Title: The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction - Volume 17, No. 469, January 1, 1831
Author: Various
Language: English
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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

No. 469.] SATURDAY JANUARY 1, 1831 [PRICE 2d.



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[Illustration: Copied from one of the prints of last year's Landscape
Annual, from a drawing, by Prout. This proves what we said of the
imperishable interest of the Engravings of the L.A.]

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Petrarch and Arquà; Ariosto, Tasso, and Ferrara;--how delightfully are
these names and sites linked in the fervour of Italian poetry. Lord
Byron halted at these consecrated spots, in his "Pilgrimage" through
the land of song:--

    There is a tomb in Arquà;--rear'd in air,
    Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose
    The bones of Laura's lover: here repair
    Many familiar with his well-sung woes,
    The pilgrims of his genius. He arose
    To raise a language, and his land reclaim
    From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes:
    Watering the tree which bears his lady's name
  With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.

    They keep his dust in Arquà, where he died;
    The mountain-village where his latter days
    Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride--
    An honest pride--and let it be their praise,
    To offer to the passing stranger's gaze
    His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain
    And venerably simple; such as raise
    A feeling more accordant with his strain
  Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane.

    And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt
    Is one of that complexion which seems made
    For those who their mortality have felt,
    And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd
    In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade,
    Which shows a distant prospect far away
    Of busy cities, now in vain display'd,
    For they can lure no further; and the ray
  Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday,

    Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers,
    And shining in the brawling brook, where-by,
    Clear as a current, glide the sauntering hours
    With a calm languor, which, though to the eye
    Idlesse it seem, hath its morality.
    If from society we learn to live,
    'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
    It hath no flatterers, vanity can give
  No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive;

    Or, it may be, with demons, who impair
    The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey
    In melancholy bosoms, such as were
    Of moody texture from their earliest day,
    And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay,
    Deeming themselves predestin'd to a doom
    Which is not of the pangs that pass away;
    Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb,
  The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom.[1]

    [1] Childe Harold, Canto iv.

The noble bard, not content with perpetuating Arquà in these
soul-breathing stanzas, has appended to them the following note:--

    Petrarch retired to Arquà immediately on his return from the
    unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at Rome, in the year
    1370, and, with the exception of his celebrated visit to
    Venice in company with Francesco Novello da Carrara, he
    appears to have passed the four last years of his life between
    that charming solitude and Padua. For four months previous to
    his death he was in a state of continual languor, and in the
    morning of July the 19th, in the year 1374, was found dead in
    his library chair with his head resting upon a book. The chair
    is still shown amongst the precious relics of Arquà, which,
    from the uninterrupted veneration that has been attached to
    every thing relative to this great man from the moment of his
    death to the present hour, have, it may be hoped, a better
    chance of authenticity than the Shaksperian memorials of
    Stratford-upon-Avon.

    Arquà (for the last syllable is accented in pronunciation,
    although the analogy of the English language has been observed
    in the verse) is twelve miles from Padua, and about three
    miles on the right of the high road to Rovigo, in the bosom
    of the Euganean Hills. After a walk of twenty minutes across a
    flat, well-wooded meadow, you come to a little blue lake,
    clear, but fathomless, and to the foot of a succession of
    acclivities and hills, clothed with vineyards and orchards,
    rich with fir and pomegranate trees, and every sunny fruit
    shrub. From the banks of the lake the road winds into the
    hills, and the church of Arquà is soon seen between a cleft
    where two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly inclose
    the village. The houses are scattered at intervals on the
    steep sides of these summits; and that of the poet is on the
    edge of a little knoll overlooking two descents, and
    commanding a view not only of the glowing gardens in the dales
    immediately beneath, but of the wide plains, above whose low
    woods of mulberry and willow thickened into a dark mass by
    festoons of vines, tall single cypresses, and the spires of
    towns are seen in the distance, which stretches to the mouths
    of the Po and the shores of the Adriatic. The climate of these
    volcanic hills is warmer, and the vintage begins a week sooner
    than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot
    be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red marble, raised
    on four pilasters on an elevated base, and preserved from an
    association with meaner tombs. It stands conspicuously alone,
    but will be soon overshadowed by four lately planted laurels.
    Petrarch's fountain, for here every thing is Petrarch's,
    springs and expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a
    little below the church, and abounds plentifully, in the
    driest season, with that soft water which was the ancient
    wealth of the Euganean Hills. It would be more attractive,
    were it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets and wasps. No
    other coincidence could assimilate the tombs of Petrarch and
    Archilochus. The revolutions of centuries have spared these
    sequestered valleys, and the only violence which has been
    offered to the ashes of Petrarch was prompted, not by hate,
    but veneration. An attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus of
    its treasure, and one of the arms was stolen by a Florentine
    through a rent which is still visible. The injury is not
    forgotten, but has served to identify the poet with the
    country, where he was born, but where he would not live. A
    peasant boy of Arquà being asked who Petrarch was, replied,
    "that the people of the parsonage knew all about him, but that
    he only knew that he was a Florentine."

    Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously traced and
    recorded. The house in which he lodged is shown in Venice. The
    inhabitants of Arezzo, in order to decide the ancient
    controversy between their city and the neighbouring Ancisa,
    where Petrarch was carried when seven months old, and remained
    until his seventh year, have designated by a long inscription
    the spot where their great fellow citizen was born. A tablet
    has been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St. Agatha,
    at the cathedral, because he was archdeacon of that society,
    and was only snatched from his intended sepulture in their
    church by a _foreign_ death. Another tablet with a bust has
    been erected to him at Pavia, on account of his having passed
    the autumn of 1368 in that city, with his son-in-law Brossano.
    The political condition which has for ages precluded the
    Italians from the criticism of the living, has concentrated
    their attention to the illustration of the dead.

Byron's visit was in 1818. Of this we may quote more on the appearance
of Mr. Moore's second volume of the Poet's Life. Meanwhile, let us add
the following graceful paper from the _Athenæum_, June 12, 1830: the
subject harmonizes most happily with the classic title of that
journal. It will be perceived that the tourist is familiar with Mr.
Prout's drawing, or the original of our Engraving.

    At Monselice we took another carriage, and dashed off to the
    Euganean Hills, to visit Arquà, the last dwelling and the
    burial-place of Petrarch. The road, in the feeling of M'Adam,
    is antediluvian, or rather post-diluvian, for it is little
    better than a water-course; but it passes through a country
    where I first saw olive-trees in abundance, vines in the
    luxuriance of nature, and pomegranates growing in hedges. The
    situation of the little village is perfectly delightful--of
    Petrarch's villa, beautiful. The apartments he occupied
    command the finest view, and are so detached from the noise
    and annoyances of the farm dwelling, though connected under
    one roof, that I think it not impossible he made the addition.
    There are four or five rooms altogether, if two little closets
    of not more than six feet by three may be called rooms; yet
    one of these is believed to have been his study; and in his
    study, and at his literary enjoyments, he died. Every thing is
    preserved with a reverential care that does honour to the
    people; and his chair, like less holy and less credible
    relics, is inclosed in a wire-frame, to prevent the
    dilapidations of the curious. I believe these things to be
    genuine. I believe in the local traditions that point out his
    study, and his kitchen, and his dying chamber.--Petrarch was
    all but idolized in his own time, and his fame has known no
    diminution; therefore these affectionate recollections of him
    have always been treasured there for the gratification of his
    pilgrims, and with a becoming reverence themselves, the people
    naturally set apart as sacred all that belonged to him. I have
    noticed the compactness of his few rooms, and their separation
    from the larger apartments--they have also a separate
    communication by a small elegant flight of steps into the
    garden, as you may see in Prout's drawing. If the rooms were
    not an addition, and it did not suggest itself at the moment
    to look attentively, I believe these little architectural and
    ornamental steps to have been; and as we know he did meddle
    with brick and mortar, by building a small chapel here, the
    conjecture is not improbable;--it is but a conjecture, and
    remains for others to confirm or disprove.

    A little wild, irregular walk runs, serpent like, all round
    the garden, which, situated at the head of the valley, is shut
    in by the hills--itself a wilderness of luxuriance and beauty.
    It was a glorious evening, and every thing in agreement with
    our quiet feeling. I am not an enthusiast, and to you I need
    not affect to be other than I am; but I have felt this day
    sensibly, and shall remember it for ever. Petrarch's fame is
    worth the noise and nothing of all the men-slayers since Cain!
    It is fame indeed, holy and lovely, when the name and
    reputation of a man, remembered only for wisdom and virtue,
    shall have extended into remote and foreign kingdoms with such
    a sound and echo, that centuries after a stranger turns aside
    into these mountains to visit his humble dwelling. It is the
    verification of the prediction of Boccaccio--"This village,
    hardly known even at Padua, will become famous through the
    world." I do not presume to offer a eulogy on Petrarch as a
    writer, but as a man. In all the relations of son, brother,
    father, he is deserving all honour; and I know not another
    instance of such long-continued, sincere, and graceful
    friendships, through all varieties of fortune, from the
    Cardinal of Cabassole, to the poor fisherman at Vaucluse, as
    his life offers; including literary friendships, which, after
    so many years, passed without one discordant feeling of
    rivalry or jealousy, ended so generously and beautifully, with
    his bequest to poor Boccaccio of "five hundred florins of the
    gold of Florence, to buy him a winter habit for his evening
    studies," and this noble testimony of his ability in
    addition--"I am ashamed to leave so small a sum to so great a
    man."

    Petrarch, in my opinion, was one of the most amiable men that
    ever lived;--I know nothing about Laura, or her ten children;
    I agree with those who believe the whole was a dream or an
    allegory; and, I half suspect that Shakspeare thought so too,
    and following a fashion, addressed his own sonnets to some
    like persons; at any rate, no one knows about either much more
    than I do;--certainly Petrarch's _real_ love had more real
    consequences. Petrarch was a sincere Christian, without
    intolerance--a sound patriot, without austerity; who neither
    wasted his feelings in the idle generalities of philosophy,
    nor restricted them to the narrow limits of a party or
    faction;--he was just, generous, affectionate, and gentle. All
    his sonnets together do not shed a lustre on him equal to the
    sincere, single-hearted, mild, yet uncompromising spirit that
    breathes throughout the letters of advice and remonstrance,
    which, not idly or obstrusively, but under the sanction and
    authority of his great name, and the affectionate regard
    professed for him, he addressed to all whom he believed
    influential either for good or ill; from Popes and Emperors,
    to the well meaning insane tribune of Rome.

    We went after this to see his tomb, which is honourable
    without being ostentatious: a plain stone sarcophagus, resting
    on four pillars, and surmounted by a bust; suited to the quiet
    of his life, his home, and his resting-place. I passed
    altogether a day that will shine a bright star in memory; and
    we wandered about there, unwilling to leave it, until long
    after the ave-maria bell had tolled, and were obliged in
    consequence to get a guide, and return by another road through
    the marshes, where I first saw those fairy insects the
    fire-flies, and thousands of them. For this we are detained
    the night at Monselice, and must rise the earlier, for we have
    written to ----, fixing the day of our arrival at Florence.

       *       *       *       *       *



THE SILENT ACADEMY, OR THE EMBLEMS.

FROM THE FRENCH.

(_For the Mirror_.)


There was at Amadan, a celebrated academy, the first statute of which
was contained in these terms. "_The Academicians think much, write
little, and speak but as little as possible_." They were called "The
Silent Academy," and there was not a man of learning in all Persia but
was ambitious of being admitted of their number. Doctor Zeb, author of
an excellent little work, entitled "The Gag," understood in his
distant province that there was a vacant place in the Silent Academy.
He set out immediately, arrived at Amadan, and presenting himself at
the door of the hall, where the members were assembled, he desired the
doorkeeper to deliver to the president, a billet to this import,
"_Doctor Zeb humbly asks the vacant place_." The doorkeeper
immediately acquitted himself of his commission, but, alas! the doctor
and his billet were too late, the place had been already filled.

The whole academy were affected at this _contretems_; they had
received a little before, as member, a court wit, whose eloquence,
light and lively, was the admiration of the populace, and saw
themselves obliged to refuse Doctor Zeb, who was the very scourge of
chatterers, and with a head so well formed and furnished.

The president, whose place it was to announce to the doctor the
disagreeable news, knew not what to resolve on. After having thought a
little he filled a large cup with water, and that so very full, that
one drop more would have made it spill over. Then he made the sign
that they might introduce the candidate. He appeared with that modest
and simple air which always accompanies true merit. The president
rose, and without saying a word, he pointed out to him with an
afflicted air, the emblematic cup, the cup so exactly full. The doctor
apprehended the meaning that there was no room for him in the academy;
but taking courage, he thought to make them understand that an
academician supernumerary would derange nothing. Therefore, seeing at
his feet a rose leaf, he picked it up and laid it delicately on the
surface of the water, and that so gently, that not a single drop
escaped.

At this ingenious answer they were all full of admiration, and in
spite of rules, Doctor Zeb was admitted with acclamation.

They directly presented to him the register of the academy in which
they inscribed their names on their admission, and the doctor having
done so, nothing more remained than to thank them in a few words
according to custom. But Doctor Zeb, as a truly _silent_ academician,
thanked them without saying a word. He wrote on the margin the number
100, which was the number of his new brethren, and then placing a
cipher before the figure (0100) he wrote beneath "_Their worth is
neither less nor more_." The president answered the modest doctor with
as much politeness as presence of mind: he put the figure 1 before the
number 100, and wrote (1100) "_They are ten times what they were
before_."

_Dorset_. COLBOURNE.

       *       *       *       *       *



THE TOPOGRAPHER.


TRAVELLING NOTES IN SOUTH WALES.


_Vale of Tawy--Copper Works, &c.--Coal Trade._--In our former paper[2]
we gave a description of the Vale of Tawy, as it appears by night; we
will now again revisit it. The stranger who explores this vale must
expect to return with a bad headache. We have described it as a
desolate looking place, when seen at night, but the darkness only
throws a veil over its barrenness. The face of the country, which
would otherwise have been beautiful, is literally scorched by the
desolating effects of the copper smoke; and when it is considered that
a multitude of flues are constantly emitting smoke and flames strongly
impregnated with sulphur, arsenic, &c., it is not to be wondered at. A
canal runs up the vale into the country for sixteen miles, to an
elevation of 372 feet: it is flanked near the copper-works by many
millions of tons of copper slag; and there are no less than thirty-six
locks on the line. It is a fact, that in spite of the infernal
atmosphere, a great many of the people employed in these works attain
old age. Every evil effect about Swansea, however, is ascribed to the
copper smoke. The houses in this district are remarkable for clean
exterior: the custom of whitewashing the roofs, as well as the walls,
produces a pleasing effect, and is a relief to the eye in such a
desert. There are eight large copper smelting establishments, besides
several rolling-mills, now at work; the whole country is covered with
tram-roads and coal-pits, many of which vomit forth their mineral
treasures close to the road side. At Landore, about two miles from
Swansea, is a large steam-engine, made by Bolton and Watt, which was
formerly the lion of the neighbourhood. This pumping engine draws the
water from all the collieries in the vale, throwing up one hundred
gallons of water at each stroke: it makes twelve strokes in a minute,
and consequently discharges 72,000 gallons an hour. This engine,
however, is very inferior in construction and finish to the pumping
engines of Cornwall, some of which are nearly three hundred
horsepower. At the consols mines, there are two engines, each with
cylinders of ninety inches in diameter, and everything about them kept
as clean as a drawing-room. What an extraordinary triumph of the
ingenuity of man, when it is considered that one of these gigantic
engines can be stopped in an instant, by the mere application of the
fingers and thumb of the engineer to a screw! The quantity of coals
consumed by the copper-works is enormous. We have heard that Messrs.
Vivians, who have the largest works on the river, alone consume 40,000
tons annually: this coal is all small, and not fit for exportation.
The copper trade may be considered as comparatively of modern date.
The first smelting works were erected at Swansea, about a century ago;
but now it is calculated that they support, including the collieries
and shipping dependant on them, 10,000 persons, and that 3,000 l. is
circulated weekly by their means in this district. Till within the
last few years, there were considerable copper smelting establishments
at Hayle, in Cornwall; but that county possessing no coals, they were
obliged to be abandoned, as it was found to be much cheaper to bring
the ore to the coal than the latter to the ore. Formerly, from the
want of machinery to drain the water from the workings (copper being
generally found at a much greater depth than tin), the miners were
compelled to relinquish the metallic vein before reaching the copper:
indeed, when it was first discovered, and even so late as 1735, they
were so ignorant of its value, that a Mr. Coster, a mineralogist in
Bristol, observing large quantities of it lying amongst the heaps of
rubbish round the tin mines, contracted to purchase as much of it as
could be supplied, and continued to gain by Cornish ignorance for a
considerable time. The first discoverer of the ore was called Poder
(it long went by his name), who actually abandoned the mine in
consequence; and we find that it was for some time considered that
"_the ore came in and spoilt the tin_." In the year 1822 the produce
of the Cornish copper mines amounted to 106,723 tons of ore, which
produced 9,331 tons of copper, and 676,285 l. in money. In the same
year, the quantity of tin ore raised was only 20,000 tons. The Irish
and Welsh ores are generally much richer than those of Cornwall; but
occasionally they strike on a very rich _lode_ (or vein) in that
county. Last spring, some ore from the Penstruthal mine was ticketed
at Truro, at the enormous price of 54 l. 14s. per ton; and a short time
previous, in the Great St. George Mine, near St. Agnes, a lode was
struck five feet thick, which was worth 20 l. a ton. There are only six
other copper-works in the kingdom besides those of Swansea, five of
which are within fifteen miles of that town; the other is at Amlwch
(in the isle of Anglesea), where the Marquess of Anglesea smelts the
ore raised in his mines there. The annual import of ore into Swansea
in 1812 was 53,353 tons; in 1819, 70,256 tons were brought coastwise:
besides which, several thousand tons of copper ore are imported from
America every year. Since this period there has been a large increase.
Most of the ships which are freighted with copper ore load back with
coal, for the Cornish and Irish markets. Of bituminous, in 1812,
43,529 chalders, and in 1819, 46,457 chalders were shipped coastwise,
besides a foreign trade of about 5,000 chalders every year. Most of
this goes to France, the French vessels coming here in ballast for
this purpose; but all coal shipped for abroad must be riddled through
a screen composed of iron bars, placed three-eighths of an inch apart,
as it is literally almost dust. Great hopes are now entertained here
that government will abolish the oppressive duty on sea-borne coal. In
the stone-coal and culm[3] trade, Swansea and Neath almost supply the
whole kingdom. Independent of foreign trade, 55,066 chalders of culm
and 10,319 tons of stone-coal were shipped coastwise in 1819: last
year the ports of Swansea and Neath shipped 123,000 chalders of
stone-coal and culm. Stone-coal improves in quality as it advances
westward. That of Milford, of which however only about 6,000 chalders
are annually exported, sells generally at from 50s. to 60s. per
chaldron in the London market--a price vastly exceeding the finest
Newcastle coal. It emits no smoke, and is used principally in
lime-burning and in manufactories where an intense heat and the
absence of smoke is required. The Swansea culm is mostly obtained
about thirteen miles from the town. The bituminous coal mines in the
vale of Tawy are fast getting exhausted, and the supply of coal must
at no distant day be drawn farther westward, near the Burry River,
where the quality of the coal is much improved, approaching nearer to
that of Newcastle. The national importance of the inexhaustible supply
of this mineral which exists in Wales, is incalculable; but as it has
already been alluded to in _The Mirror_, in an extract from Mr.
Bakewell's Geology, we will not farther pursue the subject.[4] While
mentioning the trade of Swansea, we should not omit to state that two
extensive potteries, tin and ironworks, and founderies, &c., and
bonding warehouses and yards for foreign goods, &c. exist here.

VYVIAN.

    [2] See Mirror, vol. xvi.

    [3] The small of the stone-coal.

    [4] See Mirror, vol. xii.

       *       *       *       *       *



SPIRIT OF THE ANNUALS.


A FRENCH GENTLEMAN'S LETTER TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND IN LONDON.


Ah my deer frend--I cannot feel the plaisir I expresse to come to your
country charming, for you see. We are arrive at Southampton before
yesterday at one hour of the afternoon, and we are debarked very nice.
I never believe you when at Paris, you tell me that the Englishwomen
get on much before our women; but now I agree quite with you; I know
you laughing at your countrywomen for take such long steps! My faith!
I never saw such a mode to walk; they take steps long like the man!
Very pretty women! but not equal to ours! White skins, and the tint
fresh, but they have no mouths nor no eyes. Our women have lips like
rose-buttons; and eyes of lightning; the English have mouth wide like
the toads, and their eyes are like _"dreaming sheeps,"_ as one of our
very talented writers say, "mouton qui rève." It is excellent, that. I
am not perceived so many English ladies _tipsy_ as I expect; our
General Pilon say they all drink brandy; this I have not seen very
much. I was very surprise to see the people's hair of any colour but
red, because all our travellers say there is no other hair seen,
except red or white! But I come here filled with candour, and I say I
_have seen some_ people whose hair was not red. You tell me often at
Paris, that we have no music in France. My dear friend, how you are
deceived yourself! Our music is the finest in the world, and the
German come after; you other English have no music; and if you had
some, you have no language to sing with. It is necessary that you may
avow your language is not useful for the purpose ordinary of the
world. Your window of shop are all filled at French names--"des gros
de Naples," "des gros des Indes," "des gros d'été," &c. If English
lady go for demand, show me, if you please, sir, some "fats of
Naples," some "fats of India," and some "fats of summer," the
linendraper not understand at all. Then the colours different at the
silks, people say, "puce évanouie," "oeil de l'empereur," "flammes,
d'enfer," "feu de l'opéra;" but you never hear lady say, I go for have
gown made of "fainting fleas," or "emperors' eyes," or "opera fires,"
or of the "flames" of a place which you tell me once for say never to
ears polite! You also like very much our musique in England; the
street-organs tell you best the taste of the people, and I hear them
play always "Le petit tambour," "Oh, gardezvous, bergerette," "Dormez,
mes chéres amours," and twenty little French airs, of which we are
fatigued there is a long time. I go this morning for make visit to the
house of a very nice family. When I am there some time, I demand of
the young ladies, what for they not go out? One reply, "Thank you,
sir, we are always oblige for stay at home, because papa _enjoy such
very bad health_." I say, "Oh yes! How do you do your papa this
morning, misses!" "He is much worse, I am obliged to you, sir!" I bid
them good bye, and think in myself how the English are odd to _enjoy_
bad health, and the young ladies much oblige to me because their papa
was much worse! "Chacun à son goút," as we say. In my road to come
home, I see a board on a gate, and I stopped myself for read him. He
was for say, any persons beating carpets, playing cricket, and such
like diversions there, should be persecuted. My faith! you other
English are so droll to find any diversion in beating carpets! Yet it
is quite as amusing as to play the cricket, to beat one little ball
with big stick, then run about like madmen, then throw away big stick,
and get great knock upon your face or legs. And then at cards again!
What stupid game whist! Play for amuse people, but may not laugh any!
Ah! how the English are droll! I have nothing of more for say to you
at present; but I am soon seeing you, when I do assure you of the
eternal regard and everlasting affection of your much attached
friend.--_Comic Offering_.

       *       *       *       *       *



HOOD'S COMIC ANNUAL.


We have taken a slice, or rather, _four cuts_, from Mr. Hood's
facetious volume. Their fun needs not introduction, for the effect of
wit is instantaneous. To talk about them would be like saying "see how
droll they are." We omitted the Conditions drawn up by the
Provisional Government, (the baker, butcher, publican, &c.) in our
account of the revolutionary stir, or as the march-of-mind people call
a riot, "the ebullition of popular feeling," at Stoke Pogis. Here they
are, worthy of any Vestry in the kingdom, Select or otherwise.

   "_Conditions._

   "1. That for the future, widows in Stoke Pogis shall be allowed
   their thirds, and Novembers their fifths.

   "2. That the property of Guys shall be held inviolable, and
   their persons respected.

   "3. That no arson be allowed, but all bon-fires shall be burnt
   by the common hangman.

   "4. That every rocket shall be allowed an hour to leave the
   place.

   "5. That the freedom of Stoke Pogis be presented to Madame
   Hengler, in a cartridge-box.

   "6. That the military shall not be called out, uncalled for.

   "7. That the parish beadle, for the time being, be authorized
   to stand no nonsense.

   "8. That his Majesty's mail be permitted to pass on the night
   in question.

   "9. That all animosities be buried in oblivion, at the Parish
   expense.

   "10. That the ashes of old bon-fires be never raked up.

   "     (Signed)
                 {WAGSTAFF, High Constable.
                 {WIGSBY."

       *       *       *       *       *


Our next quotations are two comico-serio Ballads:--


FRENCH AND ENGLISH.

    "Good Heaven! why even the little children in France speak
    French!" ADDISON.


        I.

  Never go to France
  Unless you know the lingo,
  If you do, like me,
  You will repent by jingo,
  Staring like a fool
  And silent as a mummy,
  There I stood alone,
  A nation with a dummy.

        II.

  Chaises stand for chairs,
  They christen letters _Billies,_
  They call their mothers _mares,_
  And all their daughters _fillies;_
  Strange it was to hear,
  I'll tell you what's a good 'un,
  They call their leather _queer_,
  And half their shoes are wooden.

        III.

  Signs I had to make
  For every little notion,
  Limbs all going like
  A telegraph in motion.
  For wine I reel'd about,
  To show my meaning fully,
  And made a pair of horns.
  To ask for "beef and bully."

        IV.

  Moo! I cried for milk;
  I got my sweet things snugger,
  When I kissed Jeannette,
  'Twas understood for sugar.
  If I wanted bread.
  My jaws I set a-going,
  And asked for new-laid eggs
  By clapping hands and crowing.

        V.

  If I wished a ride,
  I'll tell you how I got it:
  On my stick astride,
  I made believe to trot it;
  Then their cash was strange,
  It bored me every minute,
  Now here's a _hog_ to change,
  How many _sows_ are in it.

        VI.

  Never go to France
  Unless you know the lingo;
  If you do, like me,
  You will repent, by jingo;
  Staring like a fool,
  And silent as a mummy,
  There I stood alone,
  A nation with a dummy.


THE DUEL.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

    "Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."


  In Brentford town, of old renown,
    There lived a Mister Bray.
  Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
    And so did Mr. Clay.

  To see her ride from Hammersmith,
    By all it was allowed,
  Such fair outsides are seldom seen,
    Such Angels on a Cloud.

  Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,
    You choose to rival me,
  And court Miss Bell, but there your court
    No thoroughfare shall be.

  Unless you now give up your suit,
    You may repent your love
  I who have shot a pigeon match,
    Can shoot a turtle dove.

  So pray before you woo her more,
    Consider what you do;
  If you pop aught to Lucy Bell--
    I'll pop it into you.

  Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray.
    Your threats I quite explode;
  One who has been a volunteer
    Knows how to prime and load.

  And so I say to you unless
    Your passion quiet keeps,
  I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes
    May chance to hit a sheep's.

  Now gold is oft for silver changed,
    And that for copper red;
  But these two went away to give
    Each other change for lead.

  But first they sought a friend a-piece,
    This pleasant thought to give--
  When they were dead, they thus should have
    Two seconds still to live.

  To measure out the ground not long
    The seconds then forbore,
  And having taken one rash step,
    They took a dozen more.

  They next prepared each pistol-pan
    Against the deadly strife,
  By putting in the prime of death
    Against the prime of life.

  Now all was ready for the foes,
    But when they took their stands.
  Fear made them tremble so they found
    They both were shaking hands.

  Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,
    Here one of us may fall,
  And like St. Paul's Cathedral now,
    Be doom'd to have a ball.

  I do confess I did attach
    Misconduct to your name;
  If I withdraw the charge, will then
    Your ramrod do the same?

  Said Mr. B. I do agree--
    But think of Honour's Courts!
  If We go off without a shot,
    There will be strange reports

  But look, the morning now is bright,
    Though cloudy it begun;
  Why can't we aim above, as if
    We had call'd out the sun?

  So up into the harmless air
    Their bullets they did send;
  And may all other duels have
    That upshot in the end.

       *       *       *       *       *


We next quote brief illustrations of the Cuts on the opposite page. It
may be observed that the articles themselves have but little _esprit_,
and that, unlike most occasions, the wit lies in the wood.


First is a Sonnet accompanying the cut "Infantry at Mess."

    "Sweets to the sweet--farewell."--_Hamlet._


  Time was I liked a cheesecake well enough;
  All human children have a sweetish tooth--
  I used to revel in a pie or puff,
  Or tart--we all are _tarters_ in our youth;
  To meet with jam or jelly was good luck,
  All candies most complacently I cramped.
  A stick of liquorice was good to suck,
  And sugar was as often liked as lumped;
  On treacle's "linked sweetness long drawn out,"
  Or honey, I could feast like any fly,
  I thrilled when lollipops were hawk'd about,
  How pleased to compass hardbake or bull's eye,
  How charmed if fortune in my power cast,
  Elecampane--but that campaign is past.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Picking his way," belongs to a day (April 17) in a "Scrape Book,"
with the motto of "Luck's all:"

    "17th. Had my eye pick'd out by a pavior, who was _axing_ his
    way, he didn't care where. Sent home in a hackney-chariot that
    upset. Paid Jarvis a sovereign for a shilling. My luck all
    over!"

       *       *       *       *       *


The Schoolmaster's Motto, accompanying "Palmam qui meruit ferat!" is
too long for extract.

       *       *       *       *       *


The chief fun of the countryman and his Pigs lies in the cut.

       *       *       *       *       *

CUTS FROM HOOD'S COMIC ANNUAL.

[Illustration: INFANTRY AT MESS.] [Illustration: PICKING YOUR WAY.]
[Illustration: PALMAM QUI MERUIT FERAT.] [Illustration: 'I DO PERCEIVE
HERE A DIVIDED DUTY.']

       *       *       *       *       *



SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.


BUNYAN'S PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.[5]

    [5] Abridged from the paper on Southey's Life of Bunyan, in
    the last Quarterly Review.


Of the first appearance of this celebrated parable, Mr. Southey's
diligence has preserved the following notices:--

    "'It is not known in what year the Pilgrim's Progress was
    first published, no copy of the first edition having as yet
    been discovered; the second is in the British Museum; it is
    "with additions," and its date is 1678; but as the book is
    known to have been written during Bunyan's imprisonment, which
    terminated in 1672, it was probably published before his
    release, or at latest immediately after it. The earliest with
    which Mr. Major has been able to supply me, either by means of
    his own diligent inquiries, or the kindness of his friends, is
    that "eighth e-di-ti-on" so humorously introduced by Gay, and
    printed--not for Ni-cho-las Bod-ding-ton, but for Nathanael
    Ponder, at the Peacock in the Poultrey, near the Church, 1682;
    for whom also the ninth was published in 1684, and the tenth
    in 1685. All these no doubt were large impressions.'

    "When the astonishing success of the Pilgrim's Progress had
    raised a swarm of imitators, the author himself, according to
    the frequent fashion of the world, was accused of plagiarism,
    to which he made an indignant reply, in what he considered as
    verses, prefixed to his 'Holy War.'

      'Some say the Pilgrim's Progress is not mine,
      Insinuating as if I would shine
      In name and fame by the worth of another,
      Like some made rich by robbing of their brother;
      Or that so fond I am of being Sire,
      I'll father bastards; or if need require,
      I'll tell a lye in print, to get applause.
      I scorn it; John such dirt-heap never was
      Since God converted him. Let this suffice
      To shew why I my Pilgrim patronize.

      It came from mine own heart, so to my head,
      And thence into my fingers trickled:
      Then to my pen, from whence immediately
      On paper I did dribble it daintily.'--p. lxxxix."

Mr. Southey has carefully examined this charge of supposed imitation,
in which so much rests upon the very simplicity of the conception of
the story, and has successfully shown that the tinker of Elstow could
not have profited by one or two allegories in the French and Flemish
languages--works which he could have had hardly a chance to meet with;
which, if thrown in his way, he could not have read; and, finally,
which, if he had read them, could scarcely have supplied him with a
single hint. Mr. Southey, however, has not mentioned a work in
English, of Bunyan's own time, and from which, certainly, the general
notion of his allegory might have been taken. The work we allude to is
now before us, entitled, 'The Parable of the Pilgrim, written to a
friend by Symon Patrick, D.D., Dean of Peterborough;' the same learned
person, well known by his theological writings, and successively
Bishop of Chichester and Ely. This worthy man's inscription is dated
the 14th of December, 1672; and Mr. Southey's widest conjecture will
hardly allow an earlier date for Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, 1672
being the very year in which he was enlarged from prison. The language
of Dr. Patrick, in addressing his friend, excludes the possibility of
his having borrowed from John Bunyan's celebrated work. He apologizes
for sending to his acquaintance one in the old fashioned dress of a
pilgrim; and says he found among the works of a late writer, Baker's
Sancta Sophia, a short discourse, under the name of a Parable of a
Pilgrim; 'which was so agreeable to the portion of fancy he was
endowed with, that he presently thought that a work of this nature
would be very grateful to his friends also. It appears that the
Parable of a Pilgrim, so sketched by Dr. Patrick, remained for some
years in the possession of the private friend for whom it was drawn
up, until, it being supposed by others that the work might be of
general utility, it was at length published in 1678.--Before that year
the first edition of the Pilgrim's Progress had unquestionably made
its appearance; but we equally acquit the Dean of Peterborough and the
tinker of Elstow from copying a thought or idea from each other. If
Dr. Patrick had seen the Pilgrim's Progress he would, probably, in the
pride of academic learning, have scorned to adopt it as a model; but,
at all events, as a man of worth, he would never have denied the
obligation if he had incurred one. John Bunyan, on his part, would in
all likelihood have scorned, 'with his very heels,' to borrow anything
from a dean; and we are satisfied that he would have cut his hand off
rather than written the introductory verses we have quoted, had not
his Pilgrim been entirely his own.

Indeed, whosoever will take the trouble of comparing the two works
which, turning upon nearly the same allegory, and bearing very similar
titles, came into existence at or about the very same time, will
plainly see their total dissimilarity. Bunyan's is a close and
continued allegory, in which the metaphorical fiction is sustained
with all the minuteness of a real story. In Dr. Patrick's the same
plan is generally announced as arising from the earnest longing of a
traveller, whom he calls Philotheus or Theophilus, whose desires are
fixed on journeying to Jerusalem as a pilgrim. After much distressing
uncertainty, caused by the contentions of pretended guides, who
recommend different routes, he is at length recommended to a safe and
intelligent one. Theophilus hastens to put himself under his pilotage,
and the good man gives forth his instructions for the way, and in
abundant detail, so that all the dangers of error and indifferent
company may be securely avoided; but in all this, very little care is
taken even to preserve the appearance of the allegory: in a word, you
have, almost in plain terms, the moral and religious precepts
necessary to be observed in the actual course of a moral and religious
life. The pilgrim, indeed, sets out upon his journey, but it is only
in order again to meet with his guide, who launches further into whole
chapters of instructions, with scarcely a reply from the passive
pupil. It is needless to point out the extreme difference between this
strain of continued didactics, rather encumbered than enlivened by a
starting metaphor, which, generally quite lost sight of, the author
recollects every now and then, as if by accident--and the thoroughly
life-like manner in which John Bunyan puts the adventures of his
pilgrim before us. Two circumstances alone strike us as trenching
somewhat on the manner of him of Elstow: the one is where the guide
awakens some sluggish pilgrims, whom he finds sleeping by the way;[6]
the other is where their way is crossed by two horsemen, who insist
upon assuming the office of guide. 'The one is a pleasing talker,
excellent company by reason of his pleasant humour, and of a carriage
very pleasant and inviting; but they observed he had a sword by his
side, and a pair of pistols before him, together with another
instrument hanging at his belt, which was formed for pulling out of
eyes.'[7] The pilgrims suspected this well-armed cavalier to be one of
that brood who will force others into their own path, and then put out
their eyes in case they should forsake it. They have not got rid of
their dangerous companion, by whom the Romish church is indicated,
when they are accosted by a man of a quite different shape and humour,
'more sad and melancholy, more rude, and of a heavier wit also, who
crossed their way on the right-hand.' He also (representing,
doubtless, the Presbyterians or Sectaries) pressed them with eagerness
to accept his guidance, and did little less than menace them with
total destruction if they should reject it. A dagger and a
pocket-pistol, though less openly and ostentatiously disposed than the
arms of the first cavalier, seem ready for the same purposes; and he,
therefore, is repulsed, as well as his neighbour. These are the only
passages in which the church dignitary might be thought to have caught
for a moment the spirit of the tinker of Bedford. Through the rest of
his parable, which fills a well-sized quarto volume, the dean no doubt
evinces considerable learning, but, compared to Bunyan, may rank with
the dullest of all possible doctors; 'a worthy neighbour, indeed, and
a marvellous good bowler--but for Alexander, you see how 'tis.' Yet
Dr. Patrick had the applause of his own time. The first edition of his
Parable appeared, as has been mentioned, in 1678; and the _sixth_,
which now lies before us, is dated 1687.[8]

    [6] Parable of the Pilgrim, chapter xxx.

    [7] Ibidem, chapter xxxiv.

    [8] The Poet Laureate may, perhaps, like to hear that Dr.
    Patrick introduces into his parable a very tolerable edition
    of that legend of the roasted fowls recalled to life by St.
    James of Compostella, of which he himself has recently given
    us so lively and amusing a metrical version.

Mr. Southey introduces the following just eulogium on our classic of
the common people:

    "Bunyan was confident in his own powers of expression; he
    says--

                         --thine only way
      Before them all, is to say out thy say
      In thine own native language, which no man
      Now useth, nor with ease dissemble can.

    And he might well be confident in it. His is a homespun style,
    not a manufactured one; and what a difference is there between
    its homeliness, and the flippant vulgarity of the Roger
    L'Estrange and Tom Brown school! If it is not a well of
    English undefiled to which the poet as well as the philologist
    must repair, if they would drink of the living waters, it is a
    clear stream of current English--the vernacular speech of his
    age, sometimes indeed in its rusticity and coarseness, but
    always in its plainness and its strength. To this natural
    style Bunyan is in some degree beholden for his general
    popularity;--his language is every where level to the must
    ignorant reader, and to the meanest capacity: there is a
    homely reality about it; a nursery tale is not more
    intelligible, in its manner of narration, to a child. Another
    cause of his popularity is, that he taxes the imagination as
    little as the understanding. The vividness of his own, which,
    as his history shows, sometimes could not distinguish ideal
    impressions from actual ones, occasioned this. He saw the
    things of which he was writing as distinctly with his mind's
    eye as if they were indeed passing before him in a dream. And
    the reader perhaps sees them more satisfactorily to himself,
    because the outline only of the picture is presented to him;
    and the author having made no attempt to fill up the details,
    every reader supplies them according to the measure and scope
    of his own intellectual and imaginative powers."

Mr. Southey, observing with what general accuracy this apostle of the
people writes the English language, notwithstanding all the
disadvantages under which his youth must have been passed, pauses to
notice one gross and repeated error. 'The vulgarism alluded to,' says
the laureate, 'consists in the almost uniform use of _a_ for
_have_--never marked as a contraction, e.g. might _a_ made me take
heed--like to _a_ been smothered.' Under favour, however, this is a
sin against orthography rather than grammar: the tinker of Elstow only
spelt according to the pronunciation of the verb _to have_, then
common in his class; and the same form appears a hundred times in
Shakspeare. We must not here omit to mention the skill with which Mr.
Southey has restored much of Bunyan's masculine and idiomatic English,
which had been gradually dropped out of successive impressions by
careless, or unfaithful, or what is as bad, conceited correctors of
the press.

The speedy popularity of the Pilgrim's Progress had the natural effect
of inducing Bunyan again to indulge the vein of allegory in which his
warm imagination and clear and forcible expression had procured him
such success. Under this impression, he produced the second part of
his Pilgrim's Progress; and well says Mr. Southey, that none but those
who have acquired the ill habit of always reading critically, can feel
it as a clog upon the first. The first part is, indeed, one of those
delightfully simple and captivating tales which, as soon as finished,
we are not unwilling to begin again. Even the adult becomes himself
like the child who cannot be satisfied with the repetition of a
favourite tale, but harasses the story-telling aunt or nurse, to know
more of the incidents and characters. In this respect Bunyan has
contrived a contrast, which, far from exhausting his subject, opens
new sources of attraction, and adds to the original impression. The
pilgrimage of Christiana, her friend Mercy, and her children, commands
sympathy at least as powerful as that of Christian himself, and it
materially adds to the interest which we have taken in the progress of
the husband, to trace the effects produced by similar events in the
case of women and children.

    "There is a pleasure," says the learned editor, "in travelling
    with another companion the same ground--a pleasure of
    reminiscence, neither inferior in kind nor degree to that
    which is derived from a first impression. The characters are
    judiciously marked: that of Mercy, particularly, is sketched
    with an admirable grace and simplicity; nor do we read of any
    with equal interest, excepting that of Ruth in Scripture, so
    beautifully, on all occasions, does the Mercy of John Bunyan
    unfold modest humility regarding her own merits, and tender
    veneration for the matron Christiana."

    "The distinctions between the first and second part of the
    Pilgrim's Progress are such as circumstances render
    appropriate; and as John Bunyan's strong mother wit enabled
    him to seize upon correctly. Christian, for example, a man,
    and a bold one, is represented as enduring his fatigues,
    trials, and combats, by his own stout courage, under the
    blessing of heaven: but to express that species of inspired
    heroism by which women are supported in the path of duty,
    notwithstanding the natural feebleness and timidity of their
    nature, Christiana and Mercy obtain from the interpreter their
    guide, called Great-heart, by whose strength and valour their
    lack of both is supplied, and the dangers and distresses of
    the way repelled and overcome.

    "The author hints, at the end of the second part, as if 'it
    might be his lot to go this way again;' nor was his mind that
    light species of soil which could be exhausted by two crops.
    But he left to another and very inferior hand the task of
    composing a third part, containing the adventures of one
    Tender Conscience, far unworthy to be bound up, as it
    sometimes is, with John Bunyan's matchless parable."

       *       *       *       *       *

'Tis necessary a writing critic should understand how to write. And
though every writer is not bound to show himself in the capacity of
critic, every writing critic is bound to show himself capable of being
a writer.

_Shaftesbury Criticism_

       *       *       *       *       *



NOTES OF A READER.


LACONICS.

(_From Maxwell. By Theodore Hook_.)


_Professional People_.

None of our fellow-creatures enjoy life more than the successful
member of one of the learned professions. There is, it is true,
constant toil; but there are constant excitement, activity, and
enthusiasm; at least, where there is not enthusiasm in a profession,
success will never come--and as to the affairs of the world in
general, the divine, the lawyer, and the medical man, are more
conversant and mixed up with them, than any other human
beings--cabinet ministers themselves, not excepted.

The divine, by the sacred nature of his calling, and the higher
character of his duties, is, perhaps, farther removed from an
immediate contact with society; his labours are of a more exalted
order, and the results of those labours not open to ordinary
observation; but the lawyer in full practice knows the designs and
devices of half our acquaintance; it is true, professional decorum
seals his lips, but _he_ has them all before him in his "mind's
eye,"--all their litigations and littlenesses,--all their cuttings,
and carvings, and contrivings. He knows why a family, who hate the
French with all the fervour of British prejudice, visits Paris, and
remains there for a year or two; he can give a good reason why a man
who delights in a well preserved property in a sporting country, with
a house well built and beautifully situated, consents to "_spare it_,"
at a reduced price, to a man for whom he cares nothing upon earth: and
looks at the world fully alive to the motives, and perfectly aware of
the circumstances, of three-fourths of the unconscious actors by whom
he is surrounded.

The eminent medical man stands, if not upon higher ground, at least in
a more interesting position. As he mingles with the gay assembly, or
visits the crowded ball, he knows the latent ills, the hidden, yet
incurable disorders of the laughing throng by which he is encircled;
he sees premature death lurking under the hectic flush on the cheek of
the lovely Fanny, and trembles for the fate of the kind-hearted Emily,
as he beholds her mirthfully joining in the mazy dance. He, too, by
witnessing the frequently recurring scenes of death, beholds the
genuine sorrow of the bereaved wife, or the devoted husband--and can,
by the constant unpremeditated exhibitions of fondness and feeling,
appreciate the affection which exists in such and such places, and
understand, with an almost magical power, the value of the links by
which society is held together.


_Middle Life_.

There is more healthful exercise for the mind in the uneven paths of
middling life, than there is on the Macadamized road of fortune. Were
the year all summer, how tiresome would be the green leaves and the
bright sunshine--as, indeed, those will admit, who have lived in
climates where vegetation is always at work.


_Unwelcome Truth_.

Plain speaking was Mousetrap's distinctive characteristic; his
conversation abounded in blunt truisms, founded upon a course of
thinking somewhat peculiar to himself, but which, when tried by the
test of human vice and human folly, proved very frequently to be a
great deal more accurate than agreeable.


_Stockbrokers_.

"I know some of them brokering boys are worth a million on Monday, and
threepence on Thursday--all in high feather one week, and poor
waddling creturs the next."


_Mercantile Life_.

A dark hole of a counting-house, with a couple of clerk chaps, cocked
up upon long-legged stools, writing out letters--a smoky
fireplace--two or three files, stuck full of dirty papers, hanging
against the wall--an almanack, and a high-railed desk, with a slit in
a panel, with "bills for acceptance" painted over it. They are the
chaps "wot" makes time-bargains--they speculate for thousands, having
nothing in the world--and then at the wind-up of a week or two, pay
each other what they call the difference: that is to say, the change
between what they cannot get, and what they have not got.


_The Secret Spring_.

There are with all great affairs smaller affairs connected, so that in
the watch-work of society, the most skilful artist is sometimes
puzzled to fix upon the very little wheel by which the greater wheels
are worked.


"_Bad Company_."

The subject under discussion was the great advantages likely to arise
from the establishment of the North Shields Sawdust Consolidation
Company, in which Apperton told Maxwell there were still seventy-four
shares to be purchased: they were hundred pound shares, and were
actually down at eighty-nine, would be at fifteen premium on the
following Saturday, and must eventually rise to two hundred and
thirty, for reasons which he gave in the most plausible manner, and
which were in themselves perfectly satisfactory, as he said, to the
"meanest capacity;" a saying with which it might have been perfectly
safe to agree.


_Love_.

What does Sterne say? That love is no more made by talking of it, than
a black pudding would be. Habit, association, assimilation of tastes,
communion of thought, kindness without pretension, solicitude without
effort, a tacit agreement and a silent sympathy; these are the
excitements and stimulants of the only sort of love that is worth
thinking of.


_Brighton_.

Brighton will be as good a residence as any other; there's nobody
there knows much of either of _you_; and the place has got so big,
that you may be as snug as you please; a large town and a large party,
are the best possible shelters for love matters. Ay, go to
Brighton--the prawns for breakfast, the Wheatears (as the Cockneys
delicately call them, without knowing what they are talking about) for
dinner, and the lobsters for supper, with a cigar, and a little
ginnums and water, whiffing the wind, and sniffing the briny out of
one of the bow-window balconies--that's it--Brighton's the place,
against the world.


_Murder_.

A gentleman criminal is too rich a treat to be overlooked; and a
murder in good society forms a tale of middling life, much too
interesting to be passed over in a hurry.


_A Love Errand_.

He went to look for something which he had not left there, and whither
she followed him, to assist in a pursuit which she knew went for
nothing.

       *       *       *       *       *



MOORE'S LIFE OF BYRON, VOL. II.

The publication of this work, _bonâ fide_, has not yet taken place;
but we are enabled by the aid of the _Athenæum_ to quote a page.

The volume commences with the following powerful review of Lord
Byron's mind and fortune at the time he left England:--

    "The circumstances under which Lord Byron now took leave of
    England were such as, in the case of any ordinary person,
    could not be considered otherwise than disastrous and
    humiliating. He had, in the course of one short year, gone
    through every variety of domestic misery;--had seen his hearth
    ten times profaned by the visitations of the law, and been
    only saved from a prison by the privileges of his rank. He had
    alienated (if, indeed, they had ever been his) the affections
    of his wife; and now, rejected by her, and condemned by the
    world, was betaking himself to an exile which had not even the
    dignity of appearing voluntary, as the excommunicating voice
    of society seemed to leave him no other resource. Had he been
    of that class of unfeeling and self-satisfied natures from
    whose hard surface the reproaches of others fall pointless, he
    might have found in insensibility a sure refuge against
    reproach; but, on the contrary, the same sensitiveness that
    kept him so awake to the applauses of mankind rendered him, in
    a still more intense degree, alive to their censure. Even the
    strange, perverse pleasures which he felt in painting himself
    unamiably to the world did not prevent him from being both
    startled and pained when the world took him at his word; and,
    like a child in a mask before a looking-glass, the dark
    semblance which he had half in sport, put on, when reflected
    back upon him from the mirror of public opinion, shocked even
    himself.

    "Thus surrounded by vexations, and thus deeply feeling them,
    it is not too much to say, that any other spirit but his own
    would have sunk under the struggle, and lost, perhaps,
    irrecoverably, that level of self-esteem which alone affords a
    stand against the shocks of fortune. But in him,--furnished as
    his mind was with reserves of strength, waiting to be called
    out,--the very intensity of the pressure brought relief by the
    proportionate reaction which it produced. Had his
    transgressions and frailties been visited with no more than
    their due portion of punishment, there can be little doubt
    that a very different result would have ensued. Not only would
    such an excitement have been insufficient to waken up the new
    energies still dormant in him, but that consciousness of his
    own errors, which was for ever livelily present in his mind,
    would, under such circumstances, have been left, undisturbed
    by any unjust provocation, to work its usual softening and,
    perhaps, humbling influences on his spirit. But,--luckily, as
    it proved, for the further triumphs of his genius,--no such
    moderation was exercised. The storm of invective raised around
    him, so utterly out of proportion with his offences, and the
    base calumnies that were everywhere heaped upon his name, left
    to his wounded pride no other resource than in the same
    summoning up of strength, the same instinct of resistance to
    injustice, which had first forced out the energies of his
    youthful genius, and was now destined to give him a still
    bolder and loftier range of its powers.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "But the greatest of his trials, as well as triumphs, was yet
    to come. The last stage of this painful, though glorious,
    course, in which fresh power was, at every step, wrung from
    out of his soul, was that at which we are now arrived, his
    marriage and its results,--without which, dear as was the
    price paid by him in peace and character, his career would
    have been incomplete, and the world still left in ignorance of
    the full compass of his genius. It is indeed worthy of remark,
    that it was not till his domestic circumstances began to
    darken around him that his fancy, which had long been idle,
    again arose upon the wing,--both the Siege of Corinth and
    Parisina having been produced but a short time before the
    separation. How conscious he was, too, that the turmoil which
    followed was the true element of his restless spirit may be
    collected from several passages of his letters, at that
    period, in one of which he even mentions that his health had
    become all the better for the conflict:--'It is odd,' he says,
    'but agitation or contest of any kind gives a rebound to my
    spirits, and sets me up for the time.'

    "This buoyancy it was--this irrepressible spring of
    mind,--that now enabled him to bear up not only against the
    assaults of others, but what was still more difficult, against
    his own thoughts and feelings. The muster of all his mental
    resources to which, in self-defence, he had been driven, but
    opened to him the yet undreamed extent and capacity of his
    powers, and inspired him with a proud confidence, that he
    should yet shine down these calumnious mists, convert censure
    to wonder, and compel even those who could not approve to
    admire.

    "The route which he now took, through Flanders and by the
    Rhine, is best traced in his own matchless verses, which leave
    a portion of their glory on all that they touch, and lend to
    scenes, already clothed with immortality by nature and by
    history, the no less durable associations of undying song."

       *       *       *       *       *



THE GATHERER.

    A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
                                   SHAKSPEARE.


SELDEN,


Towards the close of his life, was so thoroughly convinced of the
superior value of the Holy Scriptures, as to declare that the 11th,
12th, 13th, and 14th verses of the second chapter of St. Paul's
Epistle to Titus, afforded him more solid satisfaction than all he had
ever read.

H.B.A.

       *       *       *       *       *


FULL-BOTTOMED WIGS.


The full-bottomed wigs which unfortunately envelope and cloud some of
the most distinguished portraits of former days, were in fashion
during the reigns of our William and Mary. Lord Bolingbroke was one of
the first that tied them up, with which the queen was much offended,
and said to a by-stander, "he would soon come to court in his
night-cap." Soon after, tie wigs, instead of being an undress, became
the high court dress.

H.B.A.

       *       *       *       *       *


A WINDOW THE CAUSE OF A WAR.


When the Palace of Trianon was building for Louis XIV. at the end of
Versailles' Park, that monarch went to inspect it, accompanied by
Louvois, secretary of war, and superintendent of the building. Whilst
walking arm in arm with him, he remarked that one of the windows was
out of shape, and smaller than the rest--this Louvois denied, and
asserted that he could not perceive the least difference. Louis XIV.
having had it measured, and finding that he had judged rightly,
treated Louvois in a contumelious manner before his whole court. This
conduct so incensed the minister, that when he arrived home he was
heard to say, that he would find better employment for a monarch than
that of insulting his favourites: he was as good as his word, for by
his insolence and haughtiness he insulted the other powers, and
occasioned the bloody war of 1688.

       *       *       *       *       *

In 1306, Bruce having taken shelter in the Isle of Arran, sent a
trusty person into Carrick, to learn how his vassals stood affected to
his cause; with instructions, that, if he found them disposed to
assist him he should make a signal at a time appointed, by lighting a
fire on an eminence near the Castle of Turnbury. The messenger found
the English in possession of Carrick, the people dispirited, and none
ready to take arms; he therefore did not make the signal. But a fire
being made about noon on the appointed spot, (possibly by accident)
both Bruce and the messenger saw it. The former with his associates
put to sea to join his supposed party; the latter to prevent his
coming. They met before Bruce reached the shore, when the messenger
acquainted Bruce with the unpromising state of his affairs, and
advised him to go back; but he obeying the dictates of despair and
valour, resolved to persevere; and attacking the English, carelessly
cantoned in the neighbourhood of Turnbury, put a number of them to the
sword, and pillaged their quarters. Percy, from the castle, heard the
uproar, yet did not sally forth against them, not knowing their
strength. Bruce with his followers not exceeding three hundred in
number, remained for some days near Turnbury; but succours having
arrived from the neighbouring garrisons, he was obliged to seek safety
in the mountainous parts of Carrick.

C.D.

       *       *       *       *       *


"WILLIE WASTLE."


When Oliver Cromwell was at Haddington, he sent a summons to the
governor of Hume Castle, ordering him to surrender. The governor
answered,

  "That he, Willie Wastle, stood firm in his castle,
  That all the dogs of his town should not drive Willie Wastle down."

This anecdote gave rise to the amusement of Willie Wastle among
children.

       *       *       *       *       *


When the Irish Union was effected in 1801, the Ex-Chancellor of the
Exchequer, Sir John Parnell, was the reigning _toast_. Being one
evening in a convivial party, he jocularly said that by the Union he
had lost his _bread and butter_. "Ah, my dear sir," replied a friend,
"never mind, for it is amply made up to you in _toasts_."

       *       *       *       *       *


CURIOUS LEGACY.


_By Samuel Hawkins, Esq. to White Chapel Parish, 1804, bequeathing
£300. for performing Divine Service for ever, in the said parish
church_.

Two guineas to be paid to Curate or Rector, for preaching a sermon on
New Year's Day, from a text mentioned in his will. To Parish Clerk
10s. 6d. to sing 100th Psalm, old version, same day. To organist 10s.
6d. for playing tune to same. To Sexton 10s. 6d. if he attend the
same; and to master and mistress of the free-school, each 10s. 6d. for
attending the charity children at the same time and place; and to the
Trustees of the school three guineas for refreshments, and to supply
as many quartern loaves to be distributed to such poor as shall attend
divine service on that day. The overplus, if any, to be given in bread
to the poor of the parish that the trustees may consider proper
objects of relief.

JAC-CO.

       *       *       *       *       *


WIT AND JOKES.


Selden says, "Nature must be the ground work of wit and art, otherwise
whatever is done will prove but Jack-pudding's work.

"Wit must grow like fingers; if it be taken from others, 'tis like
plums stuck upon black thorns; they are there for awhile, but they
come to nothing.

"Women ought not to know their own wit, because they will be showing
it, and so spoil it; like a child that will constantly be showing its
fine new coat, till at length it all bedaubs it with its pah hands.

"Fine wits destroy themselves with their own plots in meddling with
great affairs of state. They commonly do as the ape, that saw the
gunner put bullets in the cannon, and was pleased with it, and he
would be doing so too; at last he puts himself into the piece, and so
both ape and bullet were shot away together."

"The jokes, bon-mots, the little adventures, which may do very well
(says Chesterfield) in one company will seem flat and tedious when
related in another--they are often ill-timed, and prefaced thus: 'I
will tell you an excellent thing.' This raises expectations, which
when absolutely disappointed, make the relator of this excellent thing
look, very deservedly, like a fool."

P.T.W.

       *       *       *       *       *


FAT FOLKS.


Prince Harry and Falstaff, in Shakspeare, have carried the ridicule
upon fat and lean as far as it will go. Falstaff is humorously called
_Wool-Sack_, _Bed Presser_, and _Hill of Flesh_; Harry, a
_Starveling_, an _Eel's-skin_, a _Sheath_, a _Bow-case_, and a _Tuck_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Printed and published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset
House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, Leipsic;
and by all Newsmen and Booksellers_.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction - Volume 17, No. 469, January 1, 1831" ***

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