I well remember the old prejudices of old-fashioned people in favour of water brought to the door, and their sympathy with the complaints of the water-bearer. “Fresh and fair new River-water! none of your pipe sludge!” vociferated the water-bearer. “Ah dear!” cried his customers, “Ah dear! Well, what’ll the world come to!—they wo’n’t let poor people live at all by and by—here they’re breaking up the ground, and we shall be all under water some day or other with their goings on—I’ll stick to the carrier as long as he has a pail-full and I’ve a penny, and when we haven’t we must all go to the workhouse together.” This was the talk and the reasoning of many honest people within my recollection, who preferred taxing themselves to the daily payment of a penny and often twopence to the water-carrier, in preference to having “Company’s-water” at eighteen shillings per annum. Persons of this order of mind were neither political economists nor domestic economists: they were, for the most part, simple and kind-hearted souls, who illustrated the ancient saying, that “the destruction of the poor is their poverty”—they have perished for “lack of knowledge.”
The governing principle of Napoleon was, that “every thing must be done for the people, and nothing by them:” the ruling practice of the British people is to do every thing for themselves; and by the maintenance of this good old custom they have preserved individual freedom, and attained to national greatness. All our beneficial national works have originated with ourselves—our roads, our bridges, our canals, our water-companies, have all been constructed by our own enterprise, and in the order of our wants.
Garrick Plays.
No. XXI.
[From Sir Richard Fanshaw’s Translation of “Querer Por Solo Querer”—“To love for love’s sake”—a Romantic Drama, written in Spanish by Mendoza: 1649.]
Felisbravo, Prince of Persia, from a Picture sent him of the brave Amazonian Queen of Tartary, Zelidaura, becoming enamoured, sets out for that realm; in his way thither disenchants a Queen of Araby; but first, overcome by fatigue, falls asleep in the Enchanted Grove, where Zelidaura herself coming by, steals the Picture from him. The passion of the Romance arises from his remorse at being taken so negligent; and her disdain that he should sleep, having the company of her Picture. She here plays upon him, who does not yet know her, in the disguise of a Rustic.
Fel. What a spanking Labradora!
Zel. You, the unkent Knight, God ye gud mora![210]
Fel. The time of day thou dost mistake.
Zel.—and joy—
Fel.—of what?
Zel. That I discover.
By a sure sign, you are awake.
Fel. Awake? the sign—
Zel. Your being a lover.
Fel. In love am I?
Zel.—and very deep.
Fel. Deep in love! how is that seen?
Zel. Perfectly. You do not sleep.
Fel. Rustic Excellence, unscreen,
And discover that sweet face,
Which covers so much wit and grace.
Zel. You but dream so: sleep again,
And forget it.
Fel. Why, now, Saint?
Zel. Why, the Lady, that went in,[211]
Looks as if that she did paint.
Fel. What has that to do with sleeping?
She is indeed angelical.
Zel. That picture now’s well worth your keeping.
For why? ’tis an original.
Fel. Is this Shepherdess a Witch?
Or saw the sleeping treason, which
I committed against Love
Erst, in the Enchanted Grove?
Me hast thou ever seen before?
Zel. Seen? aye, and know thee for a man
That will turn him, and sleep more
Than a dozen dunces can.
Thou ken’st little what sighs mean.
Fel. Unveil, by Jove, that face serene.
Zel. What, to make thee sleep again?
Fel. Still in riddles?
Zel. Now he sees:
This pinching wakes him by degrees.
Fel. Art thou a Nymph?
Zel. Of Parnass Green.
Fel. Sleep I indeed, or am I mad?
Zel. None serve thee but the Enchanted Queen?
I think what dull conceits ye have had
Of the bird Phœnix, which no eye
E’er saw; an odoriferous Lye:
How of her beauty’s spells she’s told;
That by her spirit thou art haunted;
And, having slept away the old,
With this new Mistress worse enchanted.
Fel. I affect not, Shepherdess,
Myself in such fine terms to express;
Sufficeth me an humble strain:
Too little happy to be vain.—
Unveil!
Zel. Sir Gallant, not so fast.
Fel. See thee I will.
Zel. See me you shall:
But touch not fruit you must not taste.
(She takes off her veil.)
What says it, now the leaf doth fall?
Fel. It says, ’tis worthy to comprize
The kernel of so rare a wit:
Nor, that it grows in Paradise;
But Paradise doth grow in it.
The tall and slender trunk no less divine,
Tho’ in a lowly Shepherdesses rine.