Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Bill Walker and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.











THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. XIX, NO. 536.] SATURDAY, MARCH 3, 1832. [PRICE 2d.

       *       *       *       *       *





ENTRANCE TO THE BOTANIC GARDEN, MANCHESTER.


[Illustration: Entrance to the Botanic Garden, Manchester.]


Manchester is distinguished among the large towns of the kingdom for
its majority of enlightened individuals. "The whole population," it
has been pertinently observed by a native, "seems to be imbued with a
general thirst for knowledge and improvement." Even amidst the hum of
its hundreds of thousand spindles, and its busy haunts of industry,
the people have learned to cultivate the pleasures of natural
and experimental science, and the delights of literature. The
Philosophical Society of Manchester is universally known by its
excellent published Memoirs: it has its Royal Institution; its
Philological Society, and public libraries; so that incentives to this
improvement have grown with its growth. Among these is the Botanical
and Horticultural Society, formed in the autumn of 1827, whose primary
object was "a Garden for Manchester and its neighbourhood." Previously
to its establishment, Manchester had a Floral Society, with six
hundred subscribers, which was a gratifying evidence of public taste,
as well as encouragement for the Garden design.

We find the promised advantages of the plan thus strikingly
illustrated in an Address of the preceding date, "The study of Botany
has not been pursued in any part of the country with greater assiduity
and success than in the neighbourhood of Manchester. Far from being
confined to the higher orders of society, it has found its most
disinterested admirers in the lowest walks of life. Though to the
skill and perseverance of the cottager we are confessedly indebted
for the improved cultivation of many plants and fruits, an extensive
acquaintance with the choicest productions of nature, and a
philosophical investigation of their properties, are very frequently
to be met with in the Lancashire Mechanic. But whilst some knowledge
of the principles of Horticulture is almost universal; and the
inferior objects of attention are readily procured, it is obvious that
the difficulty and expense which attend the possession of plants of
rare, and more particularly of foreign growth, form a natural and
insurmountable obstruction to the researches of many lovers of the
science...." "Whatever regard is due to the rational gratifications
of which the most laborious life is not incapable, there is a moral
influence attendant on horticultural pursuits, which may be supposed
to render every friend of humanity desirous to promote them. The most
indifferent observer cannot fail to remark that the cottager who
devotes his hours of leisure to the improvement of his garden, is
rarely subject to the extreme privations of poverty, and commonly
enjoys a character superior to the circumstances of his condition. His
taste is a motive to employment, and employment secures him from the
temptations to extravagance and the natural consequences of dissipated
habits."[1] Further, we learn, one great object of the society is to
educate a certain number of young men as gardeners. As "an inviting
scene of public recreation," it is observed, "those who are little
interested in the cultivation of Botany, and who may regard the
employments of Horticulture with disdain, may still be induced to
frequent the Botanical garden, for the beauty of the objects, the
pleasures of the society, and the animating gaiety of the scene."

    [1] How pleasingly is the substance of these observations embodied
        in one of our "Snatches from _Eugene Aram_:"--"It has been
        observed, and there is a world of homely, ay, of legislative
        wisdom in the observation, that wherever you see a flower in a
        cottage garden, or a bird at the window, you may feel sure that
        the cottagers are better and wiser than their neighbours." Vol. i.
        p. 4. Yet with what wretched taste is this morality sought to be
        perverted in an abusive notice of Mr. Bulwer's _Eugene Aram_, in
        a Magazine of the past month, by a reference to Clark and Aram's
        stealing flower-roots from gentlemen's gardens to add to the
        ornaments of their own. The writer might as well have said that
        Clark and Aram were fair specimens of the whole human race, or
        that every gay flower in a cottage garden has been so stolen.

The Manchester Garden, we should think, must, by this time, have an
Eden-like appearance. The Committee began fortunately. Mr. Loudon, in
one of his valuable Gardening Tours,[2] refers to "a few traits of
liberality in the parties connected with it; the noble result, as we
think, of the influence of commercial prosperity in liberalizing the
mind. Mr. Trafford, the owner of the ground, offered it for whatever
price the Committee chose to give for it. The Committee took it at its
value to a common farmer, and obtained a lease of the 16 acres (10
Lancashire) for 99 years, renewable for ever at 120l a year." He
describes the donations of trees, plants, and books, by surrounding
gentlemen, as very liberal. Mr. Loudon does not altogether approve of
the plan, and certainly by no means of the manner in which the Garden
has been planted, yet he has no doubt it will contribute materially to
the spread of improved varieties of culinary vegetables and fruits,
and to the education of a superior description of gardeners. He
commends the hothouses, which have been executed at Birmingham;
especially "the manner in which Mr. Jones has heated the houses by hot
water; though a number of the garden committee were at first very much
against this mode of heating. Mr. Mowbray (who planned the Garden)
informed us that last winter the man could make up the fires for the
night at five o'clock, without needing to look at them again till the
following morning at eight or nine. The houses were always kept as
hot as could be wished, and might have been kept at 100° if thought
necessary. A young gardener, who had been accustomed to sit up half
the night during winter, to keep up the fires to the smoke flues
(elsewhere) was overcome with delight when he came here, and found how
easy the task of foreman of the houses was likely to prove to him, as
far as concerned the fires and nightwork."

    [2] Gardeners' Magazine, No. XXXIII. August, 1831.

As a means of social improvement, (a feature of public interest, we
hope, always to be identified with _The Mirror_,) we need scarcely add
our commendation of the design of the Botanic Garden at Manchester,
and similar establishments in other large towns of Britain. What can
be a more delightful relaxation to a Lancashire Mechanic than an hour
or two in a _Garden_: what an escape from the pestiferous politics of
the times. At Birmingham too, there is a Public Garden, similar to
that at Manchester, where we hope the Artisan may enjoy a sight at
least of nature's gladdening beauties.

In the suburbs of our great metropolis, matters are not so well
managed; though Mr. Loudon, we think, proposes to unite a Botanic with
the Zoological Gardens. Folks in London must study botany on their
window-sills. The wealthy do not encourage it. Their love of the
country is confined to the forced luxuries of kitchen-gardens,
conveyed to them in wicker-baskets; and a few hundred exotics hired
from a florist, to furnish a mimic conservatory for an evening rout.
They shun her gardens and fields; but, as Allan Cunningham pleasantly
remarks in his Life of Bonington: "Her loveliness and varieties are
not to be learned elsewhere than in her lap. He will know little of
birds who studies them stuffed in the museum, and less of the rose and
the lily who never saw anything but artificial nose-gays."[3]

    [3] Family Library, No. XXVII.

       *       *       *       *       *


TO A SNOWDROP.

_A Translation._

(_For the Mirror_.)


First and fairest of flowery visiter--through the dark winter I
have dreamed of thy paleness and thy purity--youngest sister of the
lily--likelier, thou art to be loved for thine own sake. Can so
delicate a thing spring from an Earthly bed? or art thou, indeed,
fallen from the heavens as a Snowdrop? Thus I pluck thee from thy
clayey abode, in which, like some of us mortals, thou wouldst find an
early grave. I place thee in my bosom, (oh! that it were half so pure
as thou), and there shalt thou die. Thou comest like a pure spirit,
rising from thy earthly home unsullied and unknown. No longer a child
of the dust, thou steppest forth almost too delicately attired at
such a season as this. Ye winds of heaven: "breathe on it gently."
Ye showers descend on my Snowdrop with the tenderness of dew. Little
flower, I love thy look of unpretending innocence: thou art the child
of simplicity. Thou art a _flower_, even though colourless. Wert thou
never gay as others? Where are the hues thou once didst wear? Hast
thou lent them to the rainbow, or to gay and gaudy flowers, or why
so pale? Dost thou fear the winter's wind? Canst thou survive the
snow-storm? Tell me: dost thou sleep by starlight, or revel with
midnight fairies? My Snowdrop, I pity thee, for thou art a lonely
flower. Why camest thou out so early, and wouldst not tarry for thy
more cautious spring-time companions? Yet thou knowest not fear, "fair
maiden of February." Thou art bold to come out on such a morning, and
friendless too. It must be true as they tell me, that thou wert once
an icicle, and the breath of some fairy's lips warmed thee into a
flower. Indeed thou lookest a frail and fairy thing, and thou wilt not
sojourn with us long; therefore it is I make much of thee. Too soon,
ah! too soon, will thy graceful form droop and die; yet shall the
memory of my Snowdrop be sweet, while memory lasts. I know not that I
shall live to see thy drooping head another year. A thousand flowers
with a thousand hues will follow after thee, but I will not, I will
not forget thee my Snowdrop.

MAJOR CONVOLVULUS.

       *       *       *       *       *



OUR LADY'S CHAPEL, SOUTHWARK.


It may not plainly appear to some readers that our Engraving of this
fine vestige of ancient art, is from a View taken in the year 1818.
The Bishop's Chapel, which is there shown, was demolished about twelve
months since, at whose bidding we know not; perhaps of the same party
who now contend for the destruction of the Lady Chapel.

By the way we referred to the Altar Screen, of which we now find the
following memorandum in a _History of St. Saviour's Church_, published
in 1795:[4]

    "Anno 1618. 15 Jac. I.
    "The screen at the entrance to the chapel of the Virgin Mary was
    this year set up."

In the same work occur the particulars of the repairs of the Lady
Chapel in 1624:

    "Anno 1624. 21 Jac. I.
    "The chapel of the Virgin Mary was restored to the parishioners,
    being let out to bakers for above sixty years before, and 200_l_.
    laid out in the repair. Of which we preserve the following extract
    from Stowe:

    "But passing all these, some what now of that part of this church
    above the chancell, that in former times was called Our Ladies
    Chappell.

    "It is now called the New Chappell; and indeed, though very old,
    it now may be called a new one, because newly redeemed from such
    use and imployment, as in respect of that it was built to, divine
    and religious duties, may very well be branded, with the style of
    wretched, base, and unworthy, for that, that before this abuse,
    was (and is now) a faire and beautifull chappell, by those that
    were then the corporation (which is a body consisting of thirty
    vestry-men, six of those thirty, churchwardens) was leased and let
    out, and the house of God made a bake-house.

    "Two very faire doores, that from the two side iles of the
    chancell of this church, and two that thorow the head of the
    chancell (as at this day they doe againe) went into it, were
    lath't, daub'd, and dam'd up: the faire pillars were ordinary
    posts against which they piled billets and bavens: in this place
    they had their ovens, in that a bolting place, in that their
    kneading trough, in another (I have heard) a hogs-trough; for the
    words that were given mee were these, this place have I knowne
    a hog-stie, in another a store house, to store up their hoorded
    meal; and in all of it something of this sordid kind and
    condition. It was first let by the corporation afore named, to
    one _Wyat_, after him, to one _Peacocke_, after him, to one
    _Cleybrooke_, and last, to one _Wilson_, all bakers, and this
    chappell still imployed in the way of their trade, a bake-house,
    though some part of this bake-house was some time turned into a
    starch-house.

    "The time of the continuance of it in this kind, from the first
    letting of it to Wyat, to the restoring of it again to the church,
    was threescore and some odde yeeres, in the yeere of our Lord God
    1624, for in this yeere the ruines and blasted estate, that the
    old corporation sold it to, were by the corporation of this time,
    repaired, renewed, well, and very worthily beautified: the charge
    of it for that yeere, with many things done to it since, arising
    to two hundred pounds.

    "This, as all the former repairs, being the sole cost and charge
    of the parishioners."

    [4] By M.M. Concanen, jun. and A. Morgan.

A correspondent, E.E. inquires how it happens that the Chapel of St.
Mary Magdalen, shown in all old plans of the Church, has likewise
disappeared within the present century? This Chapel adjoined the
South transept, and was removed during the repairs, under the able
superintendence of Mr. Gwilt. It was thus described by Mr. Nightingale
in 1818:

    "The chapel itself is a very plain erection. It is entered on the
    south, through a large pair of folding doors, leading down a
    small flight of steps. The ceiling has nothing peculiar in its
    character; nor are the four pillars supporting the roof, and
    the unequal arches leading into the south aisle, in the least
    calculated to convey any idea of grandeur, or feeling of
    veneration. These arches have been cut through in a very clumsy
    manner, so that scarcely any vestige of the ancient church of St.
    Mary Magdalen now remains. A small doorway and windows, however,
    are still visible at the east end of this chapel; the west end
    formerly opened into the south transept; but that also is now
    walled up, except a part, which leads to the gallery there. There
    are in different parts niches which once held the holy water, by
    which the pious devotees of former ages sprinkled their foreheads
    on their entrance before the altar, I am not aware that any other
    remains of the old church are now visible in this chapel. Passing
    through the eastern end of the south aisle, a pair of gates leads
    into the Virgin Mary's Chapel."

From what we remember of the character of this Chapel, the lovers of
architecture have little to lament in its removal. Our Correspondent,
E.E., adds--"This, and not the Lady Chapel, it was, (No. 456 of _The
Mirror_,) that contained the gravestone of one Bishop Wickham, who,
however, was not the famous builder of Windsor Castle, in the time
of Edward III., but died in 1595, the same year in which he was
translated from the see of Lincoln to that of Winchester. His
gravestone, now lying exposed in the churchyard, marks the south-east
corner of the site of the aforesaid Magdalen Chapel."

       *       *       *       *       *



SCOTTISH ECONOMY.


SHAVINGS _V._ COAL AND PEAT.

(_To the Editor_.)


Without intending to be angry, permit me to inform your well-meaning
correspondent, _M.L.B_. that his observations on the inhabitants of
"Auld Reekie," are something like the subject of his communication
"Shavings," _rather_ superficial.

Improvidence forms no feature in the Scottish character; but your
flying tourist charges "the gude folk o' Embro'" with monstrous
extravagance in making bonfires of their carpenters' chips; and
proceeds to reflect in the true spirit of civilization how much better
it would have been if the builders' chips had been used in lighting
household fires, to the obviously great saving of bundle-wood, than to
have thus wantonly forced them to waste their gases on the desert air.
But your traveller forgot that in countries which abound in wheat, rye
is seldom eaten; and that on the same principle, in Scotland, where
coal and peat are abundant, the "natives," like the ancient Vestals,
never allow their fires to go out, but keep them burning through the
whole night. The business of the "gude man" is, immediately before
going to bed, to load the fire with coals, and crown the supply with
a "canny passack o' turf," which keeps the whole in a state of gentle
combustion; when, in the morning a sturdy thrust from the poker,
produces an instantaneous blaze. But, unfortunately, should any
untoward "o'er-night clishmaclaver" occasion the neglect of this duty,
and the fire be left, like envy, to feed upon its own vitals, a remedy
is at hand in the shape of a pan "o' live coals" from some more
provident neighbour, resident in an upper or lower "flat;" and thus
without bundle-wood or "shavings," is the mischief cured.

I hope that this explanation will sufficiently vindicate my Scottish
friends from _M.L.B_.'s aspersion. Scotchmen improvident! never: for
workhouses are as scarce among them as bundle-wood, or intelligent
travellers. Recollect that I am not in a passion; but this I will say,
though the gorge choke me, that _M.L.B._ strongly reminds me of the
French princess, who when she heard of some manufacturers dying in the
provinces of starvation, said, "Poor fools! die of starvation--if I
were them I would eat bread and cheese first."

The next time _M.L.B._ visits Scotland, let him ask the first peasant
he meets how to keep eggs fresh for years; and he will answer _rub a
little oil or butter over them, within a day or two after laying, and
they will keep any length of time, perfectly fresh_. This discovery,
which was made in France by the great Reamur, depends for its success
upon the oil filling up the pores of the egg-shell, and thereby
cutting off the perspiration between the fluids of the egg and
the atmosphere, which is a necessary agent in putrefaction. The
preservation of eggs in this manner, has long been practised in all
"braid Scotland;" but it is not so much as known in our own boasted
land of stale eggs and bundle-wood.

In Edinburgh, I mean the Scottish and not the Irish capital, _M.L.B._
may actually eat _new laid_ eggs a _year old!_ How is it that this
great comfort is not practised in the navy? The Scotch have also a
hundred other domestic practices for the saving of the hard earned
"siller;" and are far from the commission of any such idle waste as
_M.L.B._'s story exhibits. S.S.

P.S. Tinder-boxes are unknown in Scotland, and I am sure _M.L.B._ if
he wants a business would as readily make his fortune by selling them,
as the Yorkshireman who went to the West Indies with a cargo of great
coats.

       *       *       *       *       *


LINES

ON MY FORTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY.

(_For the Mirror_.)


  On the slope of Life's decline,
  The landmark reached of _forty-nine_,
  Thoughtful on this heart of mine
  Strikes the sound of forty-nine.
  Greyish hairs with brown combine
  To note Time's hand--and forty-nine.
  Sunny hours that used to shine,
  Shadow o'er at forty-nine.
  Of youthful sports the joys decline,
  Symptoms strong of forty-nine.
  The dance I willingly resign,
  To lighter heels than forty-nine.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Yet, why anxiously repine?
  Pleasures wait on forty-nine.

  Social pleasures--joys benign--
  Still are found at forty-nine.
  With a friend to go and dine,
  What better age than forty-nine?
  Ladies with me sip their wine,
  Though they know I'm forty-nine.
  Tea and chat, and wit combine,
  To enliven musing forty-nine.
  Let harmony its chords untwine,
  Music charms at forty nine.
  O'er wasting care let croakers whine,
  Care we'll defy at forty-nine.
  Fifty shall not make me pine--
  Why lament o'er forty-nine.
  Joys let's trace of "Auld Lang Syne,"
  Memory's fresh at forty-nine.
  Then fill a cup of rosy wine,
  And drink a health to FORTY-NINE.

W. W.

       *       *       *       *       *




SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

       *       *       *       *       *

PHILOSOPHY OF LONDON.


_The Quadrant_

The principle of _suum cuique_ is felicitously enforced in that
ostentatious but rather heavy piece of architecture, the Regent
Quadrant, the pillars of which exhibit from time to time different
colours, according to the fancy of the shop-owners to whose premises
respectively they happen to belong. Thus, Mr. Figgins chooses to see
his side of a pillar painted a pale chocolate, while his neighbour
Mrs. Hopkins insists on disguising the other half with a coat of light
cream colour, or haply a delicate shade of Dutch pink; so that the
identity of material which made it so hard for Transfer, in Zeluco,
to distinguish between his metal Venus and Vulcan, is often the only
incident that the two moieties have in common.


_Squares_.

The few squares that existed in London antecedent to 1770, were rather
sheep-walks, paddocks, and kitchen gardens, than any thing else.
Grosvenor Square in particular, fenced round with a rude wooden
railing, which was interrupted by lumpish brick piers at intervals of
every half-dozen yards, partook more of the character of a pond than
a parterre; and as for Hanover Square, it had very much the air of a
sorry cow-yard, where blackguards were to be seen assembled daily,
playing at husselcap up to their ankles in mire. Cavendish Square was
then for the first time dignified with a statue, in the modern uniform
of the Guards, mounted on a charger, _à l'antique_, richly gilt and
burnished; and Red Lion Square, elegantly so called from the sign of
an ale-shop at the corner, presented the anomalous appendages of two
ill-constructed watch-houses at either end, with an ungainly, naked
obelisk in the centre, which, by the by, was understood to be the
site of Oliver Cromwell's re-interment. St. James's Park abounded in
apple-trees, which Pepys mentions having laid under contribution by
stealth, while Charles and his queen were actually walking within
sight of him. The quaint style of this old writer is sometimes not a
little entertaining. He mentions having seen Major-General Harrison
"hanged, drawn, and quartered at Charing-Cross, he (Harrison) looking
as cheerful as any man could in that condition." He also gravely
informs us that Sir Henry Vane, when about to be beheaded on Tower
Hill, urgently requested the executioner to take off his head so as
not to hurt a seton which happened to be uncicatrized in his neck!


_Modern Building_.

We are the contemporaries of a street-building generation, but the
grand maxim of the nineteenth century, in their management of masonry,
as in almost every thing else, as far as we can discover, appears to
lie in that troublesome line of Macbeth's soliloquy, ending with,
"'twere well it were done quickly." It is notorious that many of the
leases of new dwelling-houses contain a clause against dancing, lest
the premises should suffer from a mazurka, tremble at a gallopade, or
fall prostrate under the inflictions of "the parson's farewell," or
"the wind that shakes the barley." The system of building, or rather
"running up" a house first, and afterwards providing it with a false
exterior, meant to deceive the eye with the semblance of curved stone,
is in itself an absolute abomination. Besides, Greek architecture, so
magnificent when on a large scale, becomes perfectly ridiculous when
applied to a private street-mansion, or a haberdasher's warehouse. St.
Paul's Church, Covent-Garden, is an instance of the unhappy effect
produced by a combination of a similar kind; great in all its parts,
with its original littleness, it very nearly approximates to the
character of a barn. Inigo Jones doubtless desired to erect an edifice
of stately Roman aspect, but he was cramped in his design,
and, therefore, only aspired to make a first-rate barn; so far
unquestionably the great architect has succeeded. Then looking to
those details of London architecture, which appear more peculiarly
connected with the dignity of the nation, what can we say of it,
but that the King of Great Britain is worse lodged than the chief
magistrate of Claris or Zug, while the debates of the most powerful
assembly in the world are carried on in a building, (or, a return to
Westminster Hall,) which will bear no comparison with the Stadthouse
at Amsterdam! The city, however, as a whole, presents a combination of
magnitude and grandeur, which we should in vain look for elsewhere,
although with all its immensity it has not yet realized the quaint
prediction of James the First,--that London would shortly be England,
and England would be London.


_Morning_.

The metropolis presents certain features of peculiar interest just at
that unpopular dreamy hour when stars "begin to pale their ineffectual
fires," and the drowsy twilight of the doubtful day brightens apace
into the fulness of morning, "blushing like an Eastern bride." Then it
is that the extremes of society first meet under circumstances
well calculated to indicate the moral width between their several
conditions. The gilded chariot bowls along from square to square with
its delicate patrimonial possessor, bearing him homeward in celerity
and silence, worn with lassitude, and heated with wine quaffed at his
third rout, after having deserted the oft-seen ballet, or withdrawn in
pettish disgust at the utterance of a false harmony in the opera. A
cabriolet hurries past him still more rapidly, bearing a fashionable
physician, on the fret at having been summoned prematurely from the
comforts of a second sleep in a voluptuous chamber, on an experimental
visit to

  "Raise the weak head, and stay the parting sigh,
  Or with new life relume the swimming eye."

At the corners of streets of traffic, and more especially

  "Where fam'd St. Giles's ancient limits spread,"

the matutinal huckster may be seen administering to costermongers,
hackney-coachmen, and "fair women without discretion," a fluid "all
hot, all hot," ycleped by the initiated elder wine, which, we should
think, might give the partakers a tolerable notion of the fermenting
beverage extracted by Tartars from mare's milk not particularly fresh.
Hard by we find a decent matron super-intending her tea-table at the
lamp-post, and tendering to a remarkably select company little, blue,
delft cups of bohea, filled from time to time from a prodigious
kettle, that simmers unceasingly on its charcoal tripod, though the
refractory cad often protests that the fuel fails before the boiling
stage is consummated by an ebullition. Hither approaches perhaps
an interesting youth from Magherastaphena, who, ere night-fall, is
destined to figure in some police-office as a "juvenile delinquent."
The shivering sweep, who has just travelled through half a dozen
stacks of chimneys, also quickens every motion of his weary little
limbs, when he comes within sight of the destined breakfast, and
beholds the reversionary heel of a loaf and roll of butter awaiting
his arrival. Another unfailing visiter is the market-gardener, on
his way to deposit before the Covent Garden piazza such a pyramid
of cabbages as might well have been manured in the soil with Master
Jack's justly celebrated bean-stalk. Surely Solomon in all his
glory was not arrayed like one of these. The female portion of
such assemblages, for the most part, consists of poor Salopian
strawberry-carriers, many of whom have walked already at least
four miles, with a troublesome burden, and for a miserable
pittance--egg-women, with sundry still-born chickens, goslings, and
turkey-pouts--and passing milk-maidens, peripatetic under the yoke of
their double pail. Their professional cry is singular and sufficiently
unintelligible, although perhaps not so much so as that of the Dublin
milk-venders in the days of Swift; it used to run thus,--

  "Mugs, jugs, and porringers,
  Up in the garret and down in the cellar."

They are in general a hale, comely, well-favoured race,
notwithstanding the assertion of the author of Trivia to the
contrary.[5]

    [5] "On doors the sallow milk maid chalks her gains.
         Oh! how unlike the milk-maid of the plains!"

The most revolting spectacle to any one of sensibility which usually
presents itself about this hour, is the painful progress of the jaded,
foundered, and terrified droves of cattle that one necessarily must
see not unfrequently struggling on to the appointed slaughter-house,
perhaps after three days during which they have been running

  "Their course of suffering in the public way."

On such occasions we have often wished ourselves "far from the sight of
city, spire, or sound of minster clock." One feels most for the sheep
and lambs, when the softened fancy recurs to the streams and hedgerows,
and pleasant pastures, from whence the woolly exiles have been ejected;
and yet the emotion of pity isnot wholly unaccompanied by admiration at
the sagacity of the canine disciplinarians that bay them remorselessly
forward, and sternly refuse the stragglers permission to make a
reconnoissance on the road. They are highly respectable members of
society these same sheep-dogs, and we wish we could say as much for "the
curs of low degree," that just at the same hour begin to prowl up and
down St. Giles's, and to and fro in it, seeking what they may devour,
with the fear of the Alderman of Cripplegate Within before their eyes.
The feline kind, however, have reason to think themselves in more danger
at the first round of the watering cart, for we have often rescued an
unsuspicious tortoise-shell from the felonious designs of a skin-dealer,
who was about to lay violent hands on unoffending puss, while she was
watching the process of making bread through the crevices of a Scotch
grating.[6]

    [6] They say that no town in Europe is without a Scotchman for an
        inhabitant. This trade in London is generally professed by North
        Britons, and it is always a cause of alarm to a stranger if he
        notices the enormous column of black smoke which is emitted from
        their premises at the dawn, of the morning.

Another animal _sui generis_, occasionally visible about the same
cock-crowing season, is the parliamentary reporter, shuffling to
roost, and a more slovenly-looking operative from sunrise to sunset
is rarely to be seen. There has probably been a double debate, and
between three and five o'clock he has written "a column _bould_."
No one can well mistake him. The features are often Irish, the
gait jaunty or resolutely brisk, but neither "buxom, blithe, nor
debonnair," complexion wan, expression pensive, and the entire
propriety of the toilette disarranged and _degagée_. The stuff that
he has perpetrated is happily no longer present to his memory, and
neither placeman's sophistry nor patriot's rant will be likely in
any way to interfere with his repose. Intense fatigue, whether
intellectual or manual, however, is not the best security for sound
slumber at any hour, more particularly in the morning.

Even at this hour the swart Savoyard (_filius nullius_) issues forth
on his diurnal pilgrimage, "remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow," to
excruciate on his superannuated hurdy-gurdy that sublime melody, "the
hundred and seventh psalm," or the plaintive sweetness of "Isabel,"
perhaps speculating on a breakfast for himself and Pug, somewhere
between Knightsbridge and Old Brentford. Poor fellow! Could he
procure a few bones of mutton, how hard would it be for his hungry
comprehension to understand the displeasure which similar objects
occasioned to Attila on the plains of Champagne!

Then the too frequent preparations for a Newgate execution--but enough
of such details; it is the muse of Mr. Crabbe that alone could do them
justice. We would say to the great city, in the benedictory spirit of
the patriot of Venice,--_esto perpetua!_ Notwithstanding thy manifold
"honest knaveries," peace be within thy walls, and plenty pervade thy
palaces, that thou mayest ever approve thyself, oh queen of capitals,

  "Like Samson's riddle in the sacred song,
  A springing sweet still flowing from the strong!"

_Blackwood's Magazine_.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE SKETCH-BOOK.

       *       *       *       *       *

SCOTTISH SPORTING.

_From the letters of two sportsmen; with recollections of the Ettrick
Shepherd._

(_For the Mirror_.)


After visiting Thoms, the sculptor, "Burns's cottage," "Halloway
Kirk," Monument, &c., in Ayrshire, we toddled on over to Dumfries,
and had a _crack_ with poor "Rabbie Burns's" widow, not forgetting
McDiarmid the author; thence to Moffat, and up that dismal glen, the
pass of Moffat, to the grey mare's tail, a waterfall, so called from
its resembling the silvery tail of a grey mare; and truly, if the
simile were extended into infinitude, which from its sublimity it
would admit of, we might compare its waving, silky stream swinging
over the broad face of its lofty grey rock, to the tail of the pale
horse of Revelation, over the chaos of time. It was a sombre, solemn
sort of a day, and the dense clouds hung curtaining down the mountain
sides, like our living pall as it were--I scarcely know how--but we
felt dismally until we took a dram and got into a perspiration, with
tugging up the sinuosities of the cliff's, to the summit of the
waterfall. Loch Skein, where we were galvanized, electrified,
magnetized, and petrified, all at once, by the quackery, clackery,
flappery, quatter, splatter, clatter, scatter, and dash-de-blash, and
squash, of a flock of wild ducks, on its reedy, flaggy surface; O,
what a _scutter_ was there! Our hearts, too full, leapt into our
mouths, but our guns were turned into tons of lead, and ere we could
heave them up to our shoulders of clay, the thousand had fled into the
eternal grey mist of the mountain, like the dispersion of a confused
dream. There we stood like two sumphs, (as Hogg calls those who are
ganging a bit aglee in their wits) gaping and staring at each other
with a look which said, why did not _you_ shoot? Our dogs too stood
as stiff as two pumps, with tails standing out like the handles!
_Apropos_--talking of Hogg, the poet, we called to see him in his
half-acre island in Eltrive Lake, and truly we met with that burning
hot reception which we had anticipated from _Blackwood's Magazine_
description of him. We had no _notes of introduction_ except the notes
which our guns pricked upon the echoes of Ettric Forest, and which
James Hogg heard and answered with a view-hallo, for us to "come awa
doon the brae an' tak' a dram o'speerits," and so we did, and in true
Highland style; he met us at the door and gave us a drain from the
bottle, first gulping a glass himself of that double-strong like &
fire-eater, without a twink of the eye or a wince of the mouth; and
then with a grip o' the daddle, which made the fingers crack, he
pulled us into his bonnie wee bit shooting box of a house, with a
"Come awa ben ye'll be the better o' a bite o' venison pasty;" so in
we went, and were introduced to his bonnie wife and sousy barnes,
which latter, Jammie Hogg nursed as though he lov'd 'em frae the
uttermost ends o' his sowl.

Campbell has it against Byron, that "the poetic temperament is
incompatible with matrimonial felicity." Fudge, fudge, Mr. Campbell,
did you ever visit James Hogg?

Well, we sat down to take a snack with James and an extraordinary
monkey of his, which he has dressed in the garb of a Highland soldier,
and which too, sat down at table, and played his knife and fork like
a true epicure. "An extrornry crater is that wee Heelan-man o' mine,
gentlemen, he can conduc himsel' as weel's ony Christan man at table,
and aft when I'm pennin' a bit rhyme 'thegither, the crater'll lowp up
'ith chair anent me and tak' up a pen, in exac emeetation o' me, and
keck into my 'een in his cunnin way, as if he was speering me what to
write aboot; he surely maun ha' a feck o' thocht in his heed if are
could gar him spak it; but ye ken his horsemanship beats a'. I had a
spire-haired collie, a breed atween a Heelan lurcher, a grew, and a
wolf, dog, a meety, muckle collie he is for sure--weel, gentlemen, do
ye ken, he a' rides on him when we hoont the tod (fox), an' to see him
girt a screep o' red flannin on for a saddle, that the neer-do-weel
toor fra a beggar-wife's tattered duds ane day; an' then to see him
lowp on like a mountebank, and sit skreighin an' chatrin, an' cronkin
like a paddock on a clud o'yearth. O, its a lachin teeklesome sicht
for sure--an' then hee'l thud, thud, thud his wee bit neive 'ith
shouther 'oth collie, an' steek his toes in his side, just for a'
the world like a Newmarket jockey, an' then hee'l turn him roon
behint-afore an' play treeks, till collie gerns at him; an' then beway
o' makin friens again, hee'l streek an' pat him, an' peek the ferlie
oot o' his hurdles; an' then when we're a' ready for gannin awa, to be
sure what a dirdum an' stramash do they twa keek up; an' then aff they
flee like the deevil in a gale o' wind, an' are oot o' sicht before ye
can say owr the border an' far awa. But I ha' just been speerin the
forester aboot the tod (fox), an' he gars me gang owr the muir to
Ettric Forest, an' leuk in a cleuch in a rock there is there, an'
I shall find the half-peckit banes o' a joop o' mine that stray'd
yestreen. So, gentlemen, if yer fond o' oor kin o' sportin, ye shall
hae such a sicht o' rinnin an' ridin as ye ne'er saw heretofore we
your twa een."

We readily accepted the invite, and off we set in company with the
"Ettric Shepherd" and his monkey, and certainly it was a "_teeklesome
sicht_" to see him mounted on the long, lank, wire-haired, shaggy
wolf-dog-grew-lurcher, while he in play was scouring round and round
the wild and barren moor; away and away as swift as the wind, over
brae and bourn and bog they went, like a red petticoated witch on a
besom, flying in the storm.

On our way we fell in with the foresters, who were going a
deer-stalking; they had a buck to kill for the duke, so we joined
company, and gave that satisfactory shrug of the shoulders, with the
expectation of sport, that a spider would feel while sitting in the
corner of a hollow nut-shell, and seeing his victim already entangled
in his web, while he was whetting his appetite with suspended hope, in
dream of anticipated fattenings.

We made the best of our way to the watering-place haunt of the deer.
Silence was the word, and we crept on tip-toe and tip-toe, scarce
breathing, keeping ever out of the wind's course; for they have an
ear of silk, and an eye of light, and a scent so exquisite that they
could, if it were possible, hear the tread, see the essence, and scent
the breath, of a spirit. This watering haunt was in a lonely glen,
which was commanded, within pistol-shot, by a small clump of trees,
which were under-grown by brushwood and brambles, and wherein we
ambushed ourselves. Ay, there it was, the "gory bed," where "this day
a stag must die," just one hundred yards from that said clump. Hush,
hush, silence, silence, "Swallow your brith," says Jammie Hogg, hush,
"Heck, cack, a," says the monkey, "the deevil tak' the monkey," says
Jammie, "whist, whist, hush!"

(_To be concluded in our next_.)

       *       *       *       *       *



THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GEORGIAN ERA.

(_Concluded from page 124_.)

_Sheridan_.


"In early life, Sheridan had been generally accounted handsome: he was
rather above the middle size, and well proportioned. He excelled in
several manly exercises: he was a proficient in horsemanship, and
danced with great elegance. His eyes were black, brilliant, and
always particularly expressive. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted his
portrait, is said to have affirmed, that their pupils were larger than
those of any human being he had ever met with. They retained their
beauty to the last; but the lower parts of his face exhibited, in his
latter years, the usual effects of intemperance. His arms were strong,
although by no means large; and his hands small and delicate. On a
cast of one of them, the following appropriate couplet is stated, by
Moore, to have been written:--

  Good at a fight, but better at a play;
  Godlike in giving; but the devil to pay!

"No man of his day possessed so much tact in appropriating and
adorning the wit of others. He pillaged his predecessors of their
ideas, with as much skill and effrontery as he did his contemporaries
of their money. It was his ambition to appear indolent; but he was, in
fact, particularly, though not regularly laborious. The most striking
parts of his best speeches were written and rewritten, on separate
slips of paper, and, in many cases, laid by for years, before they
were spoken. He not only elaborately polished his good ideas, but,
when they were finished, waited patiently, until an opportunity
occurred of uttering them with the best effect. Moore states, that
the only time he could have had for the pre-arrangement of his
conceptions, must have been during the many hours of the day which he
passed in bed; when, frequently, while the world gave him credit for
being asleep, he was employed in laying the frame-work of his wit and
eloquence for the evening.

"Like that of his great political rival, Pitt, his eloquence required
the stimulus of the bottle. Port was his favourite wine; it quickened,
he said, the circulation and the fancy together; adding, that he
seldom spoke to his satisfaction until after he had taken a couple of
bottles. Arthur O'Leary used to remark, that, like a porter, he never
was steady unless he had a load on his head.

"He also needed the excitement of wine when engaged in composition.
'If an idea be reluctant,' he would sometimes say, 'a glass of port
ripens it, and it bursts forth; if it come freely, a glass of port is
a glorious reward for it.' He usually wrote at night, with several
candles burning around him.

"The most serious appointments were, to him, matters of no importance.
After promising to attend the funeral of his friend Richardson, he
arrived at the church after the conclusion of the burial service;
which, however, to their mutual disgrace, he prevailed on the
clergyman to repeat. But, notwithstanding his liability to the charge
of desecration, even in more than one instance, he professed, and it
is but charitable to presume that he felt, in his better moments, a
deep sense of the worth of piety. He had ever considered, he said,
a deliberate disposition to make proselytes in infidelity, as an
unaccountable depravity, a brutal outrage, the motive for which he had
never been able to trace or conceive.

"Sheridan enjoyed a distinguished reputation for colloquial wit. From
among the best of the occasional dicta, &c. attributed to him, the
following are selected:--

"An elderly maiden lady, an inmate of a country house, at which
Sheridan was passing a few days, expressed an inclination to take a
stroll with him, but he excused himself, on account of the badness of
the weather. Shortly afterwards, she met him sneaking out alone.

'So, Mr. Sheridan,' said she, 'it has cleared up.' 'Yes, madam,' was
the reply; 'it certainly has cleared up enough for one, but not enough
for two;' and off he went.

"He jocularly observed, on one occasion, to a creditor, who
peremptorily required payment of the interest due on a long-standing
debt,' My dear sir, you know it is not my _interest_ to pay the
_principal_; nor is it my _principle_ to pay the _interest_.'

"One day, the prince of Wales having expatiated on the beauty of Dr.
Darwin's opinion, that the reason why the bosom of a beautiful woman
possesses such a fascinating effect on man is, because he derived from
that source the first pleasurable sensations of his infancy. Sheridan
ridiculed the idea very happily. 'Such children, then,' said he, 'as
are brought up by hand, must needs be indebted for similar sensations
to a very different object; and yet, I believe, no man has ever felt
any intense emotions of amatory delight at beholding a pap-spoon.'

"Boaden, the author of several theatrical pieces, having given Drury
lane theatre the title of a wilderness, Sheridan, when requested,
shortly afterwards, to produce a tragedy, written by Boaden, replied,
'The wise and discreet author calls our house a wilderness:--now, I
don't mind allowing the oracle to have his opinion; but it is really
too much for him to expect, that I will suffer him to prove his
words.'

"Kelly having to perform an Irish character, Johnstone took great
pains to instruct him in the brogue, but with so little success, that
Sheridan said, on entering the green-room, at the conclusion of the
piece, 'Bravo, Kelly! I never heard you speak such good English in all
my life!'

"He delighted in practical jokes, and seems to have enjoyed a sheer
piece of mischief, with all the gusto of a school-boy. At this kind of
sport, Tickell and Sheridan were often play-fellows: and the tricks
which they inflicted on each other, were frequently attended with
rather unpleasant consequences. One night, he induced Tickell to
follow him down a dark passage, on the floor of which he had placed
all the plates and dishes he could muster, in such a manner, that
while a clear path was left open for his own escape, it would have
been a miracle if Tickell did not smash two-thirds of them. The result
was as Sheridan had anticipated: Tickell fell among the crockery,
which so severely cut him in many places, that Lord John Townshend
found him, the next day, in bed, and covered with patches. 'Sheridan
has behaved atrociously towards me,' said he, 'and I am resolved to be
revenged on him. But,' added he, his admiration at the trick entirely
subduing his indignation, 'how amazingly well it was managed!'

"He once took advantage of the singular appetite of Richardson for
argument, to evade payment of a heavy coach-fare. Sheridan had
occupied a hackney-chariot for several hours, and had not a penny in
his pocket to pay the coachman. While in this dilemma, Richardson
passed, and he immediately proposed to take the disputant up, as they
appeared to be going in the same direction. The offer was accepted,
and Sheridan adroitly started a subject on which his companion was
usually very vehement and obstinate. The argument was maintained with
great warmth on both sides, until at length Sheridan affected to lose
his temper, and pulling the check-string, commanded the coachman to
let him out instantly, protesting that he would not ride another
yard with a man who held such opinions, and supported them in such a
manner. So saying, he descended and walked off, leaving Richardson to
enjoy his fancied triumph, and to pay the whole fare. Richardson, it
is said, in a paroxysm of delight at Sheridan's apparent defeat, put
his head out of the window and vociferated his arguments until he was
out of sight."

The minor or appendix biographies are not so neatly executed as the
more lengthy sketches. It is rather oddly said, "that Alderman Wood
shortly before the demise of George the Fourth, obtained leave to
bring in a bill for the purpose of preventing the spread of canine
madness." Again, as the Alderman is a hop-factor, why observe "he
is said to have realized a considerable fortune by his fortunate
speculations in hops." This describes him as a mere speculator, and
not as an established trader in hops.

The present volume of the Georgian Era is handsomely printed, and is,
without exception, the _cheapest book of the day_, considered either
as to its merit or size--quality or quantity: what can transcend
nearly 600 pages of such condensed reading as we have proved this work
to contain--for half-a-guinea! Were it re-written and printed in the
style of a fashionable novel, it would reach round the world, and in
that case, it should disappear at _Terra del Fuego_.

The embellishments of the Georgian Era are not its most successful
portion; but a fine head of George I. fronts the title-page. The
anecdotes, by the way, will furnish us two or three agreeable pages
anon.

       *       *       *       *       *




FINE ARTS.

       *       *       *       *       *

PATRICK NASMYTH.

(_For the Mirror_.)


This distinguished landscape-painter was the son of Mr. Alexander
Nasmyth, an artist who is still living and well known in Edinburgh, at
which city Patrick was born about the year 1785. His education appears
to have been good, and he was early initiated in the art of painting
by his father, who constantly represented to him the many great
advantages to be derived from the study of nature rather than from the
old masters' productions, the greater portion of which have lost their
original purity by time and the unskilful management of those persons
who term themselves _picture restorers_. Far from confining himself to
the usual method adopted by most young artists of servilely imitating
old paintings, young Nasmyth very soon began to copy nature in all
her varied freshness and beauty. Scotland contains much of the
picturesque, and from this circumstance he seized every opportunity
to cultivate his genius for landscape-painting. With incessant
application he studied the accidental formation of clouds and the
shadows thrown by them on the earth; by which practice he acquired the
art of delineating with precision the most pleasing effects. His style
appears very agreeable and unaffected; he excelled however, only in
rural scenery, in which his skies, distant hills, and the barks of the
trees, are truly admirable. His foregrounds are always beautifully
diversified, and every blade of grass is true to nature. He is not
equal in every respect to Hobbima, yet certainly approximates nearer
to that celebrated master than any English artist.

In 1830, Mr. Nasmyth sold his valuable collection of original sketches
and drawings for thirty pounds to George Pennell, Esq., who also
purchased several of his exquisitely finished pictures, one of
which--a View in Lee Wood, near, Bristol--is now in the possession of
Lord Northwick. Nasmyth was a constant exhibitor at the Royal Academy,
the British Institution, &c., and his performances delighted the
uninstructed spectator as well as the connoisseur.

In person, he was of the middle stature, and possessed a manly
countenance with an agreeable figure. In conversation he was vivacious
and witty, especially when in company with a convivial party. His
character, in some respects, was similar to that of George Morland;
he was rather too much addicted to convivial pleasures, yet was ever
solicitous to mix with the best company, and his polite manners always
rendered him an acceptable guest; in this respect he was _unlike_
Morland, who, it is well known, loved to select his companions from
the lowest class of society. Although Nasmyth obtained considerable
sums for his pictures, he was never sufficiently economical to save
money; on the contrary his private affairs were in a very deranged
state. He was never married, and during the last ten years of his life
resided at Lambeth.

Towards the end of July, 1831, Mr. Nasmyth, accompanied by two of his
intimate acquaintances, made an excursion to Norwood for the purpose
of sketching. Much rain had fallen the day before, and the air was
still chilly; the artist, however, commenced his drawing, and remained
stationary for about two hours, when, the sketch being finished, he
rejoined the friends whom he had left at an inn. He then complained of
being excessively cold, but on taking something warm his usual spirits
returned, and the party passed the rest of the day pleasantly. On the
following morning, however, Nasmyth felt considerably indisposed,
and it appeared evident he had taken a violent cold. Notwithstanding
medical assistance, his indisposition daily increased; and on the 18th
of August he breathed his last, in the 46th year of his age.

He died in extreme poverty, and a subscription to defray the expenses
of the funeral was raised among his friends. Wilson, Stanfield, and
Roberts subscribed, and followed the remains of their late talented
friend to the grave in St. Mary's churchyard, Lambeth.

G.W.N.

       *       *       *       *       *


PORTRAIT OF CHRIST.


(_To the Editor_.)

The document giving an account of Jesus Christ, which is referred to
by _Veritas_, in No. 533 of _The Mirror_, has been long since known
to be a glaring forgery. It is one of many stories invented in the
second, third, and fourth centuries, by the early Christians; for
a full account of whose forgeries in such matters, you may consult
Mosheim, Lardner, Casaubon, and other ecclesiastical writers. The
latter says, "It mightily affects me to see how many there were in the
earliest times of the church, who considered it as a capital exploit
to lend to heavenly truth the help of their own inventions, in order
that the new doctrine might be more readily allowed by the wise among
the Gentiles. These officious lies, they were wont to say, were
devised for a good end. From which source, beyond question, sprung
_nearly innumerable_ books, which that and the following ages saw
published by those who were far from being bad men, under the name
of the Lord Jesus Christ, and of the Apostles, and of other
Saints."--_Lardner_, vol. iv. p. 524.

Dr. Mosheim, among his excellent works, has published a dissertation,
showing the _reasons_ and _causes_ of these supposed letters and
writings respecting Christ, the Apostles, &c., to which I would beg to
recommend your correspondent _Veritas_. JUSTUS.

       *       *       *       *       *




NOTES OF A READER.

       *       *       *       *       *

DEATH OF JOHN HAMPDEN.


The last days of the patriot Hampden are thus graphically told in the
_Edinburgh Review_ of Lord Nugent's recently published "Memorials." We
need scarcely observe, by way of introduction, that Hampden fell in
the great contest between Charles and his parliament; and that when
the appeal was to the sword, Hampden accepted the command of a
regiment in the parliamentary army, under the Earl of Essex; the Royal
forces being headed by Prince Rupert.

"In the early part of 1643, the shires lying in the neighbourhood
of London, which were devoted to the cause of the Parliament, were
incessantly annoyed by Rupert and his cavalry. Essex had extended
his lines so far, that almost every point was vulnerable. The
young prince, who, though not a great general, was an active and
enterprising partisan, frequently surprised posts, burned villages,
swept away cattle, and was again at Oxford, before a force sufficient
to encounter him could be assembled.

"The languid proceedings of Essex were loudly condemned by the troops.
All the ardent and daring spirits in the parliamentary party were
eager to have Hampden at their head. Had his life been prolonged,
there is every reason to believe that the supreme command would have
been entrusted to him. But it was decreed that, at this conjuncture,
England should lose the only man who united perfect disinterestedness
to eminent talents--the only man who, being capable of gaining the
victory for her, was incapable of abusing that victory when gained.

"In the evening of the 17th of June, Rupert darted out of Oxford with
his cavalry on a predatory expedition. At three in the morning of the
following day, he attacked and dispersed a few parliamentary soldiers
who were quartered at Postcombe. He then flew to Chinnor, burned the
village, killed or took all the troops who were posted there, and
prepared to hurry back with his booty and his prisoners to Oxford.

"Hampden had, on the preceding day, strongly represented to Essex
the danger to which this part of the line was exposed. As soon as he
received intelligence of Rupert's incursion, he sent off a horseman
with a message to the General. The cavaliers, he said, could return
only by Chiselhampton Bridge. A force ought to be instantly dispatched
in that direction, for the purpose of intercepting them. In the
meantime, he resolved to set out with all the cavalry that he could
muster, for the purpose of impeding the march of the enemy till Essex
could take measures for cutting off their retreat. A considerable body
of horse and dragoons volunteered to follow him. He was not their
commander. He did not even belong to their branch of the service. But
'he was,' says Lord Clarendon, 'second to none but the General himself
in the observance and application of all men.' On the field of
Chalgrove he came up with Rupert. A fierce skirmish ensued. In the
first charge, Hampden was struck in the shoulder by two bullets, which
broke the bone, and lodged in his body. The troops of the Parliament
lost heart and gave way. Rupert, after pursuing them for a short time,
hastened to cross the bridge, and made his retreat unmolested to
Oxford.

"Hampden, with his head drooping, and his hands leaning on his horse's
neck, moved feebly out of the battle. The mansion which had been
inhabited by his father-in-law, and from which in his youth he had
carried home his bride, Elizabeth, was in sight. There still remains
an affecting tradition, that he looked for a moment towards that
beloved house, and made an effort to go thither to die. But the enemy
lay in that direction. He turned his horse towards Thame, where he
arrived almost fainting with agony. The surgeons dressed his
wounds. But there was no hope. The pain which he suffered was
most excruciating. But he endured it with admirable firmness and
resignation. His first care was for his country. He wrote from his bed
several letters to London concerning public affairs, and sent a last
pressing message to the head-quarters, recommending that the dispersed
forces should be concentrated. When his last public duties were
performed, he calmly prepared himself to die. He was attended by a
clergyman of the Church of England, with whom he had lived in habits
of intimacy, and by the chaplain of the Buckinghamshire Green-coats,
Dr. Spurton, whom Baxter describes as a famous and excellent divine.

"A short time before his death, the sacrament was administered to him.
He declared that, though he disliked the government of the Church of
England, he yet agreed with that Church as to all essential matters of
doctrine. His intellect remained unclouded. When all was nearly over,
he lay murmuring faint prayers for himself, and for the cause in which
he died. 'Lord Jesus,' he exclaimed, in the moment of the last agony,
'receive my soul--O Lord, save my country--O Lord, be merciful to--,'
In that broken ejaculation passed away his noble and fearless spirit.

"He was buried in the parish church of Hampden. His soldiers,
bareheaded with reversed arms, and muffled drums, and colours,
escorted his body to the grave, singing, as they marched, that
lofty and melancholy psalm, in which the fragility of human life is
contrasted with the immutability of Him, in whose sight a thousand
years are but as yesterday when it is passed, and as a watch in the
night.

"The news of Hampden's death produced as great a consternation in his
party, according to Clarendon, as if their whole army had been cut
off. The journals of the time amply prove that the Parliament and all
its friends were filled with grief and dismay. Lord Nugent has quoted
a remarkable passage from the next _Weekly Intelligencer_. 'The loss
of Colonel Hampden goeth near the heart of every man that loves the
good of his king and country, and makes some conceive little content
to be at the army now that he is gone. The memory of this deceased
colonel is such, that in no age to come but it will more and more be
had in honour and esteem;--a man so religious, and of that prudence,
judgment, temper, valour, and integrity, that he hath left few his
like behind him,'

"He had indeed left none his like behind him. There still remained,
indeed, in his party, many acute intellects, many eloquent tongues,
many brave and honest hearts. There still remained a rugged and
clownish soldier,--half-fanatic, half-buffoon,--whose talents
discerned as yet only by one penetrating eye, were equal to all the
highest duties of the soldier and the prince. But in Hampden, and in
Hampden alone, were united all the qualities which, at such a crisis,
were necessary to save the state,--the valour and energy of Cromwell,
the discernment and eloquence of Vane, the humanity and moderation of
Manchester, the stern integrity of Hale, the ardent public spirit of
Sidney. Others might possess the qualities which were necessary to
save the popular party in the crisis of danger; he alone had both the
power and the inclination to restrain its excesses in the hour of
triumph. Others could conquer; he alone could reconcile."

       *       *       *       *       *


SNATCHES FROM EUGENE ARAM.


_Love_.--What a beautiful fabric would be human nature--what a divine
guide would be human reason--if Love were indeed the stratum of the
one, and the inspiration of the other.

_The Pathetic and Sublime_.--What a world of reasonings, not
immediately obvious, did the sage of old open to our inquiry, when he
said that the pathetic was the truest source of the sublime.

_Fortune-telling by Gipsies_.--Very few men under thirty ever
sincerely refuse an offer of this sort. Nobody believes in these
predictions, yet every one likes hearing them.

_Gardening_.--'Tis a winning thing, a garden! It brings us an object
every day; and that's what I think a man ought to have if he wishes to
lead a happy life.

_Knaresbro' Castle_.--You would be at some loss to recognise now the
truth of old Leland's description of that once stout and gallant
bulwark of the north, when "he numbrid 11 or 12 toures in the walles
of the Castel, and one very fayre beside in the second area." In that
castle, the four knightly murderers of the haughty Becket (the Wolsey
of his age) remained for a whole year, defying the weak justice of the
times. There, too, the unfortunate Richard the Second,--the Stuart of
the Plantagenets--passed some portion of his bitter imprisonment.
And there, after the battle of Marston Moor, waved the banner of
the loyalists against the soldiers of Lilburn. It was made yet more
touchingly memorable at that time, as you may have heard, by an
instance of filial piety. The town was straitened for want of
provisions; a youth, whose father was in the garrison, was accustomed
nightly to get into the deep, dry moat, climb up the glacis, and put
provisions through a hole, where the father stood ready to receive
them. He was perceived at length; the soldiers fired on him. He was
taken prisoner, and sentenced to be hanged in sight of the besieged,
in order to strike terror into those who might be similarly disposed
to render assistance to the garrison. Fortunately, however, this
disgrace was spared the memory of Lilburne and the republican arms.
With great difficulty, a certain lady obtained his respite; and after
the conquest of the place, and the departure of the troops, the
adventurous son was released.... The castle then, once the residence
of Pierce Gaveston,--of Hubert III,--and of John of Gaunt, was
dismantled and destroyed. It is singular, by the way, that it was
twice captured by men of the name of Lilburn, or Lilleburne, once
in the reign of Edward II., once as I have related. On looking over
historical records, we are surprised to find how often certain great
names have been fatal to certain spots; and this reminds me that we
boast (at Knaresbro',) the origin of the English Sibyl, the venerable
Mother Shipton. The wild rock, at whose foot she is said to have been
born, is worthy of the tradition.

_Consolation for the Loss of Children._--Better that the light cloud
should fade away into Heaven with the morning breath, than travail
through the weary day to gather in darkness, and end in storm!

_Bells before a Wedding._--The bells were already ringing loud and
blithely; and the near vicinity of the church to the house brought
that sound, so inexpressibly buoyant and cheering, to the ears of the
bride, with a noisy merriment, that seemed like the hearty voice of
an old-fashioned friend who seeks, in his greeting, rather cordiality
than discretion.

_The Murderer's Unction._--Ay, all is safe! He will not again return;
the dead sleeps without a witness.--I may lay this working brain upon
the bosom that loves me, and not start at night and think that the
soft hand around my neck is the hangman's gripe.

_Hogarth._--Nothing makes a picture of distress more sad than the
portrait of some individual sitting indifferently looking on in the
back-ground. This was a secret Hogarth knew well. Mark his death-bed
scenes:--Poverty and Vice worked up into Horror--and the physicians
in the corner wrangling for the fee!--or the child playing with the
coffin--or the nurse filching what fortune, harsh, yet less harsh than
humanity, might have left.

_Change of Circumstance._--In our estimate of the ills of life, we
never sufficiently take into consideration the wonderful elasticity of
our moral frame, the unlooked for, the startling facility with which
the human mind accommodates itself to all change of circumstance,
making an object and even a joy from the hardest and seemingly the
least redeemed conditions of fate. The man who watched the spider in
his cell, may have taken, at least, as much interest in the watch, as
when engaged in the most ardent and ambitious objects of his
former life; and he was but a type of his brethren; all in similar
circumstances would have found similar occupation.

_Eternal Punishment._--So wonderful in equalizing all states and all
times in the varying tide of life, are the two rulers yet levellers of
mankind, Hope and Custom, that the very idea of an eternal punishment
includes that of an utter alteration of the whole mechanism of the
soul in its human state, and no effort of an imagination, assisted by
past experience, can conceive a state of torture, which custom can
_never_ blunt, and from which the chainless and immaterial spirit can
_never_ be beguiled into even a momentary escape.

_Prison Solitude._--I have been now so condemned to feed upon myself,
that I have become surfeited with the diet.--_Aram_.

_Sensibility._--We may triumph over all weaknesses but that of the
affections.

_Silence of Cities._--The stillness of a city is far more impressive
than that of Nature; for the mind instantly compares the present
silence with the wonted uproar.

_Suspense._--Of all the conditions to which the heart is subject,
suspense is the one that most gnaws, and cankers into the frame. One
little month of that suspense, when it involves death, we are told,
in a very remarkable work lately published by an eye-witness,[7]
is sufficient to plough fixed lines and furrows in a convict of
five-and-twenty--sufficient to dash the brown hair with grey, and to
bleach the grey to white.

    [7] Wakefield on "The Punishment of Death."

_Consolation._--Her high and starry nature could comprehend those
sublime inspirations of comfort, which lift us from the lowest abyss
of this world to the contemplation of all that the yearning visions of
mankind have painted in another.

It is a fearful thing to see _men_ weep.

We are seldom sadder without being also wiser men.

What is more appalling than to find the signs of gaiety accompanying
the reality of anguish.

_Consolation._--If we go at noon day to the bottom of a deep pit,[8]
we shall be able to see the stars which on the level ground are
invisible. Even so, from the depths of grief--worn, wretched,
seared, and dying--the blessed apparitions and tokens of heaven make
themselves visible to our eyes.

    [8] The remark is in Aristotle. Buffon quotes it in, I think, the
        first volume of his great work.

_Progress of Crime._--Mankind are not instantly corrupted. Villany
is always progressive. We decline from right--not suddenly, but step
after step.--_Aram's Defence_.

       *       *       *       *       *



SKETCHES FROM THE TOUR OF A GERMAN PRINCE, VOL. III.


_Mrs. Fitzherbert._

"A very worthy and amiable woman, formerly, they say, married to the
King, but at present wholly without influence in that quarter, but no
less beloved and respected, _d'un excellent ton et sans pretension_."


_Her Majesty._

"The Duchess of Clarence honoured the feast with her presence; and all
pressed forward to see her, for she is one of those rare princesses
whose personal qualities obtain for them much more respect than their
rank, and whose unceasing benevolence and highly amiable character,
have obtained for her a popularity in England, of which we Germans may
well be proud--the more so, since in all probability she is destined
to be one day the Queen of that country."


_The King._

"I had the honour of dining with the Duke of Clarence, where I also
met the Princess Augusta, the Duchess of Kent and her daughter, and
the Duchess of Gloucester. The Duke makes a most friendly host, and is
kind enough to retain a recollection of the different times and places
where he has before seen me. He has much of the English national
character, in the best sense of the word, and also the English love of
domestic arrangement. The daughters of the Duke are _d'un beau sang_,
all extraordinarily handsome, though in different styles of beauty.
Among the sons Colonel Fitzclarence is, in many respects, the most
distinguished. Rarely, indeed, do we meet with a young officer of such
various accomplishments."


_The Duchess Of St. A----._

"According to the earliest recollections or her Grace, she found
herself a forsaken, starving, frozen child, in an outshed of an
English village. She was taken thence by a gipsy-crew, whom she
afterwards left for a company of strolling players. In this
profession, she obtained some reputation by a pleasing exterior, a
constant flow of spirits, and a certain originality--till by degrees
she gained several friends, who magnanimously provided for her wants.
She long lived in undisturbed connexion with the rich banker C----,
who, at length, married her, and, at his death, left her a fortune of
70,000l. a year. By this colossal inheritance, she afterwards became
the wife of the Duke of St. A----, the third English Duke in point of
rank, and, what is a somewhat singular coincident, the descendant
of the well-known actress Nell Gwynn, to whose charms the Duke is
indebted for his title, in much the same way (though a hundred years
earlier) as his wife is now for hers.

"She is a very good sort of woman, who has no hesitation in speaking
of the past--on the contrary, is rather too frequent in her
reminiscences. Thus she entertained us the whole evening, with various
representations of her former dramatic characters. The drollest part
of the affair was, that she had taught her husband, a very young man,
thirty years under her own age--to play the lover's part, which he did
badly enough. Malicious tongues were naturally very busy, and the more
so, as many of the recited passages gave room for the most piquant
applications."


_Fortune-Telling._

"I Dined to-day with Lady F. Her husband was formerly Governor in
the Isle of France, and she had there purchased from a negress, the
pretended prophesying book of the Empress Josephine, who is said to
have read therein her future greatness and fall, before she sailed
for France. Lady F. produced it at tea, and invited the company to
question fate, according to the prescribed forms. Now, listen to the
answers, which are really remarkable enough. Mrs. Rothschild was the
first--and she asked if her wishes would be fulfilled. Answer: 'Weary
not fate with wishes--one who has obtained so much, may well be
satisfied.' Next came Mr. Spring Rice, a celebrated parliamentary
speaker, and one of the most zealous champions of the Catholic
Question. He asked, whether on the following day when the question was
to be brought forward in the upper house, it would pass. I should here
remark, that it is well known here that it will not pass--but that in
all probability in the next session it will. The laconic answer of the
book ran thus:--'You will have no success _this time_.' They then made
a young American lady ask if she should soon be married. 'Not in this
part of the world,' was the answer."

       *       *       *       *       *




THE GATHERER.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Shakspeare and Garrick._--At the opening dinner of the Garrick Club,
the company forgot to drink the Memory of Shakspeare; and the health
of our living dramatists was only proposed when the party had dwindled
from 200 to 20! Where would be the fame of Garrick but for Shakspeare.

Talent has lately been liberally marked by royal favour. Among the
last batch of knights are Mr. Smirke, the architect; Dr. Meyrick, the
celebrated antiquarian scholar; and Col. Trench.

"_Passing Strange_."--The _Court Journal_, speaking of the deputation
of boys from Christ's Hospital at the Drawing-room, says, "The number
of boys appointed to attend on this occasion is 40; but, owing to the
indisposition of one of them, there were _no more than 39 present_."

_Millinery Authorship._--"We must acknowledge our prejudice in
favour of an opportunity for the display of that most courtly of all
materials, the train of Genoa velvet; where (as Lord Francis Levison
expresses it)

  Finger-deep the rich embroidery stiffens.
_Court Journal._

In a puff precipitate of a play, we are told that M---- "is pleased
_with his character_."

       *       *       *       *       *

  Two cats were placed within a cage,
  And resolving to quarrel, got into a rage,
  They fought so clean, and fought so clever,
  The devil a bit was left of either.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset
House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, Leipsic;
G.G. BENNIS, 55, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris; and by all Newsmen
and Booksellers._

       *       *       *       *       *