PRESERVATION OF FLOWERS.
A few grains of salt dropped into the water in which flowers are kept, tends greatly to preserve them from fading, and will keep them fresh and in bloom, double the period that pure water will.
For the Table Book.
LETTER FROM A VILLAGE.
To Mr. Charles Pickworth.
Lincolnshire, — June, 1815.
Dear Charles,—You remember our meeting the other day—I shall.—It’s a long time since we ran riot, and got into mischief together—trundled our hoops, gathered flowers in summer, and rolled in the snow in winter. There is a dim pleasure in the remembrance of our late interview, and that of these isolated scenes of our childhood: they are as faint gleams of sunshine in a gloomy day. I don’t like, however, to reflect upon being handwhipped, and put into the corner: the fears of that age are dreadful—I see my aunt’s frown now, and hear her snap at me. But then again, it was over her grounds that we chased the hours away as heedlessly as the butterflies. The homeclose-yard and kitchen garden—how pleasant to remember them! The buzzard, you know, guarded the fruit-garden, and kept us from the gooseberry-trees and strawberry-beds; but in the others what a thousand frolics have we sported in, and in what a thousand contrivances exercised our infant minds. Every joy comes to my mind—I forget every hardship. The coachman!—what would he not do for us! Bethink yourself—he had been in the family a quarter of a century. How proud he was of it; how fussy and fond of his favourite horses; how he used to pat them when out with the carriage. You don’t forget that the old people continued the fashion of postilions very long—but there is no end to remembrance.—I’ll stop——
You say in my behaviour the other day you saw the traces of my boyhood. You compliment me. Children are selfish; they perhaps may have but little to call their young feelings forth; for feelings must be met half-way. I remember some young feelings with delight still. I fancy I have not that ecstasy now that the mind was tuned to then. Children have but few friendships: the reason may be, that they have few objects to engage them. This observation is vain—elder people have but few friendships, and for the same reason. I had been more correct if I had said, they are but little capable of a friendly disposition. The former is a fact—this a speculation. You saw at the party wherein we last met, how eager all the youngsters were to have their gallop in what they considered their proper turn round the large close. This is a fair sample of mankind in all their pursuits—of every age, old or young. I waved my turn for you; and though I had a joyous idea of flying round the course, I had more pleasure in seeing you gratified. It is well I hit upon my old friend in my politeness; the others would have laughed at me. The upper part of society profess more politeness than the lower; the human heart is the same in both. The upper classes have more forms, and the lower may say they are fools for their pains:—the upper bow slavishly to each other; the lower do not. With the former it is of service, but of none among the latter. For if among the ambitious and supercilious of mankind it were not a matter of pride to know and do this homage, one half of them would be turning up their noses, and tossing their heads at the other. When I see a great man bow, I always think he wants to creep into a greater man’s esteem.——
Excuse this wandering. I like to generalize mankind, and cast up the proper value of every thing around me—the use is immense: hence flows philosophy. I decide between grovelling and glorious ambition; and, clearing myself of the former, am eased of impediment in the pursuit of the latter. The consequence is, that I care nothing for wealth, provided I have competence; that I can take up my abode with pleasure among poor people, and not turn squeamish at sight of a fustian jacket; that I like the humour of farm-houses, and would dine with a couple of vagabonds, without fear of infection, amply compensated by the observation of their vein; and looking upon the beauty of nature as the source of all pleasure, far and wide as she extends, in this hole and cabin, my own appropriate spot, my aim is to keep my health as the furtherance of a superior object.
My maxim is—necessaries; that is, outward comfort and health. Observe it.
Your affectionate friend,
C. O.
For the Table Book.
GRASSINGTON FEAST.
Clock Dressings.
During the continuance of “Grassington Feast,” it is customary for the inhabitants to have convivial parties at one another’s houses: these are called clock dressings; for the guests are invited to come and “dress the clock.” Grassington feast was once one of the largest and most celebrated one in Craven, but it is fast dwindling away. This year the amusements were of a paltry description; and the sack racers, bell racers, hasty-pudding eaters, and soaped-pig catchers, who used to afford in former times such an unceasing fund of merriment, seem all fled. Nothing told of olden time, except the presence of Frank King, the Skipton minstrel, who seems determined to be in at the death.
T. Q. M.
A FRAGMENT
Found in a Skeleton Case at the Royal Academy,
Supposed to have been written by one of the Students, and deposited there by him.
Sceletos.
Behold this Ruin! ’twas a skull,
Once of ethereal spirit full,
This narrow cell was life’s retreat,
This space was thought’s mysterious seat.
What beauteous pictures fill’d this spot!
What dreams of pleasure long forgot!
Nor Love, nor Joy, nor Hope, nor Fear,
Has left one trace or record here.
Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye!
But start not at the dismal void,
If social love that eye employ’d;
If with no lawless fire it gleam’d,
But thro’ the dew of kindness beam’d,
The eye shall be for ever bright,
When stars and suns have lost their light.
Here in this silent cavern hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue,
If falsehood’s honey it disdain’d,
And where it could not praise, was chain’d;
If bold in virtue’s cause—it spoke,
Yet gentle concord never broke,
That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee,
When Death unveils eternity.
Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
Or with its envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock, or wear the gem,
Can nothing now avail to them:
But if the page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer mead shall claim
Than all that waits on wealth and fame.
Avails it whether bare or shod,
These feet the path of duty trod?
If from the bowers of joy they fled
To seek affliction’s humble bed,
If grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurn’d,
And home to virtue’s hope return’d,
These feet with angel wings shall fly,
And tread the palace of the sky.[442]
[442] From the Morning Chronicle, Sept. 14, 1821.