THE DEATH OF THE RED KING
“Come, listen to a tale of times of old;
Come, for ye know me.”
Southey.
Who is it that rides thro’ the forest so green,
And gazes with joy on the beautiful scene,
With the gay prancing war-horse, and helmeted head?
’Tis the monarch of England, stern William the Red.
Why starts the proud courser? what vision is there?
The trees are scarce mov’d by the still breathing air—
All is hush’d, save the wild bird that carols on high,
The forest bee’s hum, and the rivulet’s sigh.
But, lo! a dark form o’er the pathway hath lean’d
’Tis the druid of Malwood, the wild forest-fiend
The terror of youth, of the aged the fear—
The prophet of Cadenham, the death-boding seer!
His garments were black as the night-raven’s plume.
His features were veil’d in mysterious gloom,
His lean arm was awfully rais’d while he said,
“Well met, England’s monarch, stern William the Red!
“Desolation, death, ruin, the mighty shall fall—
Lamentation and woe reign in Malwood’s wide hall!
Those leaves shall all fade in the winter’s rude blast,
And thou shalt lie low ere the winter be past.”
“Thou liest, vile caitiff, ’tis false, by the rood,
For know that the contract is seal’d with my blood,
’Tis written, I never shall sleep in the tomb
Till Cadenham’s oak in the winter shall bloom!
“But say what art thou, strange, unsearchable thing,
That dares to speak treason, and waylay a king?”—
“Know, monarch, I dwell in the beautiful bowers
Of Eden, and poison I shed o’er the flowers.
“In darkness and storm o’er the ocean I sail,
I ride on the breath of the night-rolling gale—
I dwell in Vesuvius, ’mid torrents of flame,
Unriddle my riddle, and tell me my name!”
O pale grew the monarch, and smote on his breast,
For who was the prophet he wittingly guess’d:
“O, Jesu-Maria!” he tremblingly said,
“Bona Virgo!”—he gazed—but the vision had fled.
’Tis winter—the trees of the forest are bare,
How keenly is blowing the chilly night air!
The moonbeams shine brightly on hard-frozen flood,
And William is riding thro’ Cadenham’s wood.
Why looks he with dread on the blasted oak tree?
Saint Swithin! what is it the monarch can see?
Prophetical sight! ’mid the desolate scene,
The oak is array’d in the freshest of green!
He thought of the contract, “Thou’rt safe from the tomb,
Till Cadenham’s oak in the winter shall bloom;”
He thought of the druid—“The mighty shall fall,
Lamentation and woe reign in Malwood’s wide hall.”
As he stood near the tree, lo! a swift flying dart
Hath struck the proud monarch, and pierc’d thro’ his heart;
’Twas the deed of a friend, not the deed of a foe,
For the arrow was aim’d at the breast of a roe.
In Malwood is silent the light-hearted glee,
The dance and the wassail, and wild revelrie;
Its chambers are dreary, deserted, and lone,
And the day of its greatness for ever hath flown.
A weeping is heard in Saint Swithin’s huge pile—
“Dies Iræ” resounds thro’ the sable-dight aisle—
’Tis a dirge for the mighty, the mass for the dead—
The funeral anthem for William the Red!
Aquila.
London.
Described by a Writer in 1634.
I will first take a survey of the long-continued deformity in the shape of your city, which is of your buildings.
Sure your ancestors contrived your narrow streets in the days of wheel-barrows, before those greater engines, carts, were invented. Is your climate so hot, that as you walk you need umbrellas of tiles to intercept the sun? or are your shambles so empty, that you are afraid to take in fresh air, lest it should sharpen your stomachs? Oh, the goodly landscape of Old Fish-street! which, if it had not the ill luck to be crooked, was narrow enough to have been your founder’s perspective; and where the garrets, perhaps not for want of architecture, but through abundance of amity, are so narrow, that opposite neighbours may shake hands without stirring from home. Is unanimity of inhabitants in wide cities better exprest than by their coherence and uniformity of building, where streets begin, continue, and end, in a like stature and shape?[45] But yours, as if they were raised in a general resurrection, where every man hath a several design, differ in all things that can make a distinction. Here stands one that aims to be a palace, and next it, one that professes to be a hovel; here a giant, there a dwarf; here slender, there broad; and all most admirably different in faces, as well as in their height and bulk. I was about to defy any Londoner, who dares to pretend there is so much ingenious correspondence in this city, as that he can show me one house like another; yet your houses seem to be reversed and formal, being compared to the fantastical looks of the moderns, which have more ovals, niches, and angles, than in your custards, and are enclosed with pasteboard walls, like those of malicious Turks, who, because themselves are not immortal, and cannot dwell for ever where they build, therefore wish not to be at charge to provide such lastingness as may entertain their children out of the rain; so slight and prettily gaudy, that if they could move, they would pass for pageants. It is your custom, where men vary often the mode of their habits, to term the nation fantastical; but where streets continually change fashion, you should make haste to chain up your city, for it is certainly mad.
You would think me a malicious traveller, if I should still gaze on your mis-shapen streets, and take no notice of the beauty of your river, therefore I will pass the importunate noise of your watermen, (who snatch at fares, as if they were to catch prisoners, plying the gentry so uncivilly, as if they had never rowed any other passengers than bear-wards,) and now step into one of your peascod-boats, whose tilts are not so sumptuous as the roofs of gondolas; nor, when you are within, are you at the ease of a chaise-à-bras.
The commodity and trade of your river belong to yourselves; but give a stranger leave to share in the pleasure of it, which will hardly be in the prospect and freedom of air; unless prospect, consisting of variety, be made up with here a palace, there a wood-yard; here a garden, there a brewhouse; here dwells a lord, there a dyer; and between both, duomo commune.
If freedom of air be inferred in the liberty of the subject, where every private man hath authority, for his own profit, to smoke up a magistrate, then the air of your Thames is open enough, because it is equally free. I will forbear to visit your courtly neighbours at Wapping, not that it will make me giddy to shoot your bridge, but that I am loath to describe the civil silence at Billingsgate, which is so great, as if the mariners were always landing to storm the harbour; therefore, for brevity’s sake, I will put to shore again, though I should be so constrained, even without my galoshes, to land at Puddle-dock.
I am now returned to visit your houses where the roofs are so low, that I presumed your ancestors were very mannerly, and stood bare to their wives; for I cannot discern how they could wear their high-crowned hats: yet I will enter, and therein oblige you much, when you know my aversion to a certain weed that governs amongst your coarser acquaintance, as much as lavender among your coarser linen; to which, in my apprehension, your sea-coal smoke seems a very Portugal perfume. I should here hasten to a period, for fear of suffocation, if I thought you so ungracious as to use it in public assemblies; and yet I see it grow so much in fashion, that methinks your children begin to play with broken pipes instead of corals, to make way for their teeth. You will find my visit short; I cannot stay to eat with you, because your bread is too heavy, and you distrain the light substance of herbs. Your drink is too thick, and yet you are seldom over curious in washing your glasses. Nor will I lodge with you, because your beds seem no bigger than coffins; and your curtains so short, as they will hardly serve to enclose your carriers in summer, and may be held, if taffata, to have lined your grandsire’s skirts.
I have now left your houses, and am passing through your streets, but not in a coach, for they are uneasily hung, and so narrow, that I took them for sedans upon wheels. Nor is it safe for a stranger to use them till the quarrel be decided, whether six of your nobles, sitting together, shall stop and give way to as many barrels of beer. Your city is the only metropolis in Europe, where there is wonderful dignity belonging to carts.
I would now make a safe retreat, but that methinks I am stopped by one of your heroic games called foot-ball; which I conceive (under your favour) not very conveniently civil in the streets, especially in such irregular and narrow roads as Crooked-lane. Yet it argues your courage, much like your military pastime of throwing at cocks; but your metal would be much magnified (since you have long allowed those two valiant exercises in the streets) were you to draw your archers from Finsbury, and, during high market, let them shoot at butts in Cheapside. I have now no more to say, but what refers to a few private notes, which I shall give you in a whisper, when we meet in Moorfields, from whence (because the place was meant for public pleasure, and to show the munificence of your city) I shall desire you to banish your laundresses and bleachers, whose acres of old linen make a show like the fields of Carthagena, when the five months’ shifts of the whole fleet are washed and spread.[46]
[45] If a disagreement of neighbours were to be inferred from such a circumstance, what but an unfavourable inference would be drawn from our modern style of architecture, as exemplified in Regent-street, where the houses are, as the leopard’s spots are described to be, “no two alike, and every one different.”
[46] Sir W. Davenant.
A FATHER’S HOME.
For the Table Book.
When oppress’d by the world, or fatigu’d with its charms,
My weary steps homeward I tread—
’Tis there, midst the prattlers that fly to my arms,
I enjoy purer pleasures instead.
Hark! the rap at the door is known as their dad’s,
And rushing at once to the lock,
Wide open it flies, while the lasses and lads
Bid me welcome as chief of the flock.
Little baby himself leaves the breast for a gaze
Glad to join in th’ general joy,
While with outstretched arms and looks of amaze
He seizes the new purchas’d toy.
Then Harry, the next, climbs the knee to engage
His father’s attention again;
But Bob, springing forward almost in a rage,
Resolves his own rights to maintain.
Oh, ye vot’ries of pleasure and folly’s sad crew,
From your midnight carousals depart!
Look here for true joys, ever blooming and new,
When I press both these boys to my heart.
Poor grimalkin purs softly—the tea-kettle sings,
Midst glad faces and innocent hearts,
Encircling my table as happy as kings,
Right merrily playing their parts.
And Bill (the sly rogue) takes a lump, when he’s able,
Of sugar, so temptingly sweet,
And, archly observing, hides under the table
The spoil, till he’s ready to eat.
While George, the big boy, talks of terrible “sums”
He perform’d so correctly at school;
Bill leeringly tells, with his chin on his thumbs,
“He was whipt there for playing the fool!”
This raises a strife, till in choleric mood
Each ventures a threat to his brother,
But their hearts are so good, let a stranger intrude,
They’d fight to the last for each other.
There Nan, the sweet girl, she that fags for the whole,
And keeps the young urchins in order,
Exhibits, with innocence charming the soul,
Her sister’s fine sampler and border.
Kitty sings to me gaily, then chatting apace
Helps her mother to darn or to stitch,
Reminding me most of that gay laughing face
Which once did my fond heart bewitch.
While she! the dear partner of all my delight,
Contrives them some innocent play;
Till, tired of all, in the silence of night,
They dream the glad moments away.
Oh, long may such fire-side scenes be my lot!
Ye children, be virtuous and true!
And think when I’m aged, alone in my cot,
How I minister’d comfort to you.
When my vigour is gone, and to manhood’s estate
Ye all shall be happily grown,
Live near me, and, anxious for poor father’s fate
Show the world that you’re truly my own.
Stanmore Toll-House.
Stanmore Toll-House.
Its ornamental look, and public use,
Combine to render it worth observation.
Our new toll-houses are deservedly the subject of frequent remark, on account of their beauty. The preceding [engraving] is intended to convey an idea of Stanmore-gate, which is one of the handsomest near London. The top is formed into a large lantern; when illuminated, it is an important mark to drivers in dark nights.
It may be necessary to add, that the present representation was not destined to appear in this place; but the indisposition of a gentleman engaged to assist in illustrating this work, has occasioned a sudden disappointment.