66

Cleghorn

thus saved

Some years ago, the fine old font of the ancient parish church of Harrow-on-the hill was torn from that edifice, by the gentlemen of the parish," and given out to mend the roads with. The feelings of one parishioner (to the honour of the sex, a female) were outraged by this act of parochial Vandalism; and she was allowed to preserve it from destruction, and place it in a walled nook, at the garden front of her house, where it still remains. By her obliging permission, a drawing of it was made the summer before last, and is engraved above.

wardens during whose reign venality or stupidity effected the removal of its precessor. If there be any persons in that parish who either venerate antiquity, or desire to see "right things in right places," it is possible that, by a spirited representation, they may arouse the indifferent, and shame the ignorant to an interchange; and force an expression of public thanks to the lady whose good taste and care enabled it to be effected. The relative situation and misappropriation of each font is a stain on the parish, easily removable, by employing a few men and a few pounds to clap the paltry usurper under the spout of the good lady's house, and restore the noble original from that degrading destination, to its rightful dignity in the church.

On the exclusion of Harrow font from the church, the parish officers put up the marble wash-hand - basin-stand-lookingthing, which now occupies its place, inscribed with the names of the churchVOL. I.-6.

Garrick Plays.

No. III.

[From the "Rewards of Virtue," a Comedy, by John Fountain, printed 1661.]

Success in Battle not always attributable to the General. Generals oftimes famous grow

By valiant friends, or cowardly enemies ;

Or, what is worse, by some mean piece of chance.
Truth is, 'tis pretty to observe

How little Princes and great Generals
Contribute oftentimes to the fame they win.
How oft hath it been found, that noblest minds

With two short arms, have fought with fatal stars;
And have endeavour'd with their dearest blood
To mollify those diamonds, where dwell
The fate of kingdoms; and at last have faln
By vulgar hands, unable now to do

More for their cause than die; and have been lost,
Among the sacrifices of their swords;
No more remember'd than poor villagers,
Whose ashes sleep among the common flowers,
That every meadow wears: whilst other men
With trembling hands have caught a victory,
And on pale foreheads wear triumphant bays.
Besides, I have thought

A thousand times; in times of war, when we
Lift up our hands to heaven for victory;
Suppose some virgin Shepherdess, whose soul
Is chaste and clean as the cold spring, where she
Quenches all thirsts, being told of enemies,
That seek to fright the long-enjoyed Peace
Of our Arcadia hence with sound of drums,
And with hoarse trumpets' warlike airs to drown
The harmless music of her oaten reeds;
Should in the passion of her troubled sprite
Repair to some small fane (such as the Gods
Hear poor folks from), and there on humble knees
Lift up her trembling hands to holy Pan,
And beg his helps: 'tis possible to think,

That Heav'n, which holds the purest vows most rich,
May not permit her still to weep in vain,
But grant her wish, (for, would the Gods not hear
The prayers of poor folks, they'd ne'er bid them pray);
And so, in the next action, happeneth out
(The Gods still using means) the Enemy
May be defeated. The glory of all this
Is attributed to the General,

And none but he's spoke loud of for the act;
While she, from whose so unaffected tears
His laurel sprung, for ever dwells unknown.*

Unlawful Solicitings.

When I first

Mention'd the business to her all alone,
Poor Soul, she blush'd, as if already she
Had done some harm by hearing of me speak;
Whilst from her pretty eyes two fountains rán
So true, so native, down her fairest cheeks;
As if she thought herself obliged to cry,
'Cause all the world was not so good as she..

Proportion in Pity.

There must be some proportion still to pity
Between ourselves and what we moan: 'tis hard
For Men to be ought sensible, how Moats
Press Flies to death. Should the Lion, in
His midnight walks for prey, hear some poor worms
Complain for want of little drops of dew,
What pity could that generous creature have
(Who never wanted small things) for those poor
Ambitions? yet these are their concernments,
And but for want of these they pine and die.

Modesty a bar to preferment.

Sure 'twas his modesty. He might have thriven
Much better possibly, had his ambition
Been greater much. They oftimes take more pains
Who look for Pins, than those who find out Stars.

Innocence vindicated at last.

Heav'n may awhile correct the virtuous;
Yet it will wipe their eyes again, and make
Their faces whiter with their tears. Innocence
Conceal'd is the Stoln Pleasure of the Gods,
Which never ends in shame, as that of Men
Doth oftimes do ; but like the Sun breaks forth,
When it hath gratified another world;
And to our unexpecting eyes appears
More glorious thro' its late obscurity.

Dying for a Beloved Person.
There is a gust in Death, when 'tis for Love,
That's more than all that's taste in all the world.
For the true measure of true Love is Death;
And what falls short of this, was never Love:
And therefore when those tides do meet and strive,
And both swell high, but Love is higher still,
This is the truest satisfaction of
The perfectest Love: for here it sees itself
Indure the highest test; and then it feels
The sum of delectation, since it now
Attains its perfect end; and shows its object,
By one intense act, all its verity:

Which by a thousand and ten thousand words
It would have took a poor diluted pleasure
To have imperfectly express'd.

Urania makes a mock assignation with the King, and substitutes the Queen in her place. The King describes the supposed meeting to the Confident, whom he had employed to solicit for his guilty passion.

Pyrrhus, I'll tell thee all. When now the night
Grew black enough to hide a sculking action;
And Heav'n had ne'er an eye unshut to see
Her Representative on Earth creep 'mongst
Those poor defenceless worms, whom Nature left
An humble prey to every thing, and no
Asylum but the dark; I softly stole
To yonder grotto thro' the upper walks,
And there found my Urania. But I found her,
I found her, Pyrrhus, not a Mistress, but
A Goddess rather; which made me now to be
No more her Lover, but Idolater.

She only whisper'd to me, as she promised,
Yet never heard I any voice so loud;
And, tho' her words were gentler far than those
That holy priests do speak to dying Saints,
Yet never thunder signified so much.
And (what did more impress whate'er she said)
Methought her whispers were my injured Queen's,
Her manner just like her's! and when she urged,
Among a thousand things, the injury

I did the faithful'st Princess in the world;
Who now supposed me sick, and was perchance
Upon her knees offering up holy vows

My poor

For him who mock'd both Heav'n and her, and was
Now breaking of that vow he made her, when
With sacrifice he call'd the Gods to witness:
When she urged this, and wept, and spake so like
deluded Queen, Pyrrhus, I trembled ;
Almost persuaded that it was her angel
Spake thro' Urania's lips, who for her sake
Took care of me, as something she much loved.
It would be long to tell thee all she said,
How oft she sigh'd, how bitterly she wept:
But the effect-Urania still is chaste;
And with her chaster lips hath promised to
Invoke blest Heav'n for my intended sin.

THE CUSHION DANCE.

For the Table Book.

C. L.

The concluding dance at a country wake, or other general meeting, is the " Cushion Dance;" and if it be not called for when the company are tired with dancing, the fiddler, who has an interest in it which will be seen hereafter, frequently plays the tune to remind them of it. A young man of the company leaves the room; the poor young women, uninformed of the plot against them, suspecting nothing; but he no sooner returns, bearing a cushion in one hand and a pewter pot in the other, than they are aware of the mischief intended, and would

certainly make their escape, had not the bearer of cushion and pot, aware of the invincible aversion which young women have to be saluted by young men, prevented their flight by locking the door, and putting the key in his pocket. The dance then begins.

The young man advances to the fiddler, drops a penny in the pot, and gives it to one of his companions; cushion then dances round the room, followed by pot, and when they again reach the fiddler, the cushion says in a sort of recitative, accompanied by the music, "This dance it will no farther go."

The fiddler, in return, sings or says, for it partakes of both, " I pray, kind sir, why say you so?"

The answer is, "Because Joan Sanderson won't come to."

"But," replies the fiddler, "she must come to, and she shall come to, whether she will or no."

The young man, thus armed with the authority of the village musician, recommences his dance round the room, but stops when he comes to the girl he likes best, and drops the cushion at her feet; she puts her penny in the pewter pot, and kneels down with the young man on the cushion, and he salutes her.

When they rise, the woman takes up the cushion, and leads the dance, the man following, and holding the skirt of her gown; and having made the circuit of the room, they stop near the fiddler, and the same dialogue is repeated, except, as it is now the woman who speaks, it is John Sanderson who won't come to, and the fiddler's mandate is issued to him, not her.

The woman drops the cushion at the feet of her favourite man; the same ceremony and the same dance are repeated, till every man and woman, the pot bearer last, has been taken out, and all have danced round the room in a file.

The pence are the perquisite of the fiddler. H. N.

P.S. There is a description of this dance in Miss Hutton's "Oakwood Hall."

THE CUSHION DANCE.
For the Table Book.
"Saltabamus."

The village-green is clear and dight
Under the starlight sky;
Joy in the cottage reigns to night,
And brightens every eye:

The fiddler in a corner stands,

He gives, he rules the game;

A rustic takes a maiden's hands

Whose cheek is red with shame:

At custom's shrine they seal their truth,
Love fails not here to glance ;-
Happy the heart that beats in youth,
And dances in the "Cushion Dance !"

The pillow's carried round and round,
The fiddler speaks and plays;

The choice is made,-the charm is wound,
And parleys conquer nays :-
"For shame! I will not thus be kiss'd,
Your beard cuts like a lance;
Leave off-I'm sure you've sprained my wrist
By kneeling in this Cushion Dance!'"

""Tis aunt's turn,-what in tears?-I thought You dearly loved a joke;

Kisses are sweeter stol'n than bought,

And vows are sometimes broke.
Play up!-play up!-aunt chooses Ben;
Ben loves so sweet a trance!

Robin to Nelly kneels again,

-Is Love not in the Cushion dance ?" "

On the right-hand side of the altar of St. Sepulchre's church is a board, with a list of charitable donations and gifts, containing the following item :

£. s. d. 1605. Mr. Robert Dowe gave 50 0 0 for ringing the greatest bell in this church on the day the condemned prisoners are executed, and for other services, for ever, concerning such condemned prisoners, for which services the sexton is paid £1. 6s. 8d.

Looking over an old volume of the Newgate Calendar, I found some elucidation of this inscription. In a narrative of the case of Stephen Gardner, (who was executed at Tyburn, February 3, 1724,) it is related that a person said to Gardner, when he was set at liberty on a former occasion, "Beware how you come here again, or the bellman will certainly say his verses over you." On this saying there is the following remark :

"It has been a very ancient practice, on the night preceding the execution of con,