Anna Jane Vardill
The first three stanzas of this poem have found their way into the ritual of some Scottish lodges, perhaps as a result of William Harvey’s Third Degree Handbook. This version is reproduced from the original source, The European Magazine, Vol. 70, November 1816, p. 457, in which the author is identified as “V.” the signature used by Anna Jane Vardill (1781-1852). For other examples of Vardill’s prolific contributions to The European Magazine, see the Vardill Society archive of her work. Vardill’s father was a Mason, as was the publisher of the European Magazine. Her poetry and prose include many references to the Craft.
Vardill’s poem was not original. Two possible sources are appended for comparison, with an accusation of plagiarism and an editorial response.
Fragment Found in a Skeleton-Case
Behold this ruin! — ’twas a skull
Once of ethereal spirit full!
This narrow cell was life’s retreat,
This space was Thought’s mysterious seat!
What beauteous pictures filled this spot;
What dreams of pleasure, long forgot!
Nor Love, nor Joy, nor Hope, nor Fear,
Hath left one trace of record here!
Beneath this mould’ring canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye —
But start not at the dismal void! —
If Social Love that eye employ’d,
If with no lawless fire it gleam’d
But through the dew of kindness beam’d,
That eye shall be for ever bright,
When sun and stars have lost their light!
Here, in this silent cavern, hung
The ready, swift and tuneful tongue:
If Falsehood’s honey it disdain’d
And, where it could not praise, was chain’d;
If bold in Virtue’s cause it spoke,
Yet gentle Concord never broke,
That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee
When Death unveils Eternity!
Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
Or with its envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock or wear the gem
Can nothing now avail to them:
But if the page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that waits on wealth or fame!
Avails it whether bare or shod
These feet the path of Duty trod?
If from the bow’rs of Joy they fled
To soothe Affliction’s humble bed;
If Grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurn’d,
And home to Virtue’s lap return’d,
These feet with angel’s wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky!
V.
European Magazine, Vol. 70, p. 457 (November 1816)
On Viewing a Skeleton: Time’s Lecture to Man
Mrs. Stickland of Blandford
Why start you at that skeleton?
’Tis your own picture which you shun:
Alive it did resemble thee;
And thou, when dead, like this shalt be.
Converse with it, and you will say
You cannot better spend the day;
And very much you will admire
The language of these bones and wire.
The tongue is gone; but yet each joint
Can lectures read, and speak to th’ point:
When all your moralists are read,
You’ll find no tutor like the dead.
If in truth’s paths these feet have trod,
It matters not if bare or shod:
If us’d to travel to the door
Of the afflicted sick or poor,
These feet now wing’d shall upward fly,
And tread the palace of the sky:
These hands, if ne’er in blood were stain’d,
Nor fill’d with wealth unjustly gain’d,
Nor greedily at honours grasp’d,
But to the poor man’s wants unclasp’d;
It matters not if in the mine
They delv’d, or did with rubies shine.
There grew the lips, and in that place
Where now appears a vacant space,
Was fix’d the tongue, an organ shrill,
Employ’d extremely well or ill;
I know not if it could retort,
Or speak the language of the court;
But this I will presume t’aver,
That, if it was no flatterer,
If it traduc’d no man’s repute,
If when it could not praise ’twas mute,
’Twas a bless’d tongue, and shall prevail
When wit and eloquence shall fail.
Prime instances of nature’s skill,
The eyes did once these hollows fill.
Were they quick-sighted, sparkling, clear,
As those of hawks and eagles are;
Or say, did they with moisture swim,
Or were distorted, blear’d, or dim:
Yet if they were from envy free,
Nor lov’d to gaze on vanity;
If none with scorn they did behold,
Nor yet with spiteful glances roll’d,
Those eyes more bright and piercing grown,
Shall view the great Creator’s throne.
See, not the least remains appear
To shew where nature plac’d the ear:
Who knows if it were musical,
Or could not judge of sounds at all?
Yet if to worthy counsel bent,
To caution and reproof attent,
That ear shall with these sounds be blest,
“Well done!” and, “Enter into rest.”
Freemason’s Magazine, Vol. 5, p. 206 (September 1795)
London, Nov. 1, 1795.
Sir,
I find in the Freemasons’ Magazine of September last, a copy of Verses, entitled, “On Viewing a Skeleton, Time's Lecture to Man,” by Mrs. Stickland of Blandford; I beg leave to refer you to the Lady’s Magazine for December 1774, page 662, where you will find a Copy of Verses, entitled, “Upon the Sight of a Skeleton,” signed, Exoniensis, from whence . . . I presume this Lady's copy to have been taken, and which are alike, except as to the alteration of language, and various omissions, which at present I incline to think were intended as a disguise; but as it is impossible for me to know in what manner they were presented, I shall forbear any observations, other than, that, as a Friend and Brother, I consider the Freemasons’ Magazine too respectable a publication to derive any benefit from old materials, at least such as are not introduced to the public with the usual references.
I beg the Lady and you to believe, I am impelled by no other motive than what arises from a sincere wish to promote and encourage literature in general, the Freemasons’ Magazine in particular, and from an apprehension that frequent discoveries of this sort would be injurious to a publication which is daily increasing in good report, and which I have esteemed from the beginning, and shall continue to use my best endeavours to support, as long as I am induced to believe it deserves it.
I am, Sir, Yours, &c.
T. L.
* * *
To this kind Correspondent we return our thanks for his notice. That we should sometimes be imposed on by plagiarists is not to be wondered at; but our Readers can have no idea of the number of instances in which we detect and suppress them without farther notice. Most writers create to themselves an enjoyment in the publication of their labours; but we are at a loss to conceive what gratification can result to the person who deliberately sits down to copy the productions of other pens, and present them to the world under their own names or signatures. The present being not the first attempt of the kind from Mrs. S. we think ourselves justifiable in saying, that we suppressed a former poetic contribution from her, in the middle of which we detected a string of couplets from Rowe’s Jane Shore, unmarked by any of the usual signs of Quotation, and very evidently intended to pass as originals. Mrs. S. however, is not the only person (as before observed) who takes this unprofitable trouble. Qui capit ille facit . . .
Freemason’s Magazine, Vol. 5, p. 339 (November 1795)
Upon the Sight of a Skeleton
I
Nay, start not at that skeleton;
’Tis your own picture which you shun:
Alive it did resemble thee,
And thou, when dead, like it shall be.
Converse with it, and you will say,
You cannot better spend the day.
You little think how you’ll admire
The language of those bones and wire.
II
The tongue is gone, but yet each joint
Reads lectures, and can speak the point:
When all your moralists are read,
You’ll find no tutor’s like the dead.
III
If in truth’s paths those feet have trod,
(’Tis all one whether bare or shod)
If us’d to travel to the door
Of the afflicted, or the poor;
Tho’ to the dance they were estrang’d,
And ne’er their own rude motion chang’d;
Those feet, now winged, may upwards fly,
And tread the palace of the sky.
IV
Those hands, if ne’er with murder stain’d,
Nor fill’d with wealth unjustly gain’d,
Nor greedily all honours grasp’d,
But to the poor man’s cry unclasp’d;
It matters not, if in the mine
They delv’d, or did with rubies shine.
V
Here grew the lips; and in that place,
Where now appears a vacant space,
Was fix’d the tongue, an organ still
Employ’d extremely well or ill;
I know not if it could rebuke,
Or vers’d in language of the court;
But this I safely can aver,
That if it was no flatterer,
If it traduc’d no man’s repute,
But where it could not praise was mute;
If no false promises it made;
If it sung anthems, if it pray’d,
’Twas a blest tongue, and will prevail,
When wit and eloquence shall fail.
VI
If wise as Socrates that skull
Had ever been, ’tis now as dull
As Midas’s: or if its wit
To that of Midas did submit,
’Tis now as full of plot and skill
As is the head of Machiavell:
Proud laurels once might shade that brow,
Where not so much as hair grows now.
VII
Prime instances of nature’s skill,
The eyes did once those hollows fill;
Were they quick-sighted, sparkling clear,
As those of hawks and eagles are;
Or say, did they with moisture swim,
Or were distorted, blear’d, and dim;
Yet if they were from envy free,
Nor liv’d to gaze on vanity;
If none with scorn they did behold,
Nor with lascivious glances roll’d,
Those eyes, more bright and piercing grown,
Shall view the great Creator’s throne:
They shall behold th’ Invisible,
And on eternal glories dwell.
VIII
See, not the least remains appear,
To shew where nature plac’d the ear;
Who knows if it were musical,
Or could not judge of sounds at all?
Yet if it were by counsel bent,
To caution and reproof attent;
When the shrill trump shall rouse the dead,
And others have their sentence read;
That ear shall with those sounds be blest—
Welcome and enter into Rest.
Exoniensis
Lady’s Magazine, Vol. 5, p. 662 (December 1774)