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T h e ge'imit of . Cripplegate.*
„ ca,mis °Lula. irraoit OF rsanzas."
w aks t andilessoird all thy good enamor,
1 1.1 4:1 0t behind, net in the grave were trod';
ifra F a ith_pointed with her golden-0A
,F4 ) 211 a - a' up to joy -and bliss forever."
MILTOS.
Oa a glowing day, about two centu
ries and a half ago, a great bustle and
ze al. making roused the little' village
liuscumbe, in Wiltshire, from its
„ a l _ pastoral 'quiet. This festivity
caused by the marriage of Mistress
In el . Velby, only daughter and heiress
If the lord of the manor, to Sir Christo
.i‘er Hillard, a gentleman of a large
.sessions it Yorkshire. Never was
ore auspicious wedding ; nor ode
w hich, in all' its circumstances, could
te more :flattering 'to ,
_the bride and
Villag,e inhabitants, old
oung, lads and lasses, were
:gad in all their'country bravery, bu
' iN 11 pnying homage after their fashion,
young couple; gentry living
round assembled at Welby Hall to
;: honor to the; occasion; the road
'.l.Jugh -
. which our wedding pageant
:Lised.to church Was for the most part
c'er canopied by , elm-baughst and the
r . :larch itself was a quaint, picturesque,
Lad ancient edifice, of which the pave-
Int was decorated in several places
tth brass effigies and , armorial bear
tzs of certaih ancestors of the Welby's,
laid on the' stones. Last though not
Ist, the marriage was to solemnized
• the illustrious Richard Hooker, at
tat time rector or this parish; to which
ring he had been presented by Mis
lis-Anne's father, Henry Wel‘y. Es
tire, of Valei.kriory, in Linconshire,
id of Boscurnbe,l in Weltshire.
It has been held by many that the
",,rin 'of myriage, as prescribed in our
;:oral, is much. Weakened by certain
Lppings and'omissions, tolerated in
• present day. We( do not know
cether in the sixteenth century such
'r.2reriations were permitted, or not,
celebration of this solemn con
'n; but be this as it may. it is quite
:,-;:un that Richard hooter was too
-a_ach a rituralist to epitomize a sac
order of the church. He, who at
titre was composing his great work
Ezclesiastical Polity." would ne
cream of abridging ecclesiastical
:as. nor would Mr:' W'elby hare ac
:..sced in so irrverent an indecorum,
m had, the minister been inclined to
`7 - , - cct ate it. The ceremony was,
, :efpre. perfor m ed 'in all its impres
details before a congregation which
every parr of the humble fane
e•lledthe '• Blessing" on the new:
=riled pair had been pronounced.
I:.zi- of skilful. singing men chanted
.earned counterpoint -the Beati
Then followed other obser
which, being completed, the
couple devoutly received the
lahloa. . pealing voluntary was
zeard from the org an.-an thir
. Led away. 11r..'llooier ascend
pulpit, and preached a marriage
with much Tof the rich
apostolical fervor. fertility of
Iztt.. and erudite illustration, which
zxs - . , :Sh his immortal Ecclesiasti
a.:y."
le . ;:e the sermon had concluded.
we lower windows nearest the
was sydenly darkened by. the
a malt who looked earnestly
- 41-zlv at the preacher. Muter
.. -
was whispered from one to the
when the,eyes_ of the congvega
3ere simultaneously turned on
Disconcerted by so universal a
he zradually drew back from
and disappeared. Though
armlker, in common with others.
fita - ute intruder, and kniiir that
ry=e; were directed especially at
"-= paused not in his discourse,
as atom of his fervid em-
.'-a',' was ore at the church.the
Rini. returned instate to
`where a sumptuous hinquet
pared. The bride and bride
'l3vriver. remained not long with
vests; end having re-
Mi. Welhes tearful benetlie
:•qatted• for London, where they
to remain a few days prepare
removal of Lidy Hilliard to
I:bind's seat in Yorkshire. where
t=ort time she was welcomed as
by Sir Christopher's relations
howerer, is unmixed with
.in - this world of ours._ 7
inne, it is true, was united to
of her election, who deserved
he had .won; still, she
ieiveag , in comparmive tone
father. whom she dearly lor
t: :ssiding in so &slat - a coon
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ty. Mr. Welby, though cordially ap
proving Hillard for his son-in-law, felt
the separation even in a greater degree
than his daughter. It was a melan
choly contradiction to his habits ; his
table would be desolate ";" the loss of
Anne would make an irreparable void_
in his house. How could he endure
the sight of her vacant chair.-4ow be.
guile the time till he again should see
her? aln fact. a wedding, even when,
as in the present case, congenial hearts
are linked-together, is not in reality,
and ought not to be.. a merry affair.—
Trick it out as you may in external
gauds and triumphs, the exultation will
generally be dashed with a lurking sad
ness. The sacrifice of parental home,
of old associations, of caresses which,
from infancy, were daily renewed—
these form, during many weeks, a can=
ker in the very core of happiness.
But time mitigates every kind of
suffering. The father and daughter,
though separated, were not without the
• comfortable intercourse of frequent let
ters ; and as Lady Hilliard had every
reason to be happy in her new home,
and in the devoted fondness of her hus
band, Mr. Welby- became. in apanner,
reconciled to the loss of his only child's
society, and derived pleasure from con
sidering how adequately she was set
tled in life, and how fortunate in a part
ner who would protect her both now
and when, her father should have de
scended to-the grave.
One only source of disquietude re
mained to Welby, , and this originated
in his brother—a disiolute, violent, and
unprincipled man, who, hoping to se
, cure for his own emolument, certain
church-preferments, din the gift of his
family, had taken orders, but more
;than once had been in !danger of losing
his gown in consequence of his quar
relsome disposition and intemperate
habits. On the death of the last in
cumbent of Boscumbe, Mr. Welby
found it impossible, without incurring
great scandal, to confer the living on
his brother. To the learned, 'pious,
and eloquent Hooker, it was offered,
and by him it was accepted.
One day, when Mr.' Welby was
walking in his park, chewiner.the cud
of sweet and bitter melancholy," (for
he was a man of sensitive temperament,
and much given to lonely musing,) he
saw his brother striding with hurried
pace's towards him. Knowing. from
painful experience, that he was thus
sought, only to be entangled in an al
tercation, he turned towards the house,
determining, if possible, to secludeliim
self and to decline any interview with
the unworthy churchman. The latter,
however, soon overtook him.
"Henry," ejaculated he, " I do not
wonder that yoti wish to avoid me ;
but I will not allOw you to do so. I
have suffered many grievances at your
,hands. I have much to say, and you
shall hear me. Brother,you have done
me-great wrong."
• " You have done yourself t reat
wrong, Basil," returned Mr. Welby
quietly. e
" Have you nothing else to say ?
• Can you' invent no, newer rhetoric!"
retorted " I have heard this
'whining fustian so often, that I sicken
'at its repition. Sir, I directly char:m e
you with cheating me of my birthright.
This is a plain, straight-forward accu
sation, and must be answered plainly.
Under the cloak of a legal device, you
have committed a real injury, and de
prive me of that to which by the laws
of nature and common sense, I am as
fully entitled as yourself."
Be explicit,
,Basil."
• I will. Presutning unworthily—
"treacherously, oa the foolish right of
eldership, you have prOsed Yourself a
dishonest steward of property to which
my claim is equal to your own. Am
1 not the son of tny father?"
Oh, Basil:" sorrowful!? ejaculated
Welby, 4• fortunate for laid - is it that
our father lived not to hear of your riot
ous course. and to know of the dis
grace you have brought on his name,
and on your own calling."
Disgree !" echoed Basil furiously.
•• Take more heed. elder brother. of
your words, or by this light, my hand
shall thrust them down your throat."
•• 1 am no stranger to your violence,"
returned Welhr. "but it shall not
daunt me, nor Wm me from the path of
datr."
The path of duty. sir, should tend
towards your kitrared." said Basil.—
"Have you not basely strayed from it
in giving to Master Hooker that which
was port of my father's privilege and
ProPertY.
.• It is mine now by the sane right
through which it descended to our fa
ther." answered Welby. •• I have n
ear denied you money. Basil; atm'
Regardless of Denunciation from any Quarter.—Gov . n P oets:.
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stood upon accounts, or reckoning, or
over-payments. Yon almost held the
string of my purse, and I have tried to
ke content. But the mire of souls is a
*eightier matter; and the parish have
a sacred right to demand, - from me a
&tug and pious minister."
" Well, sir!"
4' Ask 'yourself, Basil, if my duty
would not have been discharged had I
given to you the rectory of Boscumbe.
Would the congregation have relied on
your spiritual teaching ? would medita
tion have any weight with men at va
riance ? Would a trembling conscience
have sought counsel from you ? Would
any one in the time of tribulation, and
in the hour of death, have sent for Mas
ter Ba s il Welby to point the way to
Heaven ? Oh, brother, ponder on your
past life, think of your graceless bear
ing, your divers excesses, your tavern
brawls (unmeet in any one, but fearful
ly so in the minister of God's church;)
reflect moreover, on the manner in
which all men are forced to estimate
you! Then supplicate for grace, and
let me love you, dear Basil."
"These are mere words, Henry—
idle words. What have they to do
with your daring appropriation of my
patrimonial right ? How do they war
rant you in bestowing on' a low born
mongrel—a beggar who was fain to ac
cept doles, paltry alms, pitiful groats.
from Bishop JeWel—a man to whom
his lordship could not lend even a walk
ing staff without a strong and iterated.
injunction that he would not fo:get to
return it;--how, I ask, do your puling
phrases justify your overlooking me,
your brother—a born gentleman. in fa
vor of such an upstart cozener ?"
" Fie, Basil—fie ! Verily: you
know not the man of "whom you speak.
Master Hooker is no cozener, but a
holy priest, whose life and actions are
no doubt pleasing in the sight of his
Creator. The world will reverence his
memory for-centuries to come. But
you know Basil, I have another other
living in my gift— ; that of in
Lincolnshire, of which the: present in
cumbent is very old and infirm. Mend
your life—draw down oblivion upon
your past errors, and this living shall
be yours in due time. How my heart
will be comforted when I shall be able
to bestow it on von !"
•• I care not for the living you' speak
of, andl will not have it," returned
Basil. ••'Sdeaih, sir, you shall not
banish me to fenny Lincoln I like
not its marsh agues. loo; Boscumbe
is the parish wherein I was born ; it is
the parish which holds my father's
house r and the best of his lands ; in it
I was chriiteried, and in its church my
ancestors have assembled for genera
tions. By being excluded from its pul
pit, lam indelibly disgraced ! You
have stamped upon my brow a burning
shame, for the sake of arTevonshire
clowii—an arrant adventnrei."
" All men know you are skilful in
railing." rejoined Welby. ." Had you
ever heard or read any of Master Hook
er's discourses, even you would speak
with respect of a man. who, if I err
not iiridely. is destined to be a pillar of
our English church. He is so learned
a divine, so abounding in grace, so
zealous and effectual in his calling,. so
gifted with saintly faculty, that it is
impossible he should long remain hid
den in our sequestered rectory of Bos
cumbe. Therefore. dear Basil, re
form, and Bcncumbe shall yet be
yours."
plate no faith in your promises,
Henn."
••How !" exclaimed Welby,
I ever deceived your expectations
Yes, in alienating Boscumbefrom
your own hood. But come, pi test
your sincerity. Will you solemnly
swear here. before we part. that as soon
soerer as'Master Hooker shall vacate
the firing, you will induct me into it!
Do this. and much as I hare been
there shall be peace between
us."
Iwill not do it. Buil. save upon
-
condluons: ' 6•
...Then," vociferated Basil. foaming
with rage, you are a villain—a base
colluder with a hypocritical priest.—
May the -.burning lake of hell 'surge
eternally - over your head ! One of con
shall soon be there," continued he,
suddenly presenting a pistol at his bro
ther's head, and polling the trigger.
The weapon missed fire ; but Wel- ,;` Bat alas! We!by bad taken an oath
be beard the-click and saw the Sash.-- that he would never again behold a hu
liusbing Oa his brother with a view to man being. tare the serring-woman he
diitrm tamps d es perate struggle en- bad hired to tend him, after many in
sued. which terminated by Basil king r effectual attempts. the poor lady was 5
thrown to the ground witlnsuch violence eonstramed to return Without the Mes
as to be stunned; when taking the pis- a sing of an: interview with ber woe
tol from his grasp. Welby walked to stricken father. No circumstance. oT
his house thoughday sad - with for- what kind soerer. bad strength enough
row. ' Ito shake or even to atiodify, the ....Incr. I
Having shut himself up in his Ebro
ty, and locked the door. be sat down
to meditate on the strange event which
had just occurred. That his life should
have been attempted within sight of his
own hope, in mid-day, and by the
hand of his brother, was almost too
monstrous for belief. It was like
phantasma, or a hideous dream."
"He could not hare meant to de ,
stroy me," soliloquized Welby. "No,
no ! rash and violent as he is, he never
intended that. His design. no doubt,
was to terrify me into compliance with
his demand. The pistol merely flash
ed in the pao. \ Surely, surely it was
not loaded. Still, the very pretence to
do such a deed' , was outrageous and
Iniquitous. How can be look me in
the face again ? I must nevertheless
do what I can to reclaim . him. No,
no ; I will never believe that Basil in
tended to slay his prother."
The pistol was on the table before
him. Welby looked at it. " There,"
said he, lo himself, •• is an evidence
capable of strengthening my belief that
no worse harm than frightenbig- me
was meditated. I might examine it,
and so prove ., Basil's innocence of mur
der, even in thought."
Welby took up the weapon, and
held it awhile irresolutely ; then, with
a shudder, laid it down again, exclaim
ing, " God help me ! I have not cour
age to dare the test. What if I should
discover a 'damning proof of guilt ? Bet
ter be in ignorance than wither under
so terrible a conviction.
It was some time before he recovered
his consciousness. But what an utter.
what a dreadful, change had been
wrought - during that interval. A total
revolution had taken place in his mind.
By this one blow, the world and all in
it was suddenly darkened to poor Wel
by—a wide blank was before him.—
Though not destroyed, his reasoning
powers were stunned ; and he desper
ately resolved to avoid for ever any in
tercourse with mankind. Ile was
shocked," says Mr. Leigh Hunt, ". by
the strangeness as well as inhumanity
of his brother's auempt ; it gave him a
horror of the very faces of his fellow
creatures ; perhaps, also, something of
a personal fear of them. and very likely
a hypochondriacal dread. even of him-
self, and of the blood of which his veins
partook."
Without apprising any one of his in
tention—without seeing the good and
great Hooker, whom, under any less
overwhelming calamity than the pre
sent, he would doubtless have consulted
—Without even leaving a letter for his
well beloved daughter—be. ordered a
horse to be saddled and brought to him,
and !Laving turned his , back for ever on
his ancestral mansion, and on the haunts
of his youth and manhood, arrived, af
ter two days' journeying, in London.
This was in the year 1592. He now
authorized an (*gent to dispose of all
his property in Wiltshire and Lilac°ln
shire. and then, according to the old
pamphlet, published Din 1837, took a
fair house in the lower end of Grub at.
nearCripplegate, and contracting a
numerous retinue into a small family,
hawing the house prepared for his pur
pose, he selected three chambers for
himself, the one for his diet, the second
for his Lodging, and the third for his
study. As they-were one withiriln
other, while his diet was set on the ta
ble by an old maid-servant, he retired
into his lodging room ; and when his
bed was making, into his study, still
doing so till all was clear.
That a man should lease the country,
and repair to London for solitude. may.
at first sight. appear unreasonable, but
Welby desired to destroy all former u
-1 sociations of his life. He thought.
moreover. that in such an intricate wil
-1 dernths of houses his brother would be
lunable to trace him : and that while he
could render his seclusion as inviolable
i as he chose; the neighborhood of other
l men would make it safe.
It could not be otherwise than that
so strange and obstinate a determina
lion should be much talked about. and
; that it should soon travel to his dattih
t
ter s ears. who immediately. on learn
ing what had happened, left - her house
lin Yorkshire, and. accompanied by her
husband, repaired to Loudon. sought
out her father's residence. and desired
the old maid---errant to tell het' master
that his dauerhter was come to see him.
resolve he had formed. From middle
age; when he first plunged into - his
solemn seclusion ] , till he died, at a very
advanced time in life, (a space of forty
four years,) he was never seen by any
of his fellow creatures; though divers
attempts were made during thasperiod
by his son-in-law, his daughter, and his
graad-children.
Though in the world, Welby was
not of the world , . In one small, nar
noW room, which, as it looked towards
ab open space formed by Moorfields, '
and pasture land of .Fin4bury, was
hushed and silent, he spent forty-foir
summers and winters, .• debarring him
self from the fresh and comfortable
air," and staining his windows, to veil
from his eyes the cherful scene with
out. Yet was the day not tedious, nor
the night unaisite4, by sweet and lofty
thoughts. The walls of his room were
ciothed with books ; and in his inter
course with those silent chroniclers of
men's' minds, he found indemnity for
his self-imposed exclusion from their
living companionship. He gave direc
tion that every new book, immediately
on its . publication, should be brought
to him ; but such as had a controver
sial turn, he laid aside and never read :
even Hooker's ...Ecclesiastical Poli
ty," he did not look into, probably fear
ing it might be polemical. The books
which he rejected were found from
time to time by his servant on the . table
in his dining-room, with a written in
struction to send them away. It
must have pained his gentle spirit to
discard the great work of Richard Hoo
ker, his sometirhe pastor and dear
friend; but yearned for peace of
mind, and consolation, and hermit-like
tranquility, dreading debate even as an
adder's sting. , In the books which
most engaged his mind, he was id the
habit of making marginal observations,
as appeared on inspecting his library
after his death, whecit must have been
delightful to ascertain' the vast amount
of pleasure he had derived from the
imagination, nature, affluent thoughts.
knowledge of the human' heart, and,
profound, but bland philosophy in the
plays of Shakspeare. which he. eaaerly
read, as they successively appeared in
quarto. His servantly frequently
found on the dining room table a slip of
paper. with these words : •• Inquire
whether any thing new be extant of
Master Shakspeare' If there be, send
to the stationer for it with all speed."
Some of these plays had more or less
affinity to Welby's own situation. as
refenitag either to outrages of brother
upon brother, or to more gerieral
lv feuds, or to the ingratitude of men.
or to their vile se/fishness which hesi
tates not at the perpetration of any
wrong. however mean or treacherous,
so that its own ends may be compass
ed. I might seem that works thus cog
nate with Welby's circumstances would
have been shunned by him as opening
anew his wounds ; and so they would,
had not our tinting wisdom—the dem
onstration of .4a soul of goodness in
things evil"—been everywhere appa
rent in them. In the above category
are As Yon Like It," wherein are
two Camas. Canis at least in intention;
Frederick and Oliver, and two gentle
Weary% the Senior Duke and Orlando;
The Tempest," with Prospero driv
en in .• a rotten carcase of a boat," to
the mercy of winds and acd wares by
his brother-into
,dia, and though thrown
Upon a desertisland. finding his com
fort in .pricelft , s books ; Hamlet,"
Wherein the ghost of the royal Dane
relates. in words soundingofihe sepul
chre. that he was murdered by his
brother; Lear," mad with the mon-
strous cruelty of his children. (besides
the terrible underplot of Edmund,
foully practising against his brother
Edgar's life ;) and •• Timon," hunted.
by the ingratitude of his fellows, from
the haunts of men, and howlinc , his
resentment to the wild woods- howling
-
tYr must hare been especially interest
ed in the As Yon Like It." for the
top, bottom and - sides of nearly every
page of the serious nortions of that dra
ma. whose irresisuib'le strength is in its
tenderness. were covered with expres
sions of loving admiration. A no:e on
'the six lines ;Act 2, scene 1,) begin- s t ,
'ning—
" Sweet are the mom of eclum ! admittamee was constantly denied to
was very touching. Were it not," her, =me *gam at.-d again. with a 'plea
wrote he. "for tar fore-passed oath, ! that she knew Master We:by vroulf!
methinks I should much rejoice - to lock "see her if he could anticipate what she
into the face of mat man who can i came about. It was to rio purpose that
write d i es. int; who hs done so great Elizabeth tad the woma7 her Mar ter
Serrieetopoor human nature, in other would cot 'errant acdtecce tonny human
his all-solacing conceits. But alas. alas. beim". zneer any circumstance whaler-
I. may not." " The Tannest," too, P er. is Tain: one eay's repulse was
seemed to have atiorbed
,the recluse's sure to be fed br rezrrwed
attention deeply but Timon of ! cation. At !tooth. she brought a tan
Athens", hz - Li video:lv-not much attrwt- with her—ia wrainit looltin;„
ed him—perhar. tot - E..7 *.z.r....7
Siiii
''
ELM ac 00: G 0 1200 e.
and general tone of acerbity had repel
led his meek. spirit. •Lear had been
carefully perused, as was obvious from
the reader's many written observations.
It would seem, however, from a note
at the end. that his - pleasnre in it was
unqualified. The note ran thus:
"Lear loth not win my sympathy so
much as 'the banished dukci . in As
You Like It." Lear's agony dateth
from his own finegone willfulness,—
According to mine own conceit, it is
borne with too much impatience, and
giveth.birth to too many blazing bursts
of passion and rood defiance. Re
looketh to repair his wrongs by wrath
and impotent resentment; and the fu
ry 'of hisimprecations shocks , me.—
Peradventure, Master Shakspeare is
right for all this." . Welby's misgiv
ings of his own
said
were eviden
ced (se. it_ras said at the time.) by
marks — opts fears• on the pages of this
great tragedy..
His servant, Elizabeth ; saw her
master but seldom(andthen only inca
ses
of extraordinary necessity,) dunn
his seclusian of four and forty years.—
She stated that, except for the mildness
of his eyes, his appearance was wild
and startling. The white tresses of
his head fell down his shoulders, and
partly over his face, shadowing his
thin, pale. and prophet-like visage ; and -
his breast was covered by his beard.—
He mdeed under a veil of hair. it is
probable. from this description, that
Shakerly Marmion, in alluding to Wel
by, says :
" Yet saw we one of late, that when he stood,
He look'd as he were born before the flood."
1 , His habit was plain and without
ornament; of a sad colored cloth, only
to defend him from the cold, In, diet
he was remarkably temperate, subsist
chiefly on oat-meal gruel ; and now and
then, in summer, he would indulge in
a salad of cool herbs. He never tasted
wine, or strong Water, but contented
himself with weak beer. Neverthe
less," says the old pamphlet, '4 he kept
a bountiful table for his servants, and
sufficient entertainment for any stranger
or tenant who had occasion Of business
at his house."
In Christmas holidays, at Easter, and
other festivals, he had great cheer pro
vided with all dishes . in, season, served
into his own chamb er, with stores of
wine, which his maid brought in ; then,
after thanks to God for his good .bene
fits. he would pin a clean napkin be
fore him, and putting on a pair of white
Holland sleeves. cutting up dish alter
dish in order, he would send one to
one poor neighbor, the next to another,
whether it were brawn, beef, capon,
goose. &c., up he had left the table
quite empty ; when, giving thanks
again. he laid by his linen, and caused
the cloth to be taken away; and this
would he do, dinner and supper. upon
those days, without tasting ore morsel
of anything. Whatsoever! . How bean
tiful—how affeetiner—is this !....Benig
nity the post liberal. and self-privation
the most severe, acting together—ful
filling their separate purposes band in
hand ! Then ihe formal preparation
for the no m , and the grateful thanks
to God bey and after meat—for
others ! , Sin . good, and pious Wel.
by ! Long ffering should not have
been the d es tiny of thy meek heart.
His pecuniary charities were numer
als and judicious. -He would 'occa
sionally inquire.-- what neiebborswere
industrious in their callings' and with
al, if their labor and industry could not
sufficiently supply their families !"
To such, he would liberally send, and
relieve them according to their neces
sities!
- Itut no benefits of this kind can be
conferred, without subjecting the giver
to importunities from persons who
may not be deserving; and Welby
knew that to this penalty his good
deeds must submit, though he did scot,
at first, reckon that applications would
be made by sturdy mendicants to see
him personally. Whatever might have
been gires to many of them,-had a dif
ferent mode of solicitation been adopt
ed, tras certain to - be withheld when
sought in this way. In the Cott tyear
of Welby's life—aamely„ 1f o —his
house w a s much pestered by therepeat
ed visits of an old woman. who, though
ialrao toSo.