LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL. CONDUCTED BY JAMES GRANT, AUTHOR OF "RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS," "THE GREAT METROPOLIS," "PORTRAITS OF PUBLIC CHARACTERS," &c. ILLUSTRATIONS OF HUMANITY. No. L.-GENTLEMEN DEBTORS IN THE QUEEN'S BENCH. THE Debtors' prisons in London are five in number. Their names are Whitecross street, Queen's Bench, the Fleet, Horsemonger Lane, and the Marshalsea prisons. Whitecross street and the Queen's Bench prisons are the two most largely tenanted. The number of persons confined in either of these two prisons, often exceeds three hundred and fifty. At present the entire number of Debtors within the walls of the metropolitan prisons, is between seven hundred and seven hundred and fifty. Whitecross street prison is chiefly tenanted by persons who have been accustomed to move in the humbler walks of life. The most aristocratic prison is the Queen's Bench. It is rarely without a greater or less number of the hopeful younger branches of the nobility. To find it without one or more titled inmates, would, indeed, be something new. It is also the great receptacle for the fops and fine gentlemen, who having run through their means, and run into debt, awake some morning and find that they have run their necks into the noose of the law. Here many of them spend nearly half their days. If they are out one six months, they are sure to be in the next. In the exits and the entrances of some of their number, there is indeed a sort of periodical regularity. It is amusing to contrast the appearance, in a majority of cases, of such persons, when they go in, with their appearance a few days before they come out. When they are thrust into the Queen's Bench, they are the beau ideals of dandies-fops of the first magnitude. Every part of their apparel is adjusted to their persons with a wonderful nicety; it is the triumph of tailorific taste and genius. It is of West-end workmanship, and the quality of the cloth is the best that Saxony can produce. By-and-by the beauty of their apparel begins to fade, and eventually becomes so seedy and soiled, that the contrast it affords to the affected manners, and the effort to keep up the appearance of a fine gentleman, only renders the parties ridiculous. There is something, indeed, extremely ludicrous in the aspect of a broken-down dandy in the Queen's Bench prison. His wardrobe is at war with his notions, and contrasts oddly with his stiff, formal, "fine gentleman" manner. He is obliged, too, to forego the "splendid" port in crystal bottle, for a pint (two-pennyworth) of heavy wet; and to complete his mortification, he is obliged to drink it out of the pewter. He swears at a furious rate at the vulgarity of the thing; but then, he cannot help himself. Necessity has no law, and to that necessity he must resign himself. Our artist has hit off with great effect a trio of these fashionable fops, in the extremity of their poverty; and what is to them much worse, the total destruction of their credit. The man who supplies the beer in the prison, will not let them have even a "penn'orth" of Barclay and Co.'s Entire on trust. Experience has taught him the necessity of conducting business on the ready-money principle. Our artist, it will be observed, has been condescending enough to give them a glass, instead of the pint pot, out of which to quaff their porter. It is more than the licensed victualler of the place would do. THE FOOTSTEPS OF COWPER. BY SAM. SLY. (Concluded from page 268.) No one has travelled in the footsteps of Cowper,' but must feel delighted with these happy efforts of his muse. Every line is true to a shade: the scenes are precisely as he describes them, and all within a mile of Weston, the seat of his friend Benevolus. In the woods and by-lanes of this neighbourhood, as also in the nooks by the roadside, between Weston and Olney, were favourite resorts of the gipsies; this did not escape the eye of the poet, who in one of his richest gems, à la Gainsborough,' commemorates the vagabonds in the following exquisite touches: "I see a column of slow rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild. Such squalid sloth to honourable toil! Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft, They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, And vex their flesh with artificial sores, Can change their whine into a mirthful note When safe occasion offers, and with dance And music of the bladder and the bag Beguile their woe, and make the woods resound. Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, Need other physic none, to heal th' effects Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.” truth; he might have handed us an auctioneer's catalogue Boz perhaps might have given this sketch with equal of every stick and straw in the tent scene;' not forgetting the kettle, slung between two poles, upon a stick transverse,' but he would not have woven that gossamer veil, in tissue of purple and gold, the fabric of the poet's imagination, that he invariably spread over every scene, however rural or rustic, and rendered delightful to the most fastidious eye. There was an old lady who used to wander through the streets and outskirts of Olney, when we were there: no one knew her pedigree or destiny, or how she lived. She wore a gipsy hat, trimmed with scarlet ribbons; an old white apron or mere rag, ornamented with bits of lace, for a cloak; a gay quilted petticoat but tattered; and long mittens. She carried a basket which contained small gifts, unsolicited, but rarely refused; she picked up pins, and was curious in trifles. Children called her Mother Holland; but she only answered graciously to 'your Ladyship,' which appellation always elicited a speech, both dignified and courteous, for alas, poor Kate was crazed!' We always thought this must have been the Kate' of the poet, in his pathetic and touching description of 'A love's labour lost." 6 "There often wanders one, whom better days And dream of transports she was not to know. She heard the doleful tidings of his death- And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes Though pinched with cold, asks never-Kate is crazed." Cowper, notwithstanding the meekness of his manners and the mildness of his disposition, was a most inveterate satirist. It is true he handled his weapons with skill and dexterity, and cut smoothly, but deeply. With such a graceful flourish did he exercise his powers, that you found, as it were, your head off before you were aware of it. Can any thing be more severe than the following in his Table Talk,' where he casts the whole batch of kings from David to George the Third, down headlong to perdition at one fell swoop? "B.-Quevedo, as he tells his sober tale, Asked, when in hell, to see the royal jail; Approved their method in all other things, But where, good sir, do you confine your kings? There, said his guide, the group is full in view. Indeed! replied the Don, there are but few. His black interpreter the charge disdainedFew, fellow! there are all that ever reigned!" But, as if the poet bethought himself he had gone too far, or imagined they might travel there fast enough without his assistance, he qualifies himself with a check-string, and pulls one or two up again "Wit, undistinguishing, is apt to strike The guilty and not guilty both alike. I grant the sarcasm is too severe, And we can readily refute it here; While Alfred's name, the father of his age, And the sixth Edward's grace the historic page." But notwithstanding this compliment and deference to the then existing prejudices in favour of royalty, the poet could not quite forget his own predilection, but still goes on grumbling as though he really thought after all they deserved the fate he had predicted. "A.-Kings then, at last, have but the lot of all, By their own conduct they must stand or fall. And many a dunce, whose fingers itch to write, A subject's fault a subject may proclaim; And ask, with busy scorn, Was this the man!" And so on, showing the poet would have made a bad soldier, being no 'king's man.' But enough of this, let us fall on his footsteps. 'Cowper's Oak,' as it was termed by the natives, was a tree of some consequence, standing in Yardley Chase, a few miles from Olney, now honoured by being a place of meeting for the Duke of Grafton's hounds, as it was in our time by pic-nic parties for the purpose of nutting- the days when we went gipsying, a long time ago'-but where fewer nuts were cracked than jokes-the former was the pretence for associating, but the latter, the real and ostensible motive, in conjunction with love and romance. We have now a box before us, certainly cut from the branches of this tree, and not like Shakspeare's mulberry' affair, that has been gone, root and branch, long ago, and still yields a relic for the credulous and admiring. "The mulberry tree was hung with blooming wreaths, Still sacred, and preserves with pious care." The only compliment we remember to have been paid the poet, since his death, in the shape of 'signs,' is one now at Olney, called 'Cowper's Oak,' once kept by the originator, Mr. Coulson, a little fussy, chattering busybody, and so great and anxious a politician, that he used to meet old Dick Tyrrell, the news and letter man, who always kept his (Coulson's) paper in his pocket, that he (Coulson) might be the first to hear the news and spread it as he went. But let us take shelter with the poet for a few moments under his favourite tree, the Yardley oak, and listen to his soliloquy. "Time was, when settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root-and time has been That might have ribbed the sides and planked the deck impulses of his soul, like bright wine, were ever pouring And so the poet goes on, in strains if possible more sweet and touching, but space will not permit us to trespass further after the footsteps of Cowper;' but wishing to amuse a few kindred spirits with some reminiscences of a poet who wrote for all times-and having lived on the spot, could not resist the temptation, or we might have painted a few characters who figured in the town of Olney, whilst we were there, with tolerable correctness; the king herrings of the shoal' being four great A's-namely, Andrews, Aspray, Abraham, and Allen:-all great smokers and talkers; with a long list of Lovells, Cobbs, Souls, Palmers, Talbots, Nichols and Morris dancers.' Or we might have taken a seat with the poet in his favourite 'Alcove,' and examined his picture drawn on the spot, and taken a Sly peep at his residence at Weston, and at the hall of his friends the Throckmortons, and the little Buchanans at Ravenstone,-his correspondent, or at his letters and sommets to old acquaintances. Or we might have followed him into every room in his house at Silverend, from the garret to the kitchen, speculating as to which he dined and slept in, and which his studio; or where he indulged himself with a Sofa,' and in which those frequent soirées were held, the leading personages in which were my Lady Austen and Mrs. Unwin. In fancy, we might have seated ourselves among them, and imagined the topics of the evening-for the poet being no whist or cribbage player, it is presumed Conversation' or Table Talk' was the business of the night, except when he was winding their thread, or doing the amiable in some other capacity. Or we might have tracked him into many private walks, where his love of the picturesque led him, which are not mentioned in his works. But the best of friends must part, and we can only add by informing the curious, that on the 1st of September, 1841, the poet's house, "deep in the abyss of Silver-end," was used as an Infants' school; also for lace making and mending; While influenced by the beauty and attractions of Mrs. the gardens much improved, and the Summer house' Maclehose, Burns resigned himself to the twofold capti embellished and repaired; his residence at Weston inha-vations of love and verse. Charlotte Hamilton, who had, bited by a respectable farmer, and the premises and walks kept in good order, only some of the timber cut down. beforetime, been so long the exquisite object of his poetic homage, had now passed away from his memory; or, if any image of her remeinbrance remained in him, it was totally swept away or obliterated by the newer charms of MEMOIR OF THE “CLARINDA" OF BURNS. the fair Clarinda. The first intimations of this amour, 66 O gentle lady! I did hear you talk Far above singing; after you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched THOUGH the life of Burns was troubled and sorrowful, yet, much as he sat apart from the world, with his mournful, but holy thoughts, there never was a being whose soul was more open to joy and cheerfulness, or whose senses were more fresh and vigorous towards the perception and enjoyment of actual beauty. Grateful was he to Heaven, in his heart, for field and forest, hill and vale; but more thankful far than for the green summer, or the mild air, or the flowers, or the stars, or all that makes this world so beautiful, was he for the good and beautiful beings which he knew in it-the fair shapes of womankind, who tended his steps, or administered to his delights. Every page Of kind-hearted and beautiful women, Burns, perhaps by reason of the attractive goodness of his disposition, and his ardent warmth of soul, was acquainted with a larger circle than often falls to the lot of one man. of his works glitters with some dear and ineffaceable memory of one or other whom his passions or virtues prompted him to celebrate in verse. The " lasses," as he called them, in his own Doric language, were ever bringing a warble to his lip; to them his affections fastened; and the which appears to have filled the mind of Burns, for a long period, with an inexpressible sweetness and gratification, appears in a letter which he wrote to his friend Richard Brown, mariner, dated December 30, 1787: "Almighty love," says the poet, "still reigns and revels in my bosom; and I am, at this moment, ready to hang myself for a young Edinburgh widow. My Highland dirk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, the key of which I cannot command, in case of spring-tide paroxysm. You may guess of her wit by the verses which she sent me, the other day : "Talk not of love; it gives me pain; And plunged me deep in woe.' But the opening of this correspondence between Clarinda and Burns commenced by a letter from the poet himself. It is to be found among a number of others; some written with tenderness and feeling, others bold and vehement, but all showing the ardour of an impassioned heart. It runs, plainly and simply, thus: "I can say with truth, madam, that I never met with a person in my life whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. You are a stranger to me; but I am an odd being. Some yet unnamed feelings,-things, not principles, but better than whims,-carry me further than boasted reason ever did a philosopher. Our worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant way, rallied me a good deal on my new acquaintance. She tells me you are not only a critic, but a poetess." Of the powers of Clarinda, in rhyme, many specimens might be adduced, which certainly have an elegiac and plaintive beauty about them, and which smote the heart of Burns. Speaking of a copy of one of these, Burns, in writing to his beautiful favourite herself, says, "Your last verses have so delighted me, that I have got an excellent old Scotch air, that suits the measure, and you shall see them in print. I want four stanzas-you gave me but three, and one of them alluded to an expression in my former letter; so I have taken your two first verses, with a slight alteration in the second, and have added a third, and you must help me to a fourth. Your first stanza,' continues he, still alluding to the same set, "is worthy of Sappho; I am in raptures with it!" At "We part-but, by these precious drops No other light shall guide my steps, This scene of the poet's departure seems sorely to have "Fair empress of the poet's soul, And queen of poetesses! This humble pair of glasses." He then bids her with her delicate lips to drink a first and a second health, for purposes therein mentioned; but above all, she is prayed by him to drink a third, and that “third, to thee and me, love." At this time, he sent her, too, it appears, a copy of the personal account which he gave of himself to Dr. Moore, therein describing himself to her as "very devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm in love." Most of the compositions addressed by Burns to Clarinda, were produced during the painful leisure which a bruised limb afforded him. On this occasion, Clarinda was a constant visitor to the crippled bard, and diverted him with her wit, and soothed him with her presence. her approach, it was always apparent that his troubled spirits grew more calm; for her presence was to his feverish heart like a tropical night, beautiful, soothing, and invigo-a rating. Yet, strange to say, at this time, watched as he was by beauty on his couch, and praised, as a poet, from "Maidenkirk to John-o'-Groats," the poet was any thing but happy. "I have a hundred times wished," he says in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, "that one could resign life, as an officer resigns his commission." Some have characterised Burns's courtship of Clarinda as too presumptuous and over-bold; but those who knew Clarinda, cannot but feel what Burns thought of her, when he wrote, "People of nice sensibility and generous minds have a certain intrinsic dignity, which fires at being trifled with or lowered, or even too closely approached." And though, in the subsequent extract from one of his poems, addressed to her, the charge of "boldness" may seem somewhat fair, yet, when the generous and exuberant nature of Burns is considered, it will appear rather in the light of a noble compliment than a licentious verse. runs thus: "In vain would Prudence, with a decent sneer, I know its worst, and can that worst despise ; It And to show the durable and lasting nature of his affection, in another part of the same poem he swears, "By all on high adoring mortals know, to love her so long as the trees grow, or the streams har- The bard had, by this time, partly under Clarinda's own kind and inspiriting attendance perhaps, recovered from the effects of his fall; and he was contemplating his departure from Edinburgh, when he wrote verses "To the fair sun of all her sex," commencing, "Clarinda, mistress of my soul, The measured time is run;" and which close with the following picturesque and beau The last letter that Clarinda received from him was fraught, more than usual, with spiritual and abstract speculation. He endeavoured to paint to her the vision of a pure and disembodied state, in which both he and she might, in a state of heavenly intercommunion above, lead together lives of blessedness, which upon this great earth they at present could not comprehend. He writes thus:"What a life of bliss would we lead in our mutual enjoyment of friendship and love! Ah, I see you laughing at my fairy fancies; but I am certain I would be a happy creature, beyond any thing we call bliss here below; nay, it would be a paradise congenial to you, too. Don't you see us hand in hand, surveying the comets flaming by us ?" &c. There may appear a vein of levity pervading this; but we would rather believe, that, at the time Burns wrote it, the solemnity of the idea weighed most on his mind, and that he wished it to operate with like effect upon the soul of his Clarinda. That disembodiment hath taken place; the spirits of both, it is hoped, are now among those "made perfect;" and the exalted pleasures which, in an after state, the poet represented himself as enjoying with the beloved one of his soul, are now fulfilled. KNOW THYSELF. WHAT am I? how produc'd? and for what end? |