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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.


VOL. 13, No. 374.] SATURDAY, JUNE 6, 1829. [PRICE 2_d_.

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HOLLAND HOUSE, KENSINGTON

[Illustration: Holland House, Kensington.]


Since the time of William III., who was the first royal tenant of the
palace, Kensington has been a place of considerable interest, as the
residence and resort of many celebrated men. The palace, however,
possesses little historical attraction; but, among the mansions of the
parish, Holland House merits especial notice.

Holland House takes its name from Henry Rich, Earl of Holland, and was
built by his father-in-law, Sir Walter Cope, in the year 1607, of the
architecture of which period it affords an excellent specimen. Its general
form is that of an half H. The Earl of Holland greatly improved the house.
The stone piers at the entrance of the court (over which are the arms of
Rich, quartering Bouldry and impaling Cope) were designed by Inigo Jones.
The internal decorations were by Francis Cleyne. One chamber, called the
Gilt Room, which still remains in its original state, exhibits a very
favourable specimen of the artist's abilities; the wainscot is in
compartments, ornamented with cross crosslets and fleurs de-lis charges,
in the arms of Rich and Cope, whose coats are introduced, entire, at the
corner of the room, with a punning motto, alluding to the name of Rich,
_Ditior est qui se_. Over the chimneys are some emblematical paintings,
done (as the Earl of Orford observes) in a style and not unworthy of
Parmegiane. The Earl of Holland was twice made a prisoner in his own
house, first by King Charles, in 1633, upon occasion of his challenging
Lord Weston; and a second time, by command of the parliament, after the
unsuccessful issue of his attempt to restore the king, in August, 1648.
The Earl, who was a conspicuous character during the whole of Charles's
reign, and frequently in employments of considerable trust, appears to
have been very wavering in his politics, and of an irritable disposition.
In 1638, we find him retired to his house at Kensington, in disgust,
because he was not made Lord Admiral. At the eve of the civil war, he was
employed against the Scots; when the army was disbanded, having received
some new cause of offence, he retired again to Kensington, where,
according to Lord Clarendon, he was visited by all the disaffected members
of parliament, who held frequent meetings at Holland House. Some time
afterwards, when the civil war was at its height, he joined the king's
party at Oxford; but, meeting with a cool reception, returned again to the
parliament. In August 6, 1647, "the members of the parliament who were
driven from Westminster by tumults, met General Fairfax at Holland House,
and subscribed to the declaration of the army, and a further declaration,
approving of and joining with the army, in all their late proceedings,
making null all acts passed by the members since July 6." (_Clarendon_.)--
The Earl of Holland's desertion of the royal cause, is to be attributed,
perhaps, to his known enmity towards Lord Strafford; he gave, nevertheless,
the best proof of his attachment to monarchy, by making a bold, though
rash attempt, to restore his master. After a valiant stand against an
unequal force, near Kingston upon Thames, he was obliged to quit the field,
but was soon after taken prisoner, and suffered death upon the scaffold.
His corpse was sent to Kensington, and interred in the family vault there,
March 10, 1649. In the July following, Lambert, then general of the army,
fixed his headquarters at Holland House. It was soon afterwards restored
to the Countess of Holland. When theatres were shut up by the Puritans,
plays were acted privately at the houses of the nobility, who made
collections for the actors. Holland House is particularly mentioned, as
having been used occasionally for this purpose.

The next remarkable circumstance in the history of Holland House, is the
residence of Addison, who became possessed of it in 1716, by his marriage
with Charlotte, Countess Dowager of Warwick and Holland. It is said that
he did not add much to his happiness by this alliance; for one of his
biographers, rather laconically observes, that "Holland House is a large
mansion, but it cannot contain Mr. Addison, the Countess of Warwick, and
one guest, Peace." Mr. Addison was appointed Secretary of State, in 1717,
and died at Holland House, June 17, 1719. Addison had been tutor to the
young earl, and anxiously, but in vain, endeavoured to check the
licentiousness of his manners. As a last effort, he requested him to come
into his room when he lay at the point of death, hoping that the solemnity
of the scene might work upon his feelings. When his pupil came to receive
his last commands, he told him that he had sent for him to see how a
Christian could die; to which Tickell thus alludes:--

  He taught us how to live; and oh! too high
  A price for knowledge, taught us how to die!

On the death of this young nobleman, in 1721, unmarried, his estates
devolved to the father of Lord Kensington, (maternally descended from
Robert Rich, Earl of Warwick.) who sold Holland House, about 1762, to the
Right Hon. Henry Fox, afterwards Lord Holland, the early years of whose
patriotic son, the late C.J. Fox, were passed chiefly at this mansion; and
his nephew, the present Lord Holland, is now owner of the estate.

The apartments of Holland House, are, generally, capacious and well
proportioned. The library is about 105 feet in length, and the collection
of books is worthy of the well known literary taste of the noble
proprietor. Here also are several fine busts by Nollekens, and a valuable
collection of pictures by Sir Godfrey Kneller, Sir Joshua Reynolds, &c.
two fine landscapes by Salvator Rosa, and a collection of exquisite
miniatures.

The grounds include about 300 acres, of which about 63 acres are disposed
into pleasure gardens, &c. Mr. Rogers, the amiable poet, is a constant
visiter at Holland House; and the noble host, with Maecenas-like taste,
has placed over a rural seat, the following lines, from respect to the
author of the "Pleasures of Memory:"--

  Here ROGERS sat--and here for ever dwell
  With me, those Pleasures which he sang so well.

Holland House and its park-like grounds is, perhaps, the most picturesque
domain in the vicinity of the metropolis, although it will soon be
surrounded with brick and mortar proportions.



       *       *       *       *       *

FIELD OF FORTY STEPS.

_(To the Editor of the Mirror.)_


I should feel obliged if you could give some account of the story attached
to the _Brothers' Steps_, a spot thus called, which formerly existed in
one of the fields behind Montague House. The local tradition says, that
two brothers fought there on account of a lady, who sat by and witnessed
the combat, and that the conflict ended in the death of both; but the
names of the parties have never been mentioned. The steps existed behind
the spot where Mortimer Market now stands, and not as Miss Porter says, in
her novel of the _Field of Forty Steps_, at the end of Upper Montague
Street. In her story, Miss Porter departs entirely from the local
tradition.

H.S. SIDNEY.



       *       *       *       *       *

ITALIAN IMPROVISATRI.

_(To the Editor of the Mirror.)_


Allow me permission, if consistent with the regulations of your
interesting miscellany, to submit to you a literary problem. We are
informed that there exists, at the present day, in Italy, a set of persons
called "improvisatri," who pretend to recite original poetry of a superior
order, composed on the spur of the moment. An extraordinary account
appeared a short time back in a well known Scotch magazine, of a female
improvisatrice, which may have met your notice. Now I entertain
considerable doubt of the truth of these pretensions; not that I question
the veracity of those who have visited Italy and make the assertion: they
believe what they relate, but are, I conceive, grossly deceived. There is
something, no doubt, truly inspiring in the air of Italy:


  For wheresoe'er they turn their ravish'd eyes,
  Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
  Poetic fields encompass them around,
  And still they seem to tread on classic ground;
  For there the muse so oft her harp has strung,
  That not a mountain rears its head unsung:
  Renown'd inverse each shady thicket grows,
  And ev'ry stream in heav'nly numbers flows.

Notwithstanding this beautiful description, my scepticism will not allow
me to believe in these miraculous genii.

Lord Byron mentions these improvisatri, in his "Beppo," but not in a way
that leads me to suppose, he considered them capable of original poetry.
Mr. Addison, in his account of Italy, says, "I cannot forbear mentioning a
custom at Venice, which they tell me is peculiar to the common people of
this country, of singing stanzas out of Tasso. They are set to a pretty
solemn tune, and when one begins in any part of the poet, it is odds, but
he will be answered by somebody else that overhears him; so that sometimes
you have ten or a dozen in the neighbourhood of one another, taking verse
after verse, and running on with the poem as far as their memories will
carry them."

I am, therefore, inclined to think these "improvisatri" are mere reciters
of the great Italian poets. It is probable that the persons who give us
these extraordinary accounts of Italian genius, are unacquainted with the
literature of that country, and of course cannot detect the imposition.


       *       *       *       *       *

In Goldsmith's poem, entitled "Retaliation," a line occurs, which is to me
unintelligible, at least a part of it. That poet concludes his ironical
eulogium on Edmund Burke, thus:--

  "In short 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir,
  _To eat mutton cold_, and cut blocks with a razor."

The cutting blocks with a razor, I think is obvious enough, but, what is
meant by eating mutton cold? I should be obliged by a solution. HEN. B.



       *       *       *       *       *

I'LL COME TO YOUR BALL.

_(For the Mirror.)_


  I'll come to your Ball--dearest Emma,
    (I had nearly forgotten to say)
  Provided no awkward dilemma
    Should happen to keep me away:
  For I burn with impatience to see you,
    All our hopes, all our joys to recall,
  And you'll find I've no wishes to flee you,
    When next I shall come to your Ball.

  Strange men, stranger things, and strange cities
    I have seen since I parted from you,
  But your beauty, your love, and your wit is
    A charm that has still held me true,
  And tho' mighty has been the temptation,
    Your image prevail'd over all,
  And I still held the fond adoration
    For one I must meet at the Ball.

  I have knelt at the shrine of a Donna,
    And languish'd for months in her train,
  But still I was whisper'd by honour,
    And came to my senses again,
  When I thought of the vows I had plighted,
    And the stars that I once used to call
  As my witnesses--could I have slighted?
    Her I long to behold at the Ball.

  You say that my nature is altered,
    "I've forgotten the how and the when,
  That my voice which was best when it faltered"
    Is rough by my converse with men:
  Believe me that still you will find me
    Of lovers the truest of all,
  And the spell that has bound still shall bind me,
    And I'll come, dearest girl, to your Ball.

  I have waded through battle fields gory,
    To my country and honour been true,
  And my name has been famous in story,
    But dear Emma, it all was for you.
  I've longed when my troubles were over,
    Unhurt by the bay'net or ball.
  To forget I was ever "a rover,"
    And claim you my bride at your Ball.

CLARENCE.



       *       *       *       *       *

THE SANJAC-SHERIF, OR STANDARD OF MAHOMET.

_(For the Mirror.)_


This standard, which is an object of peculiar reverence among the
Mussulman, was originally the curtain of the chamber door of Mahomet's
favourite wife. It is kept as the Palladium of the empire, and no infidel
can look upon it with impunity. It is carried out of Constantinople to
battle in cases of emergency, in great solemnity, before the Sultan, and
its return is hailed by all the people of the capital going out to meet it.
The Caaba, or black stone of Mecca is also much revered by the Turks; it
is placed in the Temple, and is expected to be endowed with speech at the
day of judgment, for the purpose of declaring the names of those pious
Mussulmen who have really performed the pilgrimage to Mecca, and poured
forth their devotions at the shrine of the prophet. INA.



       *       *       *       *       *

EATING.

_Abridged from Mr. Richards's Treatise on Nervous Disorders._


The object of eating ought not to be, exclusively, the satisfying of the
appetite. It is true that the sensation of hunger admonishes us, and
indeed, incites us to supply the wants of the body; and that the abatement
of this sensation betokens that such want has been supplied; so far the
satisfying of the appetite is a matter of consideration; but a prudent
person will observe the mode in which the appetite is best satisfied, and
the frame, at the same time, most abundantly nourished, for this ought to
be the chief object of feeding. There is much truth in the homely adage,
that "what is one man's meat is another man's poison," and a person who
has been _muscled_[1] will, if he wishes to enjoy his health, rigidly
eschew that piscatory poison. So, also, will an individual with a bilious
habit avoid fat pork; and those whose stomachs are flatulent will not
inordinately indulge in vegetables. Captain Barclay, whose knowledge in
such matters was as extensive as that of most persons, informs us that our
health, vigour, and activity must depend upon our diet and exercise.

[1] We frequently hear of people being _muscled_; and it is generally
    supposed that the mischief is produced by some specifically poisonous
    quality in the fish. I have seen many cases, but I could discover
    nothing to confirm this popular opinion. In some instances, only one
    of a family has been affected, while all partook of the same muscles.
    I have known exactly the same symptoms produced by pork, lobsters, and
    other shell-fish, and can attribute them to nothing more than an
    aggravated state of indigestion.

A leading rule in diet, is never to overload the stomach; indeed,
restriction as to _quantity_ is far more important than any rule as to
_quality_. It is bad, at all times, to distend the stomach too much; for
it is a rule in the animal economy, that if any of the muscular cavities,
as the stomach, heart, bowels, or bladder, be too much distended, their
tone is weakened, and their powers considerably impaired.

The consideration of diet might be rendered very simple, if people would
but make it so; but from the volumes which have been recently written on
diet and digestion, we might gather the alarming information that nearly
every thing we eat is pernicious. Far be it from me to adopt such a
discouraging theory. My object is rather to point out what is good, than
to stigmatize what is bad--to afford the patient, if I can, the means of
comfort and enjoyment, and not to tell him of his sufferings, or of the
means of increasing them.

To "eat a little and often," is a rule frequently followed, because it is
in accordance with our feelings; but it is a very bad rule, and fraught
with infinite mischief. Before the food is half digested, the irritable
nerves of the upper part of the stomach will produce a sensation of
"craving;" but, it is sufficiently evident that, to satisfy this "craving,"
by taking food, is only to obtain a temporary relief, and not always even
that, at the expense of subsequent suffering. There can be no wisdom in
putting more food into the stomach than it can possibly digest; and, as
all regularity is most conducive to health, it is better that the food
should be taken at stated periods. I do not by any means interdict the use
of meat; on the contrary, _fresh_ meat, especially beef and mutton,
affords great nutriment in a small compass. "Remember," says Dr. Kitchiner,
"that an ounce of beef contains the essence of many pounds of hay, turnips,
and other vegetables;" and, we should bear in mind, also, that no meat
arrives at perfection that is not full-grown. Beef and mutton are
consequently better than veal or lamb, or "nice young pork." To these such
vegetables may be added, as are easy of digestion, and such as usually
"agree" with the individual. If, however, the stomach and bowels be very
irritable, and their powers much impaired--if the tongue be dry, and its
edges more than commonly red, vegetable diet ought to be considerably
restricted. Peas, beans, the different kinds of greens, and all raw fruits,
should be avoided, and potatoes, properly boiled, with turnips and carrots,
ought to constitute the only varieties. I have seen the skins of peas, the
stringy fibres of greens, and the seeds of raspberries and strawberries,
pass through the bowels no further changed, than by their exposure to
maceration; and it is not necessary to point out the irritation which
their progress must have produced, as they passed over the excited and
irritable surface of the alimentary canal.




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THE SKETCH-BOOK

       *       *       *       *       *


COWES REGATTA.

A SCENE IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

_(For the Mirror.)_


  The crowded yachts were anchor'd in the roads,
    To view the contest for a kingly prize;
  Voluptuous beauty smil'd on Britain's lords,
    And fashion dazzled with her thousand dyes;
  And far away the rival barks were seen,
    (The ample wind expanding every sail)
  To climb the billows of the watery green,
    As stream'd their pennons on the favouring gale:
  The victor vessel gain'd the sovereign boon;
  The gothic palace and the gay saloon,
    Begemm'd with eyes that pierc'd the hiding veil,
  Echoed to music and its merry glee
  And cannon roll'd its thunder o'er the sea,
    To greet that vessel for her gallant sail.


_Sonnets on Isle of Wight Scenery._

To those readers of the MIRROR who have not witnessed an Isle of Wight
Regatta, a description of that _fête_ may not be uninteresting. From the
days assigned to the nautical contest, we will select that on which his
Majesty's Cup was sailed for, on Monday, the 13th of August, 1827, as the
most copious illustration of the scene; beginning with Newport, the _fons
et origo_ of the "doings" of that remembered day. Dramatically speaking,
the _scene_ High-street, the _time_ "we may suppose near ten o'clock,"
A.M.; all silent as the woods which skirt the river Medina, so that to
hazard a gloomy analogy, you might presume that some plague had swept away
the population from the sunny streets; the deathlike calm being only
broken by the sounds of sundry sashes, lifted by the dust-exterminating
housemaid; or the clattering of the boots and spurs of some lonely ensign
issuing from the portals of the Literary Institution, condemned to lounge
away his hours in High-street. The solitary adjuncts of the deserted
promenade may be comprised in the loitering waiter at the Bugle, amusing
himself with his watch-chain, and anxiously listening for the roll of some
welcome carriage--the sullen urchin, reluctantly wending his way to school,
whilst

        "His eyes
  Are with his heart, and that is far away;"

amidst the assemblage of yachts and boats, and dukes and lords, and
oranges and gingerbread, at Cowes Regatta.

But where is all Newport? Why, on the road to Cowes, to be sure; for who
dreams of staying at home on the day of sailing for the King's Cup? If the
"courteous reader" will accompany us, we will descant on the scenery
presented on the road, as well as the numerous vehicles and thronging
pedestrians will permit us. Leaving the town-like extent of the Albany
Barracks, the prospect on the left is the Medina, graced with gently
gliding boats and barges, and skirted by fine woods. Opposite is the
wood-embosomed village of Whippingham, from which peers the "time-worn
tower" of the little church. Passing another romantic hamlet (Northwood)
the river approaching its mighty mother, the sea, widens into laky breadth;
and here the prospect is almost incomparable. On a lofty and woody hill
stands the fine modern castellated residence of John Nash, Esq. an
erection worthy of the baronial era, lifting its ponderous turrets in the
gleaming sunshine; and on another elevation contiguous to the sea, is the
castle of the eccentric Lord Henry Seymour, a venerable pile of antique
beauty. Here the spectator, however critical in landscape scenery, cannot
fail to be gratified; the blended and harmonizing shades of wood, rock,
and water; the diversities of architecture, displayed in castle, cottage,
and villa; the far-off heights of St. George's and St. Catherine's
overtopping the valley; the fine harbour of Cowes, filled with the sails
of divers countries, and studded with anchored yachts, decked in their
distinguishing flags; and around, the illimitable waters of the ocean
encircling the island, form an interesting _coup d'oeil_ of scenery which
might almost rival the imaginary magnificence of _Arcadia_.

Approaching Cowes by the rural by-road adjoining Northwood Park, the
residence of George Ward, Esq. the ocean scenery is sublimely beautiful.
In the distance is seen the opposite shores, with Calshot Castle, backed
by the New Forest, and one side of it, divided by Southampton Water, and
the woods of Netley Abbey. Here we descried the contending yachts,
ploughing their way in the direction of the Needles; but as our
acquaintance with the sailing regulations of the Royal Yacht Club will not
admit of our awarding the precedence to one or the other, we will descend
from the elevation of Northwood, amidst the din of music from the Club
House, and the hum of promenaders on the beach, and ensconce ourselves in
the snug parlour of "mine host" Paddy White, whom we used to denominate
the Falstaff of the island. Though from the land of shillelaghs and
whiskey, Paddy is entirely devoid of that gunpowder temperament which
characterizes his country; and his genuine humour, ample obesity, and
originality of delivery, entitle him to honourable identification with
"Sir John." Now, by the soul of Momus! who ever beheld a woe-begone face
at Paddy White's? Even our own, remarkable for "loathed melancholy," has
changed its moody contour into the lineaments of mirth, while listening to
him. View him holding forth to his auditors between the intervening whiffs
of his soothing pipe, and you see written in wreaths of humour on his
jolly countenance, the spirit of Falstaff's interrogatory, "What, shall I
not take mine ease _at mine inn_?" The most serious moods he evinces are,
when after detailing the local chronology of Cowes, and relating the
obituary of "the bar," consisting of the deaths of dram-drinking
landladies, and dropsical landlords, he pathetically relaxes the rotundity
of his cheeks, and exclaims, "Poor Tom! he was _a good un_." But we must
to the beach, and glance at the motley concourse assembled to behold the
nautical contest.

Was there ever a happier scene than Cowes presented on that day? But to
begin with the splendid patrons of the festival, we must turn our eyes to
the elegant Club House, built at the expense of George Ward, Esq. Before
it are arranged the numerous and efficient band of the Irish Fusileers,
and behind them, standing in graceful groups, are many of the illustrious
members of the club. That elderly personage, arrayed in ship habiliments,
is the noble Commodore, Lord Yarborough; he is in conversation with the
blithe and mustachioed Earl of Belfast. To the right of them is the
Marquess of Anglesey, in marine metamorphose; his face bespeaking the
polished noble, whilst his dress betokens the gallant sea captain. There
is the fine portly figure of Lord Grantham, bowing to George Ward, Esq.;
who, in quakerlike coat and homely gaiters, with an umbrella beneath his
arm, presents a fine picture of a speculator "on 'Change." To the left is
Richard Stephens, Esq., Secretary to the Royal Yacht Club, and Master of
the Ceremonies. He is engaged in the enviable task of introducing a party
of ladies to view the richly-adorned cups; and the smile of gallantry
which plays upon his countenance belies the versatility of his talent,
which can blow a storm on the officers of a Custom House cutter more to be
dreaded than the blusterings of old Boreas. That beautiful Gothic villa
adjoining the Club House, late the residence of the Marquess of Anglesey,
is occupied by the ladies of some of the noble members of the club,
forming as elegant and fashionable a circle as any ball-room in the
metropolis would be proud to boast of. But it is time to speak of the
crowd on the beach--lords and ladies--peers and plebeians--civilians and
soldiers--swells and sailors--respectable tradesmen and men of no
trade--coaches and carriages, and "last, not least," the Bards of the
Regatta--

  "Eternal blessings be upon their heads!
  The poets--"

singing the deeds of the contested day in strains neither Doric nor
Sapphic, but in such rhythm and measure as Aristotle has overlooked in the
compilation of his Poetic Rules; and to such music as might raise the
shade of Handel from its "cerements." Surely the Earl of Belfast must feel
himself highly flattered by the vocal compliment--

  "And as for the Earl of Belfast, he's a nobleman outright,
  They all say this, both high and low, all through the _Iley Wight_."

Reverting to the aquatic scenery, the most prominent object amidst the
"myriad convoy," is the Commodore's fine ship, the _Falcon_, 351 tons,
lying out a mile and a half to sea. Contrasting her proportions with the
numerous yachts around her, we might compare her commanding appearance to
that of some mountain giant, seated on a precipice, and watching the trial
for mastery amongst a crowd of pigmies below. Her state cabin has been
decorated in a style of magnificence for a ball in the evening, at which
200 of the nobility and gentry are expected to be present. But all eyes
are anxiously turned to the race. "Huzza for the _Arrow_," is the
acclamation from the crowd; and certain enough the swift _Arrow_, of 85
tons, Joseph Weld, Esq., has left her opponents, even the favourite
_Miranda_ spreads all sail in vain--the _Arrow_ flies too swiftly,
outstripping the _Therese_, 112 tons; the _Menai_, 163 tons; the _Swallow_,
124 tons; the _Scorpion_, 110 tons; the _Pearl_, 113 tons; the _Dolphin_,
58 tons; and the _Harriet_, 112 tons. Now she nears the starting vessel,
gliding swiftly round it--the cannons on the battlements of Cowes Castle
proclaim the victory--the music breaks forth "with its voluptuous swell,"
amidst the applause of the multitude,--and his Majesty's Cup is awarded to
the _Arrow_.

The assemblage dispersing, we will adjourn to Paddy White's, and refresh
ourselves with a cup of his Bohea, rendered more agreeable by the company's
critiques on the sailing match. At this moment Cowes contains half the
world; and every villa, and assembly-room, and tavern, and pot-house, from
the superb club-house, with its metamorphosed lords, to the Sun tap, with
its boisterous barge-men, are as happy as mortals can be. Just before oar
departure for Newport, we will to the harbour, and take a farewell peep of
the "finish" of Cowes' Regatta. Though unwelcome night has prematurely
interrupted the enjoyments of the multitude, it engenders a social
pleasure to behold the numerous lights, forming almost a concentrated
blaze--to hear the expiring cadence of the jovial song, excited by the
second bottle--and to join in the bustle of the beach, where the company
of the _Falcon_ are embarking. But good bye to Cowes--we are already on
the road to Newport; and the lateness of the hour may be conceived by the
inmates of the rural inn, the Flower Pot, drawing the white curtains of
each bed-room window. Reader, a word at parting. Art thou tired of the
commercial monotony of the city, and wearied with its eternal aspect of
brick? Has the efflorescence of thy youth been "sicklied o'er" by the
wasting turmoil of the town?--leave its precincts for one month of the
fervid summer, and forget thy cares and toils in the embowered Isle of
Wight. Let thy taste be ever so fastidious, there it may be gratified. If
thou art in love with sentimental ease and elegance, take up thy residence
amongst the library-visiting fashionables at Ryde--if thou hast a taste
for the terrific and sublime, thou canst meditate amidst the solemn and
sea-worn cliffs of Chale, and regale thine ears with the watery thunders
of the Black Gang Chine--if any veneration for antiquity lights up thy
feelings, enjoy thy dream beneath the Saxon battlements of Carisbrooke,
and poetize amidst the "sinking relics" of Quam Abbey--if geology is thy
passion, visit the "wild and wondrous" rocks of Freshwater, where thou
canst feast thine eyes with relics of the antediluvian world, and enrich
thy collection with shells of every hue--if thou longest to dissolve thy
heart in pastoral tears, _à la Keates_, adjourn to Arreton, the sweetly
secluded scene of the "Dairyman's Daughter;" where thou mayest "with
flowers commune;" or if thou hast the prevailing characteristics of a
cheerful citizen, take up thy abode amongst the life-cherishing
_bon-vivants_ of Newport--but, above all, forego not the pleasures of a
Cowes Regatta! * * H.




       *       *       *       *       *

MANNERS & CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS.

       *       *       *       *       *


ELEPHANT HUNT.


A medical officer, in a recent letter from Hambantotti says, I have just
returned from beholding a sight, which, even in this country, is of rare
occurrence, viz. an elephant hunt, conducted under the orders of
government. A minute description (though well worth perusal) would be far
too long for a letter; I shall therefore only give you what is usually
called a faint idea.

Imagine 2,000 or 3,000 men surrounding a tract of country six or eight
miles in circumference, each one armed with different combustibles and
moving fires; in the midst suppose 300 elephants, being driven towards the
centre by the gradual and regular approach of these fires, till at last
they are confined within a circle of about two miles; they are then driven
by the same means into a space made by the erection of immense logs of
ebony and other strong wood, bound together by cane, and of the shape (in
miniature) of the longitudinal section of a funnel, towards which they
rush with the greatest fury, amidst the most horrid yells on the approach
of fire, of which they stand in the greatest dread. When enclosed they
become outrageous, and charge on all sides with great fury, but without
any effect on the strong barricado; they at last gain the narrow path of
the enclosure, the extreme end of which is just large enough to admit one
elephant, which is immediately prevented breaking out by strong bars laid
across. To express their passion, their desperation, when thus confined,
is impossible; and still more so, to imagine the facility and admirable
contrivance by which they are removed and tamed. Thus it is:--A tame
elephant is placed on each side, to whom the wild one is fastened by ropes;
he is then allowed to pass out, and immediately on his making the least
resistance, the tame ones give him a most tremendous squeeze between their
sides, and beat him with their trunks until he submits; they then lead him
to a place ready prepared, to which he is strongly fastened, and return to
perform the same civility to the next one.

In this way seventy wild elephants were captured for the purpose of
government labour. The tame elephants daily take each wild one singly to
water and to feed, until they become quite tame and docile. The remaining
elephants were shot by the people.

I took possession of a young one, and have got him now tied up near my
door; he is quite reconciled, and eats with the greatest confidence out of
my hand; he is, however, too expensive to keep long, and I fear I must
eventually shoot him. Some idea of the expense may be supposed, when I
tell you that in one article alone, milk, his allowance is two gallons per
day.

I was at this scene with thirty other officers and their ladies, and we
remained in temporary huts for nearly ten days.--_Asiatic Journal._



       *       *       *       *       *

BRAZILIAN SLAVE TRADE.

_From the Memoirs of General Miller, Second Edition._


In Brazil the slave trade is seen in some of its most revolting aspects;
for there the general treatment of negro slaves is barbarous in the
extreme. About thirty thousand are annually imported into Rio Janeiro
alone, and perhaps an equal number in the other ports of the empire. One
of the many abhorrent circumstances attending this nefarious traffic is,
that, upon a vessel's arriving near the port, such slaves, as appear to be
in an irrecoverable state of disease, are frequently thrown into the sea!
This is done merely to evade the payment of the custom-house duty, which
is levied upon every slave brought into port. Instances have occurred of
their being picked up alive by coasting vessels!

Fourteen or fifteen slave ships, with full cargoes, arrived at Rio Janeiro
during the six weeks that Miller remained there. One morning that he
happened to breakfast on board a Brazilian frigate, the commander, Captain
Sheppard, kindly lent him a boat to visit a slaver of 320 tons, which had
come into port the preceding night. The master, supposing him to be in the
imperial service, was extremely attentive, and very readily answered every
inquiry. He said the homeward-bound passage had been tolerably fortunate,
only seventy-two deaths having occurred in the cargo; and that, although
thirty of the sick were then in an unsaleable plight, the owners might
calculate upon sending into the market four hundred sound and well-grown
Africans; a number that would yield a handsome profit.

After some further conversation, Miller requested permission to see the
'tween decks, upon which the muster accompanied him below, and pointed out
the manner of securing his cargo, which was by shackling each negro by one
leg to an iron bar running a midships from stem to stern, so as to form a
double row, lying feet to feet. The air was so oppressively nauseating,
that Miller could not remain below for more than two minutes. There was
hardly a slave in the whole number who was free from festering sores,
produced by constant friction from lying on the hard and unwashed decks.
Some of them were bruised so dreadfully, that it was wonderful that they
continued to exist. Their emaciated appearance might have led to the
supposition that they had been nearly starved during the passage, did not
the varied miseries to which they were subjected, sufficiently account for
their fleshless forms. A great number of them were now upon deck, and clad
in long woollen shirts, in order to be sent to the warehouses on shore.
Miller, heartily sick of this disgusting scene, took leave of the master;
but, unable to control the indignation he felt, he inveighed with great
bitterness against all wretches concerned in so iniquitous a traffic,
letting him know at the same time that he was not in the service of the
emperor. The master, though at first taken aback by the violence of the
general's invectives, soon recovered himself, and retorted in the most
insolent terms of defiance, abusing the English for meddling in what he
styled the legitimate commerce of Brazil. The state of the vessel was such
as cannot be described, and the fetid effluvia, arising from it, offended
the senses on approaching her within fifty yards. Although Miller took a
warm bath immediately upon getting on shore, the stench of the slave ship
haunted his nostrils for many days.

There is a long narrow street in Rio Janeiro exclusively appropriated to
the negro stores. It is, in fact, the slave-bazaar. The fronts of the
shops are open, and the objects for sale are seated on benches, where,
strange to say, they often pass their time in singing. People wishing to
become purchasers lounge up and down until they see a subject likely to
suit their purpose. Miller one day put on a broad-brimmed straw hat, and
walked into several of the stores, as if with a view of making a purchase.
The slave venders came forward with eagerness to show off their stock,
making their bipeds move about in every way best calculated to display
their good points, and in much the same manner that a jockey does in
showing off a horse. Those who appeared to be drowsy were made to bite a
piece of ginger, or take a pinch of snuff. If these excitements did not
prove sufficient to give them an air of briskness, they were wakened up by
a pull of the ear, or a slap on the face, which made them look about them.
Miller was so inquisitive, and his observations were so unlike those of a
_bona fide_ purchaser, that the dealers soon began to suspect he did not
intend to be a customer. One of them being in consequence rather pert in
his replies, Miller once more allowed his indignation to get the better of
his judgment, and he abused the fellow in terms more violent, if possible,
than those he had addressed to the master of the slave ship. He had some
difficulty to avoid getting into a very serious squabble, as many of the
other dealers came out and joined in the yell now raised against him. As
he passed along the street, it was like running the gauntlet; for he was
saluted by vituperations on all sides, and it was perhaps only by
preserving a menacing attitude in his retreat that he prevented something
more than a mere war of words. They dwelt with marked emphasis on the
officious English, who, instead of attending to their own affairs, would
not, they said, allow other people to gain an honest livelihood.



       *       *       *       *       *

OLD CHARING CROSS.

[Illustration: OLD CHARING CROSS.]


This is one of the celebrated memorials of the affection of Edward I. for
his beloved Elinor, being the cross erected on the last spot on which the
body rested in the way to Westminster Abbey, the place of sepulture. This
and all the other crosses were built after the designs of Cavilini; and
all of them were destroyed by the zeal of the Reformers.

Our illustration is from an engraving copied from a print found in a
mutilated genealogy published in 1602, relative to the Stuart family, in
which were portraits of James I. and family, and a print of Old St. Paul's.
Pennant, speaking of Old Charing Cross, says "from a drawing communicated
to me by Dr. Combe, it was octagonal, and in the upper stage had eight
figures; but the Gothic parts were not rich." The above print differs from
this drawing, yet it was evidently intended to represent the same subject,
"Charing Cross" being engraved at the bottom.

The site of the cross is now occupied by the Equestrian Statue of Charles
I. in which the figure and symmetry of the horse are beautifully displayed.
Indeed, it is said to be the most finished piece of workmanship of the
kind ever produced: that of Marcus Aurelius, or the two horses on the
Monte Cavallo, or Quirino at Rome not excepted.




       *        *        *        *        *

NOTES OF A READER.

       *        *        *        *        *


ODD MISTAKE.


Judge Hall says, "I once travelled through Illinois when the waters were
high; and when I was told that _Little Mary_ would stop me, and that to
get by _Big Mary_ was impossible, I supposed them to be attractive damsels,
who, like beauteous Circe of old, amused themselves with playing _tricks
upon travellers_. But, lo! instead of blushing, blooming, and melodious
maids, I found torrents cold as ice, and boisterous as furies. Mary is too
sweet a name to be thus profaned."



       *       *       *       *       *

FIGHT IN A CHURCH.


Among the ecclesiastical anecdotes of the age of the Commonwealth, is a
tradition still current at Bishop's Middleham, concerning their intrusive
vicar, John Brabant. He was a soldier in Cromwell's army; but preferring
the drum ecclesiastic to the drum military, he came with a file of troops
to Middleham, to eject the old vicar. The parishioners made a good fight
on the occasion, and succeeded in winning the pulpit, which was the key of
the position, for their proper minister; but Brabant made a soldierly
retreat into the chancel, mounted the altar, and there preached, standing,
with a brace of horse-pistols at his side. Right, however, had little
chance when Might ruled; and the old vicar, who had held the living forty
years, was ejected.



       *       *       *       *       *

SPANISH AND ITALIAN REFUGEES.


A pretty little "Garland of Miscellaneous Poems" has just been published
by one of our occasional correspondents,[1] for the Benefit of the Spanish
and Italian Refugees. These poems are gracefully written, independent of
the interest they ought to awaken from the profits of the sale being
appropriated to a benevolent purpose. We subjoin an extract--

    [1] Mr. W.H. Brandreth, author of "Field Flowers," &c.


THE FIELD OF BANNOCKBURN.

  A fearful form from Stirling's tower
    Was dimly seen to bend;
  He look'd as though, 'mid fate's far hour,
    Some mighty woe he kenn'd.
  White was his hair, and thin with age,
    One hand was raised on high,
  The other ope'd the mystic page
    Of human destiny.
  And oft, ere shone the moon's pale ray,
    His eyes were seen to turn
  Where, in the gloomy distance, lay
    The plain of Bannockburn.

  And fair uprose the queen of night,
    Shining o'er mount and main;
  Ben Lomond own'd her silvery light,
    Forth sparkled bright again.
  Fair, too, o'er loyal Scoone she shone,
    For there the Bruce had kneel'd,
  And, half forgetful, look'd she down
    On Falkirk's fatal field.
  For ere to-morrow's sun shall set,
    Stern Edward's self shall learn
  A lesson pride may ne'er forget,
    Where murmurs Bannockburn.

  A voice is heard from Stirling's tower,
    'Tis of that aged seer,
  The lover leaves his lady's bower,
    Yet chides her timid tear.
  The infant wakes 'mid wild alarms,
    Prayers are in vain outpour'd;
  The bridegroom quits his bride's fond charms,
    And half unsheaths his sword.
  Yet who may fate's dark power withstand,
    Or who its mandate spurn?
  And still the seer uplifts his hand
    And points to Bannockburn.

  "There waves a standard o'er the brae,
    There gleams a highland sword;
  Is not yon form the Stewart, say,--
    Yon, Scotland's Martial Lord?
  Douglas, with Arran's stranger chief,
    And Moray's earl, are there;
  Whilst drops of blood, for tears of grief,
    The coming strife declare.
  Oh! red th' autumnal heath-bells blow
    Within thy vale, Strathearne;
  But redder far, ere long, shall glow
    The flowers of Bannockburn!

  "Alas! for Edward's warrior pride,
    For England's warrior fame;
  Alas! that e'er from Thames' fair side
    Her gallant lances came!
  Lo! where De Bohun smiles in scorn,--
    The Bruce, the Bruce is near!
  Rash earl, no more thy hunter horn
    Shall Malvern's blue hills hear!
  Back, Argentine, and thou, De Clare,
    To Severn's banks return
  Health smiles in rural beauty there,--
    Death lours o'er Bannockburn!

  "Up, up, De Valence, dream no more
    Of Mothven's victor fight--
  Thy bark is on a stormier shore,
    No star is thine to-night.
  And thou, De Burgh, from Erin's isle,
    Whom Eth O'Connor leads,
  Love's tear shall soon usurp his smile
    In Ulster's emerald meads.
  But oh! what tears will Cambria shed
    When _she_ the tale shall learn--
  For Forth's full tide shall flow blood red,
    Ere long, from Bannockburn!

  "But not alone shall Southron vale
    Lament that day of woe--
  Grief's sigh shall soothe each ruder gale
    Where Scotia's waters flow.
  From Corra Linn, where roars the Clyde,
    To Dornoch's ocean bay--
  From Tweed, that rolls a neutral tide,
    To lonely Colinsay:--
  But see, the stars wax faint and few,
    Death's frown is dark and stern--
  But darker soon shall rise to view
    Yon field of Bannockburn!"



       *       *       *       *       *

RIVER MELODIES.


Between Pittsburgh and Shawneetown, whilst "gliding merrily down the Ohio"
in a _keel-boat_, "navigated by eight or ten of those half-horse and
half-alligator gentry commonly called Ohio boatmen," Judge Hall was lulled
to sweet sleep, as the rowers were "tugging at the oar," timing their
strokes to the cadence:--

  "Some rows up, but we rows down,
  All the way to Shawnee town:
            Pull away--pull away."



       *       *       *       *       *

REAL DISCONTENT.


The following anecdote is related of Robert de Insula, or Halieland, a man
of low birth, and one of the bishops of Durham:--Having given his mother
an establishment suitable to his own rank, and asking her once, when he
went to see her, how she fared, she answered, "Never worse!"--"What
troubles thee?" said the bishop; "hast thou not men and women enough to
attend thee?"--"Yea," quoth the old woman, "and more than enough! I say to
one--go, and he runs; to another--come hither, fellow! and the varlet
falls down on his knees;--and, in short, all things go on so abominably
smooth, that my heart is bursting for something to spite me, and pick a
quarrel withal!" The ducking-stool may have been a very needful piece of
public furniture in those days, when it was deemed one characteristic of a
notable housewife to be a good scold, and when women of a certain
description sought, in the use of vituperation, that sort of excitement
which they now obtain from a bottle and a glass.



       *       *       *       *       *

The magnificent bishop of Durham, Antony Beke, once gave forty shillings
for as many fresh herrings; and hearing someone say, "This cloth is so
dear that even bishop Antony would not venture to pay for it," immediately
ordered it to be brought and cut up into horse-cloths.



       *       *       *       *       *

SOLIMAN "THE GREAT."


Here is a specimen of the magnificence with which this historical butcher
treated his fellow-creatures:--

Among the many distinctions of Soliman's reign must be noticed the
increased diplomatic intercourse with European nations. Three years after
the capture of Rhodes, appeared the first French ambassador at the Ottoman
Porte; he received a robe of honour, a present of two hundred ducats, and,
what was more to his purpose, a promise of a campaign in Hungary, which
should engage on that side the arms of Charles and his brother, Ferdinand.
Soliman kept his promise. At the head of 100,000 men and 300 pieces of
artillery, he commenced this memorable campaign. On the fatal field of
Mohacs the fate of Hungary was decided in an unequal fight. King Lewis, as
he fled from the Turkish sabres, was drowned in a morass. The next day the
sultan received in state the compliments of his officers. The heads of
2,000 of the slain, including those of seven bishops and many of the
nobility, were piled up as a trophy before his tent. Seven days after the
battle, a tumultuous cry arose in the camp to massacre the prisoners and
peasants--and in consequence 4,000 men were put to the sword. The keys of
Buda were sent to the conqueror, who celebrated the Feast of Bairam in the
castle of the Hungarian kings. Fourteen days afterwards he began to
retire--bloodshed and devastation marking the course of his army. To
Moroth, belonging to the Bishop of Gran, many thousands of the people had
retired with their property, relying on the strength of the castle; the
Turkish artillery, however, soon levelled it, and the wretched fugitives
were indiscriminately butchered. No less than 25,000 fell here; and the
whole number of the Hungarians destroyed in the barbarous warfare of this
single campaign amounted to at least 200,000 souls.--_Foreign Quarterly
Review._



       *       *       *       *       *

LONG SNOW.


In 1614, there was one of the heaviest and longest snows which has ever
been remembered in the north of England. The Parochial Register, of Wotton
Gilbert, states that it began on the 5th of January, and continued to snow
more or less every day, (the heaviest fall being on the 22nd of February,)
till the 12th of March,--to the great loss of cattle, and of human life as
well.



       *       *       *       *       *

A GOOD BISHOP.


The great and good bishop Morton was preferred to the rectory of Long
Marston, near York, four years before what is called the great plague
began in that city, 1602. During this visitation, "he carried himself with
so much heroical charity," says his biographer, "as will make the reader
wonder to hear it." For the poorer sort being removed to the pest-house,
he made it his frequent exercise to visit them with food, both for their
bodies and souls. His chief errand was to instruct and comfort them, and
pray for them and with them; and, to make his coming the more acceptable,
he carried usually a sack of provision with him for those that wanted it.
And because he would have no man to run any hazard thereby but himself, he
seldom suffered any of his servants to come near him, but saddled and
unsaddled his own horse, and had a private door made on purpose into his
house and chamber. It was probably during this plague that the village of
Simonside (in the chapelry of South Shields) was, according to tradition,
so entirely depopulated, that the nearest townships divided the deserted
lands. There is another tradition worthy of notice, that when the plague
raged with great violence at Shields, the persons who were employed about
the salt works entirely escaped the infection.

When the London mob was excited, by the movers of rebellion, against the
bishop, this excellent prelate, on his way to the House of Lords, was
almost torn to pieces. "Pull him out of his coach!" cried some; others,
"nay he is a good man;" others, "but for all that he is a bishop!"--"I have
often," says his biographer, heard him say, he believed he should not
have escaped alive if a leading man among that rabble had not cried out,
"Let him go and hang himself," which he was wont to compare to the words of
the angel uttered by Balaam's ass. At that time he was seventy-six years
of age, and, on that account, when the protesting prelates were, for this
act of duty, committed to the Tower, he was remitted to the custody of the
usher; and then, so little had he regarded the mammon of unrighteousness,
that he had scarcely wherewith to defray the fees and charges of his
confinement.



       *       *       *       *       *

AMERICAN COMFORTS.


Pittsburgh is full of coal and smoke; in New Orleans the people play cards
on Sunday; living is dear at Washington city, and codfish cheap at Boston;
and Irishmen are plenty in Pennsylvania, and pretty girls in Rhode Island.




       *       *       *       *       *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

       *       *       *       *       *


[We need not illustrate the force, or point the moral of the following
sketch from the last number of _Blackwood's Magazine_. The parents of the
writer were of "a serious cast," and attached to evangelical tenets, which
he soon imbibed, together with an occasional tendency to gloom and nervous
irritability.]

About the year 1790, at the Assizes for the county of which the town of
C----r is the county town, was tried and convicted a wretch guilty of one
of the most horrible murders upon record. He was a young man, probably (for
he knew not his own years) of about twenty-two years of age. One of those
wandering and unsettled creatures, who seem to be driven from place to
place, they know not why. Without home; without name; without companion;
without sympathy; without sense. Hearthless, friendless, idealess, almost
soulless! and so ignorant, as not even to seem to know whether he had ever
heard of a Redeemer, or seen his written word. It was on a stormy
Christmas eve, when he begged shelter in the hut of an old man, whose
office it was to regulate the transit of conveyances upon the road of a
great mining establishment in the neighbourhood. The old man had received
him, and shared with him his humble cheer and his humble bed; for on that
night the wind blew and the sleet drove, after a manner that would have
made it a crime to have turned a stranger dog to the door. The next day
the poor old creature was found dead in his hut--his brains beaten out
with an old iron implement which he used--and his little furniture rifled,
and in confusion. The wretch had murdered him for the supposed hoard of a
few shillings. The snow, from which he afforded his murderer shelter, had
drifted in at the door, which the miscreant, when he fled, had left open,
and was frozen red with the blood of his victim. But it betrayed a
footstep hard frozen in the snow, and blood--and the nails of the
murderer's shoe were counted, even as his days were soon to be. He was
taken a few days after with a handkerchief of the old man upon his neck.
So blind is blood-guiltiness.

Up to the hour of condemnation, he remained reckless as the
wind--unrepenting as the flint--venomous as the blind-worm. With that deep
and horrible cunning which is so often united to unprincipled ignorance,
he had almost involved in his fate another vagrant with whom he had
chanced to consort, and to whom he had disposed of some of the
blood-bought spoils. The circumstantial evidence was so involved and
interwoven, that the jury, after long and obvious hesitation as to the
latter, found both guilty; and the terrible sentence of death, within
forty-eight hours, was passed upon both. The culprit bore it without much
outward emotion; but when taken from the dock, his companion, infuriated
by despair and grief, found means to level a violent blow at the head of
his miserable and selfish betrayer, which long deprived the wretch of
sense and motion, and, for some time, was thought to have anticipated the
executioner. Would it had done so! But let me do my duty as I ought--let
me repress the horror which one scene of this dreadful drama never fails
to throw over my spirit--that I may tell my story as a man--and my
confession at least be clear. When the felon awoke out of the deathlike
trance into which this assault had thrown him, his hardihood was gone; and
he was reconveyed to the cell, in which he was destined agonizingly to
struggle out his last hideous and distorted hours, in a state of abject
horror which cannot be described. He who felt nothing--knew nothing--had
now his eyes opened with terrible clearness to one object--the livid
phantasma of a strangling death. All the rest was convulsive despair and
darkness. Thought shudders at it--but let me go on,

[He visits the murderer in prison, accompanied by the clergyman.]

I undertook to pass with the murderer--his LAST NIGHT--_such_ a last!--
but let me compose myself.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was about the hour of ten, on a gusty and somewhat raw evening of
September, that I was locked up alone with the murderer. It was the
evening of the Sabbath. Some rain had fallen, and the sun had not been
long set without doors; but for the last hour and a half the dungeon had
been dark, and illuminated only by a single taper. The clergyman of the
prison, and some of my religious friends, had sat with us until the hour
of locking-up, when, at the suggestion of the gaoler, they departed. I
must confess their "good night," and the sound of the heavy door, which
the gaoler locked after him, when he went to accompany them to the
outer-gate of the gaol, sounded heavily on my heart. I felt a sudden shrink
within me, as their steps quickly ceased to be heard upon the stone
stairs--and when the distant prison door was finally closed, I watched the
last echo. I had for a moment forgotten my companion.

When I turned round, he was sitting on the side of his low pallet, towards
the head of it, supporting his head by his elbow against the wall,
apparently in a state of half stupor. He was motionless, excepting a sort
of convulsive movement, between sprawling and clutching of the fingers of
the right hand, which was extended on his knee. His shrunk cheeks
exhibited a deadly ashen paleness, with a slight tinge of yellow, the
effect of confinement. His eyes were glossy and sunken, and seemed in part
to have lost the power of gazing. They were turned with an unmeaning and
vacant stare upon the window, where the last red streak of day was faintly
visible, which they seemed vainly endeavouring to watch. The sense of my
own situation now recoiled strongly upon me; and the sight of the wretch
sitting stiffened in quiet agony, (for it was no better,) affected me with
a faint sickness. I felt that an effort was necessary, and, with some
difficulty, addressed a few cheering and consolatory phrases to the
miserable creature I had undertaken to support. My words might not--but I
fear my _tone_ was too much in unison with his feelings, such as they were.
His answer was a few inarticulate mutterings, between which, the spasmodic
twitching of his fingers became more apparent than before. A noise at the
door seemed decidedly to rouse him; and as he turned his head with a
sudden effort, I felt relieved to see the gaoler enter. He was used to
such scenes; and with an air of commiseration, but in a tone which lacked
none of the firmness with which he habitually spoke, he asked the unhappy
man some question of his welfare, and seemed satisfied with the head-shake
and inarticulately muttered replies of the again drooping wretch, as if
they were expected, and of course. Having directed the turnkey to place
some wine and slight refreshments on the table, and to trim the light, he
told me in a whisper, that my friends would be at the prison, with the
clergyman, at the hour of six; and bidding the miserable convict and
myself, after a cheering word or two, "good night," he departed--the door
was closed--and the murderer and I were finally left together.

It was now past the hour of ten o'clock; and it became my solemn duty to
take heed, that the last few hours of the dying sinner passed not, without
such comfort to his struggling soul as human help might hold out. After
reading to him some passages of the gospel, the most apposite to his
trying state, and some desultory and unconnected conversation--for the
poor creature, at times seemed to be unable, under his load of horror, to
keep his ideas connected further than as they dwelt upon his own nearing
and unavoidable execution--I prevailed upon him to join in prayer. He at
this time appeared to be either so much exhausted, or labouring under so
much lassitude from fear and want of rest, that I found it necessary to
take his arm and turn him upon his knees by the pallet-side. The hour was
an awful one. No sound was heard save an occasional ejaculation between a
sigh and a smothered groan from the wretched felon. The candle burned
dimly; and as I turned I saw, though I scarcely noticed it at the moment,
a dim insect of the moth species, fluttering hurriedly round it, the sound
of whose wings mournfully filled up the pauses of myself and my companion.
When the nerves are strained to their uttermost, by such trifling
circumstances are we affected. Here (thought I) there has been no light,
at such an hour, for many years; and yet here is one whose office it seems
to be to watch it! My spirit felt the necessity of some exertion; and with
an energy, for which a few moments before I had hardly dared to hope, I
poured out my soul in prayer. I besought mercy upon the blood-stained
creature who was grovelling beside me--I asked that repentance and peace
might be vouchsafed him--I begged, for our Redeemer's sake, that his last
moments might know that untasted rapture of sin forgiven, and a cleansed
soul, which faith alone can bring to fallen man--I conjured him to help
and aid me to call upon the name of Christ; and I bade him put off life
and forget it, and to trust in that name alone--I interceded that his
latter agony might be soothed, and that the leave-taking of body and soul
might be in quietness and peace. But he shook and shivered, and nature
clung to the miserable straw of existence which yet floated upon the wide
and dismal current of oblivion, and he groaned heavily and muttered, "No,
no, no!" as if the very idea of death was unbearable, even for a moment;
and "to die," even to him that must, were a thing impossible, and not to
be thought of or named. And as I wrestled with the adversary that had
dominion over him, he buried his shrunk and convulsed features in the
covering of his miserable pallet; while his fingers twisted and writhed
about, like so many scotched snakes, and his low, sick moans, made the
very dungeon darker.

When I lifted him from his kneeling position, he obeyed my movement like a
tired child, and again sat on the low pallet, in a state of motionless and
unresisting torpor. The damp sweat stood on my own forehead, though not so
cold as on his; and I poured myself out a small portion of wine, to ward
off the exhaustion which I began to feel unusually strong upon me. I
prevailed upon the poor wretch to swallow a little with me; and, as I
broke a bit of bread, I thought, and spoke to him, of that last repast of
Him who came to call sinners to repentance; and methought his eye grew
lighter than it was. The sinking frame, exhausted and worn down by anxiety,
confinement, and the poor allowance of a felon's gaol, drew a short
respite from the cordial; and he listened to my words with something of
self-collectedness--albeit slight tremblings might still be seen to run
along his nerves at intervals; and his features collapsed, ever and anon,
into that momentary vacuity of wildness which the touch of despair never
fails to give. I endeavoured to improve the occasion. I exhorted him, for
his soul's sake, and the relief of that which needed it too much, to make
a full and unreserved confession, not only to God, who needed it not, but
to man, who did. I besought him, for the good of all, and as he valued his
soul's health, to detail the particulars of his crime, but _his eye fell_.
That dark enemy, who takes care to leave in the heart just hope enough to
keep despair alive, tongue-tied him; and he would not--even now--at the
eleventh hour--give up the vain imagination, that the case of his
companion might yet be confounded with his, to the escape of both--and
vain it was. It had not been felt advisable, so far as to make him
acquainted with the truth, that this had already been sifted and decided;
and I judged this to be the time. Again and again I urged confession upon
him. I put it to him that this act of justice might now be done for its
own sake, and for that of the cleansing from spot of his stained spirit. I
told him, finally, that it could no longer prejudice him in this world,
where his fate was written and sealed, for that his companion _was
reprieved_. I knew not what I did. Whether the tone of my voice, untutored
in such business, had raised a momentary hope, I know not--but the
revulsion was dreadful. He stared with a vacant look of sudden horror--a
look which those who never saw cannot conceive, and which--(the
remembrance is enough)--I hope never to see again--and twisting round,
rolled upon his pallet with a stifled moan that seemed tearing him in
pieces. As he lay, moaning and writhing backwards and forwards, the
convulsions of his legs, the twisting of his fingers, and the shiverings
that ran through his frame were terrible.

To attempt to rouse him seemed only to increase their violence--as if the
very sound of the human voice was, under his dreadful circumstances,
intolerable, as renewing the sense of reality to a reason already clouding,
and upon the verge of temporary deliquium. He was the picture of despair.
As he turned his face to one side, I saw that a few, but very few hot
tears had been forced from his glassy and blood-shot eyes; and in his
writhings he had scratched one cheek against his iron bedstead, the red
discoloration of which contrasted sadly with the deathly pallidness of hue,
which his visage now showed: during his struggles, one shoe had come off,
and lay unheeded on the damp stone-floor. The demon was triumphant within
him; and when he groaned, the sound seemed scarcely that of a human being,
so much had horror changed it. I kneeled over him--but in vain. He heard
nothing--he felt nothing--he knew nothing, but that extremity of
prostration to which a moment's respite would be Dives' drop of water--and
yet in such circumstances, any thing but a mercy. He could not bear, for a
moment, to think upon his own death--a moment's respite would only have
added new strength to the agony--He might _be_ dead; but could not "--die;"
and in the storm of my agitation and pity, I prayed to the Almighty to
relieve him at once from sufferings which seemed too horrible even to be
contemplated.

How long this tempest of despair continued, I do not know. All that I can
recall is, that after almost losing my own recollection under the
agitation of the scene, I suddenly perceived that his moans were less loud
and continuous, and that I ventured to look at him, which I had not done
for some space. Nature had become exhausted, and he was sinking gradually
into a stupor, which seemed something between sleep and fainting. This
relief did not continue long--and as soon as I saw him begin to revive
again to a sense of his situation, I made a strong effort, and lifting him
up, seated him again on the pallet, and, pouring out a small quantity of
wine, gave it him to drink, not without a forlorn hope that even wine
might be permitted to afford him some little strength to bear what
remained of his misery, and collect his ideas for his last hour. After a
long pause of returning recollection, the poor creature, got down a little
of the cordial and as I sat by him and supported him, I began to hope that
his spirits calmed. He held the glass and sipped occasionally, and
appeared in some sort to listen, and to answer to the words of consolation
I felt collected enough to offer. At this moment the low and distant sound
of a clock was heard, distinctly striking one. The ear of despair is
quick;--and as he heard it, he shuddered, and in spite of a strong effort
to suppress his emotion, the glass had nearly fallen from his hand. A severe
nervous restlessness now rapidly grew upon him, and he eagerly drank up
one or two small portions of wine, with which I supplied him. His fate was
now evidently brought one degree nearer to him. He kept his gaze intently
and unceasingly turned to the window of the dungeon. His muttered replies
were incoherent, or unintelligible, and his sunk and weakened eye strained
painfully on the grated window, as if he momentarily expected to see the
first streak of the dawn of that morning, which to him was to be night.
His nervous agitation gradually became horrible, and his motions stronger.
He seemed not to have resolution enough to rise from his seat and go to
the window, and yet to have an over-powering wish or impulse to do so. The
lowest sound startled him--but with this terrible irritation, his muscular
power, before debilitated, seemed to revive, and his action, which was
drooping and languid, became quick and angular. I began to be seized with
an undefined sense of fear and alarm. In vain I combated it; it grew upon
me; and I had almost risen from my seat to try to make myself heard, and
obtain, if possible, assistance. The loneliness of the gaol, however,
rendered this, even, if attempted, almost desperate--the sense of duty,
the dread of ridicule, came across me, and chained me to my seat by the
miserable criminal, whose state was becoming every minute more dreadful
and extraordinary.

       *       *       *       *       *

Exhausted by the wearing excitement and anxiety of my situation, I had for
a moment sunk into that confused absence of mind with which those who have
been in similar circumstances cannot be unacquainted, when my miserable
companion, with a convulsive shudder, grasped my arm suddenly. I was for a
few seconds unaware of the cause of this emotion and movement, when a low,
indistinct sound caught my ear. It was the rumbling of a cart, mingled
with two or three suppressed voices; and the cart appeared to be leaving
the gate of the dismal building in which we were. It rolled slowly and
heavily as if cumbrously laden, under the paved gateway; and after a few
minutes, all was silent. The agonized wretch understood its import better
than I did. A gust of the wildest despair came suddenly over him. He
clutched with his hands whatever met his grasp. His knees worked. His
frame became agitated with one continued movement, swaying backwards and
forwards, almost to falling;--and his inarticulate complaints became
terrific. I attempted to steady him by an exertion of strength--I spoke
kindly to him, but he writhed in my grasp like an adder, and as an adder
was deaf; grief and fear had horrible possession. Myself, almost in a
state of desperation--for the sight was pitiful. I at last endeavoured to
awe him into a momentary quiescence, and strongly bade him at last to _die
like a man_; but the word "Death" had to him only the effect it may be
supposed to have upon a mere animal nature and understanding--how could it
have any other? He tried to bear it, and could not, and uttering a stifled
noise, between a yell and a moan, he grasped his own neck; his face
assumed a dark red colour, and he fell into a state of stifled convulsion.

       *       *       *       *       *

When despair had wrought with him, I lifted him with difficulty from the
floor on which he had fallen. His relaxed features had the hue of death,
and his parched lips, from a livid blue, became of an ashy whiteness. In
appearance he was dying; and in the agitation of the moment I poured a
considerable portion of the wine which had been left with us into a glass,
and, after wetting his temples, held it to his lips. He made an effort to
swallow, and again revived to consciousness; and holding the vessel firmly
in his hands, got down with difficulty and at intervals, the entire
draught. When he found it totally exhausted, the glass fell from his hands;
but he seized and held one of mine with a grasp so firm and iron-like that
the contrast startled me. He seemed to be involved in a confused whirl of
sensations. He stared round the cell with a wildness of purpose that was
appalling; and after a time, I began to see with deep remorse, that the
wine I had unguardedly given was, as is always the case, adding keenness
to his agony and strength to his despair. He half rose once or twice and
listened; all was silent--when, after the pause of a minute or two, a
sudden fit of desperation seemed to seize upon him. He rushed to the
window, and hurriedly surveying the grates, wrenched at them with a
strength demoniac and superhuman, till the iron bars shook in their
embedments.

From this period my recollections are vague and indistinct. I remember
strongly remonstrating with the poor creature, and being pushed away by
hands which were now bleeding profusely with the intense efforts of his
awful delirium. I remember attempting to stop him, and hanging upon him,
until the insane wretch clutched me by the throat, and a struggle ensued,
during which I suppose I must at length have fainted or become insensible;
for the contest was long, and while consciousness remained, terrible and
appalling. My fainting, I presume, saved my life, for the felon was in
that state of maniacal desperation which nothing but a perfect
unresistingness could have evaded.

After this, the first sensation I can recall is that of awakening out of
that state of stupor into which exhaustion and agitation had thrown me.
Shall I ever forget it? The anxiety of some of my friends had brought them
early to the gaol; and the unusual noises which had been heard by some of
its miserable inmates occasioned, I believe, the door of the cell in which
we were, to be unlocked before the intended hour. Keenly do I recollect
the struggling again into painful consciousness, the sudden sense of
cheering daylight, the sound of friendly voices, the changed room, and the
strange looks of all around me. The passage was terrible to me; but I had
yet more to undergo. I was recovered just in time to witness the poor
wretch, whose prop and consolation I had undertaken to be, carried,
exhausted and in nerveless horror, to the ignominious tree--his head
drooping on his breast, his eyes opening mechanically at intervals, and
only kept from fainting and utter insensibility by the unused and fresh
morning air, which breathed in his face, as if in cruel mockery. I looked
once, but looked no more.--* * * *




       *       *       *       *       *

THE GATHERER

       *       *       *       *       *


  A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
                            SHAKSPEARE.


It is said that the famous Burman General, Bundoola, who was killed at the
siege of Donabew, began, before his death, to evince symptoms of
Christianity. When the Mugh (a native belonging to the Chittagong frontier)
who reported this interesting fact, was pressed to explain what these
symptoms were, he replied, with much simplicity, that Bundoola was of his
"master's caste," having acquired a relish for the enjoyment of roast beef,
pork, and brandy.

W.G.C.



       *       *       *       *       *

"DRY LODGINGS TO LET."


In Ireland this notice is often given by the words "Good Dry Lodgings," by
which word dry, is not meant lodgings wet or damp, but without board. A
dry ball is used to imply, a ball without supper.



       *       *       *       *       *

SHAVING IN CHURCHYARDS.


Some centuries past it was usual in England for the barbers to shave the
parishioners in the churchyard, on high festivals, (as Easter, Whitsuntide,
&c.) before matins. The observance of this custom was restrained in the
year 1422, by a particular prohibition of Richard Flemmyng, Bishop of
Lincoln.

H.B.A.



       *       *       *       *       *

The Maréchal Grammont having for some time besieged a fortress, the
garrison of which held out obstinately, a capitulation at length took
place, upon the signing of which, the governor of the fortress said,
"Maréchal, I will be candid with you, if I had not been bereft of a bullet
to defend myself, I should not have surrendered."--"That I may not appear
wanting in candour," replied the Maréchal, "I must tell you that had I had
any more powder, I would not have acceded to the terms of capitulation."



       *       *       *       *       *

NOVEL HERALDRY.


A gentleman having sent a porter on a message, which he executed much to
his satisfaction, had the curiosity to ask his name; being informed it was
Russell, "Pray," says the gentleman "is your coat of arms the same as the
Duke of Bedford's?" "As to our arms, your honour," said the porter, "I
believe they are pretty much alike; but there is a deal of difference
between our coats."



       *       *       *       *       *

LIMBIRD'S EDITION OF THE

_Following Novels is already Published:_

                                         _s_.  _d_.
  Mackenzie's Man of Feeling              0     6
  Paul and Virginia                       0     6
  The Castle of Otranto                   0     6
  Almoran and Hamet                       0     6
  Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia     0     6
  The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne      0     6
  Rasselas                                0     8
  The Old English Baron                   0     8
  Nature and Art                          0     8
  Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield          0    10
  Sicilian Romance                        1     0
  The Man of the World                    1     0
  A Simple Story                          1     4
  Joseph Andrews                          1     6
  Humphry Clinker                         1     8
  The Romance of the Forest               1     8
  The Italian                             2     0
  Zeluco, by Dr. Moore                    2     6
  Edward, by Dr. Moore                    2     6
  Roderick Random                         2     6
  The Mysteries of Udolpho                3     6
  Peregrine Pickle                        4     6

       *       *       *       *       *

_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._