Aunt Malaprop now drinks noyeau That she prefers it greatly: She warns me of Tea-dealers' tricks- Unwholesome drugs with some Tea; 'Tis bad to sip-and yet to give Yet still, tenacious of my Tea, I think the grocers send it me, Quite pure. ('tis what they call so.) Heedless of warnings, still I get "Tea veniente die, et Tea decedente," also. SAM SAM'S SON. Stratford upon Avon Church. From a sepia drawing, obligingly communicated by J. S. J., the reader is presented with this view of a church, "hallowed by being the sepulchral enclosure of the remains of the immortal Shakspeare." It exemplifies the two distinct styles, the early pointed and that of the fourteenth century. The tower is of the first construction; the windows of the transepts possess a preeminent and profuse display of the mullions and tracery characteristic of the latter period.* Mr. Carter, in the Gentleman's Magazine, 1816. VOL, I.-15. This structure is spacious and handsome, and was formerly collegiate, and dedicated to the Holy Trinity. A row of limes, trained so as to form an arched avenue, form an approach to the great door. A representation of a portion of this pleasant entrance is in an engraving of the church in the "Gentleman's Magazine" for 1807. Another opportunity will occur for relating particulars respecting the venerable edifice, and the illustrious bard, whose birth and burial at Stratford upon Avon confer on the town imperishable fame. Garrick Plays. No. XII. [From the "Brazen Age,” an Historical Play, by Thomas Heywood, 1613.] Venus courts Adonis. Venus. Why doth Adonis fly the Queen of Love, To be thus scarf'd the dreadful God of War With my white fingers will I clap thy cheek; Adonis. Madam, you are not modest. I affect I have heat to melt thee; I am Queen of Love. Of which I am not mistress, and can use. Thou shalt not, Adon, take me by the hand; Phoebus jeers Vulcan. Vul. Good morrow, Phoebus; what's the news abroad? For thou see'st all things in the world are done, Phoeb. Sometime I cast my eye upon the sea, Rise with their smoke-thick clouds to dark my beams. Sometimes I fix my face upon the earth, With my warm fervour to give metals, trees, I can assist with my transparent rays. Stored with wild beasts; here shepherds with their lasses, Piping beneath the trees while their flocks graze. Vul. Thrice happy Phoebus, That, whilst poor Vulcan is confin'd to Lemnos, I see all coronations, funerals, Marts, fairs, assemblies, pageants, sights and shows. And, shall I tell thee, Vulcan, 'tother day Vul. God Mars Phœb. As I was peeping through a cranny, a-bed Vul. Abed with whom?-some pretty Wench, I warrant. Phœb. She was a pretty Wench. Vul. Tell me, good Phoebus, That, when I meet him, I may flout God Mars; Phoeb. Not to dissemble, Vulcan, 'twas thy Wife! The Peers of Greece go in quest of Hercules, and find him in woman's weeds, spinning with Omphale. Jason. Our business was to Theban Hercules. 'Twas told us, he remain'd with Omphale, The Theban Queen. Telamon, Speak, which is Omphale? or which Al cides? Pollux. Lady, our purpose was to Hercules; Shew us the man. Omphale. Behold him here. Atreus. Where? Omphale. There, at his task. Jason. Alas, this Hercules ! This is some base effeminate Groom, not he Jason. Woman, we know thee not; Th' Erimanthian boar, the bull of Marathon, Telamon. We would see the Theban Pollux. That freed Hesione From the sea whale, and after ransack'd Troy, Nestor. He by whom Dercilus and Albion fell; Atreus. That monstrous Geryon with his three heads vanquisht, With Linus, Lichas that usurpt in Thebes, Pollux. That Hercules by whom the Centaurs fell, Great Achelous, the Stymphalides, And the Cremona giants: where is he? Telamon. That trait'rous Nessus with a shaft transfixt, Strangled Anthens, purged Augeus' stalls, Jason. He that the Amazonian baldrick won; Atreus. To him we came; but, since he lives not here, Come, Lords; we will return these presents back Unto the constant Lady, whence they came. Jason. 'Mongst women ? Hercules. For that Theban's sake, Whom you profess to love, and came to seek, Telamon. It works, it works Hercules. How have I lost myself! Did we all this? Where is that spirit become, That was in us? no marvel, Hercules, That thou be'st strange to them, that thus disguised Art to thyself unknown!-hence with this distaff, And base effeminate chares; hence, womanish tires; And let me once more be myself again. Your pardon, Omphale! I cannot take leave of this Drama without noticing a touch of the truest pathos, which the writer has put into the mouth of Meleager, as he is wasting away by the operation of the fatal brand, administered to him by his wretched Mother. My flame encreaseth still-Oh father Eneus; What is the boasted "Forgive me, but forgive me!" of the dying wife of Shore in Rowe, compared with these three little words? C. L. Topography. ST. MARGARET'S AT CLIFF. For the Table Book. Stand still. How fearful And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low! SHAKSPEARE. The village of St. Margaret's at Cliff is situated at a small distance from the South Foreland, and about a mile from the high road half way between Dover and Deal. It was formerly of some consequence, on account of its fair for the encouragement of traders, held in the precincts of its priory, which, on the dissolution of the monastic establishments by Henry VIII., losing its privilege, or rather its utility, (for the fair is yet held,) the village degenerated into an irregular group of poor cottages, a decent farm-house, and an academy for boys, one of the best commercial school establishments in the county of Kent. The church, though time has written strange defeatures on its mouldering walls, still bears the show of former importance; but its best claim on the inquisitive stranger is the evening toll of its single bell, which is generally supposed to be the curfew, but is of a more useful and honourable character. It was established by the testament of one of its inhabitants in the latter part of the seventeenth century, for the guidance of the wanderer from the peril of the neighbouring precipices, over which the testator fell, and died from the injuries he received. He bequeathed the rent of a piece of land for ever, to be paid to the village sexton for tolling the bell every evening at eight o'clock, when it should be dark at that hour. The cliffs in the range eastward of Dover to the Foreland are the most precipitous, but not so high as Shakspeare's. They are the resort of a small fowl of the widgeon species, but something less than the widgeon, remarkable for the size of its egg, which is larger than the swan's, and of a pale green, spotted with brown; it makes its appearance in May, and, choosing the most inaccessible part of the precipice, deposits its eggs, two in number, in holes, how made it is difficult to prove: when the young bird is covered with a thin down, and before any feathers appear, it is taken on the back of the parent, carried to the sea, and abandoned to its own resources, which nature amply supplies means to employ, in the myriads of mackerel fry that at that season colour the surface of the deep with a beautiful pale green and silver. This aquatic wanderer is said to confine its visit to the South Foreland and the seven cliffs at Beachy-head, and is known by the name of Willy. Like the gull, it is unfit for the table, but valuable for the downy softness of its feathers. It was in this range of Dover cliffs that Joe Parsons, who for more than forty years had exclusively gathered samphire, broke his neck in 1823. Habit had rendered the highest and most difficult parts of these awful precipices as familiar to this man as the level below. Where the overhanging rock impeded his course, a rope, fastened to a peg driven into a cliff above, served him to swing himself from one projection to another: in one of these dangerous attempts this fastening gave way, and he fell to rise no more. Joe had heard of Shakspeare, and felt the importance of a hero. It was his boast that he was a king too powerful for his neighbours, who dared not venture to disturb him in his domain; that nature alone was his lord, to whom he paid no quittance. All were free to forage on his grounds, but none ventured. Joe was twice wedded; his first rib frequently attended and looked to the security of his ropes, and would sometimes terrify him with threats to cast him loose; a promise of future kindness always ended the parley, and a thrashing on the next quarrel placed Joe again in peril. Death suddenly took Judith from this vale of tears; Parsons awoke in the night and found her brought up in an everlasting roadstead: like a true philosopher and a quiet neighbour, Joe took his second nap, and when day called out the busy world to begin its matin labour, Joe called in the nearest gossip to see that all was done that decency required for so good a wife. His last helpmate survives her hapless partner. No one has yet taken possession of his estate. The inquisitive and firm-nerved stranger casts his eyes below in vain: he that gathered samphire is himself gathered. The anchored bark, the skiff, the choughs and crows, the fearful precipice, and the stringy root, growing in unchecked abundance, bring the bard and Joe Parsons to remembrance, but no one now attempts the "dreadful trade." TO A SEA-WEED PICKED UP AFTER A STORM. Exotic-from the soil no tiller ploughs, Save the rude surge;-fresh stripling from a grove, Above whose tops the wild sea-monsters rove; -Have not the genii harbour'd in thy boughs, Thou filmy piece of wonder!-have not those Who still the tempest, for thy rescue strove, And stranded thee thus fair, the might to prove Of spirits, that the caves of ocean house? How else, from capture of the giant-spray, The full-develop'd forms of fairy-bower; MARRIAGE OF THE SEA. The doge of Venice, accompanied by the senators, in the greatest pomp, marries the sea every year. Those who judge of institutions by their appearance only, think this ceremony an indecent and extravagant vanity; they imagine that the Venetians annually solemnize this festival, because they believe themselves to be masters of the sea. But the wedding of the sea is performed with the most noble intentions. The sea is the symbol of the republic: of which the doge is the first magistrate, but not the master; nor do the Venitians wish that he should become so. Among the barriers to his domination, they rank this custom, which reminds him that he has no more authority over the republic, which he governs with the senate, than he has over the sea, notwithstanding the marriage he is obliged to celebrate with her. The ceremony symbolizes the limits of his power, and the nature of his obligations. K. B. |