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<title>The Mirror of Literature, Issue 337.</title>
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11336 ***</div>
<hr class="full" />
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page257" name="page257"></a>[pg
257]</span>
<h1>THE MIRROR<br />
OF<br />
LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.</h1>
<hr class="full" />
<table width="100%" summary="Number, and Date">
<tr>
<td align="left"><b>Vol. XII, No. 337.</b></td>
<td align="center"><b>SATURDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1828</b></td>
<td align="right"><b>[PRICE 2d.</b></td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>Cheese Wring.</h2>
<h4>(<i>To the Editor of the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
<div class="figure" style="width:50%;"><a href=
"images/337-1.png"><img width="100%" src="images/337-1.png" alt=
"Cheese Wring" /></a></div>
<p>In presenting your readers with a representation of the Wring
Cheese, I offer a few prefatory remarks connected with the early
importance of the county in which it stands, venerable in its age,
amid the storms of elements, and the changes of religions. Its
pristine glory has sunk on the horizon of Time; but its legend,
like a soft twilight of its former day, still hallows it in the
memories of the surrounding peasantry.</p>
<p>Cornwall is allowed by antiquaries to be the Capiterides; and
the Abbé de Fontenu, in the <i>Memoires de Literature</i>,
tom. vii. p. 126, proves, according to Vallancey, that the
Phoenicians traded here for tin before the Trojan war. Homer
frequently mentions this metal; and even in Scripture we have
allusions to this land under the name of Tarshish (Ezekiel, c.
xxvii., v. 12-25), being the place whence the Tyrians procured
various metals, and among the rest, the English metal tin. It
appears that the primitive Greeks had a clearer knowledge of these
shores than those in after years; and although Homer, in his shield
of Achilles, describes the earth surrounded by water, yet
Herodotus, notwithstanding his learning and research, candidly
states his ignorance in the following words:—"Neither am I
better acquainted with the islands called Capiterides, from whence
<i>we are said</i> to have our tin." The knowledge of these shores
existed in periods so remote, that it faded. We dwindled away into
a visionary land—we lived almost in fable. The Phoenician
left us, and the link of our history was severed. Hyde de Religione
Vet. Persarum, c. iv. p. 121, supposes Solomon to have traded with
the <span class="pagenum"><a id="page258" name="page258"></a>[pg
258]</span> Peruvians; and the analogies between the Pyramids in
Mexico and Egypt confirm the opinion, and sanction the belief that
the ancients had a more extended knowledge of, and a greater
traffic over, the earth than history records. In the most early
ages, worship was paid to stone idols; and the Pagan introduction
of statues into temples was of a recenter date. The ancient
Etruscans, as well as the ancient Egyptians, revered the obeliscal
stone, (the reason why to the obeliscal stone is given by Payne
Knight, in his extraordinary work;) nor was it, according to
Plutarch, till 170 years after the founding of the city that the
Romans had statues in their temples, their deities being considered
invisible. Many stone pillars exist in this country, especially in
Cornwall; and it is a fair inference that the Phoenician imported
his religious rites in return for his metallic exports—since
we find mention made of stone pillars in Genesis, xxviii. v. 20;
Deuteronomy, xxvii. v. 4.; Joshua, xxiv.; 2 Samuel, xx. v. 8.;
Judges, ix. v. 6., &c. &c. Many are the conjectures as to
what purport these stones were used: sometimes they were
sepulchral, as Jacob's pillar over Rachel, Gen. xxxv. 20. Ilus, son
of Dardanus, king of Troy, was buried in the plain before that city
beneath a column, Iliad, xi. 317. Sometimes they were erected as
trophies, as the one set up by Samuel between Mizpeh and Shen, in
commemoration of the defeat of the Philistines; one was also
erected at Murray, in Scotland, as a monument of the fight between
Malcolm, son of Keneth, and Sueno the Dane. We also find them as
witnesses to covenants, like that of Jacob and Laban, which, though
originally an emblem of a civil pact, became afterwards the place
of worship of the whole twelve tribes of Israel. All these relics,
to say nothing of the cromlechs in Malabar, bear a silent and
solemn testimony of some by-gone people, whose religious and civil
customs had extended wide over the earth. Their monuments remain,
but their history has perished, and the dust of their bodies has
been scattered in the wind. The Druids availed themselves of those
places most likely to give an effect to their vaticinations; and
not only obtained, but supported by terror the influence they held
over the superstitious feelings of our earliest forefathers. Where
nature presented a <i>bizarre</i> mass of rocks, the Druid worked,
and peopled it with his gods, the most remarkable of which is the
subject of our engraving, called the Wring Cheese, or Cheese Wring,
in the parish of St. Clare, near Liskeard, in Cornwall. This
singular mass of rocks is 32 feet high. The large stone at the top
was a logan, or rocking-stone. Geologists are inclined to consider
it as a natural production, which is probably the case in part, the
Druids taking advantage of favourable circumstances to convert
these crags to objects of superstitious reverence. On its summit
are two rock basins; and it is a well-known fact, that baptism was
a Pagan rite of the highest antiquity, (vide the Etruscan vases by
Gorius.) Here, probably, the rude ancestor of our glorious land was
initiated amidst the mystic ceremonies of the white-robed Druid and
his blood-stained sacrifices. A similar mass exists at Brimham,
York; and in the "History of Waterford," p. 70, mention is made of
St. Declan's stone, which, not liking its situation, miraculously
<i>swam</i> from Rome, conveying on it St. Declan's bell and
vestment.</p>
<h4>J. SILVESTER.</h4>
<hr />
<h3>CURIOUS ANCIENT LEGEND.</h3>
<h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
<p>In ancienne tyme, and in a goodly towne, neare to Canterbury,
sojourned a ladie faire. She one nighte, in the absence of her
lorde, leaned her lovely arme upon a gentleman's, and walked in the
fyldes. When journeying far, she became afraide, and begged to
returne. The gentleman, with kyndest sayings and greate courtesey,
retraced their steps; when in this saide momente, this straynge
occurrence came to pass—ye raine descended, though the moone
and millions of starres were shyneing bryght. In journeying home,
another straynge occurrence came to pass; her coral lippes the
gentleman's did meete in sweetest kyss. Thys was not straynge at
all; but that the moone, that still shone bryghte, did in the
momente hide herself behynde a cloude: this was straynge, most
passing straynge indeede. The ladie faire, who prayed to the
blessed Virgin, did to her confesseur this confession mayk, and her
confesseur with charitye impromptu wrote:—</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Whence came the rayne, when first with guileless heart</p>
<p>Further to walk she's lothe, and yet more lothe to part?</p>
<p>It was not rayne, but angels' pearly teares,</p>
<p>In pity dropt to soothe Eliza's feares.</p>
<p>Whence came the cloude that veil'd the orb of nighte,</p>
<p>When first her lippes she yielded to delyght?</p>
<p>It was not cloude, but whylst the world was hush,</p>
<p>Mercy put forthe her hande to hide Eliza's blush."</p>
</div>
</div>
<h4>W.G.C.</h4>
<hr />
<h3>PICTON'S MONUMENT, CARMARTHEN.</h3>
<h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
<p>This interesting national tribute stands at the west end of the
town of Carmarthen, <span class="pagenum"><a id="page259" name=
"page259"></a>[pg 259]</span> rising ground, and is erected in
memory of the gallant Sir Thomas Picton, who terminated his career
in the ever-to-be-remembered battle of Waterloo. The structure
stands about 30 feet high, and is, particularly the shaft and
architrave, similar to Trajan's pillar in Rome; and being built of
a very durable material, (black marble,) will no doubt stand as
many ages as that noble, though now mouldering relic. The pillar
stands on a square pedestal, with a small door on the east side,
which fronts the town, where the monument is ascended by a flight
of steps. Over the door, in large characters, is the hero's name,
PICTON; and above this, in basso relievo, is represented part of
the field of battle, with the hero falling from his horse, from the
mortal wound which he received. Over this, in large letters, is
inscribed WATERLOO. On the west end is represented the siege of
Badajos, Picton scaling the walls with a few men, and attacked by
the besieged. Above this is the word BADAJOS. On the south side of
the pedestal is the following inscription:—</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Sir THOMAS PICTON,</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Knight Grand Cross of the Military Order of the</p>
<p class="i2">Bath,</p>
<p>Of the Portuguese Order of the Tower and Sword,</p>
<p class="i2">and of other foreign Orders;</p>
<p>Lieutenant-General in the British Army, and</p>
<p class="i2">Member of Parliament for the Borough of</p>
<p class="i2">Pembroke,</p>
<p>Born at Poyston, in Pembrokeshire, in August,</p>
<p class="i2">1758;</p>
<p>Died at Waterloo on the 18th of June, 1815,</p>
<p class="i2">Gloriously fighting for his country and the</p>
<p class="i2">liberties of Europe.</p>
<p>Having honourably fulfilled, on behalf of the</p>
<p class="i2">public, various duties in various climates:</p>
<p>And having achieved the highest military renown</p>
<p class="i2">in the Spanish Peninsula,</p>
<p>He thrice received the unanimous thanks of</p>
<p class="i2">Parliament,</p>
<p>And a Monument erected by the British nation</p>
<p class="i2">in St. Paul's Cathedral</p>
<p class="i2">Commemorates his death and services,</p>
<p>His grateful countrymen, to perpetuate past and</p>
<p class="i2">incite to future exertions,</p>
<p>Have raised this column, under the auspices of</p>
<p class="i2">his Majesty, King George the Fourth,</p>
<p class="i2">To the memory of a hero and a Welshman.</p>
<p>The plan and design of this Monument was given</p>
<p class="i2">by our countryman, John Nash, Esq. F.R.S.</p>
<p class="i2">Architect to the King.</p>
<p class="i2">The ornaments were executed by</p>
<p class="i2">E.H. Bailey, Esq. R.A.</p>
<p>And the whole was erected by Mr. Daniel</p>
<p class="i2">Mainwaring, of the town of Carmarthen,</p>
<p class="i2">In the year 1826 and 1827.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>On the north side is the translation of the above in Welsh; and
on the top of the pedestal, on each side of the square, are
trophies. The top of the column is also square, and on each side
are imitative cannons. The statue of the hero surmounts the whole.
He is wrapped in a cloak, and is supported by a baluster, round
which are emblems of spears.</p>
<h4>W.H.</h4>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>THE SKETCH BOOK</h2>
<h3>AN HOUR TOO MANY.</h3>
<p>Hail, land of the kangaroo!—paradise of the
bushranger!—purgatory of England!—happy scene, where
the sheep-stealer is metamorphosed into the shepherd; the
highwayman is the guardian of the road; the dandy is delicate no
more, and earns his daily bread; and the Court of Chancery is
unknown—hail to thee, soil of larceny and love! of
pickpockets and principle! of every fraud under heaven, and
primeval virtue! daughter of jails, and mother of
empires!—hail to thee, New South Wales! In all my
years—and I am now no boy—and in all my
travels—and I am now at the antipodes—I have never
heard any maxim so often as, that time is short; yet no maxim that
ever dropt from human lips is further from the truth. I appeal to
the experience of mankind—to the three hundred heirs of the
British peerage, whom their gouty fathers keep out of their honours
and estates—to the six hundred and sixty-eight candidates for
seats in parliament, which they must wait for till the present
sitters die; or turn rebellious to their noble patrons, or their
borough patrons, or their Jew patrons; or plunge into joint-stock
ruin, and expatriate themselves, for the astonishment of all other
countries, and the benefit of their own;—to the six thousand
five hundred heroes of the half-pay, longing for tardy
war;—to the hundred thousand promissory excisemen lying on
the soul of the chancellor of the ex-chequer, and pining for the
mortality of every gauger from the Lizard to the
Orkneys;—and, to club the whole discomfort into one, to the
entire race of the fine and superfine, who breathe the vital air,
from five thousand a year to twenty times the rental, the unhappy
population of the realms of indolence included in Bond Street, St.
James's, and the squares.</p>
<p>For my own part, in all my experience of European deficiencies,
I have never found any deficiency of time. Money went like the
wind; champagne grew scanty; the trust of tailors ran down to the
dregs; the smiles of my fair flirts grew rare as
diamonds—every thing became as dry, dull, and stagnant as the
Serpentine in summer; but time never failed me. I had a perpetual
abundance of a commodity which the philosophers told me was beyond
price. I had not merely enough for myself, but enough to give to
others; until I discovered the fact, that it was as little a
favourite with others as myself, and that, whatever the plausible
might say, there was nothing on earth <span class="pagenum"><a id=
"page260" name="page260"></a>[pg 260]</span> for which they would
not be more obliged to me than a donation of my superfluous time.
But now let me give a sketch of my story. A single fact is worth a
hundred reflections. The first consciousness that I remember, was
that of having a superabundance of time; and my first ingenuity was
demanded for getting rid of the encumbrance. I had always an hour
that perplexed my skill to know what to do with this treasure. A
schoolboy turn for long excursions in any direction but that of my
pedagogue, indicative of a future general officer; a
naturalist-taste for bird-nesting, which, in maturer years, would
have made me one of the wonders of the Linnaean Society; a passion
for investigating the inside of every thing, from a Catherine-wheel
to a China-closet, which would yet have entitled me to the honours
of an F.R.S.; and an original vigour in the plunder of orchards,
which undoubtedly might have laid the foundation of a first lord of
the treasury; were nature's helps to get rid of this oppressive
bounty. But though I fought the enemy with perpetual vigour and
perpetual variety, he was not to be put to flight by a stripling;
and I went to the university as far from being a conqueror as ever.
At Oxford I found the superabundance of this great gift
acknowledged with an openness worthy of English candour, and
combated with the dexterity of an experience five hundred years
old. Port-drinking, flirtation, lounging, the invention of new ties
to cravats, and new tricks on proctors; billiards, boxing, and
barmaids; seventeen ways of mulling sherry, and as many dozen ways
of raising "the supplies," were adopted with an adroitness that
must have baffled all but the invincible. Yet Time was master at
last; and he always indulged me with a liberality that would have
driven a less resolute spirit to the bottom of the Isis.</p>
<p>At length I gave way; left the university with my blessing and
my debts; and rushed up to London, as the grand <i>place
d'armes</i>, the central spot from which the enemy was excluded by
the united strength, wit, and wisdom of a million and a half of
men. I might as well have staid bird-nesting in Berkshire. I found
the happiest contrivances against the universal invader fail.
Pigeon-matches; public dinners; coffee-houses; bluestocking
<i>reunions</i>; private morning quadrille practice, with public
evening exhibitions of their fruits; dilettanti breakfasts, with a
bronze Hercules standing among the bread and butter, or a reposing
cast of Venus, fresh from Pompeii, as black and nude as a negress
disporting on the banks of the Senegal, but dear and delicate to
the eyes of taste; Sunday mornings at Tattersal's, jockeying till
the churches let out their population, and the time for visits was
come; and Sunday evening routs at <i>the</i> duchess's, with a
cotillon by the <i>vraies danseuses</i> of the opera, followed by a
concert, a round game, and a <i>select</i> supper for the
initiated;—the whole failed. I had always an hour too
much—sixty mortal minutes, and every one of them an hour in
itself, that I could never squeeze down.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Ye gods, annihilate both space and time,</p>
<p>And make two lovers happy,"</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>may have been called a not over-modest request; but I can vouch
for at least one half of it being the daily prayer of some
thousands of the best-dressed people that the sun ever summoned to
a day of twenty-four hours long. On feeling the symptoms of this
horary visitation, I regularly rushed into the streets, on the
principle that some alleviation of misery is always to be found in
fellow-suffering. This maxim I invariably found false, like every
other piece of the boasted wisdom of mankind. I found the suffering
infinitely increased by the association with my
fellow-fashionables. A man might as well have fled from his chamber
to enjoy comfort in the wards of an hospital. In one of my marches
up and down the <i>pavé</i> of St. James's Street, that
treadmill of gentlemen convicted in the penalty of having nothing
to do, I lounged into the little hotel of the Guards, that stands
beside the great hotel of the gamblers, like a babe under its
mamma's wing—the likeness admirable, though the scale
diminutive. That "hour too many," cost me three games of billiards,
my bachelor's house, and one thousand pounds. This price of sixty
minutes startled me a little; and, for a week, I meditated with
some seriousness on the superior gaiety of a life spent in paving
the streets, driving a wagon, or answering the knocker of a door.
But the "hour" again overflowed me. I was walking it off in Regent
Street, when an old fellow-victim met me, and prescribed a trot to
Newmarket. The prescription was taken, and the hour was certainly
got rid of. But the remedy was costly; for my betting-book left me
minus ten thousand pounds. I returned to town like a patient from a
watering-place; relieved of every thing but the disease that took
me there. My last shilling remained among the noble blacklegs; but
nothing could rob me of a fragment of my superfluous time, and I
brought even a tenfold allowance of it back. But every disease has
a crisis; and when a lounge through the streets became at once
useless and inconvenient—when <span class="pagenum"><a id=
"page261" name="page261"></a>[pg 261]</span> the novelty of being
cut by all my noble friends, and of being seduously followed by
that generation who, unlike the fickle world, reserve their
tipstaff attentions for the day of adversity, had lost its zest,
and I was thinking whether time was to be better fought off by a
plunge to the bottom of the Thames, or by the muzzle of one of
Manton's hair-triggers—I was saved by a plunge into the
King's Bench. There life was new, friendship was undisguised, my
coat was not an object of scorn, my exploits were fashion, my duns
were inadmissible, and my very captors were turned into my humble
servants. There, too, my nature, always social, had its full
indulgence; for there I found, rather to my surprise, nine-tenths
of my most accomplished acquaintance. But the enemy still made his
way; and I had learned to yawn, in spite of billiards and
ball-playing, when <i>the</i> Act let me loose into the great world
again. Good-luck, too, had prepared a surprise for my <i>debut</i>.
I had scarcely exhibited myself in the streets, when I discovered
that every man of my <i>set</i> was grown utterly blind whenever I
happened to walk on the same side of the way, and that I might as
well have been buried a century. I was absurd enough to be
indignant; for nothing can be more childish than any delicacy when
a man cannot bet on the rubber. But one morning a knock came to my
attic-door which startled me by its professional vigour. An
attorney entered. I had now nothing to fear, for the man whom no
one will trust cannot well be in debt; and for once I faced an
attorney without a palpitation. His intelligence was flattering. An
old uncle of mine, who had worn out all that was human about him in
amassing fifty thousand pounds, and finally died of starving
himself, had expired with the pen in his hand, in the very act of
leaving his thousands to pay the national debt. But fate,
propitious to me, had dried up his ink-bottle; the expense of
replenishing it would have broken his heart of itself; and the
attorney's announcement to me was, that the will, after blinding
the solicitor to the treasury and three of his clerks, was
pronounced to be altogether illegible.</p>
<p>The fact that I was the nearest of kin got into the newspapers;
and in my first drive down St. James's, I had the pleasure of
discovering that I had cured a vast number of my friends of their
calamitous defect of vision. But if the "post equitem sedet atra
cura" was the maxim in the days of Augustus, the man who drives the
slower cabriolet in the days of George the Fourth, cannot expect to
escape. The "hour too many" overtook me in the first week. On one
memorable evening I saw it coming, just as I turned the corner of
Piccadilly; fair flight was hopeless, and I took refuge in that
snug asylum on the right hand of St. James's Street, which has
since expanded into a palace. I stoutly battled the foe, for I
"took no note of time" during the next day and night; and when at
last I walked forth into the air, I found that I had relieved
myself of the burden of three-fourths of my reversion. A weak mind
on such an occasion would have cursed the cards, and talked of
taking care of the fragment of his property; but mine was of the
higher order, and I determined on revenge. I had my revenge, and
saw my winners ruined. They had their consolation, and at the close
of a six months' campaign saw me walk into the streets a beggar. I
grew desperate, and was voted dangerous. I realized the charge by
fastening on a noble lord who had been one of the most adroit in
pigeoning me. His life was "too valuable to his country," or
himself, to allow him to meet a fellow whose life was of no use to
any living thing; and through patriotism and the fear of being
shot, he kept out of my way. I raged, threatened to post his
lordship, and was in the very act of writing out the form of the
placard declaring the noble heir of the noble house of
—— a cheat and a scoundrel, when by the twopenny-post I
received a notice from the Horse Guards that I was on that day to
appear in the Gazette as an ensign in his majesty's ——
regiment, then serving in the Peninsula, with orders to join
without delay. This was enough from his lordship, and was certainly
better for me than running the chance of damages in the King's
Bench, for provoking his majesty's subjects to a breach of the
peace.</p>
<p>I was gazetted, tried on my uniform before the mirror, entirely
approved of my appearance, and wrote my last letter to my last
flirt. The Portsmouth mail was to start at eight. I had an hour to
spare, and sallied into the street. I met an honest-faced old
acquaintance as much at a loss as myself to slay the hour. We were
driven by a shower into shelter. The rattle of dice was heard
within a green-baize-covered door. We could not stay for ever
shivering on the outside. Fortune favoured me; in half an hour I
was master of a thousand pounds; it would have been obvious folly
and ingratitude to check the torrent of success for the paltry
prospects of an ensigncy. I played on, and won on. The clock struck
eight. I will own that I trembled as the first sound caught my ear.
But whether nervous <span class="pagenum"><a id="page262" name=
"page262"></a>[pg 262]</span> or not, from that instant the torrent
was checked. The loss and gain became alternate. Wine was brought
in; I played in furious scorn of consequences. I saw the board
covered with gold. I swept it into my stake; I soon saw my stake
reduced to nothing. My eyes were dazzled, my hand shook, my brain
was on fire, I sang, danced, roared with exultation or despair. How
the night closed, I know not; but I found myself at last in a
narrow room, surrounded with squalidness, its only light from a
high-barred window, and its only furniture the wooden tressel on
which I lay, fierce, weary, and feverish, as if I lay on the rack.
From this couch of the desperate, I was carried into the presence
of a magistrate, to hear that in the <i>mélée</i> of
the night before, I had in my rage charged my honest-faced
acquaintance with palpable cheating; and having made good my charge
by shewing the loaded dice in his hand, had knocked him down with a
violence that made his recovery more than doubtful. He had seen my
name in the Gazette, and had watched me for the express purpose of
final plunder. The wretch died. I was brought to trial, found
guilty of manslaughter, and sentenced to seven years' expatriation.
Fortunate sentence! On my arrival in New South Wales, as I was
found a perfect gentleman, and fit for nothing, there was no
resource but to make me try the labour of my hands. Fortunate
labour! From six at morning till six at night, I had the spade or
the plough in my hands. I dragged carts, I delved rocks, I hewed
trees; I had not a moment to spare. The appetite that once grew
languid over venison, now felt the exquisite delight of junk beef.
The thirst that scorned champagne was now enraptured with spring
water. The sleep that had left me many a night tossing within-side
the curtains of a hundred-and-fifty-guinea Parisian bed, now came
on the roughest piece of turf, and made the planks of my cabin
softer than down. I can now run as fast as one of my Newmarket
stud, pull down a buffalo, and catch a kangaroo by the tail in fair
field. Health, vigour, appetite, and activity, are my
superabundance now. I have every thing but time. My banishment
expires to-morrow; but I shall never recross the sea. This is my
country. Since I set my foot upon its shore I have never had a
moment to yawn. In this land of real and substantial life, the
spectre that haunted my joyless days dares not be seen—the
"hour too many" is no more.</p>
<h4><i>The Forget-Me-Not</i>.</h4>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>MANNERS & CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS.</h2>
<h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
<h3>SELLING MEAT AMONG THE ANCIENT ROMANS, &c.</h3>
<p>It was the custom for the buyer to shut his eyes, and the seller
to hold up some of his fingers; if the buyer guessed aright, how
many it was the other held up, he was to fix the price; if he
mistook, the seller was to fix it. These classic
<i>blind-bargains</i> would not suit the Londonbutchers. This
custom was abolished by Apronius, the prefect of Rome; who in lieu
thereof, introduced the method of selling by weight. Among the
ancient Romans there were three kinds of established butchers, viz.
two colleges or companies, composed each of a certain number of
citizens, whose office was to furnish the city with the necessary
cattle, and to take care of preparing and vending their flesh. One
of these communities was at first confined to the providing of
hogs, whence they were called <i>suarii</i>; and the other two were
charged with cattle, especially oxen, whence they were called
<i>pecuarii</i>, or <i>boarii</i>. Under each of these was a
subordinate class, whose office was to kill, prepare, &c.
called <i>lanii</i>, and sometimes <i>carnifices</i>.</p>
<p>Two English poets (Swift and Gay) have been rather severe
towards the London butchers, the former says,—</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Hence he learnt the <i>Butcher's</i> guile,</p>
<p>How to cut your throat, and smile;</p>
<p>Like a <i>butcher</i> doom'd for life,</p>
<p>In his mouth to wear his knife."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>The latter,—</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>——"resign the way,</p>
<p>To shun the surly <i>butcher's</i> greasy tray:</p>
<p><i>Butchers</i>, whose hands are died with blood's foul
stain,</p>
<p>And always foremost in the hangman's train."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>The butchers' company was not incorporated until the 3rd year of
King James I. when they were made a <i>Corporation</i>, by the name
of master, wardens and commonalty of the art and mystery of
butchers; yet the fraternity is ancient.</p>
<p>Stowe says, "In the 3rd of Richard II. motion was made that no
butcher should kill any flesh within London, but at Knightsbridge,
or such like distant place from the walls of the citie."</p>
<h4>P.T.W.</h4>
<hr />
<h3>STUMBLING AT THE THRESHOLD.</h3>
<p>The phrase, "to stumble at the threshold," originated in the
circumstance, that the old thresholds, or steps under the door,
were like the hearths, raised a little, so <span class=
"pagenum"><a id="page263" name="page263"></a>[pg 263]</span> that a
person might stumble over them, unless proper care were taken. A
very whimsical reason for this practice is given in a curious
little tract by Sir Balthazar Gerbier, entitled, "Council and
Advice to all Builders," 1663, in these words:—"A good
surveyor shuns also the ordering of doores with stumbling
thresholds, though our forefathers affected them, perchance to
perpetuate the antient custome of bridegroomes, when formerly at
their return from church they did use to lift up their bride, and
to knock her head against that of the doore, for a remembrance that
she was not to pass the threshold of her house without leave."</p>
<h4>W.G.C.</h4>
<hr />
<h3>CHINESE PHYSICIANS.</h3>
<p>The charitable dispensation of medicines by the Chinese, is well
deserving notice. They have a stone which is ten cubits high,
erected in the public squares of their cities; whereon is engraved
the name of all sorts of medicines, with the price of each, and
when the poor stand in need of relief from physic, they go to the
treasury to receive the price each medicine is rated at.</p>
<p>The physicians of China have only to feel the arm of their
patient in three places, and to observe the rate of the pulse, to
form an opinion on the cause, nature, danger, and duration of the
malady. Without the patient speaking at all, they can tell
infallibly what part is attacked with disease, whether the brain,
the heart, the liver, the lungs, the intestines, the stomach, the
flesh, the bones, and so on. As they are both physicians and
apothecaries, and prepare their own medicines, they are paid only
when they effect a cure. If the same rule were introduced with us,
I fear we should have fewer physicians.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>THE TOPOGRAPHER</h2>
<h3>BOX HILL.</h3>
<h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
<p>This celebrated eminence is situated in the north range of chalk
hills, beginning near Farnham, in Surrey, and extending from thence
to Folkstone, in Kent. Camden calls it <i>White Hill</i>, from its
chalky soil; but Box Hill is its true and ancient name. The
box-tree is, in all probability, the natural produce of the soil;
but a generally received story is, that the box was planted there
by Thomas, Earl of Arundel, between two and three centuries ago.
There is, however, authentic evidence of its being here long before
his time, for Henry de Buxeto (i.e. Henry of Box Hill) and Adam de
Buxeto were witnesses to deeds in the reign of King John.</p>
<p>John Evelyn, who wrote about the middle of the seventeenth
century, says, "Box-trees rise naturally at Kent in Bexley; and in
Surrey, giving name to Box Hill. He that in winter should behold
some of our highest hills in Surrey, clad with whole woods of them,
might easily fancy himself transported into some new or enchanted
country."</p>
<p>In Aubrey's posthumous work on Surrey, published in 1718, the
northern part of the hill is described as thickly covered with
yew-trees, and the southern part with "thick boscages of
box-trees," which "yielded a convenient privacy for lovers, who
frequently meet here, so that it is an English Daphne." He also
tells us that the gentry often resorted here from Ebbesham
(<i>Epsom</i>), then in high fashion. Philip Luckombe, in his
"England's Gazetteer," says, on Box Hill "there is a large warren,
but no houses; only arbours cut out in the box-wood on the top of
the hill, where are sold refreshments of all sorts, for the ladies
and gentlemen who come hither to divert themselves in its
labyrinths; for which reason a certain author has thought fit to
call it the Palace of Venus, and the Temple of Nature; there being
an enchanting prospect from it of a fine country, which is scarce
to be equalled for affording so surprising and magnificent an idea
both of earth and sky."</p>
<p>But these delightful retreats, like Arcadia of old, have long
since vanished. The <i>yews</i> were cut down in the year 1780; and
their successors fall very short of the luxuriant descriptions of
old topographers. The <i>box</i> has also at various times produced
the proprietors of the estate great profit. In 1608, the receipt
for box-trees cut down upon the sheepwalk on the hill was
50<i>l</i>.; in an account taken in 1712, it is supposed that as
much had been cut down, within a few years before, as amounted to
3,000<i>l</i>.; and in 1759, a Mr. Miller lamented that "the trees
on Box Hill had been pretty much destroyed; though many remained of
considerable bigness."</p>
<p>An immense quantity of box is annually consumed in this country,
in the revived art of engraving on wood. The English is esteemed
inferior to that which comes from the Levant; and the American box
is said to be preferable to ours. But the ships from the Levant
brought such quantities of it in ballast, that the wood on Box Hill
could not find a purchaser, and not having been cut for sixty-five
years, was growing cankered. The <span class="pagenum"><a id=
"page264" name="page264"></a>[pg 264]</span> war diminished the
influx from the Mediterranean; several purchasers offered; and in
1795 it was put up to auction at 12,000<i>l</i>. The depredations
made on Box Hill, in consequence of this sale, did not injure its
picturesque beauty, as twelve years were allowed for cutting, which
gave each portion a reasonable time to renew. In 1802, forty tons
were cut, but the market being overstocked, it fell in value more
than fifty per cent.; and the foreign wood is now universally
preferred for engravings. The trees on Box Hill are, however, again
flourishing, although their value is rather problematical.</p>
<p>For the information of the home tourist, perhaps, I ought to
mention that Box Hill stands about 22 miles on the left of the road
from London to Worthing, Brighton, and Bognor, and about 2 miles
N.E. of the town of Dorking. The road from Leatherhead hence is a
constant succession of hill and dale, richly clothed with wood,
interspersed with elegant villas in all tastes—from the
pillared and plastered mansion, to the borrowed charm of the
<i>cottage orne</i>. The whole of this district is called the Vale
of <i>Norbury</i>, from the romantic domain of that name, which
extends over a great portion of the hills on the right of the road.
Shortly before you reach Box Hill, stands <i>Mickleham</i>, a
little village with an ivy-mantled church, rich in Saxon
architecture and other antiquities. You then descend into a valley,
passing some delightful meadow scenery, and the showy mansion of
Sir Lucas Pepys, which rises from a flourishing plantation on the
left. In the valley stands Juniper Hall, late the seat of Mr.
Thomas Broadwood, the piano-forte manufacturer. In the park are
some of the finest cedars in England. On again ascending, you catch
a fine view of Box Hill, and the amphitheatrical range of opposite
hills, with one of the most magnificent <i>parterres</i> in nature.
This is called, by old writers, the <i>Garden of Surrey</i>.</p>
<p>You pass some flint-built cottages, and quitting the road here,
the ascent to Box Hill is gradual and untiring, across a field of
little slopes, studded with a few yew-trees, relics of by-gone
days. The ascent further down the road almost amounts to a feat,
assisted by the foot-worn paces in the chalky steep. Here this
portion of the hill resembles an immense wall of <i>viretum</i>,
down whose side has been poured liquid mortar. The path winds along
the verge of the hill, whilst on the left is a valley or little
ravine, whose sides are clothed with thick dwarfish box,
intermingled with the wild and trackless luxuriance of forest
scenery. Hence the road stretches away to Ashurst, the neat
residence of Mr. Strahan, the King's printer.</p>
<p>Returning to the verge of the hill, you soon reach the
<i>apex</i>, or highest point, being 445 feet from the level of the
Mole.<a id="footnotetag1" name="footnotetag1"></a><a href=
"#footnote1"><sup>1</sup></a> Here you enjoy what the French call a
<i>coup d'oeil</i>, or I would rather say, <i>a bird's-eye
view</i>, of unparalleled beauty. Taking the town of Dorking for a
resting point, the long belt is about twelve miles in extent. The
outline or boundary commences from the eminence on which I am
supposed to be standing—with Brockham Hill, whose steep was
planted by the late duke of Norfolk, and whence the chain extends
away towards the great Brighton road. Next in the curve are
Betchworth Castle and Park, with majestic avenues of limes and
elms, and fine old chestnut-trees. Adjoining, is the Deepdene, the
classical seat of the author of "Anastasius," a place, says Salmon,
"well calculated for the religious rites of the Celts," and
consecrated by the philosophical pursuits of the Hon. Charles
Howard, who built an oratory and laboratory, and died here in 1714.
Next are several fir-crowned ridges, which shelter Bury Hill, the
mansion of Mr. Barclay, the opulent brewer; whence you ascend the
opposite line of hills, till you reach Denbies, nearly facing the
most prominent point of Box Hill. This elegant seat is the abode of
Mr. Denison, one of the county members, and brother of the
Marchioness of Conyngham. The second range or ledge, beneath
Denbies, is the celebrated Dorking lime-works. The transition to
the Norbury Hills, already mentioned, is now very short, which
completes the outline of the view. It should, however, be remarked
that the scenery within this range can be distinctly enjoyed
without the aid of art; whilst beyond it the prospect extends, and
fades away in the South Downs on one hand, and beyond the
metropolis on the other.</p>
<p>The little <i>parterre</i> to be described, includes the
sheltered town of Dorking, environed with rich lawny slopes,
variegated with villas in the last taste; and little heights, from
whose clustering foliage peeps the cottage roof of humble life. But
the Paradise immediately at <span class="pagenum"><a id="page265"
name="page265"></a>[pg 265]</span> the foot of Box Hill is the gem
of the whole scene, and is one of the most perfect pictures of
rural beauty which pen or pencil can attempt. It appears like an
assemblage of every rural charm in a few acres, in whose disposal
nature has done much, and art but little. Park, lawn, woody walk,
slope, wilderness and dell are among its varieties; and its quiet
is only broken by the sluggish stream of the Mole. Adjoining is a
little inn, more like one of the picturesque <i>auberges</i> of the
continent than an English house of cheer. The grounds are
ornamented with rustic alcoves, boscages, and a bowery walk, all in
good taste. Here hundreds of tourists pass a portion of "the
season," as in a "loop-hole of retreat." In the front of the inn,
however, the stream of life glides fast; and a little past it, the
road crosses the Mole by Burford Bridge, and winds with geometrical
accuracy through the whole of this hasty sketch.</p>
<h4>PHILO.</h4>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>NOTES OF A READER</h2>
<h3>THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER AND OTHER POEMS.</h3>
<p>We usually leave criticism to the <i>grey-beards</i>, or such as
have passed the <i>viginti annorum lucubrationes</i> of reviewing.
It kindles so many little heart-burnings and jealousies, that we
rejoice it is not part of our duty. To be sure, we sometimes take
up a book in real earnest, read it through, and have <i>our say</i>
upon its merits; but this is only a gratuitous and occasional
freak, just to keep up our oracular consequence. In the present
case, we do not feel disposed to exercise this privilege, further
than in a very few words—merely to say that Mr. Robert
Montgomery has published a volume of Poems under the above
title—that the poems are of unequal merit, and that like
Virgil, his excellence lies in describing scenes of darkness.</p>
<p>The "Universal Prayer" is a devotional outpouring of a truly
poetical soul, with as much new imagery as the subject would admit;
and if <i>scriptural</i> poems be estimated in the ratio of
<i>scriptural</i> sermons, the merit of the former is of the first
order.<a id="footnotetag2" name="footnotetag2"></a><a href=
"#footnote2"><sup>2</sup></a></p>
<p>From the other poems we have detached the following beautiful
specimens:—</p>
<p>CONSUMPTION.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>With step as noiseless as the summer air,</p>
<p>Who comes in beautiful decay?—her eyes</p>
<p>Dissolving with a feverish glow of light,</p>
<p>Her nostrils delicately closed, and on</p>
<p>Her cheek a rosy tint, as if the tip</p>
<p>Of Beauty's finger faintly press'd it there,—</p>
<p>Alas! Consumption is her name.</p>
<p>Thou loved and loving one!</p>
<p>From the dark languish of thy liquid eye,</p>
<p>So exquisitely rounded, darts a ray</p>
<p>Of truth, prophetic of thine early doom;</p>
<p>And on thy placid cheek there is a print</p>
<p>Of death,—the beauty of consumption there.</p>
<p>Few note that fatal bloom; for bless'd by all,</p>
<p>Thou movest through thy noiseless sphere, the life,</p>
<p>Of one,—the darling of a thousand hearts.</p>
<p>Yet in the chamber, o'er some graceful task</p>
<p>When delicately bending, oft unseen,</p>
<p>Thy mother marks then with that musing glance</p>
<p>That looks through cunning time, and sees thee stretch'd</p>
<p>A shade of being, shrouded for the tomb.</p>
<p>The Day is come, led gently on by Death;</p>
<p>With pillow'd head all gracefully reclined,</p>
<p>And grape-like curls in languid clusters wreath'd,</p>
<p>Within a cottage room she sits to die;</p>
<p>Where from the window, in a western view,</p>
<p>Majestic ocean rolls.—A summer eve</p>
<p>Shines o'er the earth, and all the glowing air</p>
<p>Stirs faintly, like a pulse; against the shore</p>
<p>The waves unrol them with luxurious joy,</p>
<p>While o'er the midway deep she looks, where like</p>
<p>A sea god glares the everlasting Sun</p>
<p>O'er troops of billows marching in his beam!—</p>
<p>From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, her eyes</p>
<p>Are lifted, bright with wonder and with awe,</p>
<p>Till through each vein reanimation rolls!</p>
<p>'Tis past; and now her filmy glance is fix'd</p>
<p>Upon the heavens, as though her spirit gazed</p>
<p>On that immortal world, to which 'tis bound:</p>
<p>The sun hath sunk.—her soul hath fled without</p>
<p>A pang, and left her lovely in her death,</p>
<p>And beautiful as an embodied dream.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>MORTALITY.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>All that we love and feel on Nature's face,</p>
<p>Bear dim relations to our common doom.</p>
<p>The clouds that blush, and die a beamy death,</p>
<p>Or weep themselves away in rain,—the streams</p>
<p>That flow along in dying music,—leaves</p>
<p>That fade, and drop into the frosty arms</p>
<p>Of Winter, there to mingle with dead flowers,—</p>
<p>Are all prophetic of our own decay.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>BEAUTY</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>How oft, as unregarded on a throng</p>
<p>Of lovely creatures, in whose liquid eyes</p>
<p>The heart-warm feelings bathe, I've look'd</p>
<p>With all a Poet's passion, and have wish'd</p>
<p>That years might never pluck their graceful smiles—</p>
<p>How often Death, as with a viewless wand,</p>
<p>Has touch'd the scene, and witch'd it to a tomb!</p>
<p>Where Beauty dwindled to a ghastly wreck,</p>
<p>And spirits of the Future seem'd to cry,—</p>
<p>Thus will it be when Time has wreak'd revenge.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>MELANCHOLY.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>When mantled with the melancholy glow</p>
<p>Of eve, she wander'd oft: and when the wind,</p>
<p>Like a stray infant down autumnal dales</p>
<p>Roam'd wailingly, she loved to mourn and muse:</p>
<p>To commune with the lonely orphan flowers,</p>
<p>And through sweet Nature's ruin trace her own.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>VISION OF HEAVEN.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>An empyrean infinitely vast</p>
<p>And irridescent, roof'd with rainbows, whose</p>
<p>Transparent gleams like water-shadows shone,</p>
<p>Before me lay: Beneath this dazzling vault—</p>
<p>I felt, but cannot paint the splendour there!</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page266" name="page266"></a>[pg
266]</span>
<p>Glory, beyond the wonder of the heart</p>
<p>To dream, around interminably blazed.</p>
<p>A spread of fields more beautiful than skies</p>
<p>Flush'd with the flowery radiance of the west;</p>
<p>Valleys in greenest glory, deck'd with trees</p>
<p>That trembled music to the ambrosial airs</p>
<p>That chanted round them,—vein'd with glossy streams,</p>
<p>That gush'd, like feelings from a raptured soul:</p>
<p>Such was the scenery;—with garden walks,</p>
<p>Delight of angels and the blest, where flowers</p>
<p>Perennial bloom, and leaping fountains breathe,</p>
<p>Like melted gems, a gleaming mist around!</p>
<p>Here fruits for ever ripe, on radiant boughs,</p>
<p>Droop temptingly; here all that eye and heart</p>
<p>Enrapts, in pure perfection is enjoy'd;</p>
<p>And here o'er flowing paths with agate paved,</p>
<p>Immortal Shapes meander and commune.</p>
<p>While with permissive gaze I glanced the scene,</p>
<p>A whelming tide of rich-toned music roll'd,</p>
<p>Waking delicious echoes, as it wound</p>
<p>From Melody's divinest fount! All heaven</p>
<p>Glow'd bright, as, like a viewless river, swell'd</p>
<p>The deepening music!—Silence came again!</p>
<p>And where I gazed, a shrine of cloudy fire</p>
<p>Flamed redly awful; round it Thunder walk'd,</p>
<p>And from it Lightning look'd out most sublime!</p>
<p>Here throned in unimaginable bliss</p>
<p>And glory, sits The One Eternal Power,</p>
<p>Creator, Lord, and Life of All: Again,</p>
<p>Stillness ethereal reign'd, and forth appear'd</p>
<p>Elysian creatures robed in fleecy light,</p>
<p>Together flocking from celestial haunts,</p>
<p>And mansions of purpureal mould; the Host</p>
<p>Of heaven assembled to adore with harp</p>
<p>And hymn, the First and Last, the Living God;</p>
<p>They knelt,—a universal choir, and glow'd</p>
<p>More beauteous while they breathed the chant divine,</p>
<p>And Hallelujah! Hallelujah! peal'd,</p>
<p>And thrill'd the concave with harmonious joy.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>VISION OF HELL.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Apart, upon a throne of living fire</p>
<p>The Fiend was seated; in his eye there shone</p>
<p>The look that dared Omnipotence; the light</p>
<p>Of sateless vengeance, and sublime despair.—</p>
<p>He sat amid a burning world, and saw</p>
<p>Tormented myriads, whose blaspheming shrieks</p>
<p>Were mingled with the howl of hidden floods,</p>
<p>And Acherontine groans; of all the host,</p>
<p>The only dauntless he. As o'er the wild</p>
<p>He glanced, the pride of agony endured</p>
<p>Awoke, and writhed through all his giant frame,</p>
<p>That redden'd, and dilated, like a sun!</p>
<p>Till moved by some remember'd bliss, or joy</p>
<p>Of paradisal hours, or to supply</p>
<p>The cravings of infernal wrath,—he bade</p>
<p>The roar of Hell be hush'd,—and silence was!</p>
<p>He called the cursed,—and they flash'd from cave</p>
<p>And wild—from dungeon and from den they came,</p>
<p>And stood an unimaginable mass</p>
<p>Of spirits, agonized with burning pangs:</p>
<p>In silence stood they, while the Demon gazed</p>
<p>On all, and communed with departed Time,</p>
<p>From whence his vengeance such a harvest reap'd.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>BEAUTIFUL INFLUENCES.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Who hath not felt the magic of a voice,—</p>
<p>Its spirit haunt him in romantic hours?</p>
<p>Who hath not heard from Melody's own lips</p>
<p>Sounds that become a music to his mind?—</p>
<p>Music is heaven! and in the festive dome,</p>
<p>When throbs the lyre, as if instinct with life,</p>
<p>And some sweet mouth is full of song,—how soon</p>
<p>A rapture flows from eye to eye, from heart</p>
<p>To heart—while floating from the past, the forms</p>
<p>We love are recreated, and the smile</p>
<p>That lights the cheek is mirror'd on the heart!</p>
<p>So beautiful the influence of sound,</p>
<p>There is a sweetness in the homely chime</p>
<p>Of village bells: I love to hear them roll</p>
<p>Upon the breeze; like voices from the dead,</p>
<p>They seem to hail us from a viewless world.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<h3>PERSECUTION OF THE JEWS.</h3>
<p>We know it to be a fact, that a Jew, an artist of reputation,
who had conceived a great confidence in a Christian engaged in the
promotion of the conversion of the Israelites, revealed to him,
that both he and his brother had been Christians from their
childhood from having been bred up amongst Christians, but were too
indignant at the treatment which they and their brethren met with
at Christian hands, to profess Christianity; and he earnestly
pleaded, as essential to their being induced to receive the gospel,
that those who participate in the attempt should approach them with
a language of decided affection for Israel.—<i>Q.
Rev.</i></p>
<hr />
<h3>ABSENTEES</h3>
<p>Soon become detached from all habitual employments and duties;
the salutary feeling of home is lost; early friendships are
dissevered, and life becomes a vague and restless state, freed, it
may seem, from many ties, but yet more destitute of the better and
purer pleasures of existence.</p>
<hr />
<h3>ITINERANT OPERAS.</h3>
<p>The first performance of the <i>opera seria</i> at Rome, in
1606, consisted of scenes in recitative and airs, exhibited in a
<i>cart</i> during the carnival.</p>
<hr />
<h3>THE GAMUT.</h3>
<p>Guido D'Arezzo, a monk of the 13th century, in the solitude of
his convent, made the grand discovery of counterpoint, or the
science of harmony, as distinguished from melody; he also invented
the present system of notation, and gave those names to the sounds
of the diatonic scale still in use:—<i>ut, re, mi, fa, sol,
la, si</i>; these being the first syllables of the first six lines
of a hymn to St. John the Baptist, written in monkish Latin; and
they seem to have been adopted without any special reason, from the
caprice of the musician.—<i>Foreign Rev.</i></p>
<hr />
<p>It is said that the first church was erected at Glastonbury; and
this tradition may seem to deserve credit, because it was not
contradicted in those ages when other churches would have found it
profitable to advance a similar pretension. The building is
described as a rude structure of wicker-work, like the dwellings of
the people in those days, and differing from them only in its
dimensions, which were threescore feet in length, and twenty-six in
breadth. An abbey was afterwards erected there, one of the finest
of those edifices, and one of the most remarkable for the many
interesting circumstances connected with it. The destruction of
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page267" name="page267"></a>[pg
267]</span> this beautiful and venerable fabric is one of the
crimes by which our reformation was
sullied.—<i>Southey</i>.</p>
<hr />
<h3>GHOST STORY, BY M.G. LEWIS.</h3>
<p>A gentleman journeying towards the house of a friend, who lived
on the skirts of an extensive forest, in the east of Germany, lost
his way. He wandered for some time among the trees, when he saw a
light at a distance. On approaching it he was surprised to observe
that it proceeded from the interior of a ruined monastery. Before
he knocked at the gate he thought it proper to look through the
window. He saw a number of cats assembled round a small grave, four
of whom were at that moment letting down a coffin with a crown upon
it. The gentleman startled at this unusual sight, and, imagining
that he had arrived at the retreats of fiends or witches, mounted
his horse and rode away with the utmost precipitation. He arrived
at his friend's house at a late hour, who sat up waiting for him.
On his arrival his friend questioned him as to the cause of the
traces of agitation visible in his face. He began to recount his
adventures after much hesitation, knowing that it was scarcely
possible that his friend should give faith to his relation. No
sooner had he mentioned the coffin with the crown upon it, than his
friend's cat, who seemed to have been lying asleep before the fire,
leaped up, crying out, "Then I am king of the cats;" and then
scrambled up the chimney, and was never seen more.</p>
<hr />
<h3>RIDICULOUS MISTAKE.</h3>
<p>A quantity of Worcestershire china being sent to the
<i>Nawaab</i> at Lucknow, in India, from England, he was as
impatient to open it as a child would be with a new plaything; and
immediately gave orders for invitations to be sent to the whole
settlement for a breakfast, <i>à la fourchette</i>, next
morning. Tables were accordingly spread for upwards of a hundred
persons, including his ministers and officers of state. Nothing
could be more splendid than the general appearance of this
entertainment; but the dismay may be more easily imagined than
described, on discovering that the servants had mistaken certain
utensils for milk-bowls, and had actually placed about twenty of
them, filled with that beverage, along the centre of the table. The
consequence was, the English part of the company declined taking
any; upon which the <i>Nawaab</i> innocently remarked, "I thought
that the English were fond of milk." Some of them had much
difficulty to keep their countenances.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS</h2>
<h3>ENGLISH COUNTRY LIFE.</h3>
<p>The country seats of England form, indeed, one of the most
remarkable features, not only in English landscape, but yet more in
what may be termed the genius and economy of English manners. Their
great number throughout the country, the varied grandeur and beauty
of their parks and gardens, the extent, magnificence, and various
architecture of the houses, the luxurious comfort and completeness
of their internal arrangements, and their relation generally to the
character of the peasantry surrounding them, justify fully the
expression we have used. No where has this mode of life attained so
high a degree of perfection and refinement. We will allude to two
circumstances, amongst many others, in illustration. The first of
these is, the very great number of valuable libraries belonging to
our family seats. It has been sometimes remarked as singular, that
England should possess so few great public libraries, while a
poorer country, like Germany, can boast of its numerous and vast
collections at Vienna, Prague, Munich, Stutgard, Goettingen,
Wolfenbuttel, &c. The fact is partly explained by the many
political divisions and capitals, and by the number of universities
in Germany. But a further explanation may be found in the
innumerable private libraries dispersed throughout
England—many of them equal to public ones in extent and
value, and most of them well furnished in classics, and in English
and French literature.</p>
<p>The other peculiarity we would name about our English
country-houses is, that they do not insulate their residents from
the society and business of active life; which insulation is
probably a cause, why so many proprietors in other countries pass
their whole time in the metropolis or larger towns. The facility
and speed of communication in England link together all places,
however remote, and all interests, political and social, of the
community. The <span class="pagenum"><a id="page268" name=
"page268"></a>[pg 268]</span> country gentleman, sitting at his
breakfast table a hundred miles from London, receives the
newspapers printed there the night before; his books come to him
still damp from the press; and the debates in parliament travel to
every country-house in England within fifty or sixty hours of the
time when they have taken place. The like facility exists as to
provincial interests of every kind. The nobleman or country
gentleman is a public functionary within his district, and no man
residing on his estates is, or need feel himself, unimportant to
the community. <i>Quarterly Rev.</i></p>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>FLOWERS.</h2>
<p>When summer's delightful season arrives, rarely in this country
too warm to be enjoyed throughout the day in the open air, there is
nothing more grateful than a profusion of choice flowers around and
within our dwellings. The humblest apartments ornamented with these
beautiful productions of nature have, in my view, a more delightful
effect than the proudest saloons with gilded ceilings and hangings
of Genoa velvet. The richness of the latter, indeed, would be
heightened, and their elegance increased, by the judicious
introduction of flowers and foliage into them. The odour of
flowers, the cool appearance of the dark green leaves of some
species, and the beautiful tints and varied forms of others, are
singularly grateful to the sight, and refreshing at the same time.
Vases of Etruscan mould, containing plants of the commonest kind,
offer those lines of beauty which the eye delights in following;
and variform leaves hanging festooned over them, and shading them
if they be of a light colour, with a soft grateful hue, add much to
their pleasing effect. These decorations are simple and cheap.</p>
<p>Lord Bacon, whose magnificence of mind exempts him from every
objection as a model for the rest of mankind, (in all but the
unfortunate error to which, perhaps, his sordid pursuit in life led
him, to the degradation of his nobler intellect), was
enthusiastically attached to flowers, and kept a succession of them
about him in his study and at his table. Now the union of books and
flowers is more particularly agreeable. Nothing, in my view, is
half so delightful as a library set off with these beautiful
productions of the earth during summer, or indeed, any other season
of the year. A library or study, opening on green turf, and having
the view of a distant rugged country, with a peep at the ocean
between hills, a small fertile space forming the nearest ground,
and an easy chair and books, is just as much of local enjoyment as
a thinking man can desire—I reck not if under a thatched or
slated roof, to me it is the same thing. A favourite author on my
table, in the midst of my bouquets, and I speedily forget how the
rest of the world wags. I fancy I am enjoying nature and art
together, a consummation of luxury that never palls upon the
appetite—a dessert of uncloying sweets.</p>
<p>Madame Roland seems to have felt very strongly the union of
mental pleasure with that afforded to the senses by flowers. She
somewhere says, "La vûe d'une fleur carresse mon imagination
et flatte mes sens à un point inexprimable; elle
réveille avec volupté le sentiment de mon existence.
Sous le tranquil abri du toit paternel, j'étois heureuse des
enfance avec des fleurs et des livres; dans l'étroite
enciente d'une prison, au milieu des fers imposés par la
tyrannie la plus revoltante, j'oublie l'injustice des hommes, leurs
sottises, et mes maux, avec des livres et des fleurs." These
pleasures, however, are too simple to be universally felt.</p>
<p>There is something delightful in the use which the eastern
poets, particularly the Persian, make of flowers in their poetry.
Their allusions are not casual, and in the way of metaphor and
simile only; they seem really to hold them in high admiration. I am
not aware that the flowers of Persia, except the rose, are more
beautiful or more various than those of other countries. Perhaps
England, including her gardens, green-houses, and fields, having
introduced a vast variety from every climate, may exhibit a list
unrivalled, as a whole, in odour and beauty. Yet flowers are not
with us held in such high estimation as among the Orientals, if we
are to judge from their poets.</p>
<p>Bowers of roses and flowers are perpetually alluded to in the
writings of eastern poets. The Turks, and indeed the Orientals in
general, have few images of voluptuousness without the richest
flowers contributing towards them. The noblest palaces, where
gilding, damask, and fine carpeting abound, would be essentially
wanting in luxury without flowers. It cannot be from their odour
alone that they are thus identified with pleasure; it is from their
union of exquisite hues, fragrance, and beautiful forms, that they
raise a sentiment of voluptuousness, in the mind; for whatever
unites these qualities can scarcely do otherwise.</p>
<p>Whoever virtuously despises the opinion that simple and cheap
pleasures, not only good, but in the very best taste, are of no
value because they want a meretricious rarity, will fill their
apartments with a succession of our better garden flowers. It has
been said that flowers placed in bedrooms are not wholesome. This
cannot be meant of such as are in a state of vegetation. Plucked
and put into water, they quickly decay, and doubtless, give out a
putrescent air; when alive and growing, there need not be any
danger apprehended from them, provided fresh air is frequently
introduced. For <span class="pagenum"><a id="page269" name=
"page269"></a>[pg 269]</span> spacious rooms, the better kinds,
during warm weather, are those which have a large leaf and bossy
flower. Large leaves have a very agreeable effect on the senses;
their rich green is grateful to the sight; of this kind, the
Hydrangaea is remarkably well adapted for apartments, but it
requires plenty of water. Those who have a greenhouse connected
with their dwellings, have the convenience, by management, of
changing their plants as the flowers decay; those who have not, and
yet have space to afford them light and occasionally air, may rear
most of those kinds under their own roof, which may be applied for
ornament in summer. Vases of plaster, modelled from the antique,
may be stained any colour most agreeable to the fancy, and fitted
with tin cases to contain the earthen pots of flowers, to prevent
the damp from acting on them, will look exceedingly well.</p>
<p>The infinite variety of roses, including the Guelder Rose; the
Rhododendron, and other plants of similar growth, are fitted for
the saloon, but they please best in the library. They should be
intermingled with the bookcases, and stands filled with them should
be placed wherever practicable. They are a wonderful relief to the
student. There is always about them a something that infuses a
sensation of placid joy, cheering and refreshing. Perhaps they were
first introduced at festivals, in consequence of their possessing
this quality. A flower garden is the scene of pleasurable feelings
of innocence and elegance. The introduction of flowers into our
rooms infuses the same sensations, but intermingles them more with
our domestic comforts; so that we feel, as it were, in closer
contact with them. The succession might be kept up for the greater
part of the year; and even in winter, evergreens will supply their
places, and, in some respects, contrast well with the season. Many
fail in preserving the beauty of plants in their apartments,
because they do not give them sufficient light. Some species do
well with much less light than others. Light is as necessary to
them as air. They should not be too often shifted from one place to
another. Those who will take the trouble, may quicken the growth of
some plants, so as to have spring flowers in winter. Thus Autumn
and Spring might be connected; and flowers blooming in the Winter
of our gloomy climate possess double attraction.</p>
<p>In the flower garden alcove, books are doubly grateful. As in
the library ornamented with flowers they seem to be more enjoyed,
so their union there is irresistibly attracting. To enjoy reading
under such circumstances most, works of imagination are preferable
to abstract subjects. Poetry and romance—"De Vere" and
"Pelham"—lighter history—the lively letters of the
French school, like those of Sevigné and others—or
natural history—these are best adapted to peruse amidst
sweets and flowers: in short, any species of writing that does not
keep the mind too intently fixed to allow the senses to wander
occasionally over the scene around, and catch the beauty of the
rich vegetation. To me the enjoyment derived from the union of
books and flowers is of the very highest value among pleasurable
sensations.</p>
<p>For my own part, I manage very well without the advantage of a
greenhouse. The evergreens serve me in winter. Then the Lilacs come
in, followed by the Guelder Rose and Woodbine, the latter trained
in a pot upon circular trellis-work. After this there can be no
difficulty in choosing, as the open air offers every variety. I
arrange all my library and parlour-plants in a room in my
dwelling-house facing the south, having a full portion of light,
and a fireplace. I promote the growth of my flowers for the early
part of the year by steam-warmth, and having large tubs and boxes
of earth, I am at no loss, in my humble conservatory, for flowers
of many kinds when our climate offers none. The trouble attending
them is all my own, and is one of those employments which never
appear laborious. Those who have better conveniences may proceed on
a larger scale; but I contrive to keep up a due succession, which
to a floral epicure is every thing. To be a day in the year without
seeing a flower is a novelty to me, and I am persuaded much more
might be done with my humble means than I have effected, had I
sufficient leisure to attend to the retarding or forcing them. I
cover every space in my sitting-room with these beautiful fairy
things of creation, and take so much delight in the sight of them,
that I cannot help recommending those of limited incomes, like
myself, to follow my example and be their own nurserymen. The rich
might easily obtain them without; but what they procure by gold,
the individual of small means must obtain by industry. I know there
are persons to whom the flowers of Paradise would be objects of
indifference; but who can imitate, or envy such? They are
grovellers, whose coarseness of taste is only fitted for the
grossest food of life. The pleasures "des Fleurs et des Livres"
are, as Henry IV. observed of his child, "the property of all the
world."</p>
<h4><i>New Monthly Magazine.</i></h4>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page270" name="page270"></a>[pg
270]</span>
<h3>PRINCIPLES OF BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.</h3>
<p><i>Shepherd</i>. (<i>Standing up</i>.) It's on principles like
these—boldly and unblushingly avoo'd here—in Mr.
Awmrose's paper-parlour, at the conclusion o' the sixth brodd, on
the evening o' Monday the 22nd o' September, Anno Domini aughteen
hunder and twunty-aught, within twa hours o' midnicht—that
you, sir, have been yeditin' a Maggasin that has gone out to the
uttermost corners o' the yerth, wherever civilization or
uncivilization is known, deludin' and distracktin' men and women
folk, till it's impossible for them to ken their right hand frae
their left—or whether they're standin' on their heels or
their heads—or what byeuk ought to be perused, and what byeuk
puttin intil the bottom o' pye-dishes, and trunks—or what
awthor hissed, or what awthor hurraa'd—or what's flummery and
what's philosophy—or what's rant and what's religion—or
what's monopoly and what's free tredd—or wha's poets or wha's
but Pats—or whether it's best to be drunk, or whether it's
best to be sober a' hours o' the day and nicht—or if there
should be rich church establishments as in England, or poor kirk
ones as in Scotland—or whether the Bishop o' Canterbury, wi'
twenty thousan' a-year, is mair like a primitive Christian than the
Minister o' Kirkintulloch wi' twa hunder and fifty—or if folk
should aye be readin' sermons or fishin' for sawmon—or if
it's best to marry or best to burn—or if the national debt
hangs like a millstone round the neck o' the kintra or like a chain
o' blae-berries—or if the Millennium be really close at
haun'—or the present Solar System be calculated to last to a'
eternity—or whether the people should be edicated up to the
highest pitch o' perfection, or preferably to be all like trotters
through the Bog o' Allen—or whether the government should
subsedeeze foreign powers, or spend a' its sillar on
oursells—or whether the Blacks and the Catholics should be
emancipawted or no afore the demolition o' Priests and
Obis—or whether (God forgie us baith for the hypothesis) man
has a mortal or an immortal sowl—be a Phoenix—or an
Eister!—<i>From the Noctes</i>.</p>
<hr />
<h3>CURSES OF ABSENTEEISM.</h3>
<p>What is the condition of the country-seat of the absentee
proprietor? The mansion-house deserted and closed; the approaches
to it ragged and grass grown; the chimneys, "those windpipes of
good hospitality," as an old English poet calls them, giving no
token of the cheerful fire within; the gardens running to waste,
or, perchance, made a source of menial profit; the old family
servants dismissed, and some rude bailiff, or country attorney,
ruling paramount in the place. The surrounding cottagers, who have
derived their support from the vicinage, deprived of this, pass
into destitution and wretchedness; either abandoning their homes,
throwing themselves upon parish relief, or seeking provision by
means yet more desperate. The farming tenantry, though less
immediately dependent, yet all partake, more or less, in the evil.
The charities and hospitalities which belong to such a mansion lie
dormant; the clergyman is no longer supported and aided in his
important duties; the family pew in the church is closed; and the
village churchyard ceases to be a place of pleasant meeting, where
the peasant's heart is gladdened by the kindly notice of his
landlord.</p>
<p>It is the struggle against retrenchment, the "paupertatis pudor
et fuga," which has caused hundreds of English families, of
property and consideration, to desert their family places, and to
pass year after year in residence abroad. At the close of each
London season, the question too often occurs as to the best mode of
evading return to the country; and the sun of summer, instead of
calling back the landlord to his tenants, and to the harvests of
his own lands, sends him forth to the meagre adventures of
continental roads and inns.—<i>Quarterly Rev.</i></p>
<hr />
<h3>SOLILOQUY.</h3>
<h3>THE KING OF DARKNESS.</h3>
<h3><i>On the Fallen Angels.</i></h3>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>They're gone to ply their ineffectual labour,—</p>
<p>To sow in guilt what they must reap in woe,—</p>
<p>Heaping upon themselves more deep damnation.</p>
<p>Thus would I have it.—Little once I thought,</p>
<p>When leagued with me in crime and punishment</p>
<p>They fell,—condemned to an eternity</p>
<p>Of exile from all joy and holiness—</p>
<p>And the first stains of sinfulness and sorrow</p>
<p>Fell blight-like o'er their cherub lineaments—</p>
<p>Myself the cause—Albeit too proud for tears,</p>
<p>Yet touch'd with their sad doom, I little thought</p>
<p>I e'er should hate them thus.—Yet thus I hate them,</p>
<p>With all that bitter agony of soul</p>
<p>Which is the punishment of fiends. Alas!</p>
<p>It was my high ambition, to hold sway,</p>
<p>Sole, paramount, unquestion'd, o'er a third</p>
<p>Of Heaven's resplendent legions:—Power and glory</p>
<p>Dwelt on them, like an elemental essence</p>
<p>That could not be destroyed.—I could not deem</p>
<p>That aught could so extinguish the pure fire</p>
<p>Of their sun-like beauty—yet 'tis changed!—</p>
<p>I gain'd them to my wish, and they are grown</p>
<p>Too hateful to be look'd on.—Thus I've seen</p>
<p>The frail fair dupe of amorous perfidy,</p>
<p>The victim of a smile,—by man beguiled—</p>
<p>Won to debasement, and then left in loathing:—</p>
<p>Alas! I cannot leave my fatal conquest!—</p>
<p>Man! would I were the humblest mortal wretch,</p>
<p>That crawls beneath yon shadowing temple's tower,</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page271" name="page271"></a>[pg
271]</span>
<p>Under the sky of Canaan; so I might</p>
<p>Lay down this weight of sceptred misery,</p>
<p>And fly for ever from myself and these!</p>
<p>But Pride reproves the wish; and—it is useless;</p>
<p>The unatonable deeds of ages rise</p>
<p>Like clouds between me and the throne of Grace.</p>
<p>I may not hope,—or fear,—still unsubdued,</p>
<p>As when I ruled the anarchy of Heaven,</p>
<p>I stand in Fate's despite,—firm and impassive</p>
<p>To all that Chance, and Time, and Ruin bring.</p>
<p>—In that disastrous day, when this vast world</p>
<p>Shall, like a tempest-shaken edifice,</p>
<p>Rock into giant fractures—as the sound</p>
<p>Of the Archangel's trump, upon the deep,</p>
<p>Bids fall the bonds of nature, to let forth</p>
<p>Destruction's formless fiend from world to world,</p>
<p>Trampling the stars to darkness,—Even then,</p>
<p>Like that proud Roman exile, musing o'er</p>
<p>The dust of fallen Carthage, I shall stand,</p>
<p>Myself a solemn wreck, calm and unmoved</p>
<p>Among the ruins of the works of God.</p>
<p>And my last look shall be a look of triumph</p>
<p>O'er the fallen pillars of the deep and sky;</p>
<p>The wreck of nature by my deeds prepared—</p>
<p>Deeds—which o'erpay the power of Destiny.</p>
</div>
</div>
<h4><i>Blackwood's Magazine.</i></h4>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>THE GATHERER.</h2>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>SHAKSPEARE.</p>
</div>
</div>
<h3>ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER.</h3>
<h4><i>By T. Hood</i>.</h4>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">Why, Lover, why</p>
<p>Such a water-rover?</p>
<p>Would she love thee more</p>
<p>For coming <i>half seas over</i>?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">Why, Lady, why</p>
<p>So in love with dipping?</p>
<p>Must a lad of <i>Greece</i></p>
<p>Come all over <i>dripping</i>?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">Why, Cupid, why</p>
<p>Make the passage brighter?</p>
<p>Were not any boat</p>
<p>Better than a <i>lighter</i>?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">Why, Maiden, why</p>
<p>So intrusive standing?</p>
<p>Must thou be on the stair,</p>
<p>When he's on the <i>landing</i>?</p>
</div>
</div>
<h4><i>The Gem.</i></h4>
<hr />
<p>On a tombstone in the churchyard of Christchurch, Hants, is the
following curious inscription, which I copied on the spot. Perhaps
some of your numerous readers can explain the same:—</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>WE WERE NOT SLAYNE BVT RAYSD</p>
<p>RAYSD NOT TO LIFE</p>
<p>BVT TO BE BVRIED TWICE</p>
<p>BY MEN OF STRIFE</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>WHAT REST COVLD'TH LIVING HAVE</p>
<p>WHEN DEAD HAD NONE</p>
<p>AGREE AMONGST YOV</p>
<p>HERE WE TEN ARE ONE</p>
<p>HEN: ROGERS DIED APRILL 17, 1641.</p>
<p class="i6">I R.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<h3>EPICURISM.</h3>
<p>Thomas a Becket gave five pounds, equivalent to seventy-five
pounds of the present money, for a dish of eels.</p>
<h4>HALBERT H.</h4>
<hr />
<p>A famous scholar of the last century, when a boy, was
exceedingly fond of the Greek language, and after he had been a
short time at school, had acquired so much of the sound of the
language, that when at home at dinner one day his father said,
"Shall you not be glad, Harry, when you can tell me the names of
every dish on the table in Greek?" "Yes," said he; "but I think I
know what it must be." "Do you?" said the father; "what do you know
about Greek?"—"Nothing," said the boy; "but I think I can
guess from the sound of it what it would be." "Well, say then,"
said the father. He quickly replied, "Shouldromoton, alphagous,
pasti-venizon." It appears the dinner consisted of a shoulder of
mutton, half a goose, and venison pasty.</p>
<hr />
<h3>SNUFF AND TOBACCO.</h3>
<p>In the year 1797, was circulated the following proposals for
publishing by subscription, a History of Snuff and Tobacco, in Two
Volumes:—</p>
<p>Vol. 1.—To contain a description of the nose—size of
noses—a digression on Roman noses—whether long noses
are symptomatic—origin of tobacco—tobacco first
manufactured into snuff—inquiry who took the first
pinch—essay on sneezing—whether the ancients sneezed,
and at what—origin of pocket
handkerchiefs—discrimination between snuffing and taking
snuff; the former only applied to candles—parliamentary
snuff-takers—troubles in the time of Charles I. as connected
with smoking.</p>
<p>Vol. 2.—Snuff-takers in the parliamentary army—wit
at a pinch—oval snuff-boxes first used by the
roundheads—manufacture of tobacco pipes—dissertation on
pipe-clay—state of snuff during the commonwealth—the
union—Scotch snuff first introduced—found very pungent
and penetrating—accession of George II.—snuff-boxes
then made of gold and silver—George III.—Scotch snuff
first introduced at court—the queen, German snuffs in
fashion—female snuff-takers—clean tuckers, & c.
&c—Index and List of Subscribers.</p>
<h4>C.F.E.</h4>
<hr />
<h3>THE "ILL WIND," &c.</h3>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>In debt, deserted, and forlorn,</p>
<p class="i2">A melancholy elf</p>
<p>Resolved, upon a Monday morn,</p>
<p class="i2">To go and hang himself.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page272" name="page272"></a>[pg
272]</span>
<p>He reach'd the tree, when lo! he views</p>
<p class="i2">A pot of gold conceal'd;</p>
<p>He snatch'd it up, threw down the noose,</p>
<p class="i2">And scamper'd from the field.</p>
<p>The owner came—found out the theft,</p>
<p class="i2">And, having scratch'd his head,</p>
<p>Took up the rope the other left,</p>
<p class="i2">And hung himself, instead.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<h3>OLD COOKERY.</h3>
<p>Gastronomers will feel a natural desire to know what was
considered the "best universal sauce in the world," in the boon
days of Charles II., at least what was accounted such, by the Duke
of York, who was instructed to prepare it by the Spanish
ambassador. It consisted of parsley, and a dry toast pounded in a
mortar, with vinegar, salt, and pepper. The modern English would no
more relish his royal highness's taste in condiments than in
religion. A fashionable or cabinet dinner of the same period
consisted of "a dish of marrow-bones, a leg of mutton, a dish of
fowl, three pullets, and a dozen larks, all in a dish; a great
tart, a neat's tongue, a dish of anchovies, a dish of prawns, and
cheese." At the same period, a supper-dish, when the king supped
with his mistress, Lady Castlemaine, was "a chine of beef
roasted."</p>
<hr />
<h3>OLD EPITAPH.</h3>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>As I was, so are ye,</p>
<p>As I am, you shall be.</p>
<p>That I had, that I gave,</p>
<p>That I gave, that I have.</p>
<p>Thus I end all my cost,</p>
<p>That I left, that I lost.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<h3>IMPROMPTU TO ——, ON HER MARRIAGE WITH MR. WILLIAM
P——.</h3>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">When ladies they wed,</p>
<p class="i2">It ever is said</p>
<p>That their <i>freedom</i> away they have thrown;</p>
<p class="i2">But you've not done so,</p>
<p class="i2">For we very well know</p>
<p>You will have a <i>Will</i> of your own.</p>
</div>
</div>
<h4>C.K.W.</h4>
<hr />
<h3>PAINTERS.</h3>
<p>Lavater affirms, that no one whose person is not well formed can
become a good physiognomist. Those painters were the best whose
persons were the handsomest. Reubens, Vandyke, and Raphael
possessed three gradations of beauty, and possessed three
gradations of painting.</p>
<hr />
<h3>ELYSIAN SOUP.</h3>
<p>The French have a soup which they call "<i>Potage a la
Camerani</i>" of which it is said "a single spoonful will lap the
palate in Elysium; and while one drop remains on the tongue, each
other sense is eclipsed by the voluptuous thrilling of the lingual
nerves!"</p>
<hr />
<h3>A JAPANESE BEAUTY.</h3>
<p>Her face was oval, her features regular, and her little mouth,
when open, disclosed a set of shining, black lacquered teeth; her
hair was black, and rolled up in the form of a turban, without any
ornament, except a few tortoiseshell combs; she had sparkling, dark
eyes, was about the middle size, and elegantly formed; her dress
consisted of six wadded silk garments, similar to our night-gowns,
each fastened round the lower part of the waist by a separate band,
and drawn close together from the girdle downwards; they were all
of different colours, and the uppermost was black.</p>
<h4>U.</h4>
<hr />
<h3>GOOD LIVING.</h3>
<p>I hate a fellow who was never young; he is like a dull Italian
year, where the trees are always in leaf, and when the only way of
knowing the difference of the seasons is by referring to an
almanack. The inconstancy of the spring may surely be excused for
the steady warmth of summer and the rich plenty of autumn; then
comes the hoar of winter old gentleman, and closes the scene not
ungracefully.—<i>Old Play.</i></p>
<hr />
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are informed, that every volume is complete in itself, and may be
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<p>Complete sets Vol I. to XI. in boards, price £2.
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<hr />
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<hr />
<blockquote class="footnote"><a id="footnote1" name=
"footnote1"></a> <b>Footnote 1</b>:<a href=
"#footnotetag1">(return)</a>
<p>Here is a stump of wood which denotes the grave of Major
Labelliere, a deranged officer of the Marines, who, by his own
request was buried on this spot, with his head downwards; it being
a constant assertion with him, "that the world was turned
topsy-turvy, and, therefore, at the end he should be right."</p>
<p>From this point may be seen <i>Leith Hill</i>, with an old
prospect tower, within which are interred the remains of another
eccentric gentleman who died in the neighbourhood. In the road from
Dorking thence is <i>Wotton</i>, the family seat of the
Evelyns.</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote"><a id="footnote2" name=
"footnote2"></a> <b>Footnote 2</b>:<a href=
"#footnotetag2">(return)</a>
<p>We know a reverend vicar who once took the trouble to count all
the quotations from Scripture, which occurred in a charity sermon
he had just printed: and his great satisfaction at the conclusion
was, that his was indeed "a scriptural sermon."</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="full" />
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11336 ***</div>
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