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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. 17, No. 493.] SATURDAY, JUNE 11, 1831. [PRICE 2d.



       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration: BOAT-HOUSE AT VIRGINIA WATER.]


Lakers and lovers of the picturesque will, doubtless, be flocking to
Virginia Water in the coming summer. The rides and walks on its banks
are thrown open to the public; but we hope this privilege will not be
abused, as of old; for "there was a time when Virginia Water was
profaned by the presence of prize-fighters, who were accustomed to
train in the secluded alleys that bordered the lake; and it was,
therefore, quite necessary that the privilege of admission to the
grounds should be withdrawn from the inn to which these persons
resorted." We hope better things from the improved taste of our times.

The attractions of the place are of no common order: all that art and
luxury could suggest have been lent to its embellishment. "The
artificial water is the largest in the kingdom, with the single
exception of Blenheim; the cascade is, perhaps, the most striking
imitation we have of the great works of Nature; and the grounds are
arranged in the grandest style of landscape gardening."[1]

    [1] We quote these passages from an excellent description
    of Virginia Water, in the Third Series of the London
    Magazine, and, for the most part quoted in vol. xii. of _The
    Mirror_. The reader should turn to these pages.

Many persons may be disposed to question the taste of the Boat-house
in the Engraving. Its style is toy-like, and too artificial to suit
our idea of picturesque propriety. It was built by direction of the
late King, and its design or approval was probably one of his labours
of leisure. It is less decorated and fantastical than other buildings
in its vicinity, and perhaps deserves the faint praise of prettiness.
Grave persons dislike the little bells attached to the lantern-like
part of the roof, and consider them too closely allied to the cap of
folly. Perhaps this objection to the building itself will only make
the contiguous scenery more delightful. Of its varied character, the
Engraving furnishes an accurate idea, since the original sketch was
made in the course of last year. We could linger amidst these sylvan
glories all the live long day, with a canopy of foliage just to
shelter us from the heat of the meridian sun.

       *       *       *       *       *


PEERAGE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.

(_For the Mirror_.)


To the Barons of England, of a truth, it may be said, man is indebted
for constitutional liberty; for if we look but to Greece and Rome,
those boasted lands of freedom, where, as the arts and sciences
increased, liberty decayed, we shall perceive myriads of slaves,
governed, as in savage nations, by a few political chiefs, whom brute
force and superior address had raised above their fellow-citizens.

It was in modern times, through the instrumentality of the steel-clad
nobles of Britain, that liberty was to dawn on the human race: and of
these, Henry VII. could only summon 28 to his first parliament; and
only 36 were summoned to the first parliament of Henry VIII. In 1830,
the House of Peers consisted of 380 persons.

It is a fact but little regarded, that the first noble family in
England was that of Lord Courtenay, who descended from the Earls of
Devonshire, who often intermarried with the blood-royal of France and
Britain, as may be found at the commencement of Sully's Memoirs. The
Duke of Beaufort is descended from Geoffrey Plantagenet, Earl of
Anjou, son of Foulk, King of Jerusalem, and grandson to the Empress
Maud, daughter of Henry I. Consequently, this family has flourished,
as dukes, marquesses, and earls, without descending to a lower degree,
for full 700 years. The Duke of Montague traces his descent, by the
female line, from Charlemagne. The Earl of Shrewsbury's family is
derived from the famous Talbot, the terror of France: hence they have
been peers for 500 years.

In 1827, the number of the Irish nobility was 212--viz. 1 duke, 14
marquesses, 76 earls, 48 viscounts, 70 barons, and 4 peeresses. There
were 135 married, 27 widowers, and 45 bachelors. Of the 162 married
and widowers, 38 were without children, and the remaining 134 had
living 278 sons and 256 daughters. Four Irish peers were Knights of
the Garter, 10 of the Bath, and 18 of St. Patrick. Among these 212
Irish nobility, 66 were also British peers. The ancestors of the Irish
peers became ennobled as follows:--5 as princes of the blood-royal, 8
as courtiers, 8 as younger branches of nobility, 11 as statesmen, 7
for naval service, 23 for military service, 6 for diplomatic service,
11 for legal service, 11 by marriage, and 121 by influence of wealth.

The descent of 13 peers can be traced to the 11th century, that of 10
to the 12th, 12 to the 13th, 13 to the 14th, 10 to the 15th, 37 to the
16th, 31 to the 17th, and 2 to the 18th; and 37 whose genealogies
cannot be traced with accuracy. The ancestors of 48 Irish peers were
foreigners. The number of Catholic peers are, 8 for Ireland--viz. 2
earls, 4 viscounts, and 2 barons; in Scotland, only 2 earls; and in
England 8--viz. 1 duke, 1 earl, and 6 barons.

W.G.C.

       *       *       *       *       *


LADY OF WALSINGHAM.

(_For the Mirror_.)


"What led (says Britton) to the great celebrity which the town of Old
Walsingham, Norfolk, obtained for centuries, was the widow lady of
Ricoldie Faverches founding, about the year 1061, a small chapel, in
honour of the Virgin Mary, similar to the Sancta Casa at Nazareth.

"Sir Geoffrey de Favenches, or Faverches, her son, confirmed the
endowments, made an additional foundation of a priory for Augustine
canons, and erected a conventual church. The numerous gifts and grants
to this famous religious house form one of those extensive and dull
mazes of ecclesiastical record, through which the historic topographer
is constrained to wade. At the Dissolution, the annual revenues of the
monastery were valued, according to Speed, at 446_l._ 14_s._ 4_d_.
That its wealth should have been immensely great is not surprising,
when the fame of the image of the _Lady of Walsingham_ is taken into
the account; for it was as much frequented, if not more than the
shrine of St. Thomas à Becket, at Canterbury. Foreigners of all
nations came hither on pilgrimage; many kings and queens of England
also paid devoirs to it: so that the number and quality of her
devotees appeared to equal those of the Lady Loretto, in Italy.
Spelman observes, that it is said King Henry the Eighth, in the second
year of his reign, walked _barefooted_ from the village of Basham to
this place, and then presented a valuable necklace to the image. Of
this costly present, as well as the other saleable appendages,
Cromwell doubtless took good care, when, by his master's orders, he
seized the image, and burnt it at Chelsea.

"Erasmus, who visited this place, says, that the chapel, then
rebuilding, was distinct from the church, and inside of it was a small
chapel of wood, on each side of which was a little, narrow door,
where those who were admitted came with their offerings, and paid
their devotions; that it was lighted up with wax torches, and that the
glitter of gold, silver, and jewels would lead you to suppose it to be
the seat of the gods.

"In one of his colloquies, entitled, _Peregrinatio_, is a very
humorous description of the superstitions of this place. The monks had
contrived to persuade many that the _galaxy_ in the heavens was a
miraculous indication of the _way_ to this place. Hence that was
called _Walsingham Way._

"The present remains of this once noble monastic pile, is a portal, or
west entrance; a rich ornamented lofty arch, sixty feet high, which
formed the east end of the church, supposed to have been erected in
the time of Henry the Seventh; the refectory, seventy-eight feet long
and twenty-seven broad, and the walls twenty-six and a half feet in
height; a Saxon arch, part of the original chapel, which has a zig-zag
moulding; part of the old cloisters, a stone bath, and two uncovered
wells, called the _Wishing Wells_. The devotees to the _Lady of
Walsingham_ were taught to believe, that whoever had permission to
drink of these waters could obtain, under certain restrictions,
whatever they might wish for."

"The principal part of the venerable ruins are included in the
pleasure gardens of Henry Lee Warner, Esq., who has a large,
commodious house, which occupies the site of the priory. The present
proprietor has progressively, for some years past, been making various
improvements in planting and laying out the grounds in the immediate
vicinity of the mansion. Among the recent embellishments of the place
is a new bridge across the rivulet, in front of the house, and
widening the course of the stream, so as to give it the appearance of
a lake. Contiguous to this water, and intermixed in a fine grove of
large trees, are the various fragments of the ruins already noticed.
Some of these are interesting relics of architectural antiquity; and
though several detached parts remain, yet we cannot (says Britton)
but regret the wasteful destruction that has taken place at
this once celebrated place of monastic splendour and human
superstition."--_Beauties of England and Wales_, vol. ix.--Norfolk.

It has been supposed that Henry the Eighth, tempted by the riches and
splendour of the religious houses at Walsingham, precipitated their
fall.

P.T.W.

       *       *       *       *       *


TAPESTRY IN WINDSOR CASTLE.

(_To the Editor._)


There are _six_ pieces of tapestry in the Ball-room adjoining St.
George's Hall, Windsor Castle; and the subject is Jason and the Golden
Fleece. In your account you stated four.

A SUBSCRIBER.

       *       *       *       *       *


COWSLIPS.--A SONNET.

BY HENRY BRANDRETH, JUN.

_Author of Minstrel Melodies, The Garland, &c._


  COWSLIPS--sweet Cowslips! I scarce know a flower
  More prized than is the cowslip. Childhood's hand
  Plucks it as if by instinct. Every land
  Has some peculiar flowret--this the bower,
  The mountain that adorning. April's shower
  The modest primrose sifts with beauty bland,
  Or o'er the blue-bell waves her fairy wand,
  The delegate of Flora's magic power.
  But most love I the cowslip, with its fair
  And fragrant petals, studding, as with gold,
  The emerald meadow, or the hedge-row green;
  For, while the laugh of Infancy is there,
  The heart must be as very marble cold
  Of him who frowns on such a joyous scene.

       *       *       *       *       *



The Naturalist,

       *       *       *       *       *


THE WHITE-HEADED, OR BALD EAGLE.[2]

(From Wilson's _American Ornithology,_ judiciously re-printed in two
volumes of _Constable's Miscellany._)

    [2] The epithet _bald_, applied to this species, whose
    head is thickly covered with feathers, is equally improper and
    absurd with the titles goatsucker, kingsfisher, &c. bestowed on
    others, and seems to have been occasioned by the white appearance
    of the head, when contrasted with, the dark colour of the rest of
    the plumage. The appellation, however, being now almost
    universal, is retained in the following pages.


This distinguished bird, as he is the most beautiful of his tribe in
this part of the world, and the adopted emblem of our country, is
entitled to particular notice. The celebrated Cataract of Niagara is a
noted place of resort for the bald eagle, as well on account of the
fish procured there, as for the numerous carcasses of squirrels, deer,
bears, and various other animals, that, in their attempts to cross the
river above the Falls, have been dragged into the current, and
precipitated down that tremendous gulf, where, among the rocks that
bound the Rapids below, they furnish a rich repast for the vulture,
the raven, and the bald eagle, the subject of the present account. He
has been long known to naturalists, being common to both continents,
and occasionally met with from a very high northern latitude, to the
borders of the torrid zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea,
and along the shores and cliffs of our lakes and large rivers. Formed
by nature for braving the severest cold; feeding equally on the
produce of the sea, and of the land; possessing powers of flight
capable of outstripping even the tempests themselves; unawed by any
thing but man; and, from the ethereal heights to which he soars,
looking abroad, at one glance, on an immeasurable expanse of forests,
fields, lakes, and ocean, deep below him, he appears indifferent to
the little localities of change of seasons; as, in a few minutes, he
can pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the higher regions
of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold, and from thence descend,
at will, to the torrid, or the arctic regions of the earth. He is,
therefore, found at all seasons, in the countries he inhabits; but
prefers such places as have been mentioned above, from the great
partiality he has for fish.

In procuring these, he displays, in a very singular manner, the genius
and energy of his character, which is fierce, contemplative, daring,
and tyrannical; attributes not exerted but on particular occasions,
but, when put forth, overpowering all opposition. Elevated on the high
dead limb of some gigantic tree that commands a wide view of the
neighbouring shore and ocean, he seems calmly to contemplate the
motions of the various feathered tribes that pursue their busy
avocations below; the snow-white gulls slowly winnowing the air; the
busy fringes coursing along the sands; trains of ducks streaming over
the surface; silent and watchful cranes, intent and wading; clamorous
crows; and all the winged multitudes that subsist by the bounty of
this vast liquid magazine of nature. High over all these hovers one,
whose action instantly arrests his whole attention. By his wide
curvature of wing, and sudden, suspension in air, he knows him to be
the fish hawk, settling over some devoted victim of the deep. His eye
kindles at the sight, and, balancing himself, with half-opened wings,
on the branch, he watches the result. Down, rapid as an arrow from
heaven, descends the distant object of his attention, the roar of its
wings reaching the ear as it disappears in the deep, making the surges
foam around! At this moment, the eager looks of the eagle are all
ardour; and, levelling his neck for flight, he sees the fish hawk
once more emerge, struggling with his prey, and mounting in the air
with screams of exultation. These are the signals for our hero, who,
launching into the air, instantly gives chase, and soon gains on the
fish hawk; each exerts his utmost to mount above the other, displaying
in these rencontres the most elegant and sublime aerial evolutions.
The unencumbered eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of
reaching his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, probably of despair
and honest execration, the latter drops his fish; the eagle, poising
himself for a moment, as if to take a more certain aim, descends like
a whirlwind, snatches it in his grasp ere it reaches the water, and
bears his ill-gotten booty silently away to the woods.

These predatory attacks and defensive manoeuvres of the eagle and the
fish hawk, are matters of daily observation along the whole of our sea
board, from Georgia to New England, and frequently excite great
interest in the spectators. Sympathy, however, on this as on most
other occasions, generally sides with the honest and laborious
sufferer, in opposition to the attacks of power, injustice, and
rapacity, qualities for which our hero is so generally notorious, and
which, in his superior _man_, are certainly detestable. As for the
feelings of the poor fish, they seem altogether out of the question.

When driven, as he sometimes is, by the combined courage and
perseverance of the fish hawks from their neighbourhood, and forced to
hunt for himself, he retires more inland, in search of young pigs, of
which he destroys great numbers. In the lower parts of Virginia and
North Carolina, where the inhabitants raise vast herds of those
animals, complaints of this kind are very general against him. He also
destroys young lambs in the early part of spring; and will sometimes
attack old sickly sheep, aiming furiously at their eyes.

In corroboration of the remarks I have myself made on the manners of
the bald eagle, many accounts have reached me from various persons of
respectability, living on or near our sea coast. The substance of all
these I shall endeavour to incorporate with the present account.

Mr. John L. Gardiner, who resides on an island of three thousand
acres, about three miles from the eastern point of Long Island, from
which it is separated by Gardiner's Bay, and who has consequently many
opportunities of observing the habits of these birds, has favoured me
with a number of interesting particulars on this subject; for which I
beg leave thus publicly to return my grateful acknowledgment.

"The bald eagles," says this gentleman, "remain on this island during
the whole winter. They can be most easily discovered on evenings by
their loud snoring while asleep on high oak trees; and, when awake,
their hearing seems to be nearly as good as their sight. I think I
mentioned to you, that I had myself seen one flying with a lamb ten
days old, and which it dropped on the ground from about ten or twelve
feet high. The struggling of the lamb, more than its weight, prevented
its carrying it away. My running, hallooing, and being very near,
might prevent its completing its design. It had broke the back in the
act of seizing it; and I was under the necessity of killing it
outright to prevent its misery. The lamb's dam seemed astonished to
see its innocent offspring borne off in the air by a bird.

"I was lately told," continues Mr. Gardiner, "by a man of truth, that
he saw an eagle rob a hawk of its fish, and the hawk seemed so enraged
as to fly down at the eagle, while the eagle very deliberately, in the
air, threw himself partly over on his back, and, while he grasped with
one foot the fish, extended the other to threaten or seize the hawk. I
have known several hawks unite to attack the eagle; but never knew a
single one to do it. The eagle seems to regard the hawks as the hawks
do the kingbirds, only as teasing, troublesome fellows."

From the same intelligent and obliging friend, I lately received a
well preserved skin of the bald eagle, which, from its appearance, and
the note that accompanied it, seems to have belonged to a very
formidable individual. "It was shot," says Mr. Gardiner, "last winter,
on this island, and weighed thirteen pounds, measured three feet in
length, and seven from tip to tip of the expanded wings; was extremely
fierce looking; though wounded, would turn his back to no one;
fastened his claws into the head of a dog, and was with difficulty
disengaged. I have rode on horseback within five or six rods of one,
who, by his bold demeanour, raising his feathers, &c. seemed willing
to dispute the ground with its owner. The crop of the present was full
of mutton, from my part-blood Merinos; and his intestines contained
feathers, which he probably devoured with a duck, or winter gull, as I
observed an entire foot and leg of some water fowl. I had two killed
previous to this, which weighed ten pounds avoirdupois each."

(_To be concluded in our next._)

       *       *       *       *       *



Notes of a Reader.

       *       *       *       *       *


CHOLERA MORBUS.


It appears, on the most satisfactory authority, that the disease which
has so long prevailed in the Russian dominions, and within the last
six months, has been advancing in Europe, is contagious. Our
correspondent in Vienna says, that it is evidently a combination of
plague and cholera morbus; _i.e._ the general disturbance of the
system is of the nature of plague, and with such a state of
constitution, the affection of the chylopoietic viscera, (in
consequence of which the name of cholera morbus has been, given to
it,) often terminates life in the course of three hours. It appears,
from the report of Professor Lichtenstein, of St. Petersburgh, that
the proportion of deaths is one in four, and that in Moscow it has
been one in three. During the summer the mortality by the disease was
certainly much greater than in winter. All the modes of combating this
most formidable malady that have been suggested by the different
boards of health on the continent, and some practitioners of this
country, have totally failed. The remedies that have proved most
successful in the cholera morbus of India have evidently proved
injurious in the disease so denominated in Russia. As a security
against the contagion, our correspondent recommends brandy with
laudanum; the former to keep up the vigour of the abdominal viscera,
and the latter to prevent morbid excitability of the system, which
predisposes the body to the action of the contagion. In India, brandy
and laudanum have been very successfully administered in cases of the
cholera of that country. As the recommendation of our correspondent
appears to be very reasonable, we advise those who believe in the
predictions of a certain popular preacher, that the disease will reach
our shores before autumn, to lay in a good stock of genuine brandy and
laudanum. Notwithstanding bleeding, calomel in small and large doses,
opium, cajeput oil, sub-carbonate of ammonia, muriatic acid, camphor
fumigation, warm covering, and friction have been employed, the
disease has run its regular course, and the result, in every case,
seems to have depended on the natural stamina of the patients. To
those who had freely indulged in wine or spirits, it has generally
terminated fatally. Among the Russians it has proved more fatal than
among the Poles, in consequence, as it is supposed, of the great
quantity of fish-oil the former take at every meal.

       *       *       *       *       *

We quote the preceding from Dr. Reece's _Gazette of Practical
Medicine_.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the _Atlas_ we find the following:--An eminent surgeon, Mr. Hope,
who has had thirty years' practice, in which he has treated cases of
cholera morbus very successfully, has made public the means which he
used for the general good. He says, "The remedy I gave was one drachm
of nitrous acid (not nitric, that has foiled me), one ounce of
peppermint-water or camphor mixture, and 40 drops of tincture of
opium. A fourth part every three or four hours in a cupful of thin
gruel. The belly should be covered with a succession of hot cloths
dry; bottles of hot water to the feet, if they can be obtained;
constant and small sippings of finely strained gruel, or sago, or
tapioca; no spirit, no wine, no fermented liquors, till quite
restored." The French surgeons now use laudanum and abstain from
venesection. Another recipe is simply repeated draughts of hot water
in large quantities.

       *       *       *       *       *

A subsequent communication to the _Medical Gazette_ is as follows:--

We have learnt by the last arrivals from St. Petersburgh that one of
the most celebrated and intelligent of the physicians in the Russian
service has been employed in tracing the progress of the cholera, and
the inference at which he has arrived is, that the disease is
propagated exclusively by contagion, and not in any degree by
atmospherical influence. In the spring of 1830 it appeared at Corason,
the residence of Abbas Mirza, in Persia, where several of the Russian
mission died of it, and Prince Dolgonrowky, the minister, narrowly
escaped after a severe attack. In July it broke out in the Russian
province of Schirvan and Bacon; whence it found its way by land to
Tifflis, and by sea, from the port of Bacon to Astracan. In these
towns it made its appearance nearly at the same time, viz. about July
20th. No precautions were taken, and it extended rapidly throughout
Georgia, always following the course of the principal roads; and in no
instance did it appear in any village, or in houses, unless
individuals from the infected towns visited them. A Moravian village
almost in the immediate line of road, thus entirely escaped, while the
disease raged around it. Alarm having been excited at Bacon, many
persons fled along the Volga, and carried the disease with them, which
appeared at Jondayersk on the 22nd of July; at Krasnoyar on the 25th;
at Tzarilzin on the 6th of August; Donbooka and Saratoff on the 7th;
at Khvalnisk on the 19th; Novogorod on the 27th; Koshoma on the 3rd of
September; Yaroslaff 6th; and at Rybinsk on the 10th. In all these
places, the first victims were navigators of the Volga, or others
arrived from places where it already raged. A Cossack, sent to buy
food at Doubooka, on the Volga, died on 7th, after his return to
Katchalinskaia, on the Don; and thence the disease rapidly spread
through the Cossack villages.

The first deaths at Novitcherkask, the principal town of the Cossacks,
took place on the 18th of August; and at Tagonrog, September 9th.

From Saratoff multitudes of the inhabitants escaped again into Persia,
but the disease followed them, and it was carried to Moscow by a
student from Saratoff, whose servant had died on the road, and who was
himself the first victim in the Russian capital. All communication was
instantly cut off between the military school at Moscow and the rest
of the town; not one case of cholera occurred in the establishment. In
no instance was the propagation of the disease traceable to goods; it
was dependent on the actual presence of individuals labouring under
it. It never broke out after a quarantine of twenty-one days; and, in
the great majority of cases, the attack took place within a week after
exposure to the contagion.

       *       *       *       *       *


FRUITS OF INDUSTRY.


Last week the friends and supporters of the Metropolitan Charity
Schools dined together at a tavern in the city. Among the toasts were
"the Sheriffs of London and Middlesex," upon which (one of them,) Sir
Chapman Marshall, returned thanks in the following plain, sensible
words:

"My Lord Mayor and gentlemen, I want words to express the emotions of
my heart. You now see before you an humble individual who has been
educated in a parochial school. (Loud cheers.) I came to London in
1803, without a shilling--without a friend. I have not had the
advantage of a classical education, therefore you will excuse my
defects of language. (Cheers.) But this I will say, my Lord Mayor and
gentlemen, that you witness in me what may be done by the earnest
application of honest industry; and I trust that my example may induce
others to aspire, by the same means, to the distinguished situation
which I have now the honour to fill. (Repeated plaudits.)"

In its way, this brief address is as valuable as Hogarth's print of
the Apprentices.

       *       *       *       *       *


FRENCH POETRY FOR CHILDREN.


M. Ventouillac, editor of a popular Selection from the French
Classics, has professionally experienced the want of a book of French
Poetry for Children, and to supply this desideratum, has produced a
little volume with the above title. It consists of brief extracts, in
two parts--1. From Morel's Moral de l'enfance; 2. Miscellaneous Poems,
Fables, &c., by approved writers; and is in French just what Miss
Aikin's pretty poetical selection is in English. We hope it may become
as popular in schools and private tuition; and we feel confident that
M. Ventouillac's good taste as an editor will do much by way of
recommending his work to the notice of all engaged in the instruction
of youth.

       *       *       *       *       *


BLUE BEARD.


The original Blue Beard who has, during our childhood, so often served
to interest and alarm our imaginations, though for better dramatic
effect, perhaps, Mr. Colman has turned into a Turk--for surely the
murderer of seven wives could be little else--was no other than
Gilles, Marquess de Laval, a marshal of France, a general of great
intrepidity, who distinguished himself, in the reigns of Charles the
Sixth and Seventh, by his courage, especially against the English,
when they invaded France. The services that he rendered his country
might have immortalized his name, had he not for ever blotted his
glory by the most terrible murders, impieties, and debaucheries. His
revenues were princely; but his prodigalities might have made an
emperor a bankrupt. Wherever he went, he had in his suite a seraglio,
a company of actors, a band of musicians, a society of sorcerers, a
great number of cooks, packs of dogs of various kinds, and above 200
led horses. Mezeray says that he encouraged and maintained sorcerers
to discover hidden treasures, and corrupted young persons of both
sexes, that he might attach them to him; and afterwards killed them
for the sake of their blood, which was necessary to form his charms
and incantations. Such horrid excesses are credible when we recollect
the age of ignorance and barbarity in which they were practised. He
was at length (for some state crime against the Duke of Brittany)
sentenced to be burnt alive in a field at Nantes, in 1440; but the
Duke, who witnessed the execution, so far mitigated the sentence, that
he was first strangled, then burnt, and his ashes interred. He
confessed, before his death, "that all his excesses were derived from
his wretched education," though descended from one of the most
illustrious families in the kingdom.

       *       *       *       *       *


EFFECT OF STEAM-COACHES.


In a recent No. of the _Voice of Humanity_, (already noticed in the
_Mirror_,) occurs the following:

We doubt whether our labours to accomplish either of the objects of
this publication, if ever so successful, could produce such complete
mitigation (rather abolition) of animal suffering as the substitution
of locomotive machinery for the inhuman, merciless treatment of horses
in our stage-coaches. The man who started the first steam-carriage was
the greatest benefactor to the cause of humanity the world ever had.
But in a political view the subject is very important. We have a
superabundant population with a very limited territory, while each
horse requires a greater quantity of land than would be sufficient to
support a man. How extensive then would be the beneficial effect of
withdrawing two-thirds of the horses and appropriating the land
required for them to the rearing of cattle and to agricultural
produce? The Liverpool and Manchester steam-coaches have driven
fourteen horse-coaches off the road. Each of the horse-coaches
employed twelve horses--there being three stages, and a change of four
horses each stage. The total horses employed by these coaches was
therefore 168. Now each horse consumes, on an average, in pasture,
hay, and corn, annually, the produce of one and a half acre. The whole
would thus consume the produce of 252 acres. Suppose, therefore,
"every man had his acre" upon which to rear his family, which some
politicians have deemed sufficient, the maintenance of 252 families is
gained to the country by these steam-coaches. The average number in
families is six, that is, four children, besides the father and
mother.--The subsistence of 1,512 individuals is thus attained.

       *       *       *       *       *



[Illustration: DIALLING.]

(_For the Mirror._)


The following method of constructing a dial, may be novel and
interesting to many of those readers of the _Mirror_ who are fond of
that ancient art; whilst its simplicity and the great ease with which
it may be constructed, will render it acceptable to all.

_To make a Cross Dial._--A cross dial is one which shows the time of
the day without a gnomon, by a shadow of one part of the dial itself,
appearing upon another part thereof. _Observe._--In making this dial
you need have no regard to the latitude of the situation, for that is
to be considered in the _placing_, and not in the _making_ of it. 1st.
Prepare a piece of wood or stone of what size you please, and fashion
it in the form of a cross (see _fig._ 1) so that _ab, bc, cd, de, eh,
hi, ik, kl, lm_, and _ma_, may be all equal: the length of _ef_ is
immaterial, it may be more than double to _a e_. 2ndly. Set one foot
of your compasses in _e_ and describe the arc _h n_, which divide into
six equal parts for six hours, because it is a quarter of a circle;
lay a ruler from _e_ to the three first divisions, and draw the lines
_e o, e p, e q_. 3rdly. Now the position of this dial being such that
its end _a m_ must face the south, and the upper part of it or the
line _a f_ lying parallel to the _equinoctial_, it is evident that the
sun at noon will shine just along the line _a b_, and _m l_;
therefore you must place 12 at _b_ and _l_, then from 12 to 3 P.M. the
shadow of the corner _a_ will pass along the line _b c_, therefore
take from the quadrant _h n_, the distance _h o_, and set it from 12
to 1. Take also _h p_ and set it from 12 to 2, _h q_ being equal to _b
c_; at _c_ you may place 3 where the shadow of the corner _a_ goes
quite off the dial at _c_, or 3 o'clock in the afternoon; at this time
the shadow of the corner _i_ will appear on the side _h g_ at _q_ or 3
o'clock, where place the figure 3; the shadow will then ascend to _p_
at 4, to _o_ at 5; at 6 there will be no shadow, the sun shining right
along the line _i h_; place a VI also at the corner _l_, because it
also shines along the line _l k_, and from 6 till 9, (if it be in a
latitude where the sun continues up so late) the shadow of the corner
at _k_ is passing along the line _l m_: therefore take the distances
_h o_, &c., and set off from 6 to 7 and from 6 to 8, as before at 12,
1, and 2. Then for the morning hours, the shadow of the corner _c_
will enter upon the line _a b_ at the point _a_, just at 3 o'clock in
the morning, and if you draw lines from 7 and 8 parallel to _a m_,
their terminations will point out 4 and 5. Six o'clock is in the very
corner opposite to 6 in the evening. Parallel lines below the
transverse piece drawn from 5, 4, 3, will indicate the proper places
for 7, 8, 9. It then remains to set off the same distances as before
on line _l k_ on which the shadow of _m_ will point out 11, 10, and 9
o'clock; the dial will then be finished.

_Observe._ These dials require considerable thickness (_let it be
equal to a m_,) because being placed parallel to the equator, the sun
shines upon the upper face till the summer, and on the longest day is
elevated 23° 29' above the plane of the dial, and consequently the
shadow of _a_ will fall at noon in the line _a b_, not in the point
_b_, but at an angle of 23° 29' therewith, and on the shortest day the
like angle will be formed, but in an opposite direction. It must
further be observed that after the proper points are determined on the
plane, they had better be transferred to the sides of the cross, as is
shown in _fig._ 2, for there it is the shadow will be seen to pass. A
dial thus formed is universal; when made according to the foregoing
directions there is nothing more to do but to fix it by the help of
your quadrant to the elevation of the equinoctial or complement of the
latitude of your habitation, and so that the side _a m_ may exactly
face the south. A dial of this sort has been standing in my garden,
more than 12 months, and is found to answer the purpose well, being
both useful and ornamental.

When the figures are painted on the thickness as in _fig._ 2, the
upper surface being unoccupied, an equinoctial dial may be described
thereon, which will be useful the summer half year, while on the lower
surface a similar one may be placed for the winter half; or it may be
made the bearer of some useful lesson, in the form of a motto, e.g.
"_Disce dies numerare tuos_." But this is only a hint to the curious.

COLBOURNE.

_Sturminster Newton, Dorset._

       *       *       *       *       *



The Selector

AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_.

       *       *       *       *       *


ATHERTON,

_By the author of Rank and Talent_.


This tale bids fair to enjoy more lasting popularity than either of
the author's previous works. It has more story and incident, though
not enough for the _novel_. The characters, if not new, are more
strongly drawn--their colouring is finer--their humour is richer and
broader, and as they are from the last century, so their drawing
reminds us forcibly of the writers of the same period. There is none
of the mawkish affectation of the writing of the present day, as
coinage of words and fantasies of phrases which will scarcely be
understood, much less relished, twenty years hence. But the style
throughout is plain, sensible, and natural, free from caricature, and
more that of _the world_ than of _the book_.

The plot is of the tale or adventure description; certainly not new,
but its interest turns upon points which will never cease to attract a
reader. We do not enter into it, but prefer taking a few of the
characters to show the rank of life as well as the style of the
materials. The first is a portrait of a London citizen sixty years
since:--

At the Pewter Platter there were two arm chairs, one near the door and
the other near the window, and both close by the fire, which were
invariably occupied by the same gentlemen. One of these was Mr.
Bryant, citizen and stationer, but not bookseller, save that he sold
bibles, prayer-books and almanacks; for he seriously considered that
the armorial bearings of the Stationers' Company displaying three
books between a chevron, or something of that kind, for he was not a
dab at heraldry, mystically and gravely set forth that no good citizen
had occasion for more than three books, viz. bible, prayer-book and
almanack. Mr. Bryant was a bachelor of some sixty years old or
thereabouts. He had a snug little business though but a small
establishment; for it was his maxim not to keep more cats than would
catch mice. His establishment consisted of only two individuals; a
housekeeper and an apprentice. His housekeeper was one Mrs. Dickinson,
a staid, sober, matronly looking personage, who tried very hard, but
not very successfully, to pass for about forty years of age; the good
woman, though called Mrs. Dickinson, was a spinster, and according to
her own account was of a good family, for her great uncle was a
clergyman. She was remarkable for the neatness of her dress, for the
fineness of her muslin aprons, and the accurate arrangement of her
plaited caps. In one respect Mr. Bryant thought that she carried her
love of dress too far, for she would always wear a hoop when her day's
work was done. Mr. Bryant's apprentice, who was at the period of which
we are writing, nearly out of his time, was a high spirited young man,
whom neither Mr. Bryant nor Mrs. Dickinson could keep in any tolerable
order. So far from confining his reading to bibles, prayer-books, and
almanacks, he would devour with the utmost eagerness, whenever he
could lay his hands upon them, novels, plays, poems, romances, and
political pamphlets; he was a constant frequenter of the theatres,
sometimes with leave and sometimes without, for Mr. Bryant was almost
afraid of him; and to crown the matter he was a most outrageous
Wilkite.

Mr. Bryant himself was a neat, quiet, orderly sort of a man, regular
as clockwork, and steady as time, the very pink of punctuality and the
essence of exactness. He had been in business nearly forty years, in
the same shop, conducted precisely in the same style as in the days of
his predecessors; he lacked not store of clothes or change of wigs,
but his clothes and wigs and three cornered hats were so like each
other, that they seemed, as it were, part of himself. His wig was
brown, so were his coat and waistcoat, which were nearly of equal
length. He wore short black breeches with paste buckles, speckled
worsted hose and very large shoes with very large silver buckles. He
was most intensely and entirely a citizen. He loved the city with an
undivided attachment. He loved the sound of its bells, and the noise
of its carts and coaches; he loved the colour of its mud and the
canopy of its smoke; he loved its November fogs, and enjoyed the music
of its street musicians and its itinerant merchants; he loved all its
institutions civil and religious; he thought there was wisdom in them
if there was wisdom in nothing else; he loved the church and he loved
the steeple, and the parson who did the duty and the parson who did
not do the duty; and he loved the clerk and the sexton and the parish
beadle with his broad gold-laced hat, and cane of striking authority;
and he loved the watchmen and their drowsy drawl of "past umph a'
clock;" he loved the charity schools and admired beyond all the
sculpture of Phidias, or the marble miracles of the Parthenon, the two
full-length statues about three feet each in length and two feet six
inches each in breadth, representing a charity boy and a charity girl,
standing over the door of the parish school; he loved the city
companies, their halls, their balls, though he never danced at them,
their dinners, for he never missed them; and above all other
companies he loved the stationers', and its handsome barge, and
its glorious monopoly of almanacks; he loved the Lord Mayor and the
Mansion-house,--it was not quite so black then, as it is now,--and he
loved the great lumbering state coach and the little gingerbread
sheriffs' coaches, and loved the aldermen, and deputies and
common-councilmen and liverymen. Out of London he knew nothing;--he
believed that the Thames ran into the sea, because he had read at
school, that all rivers run into the sea, but what the sea was he did
not know and did not care; he believed that there were regions beyond
Highgate, and that the earth was habitable farther westward than Hyde
Park corner; but he had never explored those remote districts. What
was Hammersmith to him or he to Hammersmith? He knew of nothing,
thought of nothing, and could conceive of nothing more honourable,
more dignified, or more desirable than a good business properly
attended to. He was proud of the close and personal attention that he
paid to his shop,--somewhat censoriously proud; he might be called a
mercantile prude; or shopkeeping pedant; and when a near neighbour who
had a country house at Kentish-town, to which he went down every
Saturday, and from which he returned every Monday or Tuesday, came by
a variety of unavoidable, or unavoided misfortunes to make his
appearance in the Gazette, with a "Whereas" prefixed to his name, Mr.
Bryant rather uncandidly chuckled and said, "I don't wonder at it. I
thought it would end in that. That comes from leaving things to boys."

Much as Mr. Bryant venerated the city, and all the city institutions,
yet he was by no means ambitious of its honours. His motives of
abstinence were of a mixed nature. He had fears that the dignity of
common-councilman, which he had occasionally been invited to aspire
to, might interfere with his domestic comforts and put Mrs. Dickinson
out of her way; and he had some slight apprehensions that he might not
be successful if he should make the attempt; and then as in the course
of his life he had seen many promoted to that honour, whom he had once
known as children and apprentices, and whom he still regarded as boys,
though some of them were upwards of thirty years old, he affected to
make light of a dignity that had become so cheap.

Mr. Bryant was considered by the frequenters of the Pewter Platter as
a man of substance, and being some years older than most of the
visitors at that house, and having been accustomed to the house for
more years than any other of the party, the arm-chair, at what was
called the upper side of the fire-place, was invariably reserved for
him, and the other arm chair was most frequently occupied by the Rev.
Simon Plush. This reverend gentleman was a specimen of a class of
clergy now happily extinct, and never it is to be hoped for the honour
of the church, likely to be revived. He was a tall, muscular, awkward
man, about fifty years of age; habited in a rusty grey coat, with
waistcoat and breeches of greasy black, wearing a grizzled wig that
had shrunk from his forehead, which in its broad expanse of shining
whiteness, formed a contrast with a fiery hooked nose with aldermanic
decorations. His gait was shuffling and awkward, and all his carriage
was that of a man who was a sloven in everything; he was slovenly in
his dress, slovenly in his behaviour, slovenly in mind. He had been a
servitor at Oxford, where it can hardly be said that he had received
his education, for though an education had been offered to him both at
school and at Oxford, he had, in both instances, declined the offer,
guessing, perhaps, that with such a mind as his, the acquisition of
mental furniture would be but labour lost. By the tender mercy
however, or by the culpable negligence of college dignitaries and
examining chaplains, he had found his way into the clerical
profession, and had undergone the imposition of episcopal hands, which
was rather an imposition on the public than on him. Yet he lacked not
talent of some kind; he was a good hand at whist, excellent at cudgel
playing, dexterous on the bowling-green, capital at quoits,
unparalleled at rowing a skiff, could play well at nine-pins, could
run, hop, skip, jump or whistle with any man of his years, not
ignorant of the science of self-defence, and when rudely or ruffianly
insulted, could repay the indignity, with interest, at a moment's
notice; his lungs were vigorous, he could blow the French horn with
most poetic and potential blast, and with no mean degree of skill, and
as for preaching he made nothing of it; it used to be said that, with
the assistance of a dexterous parish clerk, he could get through the
whole morning service, sermon and all, in five and thirty minutes; he
was no spoil-pudding except where he dined. With all these talents,
however, he had no preferment in the church, nor even a curacy; but he
had plenty of duty to do of one kind or another, and as all his work
was piece-work, he got through it with as much rapidity as possible.
He was in almost constant requisition, and could be found any morning
at the Chapter Coffee House, or any evening at the Pewter Platter,
except Sunday, and he usually spent his Sunday evenings at Mr.
Bryant's. Mr. Plush was one who prudently avoided meddling with
politics, "For who knows," said he, "but that it may some day or
other cost me a dinner?" He was for the most part tolerably loyal, but
democratic beef would not choke him. To crown the whole, he was
imperturbably good-natured.

Early in the first volume we are introduced to Wilkes and Doctor
Johnson: this is rather a hazardous experiment of the author, but is
executed with success. Atherton, the hero, is then a city apprentice.
These were the days of Wilkes and Liberty, and Atherton, through his
protracted attachment to the cause, is _locked out_ by his master,
John Bryant.

       *       *       *       *       *

As Atherton stood absorbed in thought at the eastern side of Temple
Bar, he was wakened from his reverie by two gentlemen coming through
the gate and talking somewhat loudly. One of them was a ponderous,
burly figure of rolling and shuffling gait puffing like a grampus, and
at his side staggered or skipped along a younger, slenderer person,
who hung swingingly and uncertainly on the arm of his elderly
companion. The older of the two was growling out something of a
reproof to his unsteady companion, who flourished his arm as with the
action of an orator and hiccupped according to the best of his then
ability something like apology or vindication. The effect of this
action was to throw him off his balance, to unlock his arm from his
more steady supporter and to send himself with a hopping reel off the
pavement. To a dead certainty he would have deposited his unsober self
in the kennel had he not been kindly and vigorously intercepted in his
fall by the ready assistance of Frank Atherton. At the ludicrous
figure which his staggering friend now made the older gentleman burst
into a roar of laughter which might have been heard from Charing Cross
to St. Paul's; but suddenly checking himself he mournfully shook his
head saying, "Oh Bozzy, Bozzy, this is too bad."

Frank, having no other occupation, was ready enough to offer his
assistance towards guiding and propping the intoxicated gentleman; for
it seemed to be a task rather too hard for the sober one to manage by
himself.

"I am sorry to take you out of your way;" said the old gentleman to
Atherton.

"You cannot easily do that," replied Frank, "I have no particular
destination at present. My way lies in one direction as well as in
another."

"Do I understand you rightly?" asked the stranger, "Are you indeed a
houseless, homeless wanderer."

"I cannot justly call myself a homeless wanderer," said Frank, "but my
master has just now closed his doors on me and I have no other home at
present than the streets."

"'Tis bad, 'tis bad," said the gentleman, "you or your master has much
to answer for. But I'll take care you shall not want a shelter for the
present. I will not have upon my conscience the guilt of suffering you
to roam about the streets all night, if I can prevent it."

Frank was of a grateful disposition, and was so much struck with the
considerate kindness of the old gentleman that he ardently exclaimed,
"Sir, I shall be infinitely obliged to you."

"Nay, nay," replied the stranger, "you speak profanely. You cannot be
infinitely obliged to any man."

The party then entered a house in one of the courts of Fleet street
and Frank felt happy in having met with one likely to befriend him.
For though the gentleman was rather pompous in his manners and
somewhat awful in his aspect, yet there was a look of kindness about
him and an expression of humanity and consideration in his
countenance. When the intoxicated gentleman had been seated for a few
minutes, his faculties partially returned and looking, or rather
endeavouring to look upon Atherton, for his eye was not steady enough
to take a good aim, he said: "Young gentleman, I am very highly
obli--obli--obligat--"

"Obligated," roared the old gentleman, "you would say. But you had
better hold your tongue. That is the best use you can make of it."

"Glorious! Capital! Ten thousand thanks for that superb aphorism.
Doctor, you must recollect that for me to-morrow morning, and you must
put it down for me in your best style." He then went on hiccuping and
muttering--"The best use, hic, the best use, hic, I can make of my,
hic, the tongue, hic, hold your tongue, hic, oh doctor hic, I shall
never forget, hic, I hope you will remind me of it, hic, to-morrow
morning."

The old gentleman shook his head and sighed; the tipsy orator
proceeded, and directing his speech to Atherton he managed to say,
with many interruptions, "Young gentleman, you may think yourself
happy in having thus accidentally as it were, for it was all by pure
accident, been introduced to the great Dr. Johnson. And if you need
any advice or direction, you are now at the fountain head of all
practical wisdom. My friend's comprehensive genius takes in all
subjects from the government of empires to the construction of an
apple dumpling. Follow his advice and you cannot do wrong, neglect it
and you cannot do right.--Is not that well said, Doctor?--Rather
tersely put?"

"Go to sleep, Bozzy," said the doctor, "you don't know what you are
talking about, go to sleep."

"But I know what you have been talking about. My ears are always awake
to your wisdom, when all my other senses are asleep. We have had a
glorious day of it, Doctor, you routed them all, they had not a word
to say for themselves."

"I wish it were so with you," replied the Doctor.

"Good again! Put that down;" said Mr. Boswell, and then turning to
Atherton, he continued, "You see how free I am with my illustrious
friend."

"Be quiet, Bozzy," said the doctor again.

"Well, well I may go to sleep contentedly to-night, for I have not
lost a day. I shall record it all to-morrow, and that fine glorious
laugh which you uttered as we came through Temple Bar; I shall never
forget the awful reverberation. There is not a man in Europe whose
laugh can be compared with yours.--I shall never forget it;--pray
remind me of it to-morrow morning,--I shall never, never forget it,
never nev--nev." So saying he fell fast asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

We like this portrait-painting turn of the author. Its identity is
very entertaining, and is very superior in interest to the satirical
_nommes_ in the fashionable novels of our day.

       *       *       *       *       *



SPIRIT OF THE

Public Journals.

       *       *       *       *       *


LINES ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD'S.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.


  Hail to thy face and odours, glorious Sea!
  'Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not,
  Great beauteous Being! in whose breath and smile
  My heart beats calmer, and my very mind
  Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer
  Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world!
  Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din
  To me is peace--thy restlessness repose.
  E'en gladly I exchange your spring-green lanes
  With all the darling field-flowers in their prime,
  And gardens haunted by the nightingale's
  Long trills and gushing ecstacies of song
  For these wild headlands and the sea mew's clang--
  With thee beneath my window, pleasant Sea,
  I long not to o'erlook Earth's fairest glades
  And green savannahs--Earth has not a plain
  So boundless or so beautiful as thine;
  The eagle's vision cannot take it in.
  The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space,
  Sinks half way o'er it like a wearied bird;--
  It is the mirror of the stars, where all
  Their host within the concave firmament,
  Gay marching to the music of the spheres,
  Can see themselves at once--

                       Nor on the stage
  Of rural landscape are their lights and shades
  Of more harmonious dance and play than thine.
  How vividly this moment brightens forth,
  Between grey parallel and leaden breadths,
  A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league,
  Flush'd like the rainbow or the ringdove's neck,
  And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing
  The semblance of a meteor.

                      Mighty Sea!
  Cameleon-like thou changest, but there's love
  In all thy change, and constant sympathy
  With yonder Sky--thy mistress; from her brow
  Thou tak'st thy moods and wear'st her colours on
  Thy faithful bosom; morning's milky white,
  Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve;
  And all thy balmier hours' fair Element,
  Have such divine complexion--crisped smiles,
  Luxuriant heavings, and sweet whisperings,
  That little is the wonder Love's own Queen
  From thee of old was fabled to have sprung--

  Creation's common! which no human power
  Can parcel or inclose; the lordliest floods
  And cataracts that the tiny hands of man
  Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew
  To thee that could'st subdue the Earth itself,
  And brook'st commandment from the Heavens alone
  For marshalling thy waves--

                      Yet, potent Sea!
  How placidly thy moist lips speak e'en now
  Along yon sparkling shingles. Who can be
  So fanciless as to feel no gratitude
  That power and grandeur can be so serene,
  Soothing the home-bound navy's peaceful way.
  And rocking e'en the fisher's little bark
  As gently as a mother rocks her child?--

  The inhabitants of other worlds behold
  Our orb more lucid for thy spacious share
  On earth's rotundity; and is he not
  A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man
  Who sees not, or who seeing has no joy,
  In thy magnificence? What though thou art
  Unconscious and material, thou canst reach
  The inmost immaterial mind's recess,
  And with thy tints and motion stir its chords
  To music, like the light on Memnon's lyre!

  The Spirit of the Universe in thee
  Is visible; thou hast in thee the life--
  The eternal, graceful, and majestic life--
  Of nature, and the natural human heart
  Is therefore bound to thee with holy love.

  Earth has her gorgeous towns; the earth-circling sea
  Has spires and mansions more amusive still--
  Men's volant homes that measure liquid space
  On wheel or wing. The chariot of the land,
  With pain'd and panting steeds, and clouds of dust,
  Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair
  Careerers with the foam beneath their bows,
  Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by day,
  Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the night,
  Moor'd as they cast the shadows of their masts
  In long array, or hither flit and yond
  Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights,
  Like spirits on the darkness of the deep.

  There is a magnet-like attraction in
  These waters to the imaginative power,
  That links the viewless with the visible,
  And pictures things unseen. To realms beyond
  Yon highway of the world my fancy flies,
  When by her tall and triple mast we know
  Some noble voyager that has to woo
  The trade-winds, and to stem the ecliptic surge.
  The coral groves--the shores of conch and pearl,
  Where she will cast her anchor, and reflect
  Her cabin-window lights on warmer waves,
  And under planets brighter than our own:
  The nights of palmy isles, that she will see
  Lit boundless by the fire fly--all the smells
  Of tropic fruits that will regale her--all
  The pomp of nature, and the inspiriting
  Varieties of life she has to greet,
  Come swarming o'er the meditative mind.

  True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has
  His darker hints; but where's the element
  That chequers not its usefulness to man
  With casual terror? Scathes not earth sometimes
  Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes
  Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang
  Or hells for their own ruin, strews them flat
  As riddled ashes--silent as the grave.
  Walks not Contagion on the Air itself?
  I should--old Ocean's Saturnalian days
  And roaring nights of revelry and sport
  With wreck and human woe--be loth to sing;
  For they are few, and all their ills weigh light
  Against his sacred usefulness, that bids
  Our pensile globe revolve in purer air.
  Here Morn and Eve with blushing thanks receive
  Their fresh'ning dews, gay fluttering breezes cool
  Their wings to fan the brow of fever'd climes,
  And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn
  For showers to glad the earth.

                        Old Ocean was
  Infinity of ages ere we breathed
  Existence--and he will be beautiful
  When all the living world that sees him now
  Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun.
  Quelling from age to age the vital throb
  In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate
  The pulse that swells in _his_ stupendous breast,
  Or interdict his minstrelsy to sound
  In thund'ring concert with the quiring winds;
  But long as Man to parent Nature owns
  Instinctive homage, and in times beyond
  The power of thought to reach, bard after bard
  Shall sing thy glory, BEATIFIC SEA!

_Metropolitan_.[3]

    [3] With such a poem as this, even occasionally, the
    _Metropolitan_ must take high ground.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LATE MR. ABERNETHY.


Mr. Abernethy, although amiable and good-natured, with strong
feelings, possessed an irritable temper, which made him very petulant
and impatient at times with his patients and medical men who applied
to him for his opinion and advice on cases. When one of the latter
asked him once, whether he did not think that some plan which he
suggested would answer, the only reply he could obtain was, "Ay, ay,
put a little salt on a bird's tail, and you'll be sure to catch him."
When consulted on a case by the ordinary medical attendant, he would
frequently pace the room to and fro with his hands in his breeches'
pockets, and _whistle_ all the time, and not say a word, but to tell
the practitioner to go home and read his book. "_Read my book_" was a
very frequent reply to his patients also; and he could seldom be
prevailed upon to prescribe or give an opinion, if the case was one
which appeared to depend upon improper dieting. A country farmer, of
immense weight, came from a distance to consult him, and having given
an account of his daily meals, which showed no small degree of
addiction to animal food, Mr. Abernethy said, "Go away, sir, I won't
attempt to prescribe for such a _hog_."

He was particular in not being disturbed during meals; and a gentleman
having called after dinner, he went into the passage, put his hand
upon the gentleman's shoulders, and turned him out of doors. He would
never permit his patients to talk to him much, and often not at all:
and he desired them to hold their tongues and listen to him, while he
gave a sort of clinical lecture upon the subject of the consultation.
A loquacious lady having called to consult him, he could not succeed
in silencing her without resorting to the following expedient:--"Put
out your tongue, madam." The lady complied. "Now keep it there till
_I_ have done talking." Another lady brought her daughter to him one
day, but he refused to hear her or to prescribe, advising her to make
the girl take exercise. When the guinea was put into his hand, he
recalled the mother, and said, "Here, take the shilling back, and buy
_a skipping-rope_ for your daughter as you go along."--He kept his
pills in a bag, and used to dole them out to his patients; and on
doing so to a lady who stepped out of a coronetted carriage to consult
him, she declared they made her sick, and she could never take a pill.
"Not take a pill! what _a fool_ you must be," was the courteous and
conciliatory reply to the countess. When the late Duke of York
consulted him, he stood whistling with his hands in his pockets; and
the duke said, "I suppose you know who I am." The uncourtly reply was,
"Suppose I do, what of that?" His pithy advice was, "Cut off the
_supplies_, as the Duke of Wellington did in his campaigns, and the
enemy will leave the citadel." When he was consulted for lameness
following disease or accidents, he seldom either listened to the
patient or made any inquiries, but would walk about the room,
imitating the gait peculiar to different injuries, for the general
instruction of the patient. A gentleman consulted him for an ulcerated
throat, and, on asking him to look into it, he swore at him, and
demanded how he dared to suppose that he would allow him to blow his
stinking foul breath in his face! A gentleman who could not succeed
in making Mr. Abernethy listen to a narration of his case, and having
had a violent altercation with him on the subject, called next day,
and as soon as he was admitted, he locked the door, and put the key
into his pocket, and took out a loaded pistol. The professor, alarmed,
asked if he meant to rob or murder him. The patient, however, said he
merely wished him to listen to his case, which he had better submit
to, or he would keep him a prisoner till he chose to relent. The
patient and the surgeon afterwards became most friendly towards each
other, although a great many oaths passed before peace was established
between them.

This eccentricity of manner lasted through life, and lost Mr.
Abernethy several thousands a year perhaps. But those who knew him
were fully aware that it was characteristic of a little impatient
feeling, which only required management; and the apothecaries who took
patients to consult him, were in the habit of cautioning them against
telling long stories of their complaints. An old lady, who was
naturally inclined to be prosy, once sent for him, and began by saying
that her complaints commenced when she was _three years old_, and
wished him to listen to the detail of them from that early period. The
professor, however, rose abruptly and left the house, telling the old
lady to read his book, page so and so, and there she would find
directions for old ladies to manage their health.

It must be confessed, Mr. Abernethy, although a gentleman in
appearance, manner, and education, sometimes wanted that courtesy and
worldly deportment which is considered so essential to the medical
practitioner. He possessed none of the "suaviter in modo," but much of
the eccentricity of a man of genius, which he undoubtedly was. His
writings must always be read by the profession to which he belonged
with advantage; although, in his great work upon his _hobby_, his
theory is perhaps pushed to a greater extent than is admissible in
practice.--His rules for dieting and general living should be read
universally; for they are assuredly calculated to prolong life and
secure health, although few perhaps would be disposed to comply with
them rigidly. When some one observed to Mr. Abernethy himself, that he
appeared to live much like other people, and by no means to be bound
by his own rules, the professor replied, that he wished to act
according to his own precepts, but he had "_such a devil of an
appetite_," that he could not do so.

Mr. Abernethy had a great aversion to any hint being thrown out that
he _cured_ a patient of complaint. Whenever an observation to this
effect was made, he would say, "I never cured any body." The meaning
of this is perfectly obvious. His system was extremely wise and
rational, although, as he expressed himself to ignorant persons, it
was not calculated to excite confidence. He despised all the humbug of
the profession, and its arts to deceive and mislead patients and their
friends, and always told the plain truth without reserve. He knew that
the term _cure_ is inapplicable, and only fit to be used by quacks,
who gain their livelihood by what they call cures, which they promise
the patient to effect. Mr. Abernethy felt that nature was only to be
_seconded_ in her efforts, by an art which is derived from scientific
principles and knowledge, and that it is not the physician or surgeon
who cures, but _nature_, whom the practitioner assists by art.
Weak-minded persons are apt to run after cures, and thus nostrums and
quacks are in vogue, as if the living human system was as immutable in
its properties as a piece of machinery, and could be remedied when it
went wrong as the watchmaker repairs the watch with certainty, or the
coachmaker mends the coach. No one appreciated more highly the value
of medicine as a science than Mr. Abernethy; but he knew that it
depended upon observation and a deep knowledge of the laws and
phenomena of vital action, and that it was not a mere affair of guess
and hazard in its application, nor of a certain tendency as to its
effects.

This disposition of mind led the philosopher to disregard prescribing
for his patients frequently, as he had less faith in the prescription
than in the general system to be adopted by the patient in his habits
and diet. He has been known accordingly, when asked if he did not
intend to prescribe, to disappoint the patient by saying, "Oh, if you
_wish_ it, I'll prescribe for you, certainly." Instead of asking a
number of questions, us to symptoms, &c., he usually contented himself
with a general dissertation, or lecture and advice as to the
management of the constitution, to which local treatment was always a
secondary consideration with him altogether.

When patients related long accounts of their sufferings, and expected
the healing remedy perhaps, without contemplating any personal
sacrifices of their indulgences, or alteration of favourite habits,
he often cut short their narratives by putting his fore-finger on the
pit of their stomachs, and observing, "It's all _there_, sir;" and the
never-failing pill and draught, with rigid restrictions as to diet,
and injunctions as to exercise, invariably followed, although perhaps
rarely attended to; for persons in general would rather submit to even
nauseous medicine than abandon sensual gratifications, or diminish
their worldly pleasures and pursuits.--_Metropolitan._

       *       *       *       *       *



The Gatherer.

    A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.

SHAKSPEARE.

       *       *       *       *       *


REMARKABLE JURY AT HUNTINGDON.


In the 16th century, when figure and fortune, or quality and wealth,
were more considered than wisdom or probity, or justice and equity, in
our courts of law, Judge Doddridge took upon him to reprimand the
sheriff of the county of Huntingdon, for impanneling a grand jury of
freeholders who were not, in his opinion, men of figure and fortune.
The sheriff, who was a man of sense, and of wit and humour, resolved
at the next assizes to try how far sounds would work upon that judge,
and gain his approbation. He presented him with the following pannel,
which had the desired effect, for when the names were read over
emphatically, the judge thought that he had now indeed a jury of
figure and fortune:--

_A true copy of a Jury taken before Judge Doddridge, at the Assizes
holden at Huntingdon, July,_ 1619.

  Maximilian King--of Torland.
  Henry      Prince--of Godmanchester.
  George     Duke--of Somersham.
  William    Marquess--of Stukely.
  Edmund     Earl--of Hartford.
  Richard    Baron--of Bythorpe.
  Stephen    Pope--of Newton.
  Stephen    Cardinal--of Kimbolton.
  Humphry    Bishop--of Bugden.
  Robert     Lord--of Worsley.
  Robert     Knight--of Winwinck.
  William    Abbot--of Stukely.
  Robert     Baron--of St. Neot's.
  William    Dean--of Old Weston.
  John       Archdeacon--of Paxton.
  Peter      Squire--of Easton.
  Edward     Friar--of Ellerton.
  Henry      Monk--of Stukely.
  George     Gentleman--of Spaldock.
  George     Priest--of Graffham.
  Richard    Deacon--of Catsworth.
  Thomas     Yeoman--of Barham.

G.K.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE NEW PARLIAMENT "DISHED."

(_For the Mirror._)


An astounding announcement, but an incontrovertible fact, as shown by
the following _festive_ arrangements, made wholly from names of
members returned forming the new legislature.

At the head of the table will be found, in _A' Court Style_, a _Blunt,
Harty, King_, dressed in _Green_ and _Scarlett_, seated on a
_Lion_--supported on the right by three _Thynne Fellows_ and two
_Bastard Knights, Baring_ a _Shiel_; and on the left by a _Sadler_,
seven _Smiths_, and the _Taylor_ "wot" _Mangles_ with his _Bodkin_.
The bottom, it is understood, will be graced by a _Mandeville_ on a
_Ramsbottom_, with a _White Rose_ at each elbow, and a _Forrester_ and
_Carter_ on one side, and a _Constable_ and _Clerk_ on the other. The
sides will contain a _Host_ of unknown _Folks_.

_Lamb_, dressed by an English _Cooke_, will be one of the principal
joints; and birds being scarce this season, there will only be a
_Heron_, two _Martins_, a couple of _Young Drakes,_ and a _Wild
Croaker_. There will, however, be an immense _Lott_ of _French
Currie_, and the _Best Boyle Rice_. Fruit being yet unripe, there will
consequently only be some _Peach_ and _Lemon Peel_.

The whole will be got up at a great _Price_; but in order to go a
_Pennefather_, the amusements of the evening are to be further
promoted by the performance of _Dick Strutt_, the celebrated _Millbank
Ryder_, who will _Mount_ a _Hill_, and afterwards, while swallowing a
_Long Pole_, blow a _Horn_ fantasie through his nose without _Pain_,
and then _Skipwith_ a live _Buck_ and two _Foxes_--concluding with a
description of his late two _Miles Hunt_ in three _Woods_.

Among the splendid pictures decorating the walls, are some views along
the _Surry Banks_ and of the _Bridges_.

On the whole, some warm work is anticipated, from there being a supply
of both _Coke_ and _Cole_; but as to who will _Wynne_, remains to be
seen.

_Walworth._

G.W.

       *       *       *       *       *


EPITAPHS.


_On Ann Jennings, at Wolstanton._

  Some have children, some have none;
  Here lies the mother of twenty-one.

_On Du Bois, born in a baggage-wagon, and killed in a duel._

  Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath,
  Carte and tierce was his life, and a carte was his death.

_On a Publican._

  A jolly landlord once was I,
  And kept the Old King's Head hard by,
  Sold mead and gin, cider and beer,
  And eke all other kinds of cheer,
  Till Death my license took away,
  And put me in this house of clay:
  A house at which you all must call,
  Sooner or later, great and small.

_On John Underwood._

  Oh cruel Death, that dost no good,
    With thy destructive maggots;
  Now thou hast cropt our Underwood,
    What shall we do for fagots?

_In Dorchester Churchyard._

  Frank from his Betty snatch'd by Fate,
  Shows how uncertain is our state;
  He smiled at morn, at noon lay dead--
  Flung from a horse that kick'd his head.
  But tho' he's gone, from tears refrain,
  At judgment he'll get up again.

       *       *       *       *       *


EPITAPHS IN BROMSGROVE CHURCHYARD.


_In memory of Thomas Maningly, who died 3rd of May, 1819, aged 28
years._

  Beneath this stone lies the remains,
  Who in Bromsgrove-street was slain;
  A currier with his knife did the deed,
  And left me in the street to bleed;
  But when archangel's trump shall sound,
  And souls to bodies join, that murderer
  I hope will see my soul in heaven shine.

_Edward Hill, died 1st of January, 1800, aged 70._

  He now in silence here remains,
  (Who fought with Wolf on Abraham's plains);
  E'en so will Mary Hill, his wife,
  When God shall please to take her life.
  'Twas Edward Hill, their only son,
  Who caused the writing on this stone.

       *       *       *       *       *

We perceive that Mr. Murray has advertised the second edition of Sir
Humphry Davy's _Salmonia_, with the following opinion quoted from the
_Gentleman's Magazine_: "One of the most delightful labours of leisure
ever seen--not a few of the most beautiful phenomena of nature are
here lucidly explained." Now, these identical words occur in our
Memoir of Sir H. Davy prefixed to vol. xiii. of _The Mirror_, and
published in July, 1829. A Memoir of Sir Humphry Davy appeared
subsequently in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ of the same year, in which
the editor has most unceremoniously borrowed the original portion of
our Memoir (among which is that quoted above), without a single line
of acknowledgment. He has, too, printed this matter in his largest
type, while we were content to write and sell the whole Memoir and
Portrait at our usual cheap rate.

       *       *       *       *       *

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