There is a treatise, by Claude Gadrois, on the Influences des Astres. Surely this merits perusal, when the Nouv. Dict. Hist. thus speaks of him:—"Il étoit ami du célebre Arnauld et méritoit de l'etre par la justesse de son esprit et la puretè de ses mœurs, par la bonté de son caractere et par la droiture de son cœur."
The following wise experiment occurs in an ancient book on husbandry; but if the two parties there mentioned had lived with Leonard Meager, one must not do him the injustice of supposing he would have been a convert to their opinion:—"Archibius is said to have written (or sent word most likely) to Antiochus, king of Syria, that if you bury a speckled toad inclosed in an earthen pot, in the middle of your garden, the same will be defended from all hurtful weather and tempests." Meager, however, is kept in countenance by Mr. Worlidge, who, in his chapter of Prognostics, at the end of his interesting Systemæ Agriculturæ, actually states that
If dog's guts rumble and make a noise, it presageth rain or snow.
The cat, by washing her face, and putting her foot over her ear, foreshews rain.
The squeaking and skipping up and down of mice and rats, portend rain.
Leonard Meager thus notices a nurseryman of his day:—"Here follows a catalogue of divers sorts of fruits, which I had of my very loving friend, Captain Garrle, dwelling at the great nursery between Spittlefields and Whitechapel; a very eminent and ingenious nurseryman." Perhaps this is the same nurseryman that Rea, in his Pomona, mentions. He says (after naming some excellent pear-trees) "they may be had out of the nurseries about London, especially those of Mr. Daniel Stepping, and Mr. Leonard Girle, who will faithfully furnish such as desire these, or any other kinds of rare fruit-trees, of whose fidelity in the delivery of right kinds, I have had long experience in divers particulars, a virtue not common to men of that profession." At this period, the space between Spittlefields and Whitechapel, must have consisted of gardens, and perhaps superb country houses. The Earl of Devonshire had a fine house and garden near Petticoat-lane. Sir W. Raleigh had one near Mile-end. Some one (I forget the author) says, "On both sides of this lane (Petticoat-lane) were anciently hedges and rows of elm trees, and the pleasantness of the neighbouring fields induced several gentlemen to build their houses here; among whom was the Spanish Ambassador, whom Strype supposes was Gondamour." Gondamour was the person to please whom (or rather that James might the more easily marry his son Charles to one of the daughters of Spain, with her immense fortune) this weak monarch was urged to sacrifice the life of Raleigh.
Within one's own memory, it is painful to reflect, on the many pleasant fields, neat paddocks, rural walks, and gardens, (breathing pure air) that surrounded this metropolis for miles, and miles, and which are now ill exchanged for an immense number of new streets, many of them the receptacles only of smoke and unhealthiness.
[37] These lines are from him, at whose death (says Sir W. Scott in his generous and glowing eulogy) we were stunned "by one of those death-notes which are peeled at intervals, as from an archangel's trumpet"—they are from "that mighty genius which walked amongst men as something superior to ordinary mortality, and whose powers were beheld with wonder, and something approaching to terror, as if we knew not whether they were of good or evil"—they are from "that noble tree which will never more bear fruit, or blossom! which has been cut down in its strength, and the past is all that remains to us of Byron: whose excellences will now be universally acknowledged, and his faults (let us hope and believe) not remembered in his epitaph." His "deep transported mind" (to apply Milton's words to him) thus continues his moralization:—
What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's king
Cheops, erected the first pyramid,
And largest; thinking it was just the thing
To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;
But somebody or other rummaging,
Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:
Let not a monument give you, or me, hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.