small remnant of us left, we had been as Sodom and Gomorrah. My ears never heard such doleful lamentations, and my eyes never beheld such ghastly spectacles. Here have been seventy-six families visited in my parish, out of which two hundred and fifty-nine persons died! Now, blessed be God-all our fears are over: for none have died of the infection since the eleventh of October; and all the pest-houses have been long empty. I intend (God willing) to spend most of this week in seeing all the woollen clothes fumed and purified, as well for the satisfaction, as for the safety of the country.”

Thus it is he announces to his children, the death of their mother.

"To my dear children, GEORGE and ELIZABETH MOMPESSON, these present with my blessing.

"Eyam, August, 1666. "Dear Hearts,-This brings you the doleful news of your dear mother's deaththe greatest loss which ever yet befell you! I am not only deprived of a kind and loving consort, but you also are bereaved of the most indulgent mother that ever dear children had. We must comfort ourselves in God with this consideration, that the loss is only ours, and that what is our sorrow is her gain. The consideration of her joys, which I do assure myself are unutterable, should refresh our drooping spirits.

"I do believe, my dear hearts, upon sufficient ground, that she was the kindest wife in the world; and I do think from my soul that she loved me ten times more than herself. Further, I can assure you, my sweet babes, that her love to you was little inferior to hers for me. For why should she be so desirous of my living in this world of sorrows, but that you might have the comfort of my life. You little imagine with what delight she was wont to talk of you both; and the pains that she took when you sucked on her breasts is almost incredible. She gave a large testimony of her love to you on her death-bed. For, some hours before she died, I brought her some cordials, which she plainly told me she was not able to take. I desired her to take them for your dear sakes. Upon the mention of your dear names, she lifted up herself and took them; which was to let me understand, that whilst she had strength left, she would embrace any opportunity she had of testifying her affection to you."

So wrote this most affectionate spirit to comfort his children; but, in a letter to a

"Indeed had she loved herself as well as me, she had fled from the pit of destruction with her sweet babes, and might have pro longed her days, but that she was resolved to die a martyr to my interest. My drooping spirits are much refreshed with her joys, which I think are unutterable.

66

Sir, this paper is to bid you a hearty farewell for ever-and to bring my humble thanks for all your noble favours; and I hope that you will believe a dying man. I have as much love as honour for you; and I will bend my feeble knees to the God of Heaven that you, my dear lady and your children, and their children, may be blest with external and eternal happiness; and that the same blessing may fall upon my lady Sunderland and her relations.

"Dear sir, let your dying chaplain commend this truth to you and your family

that no happiness nor solid comfort may be found in this vale of tears like living a pious life;-and pray remember ever to retain this rule-never to do any thing upon which you dare not first ask the bless ing of God for the success thereof.

"Sir, I have made bold in my will wil your name as an executor, and I hope th you will not take it ill. I have joined tw others with you that will take from you the trouble. Your favourable aspect will, know, be a great comfort to my distressed orphans. I am not desirous that they may be great, but good; and my next request that they may be brought up in the fe and admonition of the Lord,

"I desire, sir, that you will be pleased to make choice of an humble, pious man to succeed me in my parsonage; and, could I see your face before my departure from hence, I would inform you which way I think he may live comfortably amongst his people, which would be some satisfaction to me before I die. And with tears I beg, that, when you are praying for fatherless infants, you would then remember my two pretty babes. Sir, pardon the rude style of this paper, and if my head be discomposed, you cannot wonder at me. However, be pleased to believe that I am

Dear sir,

Your most obliged, most affectionate, and grateful servant, "WILLIAM MOMPESSON."

When first the plague broke out in Eyam, Mr. Mompesson wrote to the then earl of Devonshire, residing at Chatworth, some five miles from Eyam; stating, that he thought he could prevail upon his parishioners to confine themselves within the limits of the village, if the surrounding country would supply them with neces saries, leaving such provisions as should be requested in appointed places, and at appointed hours, upon the encircling hills. The proposal was punctually complied with; and it is most remarkable, that when the pestilence became, beyond all conception, terrible, not a single inhabitant attempted to pass the deathful boundaries of the village, though a regiment of soldiers could not, in that rocky and open country, have detained them against their will: much less could any watch, which might have been set by the neighbourhood, have effected that infinitely important purpose.

By the influence of this exemplary man, obtained by his pious and affectionate virtues, the rest of the county of Derby escaped the plague; not one of the very nearly neighbouring hamlets, or even a single house, being infected beyond the limits of Eyam village, though the distemper raged there near seven months:

Further details will hardly be required respecting a story, which is as true as it is sad. The manner wherein it is poetically related is sufficiently exemplified, and therefore, without comment; and for beauties, various as the scenery of nature, expressed in charmed lines, the reader of feeling is referred to the exquisite little volume mentioned before, under the title of "The Desolation of Eyam, and other Poems; by William and Mary Howitt, authors of the Forest Minstrel, &c."

A little piece, however, is ventured from the volume, as a seasonable conclusion at parting.

SUMMER AND THE POET.

POET.

Oh golden, golden summer,
What is it thou hast done?
Thou hast chased each vernal roamer
With thy fiercely burning sun.

Glad was the cuckoo's hail;

Where may we hear it now? Thou hast driven the nightingale

From the waving hawthorn bough.

Thou hast shrunk the mighty river;

Thou hast made the small brook flee; And the light gales faintly quiver

In the dark and shadowy tree.

Spring waked her tribes to bloom,

And on the green sward dance. Thou hast smitten them to the tomb,

With thy consuming glance.

And now Autumn cometh on,

Singing 'midst shocks of corn, Thou hastenest to be gone,

As if joy might not be borne.

SUMMER.

And dost thou of me complain,

Thon, who, with dreamy eyes, In the forest's moss hast lain,

Praising my silvery skies?

Thou, who didst deem divine

The shrill cicada's tune, When the odours of the pine Gushed through the woods at noon?

I have run my fervid race;

I have wrought my task once more; I have filled each fruitful place

With a plenty that runs o'er.

There is treasure for the garner;

There is honey with the bee; And, oh! thou thankless scorner, There's a parting boon for thee. Soon as, in misty sadness,

Sere Autumn yields his reign, Winter, with stormy madness, Shall chase thee from the plain.

Then shall these scenes Elysian
Bright in thy spirit burn;
And each summer-thought and vision

Be thine till I return.

It may be remembered that from this volume the poem of " Penn and the Indians," in a former sheet, was extracted.

*

A plate in the "Gentleman's Magazine" of September, 1801, presents the above view, taken about three years before, accompanied by a remark from Mr. Urban's correspondent, that it was 66 at that time an exact resemblance of the perforated rock near the village of Eyam, in which the pious and worthy Mr. Mompesson, the rector, punctually performed the duties of his office to the distressed inhabitants during the time of the plague in that village." Here it may be well to observe, in the expressive language of "William and Mary Howitt," that "what a cordon of soldiers could not have accomplished was effected by the wisdom and love of one This measure was the salvation of the country. The plague, which would most probably have spread from place to place, may be said to have been hemmed

man.

The Desolation of Eyam.

in, and, in a dreadful and desolating strug gle, destroyed and buried with its victims."

William Mompesson exercised a power greater than legislators have yet attained. He had found the great secret of govern ment. He ruled his flock by the Law of Kindness.

In the summer, 1757, five cottagers were digging on the heathy mountain above Eyam, which was the place of graves after the church-yard became a too narrow repository. Those men came to something which had the appearance of having once been linen. Conscious of their situation, they instantly buried it again. In a few days they all sickened of a putrid fever, and three of the five died. The disorder was contagious, and proved mortal to numbers of the inhabitants.

Garrick Plays.

No. XXXVII.

We've left unrified; our pens have been dipt
As well in opening each hid manuscript,
As tracts more vulgar, whether read or sung,
In our domestic or more foreign tongue.
Of Fairy elves, Nymphs of the Sea and Land,

In the Prologue the Poet protests the innocence of his Play, and gives a promise of better things.

Home bred mirth our Muse doth sing;
The Satyr's tooth, and waspish sting,
Which most do hurt when least suspected,
By this Play are not affected.

Bat if conceit, with quick-turn'd scenes,
Observing all those ancient streams

Which from the Horse-foot fount do flow-
As time, place, person-and to show
Things never done, with that true life,

That thoughts and wits shall stand at strife,
Whether the things now shewn be true;
Or whether we ourselves now do
The things we but present: if these,
Free from the loathsome Stage-disease,
So over-worn, so tired and stale;
Not satyrising, but to rail ;-
May win your favors, and inherit
But calm acceptance of his merit,—
He vows by paper, pen, and ink,
And by the Learned Sisters' drink,
To spend his time, his lamps, his oil,
And never cease his brain to toil,
Till from the silent hours of night
He doth produce, for your delight,
Conceits so new, so harmless free,
That Puritans themselves may see
A Play; yet not in public preach,
That Players such lewd doctrine teach,

That their pure joints do quake and tremble,

When they do see a man resemble
The picture of a villain.-This,

As he a friend to Muses is,
To you by me he gives his word,
Is all his Play does now afford.

[From the "Royal King and Loyal Subject," a Tragi-comedy, by T. Heywood, 1627.]

Which we've not given feet to. Nay, 'tis known,
That when our Chronicles have barren grown
Dived low as to the center, and then reacht
Of story, we have all Invention stretcht;

[From the "Challenge to Beauty," a Tragicomedy, by T. Heywood, 1636.]

In the Prologue to this Play, Heywood commends the English Plays; not without a censure of some writers, who in his time had begun to degenerate.

The Roman and Athenian Dramas far
Differ from us: and those that frequent are

In Italy and France, ev'n in these days,
Compared with ours, are rather Jiggs than Plays.
Like of the Spanish may be said, and Dutch;
None, versed in language, but confess them such.
They do not build their projects on that ground;
Nor have their phrases half the weight and sound,
Our labour'd Scenes have had. And yet our nation
(Already too much tax'd for imitation,

In seeking to ape others) cannot 'quit
Some of our Poets, who have sinn'd in it.

For where, before, great Patriots, Dukes, and Kings,
Presented for some high facinorous thingst
Were the stage subject; now we strive to fly
In their low pitch, who never could soar high:
For now the common argument entreats
Of puling Lovers, crafty Bawds, or Cheats.
Nor blame I their quick fancies, who can fit
These queasy times with humours flash'd in wit,
Whose art I both encourage and commend ;
I only wish that they would sometimes bend
To memorise the valours of such men,

Whose very names might dignify the pen ;
And that our once-applauded Rosscian strain
In acting such might be revived again;
Which you to count'nance might the Stage make proud,

C. L.

To give content to this most curious age,

The Gods themselves we've brought down to the stage,
And figured them in Planets; made ev'n Hell
Deliver up the Furies, by no spell
Saving the Muses' raptures: further we
Have traffickt by their help; no History

His own Play.

†The foundations of the English Drama were laid deep in tragedy by Marlow, and others Marlow especially-while our comedy was yet in its lisping state. To this tragic preponderance (forgetting his own sweet Comedies, and Shakspeare's), Heywood seems to refer with regret; as in the "Roscian Strain" he evidently alludes to Alleyn, who was great in the "Jew of Malta," as Heywood elsewhere testifies, and in the principal tragic parts both of Marlow and Shakspeare.

Wrestling

IN CORNWALL AND DEVONSHIRE.

To the Editor.

Sir,-The ready insertion given to my letter on the above subject, in the second volume of the Every-Day Book, (p. 1009,) encourages me to hope that you will as readily insert the present, which enters more fully into the merits of this ancient sport, as practised in both counties, than any other communication you have as yet lain before your numerous readers.

Having been the first person to call your attention to the merits of Polkinhorne, Parkins, and Warren, of Cornwall, (to which I could easily have added the names of some dozen or two more, equally deserving of notice,) I was much amused at the article you extracted from the London Magazine, (into the Every-Day Book, vol. ii. p. 1337,) because I was present at the sport there spoken of; and being well acquainted with the play, and an eye-witness, I found the picture much too highly coloured.

I am neither a Cornwall nor a Devon man myself, but have resided in both counties for the last ten years, and am really an admirer of Abraham Cann, of Devon, whose behaviour in the ring no one can at all complain of: he is a fine fellow, but so is Polkinhorne, and, beyond doubt, the latter is "much the better man ;" he threw Cann an acknowledged fair fall, and I regret he left the ring on the bad advice of those whom he thought then his friends. Had he not, I am certain he would have thrown Cann "over and over again."

In a late number of the Table Book (p. 416) is given an extract from Homer, to show that Ulysses' mode of wrestling was similar to that of Abraham Cann; it may be so; but what does Achilles say upon the subject:

"Your nobler vigour, oh, my friends, restrain:
Nor weary out your gen'rous strength in vain.
Ye both have won: let others who excel
Now prove that prowess you have prov'd so well."

Now Abraham Cann, with his monstrous shoe, and most horrible mode of kicking, has never yet been able to throw Polkinhorne, nor do I think he has the power or skill to enable him to do so. His defeat of Gaffney has added no laurel to his brow, for the Irishman had not a shadow of chance; nor is there an Irishman or a Cornishman, now in London, that would

stand any chance with Cann; but he would find several awkward opponents if he would meet those from Westmoreland, Carlisle, and Cumberland, and play in their mode. In the match, however, between Polkinhorne and Cann the latter very properly re ceived the stakes, on account of the former having quitted the ring on conceiving he had won the day, by throwing two falls. The second throw, on reference to the umpires, was after some time deemed not a fair back

fall.-This, however, is foreign to my pur pose; which is to systematically explain the methods of wrestling in Cornwall and

Devon.

I have seen in Cornwall more persons present at these games, when the prize has only been a gold-laced hat, a waistcoat, or a pair of gloves, than ever attend the sports of Devon, (where the prizes are very liberal

for they don't like to be kicked severely for a trifle,) or even at the famed meetings of later days in London, at the Eagle in the City Road, or the Golden Eagle in Mile End. How is this? Why, in the latter places, six, eight, and, at farthest, twelve standards are as much as a day's play will admit of; while in Cornwall I have seen forty made in one day. At Penzance, on Monday, 24th ult.,* thirty standards were made, and the match concluded the day following. In Devon, what with the heavy shoes and thick padding, and time lost in equipment and kicking, half that number cannot be made in a day : I have frequently seen men obliged to leave the ring, and abandon the chance of a prize, owing solely to the hurt they have received by kicks from the knee downwards; and let me here add, that I have been present when even Cann's brothers, or relations, have been obliged to do so. So much for kicking.To the eye of a beholder unacquainted with wrestling, the Cornish mode must appear as play, and that of Devon barbarous.—It is an indisputable fact, that no Cornish wrestler of any note ever frequents the games in Devon; and that whenever those from Devon have played in Cornwall, they have been thrown: Jordan by Parkins, and

so on.

At a Cornish wrestling, a man's favourite play can be seen by the hitch or hold fast he takes; as right or left, which is sure to be crossed by left and right, and the struggl immediately commences. The off-hant

play is that in which the men have each gripe on his adversary's collar, or on the collar and opposite elbow, or wrist; whe

See the West Briton paper of the 5th October,