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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. XIV., NO. 389.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1829. [PRICE 2d.




       *       *       *       *       *





SION HOUSE.


[Illustration: Sion House.]


Taylor, the water poet, or Samuel Ireland, the picturesque Thames
tourist, could not, in all their enthusiasm of jingling rhymes and
aquatint plates, have exceeded our admiration of Sion House. Its
whitened towers and battlemented roof are known to all the swan-hopping
and steam navigators of our day, and none who have floated

  To where the silver Thames first rural grows,--


can be strangers to the magnificence of the river-front.

Sion House stands in the parish of Isleworth, on the Middlesex bank
of the Thames, and opposite Richmond gardens. It is called Sion
from a nunnery of Bridgetines of the same name, originally founded at
Twickenham, by Henry V. in 1414, and removed to this spot in 1432.
This conventual association consisted of sixty nuns, the abbess,
thirteen priests, four deacons, and eight lay brethren; the whole thus
corresponding, in point of number, with the Apostles and seventy-two
disciples of Christ. But the inmates were neither sinless nor spotless;
many irregularities existed in the foundation, and consequently, Sion
was among the first of the larger monastic institutions suppressed by
Henry VIII. The estimated yearly value was 1,944 l. 11 s. 8-1/2 d.,
now worth 38,891 l. 14 s. 2d.

After the dissolution of this convent, in 1532, it continued in the
crown during the remainder of Henry's reign; and the King confined here
his unfortunate Queen, Catherine Howard, from November 14, 1541, to
February 10, 1542, being three days before her execution. Edward VI.
granted it to his uncle, the Duke of Somerset, who, in 1547, began to
build this spacious structure, and finished the shell of it nearly as it
now remains. The house is a majestic edifice of white stone, built in a
quadrangular form, with a flat and embattled roof, with a square turret
at each of the outward angles. In the centre is an enclosed area, now
laid out as a flower garden. The gardens were originally enclosed by
high walls before the east and west fronts, so as to exclude all
prospect; but the Protector, to remedy this inconvenience, built a high
terrace in the angle between the walls of the two gardens. After his
execution, in 1552, Sion was forfeited; and the house, which was given
to John, Duke of Northumberland, then became the residence of his son,
Lord Guildford Dudley, and of his daughter-in-law, the unfortunate Lady
Jane Grey, who resided at this place when the Duke of Northumberland and
Suffolk, and her husband, came to prevail upon her to accept the fatal
present of the crown. The duke being beheaded in 1553, Sion House
reverted to the crown. Queen Mary restored it to the Bridgetines, who
possessed it till they were finally expelled by Elizabeth. In 1604, Sion
House was granted to Henry Percy, ninth Earl of Northumberland, in
consideration of his eminent services. His son, Algernon, employed Inigo
Jones to new face the inner court, and to finish the great hall in the
manner in which it now appears. In 1682, Charles, Duke of Somerset, by
his marriage with the only child of Joceline, Earl of Northumberland,
became possessed of Sion House: he lent the mansion to the Princess
Anne, who resided here during the misunderstanding between her and Queen
Mary. Upon the duke's death, in 1748, his son, Algernon, gave Sion House
to Sir Hugh and Lady Elizabeth Smithson, his son-in-law and daughter,
afterwards Duke and Duchess of Northumberland, who made many fine
improvements here, under the direction of Robert Adam, Esq. The late
duke (who distinguished himself at the battle of Bunker's Hill) passed
the principal part of his time at this seat; and here, also, he died,
in the year 1815. The present duke has expended immense sums in the
improvement of the mansion, grounds, and gardens.

The entrance is from the great road through a fine gateway, having on
each side an open colonnade, and on the top a lion passant, the crest
of the noble house of Northumberland. A flight of steps leads into the
great hall, sixty-six feet by thirty-one feet, and thirty-four in
height, paved with white and black marble, and ornamented with colossal
statues, and an extremely fine bronze cast of the Dying Gladiator, cast
at Rome, by Valadier. A flight of veined marble steps leads to the
vestibule, with a floor of scagliola, and twelve large Ionic columns
and sixteen pilasters of _verde antique_. This leads to the dining
room, ornamented with marble statues and paintings in _chiaro
oscuro_, after the antique, with, at each end, a circular recess,
separated by Corinthian columns, fluted, and a ceiling in stucco, gilt.
The drawing room has a rich carved ceiling; and the sides are hung with
three-coloured silk damask, the finest of the kind ever executed in
England. The antique mosaic tables, and the chimney-piece of this
apartment are very splendid, as are also the glasses, which are 108
inches by 65. The great gallery, serving for the library and museum, is
133-½ feet by 14, is in stucco, after the finest remains of antiquity,
and is remarkable as the first specimen of stucco work finished in
England. A series of medallion-paintings here represents the portraits
of all the earls of Northumberland, in succession, and other principal
persons of the houses of Percy and Seymour. At each end is a little
pavilion, finished in exquisite taste; as is also a beautiful closet
in one of the square turrets rising above the roof, which commands an
enchanting prospect.

From the east end of the gallery is a suite of private apartments
leading back to the great hall, and hung with valuable paintings,
among which are the following portraits: Henry Percy, ninth Earl of
Northumberland, who was implicated in the Gunpowder Plot, and imprisoned
in the Tower; he died November 5, 1632, the anniversary of the day so
fatal to his happiness. Lucy, Countess of Carlisle, his daughter, one of
the most admired beauties of her time; she also died November 5, 1660.
Algernon Percy, tenth Earl of Northumberland. Charles I. and one of his
sons, by Sir P. Lely. Charles I. by Vandyke. Queen Henrietta Maria,
Vandyke. The Duke of Gloucester, son of Charles I. The Princess
Elizabeth, daughter of Charles I.; this is believed to be the only
picture extant of this lady. The above portraits of the Stuart family
are placed in the apartments in which Charles had so many tender
interviews with his children, after the latter were committed to the
charge of Earl Algernon Percy, and removed to Sion House, in August,
1646. The earl treated them with parental attention, and obtained a
grant of Parliament for the king to be allowed to see them; and in
consequence of this indulgence, the latter, who was then under restraint
at Hampton Court, often dined with his family at Sion House.

Two of the principal fronts of Sion House command very beautiful
scenery; for even the Thames itself appears to belong to the gardens,
which are separated into two parts by a serpentine river that
communicates with the Thames.

The gardens were principally laid out by Brown: they have, however,
been lately improved and re-arranged; and the kitchen-garden is almost
unequalled by any thing in the kingdom. Here is a range of hothouses
upwards of 400 feet in length, constructed of metal, even to the
wall-plates, the doors, and framing of the sashes; the whole being
glazed with plate-glass. It is impossible for us to describe the extent
and completeness of these improvements, connected with which, Mr. Loudon
observes--"nothing can be more gratifying than to see a nobleman
employing a part of his income in so judicious and spirited a
manner."[1]

    [1] Mr Loudon promises an account of these improvements for the next
        number of his valuable _Gardener's Magazine_.


       *       *       *       *       *




RETROSPECTIVE GLEANINGS.

       *       *       *       *       *


MONKISH  VERSES.

(For the _Mirror_.)


MIRROR, vol. xii. pp. 98, 165.

The following is said to have been the epitaph on the tomb of Fair
Rosamond, at Godstow:--

  _Hic jacet in tomba, Rosamundae non Rosamundi,
  Non redolet sed olet quae redolere solet_.


TRANSLATED.

  Within this tomb lies the world's fairest rose;
  Whose scent now charms not, but offends the nose.

  MIRROR, vol. xiii. p. 98.


The couplet on York Minster, translated.

  As of all flowers the rose is still the sweetest,
  So of all churches this is the completest.


On the stone in the coronation chair in Westminster Abbey.

  _Ni fallat fatum, Scoti quocunque loquitur,
  Inveniant lapidem, regnare teneter ibidem_.


TRANSLATED.

  Unless old proverbs fail, and wizard's wits be blind,
  The Scots shall surely reign, where'er this stone they find.


Luther sent a glass to Dr. Justus Jonas, with the following verses:--

  _Dat vitrum vitro, Jonae, vitro ipse Lutherus,
  Se similem ut fragili noscat uterque vitro_.


TRANSLATED.

  Luther a glass, to Jonas Glass, a glass doth send,
  That both may know ourselves to be but glass, my friend.


PRIOR.

MIRROR, vol. xii. p. 184.


Prior's epitaph on himself was parodied as follows:--

  Hold Mathew Prior, by your leave,
    Your epitaph is very odd:
  Bourbon and you are sons of Eve,
    Nassau the offspring of a God.


Which being shewn to Swift he wrote the following:--

  Hold, Mathew Prior, by your leave,
    Your epitaph is barely civil;
  Bourbon and you are sons of Eve,
    Nassau the offspring of the devil.


In the "Spectator," is part of an epitaph by Ben Jonson, on Mary
Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, and sister of Sir Philip Sidney. The
following is the whole, taken from the first edition of Jonson's works,
collected as they were published:--

  Underneath this stone doth lie,
  As much virtue as could die;
  Which when alive did vigour give,
  To as much beauty as could live;
  If she had a single fault,
  Leave it buried in this vault.


Another on the same, from the same source:--

  Underneath this sable hearse,
  Lies the subject of all verse,
  Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother,
  Death ere thou hast slain another,
  Fair, and good, and learn'd as she,
  Time shall throw a dart at thee;
  Marble piles, let no man raise
  To her fame; for after days,
  Some kind woman born as she,
  Reading this, like Niobe,
  Shall turn statue and become
  Both her mourner and her tomb.


A CORRESPONDENT.

       *       *       *       *       *


The Londiners pronounce woe to him, that buyes a horse in Smith-field,
that takes a Seruant in Paul's Church, that marries a Wife out of
Westminster. Londiners, and all within the sound of Bow-Bell, are in
reproch called Cocknies, and eaters of buttered tostes. The Kentish
men of old were said to haue tayles, because trafficking in the Low
Countries, they neuer paid full payments of what they did owe, but still
left some part vnpaid. Essex men are called calues, (because they abound
there,) Lankashire eggepies, and to be wonne by an Apple with a red
side. Norfolke wyles (for crafty litigiousness:) Essex stiles, (so many
as make walking tedious,) Kentish miles (of the length.)

--_Moryson's Itinerary_, 1617.

       *       *       *       *       *


ORIGIN OF THE WORD SMECTYMNUUS.

(For the _Mirror_.)


This was a cant term that made some figure in the time of the Civil War,
and during the Interregnum. It was formed of the initial letters of the
names of five eminent Presbyterian ministers of that time, viz. Stephen
Marshall, Edmund Calamy, Thomas Young, Matthew Newcomen, and William
Spenstow; who, together, wrote a book against Episcopacy, in the year
1641, whence they and their retainers were called Smectymnuans. They
wore handkerchiefs about their necks for a note of distinction (as the
officers of the parliament-army then did) which afterwards degenerated
into cravats.

P.T.W.

       *       *       *       *       *


CIVIC FEAST IN 1506.

(For the _Mirror_.)


In the court room of Salters' Hall there appears, framed and glazed, the
following "Bill of fare for fifty people of the Company of Salters, A.D.
1506."

                                      s. d.
  Thirty-six chickens                 4  5
  One swan and four geese             7  0
  Nine rabbits                        1  4
  Two rumps of beef tails             0  2
  Six quails                          1  6
  Two oz. of pepper                   0  2
  Two oz. of cloves and mace          0  4
  One and a half oz. of saffron       0  6
  Eight lbs. of sugar                 0  8
  Two lbs. of raisins                 0  4
  One lb. of dates                    0  4
  One and a half lb. of comfits       0  2
  Half a hundred eggs                 0  2-1/2
  Four gallons of curds               0  4
  One ditto gooseberries              0  2
  Bread for the company               1  1
  One kilderkin of ale                2  3
  Herbs                               1  0
  Two dishes of butter                0  4
  Four breasts of veal                1  5
  Brawn                               0  6
  Quarter load of coals               0  4
  Faggots                             0  2
  Three and a half gallons of
    Gascoigne wine                    2  4
  One bottle of Muscovadine           0  8
  Cherries and tarts                  0  8
  Verjuice and vinegar                0  2
  Paid the cook                       3  4
  Perfume                             0  2
  One bushel and a half of meal       0  8
  Water                               0  3
  Garnishing the vessels              0  3
                                 -------------
  Total of feast for 50 people   £1  13  2-1/2
                                 -------------


CURIOS.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

       *       *       *       *       *


VIDOCQ. (Concluded.)


We have a vulgar book called _Frauds of London laid open_, and
Vidocq's fourth volume will serve for Paris, since he defines the
nomenclature--nay the very craft of thieves with great minuteness:
thus--


_The Chevaliers Grimpants_.

"The Chevaliers Grimpants, called also _voleurs au bonjour_, _donneurs
de bonjours_, _bonjouriers_, are those who introduce themselves into a
house and carry off in an instant the first movable commodity that falls
in their way. The first _bonjouriers_ were I am assured, servants
out of place. They were at first few in number, but, soon acquiring
pupils, their industry increased so rapidly, that from 1800 to 1812,
there was scarcely a day that robberies were not committed in Paris of
from a dozen to fifteen baskets of plate.

"The _Almanach du commerce, l'Almanach royal_, and that with
twenty-five thousand addresses in it, are, for bonjouriers, the most
interesting works that can be published. Every morning, before they go
out, they consult them; and when they propose visiting any particular
house, it is very seldom that they are not acquainted with the names of
at least two persons in it; and that they may effect an entrance, they
inquire for one when they see the porter, and endeavour to rob the other.

"A _bonjourier_ has always a gentlemanly appearance, and his shoes
always well made and thin. He gives the preference to kid before any
other leather, and takes care to bruise and break the sole that it may
not creak or make any noise; sometimes the sole is made of felt; at
other times, and especially in winter, the kid slipper, or dogskin shoe,
is replaced by list shoes, with which they can walk, go up stairs, or
descend a staircase, without any noise. The theft _au bonjour_, is
effected without violence, without skeleton keys, without burglariously
entering. If a thief sees a key in a door of a room, he first knocks
very gently, then a little harder, then very loudly; if no person
answers, he turns the handle, and thus enters the antechamber.
He then advances to the eating-room, penetrates even to the adjoining
apartments, to see if there be any person there; returns, and if the key
of the sideboard is not to be seen, he looks in all the places in which
he knows it is generally deposited, and if he finds it, he instantly
uses it to open the drawers, and taking out the plate, he places it
generally in his hat, after which, he covers it with a napkin, or fine
cambric handkerchief, which, by its texture and whiteness, announces the
gentleman. Should the _bonjourier_, whilst on his enterprise, hear
any person coming, he goes straight towards him, and accosting him,
wishes him good morning (_le bonjour_) with a smiling and almost
familiar air, and inquires if it be not Monsieur 'such a one,' to whom
he has the honour of addressing himself. He is directed to the story
higher or lower, and, then still smiling, evincing the utmost politeness
and making a thousand excuses and affected bows, he withdraws. It may so
happen, that he has not had time to consummate his larceny, but most
frequently the business is perfected, and the discovery of loss only
made too late to remedy it.

"The majority of the thieves in this particular line commence their
incursions with morning, at the hour when the housekeepers go out for
their cream, or have a gossip whilst their masters and mistresses are in
bed. Other _bonjouriers_ do not open the campaign until near dinner
time; they pitch upon the moment when the plate is laid upon the table.
They enter, and in the twinkling of an eye, they cause spoons, forks,
ladles, &c. to vanish. This is technically termed _goupiner à la
desserte_, (clearing the cloth).

"One day one of these _goupineurs à la desserte_ was on the look
out in a dining room, when a servant entered carrying two silver dishes,
between which were some fish. Without being at all disconcerted, he went
up to her, and said--'Well, go and bring up the soup, the gentlemen are
in a hurry.'

"'Yes, sir,' said the maid, taking him for one of the guests, 'it is
quite ready, and if you please you can announce the dinner.'

"At the same time she ran to the kitchen, and the _goupineur_,
after having hastily emptied the dishes, thrust them between his
waistcoat and shirt. The girl returned with the broth, the pretended
guest had retired, and there was not a single piece of silver left on
the table. They denounced this theft to me, and from the statement
given, as well as the description of the person committing the robbery,
I thought I had recognised my man. He was called _Cheinaux_, alias
_Bayer_, and was discovered and apprehended in Saint Catherine's
market. His shirt was marked with the circumference of the dishes, in
consequence of the remains of the sauce left in them.

"Another body of _bonjouriers_ more particularly direct their
talents to furnished houses.

"The individuals forming this class are on foot from the dawn of day.
Their talent is evinced by the adroit mode in which they baffle the
vigilance of the porters. They go up the staircase, sometimes on one
pretext, and sometimes on another, look round them, and if they find any
keys in the doors, which is common enough, they turn them with the least
possible noise. Once in the room, if the occupant be asleep, farewell to
his purse, his watch, his jewels, and all that he has that is valuable.
If he awakes, the visiter has a thousand excuses ready.

"'A thousand pardons, sir, I thought this was No. 13;' or, 'Was it you,
sir, who sent for a bootmaker, tailor, hairdresser,'" &c. &c.


_The Detourneurs and Detourneuses_.

"The robbery _à la detourne_ is that which is effected whilst
making purchases at a shop. This species of plunder is practised by
individuals of both sexes; but the _détourneuses_, or _lady prigs_,
are generally esteemed more expert than the _detourneurs_, or
_gentlemen prigs_. The reason of this superiority consists entirely in
the difference of dress; women can easily conceal a very large parcel.

"In retail shops it would be an advisable plan, when there are many
customers to serve, that from time to time the shopmen should say to
each other, _deux sur dix_ (two on ten), or else _allumez les
gonzesses_ (twig the prigs). I will bet a thousand to one, that on
hearing these words, the thieves, who have very fine ears, will make
haste to take themselves away.

"Shopkeepers of what class soever, particularly retailers, cannot be
too much on their guard; they should never forget that in Paris there
are thousands of male and female thieves _à la detourne_, I here
only speak of robbers by profession; but there are also _amateurs_,
who, beneath the cover of a well-established reputation, make small
acquisitions slyly and unsuspectedly. They are very honest people they
say, who with little scruple indulge their propensity for a rare book,
a miniature, a cameo, a mosaic, a manuscript, a print, a medal, or
a jewel that pleases them; they are called _Chipeurs_. If the
_Chipeur_ be rich, no heed is paid to him, he is too much above
such a larceny to impute it to him as a crime; if he be poor, he is
denounced to the attorney-general, and sent to the galleys, because
he robbed from necessity. It must be owned that we have strange ideas
as to honesty and dishonesty."

This is what we call _Shoplifting_. A milliner once told us that
ribands and flowers not unfrequently attach themselves to the cuffs and
sleeves of fair purchasers.


_Careurs_

Belong to the same class of thieves, and are gipsies, Italians, or Jews.
The female Careurs are very expert in robbing priests; and Vidocq
apprehended a mother and daughter for more than sixty such offences.

"The gipsies do not confine themselves to these means of appropriating
to themselves the property of another: they frequently commit murder,
and they have the less objection to commit a murder, because they have
no feeling of any kind of remorse; and they have a peculiar kind of
expiation whereby they purify themselves. For a year they wear a coarse
woollen shirt, and abstain from '_work_' (robbing). This period
elapsed, they believe themselves white as snow. In France, the majority
of the persons of this caste call themselves Catholics, and have every
external show of great devotion. They always carry about them rosaries
and a crucifix; they say their prayers night and morning, and follow
the service with much attention and precision. In Germany, they seldom
exercise any other calling than that of horse doctor, or herbalist:
some addict themselves to medicine, that is to say, profess to be in
possession of secret means of effecting cures. A vast number of them
travel in bodies, some tell fortunes, others mend glass, china, pots,
and pans; woe to the inhabitants of the country overrun by these
vagabonds. There will infallibly be a mortality amongst the cattle, for
the gipsies are very clever in killing them, without leaving any traces
which can be converted into a charge of malevolence against them. They
kill the cows by piercing them to the heart with a long and very fine
needle, so that the blood flowing inwardly, it may be supposed that the
animal died of disease. They stifle poultry with brimstone; they know
that then they will give them the dead birds; and whilst they imagine
that they have a taste for carrion, they make good cheer, and eat
delicious meat. Sometimes they want hams, and then they take a red
herring and hold it under the nose of a pig, which, allured by the
smell, would follow them to the world's end."


_Rouletiers_

Are fellows who plunder carriages of portmanteaus, imperials, &c.

"One day I followed a famous _rouletier_ named _Gosnet_. On reaching
the Rue Saint Denis, he jumped up on a coach, put on a cloak and cotton
cap which he found lying close to his hand, and in this dress got down
again with a portmanteau under his arm. It was not later than two
o'clock in the afternoon; but to elude all suspicion, Gosnet, on
alighting, went straight to the _conducteur_ (guard), and after
having spoken to him, turned down a street close at hand. I was in
waiting for him, he was apprehended and sentenced."


_Tireurs_,

Or pickpockets are as abundant as mushrooms.

"There was in Paris a thief of such incredible dexterity that he robbed
without an accomplice. He placed himself in front of a person, put his
hand behind him, and took either a watch or some other valuable. This
species of thievery is called the _vol à la chicane_.

"A fellow named Molin, alias _Moulin le Chapelier_, being under the
portico des Français, was desirous of stealing a gentleman's purse: the
sufferer, who was near the wall, thought he felt some one picking his
pocket; Molin, full of presence of mind, effected his object in an
instant, the purse was torn from the pocket, he opened it, and taking
out a coin, asked for a ticket for the play. At the same moment the
person robbed said to him--'But, sir, you have taken my purse, give it
to me.'--'The devil I have,' replied Molin with an air of affected
surprise, 'are you quite sure?' Then looking attentively at it--'By
heavens! I thought it was mine. Oh! sir, I ask your pardon.'

"At the same time he returned the purse, and all the bystanders were
persuaded that he had done it involuntarily. This is being _fly_,
or I know nothing about it.

"At the time of the great fog, Molin and a _pal_ named Dorlé were
stationed at the environs of the Place des Italiens. An old gentleman
passed, and Dorlé stole his watch which he passed to Molin. The darkness
was so great that he could not discern if it were a repeater or not, and
to ascertain this, Molin pressed down the spring: the hammer instantly
struck on the bell, and by the sound the old man knew his watch, and
instantly cried out--'My watch! my watch! pray restore me my watch,
it belonged to my grandfather, and is a family piece.'

"Whilst uttering these lamentations, he endeavoured to go in the
direction whence the sound had proceeded, to get his watch as he
expected and hoped to do. He came close up to Molin, who, under cover
of the dense fog, put his hand with the watch in it close to the old
gentleman's ear, and pushing the spring again, said, whilst the watch
was striking--'Listen then to its sounds for the last time;' and with
this cruel advice the two thieves then went away, leaving the worthy
undone elderly to bewail his loss.

"The ancient _voleurs à la tire_ cite still, as amongst the
celebrated personages of their profession, two Italians, the brothers
Verdure, the eldest of whom, convicted of forming one of a band of
chauffeurs, was sentenced to death. On the day of execution, the
younger, who was at liberty, wished to see his brother as he left the
prison, and with several of his comrades took his station on the road.
When thieves go out in the evening into a crowd they generally have a
preconcerted word of alarm or summons, by which to call or distinguish
their accomplices. Young Verdure, on seeing the fatal car, uttered
his, which was _lorge_, to which the criminal, looking about him,
replied _lorge_. This singular salute given and returned, it may be
imagined that young Verdure retired. On his road he had already stolen
two watches; he saw his brother's head fall from the block, and either
before or afterwards he was determined to carry matters to their utmost.

"The crowd having dispersed he returned to the cabaret with his
comrades. 'Well, well,' said he, laying down on the table four watches
and a purse, 'I think I have not played my cards amiss. I never thought
to have made such a haul at my _frater's_ death; I am only sorry
he's not here to have his share of the _swag_.'"

Ring-droppers, and _Emporteurs_ ("gentlemen who lose themselves") are
next shown up: to the latter class belong the fellows who, under
pretence of inquiring their road, fall into conversation with you,
invite you to billiards, and cheat you.[2] Ring-droppers are very
troublesome in Paris, especially in the _Champs Elyseés_, where
you may be teazed to buy a copper-framed eye-glass which they have
just "found."


_Riffaudeurs, or Chauffeurs_,

Were thieves assuming the garb of country dealers, or travelling
hawkers; and they sought to wring from their victims a confession of
where they had concealed their treasure, by applying fire to the soles
of their feet.

The Fourth Volume closes abruptly with a story of a gang of them, which
has all the horrors of rack and torture. In the Translator's sequel we
find the following:--

"Since the commencement of these Memoirs, M. Vidocq has given up his
paper manufactory at St. Mandé, and has been subsequently confined in
Sainte Pelagie for debt. His embarrassments are stated to have arisen
from a passion for gambling, a propensity which, once indulged, takes
deep root in the human mind; and few indeed, lamentably few, are those
who can effectually eradicate the fatal passion. Vidocq, who could
assume all shapes like a second Proteus, who underwent bitter hardships,
and unsparingly jeopardized his life at any time, could not resist the
fell temptation which has brought him to distress and a prison.

"It has been stated in some of the Journals that Vidocq has a son
named Julius, who was condemned to the galleys, and when liberated was
employed by his father at Sainte Mandé. This must be another bitter
in his life's cup, which Vidocq seems condemned to drain to the very
dregs."

We need hardly be told why Vidocq has withheld the information
respecting the state of crime in France, which he promised, and made a
grand parade of possessing. The length to which his Memoirs have been
spun out is tedious, and the air of romance which he has given to some
scenes in the concluding volume, almost invalidates its forerunners.
Still we are bound to confess that his adventures are equal in interest
to any work of fact or fiction that has appeared for several years.
We omit the translations of some slang songs, one of which appeared
recently in _Blackwood's Magazine_; still, they are exceedingly
clever in their way.

The present volume has a portrait of Vidocq, upon which we hope the
physiognomists will speculate; for with all his peccadilloes, (and a
hard set of features which the engraver has probably hardened) the
author must be a clever and a very pleasant fellow; and we wish some
myrmidon of our police--some English Vidocq--would write four pretty
pocket volumes like those of the French policeman. Perhaps some of the
new appointed will take this hint.

To conclude, after what we have said, our readers need not be
recommended to turn to _Vidocq's Memoirs_. They will find the
translation generally well executed, although we have detected several
slips in the last volume.


    [2] A _ruse_ of this description will be found in the MIRROR,
        vol. X. page. 305, prefixed to a paper on French Gaming Houses.


       *       *       *       *       *




SOUTHWELL CHURCH.


[Illustration: Southwell Church.]


The town of Southwell, in the county of Nottingham, is situated in the
midst of an amphitheatre of well-wooded hills; the soil is rich, and the
air, from the vicinity of the River Trent, is remarkably pure. It is
fourteen miles north-east of Nottingham, about as many south-east of
Mansfield, and eight south-west from Newark; the River Greet, famous
for red trout, runs by the side of the town, falling into the Trent,
at about three miles distance.

The most ancient part of the church is of the order usually called
Saxon, and from tradition is said to have been built in the time of
Harold, predecessor of William I. But there is no history or written
instrument of any kind now extant, concerning the origin of this
structure. The two side aisles are of pure Norman architecture.
The choir was built in the reign of Edward III. as appears by a license
of the eleventh year of that king's reign, to the chapter, to get
stones from a quarry in Shirewood Forest for building the choir. The
chapter-house is a detached building, connected by a cloister with
the north aisle of the choir, and is on the model of that at York.
The arch of entrance from the aisle, is said to exceed in elegance and
correctness of execution, almost every thing of the kind in the kingdom;
the chapter-house is of Gothic architecture, and the arch forming the
approach is considered of modern insertion, the sculpture being finer
and more delicate than any thing near it. This church and Ripon are
said to be the only parochial, as well as collegiate, churches now in
England, the rest having been dissolved by Henry VIII. or his
successors.

At the Reformation, its chantries were dissolved, and the order of
priests expelled about the year 1536. In 1542, Lee, then Archbishop
of York, granted, by indenture to the king, the manor of Southwell.
In the thirty-fourth year of his reign, Henry VIII., by act of
parliament, declared Southwell the head and mother church of the town
and county of Nottingham, and soon afterwards re-founded and re-endowed
it, probably at the instance of Cranmer, at that time in the height of
favour, who was a native of Nottinghamshire, not far from Southwell.
Soon after the accession of Edward VI. the chapter was again dissolved,
and its prebendal, and other estates granted to John, Earl of Warwick,
afterwards made Duke of Northumberland; by him they were sold to John
Beaumont, Master of the Rolls, and coming soon afterwards to the crown,
by escheat, were granted to the favourite Northumberland, who retained
them until his attainder in 1553, when they again reverted to the crown;
and by Queen Mary were restored to the Archbishop of York, in as ample
manner as they had before been holden. It appears from the _Registrum
Album_, a register of the church, that in the latter end of the
reign of William I. there were at least ten prebends. In the office of
augmentation, an estimate of Southwell College, in the first of Edward
VI. states King Edgar to have been the founder of the church, which
consisted of sixteen prebends, and sixteen vicars. There are now
sixteen prebends, of which the Archbishop of York is sole patron, a
vicar-general appointed out of the prebendaries by the chapter, six
vicars, and six choristers. Alfric, appointed to the See of York in
1023, gave two large bells to the church of Southwell (William of
Malmsbury.) This was about the time of bells coming generally into use.
King Stephen granted that the canons of Southwell should hold the woods
of their prebends, in their own hands, which succeeding monarchs, Henry
II. Richard, John, and Henry III. confirmed. There are two fellowships,
and two scholarships, founded in St. John's College, Cambridge, by Dr.
Keton, canon of Sarum, twenty-second Henry VI. to be presented by the
master, fellows, and scholars of that college, to persons having served
as choristers in the chapter of Southwell. In the civil wars nearly all
the records of Southwell Church were destroyed, the _Registrum
Album_ escaping, which contains grants of most of the revenues
belonging to the church, from soon after the conquest, nearly to the end
of Henry VIII. Southwell is supposed by antiquarians to be the "_Ad
Pontem_" of the Romans, one of the stations on the Roman Way from
London to Lincoln, situated at a distance from any route of importance
between the most frequented part of the kingdom. For many centuries it
was hardly known by name--and, till within thirty years there was no
turnpike road to it in any direction. Thus denied access to the rest
of the world, the people of Southwell lived a separate and distinct
society, retaining their own manners untainted by the world; and
among them traditions were handed down pure and unadulterated by the
speculations of the learned, or the discoveries of antiquarians.

NEMO.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE SKETCH-BOOK.

       *       *       *       *       *


SIGHMON DUMPS.


Anthony Dumps, the father of my hero (the subject matter of a story
being always called the hero, however little heroic he may personally
have been) married Dora Coffin on St. Swithin's day in the first year
of the last reign.

Anthony was then comfortably off, but through a combination of adverse
circumstances he went rapidly down in the world, became a bankrupt, and
being obliged to vacate his residence in St. Paul's Churchyard, he
removed to No. 3, Burying Ground Buildings, Paddington Road, where Mrs.
Dumps was delivered of a son.

The depressed pair agreed to christen their babe Simon, but the
name was registered in the parish book with the first syllable spelt
"S--I--G--H;"--whether the trembling hand of the afflicted parent
orthographically erred, or whether a bungling clerk caused the error
I know not; but certain it is that the infant Dumps was registered
SIGHMON.

Sighmon sighed away his infancy like other babes and sucklings, and when
he grew to be a hobedy-hoy, there was a seriousness in his visage, and
a much-ado-about-nothing-ness in his eye, which were proclaimed by good
natured people to be indications of deep thought and profundity; while
others less "flattering sweet," declared they indicated naught but want
of comprehension, and the dulness of stupidity.

As he grew older he grew graver, sad was his look, sombre the tone of
his voice, and half an hour's conversation with him was a very serious
affair indeed.

Burying Ground Buildings, Paddington Road, was the scene of his infant
sports. Since his failure, his father had earned his _lively_hood,
by letting himself out as a mute, or mourner, to a furnisher of
funerals.

"_Mute_" and "_voluntary woe_" were his stock in trade.

Often did Mrs. Dumps ink the seams of his small-clothes, and darken his
elbows with a blacking brush, ere he sallied forth to follow borrowed
plumes; and when he returned from his public performance (_oft
rehearsed_) Master Sighmon did innocently crumple his crapes, and
sport with his weepers.

His melancholy outgoings at length were rewarded by some pecuniary
incomings. The demise of others secured a living for him, and after a
few unusually propitious sickly seasons, he grimly smiled as he counted
his gains: the mourner exulted, and, in praise of his profession, the
mute became eloquent.

Another event occurred: after burying so many people professionally, he
at length buried Mrs. Dumps; _that_, of course, was by no means a
matter of business. I have before remarked that she was descended from
the Coffins; she was now gathered to her ancestors.

Dumps had long been proud of gentility of appearance, a suit of black
had been his working day costume, nothing therefore could be more easy
than for Dumps to turn gentleman. He did so; took a villa at Gravesend,
chose for his own sitting room a chamber that looked against a dead
wall, and whilst he was lying in state upon the squabs of his sofa, he
thought seriously of the education of his son, and resolved that he
should be instantly taught the dead languages.

Sighmon Dumps was decidedly a young man of a serious turn of mind.
The metropolis had few attractions for him, he loved to linger near
the monument; and if ever he thought of a continental excursion, the
Catacombs and Père la Chaise were his seducers.

His father died, his old employer furnished him with a funeral; the mute
was silenced, and the mourner was mourned.

Sighmon Dumps became more serious than ever; he had a decided nervous
malady, an abhorrence of society, and a sensitive shrinking when he felt
that any body was looking at him. He had heard of the invisible girl; he
would have given worlds to have been an invisible young gentleman, and
to have glided in and out of rooms, unheeded and unseen, like a draft
through a keyhole. This, however, was not to be his lot; like a man
cursed with creaking shoes, stepping lightly, and tiptoeing availed not;
a _creak_ always betrayed him when he was most anxious to creep
into a corner.

At his father's death he found himself possessed of a competency and a
villa; but he was unhappy, he was known in the neighbourhood, people
called on him, and he was expected to call on them, and these calls and
recalls bored him. He never, in his life, could abide looking any one
straight in the face; a pair of human eyes meeting his own was actually
painful to him. It was not to be endured. He sold his villa, and
determined to go to some place where, being a total stranger, he might
pass unnoticed and unknown, attracting no attention, no remarks.

He went to Cheltenham and consulted Boisragon about his nerves, was
recommended a course of the waters, and horse exercise.

The son of the weeper very naturally thought he had already "too much
of water;" he, however, hired a nag, took a small suburban lodging, and
as nobody spoke to him, nor seemed to care about him, he grew better,
and felt sedately happy. This blest seclusion, "the world forgetting,
by the world forgot," was not the predestined fate of Sighmon: odd
circumstances always brought him into notice. The horse he had hired was
a piebald, a sweet, quiet animal, warranted a safe support for a timid
invalid. On this piebald did Dumps jog through the green lanes in brown
studies.

One day as he passed a cottage, a face peered at him through an open
window; he heard an exclamation of delight, the door opened, and an
elderly female ran after him, entreating him to stop; much against the
grain he complied.

"'Twas heaven sent you, sir," said his pursuer, out of breath; "give me
for the love of mercy the cure for the rhumatiz."

"The what?" said Dumps.

"The rhumatiz, sir; I've the pains and the aches in my back and my
bones--give me the dose that will cure me."

In vain Dumps declared his ignorance of the virtues of "medicinal gums."
The more he protested, the more the old woman sued; when to his horror a
reinforcement joined her from the cottage, and men, women, and children
implored him to cure the good dame's malady. At length watching a
favourable opportunity, he insinuated his heel into the side of the
piebald, and trotted off, while entreaties mingled with words of anger
were borne to him on the wind.

He determined to avoid that green lane in future, and rode out the next
day in an opposite direction: as he trotted through a village a girl ran
after him, shouting for a cure for the hooping cough, a dame with a low
curtsey solicited a remedy for the colic, and an old man asked him what
was good for the palsy. These unforeseen, these unaccountable attacks
were fearful annoyances to so retiring a personage as Dumps. Day after
day, go where he would, the same things happened. He was solicited to
cure "all the ills that flesh is heir to." He was not aware (any more
than the reader very possibly may be) that in some parts of England the
country people have an idea that a quack doctor rides a piebald horse;
_why_, I cannot explain, but so it is, and that poor Dumps felt to
his cost. Life became a burthen to him; he was a marked man; _he_,
whose only wish was to pass unnoticed, unheard, unseen; _he_, who
of all the creeping things on the earth, pitied the glowworm most,
because the spark in its tail attracted observation. He gave up his
lodgings and his piebald, and went "in his angry mood to Tewksbury."

I ought ere this to have described my hero. He was rather _embonpoint_,
but fat was not with him, as it sometimes is, twin brother to fun;
_his_ fat was weighty, he was inclined to _blubber_. He wore a wig, and
carried in his countenance an expression indicative of the seriousness
of his turn of mind.

He alighted from the coach at the principal inn at Tewksbury; the
landlady met him in the hall, started, smiled, and escorted him into a
room with much civility. He took her aside, and briefly explained that
retirement, quiet, and a back room to himself were the accommodations
he sought.

"I understand you sir," replied the landlady, with a knowing wink,
"a little quiet will be agreeable by way of change; I hope you'll find
every thing here to your liking." She then curtseyed and withdrew.

"Frank," said the hostess to the head waiter, "who _do_ you think
we've got in the blue parlour? you'll never guess! I knew him the minute
I clapped eyes on him; dressed just as I saw him at the Haymarket
Theatre, the only night I ever was at a London stage play. The gray
coat, and the striped trousers, and the hessian boots over them, and the
straw hat out of all shape, and the gingham umbrella!"

"Who is he, ma'am?" said Frank. "Why, the great comedy actor, Mr.
Liston," replied the landlady, "come down for a holiday; he wants to be
quiet, so we must not blab, or the whole town will be after him."

This brief dialogue will account for much disquietude which subsequently
befell our ill fated Dumps. People met him, he could not imagine why,
with a broad grin on their features. As they passed they whispered to
each other, and the words "inimitable," "clever creature," "irresistibly
comic," evidently applied to himself, reached his ears.

Dumps looked more serious than ever; but the greater his gravity, the
more the people smiled, and one young lady actually laughed in his face
as she said aloud, "Oh, that mock heroic tragedy look is _so_ like
him!"

Sighmon sighed for the seclusion of number three, Burying Ground
Buildings, Paddington Road.

One morning his landlady announced, with broader grin than usual, that a
gentleman desired to speak with him; he grumbled, but submitted, and the
gentleman was announced.

"My name, sir, is Opie," said the stranger; "I am quite delighted to see
you here. You intend gratifying the good people of Tewksbury of course?"

"Gratifying! what _can_ you mean?"

"If your name is announced, there'll not be a box to be had."

"I always look after my own boxes, I can tell you," replied Dumps.

"By all means, you _will_ come out here of course?"

"Come out? to be sure, I sha'n't stay within doors always."

"What do you mean to come out in?"

"Why, what I've got on will do very well."

"Oh, that's so like you," said Opie, shaking his sides with laughter,
"you really _are_ inimitable!--What character do you select here?"

"Character!" said Dumps, "the stranger."

"The Stranger! _you?_"

"Yes, _I._"

"And you really mean to come out here as the Stranger?" said Opie.

"Why, yes to be sure--I'm but just come."

"Then I shall put your name in large letters immediately, we will open
this evening; and as to terms, you shall have half the receipts of the
house."

Off ran Mr. Opie, who was no less a personage than the manager of the
theatre, leaving Dumps fully persuaded that he had been closeted with
a lunatic.

Shortly afterwards he saw a man very busy pasting bills against a wall
opposite his window, and so large were the letters that he easily
deciphered, "THE CELEBRATED MR. LISTON IN TRAGEDY. This evening THE
STRANGER, the Part of THE STRANGER BY MR. LISTON." Dumps had never seen
the inimitable Liston, indeed comedy was quite out of his way. But now
that the star was to shine forth in tragedy, the announcement was
congenial to the serious turn of his mind, and he resolved to go.

He ate an early dinner, went by times to the theatre, and established
himself in a snug corner of the stage box. The house filled, the hour
of commencement arrived, the fiddlers paused and looked towards the
curtain, but hearing no signal they fiddled another strain. The audience
became impatient; they hissed, they hooted, and they called for the
manager: another pause, another yell of disapprobation, and the manager
pale and trembling appeared, and walked hat in hand to the front of the
stage. To Dumps's great surprise it was the very man who visited him in
the morning. Mr. Opie cleared his throat, bowed repeatedly, moved his
lips, but was inaudible amid the shouts of "hear him." At length silence
was obtained, and he spoke as follows:--

"Ladies and Gentlemen,

"I appear before you to entreat your kind and considerate forbearance;
I lament as much, nay more than you, the absence of Mr. Liston; but, in
the anguish of the moment, one thought supports me, the consciousness
of having done my duty. (_Applause_.) I had an interview with
your deservedly favourite performer this morning, and every necessary
arrangement was made between us. I have sent to his hotel, and he is not
to be found. (_Disapprobation_.) I have been informed that he dined
early, and left the house, saying that he was going to the theatre; what
accident _can_ have prevented his arrival I am utterly unable to--"

Mr. Opie now happened to glance towards the stage box, surprise! doubt!
anger! certainty! were the alternate expressions of his pale face, and
widely opened eyes; and at length pointing to Dumps he exclaimed--

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my painful duty to inform you that Mr.
Liston is now before you; there he sits at the back of the stage box,
and I trust I may be permitted to call upon him for an explanation of
his very singular conduct."

Every eye turned towards Dumps, every voice was uplifted against him;
the man who could not endure the scrutiny of _one_ pair of eyes,
now beheld a house full of them glaring at him with angry indignation.
His head became confused, he had a slight consciousness of being elbowed
through the lobby, of a riot in the crowded street, and of being
protected by the civil authorities against the uncivil attacks of the
populace. He was conveyed to bed, and awoke the next morning with a very
considerable accession of nervous malady.

He soon heard that the whole town vowed vengeance against the infamous
and unprincipled impostor who had so impudently played off a practical
joke on the public, and at dead of night did he escape from the town of
Tewksbury, in a return mourning coach, with which he was accommodated
by his tender hearted landlady.

Our persecuted hero next occupied private apartments at a boarding-house
at Malvern. Privacy was refreshing, but, alas! its duration was doomed
to be short. A young officer who had witnessed the embarrassment of "the
stranger" at Tewksbury, recognised the sufferer at Malvern, and knowing
his nervous antipathy to being noticed, he wickedly resolved to make him
the lion of the place.

He dined at the public table, spoke of the gentleman who occupied the
private apartments, wondered that no one appeared to be aware who he
was, and then _in confidence_ informed the assembled party that
the recluse was the celebrated author of the "Pleasures of Memory," now
engaged in illustrating "HIS ITALY" with splendid embellishments from
the pencils of Stothard and Turner.

Dumps again found himself an object of universal curiosity, every body
became officiously attentive to him, he was waylaid in his walks, and
_intentionally_ intruded upon _by accident_ in his private apartments;
a travelling artist requested to be permitted to take his portrait for
the exhibition, a lady requested him to peruse her manuscript romance
and to give his unbiassed opinion, and the master of the boarding-house
waited upon him by desire of his guests to request that he would honour
the public table with his company. Several ladies solicited his
autograph for their albums, and several gentlemen called a meeting
of the inhabitants, and resolved to give him a public dinner; a
craniologist requested to be permitted to take a cast of his head,
and as a climax to his misery, when he was sitting in his bedchamber
thinking himself at least secure for the present, the door being bolted;
he looked towards the Malvern Hills, which rise abruptly immediately
at the back of the boarding-house, and there he discovered a party of
ladies eagerly gazing at him with long telescopes through the open
windows!

He left Malvern the next morning, and went to a secluded village on the
Welsh coast, not far from Swansea.

The events of the last few weeks had rendered poor Sighmon Dumps more
sensitively nervous than ever. His seclusion became perpetual, his blind
always down, and he took his solitary walks in the dusk of the evening.
He had been told that sea sickness was sometimes beneficial in cases
resembling his own; he, therefore, bargained with some boatmen, who
engaged to take him out into the channel, on a little experimental
medicinal trip. At a very early hour in the morning he went down to the
beach, and prepared to embark. He had observed two persons who appeared
to be watching him, he felt certain they were dogging him, and just as
he was stepping into the boat they seized him, saying, "Sir, we know you
to be the great defaulter who has been so long concealed on this coast;
we know you are trying to escape to America, but you must come with us."

Sighmon's heart was broken. He felt it would be useless to endeavour to
explain or to expostulate; he spoke not, but was passively hurried to a
carriage in which he was borne to the metropolis as fast as four horses
could carry him, without rest or refreshment. Of course, after a minute
examination, he was declared innocent, and was released; but justice
smiled too late, the bloom of Sighmon's happiness had been prematurely
nipped.

He called in the aid of the first medical advice, grew a little better;
and when the doctor left him he prescribed a medicine which he said he
had no doubt would restore the patient to health. The medicine came,
the bottle was shaken, the contents taken--Sighmon died!

It was afterwards discovered that a mistake had occasioned his premature
departure; a healing liquid had been prescribed for him, but the
careless dispenser of the medicine had dispensed with caution on the
occasion, and Dumps died of a severe _oxalic_ acidity of the
stomach! By his own desire he was interred in the churchyard opposite to
Burying Ground Buildings, Paddington Road. His funeral was conducted
with _almost_ as much decorum as if his late father the mute had
been present, and he was left with--

  "At his head a green grass turf,
  And at his heels a stone."


But even there he could not rest! The next morning it was discovered
that the body of Sighmon Dumps had been stolen by resurrection
men!--_Sharpe's Mag._

       *       *       *       *       *




SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

       *       *       *       *       *


MARIA GRAY.--A SONG.


BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.


  Who says that Maria Gray is dead,
    And that I in this world can see her never?
  Who says she is laid in her cold death-bed,
    The prey of the grave and of death for ever?
  Ah! they know little of my dear maid,
    Or kindness of her spirit's giver!
  For every night she is by my side,
    By the morning bower, or the moonlight river.

  Maria was bonny when she was here,
    When flesh and blood was her mortal dwelling;
  Her smile was sweet, and her mind was clear,
    And her form all human forms excelling.
  But O! if they saw Maria now,
    With her looks of pathos and of feeling,
  They would see a cherub's radiant brow,
    To ravish'd mortal eyes unveiling.

  The rose is the fairest of earthly flowers--
    It is all of beauty and of sweetness--
  So my dear maid, in the heavenly bowers,
    Excels in beauty and in meetness.
  She has kiss'd my cheek, she has komb'd my hair,
    And made a breast of heaven my pillow,
  And promised her God to take me there,
    Before the leaf falls from the willow.

  Farewell, ye homes of living men!
    I have no relish for your pleasures--
  In the human face I nothing ken
    That with my spirit's yearning measures.
  I long for onward bliss to be,
    A day of joy, a brighter morrow;
  And from this bondage to be free,
    Farewell thou world of sin and sorrow!


_Blackwood's Magazine._

       *       *       *       *       *


BEWICK, THE ENGRAVER.

By a Correspondent of the _Magazine of Natural History_.


Bewick's first tendency to drawing was noticed by his chalking the
floors and grave-stones with all manner of fantastic figures, and by
sketching the outline of any known character of the village, dogs, or
horses, which were instantly recognised as faithful portraits. The
halfpence he got were always laid out in chalk or coarse pencils; with
which, when taken to church, he scrawled over the ledges of the bench
ludicrous caricatures of the parson, clerk, and the more prominent of
the congregation. These boards are now in the possession of the Duke
of Northumberland, by whom they were replaced; and when his chalk
was exhausted, he resorted to a pin or a nail as a substitute. In
consequence of this propensity to drawing, some liberal people, of whom
he says, there were many in Newcastle, got him bound apprentice to a Mr.
Bielby, an engraver on copper and brass. During this period he walked
most Sundays to Ovingham (ten miles,) to see his parents; and, if the
Tyne was low, crossed it on stilts; but, if high-flowing, hollaed across
to inquire their health, and returned. This infant genius (but it was
the infant Hercules struggling with the snakes) was bound down by his
master to cut clock-faces and door-knockers--ay, clock-faces and
door-knockers!--and he actually showed me several in the streets of
Newcastle he had cut. At this time he was employed by Bielby to cut
on wood the blocks for Dr. Hutton's great work on _Mensuration_.
Hutton was then a schoolmaster at Newcastle (1770.)

After his apprenticeship, he worked a short time for a person in Hatton
Garden; but he disliked London extremely, still panting for his native
home, to whose braes and bonny banks he joyously returned; where he was
occupied in cutting figures and ornaments for books; and now received
his first prize from the Society of Arts for the "Old Hound," in an
edition of Gay's _Fables_. A glance at this cut will show what a
low state wood-engraving was at, when a public society deemed it worthy
a reward; yet even in this are readily visible some lines and touches of
the future great master of this delicious art. He never omitted visiting
itinerant caravans of animals, from whose living looks and attitudes he
made spirited drawings. This led to his _History of Quadrupeds_,
1790; the first block, however, of which, he cut the very day of his
father's death, Nov. 15, 1785. From this work he obtained very
considerable celebrity; which led him shortly to draw and engrave the
wild bull at Chillingham, Lord Tankerville's, the largest of all his
wood-cuts, impressions of which have actually been sold at twenty
guineas each; and also the zebra, elephant, lion, and tiger, for Pidcock
(Exeter 'Change,) copies whereof are now extremely scarce and valuable.
He also executed some curious works on copper, to illustrate a _Tour
through Lapland_, by Matthew Consett, Esq.; and his _Quadrupeds_
having passed through seven editions, his fame was widely and well
established. The famous typographer, Bulmer, of the Shakspeare Press
(a native of Newcastle,) now employed John Bewick, who, at the age of
fourteen, had also been aprenticed to Bielby, in co-operation with
his brother Thomas, to embellish a splendid edition of Goldsmith's
_Deserted Village_ and _Hermit_, Parnell's _Poems_, and Somerville's
_Chase_. The designs and execution of these were so admirable and
ingenious, that the late king, George III. doubted their being worked
on wood, and requested a sight of the blocks, at which he was equally
delighted and astonished. It is deeply to be lamented we have so few
specimens of the talents of John Bewick, who died of a pulmonary
complaint, 1795, at the early age of thirty-five.

I now, in this hasty, feeble, and divaricated biographical sketch,
approach the great and favourite work of my admired friend, _The
History of British Birds_. The first volume of this all-delighting
work was published in 1797, jointly by Bielby and Bewick, but was
afterwards continued by Bewick. This beautiful, accurate, animated,
and (I may really add) wonderful production, having passed through six
editions, each of very numerous impressions, is now universally known
and admired.

The first time I had _personal_ interview with my venerable friend
was at Newcastle upon Tyne, on Wednesday, October 1, 1823, after
perambulating the romantic regions of Cumberland and Westmoreland, with
my friend, John E. Bowman, Esq., F.L.S. We had been told that he retired
from his workbench on evenings to the "Blue Bell on the side," for the
purpose of reading the news. To this place we repaired, and readily
found ourselves in the presence of the great man. For my part, so warm
was my enthusiasm, that I could have rushed into his arms, as into
those of a parent or benefactor. He was sitting by the fire in a large
elbow-chair, smoking. He received us most kindly, and in a very few
minutes we felt as old friends. He appeared a large, athletic man, then
in his seventy-first year, with thick, bushy, black hair, retaining his
sight so completely as to read aloud rapidly the smallest type of a
newspaper. He was dressed in very plain, brown clothes, but of good
quality, with large flaps to his waistcoat, grey woollen stockings,
and large buckles. In his under-lip he had a prodigious large quid of
tobacco, and he leaned on a very thick oaken cudgel, which, I afterwards
learned, he cut in the woods of Hawthornden. His broad, bright, and
benevolent countenance at one glance, bespoke powerful intellect and
unbounded good-will, with a very visible sparkle of merry wit. The
discourse at first turned on politics (for the paper was in his hand,)
on which he at once openly avowed himself a warm whig, but clearly
without the slightest wish to provoke opposition. I at length succeeded
in turning the conversation into the fields of natural history, but
not till after he had scattered forth a profusion of the most humorous
anecdotes, that would baffle the most retentive memory to enumerate,
and defy the most witty to depict. I succeeded by mentioning an error
in one of his works; for which, when I had convinced him, he thanked
me, and took the path in conversation we wished. In many instances,
I must remark, though frequently succeeding to the broadest humour, his
countenance and conversation assumed the emitted flashes and features
of absolutely the highest sublimity; indeed, to an excitement of awful
amazement, particularly when speaking on the works of the Deity.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE NATURALIST.

       *       *       *       *       *


DURATION OF LIFE.

It appears from well authenticated documents, that the mean term of Roman
life, among the citizens, was 30 years--that is to say, taking 1,000
persons, adding the years together they each attained, and dividing the
total by the number of persons, the result is 30. In England, at the
present time, the expectation of life, for persons similarly situated,
is at least 50 years, giving a superiority of 20 years above the Roman
citizen. The mean term of life among the _easy_ classes at Paris is
at present 42. At Florence, to the _whole_ population, it is still
not more than 30.

We have gleaned these interesting facts from a review of Dr. Hawkins's
_Elements of Medical Statistics;_ and as the subject is like human
life itself, of exhaustless interest, we shall proceed with a few more:


Counties of England and Wales.

In 1780, the annual mortality of England and Wales was 1 in 40.
By the last census (of 1821,) the yearly mortality had fallen to
1 in 58, nearly one-third. The rate of mortality is of course not
equal throughout the country. According to Dr. Hawkins, this is mainly
influenced by the proportion of large towns which any district or county
contains. The lowest well-ascertained rate of mortality in any part of
Europe is that of Pembrokeshire and Anglesey, in Wales, where only one
death takes place annually out of eighty-three individuals. Sussex
enjoys the lowest rate of mortality of any English county; it is there
1 in 72. Middlesex, on the other hand, affords the other extreme,
1 in 47; yet here, where the rate of mortality is higher than in any
part of England, great improvements in the mean duration of life are
taking place; for in 1811, the mortality was as great as 1 in 36. Kent,
Surrey, Lancashire, Warwickshire, and Cheshire, are the counties where,
next to Middlesex, the deaths are most numerous. The three last named
counties enjoy many natural advantages, but these are more than
counterbalanced by the number and density of their manufacturing towns.
It is a circumstance well worthy of note, that the aguish counties of
England do not, as might have been expected, stand high in the list.
In Lincolnshire, the rate of mortality is only 1 in 62. Dr. Hawkins
hesitates whether to attribute this to the large proportion of dry and
elevated district which that county possesses, or to the exemption of
fenny countries generally from consumption. We are strongly inclined to
suspect that the latter is the true explanation of the fact. The notion
was originally thrown out by the late ingenious physician, Dr. Wells,
who even went so far as to advise the removal of consumptive patients
to the heart of the Cambridgeshire fens, rather than to Hastings or
Sidmouth.

The author goes on to remark, "that the decline in the mortality is
even more striking in our cities than in our rural districts. While the
metropolis has extended itself in all directions, and multiplied its
inhabitants to an enormous amount,--in other words, while the seeming
sources of its unhealthiness have been largely augmented, it has
actually become more friendly to health." In the middle of the last
century, the annual mortality was about 1 in 20. By the census of 1821,
it appeared as 1 in 40: so that in the space of seventy years, the
chances of existence are exactly _doubled_ in London,--a progress
and final result, adds the author, without a parallel in the history of
any other age or country. The high rate of mortality in London about the
year 1750, exceeding considerably that of former years, has been
attributed to the great, abuse of spirituous liquors, which were then
sold without the very necessary check of high duties. One of the results
of these statistical investigations which, _a priori_, we should
least have been prepared for, is the uncommon healthiness of Manchester.
The rate of mortality there at the present time does not appear to
exceed 1 in 74.

The statistics of the sexes afford some curious results. The relative
numbers of the sexes are the same in all parts of the world,--namely,
at birth, twenty-one males to twenty females, but as the mortality
among males during infancy exceeds that of females, the sexes at the
age of fifteen are nearly equal. A late French writer, M. Giron, thinks
himself warranted in the opinion, that agricultural pursuits favour an
increase in the male, while commerce and manufactures encourage the
female population. There exists throughout the world considerable
variety in the proportion of births to marriages, but, upon an average,
we may state it at about four to one. It has been uniformly found,
however, that improvements in the public health are attended by a
_diminution_ of marriages and births. The great principle is this:
as the number of men cannot exceed their means of subsistence, _if men
live longer, a less number is born_, and the human race is maintained
at its due complement with fewer deaths and fewer births, a contingency
favourable in every respect to happiness. The author illustrates this
very important principle by the population returns both of England and
France.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE GATHERER.


  A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
        SHAKSPEARE.

       *       *       *       *       *


On reading in a provincial paper,[3] a passage entitled, "_Ornaments
of the Bench and Bar_."

  Imitate no one you despise,
    _Said_ one _whose_ mind was _great_,
  Did he not _think_? despise not him
    You _cannot_ imitate.


TALBOTE.

    [3] The Manchester Courier, 25th July.

       *       *       *       *       *


SIMPLICITY.

Major R---- was not long since riding near a building which presented
to his admiring gaze a fine specimen of antique Saxon architecture.
Desirous to learn something respecting it, he made some inquiries of
a man, who as it happened was the _souter_ of the village. This
learned wight informed the inquisitive stranger that the building in
question was reckoned a noble specimen of _Gothic_ architecture,
and was built by the _Romans_, who came over with Julius Caesar.
"Friend," said the Major, "you make anachronisms." "No, no, Sir,"
replied the man, "indeed I don't make _anachronisms_, for I never
made any thing but _shoes_ in my life."

The same gentleman, one day fitting on a new under-waistcoat, which he
had ordered to be made of a material that should resist rain and damp,
said to the tailor in attendance, "But are you sure that it is
impervious." "O dear, no, Sir," replied the man, with a look of
astonishment, "I certainly can't pretend to say that it is
_impervious_, for it is _wash-leather_."

M.L.B.

       *       *       *       *       *


Some men make a vanity of telling their faults; they are the strangest
men in the world; they cannot dissemble; they own it is a folly; they
have lost abundance of advantage by it; but if you would give them the
world, they cannot help it.

       *       *       *       *       *


ARLEQUINS.


In Paris, small lumps of mixed meats sold in the market for cats, dogs,
and the poor, are called _Arlequins_. They are the relics collected
from the plates of the rich, and from the restaurateurs.

       *       *       *       *       *


By love's delightful influence the attack of ill-humour is resisted; the
violence of our passions abated; the bitter cup of affliction sweetened;
all the injuries of the world alleviated; and the sweetest flowers
plentifully strewed along the path of life.

       *       *       *       *       *


At the meeting on the Covent Garden stage, the other day, a gentleman
inquired for Mr. Kemble: "He's just _gone off_," replied another,
evidently connected with the theatre. Such is the force of habit.

       *       *       *       *       *


The late Murgravine of Anspach wrote an impromptu charade, and presented
it to her husband, Lord C., as the person most interested in the subject
of it, and most capable of judging of its truth:--

  "Mon premier est un tyran--    mari-
  Mon second est un monstre--    age;
  Et mon tout est--le diable--   mariage."


       *       *       *       *       *


A farmer applied to a county magistrate for a warrant:--"A warrant, for
what?" says the magistrate, "To _take up the weather_, please your
worship."

P.T.W.

N.B. Warrant refused.

       *       *       *       *       *


CONVERSATION, (from Swift.)


Nature hath left every man a capacity of being agreeable, though not of
shining in company; and there are a hundred men sufficiently qualified
for both, who, by a very few faults, that they might correct in half an
hour, are not so much as tolerable.

       *       *       *       *       *


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
  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


       *       *       *       *       *

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