The Town Part 35

_Q._ "In what part?"

_A._ "Why, I feel a sort of a--a--a--" (shaking his head), "I forget everything; I forget the word: I felt a kind of pain here" (putting his hand upon his left breast),--"but it is gone away, and I am better now."

_Q._ "How do you sleep, sir?"

_A._ "Not so well as I could wish; I am becoming more wakeful than usual; I awoke last night two or three times: I got up twice, walked about my room here, and then went to bed again."

_Q._ "Do you always get up when you awake, sir?"

_A._ "No, sir, not always; but I get up and walk about as soon as I feel myself--there, now, it is all gone" (putting his hand upon his forehead).

_Q._ "You get up, sir, I suppose, as soon as you feel yourself uneasy in bed?"

_A._ "Yes, sir, when I begin to be troublesome to myself."

_Q._ "Do not you, sir, find it unpleasant to walk about here alone, and to have n.o.body to converse with?"

_A._ "Not at all, sir, I get up when I am tired abed, and I walk about till I am tired, and then I go to bed again; and so forth."

_Q._ "But does it not afford you great pleasure when any person comes to see you?"

_A._ "Why, not so much as one would expect, sir."

_Q._ "Are you not pleased when your friends come and converse with you?"

_A._ "I am always very happy to see my friends, and I should be very happy to hold a--a--a, see there now...."

_Q._ "A conversation you mean, sir?"

_A._ "Ay, a conversation. Alas! sir, you see the wretched state of my memory--see there now, I could not recollect that common word--but I cannot converse. I used to go to a house very near this where my friends a.s.semble ... it was a--a--a [a company]

no, that's not the word, a--a--club, I mean. I was the father of it, but I could not hear all; and what I did hear, I did not--a--a--under--under--understand; they were all very attentive to me, but I could not be one of them. I always feel an uneasiness, when I don't know what the people are talking about. Indeed, I found, sir, that I was not fit to keep company--so I stay away."

_Q._ "Have you been reading this morning, sir?"

_A._ "Yes, sir."

_Q._ "What book?"

_A._ "I forget:--here, look at it;"--handing the book.

_Q._ "I see, it is Milton's 'Paradise Lost.'"

[He then took the book out of my hand and said:--"I have only read this much" (about four pages) "these two days--but what I read yesterday, I have forgot to-day." He next read a few lines of the beginning inimitably well, and laying down the book, said] "I understand all that, but if I read any farther, I forget that pa.s.sage which I understood before."

_Q._ "But I perceive with satisfaction, sir, that your sight is very good."

_A._ "Oh, sir, my sight, like everything else, begins to fail too; about two days ago I felt--a--a--there now ... I have lost it--a pain just above my left eye, and heard something give a crack, and ever since, this eye (pointing to the left) has been painful."

_Q._ "I think, sir, it would be advisable for you to refrain from reading a little time."

_A._ "I believe you are in the right, sir."

_Q._ "I think you appear at present free from pain?"

_A._ "Yes, sir, I am pretty comfortable now: but I find my--my--my strength is all gone. I feel myself going gradually."

_Q._ "But you are not afraid to die?"

_A._ "Not in the least, sir--I never did any person any serious mischief in my life:--even when I gambled, I never cheated:--I know that a--a--a--see, now--death, I mean, must come, and I am ready to give it up" (meaning the ghost).

_Q._ "I understand you were at Drury Lane theatre last night?"

_A._ "Yes, sir, I was there."

_Q._ "Yes, sir, the newspapers of this morning take notice of it."

_A._ "Do they?"

_Y._ "Yes, sir;--the paragraph runs thus:--'Among the numerous visitors at Drury Lane Theatre last night, we observed the Duke of Queensbury and the veteran Macklin, whose ages together amount to one hundred and ninety-six."

_Mr. Macklin._ "The Duke of who?"

_A._ "The Duke of Queensbury, sir."

_Mr. Macklin._ "I don't know that man. The Duke of Queensbury!

The Duke of Queensbury! Oh! ay, I remember him now very well:--The Duke of Queensbury old! Why, sir, I might be his father! ha! ha! ha!"

_Q._ "Well, sir, I understand that you went to the Haymarket Theatre to see the 'Merchant of Venice?'"

_A._ "I did, sir."

_Q._ "What is your opinion of Mr. Palmer's Shylock?"

[This question was answered by a shake of the head. Being desirous of hearing his opinion I asked him the second time.]

_Mr. Macklin._--"Why, sir, my opinion is, that Mr. Palmer played the character of Shylock in _one style_. In this scene there was a sameness, in that scene a sameness, and in every scene a sameness: it was all same! same! same!--no variation.

He did not look the character, nor laugh the character, nor speak the character of Shakspeare's Jew. In the trial scene, where he comes to cut the pound of flesh, he was no Jew.

Indeed, sir, he did _not hit_ the _part_, nor the _part_ did _not hit_ him."[297]

This conversation took place in September 1796: in July 1797 he died.

Dr. Walcot, better known by the name of Peter Pindar. He was a coa.r.s.e and virulent satirist, and content to write so many common-places, that they will stifle his works with posterity, with the exception of a few pieces. His humour, however, was genuine of its kind. His caricatures are striking likenesses; and the innocent simplicity which he is fond of affecting makes a ludicrous contrast with his impudence.

Dr. Walcot's largest poems are worth little, and his serious worth nothing. What we think likely to last in the collections, are his "Bozzy and Piozzi," his 'Royal visit to Whitbread's Brewhouse,' one or two more of that stamp, some of his "Odes to Academicians," and the immortal "Pilgrims and the Peas," the hero of which is a.s.suredly hobbling to this day, and will never arrive. Dr. Walcot was a man of taste in the fine arts, and produced some landscapes, which we believe do credit to his pencil. We have never seen them. His critical good taste is not to be disputed, though the Academicians, at one time, would have given a great deal to find it wanting. He was latterly blind, but maintained his spirits to the last. He had a fine skull, which he was not displeased to be called upon to exhibit, taking his wig off, and saying "There," with a l.u.s.ty voice; which formed a singular contrast with the pathos attached to the look of blind eyes.

Covent Garden market has always been the most agreeable in the metropolis, because it is devoted exclusively to fruit, flowers, and vegetables. A few crockery-ware shops make no exceptions to this "bloodless" character. The seasons here regularly present themselves in their most gifted looks,--with evergreens in winter, the fresh verdure of spring, all the hues of summer, and whole loads of desserts in autumn. The country girls who bring the things to market at early dawn are a sight themselves worthy of the apples and roses; the good-natured Irish women who attend to carry baskets for purchasers are not to be despised, with the half-humorous, half pathetic tone of their pet.i.tions to be employed; and the ladies who come to purchase, crown all. No walk in London, on a fine summer's day, is more agreeable than the pa.s.sage through the flowers here at noon, when the roses and green leaves are newly watered, and blooming faces come to look at them in those cool and shady avenues, while the hot sun is basking in the streets. On these occasions we were very well satisfied with the market in its old state. The old sheds, and irregular avenues, when dry, a.s.sorted well with the presence of leaves and fruits. They had a careless picturesque look, as if a bit of an old suburban garden had survived from ancient times.

Nothing, however, but approbation can be bestowed on the convenient and elegant state into which the market has been raised by the magnificence of the n.o.ble proprietor, whose arms we are glad to see on the side next James Street. They are a real grace to the building and to the owner, for they are a stamp of liberality. In time we hope to see the roofs of the new market covered with shrubs and flowers, nodding over the bal.u.s.trades, and fruits and red berries sparkling in the sun.[298] As an ornament, nothing is more beautiful in combination than the fluctuating grace of foliage and the stability of architecture. And, as a utility, the more air and sun the better.

There is never too much sun in this country, and every occasion should be seized to take advantage of it.