SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S VISIT. 19 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S VISIT TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY. My friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me the I found the knight under the butler's hands, who always shaves him. He was no sooner dressed, than he called for a glass of the Widow Truby's water, which he told me he always drank before he went abroad. He recommended to me a dram of it at the same time, with so much heartiness, that I could not forbear drinking it. As soon as I had got it down, I found it very unpalatable; upon which the knight, observing that I had made several wry faces, told me that he knew I should not like it at first, but that it was the best thing in the world against some maladies. I could have wished, indeed, that he had acquainted me with the virtues of it sooner; but it was too late to complain, and I knew what he had done was out of good-will. Sir Roger told me further, that he looked upon it to be very good for a man whilst he stayed in town, to keep off infection, and that he got together a quantity of it upon the first news of the sickness being at Dantzic; when of a sudden, turning short to one of his servants, who stood behind him, he bade him call a hackney-coach, and take care that it was an elderly man that drove it. He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Truby's water, telling me that the Widow Truby was one who did more good than all the doctors and apothecaries in the country; that she distilled every poppy that grew within five miles of her; that she distributed her medicine gratis among all sorts of people; to which the knight added, that she had a very great jointure, and that the whole country would fain have it a match between him and her; "and truly," says Sir Roger, "if I had not been engaged, perhaps I could not have done better." His discourse was broken off by his man's telling him he had called a coach. Upon our going to it, after having cast his eye upon the wheels, he asked the coachman if his axletree was good. Upon the fellow's telling him he would warrant it, the knight turned to me, told me he looked like an honest man, and went in without further ceremony. We had not gone far, when Sir Roger, popping out his head, called the coachman down from his box, and upon presenting himself at the window, asked him if he smoked. As I was considering what this would end in, he bade him stop by the way at any good tobacconist's, and take in a roll of the best Virginia. Nothing material happened in the remaining part of our journey, till we were set down at the west end of the abbey. As we went up the body of the church, the knight pointed at the trophies upon one of the new monuments, and cried out, "A brave man, I warrant him!" Passing afterwards by Sir Cloudesley Shovel, he flung his head that way, and cried, "Sir Cloudesley Shovel! a very gallant man!" As we stood before Busby's tomb, the knight uttered himself again after the same manner, "Dr. Busby! a great man! he whipped my grandfather; a very great man! I should have gone to him myself, if I had not been a blockhead; a very great man!" We were immediately conducted into the little chapel on the right hand. Sir Roger, planting himself at our historian's elbow, was very attentive to everything he said, particularly to the account he gave us of the lord who had cut off the King of Morocco's head. Among several other figures, he was very well pleased to see the statesman Cecil upon his knees; and concluding them all to be great men, was conducted to the figure which represents that martyr to good housewifery, who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our interpreter's telling us that she was a maid of honour to Queen Elizabeth, the knight was very inquisitive into her name and family; and after having regarded her finger for some time, "I wonder," says he, "that Sir Richard Baker has said nothing of her in his 'Chronicle.'" We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs, where my old friend, after having heard that the stone underneath the most ancient of them, which was brought from Scotland, was called Jacob's pillar, sat himself down in the chair; and looking like the figure of an old Gothic king, asked our interpreter "what authority they had to say that Jacob had ever been in Scotland?" The fellow, instead of returning him an answer, told him "that he hoped his honour would pay his forfeit." I could observe Sir Roger a little ruffled upon being thus trepanned; but our guide not insisting upon his demand, the knight soon recovered his good humour, and whispered in my 20 ear, that "if Will Wimble were with us, and saw those two chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco-stopper out of one or t'other of them." Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward III.'s sword, and leaning upon the pommel of it, gave us the whole history of the Black Prince; concluding, that in Sir Richard Baker's opinion, Edward III. was one of the greatest princes that ever sat upon the English throne. We were then shown Edward the Confessor's tomb; upon which Sir Roger acquainted us, that "he was the first who touched for the evil;" and afterwards Henry IV.'s; upon which he shook his head, and told us there was fine reading in the casualties of that reign." 66 Our conductor then pointed to that monument where there is the figure of one of our English kings without a head; and upon giving us to know that the head, which was of beaten silver, had been stolen away several years since; "Some Whig, I'll warrant you," says Sir Roger: "you ought to lock up your kings better; they will carry off the body too, if you do not take care.” The glorious names of Henry V. and Queen Elizabeth gave the knight great opportunities of shining, and of doing justice to Sir Richard Baker, "who," as our knight observed with some surprise, "had a great many kings in him, whose monuments he had not seen in the abbey." For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the knight show such an honest passion for the glory of his country, and such a respectful gratitude to the memory of its princes. I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good old friend, which flows out towards every one he converses with, made him very kind to our interpreter, whom he looked upon as an extraordinary man; for which reason he shook him by the hand at parting, telling him that he should be very glad to see him at his lodgings in Norfolk Buildings, and talk over these matters with him more at leisure. A FELLOW in a market-town, Most musical cried "Razors," up and down, As every man should buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard; With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose! Brought blood, and danced, reviled, and made wry faces; And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er! So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge sought the fellow-found him, and begun"Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives; You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster-knives. "Friend," quoth the razor-man, "Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries, "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile-" to sell." [Sir RICHARD STEELE, born in Dublin, 1675. Educated at Charterhouse and Merton. Enlisted in the Horse Guards. Subsequently got a commission; afterwards the post of Commissioner in the Stamp Office. Sat in Parliament. Died at Llangunnor, near Carmarthen, in 1729.] THE first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my father, at which time I was not quite five years of age; but was rather amazed at what all the house meant than possessed with a real understanding why nobody was willing to play with me. I remember I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping alone by it. I had my battledore in my hand, and fell a-beating the coffin, and calling papa; for, I know not how, I had some slight idea that he was locked up there. My mother caught me in her arms, and, transported beyond all patience of the silent grief she was before in, she almost smothered me in her embrace, and told me, in a flood of tears, papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence he could never come to us again. She was a very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her transport, which, methought, struck me with an instinct of sorrow, which, before I was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my very soul, and has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since. The mind in infancy is, methinks, like the body in embryo, and receives impressions so forcible that they are as hard to be removed by reason as any mark with which a child is born is to be taken away by any future application. Hence it is that good nature in me is no merit; but having been as frequently overwhelmed with her tears before I knew the cause of my affliction, or could draw defences from my own judgment, I imbibed commiseration, remorse, and an unmanly gentleness of mind, which has since ensnared me into ten thousand calamities, and from whence I can reap no advantage, except it be that, in such a humour as I am now in, I can better indulge myself in the softness of humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety which arises from the memory of past afflictions. THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. [HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. See Page 14.] You must know, gentlemen, that there lived some years ago, in the city of Perigueux, an honest notary public, the descendant of a very ancient and broken-down family, and the occupant of one of those old weather-beaten tenements which remind you of the times of your great-grandfather. He was a man of an unoffending, quiet disposition; the father of a family, though not the head of it, for in that family "the hen overcrowed the cock;" and the neighbours, when they spoke of the notary, shrugged their shoulders, and exclaimed, "Poor fellow his spurs want sharpening." In fine-you understand me, gentlemen-he was hen-pecked. Well, finding no peace at home, he sought it elsewhere, as was very natural for him to do; and at length discovered a place of rest far beyond the cares and clamours of domestic life. This was a little café estaminet, a short way out of the city, whither he repaired every evening to smoke his pipe, drink sugar water, and play his favourite game of domino. There he met the boon companions he most loved; heard all the floating chitchat of the day; laughed when he was in a merry mood, found consolation when he was sad; and at all times gave vent to his opinions without fear of being snubbed short by a flat contradiction. Now, the notary's bosom friend was a dealer in claret and cognac, who lived about a league from the city, and always passed his evenings at the estaminet. He was a gross, corpulent fellow, raised from a full-blooded Gascon breed, and sired by a comic actor of some reputation in his way. He was remarkable for nothing but his good humour, his love of cards, and a strong propensity to test the quality of his own liquors by comparing those sold at other places. As evil communications corrupt good manners, the bad practices of the wine-dealer won insensibly upon the worthy notary; and before he was aware of it, he found himself weaned from domino and sugar water, and addicted to piquet and spiced wine. Indeed, it not unfrequently happened that, after a long session at the estaminet, the two friends grew so urbane, that they would waste a full half-hour at the door in friendly dispute which should conduct the other home. Though this course of life agreed well enough with the sluggish, phlegmatic temperament of the winedealer, it soon began to play the very deuce with the more sensitive organisation of the notary, and, tune. finally, put his nervous system completely out of He lost his appetite, became gaunt and haggard, and could get no sleep. Legions of blue devils haunted him by day, and by night strange faces peeped through his bed-curtains, and the nightmare snorted in his ear. The worse he grew, the more he smoked and tippled; and the more he smoked and tippled, why, as a matter of course, the worse he grew. His wife alternately stormed, remonstrated, entreated; but all in vain. She made the house too hot for him-he retreated to the tavern; she broke his long-stemmed pipes upon the hand-irons, he substituted a shortstemmed one, which, for safe keeping, he carried in his waistcoat pocket. Thus the unhappy notary ran gradually down at the heel. What with his bad habits and his domestic grievances, he became completely hypped. He imagined he was going to die, and suffered in quick succession all the diseases that ever beset mortal man. Every shooting pain was an alarming symptom, every uneasy feeling after dinner a sure prognostic of some mortal disease. In vain did his friends endeavour to reason, and then to laugh him out of his strange whims; for when did ever jest or reason cure a sick imagination? His only answer was, Do let me alone; I know better-I know better than you what ails me." Well, gentlemen, things were in this state, when, one afternoon in December, as he sat moping in his office, wrapped in an overcoat, with a cap on his head, and his feet thrust into a pair of furred slippers, a cabriolet stopped at the door, and a loud knocking without aroused him from his gloomy reverie. It was a message from his friend the wine-dealer, who had been suddenly attacked with a violent fever, and, growing worse and worse, had now sent in the greatest haste for the notary to draw up his last will and testament. The case was urgent, and admitted neither excuse nor delay; and the notary, tying a handkerchief round his face, and buttoning up to the chin, jumped into the cabriolet, and suffered himself, though not without some dismal presentiments and misgivings of heart, to be driven to the winedealer's house. When he arrived, he found every. thing in the greatest confusion. On entering the house, he ran against the apothecary, who was coming down-stairs with a face as long as your arm, and a few steps further he met the house. THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX. keeper-for the wine-dealer was an old bachelor running up and down and wringing her hands, for fear that the good man should die without making his will. He soon reached the chamber of his sick friend, and found him tossing about in a paroxysm of fever, and calling aloud for a draught of cold water. The notary shook his head; he thought this a fatal symptom; for ten years back the wine-dealer had been suffering under a species of hydrophobia, which seemed suddenly to have left him. When the sick man saw who stood by his bedside, he stretched out his hand, and exclaimed, "Ah, my dear friend! have you come at last? You see it's all over with me. You have arrived just in time to draw up that that passport of mine. Ah! how hot it is here! Water-waterwater! Will nobody give me a drop of cold water?" As the case was an urgent one, the notary made no delay in getting his papers in readiness, and in a short time the last will and testament of the winedealer was drawn up in due form, the notary guiding the sick man's hand as he scrawled his signature at the bottom. As evening wore away, the wine-dealer grew worse and worse, and at length became delirious, mingling in his incoherent ravings the phrases of the Credo and Paternoster, with the shibboleth of the dramshop and the card-table. "Take care! take care! There, now! Credo inPop! ting-a-ling-ling! give some of that Cent-e-dize! Why, you old publican, this wine is poisoned. I know your tricks-sanctam ecclesiam Catholicam Well, well, we shall see. Imbecile ! to have a tierce major and a seven of hearts, and discard the seven." With these words upon his lips, the poor winedealer expired. Meanwhile the notary sat cowering over the fire, aghast at the fearful scene that was passing before him, and now and then trying to keep up his courage by a glass of cognac. Already his fears were on the alert, and the idea of contagion flitted to and fro through his mind. In order to quiet these thoughts of evil import, he lighted his pipe, and began to prepare for returning home. At that moment the apothecary turned round to him and said 23 beginning to walk up and down the room in despair. "I am a dead man! and don't deceive me don't, will you? What-what are the symptoms? "A sharp, burning pain in the right side," said the apothecary. 66 'Oh, what a fool I was to come here!" In vain did the housekeeper and the apothecary strive to pacify him. He was not a man to be reasoned with. He answered that he knew his own constitution better than they did, and insisted upon going home without delay. Unfortunately, the vehicle he came in had returned to the city, and the whole neighbourhood was a-bed and asleep. What was to be done? Nothing in the world but to take the apothecary's horse, which stood hitched at the door, patiently waiting his master's will. Well, gentlemen, as there was no remedy, our notary mounted this raw-boned steed, and set forth upon his homeward journey. The night was cold and gusty, and the wind in his teeth. Overhead the leaden clouds were beating to and fro, and through them the newly-risen moon seemed to be tossing and drifting along like a cockboat in the surf-now swallowed up in a huge billow of cloud, and now lifted up on its bosom and dashed with silvery spray. The trees by the roadside groaned with a sound of evil omen; and before him lay three mortal miles, beset with a thousand imaginary perils. Obedient to the whip and spur, the steed leaped forward by fits and starts, now dashing away with a tremendous gallop, and now relaxing into a long, hard trot; while the rider, filled with symptoms of disease and dire presentiments of death, urged him on as if he were fleeing before the pestilence. In this way, by dint of whistling and shouting, and beating right and left, one mile of the fatal three was safely passed. The apprehensions of the notary had so far subsided that he even suffered the poor horse to walk up the hill; but these apprehensions were suddenly revived again with tenfold violence by a sharp pain in the right side, which seemed to pierce him like a needle. "It is upon me at last!" groaned the fear-stricken man. Heaven be merciful to me! And must I die in a ditch after all? Hé! get up, get up!" And away went horse and rider at full speed-hurry, scurry, "What disorder?" exclaimed the notary, with up hill and down, panting and blowing like a whirl. "Dreadful sickly time this; the disorder seems to be spreading." a movement of surprise.. "Two died yesterday, and three to-day," continued the apothecary, without answering the question: "very sickly time, sir, very." 66 wind. At every leap the pain in the rider's side seemed to increase. At first it was a little point, like the prick of a needle, then it spread to the size of a half-franc piece, then covered a place as large "But what disorder is it? What disease has as the palm of your hand. It gained upon him fast. carried off my friend here so suddenly?" The poor man groaned aloud in agony. Faster "What disease? Why, scarlet fever, to be sure." and faster sped the horse over the frozen ground, "And is it contagious ?" "Certainly." "Then I am a dead man!" exclaimed the notary, putting his pipe into his waistcoat pocket, and further and further spread the pain over his side. To complete the dismal picture, the storm commenced, snow mingled with rain; but snow, and rain, and cold were nought to him, for though |