Catherine Mompesson’s Tomb at Eyam.

Among the verdant mountains of the Peak
There lies a quiet hamlet, where the slope
Of pleasant uplands wards the north-winds bleak;
Below, wild dells romantic pathways ope;
Around, above it, spreads a shadowy cope
Of forest trees: flower, foliage, and clear rill
Wave from the cliffs, or down ravines elope;
It seems a place charmed from the power of ill
By sainted words of old:—so lovely, lone, and still.

And many are the pilgrim feet which tread
Its rocky steeps, which thither yearly go;
Yet, less by love of Nature’s wonders led,
Than by the memory of a mighty woe,
Which smote, like blasting thunder, long ago,
The peopled hills. There stands a sacred tomb,
Where tears have rained, nor yet shall cease to flow;
Recording days of death’s sublimest gloom;
Mompesson’s power and pain,—his beauteous Catherine’s doom.

The Desolation of Eyam.

Through the seventeenth and half of the eighteenth century the village of Eyam, three miles east from Tideswell, in Derbyshire, was populous and flourishing; and all that part of the country thickly sown with little towns and hamlets, was swarming with inhabitants. Owing to the exhausted state of the lead mines the scene is altered, and Eyam is now thinly peopled. It had before endured a dreadful affliction. The year after “that awful and terrible period, when the destroying angel passed over this island, and in the cities of London and Westminster swept away three thousand victims in one night,” the visitation was revived in this distant village, and four-fifths of the inhabitants perished in the course of the summer. This calamity is the subject of the title-page to a poetical volume of eminent merit and beauty, “The Desolation of Eyam, &c. by William and Mary Howitt, Authors of the Forest Minstrel and other Poems.”

Eyam was the birthplace of the late Anna Seward, and in the “Gentleman’s Magazine”[383] there is a letter written in her youthful days, which naturally relates the devoted attachment of the village rector, during the plague, to his stricken flock; and the affectionate adherence of his noble wife. Extracts from this letter, with others from the notes to “The Desolation of Eyam,” and a few stanzas from the poem itself, as specimens of its worth, may here suffice to convey some notion of the story. The poets’ “Introduction” is briefly descriptive of “The Peak”—its romantic rocks and glens—the roar of its flying streams—the welling-up of its still waters—the silence of its beautiful dells—

Such brightness fills the arched sky;
So quietly the hill-tops lie
In sunshine, and the wild-bird’s glee
Rings from the rock-nursed service tree;
Such a delicious air is thrown,
Such a reposing calm is known
On these delightful hills,
That, as the dreaming poet lies
Drinking the splendour of the skies,
The sweetness which distils
From herbs and flowers—a thrilling sense
Steals o’er his musing heart, intense,
Passive, yet deep; the joy which dwells
Where nature frames her loneliest spells.
And Fancy’s whispers would persuade
That peace had here her sojourn made,
And love and gladness pitched their tent,
When from the world, in woe, they went.
That each grey hill had reared its brow
In peaceful majesty, as now.
That thus these streams had traced their way
Through scenes as bright and pure as they;
That here no sadder strain was heard
Than the free note of wandering bird;
And man had here, in nature’s eye,
Known not a pain, except, to die.

Poets may dream—alas! that they
Should dream so wildly, even by day—
Poets may dream of love and truth,
Islands of bliss, and founts of youth:
But, from creation’s earliest birth,
The curse of blood has raged on earth.
Since the first arm was raised to smite
The sword has travelled like a blight,
From age to age, from realm to realm,
Guiding the seaman’s ready helm.
Go! question well—search far and near,
Bring me of earth a portion here.
Look! is not that exuberant soil
Fraught with the battle’s bloody spoil?
Turn where thou may’st, go where thou wilt,
Thy foot is on a spot of guilt.

The curse, the blight have not passed by
These dales now smiling in thine eye.
Of human ills an ample share,
Ravage, and dearth, domestic care,
They have not ’scaped. This region blest
Knew not of old its pleasant rest.
Grandeur there was, but all that cheers,
Is the fair work of recent years.
The Druid-stones are standing still
On the green top of many a hill;
The fruitful plough, with mining share,
At times lays some old relic bare;
The Danish mell; the bolt of stone,
To a yet ruder people known:
And oft, as on some point which lies
In the deep hush of earth and skies,
In twilight, silence, and alone,
I’ve sate upon the Druid-stone,
The visions of those distant times,
Their barbarous manners, creeds and crimes,
Have come, joy’s brightest thrill to raise,
For life’s blest boon in happier days.
But not of them—rude race—I sing;
Nor yet of war, whose fiery wing,
From age to age, with waste and wail,
Drove from wide champaign, and low vale,
Warrior and woman: child and flock,
Here, to the fastness of the rock.
The husbandman has ceased to hear
Amidst his fields the cry of fear.
Waves the green corn—green pastures rise
Around,—the lark is in the skies.
The song a later time must trace
When faith here found a dwelling-place.
The tale is tinged with grief and scath,
But not in which man’s cruel wrath,
Like fire of fiendish spirit shows,
But where, through terrors, tears, and woes,
He rises dauntless, pure, refined;
Not chill’d by self, nor fired by hate,
Love in his life,—and even his fate
A blessing on his kind.

These latter lines allude to the poem, and it immediately commences.

“Eyam,” says Miss Seward, “is near a mile in length; it sweeps in a waving line amongst the mountains, on a kind of natural terrace about 303 yards broad; above which, yet higher mountains arise. From that dale of savage sublimity, which on the Buxton road from Matlock commences at the end of Middleton, we ascend a quarter of a mile up a narrow and steep lane on the right hand, which conducts us into Eyam. About the centre of the village the continuance of the houses is broken by a small field on the left. From its edge a deep and grassy dingle descends, not less picturesque, and much more beautiful from its softer features, than the craggy dale and its walls of barren rocks from which we had ascended to Eyam, and in which, by a winding course, this dingle terminates. Its ascent from the middle of Eyam is a steep, smooth, and verdant turf, with scattered nut-trees, alders, and the mountain ash. The bottom is scarcely five yards wide, so immediately ascend the noble rocks on the opposite side, curtained with shrubs, and crowned with pines that wave over their brows; only that a few bare parts appear in fantastic points and perforated arches. Always in winter and summer, after recent showers, a small clear rill ripples along the bottom of this dell, but after long drought the channel is dry, and its pebbles are left to bleach in the sun. Cliffs and fields stretch along the tops of the rocks, and from their heights we descend gradually to the upper part of Eyam, which, though high, is less elevated

“Than are the summits of those hilly crofts,
That brow the bottom glade.”

At the time of the plague, the rector of Eyam, the Rev. William Mompesson, was in the vigour of youth; he had two children, a boy and girl of three and four years old, and his wife Catherine, a young and beautiful lady:—

There dwelt they in the summer of their love.
He, the young pastor of that mountain fold,
For whom, not Fancy could foretell above,
Bliss more than earth had at his feet unrolled.
Yet, ceased he not on that high track to hold,
Upon whose bright, eternal steep is shown
Faith’s starry coronal. The sad, the cold
Caught from his fervent spirit its warm tone,
And woke to loftier aims, and feelings long unknown.

And she,—his pride and passion,—she, all sun,
All love, and mirth and beauty;—a rich form
Of finished grace, where Nature had outdone
Her wonted skill. Oh! well might Fancy’s swarm
Of more than earthly hopes and visions, warm
His ardent mind; for, joyous was her mood;
There seemed a spirit of gladness to inform
Her happy frame, by no light shock subdued,
Which filled her home with light, and all she touched imbued.

So lived, so loved they. Their life lay enshrined
Within themselves and people. They reck’d not
How the world sped around them, nor divined;
Heaven, and their home endearments fill’d their lot.
Within the charmed boundary of their cot,
Was treasured high and multifarious lore
Of sage, divine, and minstrel ne’er forgot
In wintry hours; and, carolled on their floor,
Were childhood’s happy lays. Could Heaven award them more?

Eyam, as before mentioned, had escaped the contagion in the “Great Year of the Plague.” It was conveyed thither, however, in the ensuing spring by infected cloths. Its appearance is vigorously sketched:—

——————— But, as in the calm
Of a hot noon, a sudden gust will wake;
Anon clouds throng; then fiercer squalls alarm;
Then thunder, flashing gleams, and the wild break
Of wind and deluge:—till the living quake,
Towers rock, woods crash amid the tempest,—so
In their reposing calm of gladness, spake
A word of fear; first whispering—dubious—low,
Then lost;—then firm and clear, a menacing of woe:

’Till out it burst, a dreadful cry of death;
“The Plague! the Plague!” The withering language flew,
And faintness followed on its rapid breath;
And all hearts sunk, as pierced with lightning through.
“The Plague! the Plague!” No groundless panic grew;
But there, sublime in awful darkness, trod
The Pest; and lamentation, as he slew,
Proclaimed his ravage in each sad abode,
Mid frenzied shrieks for aid—and vain appeals to God.

On the commencement of the contagion, Mrs. Mompesson threw herself with her babes at the feet of her husband, to supplicate his flight from that devoted place; but not even the entreaties and tears of a beloved wife could induce him to desert his flock, in those hours of danger and dismay. Equally fruitless were his solicitations that she would retire with her infants. The result of this pathetic contest was a resolve to abide together the fury of the pestilence, and to send their children away.

They went—those lovely ones, to their retreat.
They went—those glorious ones, to their employ;
To check the ominous speed of flying feet;
To quell despair; to soothe the fierce annoy,
Which, as a stormy ocean without buoy
Tossing a ship distressed, twixt reef and rock,
Hurried the crowd, from years of quiet joy
Thus roused to fear by this terrific shock;
And wild, distracted, mazed, the pastor met his flock.

It was the immediate purpose of this wise and excellent man, to stay his parishioners from flight, lest they should bear the contagion beyond their own district, and desolate the country.

They heard, and they obeyed,—for, simple-hearted,
He was to them their wisdom and their tower;
To theirs, his brilliant spirit had imparted
All that they knew of virtue’s loftier power;
Their friend, their guide, their idolized endower
With daily blessings, health of mind and frame;
They heard, and they obeyed;—but not the more
Obeyed the plague; no skill its wrath could tame;
It grew, it raged, it spread; like a devouring flame.

Oh! piteous was it then that place to tread;
Where children played and mothers had looked on,
They lay, like flowers plucked to adorn the dead;
The bright-eyed maid no adoration won;
Youth in its greenness, trembling age was gone;
O’er each bright cottage hearth death’s darkness stole;
Tears fell, pangs racked, where happiness had shone.

From a rational belief, that assembling in the crowded church for public worship during the summer heats, must spread and increase the contagion, he agreed with his afflicted parishioners, that he should read prayers twice a week, and deliver his two customary sermons on the sabbath, from one of the perforated arches in the rocks of the dingle. By his advice they ranged themselves on the grassy steep in a level direction to the rocky pulpit; and the dell being narrow, he was distinctly heard from that arch.

The poem describes the spot, and the manner of the worship:—

There is a dell, the merry schoolboy’s sling
Whirled in the village, might discharge a stone
Into its centre; yet, the shouts which ring
Forth from the hamlet travel, over blown,
Nor to its sheltered quietude are known.
So hushed, so shrouded its deep bosom lies,
It brooks no sound, but the congenial tone
Of stirring leaves, loud rill, the melodies
Of summer’s breezy breath, or autumn’s stormier skies.

Northward, from shadowy rocks, a wild stream pours;
Then wider spreads the hollow—lofty trees
Cast summer shades; it is a place of flowers,
Of sun and fragrance, birds and chiming bees.
Then higher shoot the hills. Acclivities
Splintered and stern, each like a castle grey,
Where ivy climbs, and roses woo the breeze,
Narrow the pass; there, trees in close array
Shut, from this woodland cove, all distant, rude survey.

But its chief ornament, a miracle
Of Nature’s mirth, a wondrous temple stands,
Right in the centre of this charmed dell,
Which every height and bosky slope commands.
Arch meeting arch, unwrought of human hands,
Form dome and portals.
When hark!—a sound!—it issued from the dell;
A solemn voice, as though one did declaim
On some high theme; it ceased—and then the swell
Of a slow, psalm-like chant on his amazement fell.
***
In that fantastic temple’s porch was seen
The youthful pastor; lofty was his mien,
But stamped with thoughts of such appalling scope,
As rarely gather on a brow serene;
And who are they, on the opposing slope,
To whom his solemn tones told but one awful hope?

A pallid, ghost-like, melancholy crew,
Seated on scattered crags, and far-off knolls,
As fearing each the other. They were few.
As men whom one brief hour will from the rolls
Of life cut off, and toiling for their souls’
Welcome into eternity—they seemed
Lost in the heart’s last conflict, which controls
All outward life—they sate as men who dreamed;
No motion in their frames—no eye perception beamed.

The two following stanzas are fearfully descriptive of the awful interruptions to the solemn service in this sequestered spot.

But suddenly, a wild and piercing cry
Arose amongst them; and an ancient man,
Furious in mood—red frenzy in his eye,
Sprang forth, and shouting, towards the hollow ran.
His white locks floated round his features wan;
He rushed impatient to the valley rill;
To drink, to revel in the wave began,
As one on fire with thirst; then, with a shrill
Laugh, as of joy, he sank—he lay—and all was still.

Then from their places solemnly two more
Went forth, as if to lend the sufferer aid;
But in their hands, in readiness, they bore
The charnel tools, the mattock and the spade.
They broke the turf—they dug—they calmly laid
The old man in his grave; and o’er him threw
The earth, by prayer, nor requiem delayed;
Then turned, and with no lingering adieu,
Swifter than they approached, from the strange scene withdrew.

The church-yard soon ceased to afford room for the dead. They were afterwards buried in an heathy hill above the village.[384] Curious travellers take pleasure in visiting, to this day, the mountain tumulus, and in examining its yet distinct remains; also, in ascending, from the upper part of Eyam, those cliffs and fields which brow the dingle, and from whence the descent into the consecrated rock is easy. It is called Cucklet church by the villagers.

And now hope gleamed abroad. The plague seemed staid;
And the loud winds of autumn glad uproar
Made in the welkin. Health their call obeyed,
And Confidence her throne resumed once more.
Nay, joy itself was in the pastor’s bower;
For him the plague had sought, its final prey;
And Catherine pale, and shuddering at its power,
Had watched, had wept, had seen it pass away,—
And joy shone through their home like a bright summer’s day.

The sudden fear woke memory in her cell;
And tracing back the brightness of their being;
Their love, their bliss, the fatal shafts which fell
Around them—smote them—yet, even now were fleeing;
Death unto numbers, but to them decreeing
Safety;—rich omens for succeeding years,
In that sweet gaiety of spirit seeing,
Theirs was that triumph which distress endears;
And gladness which breaks forth in mingling smiles and tears.

So passed that evening: but, still midnight falls,
And why gleams thence that lamp’s unwonted glare?
Oh! there is speechless woe within those walls:
Death’s stern farewell is given in thunder there.
Mompesson wrapt in dreams and fancies fair,
Which took their fashion from that evening’s tone,
At once sprang up in terror and despair,
Roused by that voice which never yet had known
To wake aught in his heart, but pure delight alone.

“My William!” faint and plaintive was the cry,
And chill the hand which fell upon his breast,
“My dearest William, wake thee! Oh! that I
With such sad tidings should dispel thy rest.
But death is here!” With agony possessed,
He snatched a light—he saw—he reeled—he fell.
There, in its deadliest form prevailed the pest.
Too well he knew the fatal signs—too well:
A moment—and to life—to happiness farewell!

The good and beautiful woman, Catherine Mompesson, expired in her husband’s arms, in the twenty-seventh year of her age. Her tomb is near an ancient cross in the church-yard of Eyam. It is represented in the vignette to the “Desolation of Eyam;” and by means of that print the present [engraving] is laid before the reader of this article.

Mr. Mompesson was presented to the rectory of Eakring, near Ollerton, in Nottinghamshire, and he quitted the fatal scene. On his going, however, to take possession of his living, the people, naturally impressed with the terrors of the plague, in the very cloud and whirlwind of which he had so lately walked, declined admitting him into the village. A hut therefore was erected for him in Rufford Park, where he abode till the fear subsided.

To this gift were added prebends in York and Southwell, and the offer of the deanery of Lincoln. But the good man, with an admirable disinterestedness, declined this last substantial honour, and transferred his influence to his friend, the witty and learned Dr. Fuller, author of “the Worthies of England,” &c. who accordingly obtained it. The wish, which he expressed in one of his letters, that “his children might be good rather than great,” sprang from a living sentiment of his heart. He had tasted the felicity and the bitterness of this world; he had seen its sunshine swallowed up in the shadow of death; and earth had nothing to offer him like the blessedness of a retirement, in which he might prepare himself for a more permanent state of existence.

A brass plate, with a Latin inscription, records his death in this pleasant seclusion, March 7, 1708, in the seventieth year of his age.

Bright shines the sun upon the white walls wreathed [385]
With flowers and leafy branches, in that lone
And sheltered quiet, where the mourner breathed
His future anguish; pleasant there the tone
Of bees; the shadows, o’er still waters thrown,
From the broad plane-tree; in the grey church nigh,
And near that altar where his faith was known,
Humble as his own spirit we descry
The record which denotes where sacred ashes lie.

And be it so for ever;—it is glory.
Tombs, mausoleums, scrolls, whose weak intent
Time laughs to scorn, as he blots out their story,
Are not the mighty spirit’s monument.
He builds with the world’s wonder—his cement
Is the world’s love;—he lamps his beamy shrine,
With fires of the soul’s essence, which, unspent,
Burn on for ever;—such bright tomb is thine,
Great patriot, and so rests thy peerless Catherine.

So ends the poem of “The Desolation of Eyam.” Its authors, in one of the notes, relate as follows:—

There are extant three letters written by W. Mompesson, from the nearly depopulated place, at a time when his wife had been snatched from him by the plague, and he considered his own fate inevitable. In the whole range of literature, we know of nothing more pathetic than these letters. Our limits do not allow us to give them entire, but we cannot forbear making a few extracts. In one, he says,

“The condition of this place has been so sad, that I persuade myself it did exceed all history and example. I may truly say that our town has become a Golgotha—the place of a skull; and, had there not been a small remnant of us left, we had been as Sodom and Gomorrah. My ears never heard such doleful lamentations, and my eyes never beheld such ghastly spectacles. Here have been seventy-six families visited in my parish, out of which two hundred and fifty-nine persons died! Now, blessed be God—all our fears are over: for none have died of the infection since the eleventh of October; and all the pest-houses have been long empty. I intend (God willing) to spend most of this week in seeing all the woollen clothes fumed and purified, as well for the satisfaction, as for the safety of the country.”

Thus it is he announces to his children, the death of their mother.

“To my dear children, George and Elizabeth Mompesson, these present with my blessing.

“Eyam, August, 1666.

“Dear Hearts,—This brings you the doleful news of your dear mother’s death—the greatest loss which ever yet befell you! I am not only deprived of a kind and loving consort, but you also are bereaved of the most indulgent mother that ever dear children had. We must comfort ourselves in God with this consideration, that the loss is only ours, and that what is our sorrow is her gain. The consideration of her joys, which I do assure myself are unutterable, should refresh our drooping spirits.

“I do believe, my dear hearts, upon sufficient ground, that she was the kindest wife in the world; and I do think from my soul that she loved me ten times more than herself. Further, I can assure you, my sweet babes, that her love to you was little inferior to hers for me. For why should she be so desirous of my living in this world of sorrows, but that you might have the comfort of my life. You little imagine with what delight she was wont to talk of you both; and the pains that she took when you sucked on her breasts is almost incredible. She gave a large testimony of her love to you on her death-bed. For, some hours before she died, I brought her some cordials, which she plainly told me she was not able to take. I desired her to take them for your dear sakes. Upon the mention of your dear names, she lifted up herself and took them; which was to let me understand, that whilst she had strength left, she would embrace any opportunity she had of testifying her affection to you.”

So wrote this most affectionate spirit to comfort his children: but, in a letter to a relative, the bitterness of his grief burst forth in an inconsolable agony. “I find this maxim verified by too sad experience; Bonum magis carendo quam fruendo cernitur. Had I been so thankful as my condition did deserve, I might yet have had my dearest dear in my bosom. But now, farewell all happy days, and God grant I may repent my sad ingratitude.”

The following letter was written to sir George Saville, afterwards lord Hallifax, his friend and patron, soon after this melancholy event, and while the plague was in his house, and he looked upon his own death as certain, and speedily approaching.

“To Sir George Saville, Baronet.

“Eyam, Sept. 1, 1666.

“Honoured and dear sir,—This is the saddest news that ever my pen could write! The destroying angel having taken up his quarters within my habitation, my dearest dear is gone to her eternal rest; and is invested with a crown of righteousness, having made a happy end.

“Indeed had she loved herself as well as me, she had fled from the pit of destruction with her sweet babes, and might have prolonged her days, but that she was resolved to die a martyr to my interest. My drooping spirits are much refreshed with her joys, which I think are unutterable.

“Sir, this paper is to bid you a hearty farewell for ever—and to bring my humble thanks for all your noble favours; and I hope that you will believe a dying man. I have as much love as honour for you; and I will bend my feeble knees to the God of Heaven that you, my dear lady and your children, and their children, may be blest with external and eternal happiness; and that the same blessing may fall upon my lady Sunderland and her relations.

“Dear sir, let your dying chaplain recommend this truth to you and your family—that no happiness nor solid comfort may be found in this vale of tears like living a pious life;—and pray remember ever to retain this rule—never to do any thing upon which you dare not first ask the blessing of God for the success thereof.

“Sir, I have made bold in my will with your name as an executor, and I hope that you will not take it ill. I have joined two others with you that will take from you the trouble. Your favourable aspect will, I know, be a great comfort to my distressed orphans. I am not desirous that they may be great, but good; and my next request is that they may be brought up in the fear and admonition of the Lord.

“I desire, sir, that you will be pleased to make choice of an humble, pious man to succeed me in my parsonage; and, could I see your face before my departure from hence, I would inform you which way I think he may live comfortably amongst his people, which would be some satisfaction to me before I die. And with tears I beg, that, when you are praying for fatherless infants, you would then remember my two pretty babes. Sir, pardon the rude style of this paper, and if my head be discomposed, you cannot wonder at me. However, be pleased to believe that I am

Dear sir,
Your most obliged, most affectionate,
and grateful servant,
“William Mompesson.”

When first the plague broke out in Eyam, Mr. Mompesson wrote to the then earl of Devonshire, residing at Chatworth, some five miles from Eyam; stating, that he thought he could prevail upon his parishioners to confine themselves within the limits of the village, if the surrounding country would supply them with necessaries, leaving such provisions as should be requested in appointed places, and at appointed hours, upon the encircling hills. The proposal was punctually complied with; and it is most remarkable, that when the pestilence became, beyond all conception, terrible, not a single inhabitant attempted to pass the deathful boundaries of the village, though a regiment of soldiers could not, in that rocky and open country, have detained them against their will: much less could any watch, which might have been set by the neighbourhood, have effected that infinitely important purpose.

By the influence of this exemplary man, obtained by his pious and affectionate virtues, the rest of the county of Derby escaped the plague; not one of the very nearly neighbouring hamlets, or even a single house, being infected beyond the limits of Eyam village, though the distemper raged there near seven months.

Further details will hardly be required respecting a story, which is as true as it is sad. The manner wherein it is poetically related is sufficiently exemplified, and therefore, without comment; and for beauties, various as the scenery of nature, expressed in charmed lines, the reader of feeling is referred to the exquisite little volume mentioned before, under the title of “The Desolation of Eyam, and other Poems; by William and Mary Howitt, authors of the Forest Minstrel, &c.”

A little piece, however, is ventured from the volume, as a seasonable conclusion at parting.

SUMMER AND THE POET.

POET.

Oh! golden, golden summer,
What is it thou hast done?
Thou hast chased each vernal roamer
With thy fiercely burning sun.

Glad was the cuckoo’s hail;
Where may we hear it now?
Thou hast driven the nightingale
From the waving hawthorn bough.

Thou hast shrunk the mighty river;
Thou hast made the small brook flee;
And the light gales faintly quiver
In the dark and shadowy tree.

Spring waked her tribes to bloom,
And on the green sward dance.
Thou hast smitten them to the tomb
With thy consuming glance.

And now Autumn cometh on,
Singing ’midst shocks of corn,
Thou hastenest to be gone,
As if joy might not be borne.

SUMMER.

And dost thou of me complain,
Thou, who, with dreamy eyes,
In the forest’s moss hast lain,
Praising my silvery skies?

Thou, who didst deem divine
The shrill cicada’s tune,
When the odours of the pine
Gushed through the woods at noon?

I have run my fervid race;
I have wrought my task once more;
I have filled each fruitful place
With a plenty that runs o’er.

There is treasure for the garner;
There is honey with the bee;
And, oh! thou thankless scorner,
There’s a parting boon for thee.

Soon as, in misty sadness,
Sere Autumn yields his reign,
Winter, with stormy madness,
Shall chase thee from the plain.

Then shall these scenes Elysian
Bright in thy spirit burn;
And each summer-thought and vision
Be thine till I return.

It may be remembered that from this volume the poem of “Penn and the Indians,” in a [former sheet], was extracted.

Mompesson’s Pulpit in the Rock.

Mompesson’s Pulpit in the Rock.

—————Bursting through that woody screen
What vision of strange aspect met his eyes!
In that fantastic temple’s porch was seen
The youthful pastor ——————
————————No sabbath sound
Came from the village;—no rejoicing bells
Were heard; no groups of strolling youth were found,
Nor lovers loitering on the distant fells,
No laugh, no shout of infancy, which tells
Where radiant health and happiness repair;
But silence, such as with the lifeless dwells.

The Desolation of Eyam.

A plate in the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of September, 1801, presents the [above view], taken about three years before, accompanied by a remark from Mr. Urban’s correspondent, that it was “at that time an exact resemblance of the perforated rock near the village of Eyam, in which the pious and worthy Mr. Mompesson, the rector, punctually performed the duties of his office to the distressed inhabitants during the time of the plague in that village.”

Here it may be well to observe, in the expressive language of “William and Mary Howitt,” that “what a cordon of soldiers could not have accomplished was effected by the wisdom and love of one man. This measure was the salvation of the country. The plague, which would most probably have spread from place to place, may be said to have been hemmed in, and, in a dreadful and desolating struggle, destroyed and buried with its victims.”

William Mompesson exercised a power greater than legislators have yet attained. He had found the great secret of government. He ruled his flock by the Law of Kindness.

In the summer, 1757, five cottagers were digging on the heathy mountain above Eyam, which was the place of graves after the church-yard became a too narrow repository. Those men came to something which had the appearance of having once been linen. Conscious of their situation, they instantly buried it again. In a few days they all sickened of a putrid fever, and three of the five died. The disorder was contagious, and proved mortal to numbers of the inhabitants.

[383] Vol. lxxi. p. 300.

[384] The great and good Howard visited Eyam the year before he last left England, to examine in that village the records of the pestilential calamity which it had endured, and of those virtues which resembled his own.

[385] Eakring rectory.

Garrick Plays.
No. XXXVII.

[From “Ram Alley,” a Comedy, by Lodowick Barry, 1611.]

In the Prologue the Poet protests the innocence of his Play, and gives a promise of better things.

Home bred mirth our Muse doth sing;
The Satyr’s tooth, and waspish sting.
Which most do hurt when least suspected,
By this Play are not affected.
But if conceit, with quick-turn’d scenes,
Observing all those ancient streams
Which from the Horse-foot fount do flow—
As time, place, person—and to show
Things never done, with that true life,
That thoughts and wits shall stand at strife,
Whether the things now shewn be true;
Or whether we ourselves now do
The things we but present: if these,
Free from the loathsome Stage-disease,
So over-worn, so tired and stale;
Not satyrising, but to rail;—
May win your favors, and inherit
But calm acceptance of his merit,—
He vows by paper, pen, and ink,
And by the Learned Sisters’ drink,
To spend his time, his lamps, his oil,
And never cease his brain to toil,
Till from the silent hours of night
He doth produce, for your delight,
Conceits so new, so harmless free,
That Puritans themselves may see
A Play; yet not in public preach,
That Players such lewd doctrine teach,
That their pure joints do quake and tremble,
When they do see a man resemble
The picture of a villain.—This,
As he a friend to Muses is,
To you by me he gives his word,
Is all his Play does now afford.

[From the “Royal King and Loyal Subject,” a Tragi-comedy, by T. Heywood, 1627.]

In the Prologue to this Play, Heywood descants upon the variety of topics, which had been introduced upon the English stage in that age,—the rich Shakspearian epoch.

To give content to this most curious age,
The Gods themselves we’ve brought down to the stage,
And figured them in Planets; made ev’n Hell
Deliver up the Furies, by no spell
Saving the Muses’ raptures: further we
Have traffickt by their help; no History
We’ve left unrifled; our pens have been dipt
As well in opening each hid manuscript,
As tracts more vulgar, whether read or sung,
In our domestic or more foreign tongue.
Of Fairy elves, Nymphs of the Sea and Land,
The Lawns and Groves, no number can be scann’d,
Which we’ve not given feet to. Nay, ’tis known,
That when our Chronicles have barren grown
Of story, we have all Invention stretcht;
Dived low as to the center, and then reacht
Unto the Primum Mobile above,
(Nor ’scaped Things Intermediate), for your love
These have been acted often; all have past
Censure: of which some live, and some are cast.
For this [386] in agitation, stay the end;
Tho’ nothing please, yet nothing can offend.

[From the “Challenge to Beauty,” a Tragi-comedy, by T. Heywood, 1636.]

In the Prologue to this Play, Heywood commends the English Plays; not without a censure of some writers, who in his time had begun to degenerate.

The Roman and Athenian Dramas far
Differ from us: and those that frequent are
In Italy and France, ev’n in these days,
Compared with ours, are rather Jiggs than Plays.
Like of the Spanish may be said, and Dutch;
None, versed in language, but confess them such.
They do not build their projects on that ground;
Nor have their phrases half the weight and sound,
Our labour’d Scenes have had. And yet our nation
(Already too much tax’d for imitation,
In seeking to ape others) cannot ’quit
Some of our Poets, who have sinn’d in it.
For where, before, great Patriots, Dukes, and Kings,
Presented for some high facinorous things [387]
Were the stage subject; now we strive to fly
In their low pitch, who never could soar high:
For now the common argument entreats
Of puling Lovers, crafty Bawds, or Cheats.
Nor blame I their quick fancies, who can fit
These queasy times with humours flash’d in wit,
Whose art I both encourage and commend;
I only wish that they would sometimes bend
To memorise the valours of such men,
Whose very names might dignify the pen;
And that our once-applauded Rosscian strain
In acting such might be revived again;
Which you to count’nance might the Stage make proud,
And poets strive to key their strings more loud.

C. L.

[386] His own Play.

[387] The foundations of the English Drama were laid deep in tragedy by Marlow, and others—Marlow especially—while our comedy was yet in its lisping state. To this tragic preponderance (forgetting his own sweet Comedies, and Shakspeare’s), Heywood seems to refer with regret; as in the “Rosscian Strain” he evidently alludes to Alleyn, who was great in the “Jew of Malta,” as Heywood elsewhere testifies, and in the principal tragic parts both of Marlow and Shakspeare.

Wrestling
IN CORNWALL AND DEVONSHIRE.

To the Editor.

Sir,—The ready insertion given to my letter on the above subject, in the second volume of the Every-Day Book, (p. 1009,) encourages me to hope that you will as readily insert the present, which enters more fully into the merits of this ancient sport, as practised in both counties, than any other communication you have as yet lain before your numerous readers.

Having been the first person to call your attention to the merits of Polkinhorne, Parkins, and Warren, of Cornwall, (to which I could easily have added the names of some dozen or two more, equally deserving of notice,) I was much amused at the article you extracted from the London Magazine, (into the Every-Day Book, vol. ii. p. 1337,) because I was present at the sport there spoken of; and being well acquainted with the play, and an eye-witness, I found the picture much too highly coloured.

I am neither a Cornwall nor a Devon man myself, but have resided in both counties for the last ten years, and am really an admirer of Abraham Cann, of Devon, whose behaviour in the ring no one can at all complain of: he is a fine fellow, but so is Polkinhorne, and, beyond doubt, the latter is “much the better man;” he threw Cann an acknowledged fair fall, and I regret he left the ring on the bad advice of those whom he thought then his friends. Had he not, I am certain he would have thrown Cann “over and over again.”

In a late number of the Table Book ([p. 416]) is given an extract from Homer, to show that Ulysses’ mode of wrestling was similar to that of Abraham Cann; it may be so; but what does Achilles say upon the subject:—

“Your nobler vigour, oh, my friends, restrain:
Nor weary out your gen’rous strength in vain.
Ye both have won: let others who excel
Now prove that prowess you have prov’d so well.”

Now Abraham Cann, with his monstrous shoe, and most horrible mode of kicking, has never yet been able to throw Polkinhorne, nor do I think he has the power or skill to enable him to do so. His defeat of Gaffney has added no laurel to his brow, for the Irishman had not a shadow of chance; nor is there an Irishman or a Cornishman, now in London, that would stand any chance with Cann; but he would find several awkward opponents if he would meet those from Westmoreland, Carlisle, and Cumberland, and play in their mode. In the match, however, between Polkinhorne and Cann the latter very properly received the stakes, on account of the former having quitted the ring on conceiving he had won the day, by throwing two falls. The second throw, on reference to the umpires, was after some time deemed not a fair back fall.—This, however, is foreign to my purpose; which is to systematically explain the methods of wrestling in Cornwall and Devon.

I have seen in Cornwall more persons present at these games, when the prize has only been a gold-laced hat, a waistcoat, or a pair of gloves, than ever attend the sports of Devon, (where the prizes are very liberal—for they don’t like to be kicked severely for a trifle,) or even at the famed meetings of later days in London, at the Eagle in the City Road, or the Golden Eagle in Mile End. How is this? Why, in the latter places, six, eight, and, at farthest, twelve standards are as much as a day’s play will admit of; while in Cornwall I have seen forty made in one day. At Penzance, on Monday, 24th ult.,[388] thirty standards were made, and the match concluded the day following. In Devon, what with the heavy shoes and thick padding, and time lost in equipment and kicking, half that number cannot be made in a day: I have frequently seen men obliged to leave the ring, and abandon the chance of a prize, owing solely to the hurt they have received by kicks from the knee downwards; and let me here add, that I have been present when even Cann’s brothers, or relations, have been obliged to do so. So much for kicking.—To the eye of a beholder unacquainted with wrestling, the Cornish mode must appear as play, and that of Devon barbarous.—It is an indisputable fact, that no Cornish wrestler of any note ever frequents the games in Devon; and that whenever those from Devon have played in Cornwall; they have been thrown: Jordan by Parkins, and so on.

At a Cornish wrestling, a man’s favourite play can be seen by the hitch or holdfast he takes; as right or left, which is sure to be crossed by left and right, and the struggle immediately commences. The off-hand play is that in which the men have each a gripe on his adversary’s collar, or on the collar and opposite elbow, or wrist; when by a sudden blow against the outside of the foot, by the striker’s inside, (if strong enough,) or by a corresponding twist of the collar, one lays the other flat on his back. This is called playing with the toe; but they never wear any shoes, and are generally bare-legged from the knee downwards.

When the hitch is collar and elbow, one mode of play is to lift with the heel placed in the fork, with the back twisted round towards the other’s front, and pulling him strongly by the elbow and collar, carry him forward; but a back fall is then uncertain. Another way is to heave forward or backward with the crook, or inlock, or with the hip.

But the struggle is on what is termed the closing play, which is by hitching over and under. If righthanded, the over player has his right hand on the loins, or over the right shoulder of his adversary, with his right side towards him, and his left hand on the right arm, at the wrist or elbow; he then throws forward with the hip, or backward and forward with the crook, as before.

The under player has his right hand on the left side of the collar, his left crossing the loins on the back, or crossing the belly in front, and facing his opponent’s left side. His defensive play is to stop the hip by the clamp and the crook; by pushing forward with his left hand on the nape of the neck, and then heaving; which in the ring is considered the best play. A good and sure heaver is a perfect player. It must be done backward, if the arm crosses the back; but if it crosses the belly, either backward or forward will do. Cann was thrown by Polkinhorne backwards, which is dangerous to the heaver to attempt; for, if he does not lift with sufficient strength, and keep himself clear of his antagonist’s legs, he will not go far enough round, and instead of throwing his adversary a fair fall, he may fall on his own back, which is termed throwing himself; or his adversary may crook his leg within, and overbalance the heaver and by a quick movement throw him. Thus was Warren thrown by Cann. (See the Every-Day Book, vol. ii. p. 1337.)

The forward heave, if done quickly, is certain. Both arms must cross the belly, and your adversary be lifted across your chest; then, plunging forward, you fall on him crosswise; he has thus no chance, and the fall is complete; but the in-turn, if adopted before the lift from the ground takes place, baffles the heaver.

The Cornish hug is a tremendous struggle for victory. Both grasp alike, and not much science is required. It only takes place where each conceives himself to be the stronger of the two. It is either right or left. If right, each man has his right hand on the other’s loins on the left side, and his left hand on the right shoulder; they stand face to face, and each strives to draw his adversary towards him, and grasps him round the waist, till the hug becomes close, and the weakest man is forced backward—the other falling heavily upon him. This is a very sure and hard fall. So much for Cornish play. Now for that of Devonshire; which resembles in every respect (the toe and heel excepted) the off-hand play of Cornwall, but goes no farther.

The Devonshire men have no under-play, nor have they one heaver; and they do not understand or practise the hug. Visit a Devon ring, and you’ll wait a tedious time after a man is thrown ere another appears. After undergoing the necessary preparations for a good kicking, &c. he enters, and shakes his adversary by the hand, and kicks and lays hold when he can get a fit opportunity. If he is conscious of superior strength he “goes to work,” and by strength of arms wrests him off his legs, and lays him flat; or, if too heavy for this, he carries him round by the hip. But when the men find they are “much of a muchness” it is really tiresome: “caution” is the word; the shoe, only, goes to work; and after dreadful hacking, cutting, and kicking, one is at last thrown. The hardest shoe and the best kicker carries the day. Cann is a very hard kicker and a cautious wrestler. The Irishman’s legs bore ample testimony of the effects of Cann’s shoe. He left him knee-deep in a stream of gore.

The Devon men never close with a Cornish adversary, if they find he possesses any science; because they have no underplay, and cannot prevent the risk of being heaved: they therefore stand off, with only one hand in the collar, and kick; the Cornishman then attempts to get in, and the Devonman tries to confine one of his opponent’s arms by holding him at the wrist, and keeping him from coming in either over or under, and at every move of his leg kicking it. Here ends the description; by which it will be plainly seen that a Cornishman cannot enter a Devon ring on any thing like an equality.

Wishing well to both counties, and disclaiming undue partiality to either, I remain a true lover of wrestling as a rustic sport, and your obedient servant,

Sam Sam’s Son.

October 8, 1827.

[388] See the West Briton paper of the 5th October.

Discoveries
OF THE
ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.
No. XII.

Ether—Weight and Elasticity of the Air—Air-guns.

By ether the moderns understand a rare fluid, or species of matter, beyond the atmosphere, and penetrating it, infinitely more subtile than the air we respire, of an immense extent, filling all the spaces where the celestial bodies roll, yet making no sensible resistance to their motions. Some suppose it to be a sort of air, much purer than that which invests our globe; others, that its nature approaches to that of the celestial fire, which emanates from the sun and other stars; others, again, suppose it to be generically different from all other matter, sui generis, and its parts finer than those of light; alleging that the exceeding tenuity of its parts renders it capable of that vast expansive force, which is the source of all that pressure and dilatation whence most of the phenomena in nature arise; for that by the extreme subtilty of its parts it intimately penetrates all bodies, and exerts its energy everywhere. This last is the opinion of Newton and Locke. But whatever be the sentiments now entertained on the subject, we find the origin of all of them in the ancients.

The stoics taught, that there was a subtile and active fire which pervaded the whole universe, that by the energy of this ethereal substance, to which they gave the name of ether, all the parts of nature were produced, preserved, and linked together; that it embraced every thing; and that in it the celestial bodies performed their revolutions.

According to Diogenes Laertius and Hierocles, Pythagoras affirmed, that the air which invests our earth is impure and mixed; but that the air above it is essentially pure and healthful. He calls it “free ether, emancipated from all gross matter, a celestial substance that fills all space, and penetrates at will the pores of all bodies.”

Aristotle, explaining Pythagoras’s opinion of ether, ascribes the same also to Anaxagoras. Aristotle himself, in another place, understands by ether, a fifth element pure and unalterable, of an active and vital nature, but entirely different from air and fire.

Empedocles, one of the most celebrated disciples of Pythagoras, is quoted by Plutarch, and St. Clemens Alexandrinus, as admitting an ethereal substance, which filled all space, and contained in it all the bodies of the universe, and which he calls by the names of Titan and Jupiter.

Plato distinguishes air into two kinds, the one gross and filled with vapours, which is what we breathe; the other “more refined, called ether, in which the celestial bodies are immerged, and where they roll.”

The nature of air was not less known to the ancients than that of ether. They regarded it as a general “menstruum,” containing all the volatile parts of every thing in nature, which being variously agitated, and differently combined, produced meteors, tempests, and all the other changes we experience. They also were acquainted with its weight, though the experiments transmitted to us, relative to this, are but few. Aristotle speaks of “a vessel filled with air as weighing more than one quite empty.” Treating of respiration, he reports the opinion of Empedocles, who ascribes the cause of it “to the weight of the air, which by its pressure insinuates itself with force” into the lungs. Plutarch, in the same terms, expresses the sentiments of Asclepiades. He represents him, among other things, as saying, that “the external air by its weight opens its way with force into the breast.” Heron of Alexandria ascribes effects to the elasticity of the air, which show that he perfectly understood that property of it.

Seneca also knew its weight, spring, and elasticity. He describes “the constant effort it makes to expand itself when it is compressed;” and he affirms, that “it has the property of condensing itself, and forcing its way through all obstacles that oppose its passage.”

It is still more surprising, however, that Ctesibius, “upon the principle of the air’s elasticity,” invented Wind-guns, which we look upon as a modern contrivance. Philo of Byzantium gives a very full and exact description of that curious machine, planned upon the property of the air’s being capable of condensation, and so constructed as to manage and direct the force of that element, in such a manner as to carry stones with rapidity to the greatest distance.

INSCRIBED ON A SIGN
At Castle Cary, Somerset.

FOOT,

Maker of pattens, clogs, rakes, and mouse-traps too,
Grinds razors, makes old umbrellas good as new:
Knives bladed, spurs and lanterns mended; other jobs done;
Teakettles clean’d, repaired, and carried home.

J. T. H.