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PREFACE.

ON the close of the EVERY-DAY BOOK, which commenced on New Year's Day, 1825, and ended in the last week of 1826, I began this work.

The only prospectus of the TABLE BOOK was the eight versified lines on the title-page. They appeared on New Year's Day, prefixed to the first number; which, with the successive sheets, to the present date, constitute the volume now in the reader's hands, and the entire of my endeavours during the half year.

So long as I am enabled, and the public continue to be pleased, the TABLE Book will be continued. The kind reception of the weekly numbers, and the monthly parts, encourages me to hope that like favour will be extended to the half-yearly volume. Its multifarious contents and the illustrative engravings, with the help of the copious index, realize my wish, "to please the young, and help divert the wise." Perhaps, if the good old window-seats had not gone out of fashion, it might be called a parlour-window book-a good name for a volume of agreeable reading selected from the book-case, and left lying about, for the constant recreation of the family, and the casual amusement of visitors.

W. HONE.

Midsummer, 1827.

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PETRARCH'S INKSTAND.

MISS EDGEWORTH's lines express her estimation of the gem she has the happiness to own. That lady allowed a few casts from it in bronze, and a gentleman who possesses one, and who favours the "Table Book" with his approbation, permits its use for a frontispiece to this volume. The engraving will not be questioned as a decoration, and it has some claim to be regarded as an elegant illustration of a miscellany which draws largely on art and literature, and on nature itself, towards its supply.

"I delight," says Petrarch, "in my pictures. I take great pleasure also in images; they come in show more near unto nature than pictures, for they do but appear; but these are felt to be substantial, and their bodies are more durable. Amongst the Grecians the art of painting was esteemed above all handycrafts, and the chief of all the liberal arts. How great the dignity hath been of statues; and how fervently the study and desire of men have reposed in such pleasures, emperors and kings, and other noble personages, nay, even persons of inferior degree, have shown, in their industrious keeping of them when obtained." Insisting on the golden mean, as a rule of happiness, he says, "I possess an amazing collection of books, for attaining this, and every virtue: great is my delight in beholding such a treasure." He slights persons who collect books" for the pleasure of boasting they have them; who furnish their chambers with what was invented to furnish their minds; and use them no otherwise than they do their Corinthian tables, or their painted tables and images, to look at." He contemns others who esteem not the true value of books, but the price at which they may sell them-“ "a new practice" (observe it is Petrarch that speaks) "crept in among the rich, whereby they may attain one art more of unruly desire." He repeats, with rivetting force, "I have great plenty of books: where such scarcity has been lamented, this is no small possession: I have an inestimable many of books!" He was a diligent collector, and a liberal imparter of these treasures. He corresponded with Richard de Bury, an illustrious prelate of our own country, eminent for his love of learning and learned men,

and sent many precious volumes to England to enrich the bishop's magnificent library. He vividly remarks, "I delight passionately in my books;" and yet he who had accumulated them largely, estimated them rightly he has a saying of books worthy of himself—“a wise man seeketh not quantity but sufficiency."

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Petrarch loved the quiet scenes of nature; and these can scarcely be observed from a carriage or while riding, and are never enjoyed but on foot; and to me-on whom that discovery was imposed, and who am sometimes restrained from country walks, by necessity it was no small pleasure, when I read a passage in his "View of Human Nature," which persuaded me of his fondness for the exercise: "A journey on foot hath most pleasant commodities; a man may go at his pleasure; none shall stay him, none shall carry him beyond his wish; none shall trouble him; he hath but one labour, the labour of nature-to go."

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In "The Indicator" there is a paper of peculiar beauty, by Mr. Leigh Hunt, " receiving a sprig of myrtle from Vaucluse,” with a paragraph suitable to this occasion: "We are supposing that all our readers are acquainted with Petrarch. Many of them doubtless know him intimately. Should any of them want an introduction to him, how should we speak of him in the gross? We should say, that he was one of the finest gentlemen and greatest scholars that ever lived; that he was a writer who flourished in Italy in the fourteenth century, at the time when Chaucer was young, during the reigns of our Edwards; that he was the greatest light of his age; that although so fine a writer himself, and the author of a multitude of works, or rather because he was both, he took the greatest pains to revive the knowledge of the ancient learning, recommending it every where, and copying out large manuscripts with his own hand; that two great cities, Paris and Rome, contended which should have the honour of crowning him; that he was crowned publicly, in the metropolis of the world, with laurel and with myrtle; that he was the friend of Boccaccio, the father of Italian prose; and lastly, that his

greatest renown nevertheless, as well as the predominant feelings of his existence, arose from the long love he bore for a lady of Avignon, the far-famed Laura, whom he fell in love with on the 6th of April, 1327, on a Good Friday; whom he rendered illustrious in a multitude of sonnets, which have left a sweet sound and sentiment in the ear of all after lovers; and who died, still passionately beloved, in the year 1348, on the same day and hour on which he first beheld her. Who she was, or why their connection was not closer, remains a mys tery. But that she was a real person, and that in spite of all her modesty she did not show an insensible countenance to his passion, is clear from his long-haunted imagination, from his own repeated accounts, from all that he wrote, uttered, and thought. One love, and one poet, sufficed to give the whole civilized world a sense of delicacy in desire, of the abundant riches to be found in one single idea, and of the going out of a man's self to dwell in the soul and happiness of another, which has served to refine the passion for all modern times; and perhaps will do so, as long as love renews the world."

At Vaucluse, or Valchiusa, 66 a remarkable spot in the old poetical region of Provence, consisting of a little deep glen of green meadows surrounded with rocks, and containing the fountain of the river Sorgue," Petrarch resided for several years, and composed in it the greater part of his poems.

The following is a translation by sir William Jones, of

AN ODE, BY PETRARCH,

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF VALCHIUSA,

Ye clear and sparkling streams!
(Warm'd by the sunny beams)

Through whose transparent crystal Laura play'd;'
Ye boughs that deck the grove,
Where Spring her chaplets wove,

While Laura lay beneath the quivering shade;
Sweet herbs and blushing flowers!
That crown yon vernal bowers,

For ever fatal, yet for ever dear;

And ye, that heard my sighs
When first she charm'd my eyes,
Soft-breathing gales! my dying accents hear.
If Heav'n has fix'd my doom,
That Love must quite consume

My bursting heart, and close my eyes in death;
Ah!
this slight request,-
grant

That here my urn may rest,
When to its mansion flies vital breath.
my
This pleasing hope will smooth
My anxious mind, and soothe
The pangs of that inevitable hour;
My spirit will not grieve

Her mortal veil to leave

In these calm shades, and this enchanting bower. Haply, the guilty maid

Through yon accustom'd glade

To my sad tomb will take her lonely way;
Where first her beauty's light

O'erpower'd my dazzled sight,
When love on this fair border bade me stray:
There, sorrowing, shall she see,
Beneath an aged tree,

Her true, but hapless lover's lowly bier;
Too late her tender sighs

Shall melt the pitying skies,

And her soft veil shall hide the gushing tear.
O well-remember'd day,
When on yon bank she lay,
Meek in her pride, and in her rigour mild;
The young and blooming flowers,
Falling in fragrant showers,
Shone on her neck, and on her bosom smil'd:
Some on her mantle hung,

Some in her locks were strung,
Like orient gems in rings of flaming gold;
Some, in a spicy cloud
Descending, call'd aloud,

"Here Love and Youth the reins of empire hold."
I view'd the heavenly maid;
And, rapt in wonder, said→

"The groves of Eden gave this angel birth;"
Her look, her voice, her smile,
That might all Heaven beguile,

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Colley Cibber's youngest Daughter.

Last of her sire in dotage-she was used
By him, as children use a fav'rite toy;
Indulg'd, neglected, fondled, and abus'd,
As quick affection of capricious joy,
Or sudden humour of dislike dictated:

Thoughtlessly rear'd, she led a thoughtless life;
And she so well beloved became most hated:

A helpless mother, and a wife unblest,

She pass'd precocious womanhood in strife;
Or, in strange hiding-places, without rest;

Or, wand'ring in disquietude for bread:

Her father's curse-himself first cause of all
That caused his ban-sunk her in deeper thrall,
Stifling her heart, till sorrow and herself were dead.

"THE LIFE OF MRS. CHARLOTTE CHARKE, youngest daughter of Colley Cibber, Esq. written by herself," is a curious narrative of remarkable vicissitudes. She dedicates it to herself, and aptly concludes her dedication by saying, "Permit me, madam, to subscribe myself, for the future, what I ought to have been some years ago, your VOL. I.-5.

*

real friend, and humble servant, CHAR LOTTE CHARKE."

In the "Introduction" to the recent reprint of this singular work, it is well observed, that "her Life will serve to show what very strange creatures may exist, and the endless diversity of habits, tastes, and inclinations, which may spring up spon

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