Amid the multiplicity of representations by Roman catholic writers concerning angels, are these by Father Lewis Henriques, “That the streets of Paradise are adorned with tapestry, and all the histories of the world are engraven on the walls by excellent sculptors; that the angels have no particular houses, but go from one quarter to another for diversity; that they put on women’s habits, and appear to the saints in the dress of ladies, with curles and locks, with waistcoats and fardingales, and the richest linens.”
This occupation of the angels agrees with the occupations that Henriques assigns to the saints; who, according to him, are to enjoy, with other pleasures, the recreation of bathing: “There shall be pleasant bathes for that purpose; they shall swim like fishes, and sing as melodious as nightingales; the men and women shall delight themselves with muscarades, feasts and ballads; women shall sing more pleasantly than men, that the delight may be greater; and women shall rise again with very long hair, and shall appear with ribands and laces as they do upon earth.” Father Henriques was a Jesuit, and communicates this information in a book entitled, “The Business of the Saints in Heaven,” published by the written authority of Father Prado, the Provincial of the order of Jesuits at Castille, dated at Salamanca, April 28th, 1631.[339]
Hannah Want.
Hannah Want.
“For Age and Want save while you may
No morning sun lasts a whole day.”
The Times and other journals report the “obit” of this female. “On the 2nd of October, 1825, died Mrs. Hannah Want, at Ditchingham, Norfolk, in the 106th year of her age. She was born on the 20th of August, 1720, and throughout this long life enjoyed a state of uninterrupted health; and retained her memory and perception to the end with a clearness truly astonishing. Till the day previous to her decease she was not confined to her bed; and on the 105th anniversary of her birth, entertained a party of her relatives who visited her to celebrate the day: she lived to see a numerous progeny to the fifth generation, and at her death there are now living children, grand-children, great-grand-children, and great-great-grand-children to the number of one hundred and twenty-one.”
An intelligent correspondent writes: “As it is not an ‘every-day’ occurrence for people to live so long, perhaps you may be pleased to immortalize Hannah Want, by giving her a leaf of your Every-Day Book.” That the old lady may live as long after her death as this work shall be her survivor the Editor can promise, “with remainder over” to his survivors.
Hannah Want, in common with all long-livers, was an early riser. The following particulars are derived from a correspondent. She was seldom out of bed after nine at night, and even in winter; and towards the last of her life, was seldom in it after six in the morning. Her sleep was uniformly sound and tranquil; her eye-sight till within the last three years was clear; her appetite, till two days before her death, good; her memory excellent; she could recollect and discourse on whatever she knew during the last century. Her diet was plain common food, meat and poultry, pudding and dumpling, bread and vegetables in moderate quantities; she drank temperately, very temperately, of good, very good, mild home-brewed beer. During the last twenty years she had not taken tea, though to that period she had been accustomed to it. She never had the small pox, and never had been ill. Her first seventy-five years were passed at Bungay in Suffolk, her last thirty at the adjoining village of Ditchingham in Norfolk. She was the daughter of a farmer named Knighting. Her husband, John Want, a maltster, died on Christmas-day, 1802, at the age of eighty-five, leaving Hannah ill provided for, with an affectionate and dutiful daughter, who was better than house and land; for she cherished her surviving parent when “age and want, that ill-matched pair, make countless thousands mourn.”
Hannah Want was of a serious and sedate turn; not very talkative, yet cheerfully joining in conversation. She was a plain, frugal, careful wife and mother; less inclined to insist on rights, than to perform duties; these she executed in all respects, “and all without hurry or care.” Her stream of life was a gentle flow of equanimity, unruffled by storm or accident, till it was exhausted. She was never put out of her way but once, and that was when the house wherein she lived at Bungay was burned down, and none of the furniture saved, save one featherbed.