100 JOHN WESLEY'S OLD AGE. time in silence, grave, in order to meditate on what he had heard. He never went to a place of worship. Independent in religion as in all else, he was sufficient to himself. Finding in no sect the marks of the true Church, he prayed to God alone, without needing others' help. He studied till midday; then, after an hour's exercise, he played the organ or the bass-viol; then he resumed his studies till six, and in the evening enjoyed the society of his friends. When anyone came to visit him, he was usually found in a room hung with old green hangings, seated in an arm-chair, and dressed quietly in black. His complexion was pale, says one of his visitors, but not sallow; his hands and feet were gouty; his hair, of a light brown, was parted in the midst, and fell in long curls; his eyes, grey and clear, showed no sign of blindness. He had been very beautiful in his youth, and his English cheeks, once delicate as a young girl's, retained their color almost to the end. His face, we are told, was pleasing; his straight and manly gait bore witness to intrepidity and cour age. Something great and proud breathes out from all his portraits; and certainly few men have done such honor to their kind. Thus expired this noble life, like a setting sun, bright and calm. Amid so many trials, a pure and lofty joy, altogether worthy of him, had been granted to him; the poet, buried under the Puritan, had reappeared, more sublime than ever, to give to Christianity its second Homer. The dazzling dreams of his youth and the reminiscences of his ripe age were found in him, side by side with Calvinistic dogmas and visions of John, to create the Protestant epic of damnation and grace; and the vastness of primitive horizons, the flames of the infernal dungeon, the splendors of the celestial court, opened to the inner eye of the soul unknown regions beyond the sights which the eyes of flesh had lost. JOHN WESLEY'S OLD AGE. [JOHN WESLEY, the founder of Methodism, was born at Epworth, Lincolnshire, England, June 28, 1703. Died March 2, 1791. We make the following extract from his Journal :] June 28, 1788. I this day enter on my eighty-fifth year: and what cause have I to praise God; as for a thousand spiritual blessings, so for bodily blessings also! How little have I suffered yet by "the rush of numerous years!" It is true, I am not so agile as I was in times past. I do not run or walk so fast as I did; my sight is a little decayed; my left eye is grown dim, and hardly serves me to read; I have daily some pain in the ball of my right eye, as also in my right temple (occasioned by a blow received some months since), and in my right shoulder and arm, which I impute partly to a sprain, and partly to the rheumatism. I find likewise some decay in my memory, with regard to names and things lately past; but not at all with regard to what I have read or heard twenty, forty, or sixty years ago; neither do I find any decay in my hearing, smell, taste or appetite (though I want but a third part of the food I did once); nor do I feel any such thing as weariness, either in traveling or preaching; and I am not conscious of any decay in writing sermons, which I do as readily, and I believe as correctly, as ever. To what cause can I impute this, that I am as I am? First, doubtless, to the power of God, fitting me for the work to which I am called, as long as he pleases to continue me therein; and, next, subordinately to this, to the prayers of his children. May we not impute it as inferior means.— 1. To my constant exercise and change of air? 2. To my never having lost a night's sleep, sick or well, at land or at sea, since I was born? 3. To my having sleep at command; so that whenever I feel myself worn out, I call it, and it comes, day or night? 4. To my having constantly, for above sixty years, risen at four in the morning? 5. To my constant preaching at five in the morning, for above fifty years? 6. To my having had so little pain in my life; and so little sorrow, or anxious care? Even now, though I find pain daily in my eye or temple, or arm, yet it is never violent, and seldom lasts many minutes at a time. Whether or not this is sent to give me nacle, I do not know; but be it one way or warning that I am shortly to quit this taberthe other, I have only to say, "My remnant of days I spend to his praise Who died the whole world to redeem : SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S WOOING. 101 POOR JACK. [Charles Dibdin, born in Southampton, 1745; died July, 1814. His name is still famous and popular as that of the writer of our most effective sea-songs. He was educated at Winchester, and intended for the church; but he adopted the stage as his profession. He became known as an actor, dramatist, and theatrical manager; but his reputation was made by his songs, of which he wrote nearly 1200. He also wrote forty-seven dramatic pieces and other works. An edition of the songs, illustrated by George Cruikshanks, was published in 1850.] Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see, A tight water-boat and good sea-room give me, Though the tempest top-gallant-masts smack smooth should smite, And shiver each splinter of wood, As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, Nought's a trouble from duty that springs, For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's; Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft For the same little cherub that sits up aloft SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S WOOING. BY SIR RICHARD STEELE,1 The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. His great grandfather was inventor of that famous Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse everything country-dance which is called after him. All tight, And under reefd foresail we'll scud: Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft To be taken for trifles aback; For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. Why, I heard our good chaplain palaver one day And many fine things that proved clearly to me For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft I said to our Poll, for, d'ye see, she would cry, who know that shire are very well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in his behaviour, but his singularities proceed from his good sense, and are contradictions to the manners of the world only as he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humour creates him no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy; and his being unconfined to modes and forms makes him but the readier and more capable to please and oblige all who know him. When he is in town he lives in Soho Square. It is said, he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the next county to him. Before this disappointment, Sir Roger was what you call a fine gentleman, had often supped with my lord Rochester and Sir George Etherege, fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked Bully Dawson in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster. But being ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year and a half; and Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us though, his temper being naturally jovial, he all, Both for seamen and lubbers ashore, And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, What then, all's a hazard; come, don't be so soft, For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch All as one as a piece of the ship, at last got over it, he grew careless of himself and never dressed afterwards; he continues to 1 From the Spectator, which was supposed to be produced by a "Society of Gentlemen;" and it is notable that Sir Roger de Coverley, who was the most popular of its creations, is the first mentioned in the number devoted to the portraits of the members of the club. Addison has obtained more credit for his share in the creation of this admirable specimen of a good old English gentleman than has been allowed to Steele; but it is worth remembering that it is Steele who introduces the And with her brave the world without offering to flinch, knight; and Steele writes entirely of the man, whilst From the moment the anchor's a-trip. Addison writes much about his surroundings. 102 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S WOOING. year, and resolved to follow the steps of the most worthy of my ancestors who have inhabited this spot of earth before me, in all the methods of hospitality and good neighbourhood, for the sake of my fame; and in country sports and recreations, for the sake of my health. In my twenty-third year I was obliged to serve as sheriff of the county; and in my servants, officers, and whole equipage, indulged the wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humours, he tells us, had been in and out twelve times since he first wore it. . . . He is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty, keeps a good house in both town and country; a great lover of mankind; but there is such a mirthful cast in his behaviour, that he is rather beloved than esteemed. His tenants grow rich, his servants look satis-pleasure of a young man (who did not think fied, all the young women profess love to him, and the young men are glad of his company: When he comes into a house he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way upstairs to a visit. I must not omit that Sir Roger is a justice of the Quorum; that he fills the chair at a quarter-session with great abilities, and three months ago gained universal applause by explaining a passage in the game-act. I mentioned a great affliction which my friend Sir Roger had met with in his youth; which was no less than a disappointment in love. It happened this evening that we fell into a very pleasing walk at a distance from his house: As soon as we came into it, "It is," quoth the good old man, looking round him with a smile, "very hard that any part of my land should be settled upon one who has used me so ill as the perverse widow did; and yet I am sure I could not see a sprig of any bough of this whole walk of trees, but I should reflect upon her and her severity. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world. You are to know this was the place wherein I used to muse upon her; and by that custom I can never come into it, but the same tender sentiments revive in my mind, as if I had actually walked with that beautiful creature under these shades. I have been fool enough to carve her name on the bark of several of these trees; so unhappy is the condition of men in love, to attempt the removing of their passion by the methods which serve only to imprint it deeper. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world." Here followed a profound silence; and I was not displeased to observe my friend falling so naturally into a discourse, which I had ever before taken notice he industriously avoided. After a very long pause he entered upon an account of this great circumstance in his life, with an air which I thought raised my idea of him above what I had ever had before; and gave me the picture of that cheerful mind of his, before it received that stroke which has ever since affected his words and actions. But he went on as follows: But ill of his own person) in taking that public oc- "Make way for the defendant's witnesses.' "This sudden partiality made all the county immediately see the sheriff also was become a slave to the fine widow. During the time her cause was upon trial she behaved herself, I warrant you, with such a deep attention to her business, took opportunities to have little billets handed to her counsel, then would be in such a pretty confusion, occasioned, you must know, by acting before so much company, that not only I but the whole court was prejudiced in her favour; and all that the next heir to her husband had to urge was thought so groundless and frivolous, that when it came to her counsel to reply, there was not half so much said as every one besides in the court thought he could have urged to her advantage. "You must understand, sir, this perverse woman is one of those unaccountable creatures that secretly rejoice in the admiration of men, "I came to my estate in my twenty-second but indulge themselves in no further conse SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S WOOING. quences. Hence it is that she has ever had a train of admirers, and she removes from her slaves in town to those in the country, according to the seasons of the year. She is a reading lady, and far gone in the pleasures of friendship; she is always accompanied by a confidant, who is witness to her daily protestations against our sex, and consequently a bar to her first steps towards love, upon the strength of her own maxims and declarations. "However, I must needs say this accomplished mistress of mine has distinguished me above the rest, and has been known to declare Sir Roger de Coverley was the tamest and most human of all the brutes in the country. I was told she said so, by one who thought he rallied me; but upon the strength of this slender encouragement, of being thought least detestable, I made new liveries, new-paired my coach-horses, sent them all to town to be bitted, and taught to throw their legs well, and move all together, before I pretended to cross the country and wait upon her. 103 losopher in Europe could possibly make, she asked me whether she was so happy as to fall in with my sentiments on these important particulars. Her confidant sat by her, and upon my being in the last confusion and silence, this malicious aid of hers, turning to her, says, 'I am very glad to observe Sir Roger pauses upon this subject, and seems resolved to deliver all his sentiments upon the matter when he pleases to speak.' They both kept their countenances, and after I had sat half an hour meditating how to behave before such profound casuists, I rose up and took my leave. "Chance has since that time thrown me very often in her way, and she as often has directed a discourse to me which I do not understand. This barbarity has kept me ever at a distance from the most beautiful object my eyes ever beheld. It is thus also she deals with all mankind, and you must make love to her, as you would conquer the Sphinx, by posing her. But were she like other women, and that there were any talking to her, how constant must "As soon as I thought my retinue suitable the pleasure of that man be who could conto the character of my fortune and youth, I verse with a creature- But after all, you may set out from hence to make my addresses. The be sure her heart is fixed on some one or other; particular skill of this lady has ever been to and yet I have been credibly informed; but inflame your wishes, and yet command respect. who can believe half that is said! After she To make her mistress of this art, she has a had done speaking to me, she put her hand to greater share of knowledge, wit, and good sense, her bosom, and adjusted her tucker. Then than is usual, even among men of merit. Then she cast her eyes a little down upon my beholdshe is beautiful beyond the race of women. If ing her too earnestly. They say she sings exyou won't let her go on with a certain artifice cellently: her voice in her ordinary speech has with her eyes and the skill of beauty, she will something in it inexpressibly sweet. You arm herself with her real charms, and strike must know I dined with her at a public table you with admiration instead of desire. It is the day after I first saw her, and she helped certain that if you were to behold the whole me to some tansy in the eye of all the gentlewoman, there is that dignity in her aspect, men in the country: she has certainly the finest that composure in her motion, that complacency hand of any woman in the world. I can asin her manner, that if her form makes you sure you, sir, were you to behold her, you would hope, her merit makes you fear. But then be in the same condition; for as her speech is again, she is such a desperate scholar, that no music, her form is angelic. But I find I grow country-gentleman can approach her without irregular while I am talking of her; but indeed being a jest. it would be stupidity to be unconcerned at such perfection. Oh the excellent creature, she is as inimitable to all women as she is inaccessible to all men." "As I was going to tell you, when I came to her house I was admitted to her presence with great civility; at the same time she placed herself to be first seen by me in such an atti- I found my friend begin to rave, and insen tude, as I think you call the posture of a pic-sibly led him towards the house, that we might ture, that she discovered new charms, and I be joined by some other company; and am at last came towards her with such an awe as convinced that the widow is the secret cause made me speechless. This she no sooner ob- of all that inconsistency which appears in some served but she made her advantage of it, and parts of my friend's discourse; though he has began a discourse to me concerning love and so much command of himself as not directly honour, as they both are followed by pretenders, to mention her, yet according to that of Marand the real votaries to them. When she had tial, which one knows not how to render in discussed these points in a discourse, which I English, Dum tacet hanc loquitur. I shall verily believe was as learned as the best phi-end this paper with that whole epigram, which [Baron Houghton, Richard Monckton Milnes, F.S.A., D.C.L., born 19th June, 1809. Poet, politician, and miscellaneous writer. Graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge; elected M.P. for Pontefract, 1837, and raised to the peerage 1863. Whilst giving earnest attention to politics and to many social questions, Lord Houghton has earned wide fame as a poet and biographer. His chief works are, Poems of Many Years; Poems Legendary and Historical; Palm Leaves; Letters and Literary Remains of John Keats, &c. One of his critics says: "Delicate fancy, warm sympathy with human suffering, and keen observation of the human heart characterize his poetical works." He died in 1885.] Eyes which can but ill define Follow yon majestic train Down the slopes of old renown, As the heart of childhood brings Youthful Hope's religious fire, Many a growth of pain and care, On that deep-retiring shore Tombs where lonely love repines, Though the doom of swift decay Shocks the soul where life is strong, Though for frailer hearts the day Lingers sad and overlong,— Still the weight will find a leaven, Still the spoiler's hand is slow, While the future has its heaven, And the past its Long-ago. SILVIA. Who is Silvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she, The heavens such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness: Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; -From The Two Gentlemen of Verona. |