There will I ponder on the state of man,
Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate
This day of jubilee
To sad Reflection’s shrine;
And I will cast my fond eye far beyond
This world of care, to where the steeple loud
Shall rock above the sod,
Where I shall sleep in peace.
H. K. White.
Whitsuntide at Greenwich.
I have had another holiday—a Whitsuntide holiday at Greenwich: it is true that I did not take a run down the hill, but I saw many do it who appeared to me happier and healthier for the exercise, and the fragrant breezes from the fine May trees of the park.
I began Whit-Monday by breakfasting on Blackheath hill. It was my good fortune to gain a sight of the beautiful grounds belonging to the noblest mansion on the heath, the residence of the princess Sophia of Gloucester. It is not a “show house,” nor is her royal highness a woman of show. “She is a noble lady,” said a worthy inhabitant of the neighbourhood, “she is always doing as much good as she can, and more, perhaps, than she ought; her heart is larger than her purse.” I found myself in this retreat I scarcely know how, and imagined that a place like this might make good dispositions better, and intelligent minds wiser. Some of its scenes seemed, to my imagination, lovely as were the spots in “the blissful seats of Eden.” Delightful green swards with majestic trees lead on to private walks; and gladdening shrubberies terminate in broad borders of fine flowers, or in sloping paths, whereon fairies might dance in silence by the sleeping moonlight, or to the chant of nightingales that come hither, to an amphitheatre of copses surrounding a “rose mount,” as to their proper choir, and pour their melody, unheard by earthly beings,
—————— save by the ear
Of her alone who wanders here, or sits
Intrelissed and enchanted as the Fair
Fabled by him of yore in Comus’ song,
Or rather like a saint in a fair shrine
Carved by Cellini’s hand.
It may not be good taste, in declaring the truth, to state “the whole truth,” but it is a fact, that I descended from the heights of royalty to “Sot’s hole.” There, for “corporal refection,” and from desire to see a place which derives its name from the great lord Chesterfield, I took a biscuit and a glass of ginger-beer. His lordship resided in the mansion I had just left, and his servants were accustomed to “use” this alehouse too frequently. On one occasion he said to his butler, “Fetch the fellows from that sot’s hole:” from that time, though the house has another name and sign, it is better known by the name or sign of “Sot’s hole.” Ascending the rise to the nearest park-gate, I soon got to the observatory in the park. It was barely noon. The holiday folks had not yet arrived; the old pensioners, who ply there to ferry the eye up and down and across the river with their telescopes, were ready with their craft. Yielding to the importunity of one, to be freed from the invitations of the rest, I took my stand, and in less than ten minutes was conveyed to Barking church, Epping Forest, the men in chains, the London Docks, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Westminster Abbey. From the seat around the tree I watched the early comers; as each party arrived the pensioners hailed them with good success. In every instance, save one, the sight first demanded was the “men in chains:” these are the bodies of pirates, suspended on gibbets by the river side, to warn sailors against crimes on the high seas. An able-bodied sailor, with a new hat on his Saracen-looking head, carrying a handkerchief full of apples in his left hand, with a bottle neck sticking out of the neck of his jacket for a nosegay, dragged his female companion up the hill with all the might of his right arm and shoulder; and the moment he was at the top, assented to the proposal of a telescope-keeper for his “good lady” to have a view of the “men in chains.” She wanted to “see something else first.” “Don’t be a fool,” said Jack, “see them first; it’s the best sight.” No; not she: all Jack’s arguments were unavailing. “Well! what is it you’d like better, you fool you?” “Why I wants to see our house in the court, with the flower-pots, and if I don’t see that, I won’t see nothing—what’s the men in chains to that? Give us an apple.” She took one out of the bundle, and beginning to eat it, gave instructions for the direction of the instrument towards Limehouse church, while Jack drew forth the bottle and refreshed himself. Long she looked, and squabbled, and almost gave up the hope of finding “our house;” but on a sudden she screamed out, “Here Jack! here it is, pots and all! and there’s our bed-post; I left the window up o’ purpose as I might see it!” Jack himself took an observation. “D’ye see it, Jack?” “Yes.” “D’ye see the pots?” “Yes.” “And the bed-post?” “Ay; and here Sal, here, here’s the cat looking out o’ the window.” “Come away, let’s look again;” and then she looked, and squalled “Lord! what a sweet place it is!” and then she assented to seeing the “men in chains,” giving Jack the first look, and they looked “all down the river,” and saw “Tom’s ship,” and wished Tom was with them. The breakings forth of nature and kind-heartedness, and especially the love of “home, sweet home,” in Jack’s “good lady,” drew forth Jack’s delight, and he kissed her till the apples rolled out of the bundle, and then he pulled her down the hill. From the moment they came up they looked at nobody, nor saw any thing but themselves, and what they paid for looking at through the telescope. They were themselves a sight: and though the woman was far from
whatever fair
High fancy forms or lavish hearts could wish,
yet she was all that to Jack; and all that she seemed to love or care for, were “our house,” and the “flower-pots,” and the “bed-post,” and “Jack.”