« PreviousContinue »
The Publisher, in consequence of the numerous complaints he has received
of the irregular delivery of The Amusing CHRONICLE, deems it his duty to trespass on the Subscribers with the following observations :---The change of circumstunces, with its unavoidable consequences, have nearly limited the commercial pursuits of this Empire to our home trade.---In general, the price of publishing a Book, is greatly enhanced by the heavy expense of advertising ; and every well-informed Gentleman and liberal Bookseller must be convinced, that a large circulation, with a reasonable profit, is preferable, both as regards the Buyer and the Seller, to a small circulation at an enormous price, it being the interest and the duty of every Friend to Literature, and, on the same principle, every Lover of his country, to furnish our Manufactures, as well as our Books, at as low a rate as possible, and to convince Foreigners, that our Manufactures are as reasonable in price as they are superior in quality. From these causes, the profit to the Seller being small, the recommendation of the Subscribers is the more earnestly requested.
K The illness of the Engraver prevents the fulfilment, this week, of our promise.
THE NARRATOR, -No. XI.
EXAMPLES OF ANCIENT AND MODERN GALLANTRY.
(Continned from page 183.) If the picture I have just drawn of modern gallantry be considered as too much in the sombre stile of Salvator Rosa, the subsequent may compensate the taste of the critic by the more lively touches that compose it, and by the tendency to
" Shew The very age and body of the time,
Its form and pressure." When to respect the fair sex next to divinities was thought a duty, and to protect them from insult an absolute obligation.
It was said by a courtier, in the hearing of Queen Elizabeth, that Sir Francis Carew, of Beddington, possessed three of the most desirable things in domestic life he had the fairest wife,
MACPHERSON, PRINTIR, RUSSELL Court, Covent GARDEN.
the fleetest horse, and the finest cherry garden in all England.The Queen, who was passionately fond of the charms of the garden, and whose smiles were to her friends as the summer dews to the opening blossoms, assured Sir Francis that sometime in the season she would pluck a cherry with him at Beddington, Carew knew well his mistress, would respect her promise, and accordingly kept every thing in the best order possible for her Majesty's reception : but certain state affairs of the highest importance prevented the Queen from coming till the season was far spent, and her Majesty had given over all thoughts of plucking a cherry with Sir Francis at Beddington ; however, Carew, who loved and honoured his royal lady, had foreseen the probability of disappointment, and resolved it should be otherwise to that end, the knight selected the most prolific tree of his gåren, while the fruit was yet green, and raising an awning over it to keep off the sun, caused a labouring man continually to water the canvas with a scoop, which shade and coolness, though they retarded the colouring, improved the fruit in bigness. At length, Sir Francis was given to understand the precise time of the royal visit, and about eight or ten days previous took down the awning, when the hot harvest-sun quickly gave a fine colouring to the fruit, at least one month after the natural season.
When the Queen arrived at Beddington, her Majesty greatly apologised for the supposed disappointment; but the gallant Sir Francis had ordered things to turn out different to the Lady's expectation, and, by permission, took her Majesty's hand, and led her to the tree, when bending a bough big with full ripe fruit
, begged of his Sovereign to pluck the fairest; while the Queen was doing this, a little urchin, (his own son), in the form and habit of Čupid, having a golden bow in his hand, and quiver full of arrows at his back, slid forward on the bent arm of the cherry-tree, and thus addressed the royal visitor :
My mother once to Ida came,-from Priain's boy
Who hid the sun for you, and check'd its pow'rs. Elizabeth received this attention with the highest acknowledgments, and then permitted the gallant Knight to conduct her to a splendid banquet; an instance of respect and gallantry only to be equalled by another from Sir Walter Raleigh, who was sent for to attend the Queen at Greenwich, on business of the first importance ;-on his arrival, Raleigh was informed her
Majesty was walking in the Park, and that it was her pleasure Sir Walter should seek her there ;-the Knight obeyed, and found his Royal Mistress returning down the broad walk, where a small pool had been left by the morning shower: Raleigh arrived at the place with Elizabeth, and plucking off his fine blue cloak of Genoa velvet, and spreading it over the water, begged of her Majesty not to turn out of her way ;--when the Queen, walking over it, merrily struck the Knight with her fan of feathers, exclaiming, “ Take that for your extravagance, Sir Knight, who instantly replied, “ Had it been besprinkled with stars of gold, it had been unworthy the pressure of your Majesty's feet.' This was that gallant Raleigh, who, for his wisdom, became a worthy favourite with Elizabeth, insomuch that she made him Captain of her Guard, Lord Warden of the Stanneries, Lieutenant General of the County of Cornwall, and Governor of the Isle of Jersey.
Respecting Sir Francis Carew, I have further to remark, that if his conduct in life accorded with his epitaph (of which I have no reason to doubt), he was not less honourable than his contemporary, for it is thus written of him
He was most honourable in his conduct ;
And faithful to his friends. I have selected these two honourable characters as examples worthy the imitation of the youngsters of the present age, who, like Carew and Raleigh, should never forfeit the respect, the kindness, and honour due to the modest female, whatever her station in the great circle of society,
Go, foplings, and some nobler course pursue
FANNY-A MOST AFFECTING TALE.
(Continued from page 184.) She drank, and then sought to return back ; but among the many paths that led to this place, she could not distinguish that by which she came.-Impatient to see the sea, she kept to her right, as the only part of the directions she remembered. At length she gained an eminence, and saw the sea, her expected guide. Having reached a more rising ground than the first, she found she was too near the sea, and slanting from it, descended low into the woods, where the shade and fruit refreshed her, while sweet hope led her on a river's brink, which all at once interrupted her progress, it being hid from her sight by trees and shrubš till she stood on its bank, where treacherous memory now reminded her of this river, which flowed through immeasurable wilds, and emptivd itself into the sea many miles beyond the only bridge erected over it, and which she was to have passed, had she followed the guide's directions. Her dire regrets were interrupted by the entreaties of Polly for drink. She looked around her, and found herself in a swampy kind of peninsula, formed by the river and sea. The bank of the river was too steep for her to reach the water; so, placing the children under the shade of some young poplars, she sought about ainong the fresh-blow. ing watery seeds for some spring, or small standing pool. Forests of tall flags surrounded her, and among them she found what she sought, and stooping where some willows dipped their leaves, leaned over to get to the water, when a large black snake enrolled itself under her arm. She flew back to see if some monster of the same kind had got to the children, and joy pervaded her poor torn heart, when she saw them sitting safe under the trees, and the boy smiling at her return. She took them with her, and got drink at another place, but returned under the shade of the poplars to rest, and eat some bread, which she yet had remaining in her work-bag; but they had not sat long, and silence prevailed, before the snakes, with which the place abounded, hearing no longer the footing which had hitherto frightened them from ber sight, came creeping from their holes; horror dried up her tears, and snatching up her children, she set out she knew not whither; but heat and fatigue, from the weight of the children, again obliged her to seek the shade. She made choice of three oak trees, from whose roots she cleared the briars, and made a kind of bed of rushes and long grass for little Polly, who became worse and worse ; her mother, who could now attend to her words, found she was light-headed, and, among her distracted cries for assistance, her father and mother were equally called upon to save her; but convulsions came on, which soon carried her off in agonies not greater than those her mother was suffering, who loudly accused herself as the cause, and called on heaven to assist her, lest the other little one should share the same fate.
Nearly exhausted, she leaned her aching head against the tree, at the foot of which lay the dead sister and sleeping brother, on their little rush beds, She had not dropt many tears over them, ere she suddenly heard the full notes of a French horn resound through the solitary place, but seeing nothing, and being unable to call out, she again resigned her head to the same posture, in which she continued when spoken to by a gentleman on horseback,
whose approach she had not perceived, though he came up full gallop, so deeply was she sunk in grief. He appeared heated and impatient; Fanny implored his protection, and he promised assistance; but was out of sight 'ere Fanny could take back her extended hand, which had endeavoured to stay him. She foreboded that he would not return, and after waiting some hours, tied up one child in her aprun, and setting the other on her arm, began her journey along the river side.
A boat full of fishermen came swiftly down the current. She stopped them, and they heard her case with pity, and offered to take her, if she was not afraid to go twenty leagues out to sea in so small a boat full of people. “I musi not be afraid,” said Fanny, “but I have another child to trouble you with ;-she died but to-day.” The superstition of the men rejected the proposal of receiving the dead body, with so much harshness, that the reduced mother, relying on their feelings, asked if it was possible for any of them to leave the body of a loved infant unburied in the wilds? The fishermen poured forth a volley of oaths, confirming their first resolution, and dashing their oars into the water, again launched into the current. She thought to call them back, but first lifted the napkin from the child's face, and looking at it, a promise broke from her heart not to leave it. She waved her hand to the departing crew, then looking round the desert scene, her eye rested on the remaining child; the duty of saving that occurred, and she called to the men to return; but an angle of the river, overgrown with flags, hid them from her sight, and her screams to them to return were lost in the noise of the oars and rushing course of the river.
Towards evening the heavy dews began to fall, and she sought shelter under a broad-leaved tree. The distant dashing of the sea on the beach was all the noise that intruded on her during the first part of the night; but this was too calm a scene for the fatal Fanny :-it was first invaded by the shrill howl of a distant wolf, which was answered by some much nearer. While listening to these nightly growlers, she was alarmed with a rustling just behind her, and louking round, she beheld two balls of fire, alas! but too near her. Distracted with horror, she jumped up, and the glaring orbs approached her, which she soon saw were the fiery eyes of a hungry wolf, on which the moon shone full, and produced that appearance of the eyes. — With her child in her arms, Fanny kept retreating backward, and screaming to the utmost of her power, in order to frighten the creature ; but he advanced, snarling, and bristling up all his angry frame, ready to take the last spring, to seize on his helpless prey.
Vernon was at camp, and at that moment drinking to the health of his new mistress. He had never heard of Fanny since the