Imatges de pÓgina

Then deign, thou mighty master of the lyre !
T' accept what justice and remorse inspire;
Justice that prompts the willing muse to tell,
None ever wrote so largely and so well-
Remorse that feels no future bard can fill
The vacant chair with half such Attic skill,
Or leave behind so many proofs of taste,
As those rich poems dulness ne'er disgrac'd!

Farewell, dear shade! all enmity is o'er.
Since Pope has left us for a brighter shore,
Where neither rage, nor jealousy, nor hate,
Can rouse the little, nor offend the great;
Where worldly contests are at once forgot,
In the bright glories of a happier lot;
And where the dunces of the Dunciad see
Thy genius crown'd with immortality!



For the Table Book.

In the History of Scotland, there is a remark which may be added to the account of the dukes of York, at col. 103; viz.

Shire of Perth.-That part of the county called Braidalbin, or Breadalbane, lies amongst the Grampian-hills, and gives title to a branch of the family of Campbell; where note that Braid Albin, in old Scotch, signifies the highest part of Scotland, and Drum-Albin, which is the name of a part thereof, signifies the ridge or back of Scotland. Hence it is collected that this is the country which the ancients called Albany, and part of the residence of the ancient Scots, who stili retain the name, and call themselves "Albinkich," together with the ancient language and habit, continuing to be a hardy, brave, and warlike people, and very parsimonious in their way of living; and from this country the sons of the royal family of Scotland took the title of " duke of Albany;" and since the union of the two crowns, it has been found amongst the royal titles of the dukes of York.

Respecting the dukedom of Clarence, which is originally derived from Clare, in Suffolk, king Edward III. in the thirtysixth year of his reign, for default of issue male in the former family, created his third son, Lionel, by reason of his marriage with the grandaughter of the late earl of Clare, duke of Clarence, being a word of a fuller sound than the monosyllable "Clare." m.


Lord George Germain was of a remarkably amiable disposition; and his domestics lived with him rather as humble friends than menial servants. One day entering his house in Pall-mall, he observed a large basket of vegetables standing in the hall, and inquired of the porter to whom they belonged, and from whence they came? Old John immediately replied, "They are ours, my lord, from our country-house.”—“ Very well," rejoined his lordship. At that instant a carriage stopped at the door, and lord George, turning round, asked what coach it was? "Ours," said honest John. "And are the children in it ours too?" said his lordship, smiling. "Most cer tainly, my lord," replied John, with the utmost gravity, and immediately ran to lift

them out.



I have long maintained a distinguished station in our modern days, but I cannot trace my origin to ancient times, though the learned have attempted it. After the revolution in 1688, I was chief physician to the king; at least in my absence he ever complained of sickness. Had I lived in ancient days, so friendly was I to crowned heads, that Cleopatra would have got off with a sting; and her cold arm would have felt a reviving heat. I am rather a friend to sprightliness than to industry; I have often converted a neutral pronoun into a man of talent: I have often amused myself with reducing the provident ant to indigence; I never meet a post horse without giving him a blow; to some animals I am a friend, and many a puppy has yelped for aid when I have deserted him. I am a patron of architecture, and can turn every thing into brick and mortar; and so honest withal, that whenever I can find a pair of stockings, I ask for their owner. Not even Lancaster has carried education so far as I have: I adopt always the system of interrogatories. I have already taught my hat to ask questions of fact; and my poultry questions of chronology. With my trees I share the labours of my laundry; they scour my linen; and when I find a rent, 'tis I who make it entire.

In short, such are my merits, that whatever yours may be, you can never be more than half as good as I am.



A literary character you view,
Known to the moderns only-W:
I was physician to king William;
When absent, he would y,
"how-ill I am!"
In ancient days if I had liv'd, the asp
Which poison'd Egypt's queen, had been a-Wasp;
And the death-coldness of th' imperial arm
With life reviving had again been-Warm.
A friend to sprightliness, that neuter it
By sudden pow'r I've chang'd into a-Wit.
The vainly-provident industrious ant
With cruel sport I oft reduce to-Want;
Whene'er I meet with an unlucky hack,
I give the creature a tremendous-Whack:
And many a time a puppy cries for help,
If I desert capriciously the-Whelp.
A friend to architecture, I turn all

(As quick as Chelt'nham builders) into-Wall. I'm honest, for whene'er I find some hose,

I seek the owner, loud exclaiming-Whose?
Farther than Lancaster I educate,

My system's always to interrogate;

Already have I taught my very hat
Questions of fact to ask, and cry out-What?
Questions of time my poultry, for the hen
Cackles chronology, enquiring-When?
My laundry's labour I divide with ashes;

It is with them the laundress scours and-Washes:

And if an ugly rent I find, the hole
Instantly vanishes, becoming-Whole.

In short, my merits are so bright to view
How good soe'er you may be, just or true,
You can but halve my worth, for I am-double you.

THE MERRY MONARCH, AND "BLYTHE COCKPEN." While Charles II. was sojourning in Scotland, before the battle of Worcester, his chief confidant and associate was the laird of Cockpen, called by the nick-naming fashion of the times, "Blythe Cockpen.' He followed Charles to the Hague, and by his skill in playing Scottish tunes, and his sagacity and wit, much delighted the merry monarch. Charles's favourite air was "Brose and Butter;" it was played to him when he went to bed, and he was awakened by it. At the restoration, how ever, Blythe Cockpen shared the fate of many other of the royal adherents; he was forgotten, and wandered upon the lands he once owned in Scotland, poor and unfriended. His letters to the court were unpresented, or disregarded, till, wearied and incensed, he travelled to London; but his mean garb not suiting the rich doublets of court, he was not allowed to approach the royal presence. At length,


he ingratiated himself with the king's organist, who was so enraptured with Cockpen's wit and powers of music, that he requested him to play on the organ before the king at divine service. His exquisite skill did not attract his majesty's notice, till, at the close of the service, instead of the usual tune, he struck up "Brose and Butter," with all its energetic merriment. In a moment the royal organist was ordered into the king's presence. My liege, it was not me! it was not me!" he cried, and dropped upon his knees. "You!" cried his majesty, in a rapture, "you could never play it in your life-where's the man? let me see him." Cockpen presented himself on his knee. Ah, Cockpen, is that you?-Lord, man, I was like to dance coming out of the church !"—" I once danced too," said Cockpen, "but that was when I had land of my own to dance on."-" Come with me," " said Charles taking him by the hand, "you shall dance to Brose and Butter on your own lands again to the nineteenth generation;" and as far as he could, the king kept his pro mise.




The following curious entry is in the register of Lymington church, under the year 1736:

"Samuel Baldwin, esq. sojourner in this parish, was immersed, without the Needles, sans cérémonie, May 20."

This was performed in consequence of an earnest wish the deceased had expressed, a little before his dissolution, in order to disappoint the intention of his wife, who had repeatedly assured him, in their domestic squabbles, (which were very frequent,) that if she survived him, she would revenge her conjugal sufferings, by dancing on his



A gentleman lately travelling through Grantham, in Lincolnshire, observed the following lines under a sign-post, on which was placed an inhabited bee-hive.

Two wonders, Grantham, now are thine, The highest spire, and a living sign. The same person, at another publichouse in the country, where London porter was sold, observed the figure of Britannia engraved upon a tankard, in a reclining posture; underneath was the following



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The above engraving is from a lithographic view, published in Durham in 1820: it was designed by Mr. Bouet, a very ingenious French gentleman, resident there, whose abilities as an artist are of a superior order.

Elvet bridge consists of nine or ten arches, and was built by the excellent bishop Pudsey, about the year 1170. It was repaired in the time of bishop Fox, who held the see of Durham from 1494 to 1502, and granted an "indulgence to all who should contribute towards defraying the expense; an expedient frequently resorted to in Catholic times for the forwardVOL. 1.-14.

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Elbet Bridge, Durham.

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were discovered: an arch was in a very perfect state, but unfortunately no drawing was made.

It is believed by some, that another chapel stood on, or near Elvet bridge, dedi cated to St. Magdalen; and the name of the flight of steps leading from Elvet bridge to Saddler-street, viz. the Maudlin, or Magdalen-steps, rather favours the supposition. On the north side of Elvet bridge is a building, erected in 1632, formerly used as the house of correction, but which, since the erection of the new gaol, was sold to the late Stephen Kemble, Esq., and is now the printing and publishing office of the Durham Chronicle. The ground cells are miserable places: some figures, still visible on many of the walls, as faces, ships, &c. show to what resources the poor fellows confined there were driven to amuse themselves. This building is said to be haunted by the restless sprite of an old piper, who, as the story is, was brought down the river by a flood, and, on being rescued from the water, became an inmate of the house of correction, where he died a few years afterwards. The credulous often hear his bagpipes at midnight. Every old bridge seems to have its legend, and this is the legend of Elvet bridge.

The buildings represented by the engraving in the distance are the old gaol, and a few of the adjoining houses. This gaol, which stood to the east of the castle, and contiguous to the keep, was originally the great north gateway to the castle, and was erected by bishop Langley, who held the see of Durham from 1406 to 1437. It divided Saddler-street from the North Bailey, and was a fine specimen of the architecture of the age, but, from its confined situation, in a public part of the city, it was adjudged to be a nuisance, and was accordingly destroyed in 1820. On the west side of it is erected an elegant subscription library and news-room, and on the opposite a spacious assembly-room; these form a striking contrast to the spot in the state here represented. The present county gaol is at the head of Old Elvet; it is a splendid edifice, and so it should be, considering that it cost the county 120,000l.

Of bishop Pudsey, the builder of Elvet bridge, the following account is given in Hegg's Legend of St. Cuthbert. Speaking of St. Goodrick, of whom there are particulars in the Every-Day Book, Hegg says, "Thus after he had acted all the miracles of a legend, he ended his scene in the yeare 1170, not deserving that honour conferred on his cell by the forenamed

bishop Pusar (Pudsey), who told him he should be seven yeares blind before his death, so that the bishop deferring his re pentance till the tyme of his blindness, (which Goodrick meant of the eyes of his understanding) dyed unprovided for death. But if good works be satisfactorie, then died he not in debt for his sinnes, who repayred and built inany of the episcopall manors, and founded the manor and church at Darlington, and two hospitals, one at Alverton, and the other at Sherburne, neare Durham. He built also Elvet bridge, with two chapels upon it, over the Weer; and, lastly, built that beautiful work the Galilee, now the bishop's consistory, and hither translated saint Bede's bones, which lye enterred under a tomb of black marble."

From the above extract, as punctuated in all the printed copies I have seen, it would appear that Hegg intended to represent both the chapels as being over the Weer, whereas only one was so situated, the other being on one of the land arches. To render this passage correct, the words "with two chapels upon it" should have been inserted in a parenthesis, which would make the passage stand thus, "He built also Elvet bridge, (with two chapels upon it,) over the Weer." Hegg, with all his humour, is frequently obscure; and his legend, which was for some time in manuscript, has suffered by the inattention of transcribers; there are three different copies in print, and all vary. The edition printed by the late Mr. Allan of Darlington, from a manuscript in the library of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and since reprinted by Mr. Hogget of Durham, is the most correct one, and from that the above extract is taken.

ever con

Bishop Pudsey's memory must always be dear to the inhabitants of the county of Durham, as probably no m ferred greater service on the county. It was he who, in order to supply the deficiency of Doomsday-book, caused a general survey to be made of all the demesne lands and possessions in his bishopric. This survey is recorded in a small folio of twentyfour pages, written in a bad hand, and called "Bolden Buke," now in the archives at Durham. It contains inquisitions, or verdicts of all the several tenures of lands, services, and customs; all the tenants' names of every degree; how much each of them held at that time, and what rents were reserved for the same. This book has been produced, and read in evidence on several trials at law, on the part of the succeeding bishops, in order to ascertain their property.

Garrick Plays.

No. XI.

[From "Jack Drum's Entertainment," a
Comedy, Author unknown, 1601.]
The free humour of a Noble Housekeeper.
Fortune (a Knight). I was not born to be my cradle's

To choke and stifle up my pleasure's breath,
To poison with the venom'd cares of thrift
My private sweet of life: only to scrape

A heap of muck, to fatten and manure

The barren virtues of my progeny,

And make them sprout 'spite of their want of worth;
No, I do wish my girls should wish me live;
Which few do wish that have a greedy sire,
But still expect, and gape with hungry lip,
When he'll give up his gouty stewardship.
Friend. Then I wonder,

You not aspire unto the eminence

And height of pleasing life. To Court, to Court-
There burnish, there spread, there stick in pomp,
Like a bright diamond in a Lady's brow.
There plant your fortunes in the flowring spring,
And get the Sun before you of Respect.
There trench yourself within the people's love,
And glitter in the eye of glorions grace.
What's wealth without respect and mounted place?
Fortune. Worse and worse!-I am not yet dis-

I long not to be squeez'd with my own weight,
Nor hoist up all my sails to catch the wind
Of the drunk reeling Commons. I labour not
To have an awful presence, nor be feared,
Since who is fear'd still fears to be so feared.
I care not to be like the Horeb calf,
One day adored, and next pasht all in pieces.
Nor do I envy Polyphemian puffs,
Switzers' slopt greatness. I adore the Sun,
Yet love to live within a temperate zone.
Let who will climb ambitious glibbery rounds,
And lean upon the vulgar's rotten love,
I'll not corrival him. The sun will give

As great a shadow to my trunk as his;
And after death, like Chessmen having stoot
In play, for Bishops some, for Knights, and Pawns,
We all together shall be tumbled up

Into one bag.

life asleep; Let hush'd-calm quiet rock my And, being dead, my own ground press my bones ; Whilst some old Beldame, hobbling o'er my grave, May mumble thus:

'Here lies a Knight whose Money was his Slave.'

[From the "Changes," a Comedy, by James Shirley, 1632.]

Excess of Epithets, enfeebling to Poetry. Friend. Master Caperwit, before read, pray tell



Have your verses any Adjectives?

Caperwit. Adjectives! would you have a poe

without Adjectives? they're the flower, the grace of all our lan guage.

A well-chosen Epithet doth give new soul
To fainting Poesy, and makes every verse
A Bride! With Adjectives we bait our lines,
When we do fish for Gentlewomen's loves,
And with their sweetness catch the nibbling ear
Of amorous ladies; with the music of
These ravishing nouns we charm the silken tribe,
And make the Gallant melt with apprehension
Of the rare Word. I will maintain 't against

A bundle of Grammarians, in Poetry
The Substantive itself cannot subsist

Without its Adjective.

Friend. But for all that,

Those words would sound more full, methinks, that are


So larded; and if I might counsel you,

You should compose a Sonnet clean without 'em.
A row of stately Substantives would march
Like Switzers, and bear all the fields before 'em ;
Carry their weight; shew fair, like Deeds Enroll'd;
Not Writs, that are first made and after fill'd.
Thence first came up the title of Blank Verse ;—
You know, Sir, what Blank signifies ?-when the sense,
First framed, is tied with Adjectives like points,
And could not hold together without wedges:
Hang 't, 'tis pedantic, vulgar Poetry.

Let children, when they versify, stick here
And there these piddling words for want of matter
Poets write Masculine Numbers.

[From the "Guardian," a Comedy, by Abraham Cowley, 1650. This was the first Draught of that which he published afterwards under the title of the Cutter of Coleman Street;" and contains the character of a Foolish Poet, omitted in


.e latter. I give a few scraps of this haracter, both because the Edition is scarce, and as furnishing no unsuitable corollary to the Critical Admonitions in the preceding Extract.-The "Cutter " has always appeared to me the link between the Comedy of Fletcher and of Congreve. In the elegant passion of the Love Scenes it approaches the former; and Puny (the character substituted for the omitted Poet) is the Prototype of the half witted Wits, the Brisks and Dapper Wits, of the latter.]

Doggrell, the foolish Poet, described.

Cutter. -the very Emblem of poverty and poor poetry. The feet are worse patched of his rhymes, than of his stockings. If one line forget itself, and run out beyond his elbow, while the next keeps at home (like him), and dares not show his head, he calls that an Ode.

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