PRIDE AND GOOD-WILL.

It is related of a certain class of French nobility, who, in their winter residence at Aix, were objects of dislike from their arrogance and self-importance, that they were beloved and esteemed for their kindness and benevolence by the dependants around their chateaus in the country. Many instances might be cited to show that the respect paid them was no more than they deserved; and one is particularly striking:—

A seigneur, when he resided in the country, used to distribute among the women and children, and the old men who were unable to work in the field, raw wool, and flax, which they spun and wove into cloth or stuff at their pleasure: every week they were paid wages according to the quantity of work done, and had a fresh supply of raw materials whenever it was wanted. At the end of the year, a general feast was given by the seigneur to the whole village, when all who had been occupied in spinning and weaving brought in their work, and a prize of a hundred livres was given to each person who had spun the best skein, and woven the best web. They had a dinner in a field adjoining to the chateau, at which the seigneur himself presided, and on each side of him sat those who had gained the prizes. The evening was concluded with a dance. The victors, besides the hundred livres, had their work given them: the rest were allowed to purchase theirs at a very moderate price, and the money resulting from it was laid by to distribute among any persons of the village who wanted relief on account of sickness, or who had suffered from unavoidable accident, either in their persons or property. At the death of this excellent man, who unfortunately left no immediate heirs to follow his good example, the village presented a scene of the bitterest lamentation and distress: the peasants assembled round the body, and it was almost forced away from them for interment. They brought their shuttles, their distaffs, their skeins of thread and worsted, their pieces of linen and stuff, and strewed them upon his grave, saying that now they had lost their patron and benefactor, they could no longer be of use to them. If this man felt the pride of conscious superiority, it was scarcely to be condemned when accompanied with such laudable exertions to render himself, through that superiority, a benefactor to society.[38]

[38] Miss Plumptre.

Garrick Plays.
No. II.

[From the “Parliament of Bees,” a Masque, by John Day, printed 1607. Whether this singular production, in which the Characters are all Bees, was ever acted, I have no information to determine. It is at least as capable of representation, as we can conceive the “Birds” of Aristophanes to have been.]

Ulania, a female Bee, confesses her passion for Meletus, who loves Arethusa.

—— not a village Fly, nor meadow Bee,
That trafficks daily on the neighbour plain,
But will report, how all the Winged Train
Have sued to me for Love; when we have flown
In swarms out to discover fields new blown.
Happy was he could find the forward’st tree,
And cull the choicest blossoms out for me;
Of all their labours they allow’d me some
And (like my champions) mann’d me out, and home:
Yet loved I none of them. Philon, a Bee
Well-skill’d in verse and amorous poetry,
As we have sate at work, both of one Rose,[39]
Has humm’d sweet Canzons, both in verse and prose,
Which I ne’er minded. Astrophel, a Bee
(Although not so poetical as he)
Yet in his full invention quick and ripe,
In summer evenings, on his well-tuned pipe,
Upon a woodbine blossom in the sun,
(Our hive being clean-swept, and our day’s work done),
Would play me twenty several tunes; yet I
Nor minded Astrophel, nor his melody.
Then there’s Amniter, for whose love fair Leade
(That pretty Bee) flies up and down the mead
With rivers in her eyes; without deserving
Sent me trim Acorn bowls of his own carving,
To drink May dews and mead in. Yet none of these,
My hive-born Playfellows and fellow Bees,
Could I affect, until this strange Bee came;
And him I love with such an ardent flame,
Discretion cannot quench.—
He labours and toils,
Extracts more honey out of barren soils
Than twenty lazy Drones. I have heard my Father,
Steward of the Hive, profess that he had rather
Lose half the Swarm than him. If a Bee, poor or weak,
Grows faint on his way, or by misfortune break
A wing or leg against a twig; alive,
Or dead, he’ll bring into the Master’s Hive
Him and his burthen. But the other day,
On the next plain there grew a fatal fray
Betwixt the Wasps and us; the wind grew high,
And a rough storm raged so impetuously,
Our Bees could scarce keep wing; then fell such rain,
It made our Colony forsake the plain,
And fly to garrison: yet still He stood,
And ’gainst the whole swarm made his party good;
And at each blow he gave, cried out His Vow,
His Vow, and Arethusa!—On each bough
And tender blossom he engraves her name
With his sharp sting. To Arethusa’s fame
He consecrates his actions; all his worth
Is only spent to character her forth.
On damask roses, and the leaves of pines,
I have seen him write such amorous moving lines
In Arethusa’s praise, as my poor heart
Has, when I read them, envied her desert;
And wept and sigh’d to think that he should be
To her so constant, yet not pity me.

***

Porrex, Vice Roy of Bees under King Oberon, describes his large prerogative.

To Us (who, warranted by Oberon’s love.
Write Ourself Master Bee), both field and grove,
Garden and orchard, lawns and flowery meads,
(Where the amorous wind plays with the golden heads
Of wanton cowslips, daisies in their prime,
Sun-loving marigolds; the blossom’d thyme,
The blue-vein’d violets and the damask rose;
The stately lily, Mistress of all those);
Are allow’d and giv’n, by Oberon’s free areed,
Pasture for me, and all my swarms to feed.

—————the doings,
The births, the wars, the wooings,

of these pretty little winged creatures are with continued liveliness portrayed throughout the whole of this curious old Drama, in words which Bees would talk with, could they talk; the very air seems replete with humming and buzzing melodies, while we read them. Surely Bees were never so be-rhymed before.

C. L.

[39] Prettily pilfered from the sweet passage in the Midsummer Night’s Dream, where Helena recounts to Hermia their school-days’ friendship:

We, Hermia, like two artificial Gods,
Created with our needles both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion.