Notes and Queries, Number 35, June 29, 1850. Various
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an imperfect state, might yet be identified, either from the handwriting or some other circumstance. Do any of your correspondents possess or know of any MS. on Election or Free-will, of the time of the Reformation, which might possibly be the missing treatise? Things turn up so curiously, in quarters where one would least expect it, and sometimes after more than three centuries, that one would willingly hope that this lost treatise might even yet be found or identified.
Bath.
LINES WRITTEN DURING THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION
The accompanying is from the pen of one of the officers who bore a prominent position in one of the expeditions under Sir Edward Parry in search of a north-west passage. Not having been in print, except in private circulation, it may be deemed worthy of a place in your valuable journal.
THOUGHTS ON NEW YEAR'S DAY.
"The moments of chasten'd delight are gone by,
When we left our lov'd homes o'er new regions to rove,
When the firm manly grasp, and the soft female sigh,
Mark'd the mingled sensations of friendship and love.
That season of pleasure has hurried away,
When through far-stretching ice a safe passage we found1,
That led us again to the dark rolling sea,
And the signal was seen, 'On for Lancaster's Sound.'2
"The joys that were felt when we pass'd by the shore
Where no footsteps of Man had e'er yet been imprest,
When rose in the distance no mountain-tops hoar
As the sun of the ev'ning bright gilded the west,
Full swiftly they fled—and that hour, too, is gone
When we gain'd the meridian, assign'd as a bound
To entitle our crews to their country's first boon,
Hail'd by all as an omen the passage was found.
"And pass'd with our pleasures are moments of pain,
Of anxious suspense, and of eager alarm.
Environ'd by ice, skill and ardour were vain
The swift moving mass of its force to disarm—
Yet, dash'd on the beach and our boats torn away,
No anchors could hold us, nor cables secure;
The dread and the peril expir'd with the day,
When none but High Heaven could our safety ensure.
"Involv'd with the ages existent before,
Is the year that has brought us thus far on our way,
And gratitude calls us our God to adore,
For the oft-renewed mercies its annals display.
The gloomy meridian of darkness is past,
And ere long shall gay spring bid the herbage revive;
On the wide waste of ice she'll re-echo the blast,
And the firm prison'd ocean its fetters shall rive.
FOLK LORE
Legend of Sir Richard Baker, surnamed Bloody Baker.—I one day was looking over the different monuments in Cranbrook Church in Kent, when in the chancel my attention was arrested by one erected to the memory of Sir Richard Baker. The gauntlet, gloves, helmet, and spurs were (as is often the case in monumental erections of Elizabethan date) suspended over the tomb. What chiefly attracted my attention was the colour of the gloves, which was red. The old woman who acted as my cicerone, seeing me look at them, said, "Aye, miss, those are Bloody Baker's gloves; their red colour comes from the blood he shed." This speech awakened my curiosity to hear more, and with very little pressing I induced my old guide to tell me the following strange tale.
The Baker family had formerly large possessions in Cranbrook, but in the reign of Edward VI. great misfortunes fell on them; by extravagance and dissipation, they gradually lost all their lands, until an old house in the village (now used as the poor-house) was all that remained to them. The sole representative of the family remaining at the accession of Queen Mary, was Sir Richard Baker. He had spent some years abroad in consequence of a duel; but when, said my informant, Bloody Queen Mary reigned, he thought he might safely return, as he was a Papist. When he came to Cranbrook he took up his abode in his old house; he only brought one foreign servant with him, and these two lived alone. Very soon strange stories began to be whispered respecting unearthly shrieks having been heard frequently to issue at nightfall from his house. Many people of importance were stopped and robbed in the Glastonbury woods, and many unfortunate travellers were missed and never heard of more. Richard Baker still continued to live in seclusion, but he gradually repurchased his alienated property, although he was known to have spent all he possessed before he left England. But wickedness was not always to prosper. He formed an apparent attachment to a young lady in the neighbourhood, remarkable for always wearing a great many jewels. He often pressed her to come and see his old house, telling her he had many curious things he wished to show her. She had always resisted fixing a day for her visit, but happening to walk within a short distance of his house, she determined to surprise him with a visit; her companion, a lady older than herself, endeavoured to dissuade her from doing so, but she would not be turned from her purpose. They knocked at the door, but no one answered them; they, however, discovered it was not locked, and determined to enter. At the head of the stairs hung a parrot, which on their passing cried out,—
"Peepoh, pretty lady, be not too bold,
Or your red blood will soon run cold."
And cold did run the blood of the adventurous damsel when, on opening one of the room doors, she found it filled with the dead bodies of murdered persons, chiefly women. Just then they heard a noise, and on looking out of the window saw Bloody Baker and his servant bringing in the murdered body of a lady. Nearly dead with fear, they concealed themselves in a recess under the staircase.
As the murderers with their dead burden passed by them, the hand of the unfortunate murdered lady hung in the baluster of the stairs; with an oath Bloody Baker chopped it off, and it fell into the lap of one of the concealed ladies. As soon as the murderers had passed by, the ladies ran away, having the presence of mind to carry with them the dead hand, on one of the fingers of which was a ring. On reaching home they told their story, and in confirmation of it displayed the ring. All the families who had lost relatives mysteriously were then told of what had been found out; and they determined to ask Baker to a large party, apparently in a friendly manner, but to have constables concealed ready to take him into custody. He came, suspecting nothing, and then the lady told him all she had seen, pretending it was a dream. "Fair lady," said he, "dreams are nothing: they are but fables." "They may be fables," said she; "but is this a fable?" and she produced the hand and ring. Upon this the constables rushed in and took him; and the tradition further says, he was burnt, notwithstanding Queen Mary tried to save him, on account of the religion he professed.
Cure for Warts.—Steal a piece of meat from a butcher's stall or his basket, and after having well rubbed the parts affected with the stolen morsel, bury it under a gateway, at a four lane ends, or, in case of emergency, in any secluded place. All this must be done so secretly as to escape detection: and as the portion of meat decays the warts will disappear. This practice is very prevalent in Lancashire and some parts of Yorkshire; and two of my female acquaintances having tried the remedy, stoutly maintain its efficacy.
Burnley.
Another Charm for Warts.—Referring to Emdee's charm for warts, which appeared in Vol. ii., p. 19., I may state that a very similar superstition prevails in the neighbourhood of Manchester:—Take a piece of twine, making upon
Alluding to the ships crossing the barrier of ice in Baffin's Bay, between Hope Sanderson and Possession Bay.
Telegraph signal made by H.M.S. "Hecla," on getting into clear water in July, 1849, having succeeded in forcing through the barrier.