grave-stone, about whose edges a fillet of brass was inlaid, and thereon written her name and praise: these bones were at the suppression of the nunnery so found."*

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The church at Brough is a pretty large - handsome building. The steeple is not so old; having been built about the year 1513, under the direction of Thomas Blenkinsop, of Helbeck, Esq. There are in it four excellent bells, by much the largest in the county, except the great bell at Kirkby Thore. Concerning these bells at Brough, there is a tradition that they were given by one Brunskill, who lived upon Stanemore, in the remotest part of the parish, and had a great many cattle. One time it happened that his bull fell a bellowing, which, in the dialect of the country, is called cruning, (this being the Saxon word to denote that vociferation.) Whereupon he said to one of his neighbours, "Hearest thou how loud this bull crunes? If these cattle should all crune together, might they not be heard from Brough hither?" He answered, "Yea." "Well, then," says Brunskill, "I'll make them all crune together." And he sold them all; and with the price thereof be bought the said bells, (or perhaps he might get the old bells new cast and made larger.) There is a monument in the church, in the south wall, between the highest and second windows, under which, it is said, the said Brunskill was the last that was interred.

The pulpit is of stone. There was heretofore a handsome reading desk, given by sir Cuthbert Buckle, knight, vintner in London, who was born upon Stanemore in this parish, and was lord mayor of London in the year 1593. His name was upon the desk thus:-" By Cuthbert Buckle, Anno Domini 1576." He built also a bridge upon Stanemore, which still bears the name of Buckle's Bridge; and gave eight pounds a year to a school upon Stanemore.

For the Table Book.

Hence, thou tormenting wayward Being!
For ever courting, trifling, spreeing,
Thou Erysipelas of thrall:
For ever, with thine addled hatch,
I'll shun thee as an arrant Scratch,
Unworthy to be scratch'd at all.

Thy Sonnets, staves, and stanzas rhyming

To every key, to every chiming,

St. Vitus' Dance is ease to Thee:
Thou shalt no more provoke my Quill
To deeds of labour, or of skill,
Thou cacoëthes mise-re.

Promethean fire-Parnassus smiling,
Helicon's spirituous drops beguiling,-

Where'er thou com'st-whate'er thou be ;
The Vagrant Act may take thee in ;
I'll drive thee out as Satan's sin

Thou worse than fire of Anthony.

Hence Jade! tormentress of the feelings;-
Thou Witch of End-or like revealings:-
Go-haunt the brains, not frenzy past:
I'll haste to Monmouth Street and buy
A suit of Prose-then joyful cry

Ecce Stultus grown wise at last.

If thou shou'd'st to my brain-door, knocking,
Come with thy wheedling-pamby, mocking;
I'll catch thee vi et armis :-then
By Habeas Corpus to the Pleas-
-Sure I will rob thee of degrees,

And scare thee from my Smithfield Pen.

If I'm asleep then thou art waiting,
Angler-like, with thy couplets baiting,
To drag my crazy thought to light:
Awake! thy float, with stanza-hook,
Is ever dipping in Mal-Brook-

I'll brook no more-if sense is right.

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