THE CAIRN.

THE CAIRN

A GATHERING OF PRECIOUS
STONES FROM MANY
HANDS.

LONDON:
GEORGE BELL, 186, FLEET STREET.

1846.

TO THE READER.

My “Cairn” is principally raised by the hands of many friends whose honoured names are now with the dead, whose kind sympathies have cheered my checquered existence, and whose intercourse has often corrected and enlightened my mind, leading it to seek in occupation a refuge from painful feeling. These contributions, together with original thoughts, and the gleanings of my own reading, I presume to offer to the public; with the hope that where criticism finds ample cause to condemn, my acknowledged weakness may plead for indulgence. Several pages bear the record of memories associated with those dear to me, and of events long past. I presume to believe, that the perusal of the “Cairn,” cannot injure, and may not fruitlessly occupy or amuse an idle hour.

A Soldier’s Daughter.

CONTENTS.

THE CAIRN
A GATHERING OF PRECIOUS STONES
FROM MANY HANDS.

Joy and Sorrow.

Joy.

Joy paints with its own colours every act and thought. The happy do not feel poverty, for delight is a gold tissued robe, and crowns them with priceless gems. Enjoyment plays the cook to their homely fare, and mingles intoxication with their simple drink. Joy strews the hard couch with roses, and makes labour ease. Sorrow doubles the burthen to the beaten down, plants thorns in the unyielding pillow, mingles gall with water, adds saltness to their bitter bread, clothing them in rags and strewing ashes on their bare heads. To our irremediable distress every small and petty inconvenience comes with added force. We sink beneath the additional feather chance throws on us; The grass-hopper is a burthen.

Anne of Austria.

Purgatory.

Anne of Austria, queen of Louis XIII. was extremely delicate in all that concerned the care of her person; it was scarcely possible to find lawn or cambric sufficiently fine for her use. Cardinal Mazarin used to say that her punishment in purgatory would be, her being obliged to sleep in Holland sheets!

Maternal Love.

The recollection of a Mother.

It is ever thus, whenever I am unhappy I bring distant and impossible events together, I turn to the thought of you, my Mother, for comfort, and I feel that you are not, that on earth you can never be again, that all my grief, and all my love, multiplied a thousand fold, could not recall you for one little hour; and I wish again for you, my blessed Mother, as though but just snatched from me. Time, they say, lessens grief. Yes, its constancy, not its intensity; it may give us even long intervals of peace and happiness, but when grief does return, it is strong and keen and deep as ever. How indeed can regret for such a loss be lessened? Can the thought of a Mother’s love, such a love as mine bore me, ever lose its charm, its influence? Not, I am sure, even when the reality is lost; what it was to me, so it is. Perishable things alone lose their value. Time withers flowers, but does not dim the diamond; and shall love for the being who gave us birth, the only real emanation of the Deity, that burns within us, perish as a passion of the earth? Can what is ethereal change its nature, as grosser substances? the eternal become mortal, the infinite be bounded, and what is born of the soul know death? Never!

Anecdote of Cardinal d’Estrées.

“Cæsar bishop of Laon and Cardinal d’Estrées, son of the first Marshall of France of that name, was employed in various negotiations with the Princes of Italy; but is now more remembered for his courtier-like reply to Louis XIV. That Monarch one day at dinner complained of having lost all his teeth. ‘And who is there, Sire, that has any teeth?’ said the Cardinal (Sire, qui est-ce qui a des dents?). What made the flattery the more ludicrously gross was, that the Cardinal, though an old man, had remarkably fine teeth and showed them very much whenever he opened his mouth.”

The Cemetry at Pisa.

Church-yard at Pisa.

The Church yard at Pisa is surrounded by a superb Portico, and contains earth impregnated with alkali, or calcareous salts, which reduces the dead bodies to ashes in twenty four hours.

Lady Vane.

An Ad­vertise­ment.

Whereas Frances wife of the Right Honourable the Lord Viscount Vane, has for some months past absented herself from her husband, and the rest of her friends:—I do hereby promise to any person, or persons who shall discover where the said Lady Vane[1] is concealed, to me, or to Francis Harwes, Esq. her father, so that either of us may come to the speech of her, the sum of £100, as a reward to be paid by me on demand at my lodgings in Piccadilly. I do also promise, the name of the person, who shall make such discovery shall be concealed if desired. Any person concealing or lodging her after this advertisement shall be prosecuted with the utmost rigour; or if her Ladyship will return to me, she may depend upon being kindly received. She is about twenty two years of age, tall, well shaped, has light brown hair, is fair complexioned, and has her upper teeth placed in an irregular manner. She had on when she absented a red damask French Lacque, and was attended by a French woman who speaks very bad English.

Vane.

January the 24th. 1737.

[1] Lady Vane was the Lady of fashion whose adventures form so interesting an episode in “Peregrine Pickle.”

Benevolence.

Delicacy of Feeling.

The best parts of human qualities are the tenderness and delicacy of feeling in little matters, the desire to soothe and please others, the minutiæ of the social virtues. Some ridicule these feminine attributes, which are left out of many men’s natures: but I have known the brave, the intellectual, the eloquent possess these gentle qualities; the braggart, the weak, never! Benevolence and feeling ennoble the most trifling actions.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

On a Tablet in the South Aisle of St. Margaret’s Church, Westminster.

Inscription.

Within the walls of this Church was deposited the body of the great Sir Walter Raleigh Kt. on the day he was beheaded in the old Palace yard Westminster Oct. 18th. 1618.

Reader, should you reflect on his errors, remember his many virtues, and that he was a mortal.

Woman’s Pride.

Alienation from Society.

A woman must have either a very good or a very bad conscience, to find happiness in a complete alienation from society.

Poverty.

Oh Poverty! or what is called a reverse of fortune, among the many bitter ingredients that thou hast in thy most bitter cup, thou hast not one so insupportably bitter, as that which brings us in close and hourly contact with the earthen ware and huckaback beings of the nether world. Even the vulgarity of inanimate things it requires time to get accustomed to, but living, breathing, bustling, plotting, planning, human vulgarity, is a species of moral ipecacuanha, enough to destroy any comfort.

Atheism.

Athéisme impossible.

Si l’impiété pouvait se comprendre, ce serait au sein des grandes villes où il ne reste presque plus rien de ce que Dieu a fait, où on ne voit pas le Ciel. Mais en présence des grandes colères de l’océan, l’homme se trouve à chaque instant dans des situations telles que la puissance de tous les hommes réunis n’en pourrait sauver un seul. Peut-on oublier Dieu, peut-on croire que les fleurs n’ont été inventées que pour être jetées au théâtre à des danseuses en sueur?—

Detraction—Montesquieu.

Calumny.

Montesquieu says, I never listen to calumnies, because if they are untrue I run the risk of being deceived, and if they be true, of hating persons not worth thinking about.

Temper.

When moralists, religionists, and philosophers of all sorts, set about reasoning on the phenomena of the world we live in, and contemplating the mass of human misery to be found therein, trace it to fearful crimes, they overlook one little cause of suffering which blights more happiness, and neutralises a greater portion of God’s bounteous favours, than all the heinous enormities of our depraved race put together. This hateful, stealthy, heart-destroying blight is often found, where every thing like atrocious vice is utterly unknown, and where many of the highest virtues flourish. All may exist, with a sour temper!

Set forms of expression—Philips.

Set forms of expression inserted for imitation, by Edward Philips, a nephew of Milton’s.

Forms of expression.

You are the miracle of friendship.

You are the usurer of fame.

My genius and yours are friends.

I will unrip my very bosom to you.

My tongue speaks the freedom of my heart.

Sure winter dwells upon your lip, the snow is not more cold.

The sun never met the summer with more joy.

It is no pilgrimage to travel to your lips.

You are a white enchantress, lady, you can enchain me with a smile.

Her name like some celestial fire quickens my spirit.

Midnight would blush at this.

There’s music in her smiles.

I will, like the perfumed winde, sport with your hair. Report could never have a sweeter air to fly in, than your breath.

Would I were secretary to your thoughts.

You walk in artificial clouds, and bathe your silver limbs in wanton dalliance.

Henri Quatre.

An Answer to Vanity.

In the reign of Louis XIV. the citizens of Pau had petitioned the King for leave to place a statue of “Henri quatre” in the market place of this his native town. The only reply which the vain monarch condescended to make was to send them his own statue. Of course obedience was imperative, but in erecting the statue of Louis the XIV. they inscribed on the pedestal, “This is the grandson of our good Henri.”[2]

[2] Celui-ci est le petit fils de notre bon Henri.

Woman’s pride.

The Pride of woman, natural to her, never sleeps till modesty is gone.

A Parliament Heel.

“Parliament Heel.”

What satire can be more pointed than the term applied by seamen when desirous of ascertaining the rottenness of a ship’s lower timbers, or detecting her unsoundness, they give her what they call a “Parliament heel.”

On a new-born Child—Sir W. Jones.

On a new-born child.

From the Persian by Sir William Jones.

On Parent knee, a naked new-born child,

Weeping thou sat’st, whilst all around thee smil’d,

So live, that sinking in thy last long sleep,

Pleas’d thou may’st smile, whilst all around thee weep.

Speech of Mr. Cuffe.

Speech of Mr. Cuffe, Secretary to the Earl of Essex, who was executed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, for the same offence that brought his master to the block.

Speech of Mr. Cuffe.

“I am here adjudged to die for acting an act never plotted, for plotting a plot never acted. Justice will have her course; accusers must be heard; greatness will have the victory; scholars and naturalists (though learning and valour should have the pre-eminence) in England must die like dogs, and be hanged.

To mislike this, were but folly! to dispute it, but time lost! to alter it, impossible! but to endure it is manly, and to scorn it, magnanimity! The Queen is displeased, the lawyers injurious, and death terrible; but I crave pardon of the Queen; forgive the lawyers and the world; desire to be forgiven, and welcome death!

Woman’s Devotion.

Woman’s Love.

Look at the career of Man, as he passes through the world; of Man, visited by misfortune! How often is he left by his fellow man, to sink under the weight of his afflictions, unheeded and alone! one friend of his own sex forgets him, another neglects him, a third perhaps betrays him; but woman, faithful woman, follows him in his misery with unshaken affection; braves the changes of his feelings, of his temper, embittered by the disappointments of the world, with the highest of all the passive virtues; a resigned patience ministers to his wants, even when her own are hard and pressing; weeps with him, “tear for tear,” in his distress, and is the first to catch and to reflect a ray of joy, should but one light up his languid countenance in the midst of his sufferings: and never leave him to his misery, whilst there remains one act of love, duty, or compassion to be performed. And at the last, when life and sorrow cease together, follows him to the tomb with that ardour of affection which death alone can destroy.

Savage the Poet.

Life of Savage.

It is related in proof of the deep interest with which Johnson’s life of Savage must be perused, that Sir Joshua Reynolds, during a visit at a friend’s in Devonshire, took it up one day by accident, and so intensely did the work occupy his attention, that he continued in the same position, leaning his elbow on the chimney piece till he had read it through, when attempting to move his arm it was benumbed.

A Fable—The Hon. Henry Erskine, late Lord Advocate of Scotland.

The Musical Instruments.

A Fable.

The Beaux and Belles were gone, the Concert o’er,

And Kelly’s sprightly strains were heard no more;

Thro’ the deserted room dead silence reign’d,

And still and dumb each tuneful string remain’d;

When from the case in which a Fiddle lay

Arose a voice that said or seem’d to say:

“Basses and Tenors, Kettledrums and Flutes,

Trumpets, and Horns, Fiddles, Flageolets,

From you that solemn groan to you that squeak,

Patient attend and hear a brother speak:

Oft have I mused with sorrow and regret,

Since here confined I mourn’d my captive state,

That tho’ from Harmony our being rose,

We unconnected live, nor friends nor foes;

Nor know society, till in the band

We yield our music to the master’s hand;

Those happy moments o’er, confined again,

Silent and un-united we remain:

Let us for mutual interest then combine;

To each his different share of power assign;

And from our choice that no dissension spring,

Speak, all, and let the worthiest be our King,

Under whose reign, by man when unemploy’d,

Peace, harmony and bliss may be enjoy’d.”

He spoke, thro’ all melodious accents ran,

And the slow solemn Organ thus began:

“Much I approve my four string’d brother’s scheme,

And own it oft has been my silent theme,

And since harmonic merit mounts the throne,

I claim the royal title as my own.

Observe me well when glorious here I stand,

And with a look alone respect command.

On me has man bestow’d his utmost care,

And as he found me great he found me fair;

My front with pipes of radiant gold array’d

Above the painter’s utmost art display’d;

This made a thousand instruments combine

And all in one great, glorious whole conjoin:

Nor do I boast of outward form alone,

For Harmony has mark’d me as her own;

Has taught my sweetly solemn sounds to flow

In all the pomp and majesty of woe;

Has taught my notes on seraph’s wings to fly,

And raise the ravish’d soul above the sky;

Has made in Heaven’s own that voice rever’d,

And kings to kneel whenever it is heard.

To whom then but to me shall pow’r be given,

Who rule on earth and lead the way to heaven?”

The Organ spoke majestically slow,

And thus the brazen Trumpet ’gan to blow:

“Were size enormous or were colours bright

To strike the judgment as they strike the sight,

The world’s great empire would disputed lie

’Twixt the huge whale and gilded butterfly;

But the gay peacock vainly strives to sing,

In vain the unwieldy ostrich spreads his wing,

While music swells the homely linnet’s throat,

And on the yielding air the little swallows float.

I boast no beauty then, I boast no size,

Since nought but merit true can gain the prize:

If so, I boldly call that prize my own,

And claim, whoe’er oppose that claim, the throne.

If warlike feats, if deeds of high renown,

Bravely perform’d, on men bestow the crown,

Like right is mine, who still am heard afar,

The dreadful harbinger of glorious war;

At whose loud voice, heroic ardour springs

In the bold hearts of heroes and of kings.

With them where’er they go, I brave my fate,

With them victorious share their royal state;

Till men whene’er my glorious voice they hear,

Know that a hero or a prince is near.

Such are my claims, let me your ruler be,

Receive a hero and a King in me.”

He ended, and the silver sounding Flute

Thus strove the boaster’s title to confute:

“Brothers of Harmony, whose breathings move

The human soul to virtue, peace, and love,

Shall we be ruled by one whose dreadful breath

Spreads thro’ the world division, discord, death?

Let kings for fame forget their people’s good,

And butchering heroes wade in harmless blood,

While we endeavour, as by Heaven design’d,

To soothe and not inflame the human mind.

In the sweet shade, and by the silent stream,

I softly sing, and peace and love my theme.

To my gay notes, beneath the checker’d shade,

Dance the blithe shepherd and the harmless maid.

Far from destroying war or faithless courts

I seek the scenes where innocence resorts,

There have I learnt betimes, in virtue’s school,

The art, do you bestow the power to rule.”

Soon as the gentle Flute had spoke his claim

From every corner mingling murmurs came:

With loud commanding note the Fiddle swore

Ne’er was his preference denied before;

’Twas he that still employed the master’s hand,

Follow’d obsequious by the list’ning Band;

Nay swore, that Kelly learnt from him the art

To rule with magic sounds the human heart!

The Harpsichord, the fav’rite of the fair,

Talk’d much of them, and plac’d his merits there.

Clamour on clamour grew, each prais’d his own,

And strove his neighbour’s merits to run down;

Till frightened Harmony forsook the room,

And crashing Discord shook the lofty dome;

Up rose at last a chief of little fame,

Yet mighty use, and Pitch pipe was his name;

In steady unison he thus began,

While wonder thro’ the place in murmur ran:

“Brethren of melody, to whom ’tis given

By man, first taught the glorious art by Heaven,

The various passions of the human soul,

To raise, to soothe, to heighten, to controul;

To thrill with softest sounds the lover’s heart,

To raise his transports, or to soothe his smart;

To cheer the sinking soul with liveliest air,

To soften madness or to calm despair;

To rule the thousand sympathies that bind,

With strongest, sweetest ties, the human mind.

Such are your powers while Harmony shall reign,

By her forsaken, all those powers are vain.

His hallow’d notes in vain the Organ blows,

The Fiddle’s tone with sweet expression glows;

In vain the Flute soft blows his am’rous breath,

The strepent Trumpet speaks the sounds of death;

Vainly they strive to move the feeling soul,

Till heaven-born Harmony conduct the whole.

For me one note does all my power confine,

Employ’d for others’ uses, not for mine;

And yet, however small my compass be,

Harmonic Union you must owe to me;

For still by me, whene’er you sound alone,

Or mix in concerts, must be fix’d your tone.

Then strive no more but fix on me your choice,

Who save from discord, strife, confusion, noise;

So shall the powers of music matchless reign,

Nor has divine Cecilia come from heaven in vain.”

He said, and straight his tone, tho’ simple sound,

Conviction follow’d, and himself was crown’d.

’Tis thus, my friend, that in the human soul

The various movements Reason should controul,

While headlong sallies Prudence should restrain,

And fancy yield to Judgment’s shady reign;

If the kind muse poetic rage inspire,

Or glows the breast with patriotic fire,

If wit, that seldomer does good than harm

’Midst social scenes, shall teach the tongue to charm,

If love with sweet sensations fills the mind,

Or sacred friendship mutual bosoms bind,

Howe’er with genius, fancy, feeling blest,

’Tis Prudence must direct, or vain are all the rest.

Reflection.

Let none imagine that the bare letter of duty or even the reputation of good resolutions will bear them with “golden opinions” through a life of action, despising those means which, like the farmer’s heavy rollers, smoothen the ground they are compelled to crush. Let such persons neglect that amenity, that considerate bearing, so essential in the intercourse of life, and infallibly the return will be found a bitter harvest of aversion.

Poverty.

Print this in thy thought, that whatever virtue thou hast, be it never so manifold, if thou be poor withal thou and thy qualities shall be despised: besides Poverty is a shame amongst men, an imprisonment of the mind, a vexation of every worthy spirit. Thou shalt neither help thyself or others, thou shalt drown thee in all thy virtues, having no means to show them; thou shalt be a burthen and an eyesore to thy friends; every one will fear thy company.

Thought.

If you are wretched, the world will mock your wretchedness—if you are poor, you will be insulted and contemned—and if proud, you will be exposed to hourly mortification.

Charity twice blessed.

Though nothing can be more galling to a generous spirit than to be placed under obligation by meanness, it is purely delightful to be beholden to one of its own calibre. Charity is then indeed twice blessed, when the giver and the receiver are equally elevated above the selfish and sordid feelings of vulgar humanity.

Portrait of Charles I.