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<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 10, Issue 262, July 7, 1827, by Various</h1>
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Title: The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 10, Issue 262, July 7, 1827
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<span class="pagenum"><a id="page1" name="page1"></a>[pg 1]</span>
<!-- Mirror of Literature header -->
<h1>THE MIRROR<br />
OF<br />
LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.</h1>
<hr class="full" />
<table width="100%">
<tr><td align="left"><b> Vol. 10, No. 262.]
</b></td><td align="center"><b> SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1827.
</b></td><td align="right"> <b> [PRICE 2d.
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<!-- end of header -->
<h2>HIS MAJESTY'S PONEY PHAETON.</h2>
<p class="figure">
<a href="images/262-1.png"><img width="100%" src="images/262-1.png" alt="" /></a><br />
</p>
<p>We commence our tenth volume of the MIRROR with an embellishment
quite novel in design from the generality of our graphic
illustrations, but one which, we flatter ourselves, will excite
interest among our friends, especially after so recently,
presenting them with a Portrait and Memoir of his Majesty in the
Supplement, which last week completed our ninth volume. His
Majesty, when residing at his cottage in Windsor Forest, the
weather being favourable, seldom allows a day to pass without
taking his favourite drive by the Long Walk, and Virginia Water, in
his poney phaeton, as represented in the above engraving. Windsor
Park being situated on the south side of the town, and 14 miles in
circumference, is admirably calculated for the enjoyment of a rural
ride. The entrance to the park is by a road called the <i>Long
Walk</i>, near three miles in length, through a double plantation
of trees on each side, leading to the Ranger's Lodge: on the north
east side of the Castle is the <i>Little Park</i>, about four miles
in circumference: <i>Queen Elizabeth's Walk</i> herein is much
frequented. At the entrance of this park is the <i>Queen's
Lodge</i>, a modern erection. This building stands on an easy
ascent opposite the upper court, on the south side, and commands a
beautiful view of the surrounding country. The gardens are elegant,
and have been much enlarged by the addition of the gardens and
house of the duke of St. Albans, purchased by his late majesty. The
beautiful <i>Cottage Ornée</i>, an engraving of which graces
one of our early volumes, is also in the park, and to which place
of retirement his present Majesty resorts, and passes much of his
time in preference to the bustle and splendour of a royal town
life.</p>
<p>Having now given as much description
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page2" name="page2"></a>[pg 2]</span>
of the engraving as the
subject requires, we shall proceed to lay before our readers some
further anecdotes connected with the life of his Majesty; for our
present purpose, the following interesting article being adapted to
our limits, we shall introduce an</p>
<blockquote>
<p><i>Original Letter of his present Majesty, when Prince of Wales,
to Alexander Davison, Esq., on the death of Lord Nelson.</i></p>
<p>I am extremely obliged to you, my dear sir, for your
confidential letter, which I received this morning. You may be well
assured, that, did it depend upon me, there would not be a wish, a
desire of our-ever-to-be-lamented and much-loved friend, as well as
adored hero, that I should not consider as a solemn obligation upon
his friends and his country to fulfil; it is a duty they owe his
memory, and his matchless and unrivalled excellence: such are my
sentiments, and I should hope that there is still in this country
sufficient honour, virtue, and gratitude to prompt us to ratify and
to carry into effect the last dying request of our Nelson, and by
that means proving not only to the whole world, but to future ages,
that we were worthy of having such a man belonging to us. It must
be needless, my dear sir, to discuss over with you in particular
the irreparable loss dear Nelson ever must be, not merely to his
friends but to his country, especially at the present
crisis—and during the present most awful contest, his very
name was a host of itself; Nelson and Victory were one and the same
to us, and it carried dismay and terror to the hearts of our
enemies. But the subject is too painful a one to dwell longer upon;
as to myself, all that I can do, either publicly or privately, to
testify the reverence, the respect I entertain for his memory as a
Hero, and as the greatest public character that ever embellished
the page of history, independent of what I can with the greatest
truth term, the enthusiastic attachment I felt for him as a friend,
I consider it as my duty to fulfil, and therefore, though I may be
prevented from taking that ostensible and prominent situation at
his funeral which I think my birth and high rank entitled me to
claim, still nothing shall prevent me in a private character
following his remains to their last resting place; for though the
station and the character may be less ostensible, less prominent,
yet the feelings of the heart will not therefore be the less
poignant, or the less acute.</p>
<p>I am, my dear sir, with the greatest truth,<br />
Ever very sincerely your's,<br />
G. P.<a id="footnotetag1" name="footnotetag1"></a><a href="#footnote1"><sup>1</sup></a><br />
<i>Brighton, Dec, 18th, 1805</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr />
<h2>BYRON AND OTHER POETS COMPARED.</h2>
<h4><i>(For the Mirror.)</i></h4>
<p>There is a natural stimulus in man to offer adoration at the
shrine of departed genius.—</p>
<blockquote>"There is a tear for all that die."</blockquote>
<p>But, when a transcendant genius is checked in its early
age—when its spring-shoots had only began to open—when
it had just engaged in a new feature devoted to man, and man to it,
we cannot rest</p>
<blockquote>"In silent admiration, mixed with grief."</blockquote>
<p>Too often has splendid genius been suffered to live almost
unobserved; and have only been valued as their lives have been
lost. Could the divine Milton, or the great Shakspeare, while
living, have shared that profound veneration which their after
generations have bestowed on their high talents, happier would they
have lived, and died more extensively beloved.</p>
<p>True, a Byron has but lately paid a universal debt. His
concentrated powers—his breathings for the happiness and
liberty of mankind—his splendid intellectual flowers, culled
from a mind stored with the choicest exotics, and cultivated with
the most refined taste are all still fresh in recollection. As the
value of precious stones and metals have become estimated by their
scarcity, so will the fame of Byron live.</p>
<p>A mind like Lord Byron's,</p>
<blockquote>"——born, not only to surprise, but
cheer<br />
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,"</blockquote>
<p>was one of Nature's brightest gems, whose splendour (even when
uncompared) dazzled and attracted all who passed within its
sight.</p>
<blockquote>"So let him stand, through ages yet
unborn."</blockquote>
<p>As comparison is a medium through which we are enabled to obtain
most accurate judgment, let us use it in the present instance, and
compare Lord Byron with the greatest poets that have preceded him,
by which means the world of letters will see what they have
<i>really</i> lost in Lord Byron. To commence with the great
Shakspeare himself, to whom universal admiration continues to be
paid. Had Shakspeare been cut off at the same early period as
Byron, <i>The Tempest, King Lear, Othello, Macbeth, Julius Caesar,
Coriolanus</i>, and several others of an equal character, would
never have been written. The high reputation of Dryden would also
have been limited—his fame, perhaps, unknown.
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page3" name="page3"></a>[pg 3]</span>
The
<i>Absalom</i> and <i>Achitophel</i> is the earliest of his best
productions, which was written about his fiftieth year; his
principal production, at the age of Byron, was his <i>Annus
Mirabilis</i>; for nearly the whole of his dramatic works were
written at the latter part of his life. Pope is the like situated;
that which displayed most the power of his mind—which claims
for him the greatest praise—his <i>Essay on Man</i>, &c.
appeared after his fortieth year. <i>Windsor Forest</i> was
published in his twenty-second or twenty-third year, both were the
labour of some <i>years</i>; and the immortal Milton, who published
some few things before his thirtieth year, sent not his great work,
<i>Paradise Lost</i>, to the world until he verged on sixty.</p>
<p>With the poets, and the knowledge of what Byron <i>was</i>, we
may ask what he would have been had it pleased the Great Author of
all things to suffer the summer of his consummate mental powers to
shine upon us? Take the works of any of the abovenamed
distinguished individuals previous to their thirty-eighth year, and
shall we perceive that flexibility of the English language to the
extent that Byron has left behind him? His versatility was, indeed,
astonishing and triumphant. His <i>Childe Harold</i>, the <i>Bride
of Abydos</i>, the <i>Corsair</i>, and <i>Don Juan</i>, (though
somewhat too freely written,) are established proofs of his
unequalled energy of mind. His power was unlimited; not only
eloquent, but the sublime, grave and gay, were all equally familiar
to his muse.</p>
<p>Few words are wanted to show that Byron was not depraved at
heart; no man possessed a more ready sympathy, a more generous mind
to the distressed, or was a more enthusiastic admirer of noble
actions. These feelings all strongly delineated in his character,
would never admit, as Sir Walter Scott has observed, "an imperfect
moral sense, nor feeling, dead to virtue." Severe as the</p>
<blockquote>"Combined usurpers on the throne of taste"</blockquote>
<p>have been, his character is marked by some of the best
principles in many parts of his writings.</p>
<blockquote>"The records there of friendships, held like rocks,<br />
And enmities like sun-touch'd snow resign'd,"</blockquote>
<p>are frequently visible. His glorious attachment to the Grecian
cause is a sufficient recompense for <i>previous</i> follies
exaggerated and propagated by calumny's poisonous tongue. In a
word, "there is scarce a passion or a situation which has escaped
his pen; and he might be drawn, like Garrick, between the weeping
and the laughing muses."</p>
<p>A. B. C.</p>
<hr />
<h2>THE SONG OF THE WIDOWED MOTHER TO HER CHILD.</h2>
<h3>BY THE AUTHOR OF "AHAB."</h3>
<h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
<blockquote>O Sink to sleep, my darling boy,<br />
Thy father's dead, thy mother lonely,<br />
Of late thou wert his pride, his joy,<br />
But now thou hast not one to own thee.<br />
The cold wide world before us lies,<br />
But oh! such heartless things live in it,<br />
It makes me weep—then close thine eyes<br />
Tho' it be but for one short minute.<br />
<br />
O sink to sleep, my baby dear,<br />
A little while forget thy sorrow,<br />
The wind is cold, the night is drear,<br />
But drearier it will be to-morrow.<br />
For none will help, tho' many see<br />
Our wretchedness—then close thine eyes, love,<br />
Oh, most unbless'd on earth is she<br />
Who on another's aid relies, love.<br />
<br />
Thou hear'st me not! thy heart's asleep<br />
Already, and thy lids are closing,<br />
Then lie thee still, and I will weep<br />
Whilst thou, my dearest, art reposing,<br />
And wish that I could slumber free,<br />
And with thee in yon heaven awaken,<br />
O would that it our home might be,<br />
For here we are by all forsaken.</blockquote>
<hr />
<h2>PAY OF THE JUDGES IN FORMER TIMES.</h2>
<h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
<p>In the twenty-third year of the reign of king Henry III., the
salary of the justices of the bench (now called the Common Pleas)
was 20l. per annum; in the forty-third year, 40l. In the
twenty-seventh year, the chief baron had 40 marks; the other
barons, 20 marks; and in the forty, ninth year, 4l. per annum. The
justices <i>coram rege</i> (now called the King's Bench) had in the
forty-third year of Henry III. 40l. per annum.; the chief of the
bench, 100 marks per annum; and next year, another chief of the
same court, had 100l.; but the chief of the court <i>coram rege</i>
had only 100 marks per annum.</p>
<p>In the reign of Edward I., the salaries of the justices were
very uncertain, and, upon the whole, they sunk from what they had
been in the reign of Henry III. The chief justice of the bench, in
the seventh year of Edward I., had but 40l. per annum, and the
other justices there, 40 marks. This continued the proportion in
both benches till the twenty-fifth year of Edward III., then the
salary of the chief of the King's Bench fell to 50 marks, or 33l.
6s. 8d., while that of the chief of the bench was augmented to 100
marks, which may be considered as an
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page4" name="page4"></a>[pg 4]</span>
evidence of the increase of
business and attendance there. The chief baron had 40l.; the
salaries of the other justices and barons were reduced to 20l.</p>
<p>In the reign of Edward II., the number of suitors so increased
in the common bench, that whereas there had usually been only three
justices there, that prince, at the beginning of his reign, was
constrained to increase them to six, who used to sit in two
places,—a circumstance not easy to be accounted for. Within
three years after they were increased to seven; next year they were
reduced to six, at which number they continued.</p>
<p>The salaries of the judges, though they had continued the same
from the time of Edward I. to the twenty-fifth year of Edward III.,
were become very uncertain. In the twenty-eighth year of this king,
it appears, that one of the justices of the King's Bench had 80
marks per annum. In the thirty-ninth year of Edward III. the judges
had in that court 40l.; the same as the justices of the Common
Pleas; but the chief of the King's Bench, 100 marks.</p>
<p>The salaries of the judges in the time of Henry IV. were as
follows:—The chief baron, and other barons, had 40 marks per
annum; the chief of the King's Bench, and of the Common Pleas, 40l.
per annum; the other justices, in either court, 40 marks. But the
gains of the practisers were become so great, that they could
hardly be tempted to accept a place on the bench with such low
salaries; therefore in the eighteenth year of Henry VI. the judges
of all the courts at Westminster, together with the king's attorney
and sergeants, exhibited a petition to parliament concerning the
regular payment of their salaries and perquisites of robes. The
king assented to their request, and order was taken for increasing
their income, which afterwards became larger, and more fixed; this
consisted of a salary and an allowance for robes. In the first year
of Edward IV., the chief justice of the King's Bench had 170 marks
per annum, 5l. 6s. 6d. for his winter robes, and the same for his
Whitsuntide robes. Most of the judges had the honour of knighthood;
some of them were knights bannerets; and some had the order of the
Bath.</p>
<p>In the first year of Henry VII. the chief justice of the court
of King's Bench had the yearly fee of 140 marks granted to him for
his better support; he had besides 5l. 6s. 11-1/4 d., and the sixth
part of a halfpenny (such is the accuracy of Sir William Dugdale,
and the strangeness of the sum,) for his winter robes, and 3l. 6s.
6d. for his robes at Whitsuntide.</p>
<p>In the thirty-seventh year of Henry VIII. a further increase was
made to the fees of the judges;—to the chief justice of the
King's Bench 30l. per annum; to every other justice of that court
20l. per annum; to every justice of the Common Pleas, 20l. per
annum.</p>
<p>There were usually in the court of Common Pleas five judges,
sometimes six; and in the reign of Henry VI. there were, it is
said, eight judges at one time in that court; but six appear to
have been the regular number. In the King's Bench there were
sometimes four, sometimes five. They did not sit above three hours
a day in court,—from eight in the morning to eleven. The
courts were not open in the afternoon; but that time was left
unoccupied for suitors to confer with their counsel at home.</p>
<p>F. R. Y.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>THE SELECTOR AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.</h2>
<hr />
<h3>SIR WALTER SCOTT'S LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.</h3>
<p>SIR WALTER SCOTT, the author of <i>Waverley</i>, has become the
biographer of Napoleon Bonaparte; and the deepest interest is
excited in the literary world to know how the great master of
romance and fiction acquits himself in the execution of his task.
In the preface to this elaborate history, Sir Walter, with
considerable ingenuousness, informs us that "he will be found no
enemy to the person of Napoleon. The term of hostility is ended
when the battle has been won, and the foe exists no longer." But to
our task: we shall attempt an analysis of the volumes before us,
and endeavour to gratify our readers with a narrative of incidents
that cannot fail interesting every British subject, whose history,
in fact, is strongly connected with the important events that
belong to the splendid career of Napoleon Bonaparte.</p>
<p>The first and second volumes of Sir Walter's history are taken
up with a view of the French Revolution, from whence we shall
extract a sketch of the characters of three men of terror, whose
names will long remain, we trust, unmatched in history by those of
any similar miscreants. These men were the leaders of the
revolution, and were called</p>
<h4>THE TRIUMVIRATE.</h4>
<p>Danton deserves to be named first, as unrivalled by his
colleagues in talent and audacity. He was a man of gigantic size,
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page5" name="page5"></a>[pg 5]</span>
and possessed a voice of thunder. His countenance was that of an
Ogre on the shoulders of a Hercules. He was as fond of the
pleasures of vice as of the practice of cruelty; and it was said
there were times when he became humanized amidst his debauchery,
laughed at the terror which his furious declamations excited, and
might be approached with safety, like the Maelstrom at the turn of
tide. His profusion was indulged to an extent hazardous to his
popularity, for the populace are jealous of a lavish expenditure,
as raising their favourites too much above their own degree; and
the charge of peculation finds always ready credit with them, when
brought against public men.</p>
<p>Robespierre possessed this advantage over Danton, that he did
not seem to seek for wealth, either for hoarding or expending, but
lived in strict and economical retirement, to justify the name of
the Incorruptible, with which he was honoured by his partizans. He
appears to have possessed little talent, saving a deep fund of
hypocrisy, considerable powers of sophistry, and a cold exaggerated
strain of oratory, as foreign to good taste, as the measures he
recommended were to ordinary humanity. It seemed wonderful, that
even the seething and boiling of the revolutionary cauldron should
have sent up from the bottom, and long supported on the surface, a
thing so miserably void of claims to public distinction; but
Robespierre had to impose on the minds of the vulgar, and he knew
how to beguile them, by accommodating his flattery to their
passions and scale of understanding, and by acts of cunning and
hypocrisy, which weigh more with the multitude than the words of
eloquence, or the arguments of wisdom. The people listened as to
their Cicero, when he twanged out his apostrophes of <i>Pauvre
Peuple, Peuple vertueux!</i> and hastened to execute whatever came
recommended by such honied phrases, though devised by the worst of
men for the worst and most inhuman of purposes.</p>
<p>Vanity was Robespierre's ruling passion, and though his
countenance was the image of his mind, he was vain even of his
personal appearance, and never adopted the external habits of a
sans culotte. Amongst his fellow Jacobins, he was distinguished by
the nicety with which his hair was arranged and powdered; and the
neatness of his dress was carefully attended to, so as to
counterbalance, if possible, the vulgarity of his person. His
apartments, though small, were elegant and vanity had filled them
with representations of the occupant. Robespierre's picture at
length hung in one place, his miniature in another, his bust
occupied a niche, and on the table were disposed a few medallions
exhibiting his head in profile. The vanity which all this indicated
was of the coldest and most selfish character, being such as
considers neglect as insult, and receives homage merely as a
tribute; so that, while praise is received without gratitude, it is
withheld at the risk of mortal hate. Self-love of this dangerous
character is closely allied with envy, and Robespierre was one of
the most envious and vindictive men that ever lived. He never was
known to pardon any opposition, affront, or even rivalry; and to be
marked in his tablets on such an account was a sure, though perhaps
not an immediate, sentence of death. Danton was a hero, compared
with this cold, calculating, creeping miscreant; for his passions,
though exaggerated, had at least some touch of humanity, and his
brutal ferocity was supported by brutal
courage.—(<i>Continued at page 17.</i>)</p>
<hr />
<h3>THE EPICUREAN.</h3>
<h4><i>By T. Moore, Esq.</i></h4>
<p>The following is described by Alciphron, the hero of the tale,
at the termination of a festival, in a tone which strongly reminds
us of Rasselas:—</p>
<p>"The sounds of the song and dance had ceased, and I was now left
in those luxurious gardens alone. Though so ardent and active a
votary of pleasure, I had, by nature, a disposition full of
melancholy;—an imagination that presented sad thoughts even
in the midst of mirth and happiness, and threw the shadow of the
future over the gayest illusions of the present. Melancholy was,
indeed, twin-born in my soul with passion; and, not even in the
fullest fervour of the latter were they separated. From the first
moment that I was conscious of thought and feeling, the same dark
thread had run across the web; and images of death and annihilation
mingled themselves with the most smiling scenes through which my
career of enjoyment led me. My very passion for pleasure but
deepened these gloomy fancies. For, shut out, as I was by my creed,
from a future life, and having no hope beyond the narrow horizon of
this, every minute of delight assumed a mournful preciousness in my
eyes, and pleasure, like the flower of the cemetery, grew but more
luxuriant from the neighbourhood of death. This very night my
triumph, my happiness, had seemed complete. I had been the
presiding genius of that voluptuous scene. Both my ambition and my
love of pleasure had drunk deep of the cup for which they thirsted.
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page6" name="page6"></a>[pg 6]</span>
Looked up to by the learned, and loved by the beautiful and the
young, I had seen, in every eye that met mine, either the
acknowledgment of triumphs already won, or the promise of others,
still brighter, that awaited me. Yet, even in the midst of all
this, the same dark thoughts had presented themselves; the
perishableness of myself and all around me every instant recurred
to my mind. Those hands I had prest—those eyes, in which I
had seen sparkling a spirit of light and life that should never
die—those voices that had talked of eternal love—all,
all, I felt, were but a mockery of the moment, and would leave
nothing eternal but the silence of their dust!</p>
<blockquote>"Oh, were it not for this sad voice,<br />
Stealing amid our mirth to say,<br />
That all in which we most rejoice,<br />
Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey:<br />
<i>But</i> for this bitter—only this—<br />
Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss,<br />
And capable as feels my soul<br />
Of draining to its depth the whole,<br />
I should turn earth to heaven, and be,<br />
If bliss made gods, a deity!"</blockquote>
<hr />
<h3>THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.</h3>
<p>I had already seen some of the most celebrated works of nature
in different parts of the globe; I had seen Etna and Vesuvius; I
had seen the Andes almost at their greatest elevation; Cape Horn,
rugged and bleak, buffeted by the southern tempest; and, though
last not least, I had seen the long swell of the Pacific; but
nothing I had ever beheld or imagined could compare in grandeur
with the Falls of Niagara. My first sensation was that of exquisite
delight at having before me the greatest wonder of the world.
Strange as it may appear, this feeling was immediately succeeded by
an irresistible melancholy. Had this not continued, it might
perhaps have been attributed to the satiety incident to the
complete gratification of "hope long deferred;" but so far from
diminishing, the more I gazed, the stronger and deeper the
sentiment became. Yet this scene of sadness was strangely mingled
with a kind of intoxicating fascination. Whether the phenomenon is
peculiar to Niagara I know not, but certain it is, that the spirits
are affected and depressed in a singular manner by the magic
influence of this stupendous and eternal fall. About five miles
above the cataract the river expands to the dimensions of a lake,
after which it gradually narrows. The Rapids commence at the upper
extremity of Goat Island, which is half a mile in length, and
divides the river at the point of precipitation into two unequal
parts; the largest is distinguished by the several names of the
Horseshoe, Crescent, and British Fall, from its semi-circular form
and contiguity to the Canadian shore. The smaller is named the
American Fall. A portion of this fall is divided by a rock from
Goat Island, and though here insignificant in appearance, would
rank high among European cascades....</p>
<p>The current runs about six miles an hour; but supposing it to be
only five miles, the quantity which passes the falls in an hour is
more than eighty-five millions of tuns avoirdupois; if we suppose
it to be six, it will be more than one hundred and two millions;
and in a day would exceed two thousand four hundred millions of
tuns....</p>
<p>The next morning, with renewed delight, I beheld from my
window—I may say, indeed, from my bed—the stupendous
vision. The beams of the rising sun shed over it a variety of
tints; a cloud of spray was ascending from the crescent; and as I
viewed it from above, it appeared like the steam rising from the
boiler of some monstrous engine....</p>
<p>This evening I went down with one of our party to view the
cataract by moonlight. I took my favourite seat on the projecting
rock, at a little distance from the brink of the fall, and gazed
till every sense seemed absorbed in contemplation. Although the
shades of night increased the sublimity of the prospect and
"deepened the murmur of the falling floods," the moon in placid
beauty shed her soft influence upon the mind, and mitigated the
horrors of the scene. The thunders which bellowed from the abyss,
and the loveliness of the falling element, which glittered like
molten silver in the moonlight, seemed to complete in absolute
perfection the rare union of the beautiful with the sublime.</p>
<p>While reflecting upon the inadequacy of language to express the
feelings I experienced, or to describe the wonders which I
surveyed, an American gentleman, to my great amusement, tapped me
on the shoulder, and "guessed" that it was "<i>pretty droll!</i>"
It was difficult to avoid laughing in his face; yet I could not
help envying him his vocabulary, which had so eloquently released
me from my dilemma....</p>
<p>Though earnestly dissuaded from the undertaking, I had
determined to employ the first fine morning in visiting the cavern
beneath the fall. The guide recommended my companion and myself to
set out as early as six o'clock, that we might have the advantage
of the morning sun upon the waters. We came to the guide's
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page7" name="page7"></a>[pg 7]</span>
house at
the appointed hour, and disencumbered ourselves of such garments as
we did not wish to have wetted; descending the circular ladder, we
followed the course of the path running along the top of the
<i>débris</i> of the precipice, which I have already
described. Having pursued this track for about eighty yards, in the
course of which we were completely drenched, we found ourselves
close to the cataract. Although enveloped in a cloud of spray, we
could distinguish without difficulty the direction of our path, and
the nature of the cavern we were about to enter. Our guide warned
us of the difficulty in respiration which we should encounter from
the spray, and recommended us to look with exclusive attention to
the security of our footing. Thus warned, we pushed forward, blown
about and buffeted by the wind, stunned by the noise, and blinded
by the spray. Each successive gust penetrated us to the very bones
with cold. Determined to proceed, we toiled and struggled on, and
having followed the footsteps of the guide as far as was possible
consistently with safety, we sat down, and having collected our
senses by degrees, the wonders of the cavern slowly developed
themselves. It is impossible to describe the strange unnatural
light reflected through its crystal wall, the roar of the waters,
and the blasts of the hurried hurricane which perpetually rages in
its recesses. We endured its fury a sufficient time to form a
notion of the shape and dimensions of this dreadful place. The
cavern was tolerably light, though the sun was unfortunately
enveloped in clouds. His disc was invisible, but we could clearly
distinguish his situation through the watery barrier. The fall of
the cataract is nearly perpendicular. The bank over which it is
precipitated is of concave form, owing to its upper stratum being
composed of lime-stone, and its base of soft slate-stone, which has
been eaten away by the constant attrition of the recoiling waters.
The cavern is about one hundred and twenty feet in height, fifty in
breadth, and three hundred in length. The entrance was completely
invisible. By screaming in our ears, the guide contrived to explain
to us that there was one more point which we might have reached had
the wind been in any other direction. Unluckily it blew full upon
the sheet of the cataract, and drove it in so as to dash upon the
rock over which we must have passed. A few yards beyond this, the
precipice becomes perpendicular, and, blending with the water,
forms the extremity of the cave. After a stay of nearly ten minutes
in this most horrible purgatory, we gladly left it to its loathsome
inhabitants the eel and the water-snake, who crawl about its
recesses in considerable numbers,—and returned to the
inn—<i>De Roos's Travels in the United States,
&c.</i></p>
<hr />
<h3>THE GUILLOTINE.</h3>
<p>The first sight, however, which it fell to my lot to witness at
Brussels in this second and short visit, was neither gay nor
handsome, nor dear in any sense, but the very reverse; it being
that of the punishment of the guillotine inflicted on a wretched
murderer, named John Baptist Michel.
<a id="footnotetag2" name="footnotetag2"></a><a href="#footnote2"><sup>2</sup></a>
Hearing, at the moment of my arrival, that this tragical scene was
on the point of being acted in the great square of the
market-place, I determined for once to make a sacrifice of my
feelings to the desire of being present at a spectacle, with the
nature of which the recollections of revolutionary horrors are so
intimately associated. Accordingly, following to the spot a guard
of soldiers appointed to assist at the execution, I disengaged
myself as soon as possible from the pressure of the immense crowd
already assembled, and obtained a seat at the window of a house
immediately opposite the Hotel-de-Ville, in front of the principal
entrance to which the guillotine had been erected. At the hour of
twelve at noon precisely, the malefactor, tall, athletic, and
young, having his hands tied behind his back, and being stripped to
the waist, was brought to the square in a cart, under an escort of
gen-d'armes, attended by an elderly and respectable ecclesiastic;
who, having been previously occupied in administering the
consolations of religion to the condemned person in prison, now
appeared incessantly employed in tranquillizing him on his way to
the scaffold. Arrived near the fatal machine, the unhappy
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page8" name="page8"></a>[pg 8]</span>
man
stepped out of the vehicle, knelt at the feet of his confessor,
received the priestly benediction, kissed some individuals who
accompanied him, and was hurried by the officers of justice up the
steps of the cube-form structure of wood, painted of a blood-red,
on which stood the dreadful apparatus of death. To reach the top of
the platform, to be fast bound to a board, to be placed
horizontally under the axe, and deprived of life by its unerring
blow, was, in the case of this miserable offender, the work
literally of a moment. It was indeed an awfully sudden transit from
time to eternity. He could only cry out, "<i>Adieu, mes amis</i>,"
and he was gone. The severed head, passing through a red-coloured
bag fixed under, fell to the ground—the blood spouted forth
from the neck like water from a fountain—the body, lifted up
without delay, was flung down through a trap-door in the platform.
Never did capital punishment more quickly take effect on a human
being; and whilst the executioner was coolly taking out the axe
from the groove of the machine, and placing it, covered as it was
with gore, in a box, the remains of the culprit, deposited in a
shell, were hoisted into a wagon, and conveyed to the prison. In
twenty minutes all was over, and the <i>Grande Place</i> nearly
cleared of its thousands, on whom the dreadful scene seemed to have
made, as usual, the slightest possible
impression—<i>Stevenson's Tour in France, Switzerland,
&c.</i></p>
<hr />
<h3>THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE.</h3>
<p>Of all the miseries of human life, and God knows they are
manifold enough, there are few more utterly heart-sickening and
overwhelming than those endured by the unlucky Heir Presumptive;
when, after having submitted to the whims and caprices of some rich
relation, and endured a state of worse than Egyptian bondage, for a
long series of years, he finds himself cut off with a shilling, or
a mourning ring; and the El Dorado of his tedious term of probation
and expectancy devoted to the endowment of methodist chapels and
Sunday schools; or bequeathed to some six months' friend (usually a
female housekeeper, or spiritual adviser) who, entering the
vineyard at the eleventh hour, (the precise moment at which his
patience and humility become exhausted,) carries off the golden
prize, and adds another melancholy confirmation, to those already
upon record, of the fallacy of all human anticipations. It matters
little what may have been the motives of his conduct; whether duty,
affection, or that more powerful incentive self-interest; how long
or how devotedly he may have humoured the foibles or eccentricities
of his relative; or what sacrifices he may have made to enable him
to comply with his unreasonable caprices: the result is almost
invariably the same. The last year of the Heir Presumptive's
purgatory, nay, perhaps even the last month, or the last week, is
often the drop to the full cup of his endurance. His patience,
however it may have been propped by self-interest, or feelings of a
more refined description, usually breaks down before the allotted
term has expired; and the whole fabric it has cost him such
infinite labour to erect, falls to the ground along with it. It is
well if his personal exertions, and the annoyances to which he has
subjected himself during the best period of his existence, form the
whole of his sacrifices. But, alas! it too often happens that,
encouraged by the probability of succeeding in a few years to an
independent property, and ambitious, moreover, of making such an
appearance in society as will afford the old gentleman or lady no
excuse for being ashamed of their connexion with him, he launches
into expenses he would never otherwise have dreamed of incurring,
and contracts debts without regard to his positive means of
liquidating them, on the strength of a contingency which, if he
could but be taught to believe it, is of all earthly anticipations
the most remote and uncertain. A passion for unnecessary expense
is, under different circumstances, frequently repressed by an
inability to procure credit; but it is the curse and bane of Mr.
Omnium's nephew, and Miss Saveall's niece, that so far from any
obstacle being opposed to their prodigality, almost unlimited
indulgence is offered, nay, actually pressed upon them, by the
trades-people of their wealthy relations; who take especial care
that their charges shall be of a nature to repay them for any
complaisance or long suffering, as it regards the term of credit,
they may be called upon to display. But independently of the
additional expense into which the Heir Presumptive is often seduced
by the operation of these temptations, and his anxiety to live in a
style in some degree accordant with his expectations, what is he
not called upon to endure from the caprices, old-fashioned notions,
eccentricities, avarice, and obstinacy, of the old tyrant to whom
he thus consents to sell himself, and it may be his family, body
and soul, for an indefinite number of years.—<i>National
Tales</i>.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page9" name="page9"></a>[pg 9]</span>
<h2>THE MONTHS.</h2>
<hr />
<h3>JULY.</h3>
<blockquote>The sultry noontide of July<br />
Now bids us seek the forest's shade;<br />
Or for the crystal streamlet sigh.<br />
That flows in some sequestered glade.</blockquote>
<p>B. BARTON.</p>
<hr />
<p class="figure">
<a href="images/262-2.png"><img width="100%" src="images/262-2.png" alt="" /></a><br />
</p>
<p>Summer! glowing summer! This is the month of heat and sunshine,
of clear, fervid skies, dusty roads, and shrinking streams; when
doors and windows are thrown open, a cool gale is the most welcome
of all visiters, and every drop of rain "is worth its weight in
gold." Such is July commonly—such it was in 1825, and such,
in a scarcely less degree, in 1826; yet it is sometimes, on the
contrary, a very showery month, putting the hay-maker to the
extremity of his patience, and the farmer upon anxious thoughts for
his ripening corn; generally speaking, however, it is the heart of
our summer. The landscape presents an air of warmth, dryness, and
maturity; the eye roams over brown pastures, corn fields "already
white to harvest," dark lines of intersecting hedge-rows, and
darker trees, lifting their heavy heads above them. The foliage at
this period is rich, full, and vigorous; there is a fine haze cast
over distant woods and bosky slopes, and every lofty and majestic
tree is filled with a soft shadowy twilight, which adds infinitely
to its beauty—a circumstance that has never been sufficiently
noticed by either poet or painter. Willows are now beautiful
objects in the landscape; they are like rich masses of arborescent
silver, especially if stirred by the breeze, their light and fluent
forms contrasting finely with the still and sombre aspect of the
other trees.</p>
<p>Now is the general season of <i>haymaking</i>. Bands of mowers,
in their light trousers and broad straw hats, are astir long before
the fiery eye of the sun glances above the horizon, that they may
toil in the freshness of the morning, and stretch themselves at
noon in luxurious ease by trickling waters, and beneath the shade
of trees. Till then, with regular strokes and a sweeping sound, the
sweet and flowery grass falls before them, revealing at almost
every step, nests of young birds, mice in their cozy domes, and the
mossy cells of the humble bee streaming with liquid honey; anon,
troops of haymakers are abroad, tossing the green swaths wide to
the sun. It is one of Nature's festivities, endeared by a thousand
pleasant memories and habits of the olden days, and not a soul can
resist it.</p>
<p>There is a sound of tinkling teams and of wagons rolling along
lanes and fields the whole country over, aye, even at midnight,
till at length the fragrant ricks rise in the farmyard, and the
pale smooth-shaven fields are left in solitary beauty.</p>
<p>They who know little about it may deem the strong
<i>penchant</i> of our poets, and of ourselves, for rural
pleasures, mere romance and poetic illusion; but if poetic beauty
alone were concerned, we
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page10" name="page10"></a>[pg 10]</span>
must still admire <i>harvest-time</i> in
the country. The whole land is then an Arcadia, full of simple,
healthful, and rejoicing spirits. Overgrown towns and manufactories
may have changed for the worse, the spirit and feelings of our
population; in them, "evil communications may have corrupted good
manners;" but in the country at large, there never was a more
simple-minded, healthful-hearted, and happy race of people than our
present British peasantry. They have cast off, it is true, many of
their ancestors' games and merrymakings, but they have in no degree
lost their soul of mirth and happiness. This is never more
conspicuous than in <i>harvest-time</i>.</p>
<p>With the exception of a casual song of the lark in a fresh
morning, of the blackbird and thrush at sunset, or the monotonous
wail of the yellow-hammer, the silence of birds is now complete;
even the lesser reed-sparrow, which may very properly be called the
<i>English mock-bird</i>, and which kept up a perpetual clatter
with the notes of the sparrow, the swallow, the white-throat,
&c. in every hedge-bottom, day and night, has ceased.</p>
<p>Boys will now be seen in the evening twilight with match,
gunpowder, &c., and green boughs for self-defence, busy in
storming the paper-built castles of <i>wasps</i>, the larvae of
which furnish anglers with store of excellent baits. Spring-flowers
have given place to a very different class. Climbing plants mantle
and festoon every hedge. The wild hop, the brione, the clematis or
traveller's joy, the large white convolvulus, whose bold yet
delicate flowers will display themselves to a very late period of
the year—vetches, and white and yellow
ladies-bed-straw—invest almost every bush with their varied
beauty, and breathe on the passer-by their faint summer sweetness.
The <i>campanula rotundifolia</i>, the hare-bell of poets, and the
blue-bell of botanists, arrests the eye on every dry bank, rock,
and wayside, with its beautiful cerulean bells. There too we behold
wild scabiouses, mallows, the woody nightshade, wood-betony, and
centaury; the red and white-striped convolvulus also throws its
flowers under your feet; corn fields glow with whole armies of
scarlet poppies, cockle, and the rich azure plumes of
viper's-bugloss; even <i>thistles</i>, the curse of Cain, diffuse a
glow of beauty over wastes and barren places. Some species,
particularly the musk thistles, are really noble plants, wearing
their formidable arms, their silken vest, and their gorgeous
crimson tufts of fragrant flowers issuing from a coronal of
interwoven down and spines, with a grace which casts far into the
shade many a favourite of the garden.</p>
<p>But whoever would taste all the sweetness of July, let him go,
in pleasant company, if possible, into heaths and woods; it is
there, in her uncultured haunts, that summer now holds her court.
The stern castle, the lowly convent, the deer and the forester have
vanished thence many ages; yet nature still casts round the
forest-lodge, the gnarled oak and lovely mere, the same charms as
ever. The most hot and sandy tracts, which we might naturally
imagine would now be parched up, are in full glory. The <i>erica
tetralix</i>, or bell-heath, the most beautiful of our indigenous
species, is now in bloom, and has converted the brown bosom of the
waste into one wide sea of crimson; the air is charged with its
honied odour. The dry, elastic turf glows, not only with its
flowers, but with those of the wild thyme, the clear blue milkwort,
the yellow asphodel, and that curious plant the <i>sundew</i>, with
its drops of inexhaustible liquor sparkling in the fiercest sun
like diamonds. There wave the cotton-rush, the tall fox-glove, and
the taller golden mullein. There creep the various species of
heath-berries, cranberries, bilberries, &c., furnishing the
poor with a source of profit, and the rich of luxury. What a
pleasure it is to throw ourselves down beneath the verdant screen
of the beautiful fern, or the shade of a venerable oak, in such a
scene, and listen to the summer sounds of bees, grasshoppers, and
ten thousand other insects, mingled with the more remote and
solitary cries of the pewit and the curlew! Then, to think of the
coach-horse, urged on his sultry stage, or the plough-boy and his
teem, plunging in the depths of a burning fallow, or of our
ancestors, in times of national famine, plucking up the wild
fern-roots for bread, and what an enhancement of our own luxurious
ease!
<a id="footnotetag3" name="footnotetag3"></a><a href="#footnote3"><sup>3</sup></a>
</p>
<p>But woods, the depths of woods, are the most delicious retreats
during the fiery noons of July. The great azure campanulas, or
Canterbury bells, are there in bloom, and, in chalk or limestone
districts, there are also now to be found those curiosities, the
<i>bee</i> and <i>fly orchises</i>. The soul of John Evelyn well
might envy us a wood lounge at this period.</p>
<p><i>Time's Telescope.</i></p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page11" name="page11"></a>[pg 11]</span>
<h2>ASTRONOMICAL OCCURENCES</h2>
<h3> FOR JULY, 1827.</h3>
<h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
<p>The sun is in apogee, or at his greatest distance from the earth
on the 2nd, in 10 deg. <i>Cancer</i>; he enters <i>Leo</i> on the
23rd, at 5h. 13m. afternoon; he is in conjunction with the planet
Saturn on the 2nd at 11h. 30m. morning, in 9 deg. <i>Cancer</i>,
and with Mars on the 12th at 1h. 45m. afternoon, being advanced
10 deg. further in the eliptic.</p>
<p>Venus and Saturn are also in conjunction on the 26th at 3h.
afternoon, in 13 deg. <i>Cancer</i>.</p>
<p>Mercury will again be visible for a short time about the middle
of the month a little after the sun has set, arriving on the 16th
at his greatest eastern elongation, or apparent distance from the
centre of the system, as seen from the earth in 20 deg. <i>Leo</i>;
and in aphelio, or that point of his orbit most distant from the
sun, on the 22nd; he becomes stationary on the 29th.</p>
<p>There is only one visible eclipse of Jupiter's first satellite
this month—on the 5th, at 10h. 21m. evening.</p>
<p>The Georgium Sidus, or Herschel, comes to an opposition with the
sun on the 19th, at 6h. 15m. evening; he is then nearest the earth,
and consequently in the most favourable position for observation;
he began retrograding on the 1st of May in 28 deg. 12m. of
<i>Capricornus</i>; he rises on the 1st, at 9h. 11m. evening,
culminating at 1h. 16m., and setting at 5h. 21m. morning,
pursuing the course of the sun on the 17th of January; he moves
only 13m. of a deg. in the course of the month, rising 2h.
earlier on the 31st.</p>
<p>This planet, called also Uranus, was discovered by Herschel on
the 13th of March, 1781. It is the most distant orb in our system
yet known. From certain inequalities on the motion of Jupiter and
Saturn, the existence of a planet of considerable size beyond the
orbit of either had been before suspected; its apparent magnitude,
as seen from the earth, is about 3-1/2 sec., or of the size of a
star of the sixth magnitude, and as from its distance from the sun,
it shines but with a pale light, it cannot often be distinguished
with the naked eye. Its diameter is about 4-1/2 times that of the
earth, and completes its revolution in something less than 83-1/2
years. The want of light in this planet, on account of its great
distance from the sun, is supplied by six moons, which revolve
round their primary in different periods. There is a remarkable
peculiarity attached to their orbits, which are nearly
perpendicular to the plane of the ecliptic, and they revolve in
them in a direction contrary to the order of the signs.</p>
<p>"Moore," in an old almanack, speaking on the difference of light
and heat enjoyed by the inhabitants of <i>Saturn</i>, and the
<i>earth</i>, says,—</p>
<blockquote>"From hence how large, how strong the sun's bright
ball,<br />
But seen from thence, how languid and how small,<br />
When the keen north with all its fury blows,<br />
Congeals the floods and forms the fleecy snows:<br />
'Tis heat intense, to what can there be known,<br />
Warmer our poles than in its burning (!) zone;<br />
One moment's cold like their's would pierce the bone,<br />
Freeze the heart's blood, and turn us all to stone."</blockquote>
<p>Were Saturn thus situated, what would the inhabitants of
Herschel feel, whose distance is still further?—pursuing this
train of reasoning, the heat in the planet Mercury would be seven
times greater than on our globe, and were the earth in the same
position, all the water on its surface would boil, and soon be
turned into vapour, but as the degree of sensible heat in any
planet <i>does not</i> depend altogether on its nearness to the
sun, the temperature of these planets may be as mild as that of the
most genial climate of our globe.</p>
<p>The theory of the sun being a body of fire having been long
since exploded, and heat being found to be generated by the union
of the sun's rays with the atmosphere of the earth, so the caloric
contained in the atmosphere on the surfaces of the planets may be
distributed in different quantities, according to the situation
they occupy with regard to the sun, and which is put into action by
the influence of the solar rays, so as to produce that degree of
sensible heat requisite for each respective planet. We have only to
suppose that a small quantity of caloric exists in Mercury, and a
greater quantity in Herschel, which is fifty times farther from the
sun than the other, and there is no reason to believe that those
planets nearest the sun suffer under the action of excessive heat,
or that the more distant are exposed to the rigours of insufferable
cold, which, in either case, might render them unfit for the abodes
of intellectual beings.</p>
<p>PASCHE.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page12" name="page12"></a>[pg 12]</span>
<h2>THE SKETCH BOOK</h2>
<hr />
<h3>No. XLI.<br />
THE AUTHOR AND HIS COAT.</h3>
<h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
<p>My master, at first sight of me, expressed great admiration. He
had given his architect of garments orders to make him a blue coat
in his best style; in consequence of which I was ushered into the
world. The gentleman who introduced me into company was at the time
in very high spirits, being engaged in a new literary undertaking,
of the success of which he indulged very sanguine hopes. On this
occasion we, that is, to use similar language to Cardinal Wolsey,
in a well-known instance, I and my master paid a great number of
visits to his particular friends, and others whom he thought likely
to encourage and promote his project The reception <i>we</i>
generally met with was highly satisfactory; smiles and promises of
support were bestowed in abundance upon <i>us</i>. I use the plural
number, with justice, as it will appear in the sequel, although my
master scarcely ever dreamt that I had anything to do with it. As I
had, however, the special privilege of being <i>behind his
back</i>, I had the advantage which that situation peculiarly
confers, of arriving at a knowledge of the truth. He never dreamt
that the expressions, "How well you are looking,"—"I am glad
to see you," &c. so common in his ears, would scarcely ever
have been used had it not been for my influence. To be sure I have
overheard him say, as we have been walking along, "There goes an
old acquaintance of mine; but, bless me, how altered he is! he
looks poor and meanly dressed, but I'm determined I'll speak to
him, for fear he should think me so shabby as to shy him." Thus
giving an instance in himself, certainly, of respect for the
<i>man</i> and not the <i>coat</i>. My short history goes rather to
prove that the reverse is almost every day's experience. Matters
went on pretty well with us until my master was seized with a
severe fit of illness, in consequence of which his literary scheme
was completely defeated, and his condition in life materially
injured; of course, the glad tones of encouragement which I had
been accustomed to hear were changed into expressions of
condolence, and sometimes assurances of unabated friendship; but
then it must be remembered that I, the handsomest blue coat, was
<i>still in good condition</i>, and it will perhaps appear, that if
I were not my master's <i>warmest</i> friend, I was, at all events,
the only one that <i>stuck to him to the last</i>. Eternal respect
to both of us continued much the same for some time longer, but by
degrees we both, <i>at the same time</i>, observed, that an
alteration began to take place. My master attributed this to his
altered fortunes, and I placed it to the score of my decayed
appearance—the threadbare cloth and tarnished button came in,
I was sure, for their full share of neglect, and he at last fell
into the same opinion. To describe all the variety of treatment
that we experienced would be a tedious and unpleasant
task,—but I was the more convinced that I had at least as
much to do with it as my master, from observing that all the
gradations in manner, from coolness to shyness, and from shyness to
neglect, kept pace, remarkably, with the changes in my appearance.
My master was, at length, the only individual who paid any respect
or attention to me, after most of his old acquaintances had ceased
to notice him. I have heard him exclaim, "Oh, that mankind would
treat me with as much constancy as my old true blue! Thou hast
faithfully served me throughout the vicissitudes of fortune, and
art faithful still, now both of us are left to wither in
adversity."</p>
<p>I could make a long story of it, were I to detail all my
adventures; they may, however, be easily imagined from what has
been stated, and from which it is evident, that in too many
instances, the world pays more respect to <i>the coat</i>, than to
<i>the man</i>, and therefore that a man would often derive more
consequence and benefit if he had the advantage of having for his
patron—<i>a tailor</i> instead of <i>a man of rank</i>. J.
B.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>THE NOVELIST.</h2>
<hr />
<h3>No. CIV.<br />
THE COTTER'S DAUGHTER.</h3>
<p>It was a cold stormy night in December, and the green logs as
they blazed and crackled on the Cotter's hearth, were rendered more
delightful, more truly comfortable, by the contrast with the icy
showers of snow and sleet which swept against the frail casement,
making all without cheerless and miserable.</p>
<p>The Cotter was a handsome, intelligent old man, and afforded me
much information upon glebes, and flocks, and rural economy; while
his spouse, a venerable matron, was humming to herself some long
since forgotten ballad; and industriously twisting and twirling
about her long knitting needles, that promised soon to produce a
pair of formidable winter hose. Their son, a stout, healthy young
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page13" name="page13"></a>[pg 13]</span>
peasant of three-and-twenty, was sitting in the spacious chimney
corner, sharing his frugal supper of bread and cheese with a large,
shaggy sheep dog, who sat on his haunches wistfully watching every
mouthful, and snap, snap, snapping, and dextrously catching every
morsel that was cast to him.</p>
<p>We were all suddenly startled, however, by his loud bark; when,
jumping up, he rushed, or rather flew towards the door.</p>
<p>"Whew! whew!" whistled the youth—"Whoy—what the
dickens ails thee, Rover?" said he, rising and following him to the
door to learn the cause of his alarm. "What! be they gone again,
ey?" for the dog was silent. "What do thee sniffle at, boy? On'y
look at 'un feyther; how the beast whines and waggles his stump o'
tail!—It's some 'un he knows for sartain. I'd lay a wager it
wur Bill Miles com'd about the harrow, feyther."</p>
<p>"Did thee hear any knock, lad?" said the father.</p>
<p>"Noa!" replied the youth; "but mayhap Bill peep'd thro' the hoal
in the shutter, and is a bit dash'd like at seeing a gentleman
here. Bill! is't thee, Master Miles?" continued he, bawling. "Lord!
the wind whistles so a' can't hear me. Shall I unlatch the door,
feyther?"</p>
<p>"Ay, lad, do, an thou wilt," replied the old man; "Rover's wiser
nor we be—a dog 'll scent a friend, when a man would'nt know
un."</p>
<p>Rover still continued his low importunate whine, and began to
scratch against the door. The lad threw it open—the dog
brushed past him in an instant, and his quick, short, continuous
yelping, expressed his immoderate joy and recognition.</p>
<p>"Hollo! where be'st thee, Bill?" said the young peasant,
stepping over the threshold. "Come, none of thee tricks upon
travellers, Master Bill; I zee thee beside the rick yon!" and
quitting the door for half a minute, he again hastily entered the
cot. The rich colour of robust health had fled from his
cheeks—his lips quivered—and he looked like one bereft
of his senses, or under the influence of some frightful
apparition.</p>
<p>The dame rose up—her work fell from trembling
hands—</p>
<p>"What's the matter?" said she.</p>
<p>"What's frighted thee, lad?" asked the old man, rising.</p>
<p>"Oh! feyther!—oh! mother!"—exclaimed he, drawing
them hastily on one side and whispering something in a low, and
almost inaudible voice.</p>
<p>The old woman raised her hands in supplication and tottered to
her chair while the Cotter, bursting out into a paroxysm of violent
rage, clutched his son's arm, and exclaimed in a loud voice:</p>
<p>"Make fast the door, boy, an thou'lt not have my curse on
thee!—I tell 'ee, she shan't come
hither!—No—never—never;—there's poison in
her breath—a' will spurn her from me!—A pest on
her!—What; wilt not do my bidding?"</p>
<p>"O! feyther, feyther!" cried the young peasant, whose heart
seemed overcharged with grief, "It be a cold, raw night—ye
wou'dna kick a cur from the door to perish in the storm! Doant 'ee
be hot and hasty, feyther, thou art not uncharitable—On me
knees!"—</p>
<p>"Psha!" exclaimed the enraged father, only exasperated by his
remonstrances. "Whoy talk 'ee to me, son—I am
deaf—deaf!—Mine own hand shall bar the door agen
her!"—adding with bitterness—"let her die!"—and
stepping past his prostrate son, was about to execute his
purpose—when, a young girl, whose once gay and flimsy raiment
was drenched and stained, and torn by the violence of the storm,
appeared at the door. The old man recoiled with a shudder—she
was as pale as death—and her trembling limbs seemed scarcely
able to support her—a profusion of light brown hair hung
dishevelled and in disorder about her neck and shoulders, and added
to her forlorn appearance. She stretched forth her arms and
pronounced the name of "Father!" but further utterance was
prevented by the convulsive sobs that heaved her bosom.</p>
<p>"Mary—woman!" cried the old man, trembling—"Call me
not feyther—thou art none of mine—thou hast no feyther
now—nor I a daughter—thou art a serpent that hath stung
the bosom that cherished thee! Go to the fawning villain—the
black-hearted sycophant that dragged thee from our arms—from
our happy home to misery and pollution—go, and bless him for
breaking thy poor old feyther's heart!"</p>
<p>Overcome by these heart-rending reproaches, the distressed girl
fainted; but the strong arm of the young Cotter supported
her—for her tender-hearted youth, moved by his fallen
sister's sorrows, had ventured again to intercede.</p>
<p>"Hah! touch not her defiled and loathsome body," cried the old
man—"thrust her from the door, and let her find a grave where
she may. Boy! wilt thou dare disobey me?" and he raised his
clenched hand, while anger flashed from his eye.</p>
<p>"Strike! feyther—strike me!" said the poor lad, bursting
into tears—"fell me to the 'arth! Kill me, an thou
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page14" name="page14"></a>[pg 14]</span>
wilt—I care not—I will never turn my heart agen poor
Mary!—Bean't she my sister? Did thee not teach me to love
her?—Poor lass!—she do want it all now,
feyther—for she be downcast and broken-hearted!—Nay,
thee art kind and good, feyther—know thee art—I zee
thine eyes be full o' tears—and thee—thee woant cast
her away from thee, I know thee woant. Mother, speak to 'un; speak
to sister Mary too—it be our own Mary! Doant 'ee kill her wi'
unkindness!"</p>
<p>The old man, moved by his affectionate entreaties, no longer
offered any opposition to his son's wishes, but hiding his face in
his hands, he fled from the affecting scene to an adjoining
room.</p>
<p>Her venerable mother having recovered from the shock of her lost
daughter's sudden appearance, now rose to the assistance of the
unfortunate, and by the aid of restoratives brought poor Mary to
the full sense of her wretchedness. She was speedily conveyed to
the same humble pallet, to which, in the days of her innocence and
peace, she had always retired so light-hearted and joyously, but
where she now found a lasting sleep—an eternal
repose!—Yes, poor Mary died!—and having won the
forgiveness and blessing of her offended parents, death was welcome
to her.—<i>Absurdities: in Prose and Verse</i>.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>ORIGINS AND INVENTIONS.</h2>
<hr />
<h3>No. XXVII.<br />
VAUXHALL GARDENS.</h3>
<h4><i>(For the Mirror.)</i></h4>
<blockquote>"Here waving groves a checkered scene display,<br />
And part admit, and part exclude the day."</blockquote>
<p>POPE.</p>
<hr />
<p>Of the origin of these enchanting gardens, Mr. Aubrey, in his
"Antiquities of Surrey," gives us the following account;—"At
Vauxhall, Sir Samuel Morland built a fine room, anno 1667, the
inside all of looking-glass, and fountains very pleasant to behold,
which is much visited by strangers: it stands in the middle of the
garden, covered with Cornish slate, on the point of which he placed
a punchinello, very well carved, which held a dial, but the winds
have demolished it." And Sir John Hawkins, in his "History of
Music," has the following account of it:—"The house seems to
have been rebuilt since the time that Sir Samuel Morland dwelt in
it. About the year 1730, Mr. Jonathan Tyers became the occupier of
it, and, there being a large garden belonging to it, planted with a
great number of stately trees, and laid out in shady walks, it
obtained the name of Spring Gardens; and the house being converted
into a tavern, or place of entertainment, was much frequented by
the votaries of pleasure. Mr. Tyers opened it with an advertisement
of a <i>Ridotto al Fresco</i>, a term which the people of this
country had till that time been strangers to. These entertainments
were repeated in the course of the summer, and numbers resorted to
partake of them. This encouraged the proprietor to make his garden
a place of musical entertainment, for every evening during the
summer season. To this end he was at great expense in decorating
the gardens with paintings; he engaged a band of excellent
musicians; he issued silver tickets at one guinea each for
admission, and receiving great encouragement, he set up an organ in
the orchestra, and, in a conspicuous part of the garden, erected a
fine statue of Mr. Handel." These gardens are said to be the first
of the kind in England; but they are not so old as the Mulberry
Gardens, (on the spot now called Spring Gardens, near St. James's
Park,) where king Charles II. went to regale himself the night
after his restoration, and formed an immediate connexion with Mrs.
Palmer, afterwards Duchess of Cleveland. The trees, however, are
more than a century old, and, according to tradition, were planted
for a public garden. This property was formerly held by Jane Fauxe,
or Vaux, widow, in 1615; and it is highly probable (says Nichols)
that she was the relict of the infamous Guy. In the "Spectator,"
No. 383, Mr. Addison introduces a voyage from the Temple Stairs to
Vauxhall, in which he is accompanied by his friend, Sir Roger de
Coverley. In the "Connoisseur," No. 68, we find a very humourous
description of the behaviour of an old penurious citizen, who had
treated his family here with a handsome supper. The magnificence of
these gardens calls to recollection the magic representations in
the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments," where</p>
<blockquote>"The blazing glories, with a cheerful ray,<br />
Supply the sun, and counterfeit the day."</blockquote>
<p>Grosely, in his "Tour to London,"<a id="footnotetag4" name="footnotetag4"></a><a href="#footnote4"><sup>4</sup></a>
says, (relating to Ranelagh and Vauxhall,) "These entertainments,
which begin in the month of May, are continued every night. They
bring together persons of all ranks and conditions; and amongst
these, a considerable number of females, whose charms want only
that cheerful air, which is the flower and quintessence of beauty.
These places
<span class="pagenum"><a id="page15" name="page15"></a>[pg 15]</span>
serve equally as a rendezvous either for business or
intrigue. They form, as it were, private coteries; there you see
fathers and mothers, with their children, enjoying domestic
happiness in the midst of public diversions. The English assert,
that such entertainments as these can never subsist in France, on
account of the levity of the people. Certain it is, that those of
Vauxhall and Ranelagh, which are guarded only by outward decency,
are conducted without tumult and disorder, which often disturb the
public diversions of France. I do not know whether the English are
gainers thereby; the joy which they seem in search of at those
places does not beam through their countenances; they look as grave
at Vauxhall and Ranelagh as at the Bank, at church, or a private
club. All persons there seem to say, what a young English nobleman
said to his governor, <i>Am I as joyous as I should be?</i>"</p>
<p>P. T. W.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>FINE ARTS.</h2>
<hr />
<h3>THE CHIEF CAUSES OF THE SUCCESS OF PAINTING AND SCULPTURE IN
GREECE AND ROME.</h3>
<h4>(<i>For the Mirror</i>.)</h4>
<p>A cursory glance at the principal occasion of the amazing
success obtained by the Greeks and Romans, in painting and
sculpture, during the early ages, may perhaps prove interesting to
the lovers of the arts in this country.</p>
<p>The elevation to which the arts in Greece arrived was owing to
the concurrence of various circumstances. The imitative arts, we
are told, in that classic country formed a part of the
administration, and were inseparably connected with the heathen
worship. The temples were magnificently erected, and adorned with
numerous statues of pagan deities, before which, in reverential
awe, the people prostrated themselves. Every man of any substance
had an idol in his own habitation, executed by a reputed sculptor.
In all public situations the patriotic actions of certain citizens
were represented, that beholders might be induced to emulate their
virtues. On contemplating these masterpieces of art, which were so
truly exquisite that the very coldest spectator was unable to
resist their <i>almost magical</i> influence, the vicious were
reclaimed, and the ignorant stood abashed. Indeed, it has often
been asserted, that the statues by Phidias and Praxiteles were so
inimitably executed, that the people of Paros adored them as living
gods. Those artists who performed such extraordinary wonders as
these were held in an esteemed light, of which we cannot form the
least idea. We are certain they were paid most enormous prices for
their productions, and consequently could afford to adorn them with
every beauty of art, and to bestow more time on them than can ever
be expected from any modern artist.</p>
<p>As soon as the arts had arrived at their highest pitch of
excellency in Greece, the country was laid waste by the invading
power of the Romans. All the Greek cities which contained the
greatest treasures were demolished, and all the pictures<a id="footnotetag5" name="footnotetag5"></a><a href="#footnote5"><sup>5</sup></a>
and
statues fell into the hands of the victorious general, who had them
carefully preserved and conveyed from the land where they had been
adored. Of the estimation in which these great works were held by
the Romans, we may form some idea by the general assuring a
soldier, to whose charge he gave a statue by Praxiteles, that if he
broke it, he should get another as well made in its place. War is a
very destructive enemy to painting and sculpture; the intestine
quarrels which ensued after the Romans had conquered the country,
rendered the exercise of the art impracticable.</p>
<p>The arts were neglected in Rome until the introduction of the
popish religion. At that eventful era, statues and pictures were
eagerly sought for; the admirable Grecian works were appropriated
to purposes quite contrary to their pagan origin, for in many cases
heathen deities were converted into apostles. The labours of
Phidias, Myron, Praxiteles, Lysippus, and Scopas,<a id="footnotetag6" name="footnotetag6"></a><a href="#footnote6"><sup>6</sup></a>
were
highly valued by the Romans, who became the correct imitators, and
in time the rivals, of those celebrated sculptors.</p>
<p>G.W.N.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS</h2>
<hr />
<h3>LOVE'S VICTIM.<a id="footnotetag7" name="footnotetag7"></a><a href="#footnote7"><sup>7</sup></a>
</h3>
<blockquote>She left her own warm home<br />
To tempt the frozen waste,<br />
What time the traveller fear'd to roam,<br />
And hunter shunn'd the blast,<br />
Love pour'd his strength into her soul—<br />
Could peril e'er his power controul!<br />
<br /><span class="pagenum"><a id="page16" name="page16"></a>[pg 16]</span>
She left her own warm home.<br />
When stone, and herb, and tree,<br />
And all beneath heaven's lurid dome<br />
By wintry majesty,<br />
In his stern age, were clad with snow,<br />
And human hearts beat chill and slow.<br />
<br />
It was a fearful hour<br />
For one so young and fair:<br />
The woods had not one sheltering bower,<br />
The earth was trackless there,<br />
The very boughs in silver slept,<br />
As the sea-foam had o'er them swept.<br />
<br />
Snow after snow came down,<br />
The sky look'd fix'd in ice;<br />
She deem'd amid the season's power,<br />
Her love would all suffice<br />
To keep the source of being warm,<br />
And mock the terrors of the storm.<br />
<br />
Love was her world of life.<br />
She thought but of her heart,<br />
And knowing that the winter's strife<br />
Could not its hope dispart,<br />
She dream'd not that its home of clay<br />
Might yield before the tempest's sway—<br />
<br />
Or judged that passion's power—<br />
Passion so strong and pure.<br />
Might mock the snow-flake's wildering shower,<br />
Proud that it could endure,<br />
As woman oft in times before<br />
Had peril borne as much or more.<br />
<br />
She went—dawn past o'er dawn,<br />
None saw her face again,<br />
The eyes she should have gazed upon,<br />
Look'd for her face in vain—<br />
The ear to which her voice was song,<br />
Her voice had sought—how vainly long!<br />
<br />
There is in Saco's vale<br />
A gently swelling hill,<br />
Shadows have wrapt it like a veil<br />
From trees that mark it still,<br />
Around, the mountains towering blue<br />
Look on that spot of saddest hue.<br />
<br />
'Twas by that little hill,<br />
At the dark noon of night,<br />
Close by a frozen snow-hid rill,<br />
Where branches close unite<br />
Even in winter's leafless time,<br />
The skeletons of summer's prime.<br />
<br />
That flash'd the traveller's flame<br />
On tree and precipice,<br />
And show'd a fair unearthly frame<br />
In robes of glittering ice,<br />
With head against a trunk inclined,<br />
Like a dream-spirit of the mind.<br />
<br />
'Twas that love-wander'd maid, death-pale,<br />
Her very heart's blood froze,<br />
Love's Niobe, in her own vale,<br />
Now reckless of all woes—<br />
Love's victim fair, and true, find meet,<br />
As she of the famed Paraclete.<br />
<br />
The mountains round shall tell<br />
Her tale to travellers long.<br />
The little vale of Saco swell<br />
The western poet's song,<br />
And "Nancy's Hill" in loftier rhymes<br />
Be sung through unborn realms and times.</blockquote>
<i>New Monthly Magazine</i>.
<hr class="full" />
<h2>THE GATHERER</h2>
<blockquote> "I am but a <i>Gatherer</i> and
disposer of other men's stuff."—<i>Wotton</i>.
</blockquote>
<hr />
<p>The late Dr. Barclay was a wit and a scholar, as well as a very
great physiologist. When a happy illustration, or even a point of
pretty broad humour, occurred to his mind, he hesitated not to
apply it to the subject in hand; and in this way, he frequently
roused and rivetted attention, when more abstract reasoning might
have failed of its aim. On one occasion he happened to dine with a
large party, composed chiefly of medical men. As the wine cup
circulated, the conversation accidentally took a professional turn,
and from the excitation of the moment, or some other cause, two of
the youngest individuals present were the most forward in
delivering their opinions. Sir James McIntosh once told a political
opponent, that so far from following his example of using hard
words and soft arguments, he would pass, if possible, into the
opposite extreme, and use soft words and hard arguments. But our
unfledged M.D.'s disregarded the above salutary maxim, and made up
in loudness what they wanted in learning. At length, one of them
said something so emphatic—we mean as to manner—that a
pointer dog started from his lair beneath the table and
<i>bow-wow-wowed</i> so fiercely, that he fairly took the lead in
the discussion. Dr. Barclay eyed the hairy dialectician, and
thinking it high time to close the debate, gave the animal a hearty
push with his foot, and exclaimed in broad Scotch—"Lie still,
ye brute; for I am sure ye ken just as little about it as ony
o'them." We need hardly add, that this sally was followed by a
hearty burst of laughter, in which even the disputants
good-humouredly joined.</p>
<hr />
<blockquote> Fair woman was made to bewitch—<br />
A pleasure, a pain, a disturber, a nurse,<br />
A slave, or a tyrant, a blessing, or curse;<br />
Fair woman was made to be—which?</blockquote>
<hr class="full" />
<blockquote class="footnote">
<a id="footnote1" name="footnote1"></a>
<b>Footnote 1</b>: <a href="#footnotetag1">(return)</a>
<p><i>New London Literary Gazette</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<a id="footnote2" name="footnote2"></a>
<b>Footnote 2</b>: <a href="#footnotetag2">(return)</a>
<p>The circumstances of the case were as
follows:—Jean Baptiste Michel, aged 36, a blacksmith,
accompanied by a female named Marie Anne Debeyst, aged 22, was
proceeding from Brussels to Vilvorde, one day in the month of
March, 1824. In the Alléverte, they overtook a servant girl,
who was imprudent enough to mention to them that her master had
entrusted her with a sum of money. Near Vilvorde, Michel and his
paramour, having formed their plan of assassination and robbery,
rejoined the poor girl, whom they had momentarily left, and
violently demanded the bag containing the gold and silver. The
unfortunate young creature resisted their attacks as long as she
could, but was soon felled to the ground by Michel, who with a
thick stick fractured her skull, whilst Debeyst trod upon the
prostrate victim of their horrid crime. These wretches were shortly
afterwards arrested and committed to prison. On the 5th of April,
1825, they were condemned to death by the Court of Assize at
Brussels, but implored of the royal clemency a commutation of
punishment. This was granted to the woman, whose sentence was
changed to perpetual imprisonment. Michel's petition was
rejected.</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<a id="footnote3" name="footnote3"></a>
<b>Footnote 3</b>: <a href="#footnotetag3">(return)</a>
<p>It is a fact not known to every juvenile lover of
nature, that a transverse section of a fern-root presents a
miniature picture of an <i>oak tree</i> which no painter could
rival.</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<a id="footnote4" name="footnote4"></a>
<b>Footnote 4</b>: <a href="#footnotetag4">(return)</a>
<p>1765, translated from the French by Thomas Nugent,
LL.D.</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<a id="footnote5" name="footnote5"></a>
<b>Footnote 5</b>: <a href="#footnotetag5">(return)</a>
<p>The pictures alluded to were the works of Apelles,
Apollodorus, and Protogenes.</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<a id="footnote6" name="footnote6"></a>
<b>Footnote 6</b>: <a href="#footnotetag6">(return)</a>
<p>These sculptors, according to Pliny, were the most
reputed among the ancients.</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="footnote">
<a id="footnote7" name="footnote7"></a>
<b>Footnote 7</b>: <a href="#footnotetag7">(return)</a>
<p>A few miles below the Notch of the White Mountains in
the Valley of Saco, is a little rise of land called "Nancy's Hill."
It was formerly thickly covered with trees, a cluster of which
remains to mark the spot. In 1773, at Dartmouth, Jefferson co. U.S.
lived Nancy——, of respectable connexions. She was
engaged to be married. Her lover had set out for Lancaster. She
would follow him in the depth of winter, and on foot. There was not
a house for thirty miles, and the way through the wild woods a
footpath only. She persisted in her design, and wrapping herself in
her long cloak, proceeded on her way. Snow and frost took place for
several weeks, when some persons passing her route, reached the
lull at night. On lighting their fires, an unearthly figure stood
before them beneath the bending branches, wrapped in a robe of ice.
It was the lifeless form of Nancy.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="full" />
<p><i>Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand (near
Somerset House), and sold by all Newsmen and Booksellers</i>.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<pre>
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