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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. XX, No. 577.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1832. [PRICE 2d.

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[Illustration: DOMESTIC ANTIQUITIES.]

DOMESTIC ANTIQUITIES.


The first of these archæological rarities is a pair of Snuffers,
found in Dorsetshire sixty-four years since, and engraved in Hutchins's
history of that county. They were discovered, says the historian,
"in the year 1768, in digging the foundation of a granary, at the
foot of a hill adjoining to Corton mansion house (formerly the seat
of the respectable family of the Mohuns), in the parish of St. Peter,
Portisham. They are of brass, and weigh six ounces: the great difference
between these and the modern utensils of the same nature and use is,
that these are in shape like a heart fluted, and consequently terminate
in a point. They consist of two equal lateral cavities, by the edges of
which the snuff is cut off, and received into the cavities, from which
it is not got out without particular application and trouble."

"There are two circumstances attending this little utensil which seem to
bespeak it of considerable age: the roughness of the workmanship, which
is in all respects as crude and course as can be well imagined, and the
awkwardness of the form."

So little is known of the comparatively recent introduction of snuffers
into this country, that the above illustration will be acceptable to the
observer of domestic origins and antiquities. See also _Mirror_, vol.
xi. p. 74.

The KEY, annexed, was the property of Mr. Gough, the eminent
topographer, and is supposed to have been used as a passport by some of
the family of Stawel, whose arms it bears.

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LINES

ADDRESSED TO A PARTY OF YOUNG LADIES VISITING THE CATACOMBS AT PARIS.

(_From the French of M. Emanuel Dupaty_.)

BY E.B. IMPEY, ESQ.


  While life is young and pleasure new,
    Ah! why the shades of Death explore?
    Better, ere May's sweet prime is o'er,
  The primrose path of joy pursue:
  The torch, the lamps' sepulchral fire,
    Their paleness on your charms impress,
    And glaring on your loveliness,
  Death mocks what living eyes desire.
    Approach! the music of your tread
  No longer bids the cold heart beat:
  For ruling Beauty boasts no seat
    Of empire o'er the senseless dead!
  Yet, if their lessons profit aught,
    Ponder, or ere ye speed away,
    Those feet o'er flowers were form'd to stray,
  No death-wrought causeway, grimly wrought,
    Of ghastly bones and mould'ring clay.
  To gayer thoughts and scenes arise;
  Nor ever veil those sun-bright eyes
    From sight of bliss and light of day--
  Save when in pity to mankind
  Love's fillet o'er their lids ye bind.

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HOLLAND.


Holland derives its name from the German word _Hohl_, synonymous
with the English term hollow, and denoting a concave, or very hollow,
low country.

This country originally formed part of the territory of the Belgæ,
conquered by the Romans, 47 years before Christ. A sovereignty, founded
by Thierry, first Count of Holland, A.D. 868, continued till the year
1417, when it passed, by surrender, to the Duke of Burgundy. In 1534,
being oppressed by the Bishop of Utrecht, the people ceded the country
to Spain. The Spanish tyranny being insupportable, they revolted, and
formed the republic called the United Provinces, by the Union of
Utrecht, 1579. When they were expelled the Low Countries by the Duke of
Alva, they retired to England; and having equipped a small fleet of
forty sail, under the command of Count Lumay, they sailed towards this
coast--being called, in derision, "_gueux_," or _beggars of the sea_.
Upon the duke's complaining to Queen Elizabeth, that they were pirates,
she compelled them to leave England; and accordingly they set sail for
Enckhuysen; but the wind being unfavourable, they accidentally steered
towards the isle of Voorn, attacked the town of Briel, took possession
of it, and made it the first asylum of their liberty.

In 1585, a treaty was concluded between the States of Holland and
Queen Elizabeth; and Briel was one of the cautionary towns delivered
into her hands for securing the fulfilment of their engagements. It was
garrisoned by the English during her reign, and part of the next, but
restored to the States in 1616.

The office of Stadtholder, or Captain-General of the United Provinces,
was made hereditary in the Prince of Orange's family, not excepting
females, 1747. A revolt was formed, but prevented by the Prussians,
1787. The country was invaded by the French in 1793, who took possession
of it January, 1795, and expelled the Stadtholder: it was erected into
a kingdom by the commands of Buonaparte, and the title of king given
to his brother Louis, June 5, 1806. Its changes since this period are
familiar to the reader of contemporary history.

Lord Chesterfield, in his _Letters to his Son_, says--"Holland,
where you are going, is by far the finest and richest of the Seven
United Provinces, which, altogether, form the republic. The other
provinces are Guelderland, Zealand, Friesland, Utrecht, Groningen,
and Overyssel. These seven provinces form what is called the
States-General of the United Provinces: this is a very powerful, and a
very considerable republic. I must tell you that a republic is a free
state, without any king. You will go first to the Hague, which is the
most beautiful village in the world, for it is not a town. Amsterdam,
reckoned the capital of the United Provinces, is a very fine, rich city.
There are besides in Holland several considerable towns--such as Dort,
Haerlem, Leyden, Delft, and Rotterdam. You will observe throughout
Holland the greatest cleanliness: the very streets are cleaner than our
houses are here. Holland carries on a very great trade, particularly to
China, Japan, and all over the East Indies."

P.T.W.

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THE HAWTHORN WELL.


[The following lines are associated with a singular species of
popular superstition which may in some measure, explain the "pale
cast of thought" that pervades them. They are written by a native of
Northumberland. "The Hawthorn Well," was a _Rag Well_, and so
called from persons formerly leaving rags there for the cure of
certain diseases. Bishop Hall, in his Triumphs of Rome, ridicules a
superstitious prayer of the Popish Church for the "blessing of clouts
in the way of cure of diseases;" and Mr. Brand asks, "Can it have
originated thence?" He further observes:--"this absurd custom is not
extinct even at this day: I have formerly frequently observed shreds or
bits of rag upon the bushes that overhang a well in the road to Benton,
a village in the vicinity of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, which, from that
circumstance, is now or was very lately called _The Rag Well_. This
name is undoubtedly of long standing: probably it has been visited for
some disease or other, and these rag-offerings are the relics of the
then prevailing popular superstition."--_Brand's Popular Antiquities_,
vol. ii. p. 270.]


    "From hill, from dale, each charm is fled;
    Groves, flocks, and fountains, please no more."


  No joy, nor hope, no pleasure, nor its dream,
  Now cheers my heart. The current of my life
  Seems settled to a dull, unruffled lake,
  Deep sunk 'midst gloomy rocks and barren hills;
  Which tempests only stir and clouds obscure;
  Unbrightened by the cheerful beam of day,
  Unbreathed on by the gentle western breeze,
  Which sweeps o'er pleasant meads and through the woods,
  Stirring the leaves which seem to dance with joy.
  No more the beauteous landscape in its pride
  Of summer loveliness--when every tree
  Is crowned with foliage, and each blooming flower
  Speaks by its breath its presence though unseen--
  For me has charms; although in early days,
  Ere care and grief had dulled the sense of joy,
  No eye more raptured gazed upon the scene
  Of woody dell, green slope, or heath-clad hill;
  Nor ear with more delight drank in the strains
  Warbled by cheerful birds from every grove,
  Or thrilled by larks up-springing to the sky.

    From the hill side--where oft in tender youth
  I strayed, when hope, the sunshine of the mind,
  Lent to each lovely scene, a double charm
  And tinged all objects with its golden hues--
  There gushed a spring, whose waters found their way
  Into a basin of rude stone below.
  A thorn, the largest of its kind, still green
  And flourishing, though old, the well o'erhung;
  Receiving friendly nurture at its roots
  From what its branches shaded; and around
  The love-lorn primrose and wild violet grew,
  With the faint bubbling of that limpid fount.

    Here oft the shepherd came at noon-tide heat
  And sat him down upon the bank of turf
  Beneath the thorn, to eat his humble meal
  And drink the crystal from that cooling spring.
  Here oft at evening, in that placid hour
  When first the stars appear, would maidens come
  To fill their pitchers at the Hawthorn Well,
  Attended by their swains; and often here
  Were heard the cheerful song and jocund laugh
  Which told of heart-born gladness, and awoke
  The slumbering echoes in the distant wood.

    But now the place is changed. The pleasant path,
  Which wound so gently up the mountain side
  Is overgrown with bent and russet heath;
  The thorn is withered to a moss-clad stump,
  And the fox kennels where the turf-bank rose!
  The primrose and wild violet now no more
  Spread their soft fragrance round. The hollow stone
  Is rent and broken; and the spring is dry!

       *       *       *       *       *

  But yesterday I passed the spot, in thought
  Enwrapped--unlike the fancies which played round
  My heart in life's sweet morning, bright and brief:
  And as I stood and gazed upon the change,
  Methought a voice low whispered in my ear:
  "Thy destiny is linked with that low spring;
  Its course is changed, and so for aye shall be
  The tenor of thy life; and anxious cares,
  And fruitless wishes, springing without hope,
  Shall rankle round thy heart, like those foul weeds
  Which now grow thick where flow'rets bloomed anew:--
  Like to that spring, thy fount of joy is dry!"


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LINES

_From the Italian of Scipione Maffèi_[1]

BY E.B. IMPEY.


    Quivi qual foste gia, non qual sarète.
    Con diletto mirando, in onta agli anni
    Vostre belle sembianze ancor vedrete.


  Scorn not, dear maid, this fond but faithful lay,
    That pictures, on no perishable page,
    Thy beauties, rescued from the spoils of age,
  To live and blossom with thy poet's bay:
  For when remorseless Time brings on decay,
    When the loath'd mirror shall no more engage
    Thy smiles, distorted into grief and rage,
  Alas! to think that youth must pass away--
    Then in these lines contented shall thou trace,
    As in a lovelier glass, thy lasting charms,
  Not as they shall be, but as now they grace,
  Fresh in the bud of youth, these circling arms.


    [1] The Marchese Scipione Maffèi was a native of Verona, contemporary
        with Gio. Baptista Felice Zappi, Vincenzio di Filicaja, and other
        Italian poets, who associated themselves together in an academy,
        which they entitled Arcadia.  The pastoral name conferred upon
        the Marquess was Orilto Barentatico.

        _Vide Rime degli Arcadi, Venice_, MDCCLXXIX.

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LAWS RELATING TO BACHELORS.

(_To the Editor._)


At page 53 of the present volume, your Correspondent "E.J.H." in his
remarks on "Laws relating to Bachelors," states at the conclusion
thereof as follows:--

"In England, bachelors are not left to go forgotten to their solitary
graves. There was a tax laid on them by the 7th William III., after the
25th year of their age, which was 12_l._ 10_s._ for a duke,
and 1_s._ for a commoner. At present they are taxed by an extra
duty upon their servants--for a male, 1_l._ 5_s._, for a female,
2_s._ 6_d._ above the usual duties leviable upon servants."

Your Correspondent certainly must be in error upon these points, as the
additional duty to which bachelors in England are liable under the
present Tax Acts, for a male Servant, is only 1_l._ (the usual duty
leviable for such servant being 1_l._ 4 _s._); and there is
not, that I am aware of, any law in existence in England taxing any
person in respect of female servants.

R.J.

_Alton, Hants._

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THE NATURALIST.


DEER OF NORTH-AMERICA, AND THE MODE OF HUNTING THEM.

(_From Featherstonehaugh's Journal._)


Deer are more abundant than at the first settlement of the country.
They increase to a certain extent with the population. The reason of
this appears to be, that they find protection in the neighbourhood of
man from the beasts of prey that assail them in the wilderness, and from
whose attacks their young particularly can with difficulty escape.
They suffer most from the wolves, who hunt in packs like hounds, and
who seldom give up the chase until a deer is taken. We have often sat,
on a moonlight summer night, at the door of a log-cabin in one of our
prairies, and heard the wolves in full chase of a deer, yelling very
nearly in the same manner as a pack of hounds. Sometimes the cry would
be heard at a great distance over the plain: then it would die away, and
again be distinguished at a nearer point, and in another direction;--now
the full cry would burst upon us from a neighbouring thicket, and we
would almost hear the sobs of the exhausted deer;--and again it would be
borne away, and lost in the distance. We have passed nearly whole nights
in listening to such sounds; and once we saw a deer dash through the
yard, and immediately past the door at which we sat, followed by his
audacious pursuers, who were but a few yards in his rear.--Immense
numbers of deer are killed every year by our hunters, who take them for
their hams and skins alone, throwing away the rest of the carcass.
Venison hams and hides are important articles of export; the former are
purchased from the hunters at 25 cents a pair, the latter at 20 cents a
pound. In our villages we purchase for our tables the saddle of venison,
with the hams attached, for 37-1/2 cents, which would be something like
one cent a pound.--There are several ways of hunting deer, all of which
are equally simple. Most frequently the hunter proceeds to the woods on
horseback, in the day-time, selecting particularly certain hours, which
are thought to be most favourable. It is said, that, during the season
when the pastures are green, this animal rises from his lair precisely
at the rising of the moon, whether in the day or night; and I suppose
the fact to be so, because such is the testimony of experienced hunters.
If it be true, it is certainly a curious display of animal instinct.
This hour is therefore always kept in view by the hunter, as he rides
slowly through the forest, with his rifle on his shoulder, while his
keen eye penetrates the surrounding shades. On beholding a deer, the
hunter slides from his horse, and, while the deer is observing the
latter, creeps upon him, keeping the largest trees between himself and
the object of pursuit, until he gets near enough to fire. An expert
woodsman seldom fails to hit his game. It is extremely dangerous to
approach a wounded deer. Timid and harmless as this animal is at other
times, he no sooner finds himself deprived of the power of flight, than
he becomes furious, and rushes upon his enemy, making desperate plunges
with his sharp horns, and striking and trampling furiously with his
forelegs, which, being extremely muscular and armed with sharp hoofs,
are capable of inflicting very severe wounds. Aware of this
circumstance, the hunter approaches him with caution, and either secures
his prey by a second shot, where the first has been but partially
successful, or, as is more frequently the case, causes his dog to seize
the wounded animal, while he watches his own opportunity to stab him
with his hunting-knife. Sometimes where a noble buck is the victim, and
the hunter is impatient or inexperienced, terrible conflicts ensue on
such occasions. Another mode is to watch at night, in the neighbourhood
of the salt-licks. These are spots where the earth is impregnated with
saline particles, or where the salt-water oozes through the soil. Deer
and other grazing animals frequent such places, and remain for hours
licking the earth. The hunter secretes himself here, either in the thick
top of a tree, or most generally in a screen erected for the purpose,
and artfully concealed, like a mask-battery, with logs or green boughs.
This practice is pursued only in the summer, or early in the autumn, in
cloudless nights, when the moon shines brilliantly, and objects may be
readily discovered. At the rising of the moon, or shortly after, the
deer having risen from their beds approach the lick. Such places are
generally denuded of timber, but surrounded by it; and as the animal is
about to emerge from the shade into the clear moonlight, he stops,
looks cautiously around and snuffs the air. Then he advances a few
steps, and stops again, smells the ground, or raises his expanded
nostrils, as if "he snuffed the approach of danger in every tainted
breeze." The hunter sits motionless, and almost breathless, waiting
until the animal shall get within rifle-shot, and until its position, in
relation to the hunter and the light, shall be favourable, when he fires
with an unerring aim. A few deer only can be thus taken in one night,
and after a few nights, these timorous animals are driven from the
haunts which are thus disturbed. Another method is called
_driving_, and is only practised in those parts of the country
where this kind of game is scarce, and where hunting is pursued as an
amusement. A large party is made up, and the hunters ride forward with
their dogs. The hunting ground is selected, and as it is pretty well
known what tracts are usually taken by the deer when started, an
individual is placed at each of those passages to intercept the
retreating animal. The scene of action being in some measure,
surrounded, small parties advance with the dogs in different directions,
and the startled deer, in flying, generally fly by some of the persons
who are concealed, and who fire at them as they pass.

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WOLVES OF NORTH AMERICA.

(_From Featherstonehaugh's Journal._)


Wolves are very numerous in every part of the state. There are two
kinds: the common or black wolf, and the prairie wolf. The former is
a large, fierce animal, and very destructive to sheep, pigs, calves,
poultry, and even young colts. They hunt in large packs, and after using
every stratagem to circumvent their prey, attack it with remarkable
ferocity. Like the Indian, they always endeavour to surprise their
victim, and strike the mortal blow without exposing themselves to
danger. They seldom attack man except when asleep or wounded. The
largest animals, when wounded, entangled, or otherwise disabled, become
their prey, but in general they only attack such as are incapable of
resistance. They have been known to lie in wait upon the bank of a
stream, which the buffaloes were in the habit of crossing, and, when one
of those unwieldy animals was so unfortunate as to sink in the mire,
spring suddenly upon it and worry it to death, while thus disabled
from resistance. Their most common prey is the deer, which they hunt
regularly; but all defenceless animals are alike acceptable to their
ravenous appetites. When tempted by hunger, they approach the
farm-houses in the night, and snatch their prey from under the very eye
of the farmer; and when the latter is absent with his dogs, the wolf is
sometimes seen by the females lurking about in mid-day, as if aware of
the unprotected state of the family. Our heroic females have sometimes
shot them under such circumstances. The smell of burning assafoetida
has a remarkable effect upon this animal. If a fire be made in the
woods, and a portion of this drug thrown into it, so as to saturate the
atmosphere with the odour, the wolves, if any are within the reach of
the scent, immediately assemble around, howling in the most mournful
manner; and such is the remarkable fascination under which they seem to
labour, that they will often suffer themselves to be shot down rather
than quit the spot. Of the very few instances of their attacking human
beings of which we have heard, the following may serve to give some idea
of their habits. In very early times, a Negro man was passing in the
night in the lower part of Kentucky from one settlement to another. The
distance was several miles, and the country over which he travelled
entirely unsettled. In the morning, his carcass was found entirely
stripped of flesh. Near it lay his axe, covered with blood, and all
around, the bushes were beaten down, the ground trodden, and the number
of foot-tracks so great, as to show that the unfortunate victim had
fought long and manfully. On following his track, it appeared that the
wolves had pursued him for a considerable distance; and that he had
often turned upon them and driven them back. Several times they had
attacked him, and been repelled, as appeared by the blood and tracks.
He had killed some of them before the final onset, and in the last
conflict had destroyed several; his axe was his only weapon. The _prairie
wolf_ is a smaller species, which takes its name from its habits, or
residing entirely upon the open plains. Even when hunted with dogs, it
will make circuit after circuit round the prairie, carefully avoiding
the forest, or only dashing into it occasionally when hard pressed, and
then returning to the plain. In size and appearance this animal is
midway between the wolf and the fox, and in colour it resembles the
latter, being of a very light red. It preys upon poultry, rabbits, young
pigs calves, &c. The most friendly relations subsist between this animal
and the common wolf, and they constantly hunt in packs together. Nothing
is more common than to see a large, black wolf in company with several
prairie wolves. I am well satisfied that the latter is the jackall of
Asia. Several years ago, an agricultural society, which was established
at the seat of government, offered a large premium to the person who
should kill the greatest number of wolves in one year. The legislature,
at the same time offered a bounty for each wolf-scalp that should be
taken. The consequence was, that the expenditure for wolf-scalps became
so great, as to render it necessary to repeal the law. These animals,
although still numerous, and troublesome to the farmer, are greatly
decreased in number, and are no longer dangerous to man. We know of no
instances in late years of a human being having been attacked by wolves.

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CEDAR TREES.


There are now growing on the grounds of Greenfield Lodge, two cedar
trees of the immense height of 150 feet; the girth of one is 11 ft.
7 in. and its branches extend 50 feet; the girth of the other is 8 ft.
7 in.--_Chester Chronicle._

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GIGANTIC WHALE.


The skeleton of the whalebone whale which was cast ashore at North
Berwick last year, and whose measurement so far exceeds the ordinary
dimensions of animated nature as positively to require to be seen before
being believed, is now in course of preparation, and we believe will be
set up in such a manner as to enable scientific men to examine it with
every advantage. The baleen (commonly called whalebone) has been
prepared with infinite care and trouble, and will be placed in its
original section in the palate. If there be one part more remarkable
than another, it is the appearance of the baleen, or whalebone, when
occupying its natural position; the prodigious quantity (upwards of two
tons), and, at the same time, mechanical beauty connected with every
part of the unique mass, rendering it beyond the power of language to
describe, or give the slightest idea of it. The skull, or brainbone, was
divided vertically, with a view to convenience in moving the head (this
portion of the skeleton weighing eight tons). This section displayed the
cavity for containing the brain; and thus some knowledge of the sentient
and leading organ of an animal, the dimensions of whose instruments of
motion fill the mind with astonishment, will at last be obtained.
Results, unexpected, we believe, by most anatomists were arrived at. The
cavity (a cast of which will be submitted to the anatomical public) was
gauged or measured in the manner first invented and recommended by Sir
William Hamilton, and under that gentleman's immediate inspection; the
weight of the brain, estimated in this way, amounts to 54 lb. imperial
weight. The brain of the small whalebone whale, examined by Mr. Hunter
(the specimen was only 17 feet long), weighed about 4 lb. 10 oz.; the
brain of the elephant weighs between 6 lb. and 7 lb.; the human brain
from 3 lb. to 4 lb. The total length of the whale was 80 feet; and
although Captain Scoresby mentions one which he heard of which was said
to measure somewhat more than 100 feet, it is extremely probable that
this measurement had not been taken correctly. The whale examined by
Sir Robert Sibbald, nearly a century ago, measured exactly 78 feet;
"fourteen men could stand at one time in the mouth; when the tide rose,
a small boat full of men entered easily."--_Scotsman_.

[The total length of the whale found dead on the coast of Belgium, in
1827, and whose skeleton was exhibited in London, during last year, was
95 feet.--See _Mirror_, vol. xviii. p. 104.]

       *       *       *       *       *


FALLS OF THE GENESEE.

[Mr. Fergusson, in his Notes made during a visit to the United States
and Canada, in 1831, thus refers to the Genesee Falls, engraved in No.
562 of _The Mirror_, p. 97 of the present volume.]


Rochester is well known to all who take an interest in America, as a
remarkable instance of what may be done in the way of transition, and as
exhibiting in its streets a perfect sample of the progress from stumps
to steeples. It is certainly an interesting place, and presents a busy
scene of manufacturing and commercial enterprise. My time being limited,
I immediately procured a _cicerone_, and proceeded to walk over the
town, concluding with the banks of the river, where there is a powerful
fall upon the Genesee, about 90 feet in height, forming a most romantic
scene, and which may be fairly denominated the parent of Rochester, as
the mill power which it supplies has brought the whole affair into
existence. There are also sulphur springs and baths in the town of some
repute.

A splendid aqueduct carries the canal here across the river by ten
arches. It is also at present in contemplation to unite the Genesee and
Alleghany rivers, by a canal of more than 100 miles in extent, and which
would open up a valuable trade with the upper part of the Ohio Valley.
I have no doubt that it will be carried into effect, or perhaps a
railroad substituted. Close upon the verge of the precipice at the fall,
is observed a small islet or green knoll, from whence poor Sam Patch
took his final plunge. Sam, it would seem, was no subscriber to the
tenets of the Temperance Society, for upon this occasion his perceptions
were far from being clear; and having neglected to spring in his usual
adroit style, the unlucky wight never again appeared. The interest which
this poor creature excited, both here and at Niagara, was astonishing.
His very exit (than which nothing could be more natural) was considered
somewhat mysterious, as his body was not found; and some time subsequent
to the event, a fellow of a waggish disposition happening to be
accidentally in that part of the country, and bearing, it is said, a
singular resemblance to Patch, was stopped by a Rochester-man on the
road, and questioned on the subject. The stranger immediately saw a fair
opening for fun, and, _after some hesitation, reluctantly confessed_
that he was actually _Sam himself_; but that, for particular
reasons, his being alive must be kept a profound secret, until a day he
named, when he would make a public appearance in Rochester, and that he
trusted to the fidelity of the person who had discovered him not to
mention the circumstance, meantime, to any living being. _As a matter
of course_, it was speedily confided, in like manner, to the whole
population; and on the appointed day, crowds assembled to laugh at the
credulity of one another. A poor tradesman of the town had taken
wilfully the same fatal leap, only on the day preceding my visit. Many
of the poor Indians are lost over the fall, when rum has been in plenty.
A squaw was observed upon one occasion, with her canoe absorbed in the
current, and she herself utterly insensible to the danger. Warned at
last by loud exclamations from the banks, she roused herself, only to
behold the frightful chasm before her, when, perceiving all hope of
escape to be vain, and every effort fruitless, she coolly finished off
the contents of her bottle, and plunged into the abyss.--See _Quart.
Journ. Agric._ No. 18.

       *       *       *       *       *




ANECDOTE GALLERY.


SATIN STONE NECKLACES.

These beautiful ornaments of polished fluorspar--first made and brought
into fashion, we believe, by the late Mr. Mawe, of the Strand--are even
more appreciated by our Gallic neighbours than by ourselves. We have
been in society where the attention and admiration of a gallant French
gentleman was ludicrously divided between the attractions of a lady's
face and her satin-stone necklace. Some years since, the Duchess de
Berri, it is said, purchased various ornaments of this description and
material, to a considerable amount, which she wore, either upon, or
immediately subsequent to, her marriage. On the fatal night of the Duke
de Berri's assassination, the Duchess happened (so goes the story) to be
wearing one of these identical purchases; and, in consequence, upon the
anniversary of her widowhood, and on other occasions when peculiarly
depressed in spirits, never fails to put on a satin-stone necklace, as
a memento of the hours of her bridal and deprivation. Louis XVIII.
purchased, when in England, a large stock of these delicate, white
necklaces, which, on returning to France, he disposed off amongst his
admiring fair _noblesse_, by gift or purchase.

       *       *       *       *       *


DUELLING IN FRANCE.

Different versions of the following anecdotes, respecting Mr. G---- (an
English officer), may be abroad, but we give them as detailed to us:--

Mr. G----, a young English _militaire_ of fashion and spirit, not a
great while since, had the fortune to fight a couple of duels in Paris,
under circumstances rather curious. He was acquainted with a French
gentleman, whom nature had endowed with more tongue than with discretion
and good principles;--in fact, it came to the ears of Mr. G----, that
the loquacious Gaul was a revolutionist in politics, a professed atheist
in religion, and (how could it happen otherwise?) a man devoid of the
most ordinary principles of honour, probity, and social decencies. He
was in the habit of slandering and vituperating, in the most violent
manner; and, in the well-thronged _cafés_ and _salons_ of the
French capital, not only his _bon ami_ Mr. G----, but everything
and everybody _English_, until our young officer, provoked by his
insolence beyond all patience, taking the advice of a friend, challenged
him. The Gaul, affecting to be highly irritated, at first protested that
"he would never consent to _degrade_ himself by fighting any of the
d--d English;" and, with horrid imprecations, parodied Caligula's
memorable malice, by wishing that "all the cursed members of that
infernal nation were but one body, which he might destroy at a shot!"
However, that no imputation might rest on his courage, he consented to
meet his adversary--for whom, by the way, he expressed the most thorough
contempt--next morning, at the _Bois de Boulogne_. They met; and
this miserable man received the reward of his perfidy and malice, by a
ball through his heart!

Some days after this affair, Mr. G---- being grossly insulted by another
French gentleman--a notorious duellist, and, if we mistake not, an ally
of the deceased--felt himself obliged to notice the affront in a similar
manner. Monsieur ---- treated the challenge with supreme contempt,
begged to assure Mr. G---- that he was a dead man if they met, but
professed himself much at his service if he was really bent on quitting
this world, and thought the most appropriate spot for so doing would be
the _Champs d'Elysées_. Thither next morning the parties repaired.
Mr. G---- found his antagonist already on the ground, and amusing
himself by firing at a mark: viz.--his glove, attached to the branch of
a tree, which he shot at with such precision as to send his bullet, at
every successive trial, through the aperture in the glove made by the
first. Monsieur was, in truth, a splendid and formidable marksman. Mr.
G----, in preparing for the duel, happening to cast his eyes on his
adversary, perceived that he had slily placed his arm in such a
position, as must ensure, on the _honourable_ gentleman's fire, the
fulfilment of his vaunt to make him "a dead man." No time was to be
lost; the young Englishman's life depended upon dispatch; and, instantly
firing, he proved himself as good a marksman as Monsieur ----, by
sending his ball, with the utmost precision, through the wily
manoeuvrer's elbow, from whence it passed into his side; and he
dropped down, disabled, if not dead. Thus did British spirit twice
humble, in a remarkable manner, French insolence and presumption!

       *       *       *       *       *


A DISTINCTION.

"La-a-dy * *," exclaimed a certain Colonel, in that very original Scotch
brogue which a long acquaintance with the world has not tended in any
degree to diminish, "alloo me to introduce you to my brother, Carnal
M---- ----." "What!" asked the lady, "are you both Colonels?"
"Oo--ay--La-a-dy * *, that are we, in troth; but the daff'rence is this,
my brother, you see, is _Carnal_" (Lieutenant-colonel he intended
to express), "and _I_--am _fool_ Carnal!"

M.L.B.

       *       *       *       *       *




MANNERS AND CUSTOMS.


PETER PENCE

Were an ancient levy, or tax, of a penny on each house throughout
England, paid to the Pope. It was called _Peter-pence_ because
collected on the day of _St. Peter ad vincula_. By the Saxons it
was called _Rome-feoh_--_i.e._ the fee of Rome; and also _Rome-scot_,
and _Rome-pennying_, because collected and sent to Rome;--and lastly,
it was called _Hearth-money_, because every dwelling-house was liable
to it, provided there were thirty-pence _vivæ pecuniæ_ belonging to
it;--nay, and every religious house, the Abbey of St. Alban's alone
excepted.

This Peter-pence was at first given as a pension, or alms, by Ina, king
of the West Saxons, in the year 727, being then in pilgrimage at Rome;
and the like was done by Offa, king of the Mercians, throughout his
dominions, in 794; and afterwards by Ethelwulph, through the whole
kingdom, in the year 855.

It was not intended as a tribute to the Pope, but chiefly for the
support of the English school, or college, at Rome. The popes, however,
shared it with the college, and at length found means, to appropriate
it to themselves.

At first it was only an occasional contribution; but it became at last a
standing tax, being established by the laws of King Canute, Edward the
Confessor, the Conqueror, &c. The bishops, who were charged with the
collecting it, employed the rural deans and archdeacons therein.

Edward III. first forbade the payment; but it soon after returned, and
continued till the time of Henry VIII., when Polydore Virgil resided
here as the Pope's receiver general. It was abolished under that prince,
and restored again under Philip and Mary; but it was finally prohibited
under Queen Elizabeth.

WALTER E.C.

       *       *       *       *       *


POPISH RELICS.

Ere the bright dawn of the Reformation lighted upon England, the
furniture of churches appears, from ancient records, to have been of
a splendid description; and vast sums are stated to have been lavished
upon the images of saints, &c. Great Saint Mary's Chapel, Cambridge, is
in the possession of an inventory of the goods and chattels possessed
by that ancient edifice in the 19th year of Henry VII., of which the
following is a transcript:--

"_Item_--A coat of tawney damask, purfled with velvet, appertaining to
our Lady.

"_Item_--A coat for her son, of the same satin, purfled with black
velvet, and spangled with gold.

"_Item_--A relic, called a box of silver with the oil of St. Nicholas.

"_Item_--Another little box of silver, with a bone of St. Lawrence.

"_Item_--A shoe of silver for the image of our Lady, and a piece of a
penny, weighing in all two ounces in a box.

"_Item_--An image of our Lady and her Son, of copper and gilt, with a
chrystal stone.

"_Item--A collar of gold_ for to hang about our Lady's neck, of nine
links in the collar.

"_Item_--A cap of black velvet, with fine pearl, for our Lady's son.

"_Item_--Two maces for St. Edmund.

"_Item_--Three small crowns for St. Katherine.

"_Item_--A cross and staff for St. Nicholas."

The orthography of this extract has been modernized, but the _idiom_
(if any) has been retained.

JUVENIS.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANCIENT CHAIR.

This curious relic is traditionally called _the Prior's Chair_, and
belonged to the priory of Southwick, which formerly stood near
Portsmouth, in Hampshire. It is made of oak, its several parts being
fastened together with small wooden pegs. On the back of the chair,
within a square panel, is carved an animal somewhat resembling a buck,
which was probably the armorial bearing of the prior; as it was
anciently, and is now, the custom to carve or paint on chairs placed in
halls or other conspicuous places, the crest or arms of the proprietor.
Above the panel are two mitres, and on each side of the arms of the
chair is a rose, ornamented with rays issuing from its centre. This
ancient specimen of furniture is extremely interesting as a specimen of
the mechanical ingenuity of the age in which it was constructed, and as
the only vestige of the establishment to which it was annexed. Upon part
of the Priory buildings being taken down, a few years since, the Chair
with other old furniture found on the premises, was sold by auction,
when it was rescued from the hands of a person who was bidding for it
as a smoking chair, by a gentleman, who allowed a drawing to be taken
of it. Of the Priory of Southwick very scanty information is to be
obtained: no mention of it is to be found in the _Monasticon_: but
Sir Robert Atkyns, in his history of Gloucestershire, says that it was
founded by Henry I. and dedicated to St. Mary. It was for canons regular
of the order of St. Augustine. The last prior surrendered this convent
on the 7th of April, 1539: it was valued in the catalogue of religious
houses at 257_l_.

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *


ANTIQUE KNIFE-HANDLE.

[Illustration]

This was found about 20 years since, at the manorhouse of Lake, near
Amesbury, in Wiltshire. The handle consists of two figures, a warrior
and a female: it was probably the haft of a small knife or dagger,
is made of brass, and considering its great antiquity, is in good
preservation. The features of the figures are the parts mostly injured
by wear; the female holds in the right hand a small bag or purse,
the custom of carrying which fell into disuse in the days of Queen
Elizabeth. This ancient haft is, however, most likely of an age
considerably anterior to the above reign, and from the costume in
general, and the simple cross hilt of the sword attached to the
warrior's side, it may not unjustly claim a date coeval with the
Crusades.


ANCIENT BELL.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: (Handle.)]

This Bell, as the motto (_God save the Queen_, 1560,) explains, is
of the age of Elizabeth. The handle is of considerably older date, and
probably belonged to a mass-bell, as it bears the effigies of a devotee,
holding her beads, and a cross. Indeed, the prayer for the Queen, on the
Bell, in English, would indicate its subsequent age. This curious relic
was a few years since in the possession of the Rev. Mr. Crutwell, a name
distinguished in topographical and antiquarian literature.

       *       *       *       *       *


FALCONRY TENURE.

The manorial rights of Comberton, in the county of Cambridge, were
formerly held by the lord, being the keeper of the king's falcons. A
record of the year 1374 says, that the manor was held "by the service
of carrying a goshawk at _coronations_."--JUVENIS.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.


FUNERAL OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.--BY AN EYE-WITNESS.

(_Abridged from Tait's Edinburgh Magazine._)

When we arrived at the ford, which gave its fancied name to the poet's
dwelling, we found the silver Tweed sparkling merrily along, as if all
things were as they were wont to be. The young woods before us, and the
towers, and gables, and pinnacles of the mansion, were smiling beneath
the mellowing rays of the September sun, as if unconscious that the
master-spirit which called them into being had for ever fled from them.
The sound of wheels came on the ear at intervals, rushing from different
directions, and indicating the frequent arrival of carriages; yet when
we, availing ourselves of the open doors, had taken our well-known way
through the garden, and passed beneath the Gothic screen that might have
vied with the Beautiful Gate of the Temple itself, and on into the
courtyard in front of the house, we were surprised to find it deserted
and lonely. Before any one came to interrupt us, we had leisure to gaze
around, and to wonder at the great growth of the trees and shrub's since
we had last beheld them; and as we did so, the venerable shade of him
who had last walked there with us, filled our imagination and our
eyes--shifted with them as they shifted;--and as it glided around
us, it recalled to our full hearts a thousand pleasing and touching
recollections. But our dreams were at length abruptly broken, by the
appearance of some of our acquaintances, who issued from the house; and
the sight of their weeds of woe immediately recalled our thoughts to the
garb of grief which we also wore, and to the sad object of our present
visit.

Passing through the Gothic hall, we met with no one till we entered
the library, where we found a considerable circle of gentlemen already
assembled: these were chiefly from the neighbouring districts; but there
were a few whom we recognised as having come from Edinburgh, and other
places equally distant. Obscured within the shadow of one of the
book-cases, we remained ruminating as if we had been absolutely alone,
until we were interrupted by a summons to the drawing-room, where
certain refreshments were prepared for those who had any inclination
to partake of them. But we must confess our natural antipathy to all
such mournful feasts; we therefore declined to join in this; and after
catching, as well as our position near the door allowed us to do, a
few stray sentences of a prayer, which was feelingly offered up by the
parish clergyman, we became so oppressed by the heat of the room, that
we ventured to steal away to enjoy the air in the porch.

That porch was soon tenanted in our imagination by that venerable ideal
image which we had been all this while courting to our side. With it
we continued to hold sacred communion--with it we looked, as we had
formerly done with the reality, on the effigy of _Maida;_[2] and
the harsh truth that Maida's master was now as cold as Maida itself,
went rudely home to our hearts. But footsteps came slowly and heavily
treading through the small armoury: they were those of the servants
of the deceased, who, with full eyes, and yet fuller hearts, came
reverently bearing the body of him whose courteous welcome had made
that very porch so cheerful to us. We were the only witnesses of this
usually unheeded part of the funeral duties: accident had given to us a
privilege which was lost to the crowd within. We instinctively uncovered
our heads, and stood subdued by an indescribable feeling of awe as the
corpse was carried outwards; and we felt grateful, that it had thus
fallen to our lot to behold the departure of these the honoured and
precious remains of Sir Walter Scott from the house of Abbotsford, where
all his earthly affections had been centered. The coffin was plain and
unpretending, covered with black cloth, and having an ordinary plate on
it, with this inscription, "Sir Walter Scott, of Abbotsford, Bart., aged
62." "Alas!" said we, as we followed the precious casket across the
courtyard--"alas! have these been the limits of so valuable a life?"

Having followed the coffin until we saw it deposited in the hearse,
which stood on the outside of the great gate of the courtyard, we felt
ourselves unequal to returning into the apartment where the company were
assembled; and we continued to loiter about, seeking for points of
recollection which might strengthen the chain of association we wished
to indulge in. Our attention was attracted, by observing the window of
the study open, and we were led to look within, impelled by no idle or
blameable curiosity, but rather like a pilgrim approaching the shrine
where his warmest adoration has ever been paid. But, alas I the deep
tones of the venerable old Principal Baird, whose voice was heard in
earnest and impressive prayer, came upon us through an opposite door,
from the library beyond; and the affecting allusions which he uttered
again brought us back to the afflicting truth, that Sir Walter Scott was
gone from us for ever!

The prayer was no sooner ended, than the company began to issue from
the house. The carriages had been previously assembled on the haugh
below, and were so arranged there, that they drove up in a continued
line; and as each passed the great gateway, it took up its owners,
and then proceeded. There certainly were not less than seventy
gentlemen's carriages of all descriptions, two-wheeled as well as
four-wheeled,--besides which there were a number of horsemen. The public
road runs along the face of the hill, immediately above the house, in a
direction from west to east; and the avenue leading from the gate of the
courtyard runs up the hill in a westerly direction, entering the public
road so obliquely as to produce a very awkward turn for carriages going
eastward towards Melrose. Until we had passed this point some little way
we could form no notion of the extent of the procession; but when we
were thus enabled to form some judgment of it, we perceived that it had
extended itself over about a mile of road.

Ere yet we had left the immediate vicinity of the house, we discovered a
mournful group of women-servants weeping behind the hedge on our left,
whither they had hurried to take their last look of that hearse which
was carrying to the grave a kind and indulgent master, whose like they
had no hope ever to look upon again.

The elevation of the road on the hill-side was such as to give us a full
view of the valley, and we could observe that the summit of many of the
little knolls at a distance, even those beyond the Tweed, were covered
with small clusters of rustic gazers, all intent upon a spectacle
equally calculated to move persons of every rank and description; and
every now and then we found a little knot of spectators assembled by the
way-side, whose motionless countenances and unbroken silence
sufficiently testified the nature of their feelings.

As we approached the neat little village of Darnick, our attention was
forcibly arrested by a very striking token of woe. On the top of an
ancient tower--one of those, we believe, which Sir Walter has rendered
classical--was placed a flag-staff, from which depended a broad, black
banner of crape, or some other light material. There was not a breath
of air to stir the film of a gossamer, so that light as the material
seemed to be, it hung heavy and motionless--a sad and simple emblem,
that eloquently spoke the general village sorrow. This we found more
particularly expressed in detail, as we passed through the little
place, by the many minuter insignia of mourning which the individual
inhabitants had put on the fronts of their houses and shops--by the
suspension of business--and by the respectful manner in which the young
and the old, and people of both sexes, stood silently and reverently
before their respective dwellings, wrapt in that all-absorbing sorrow
which told how deeply he that was gone had rooted himself in their
affections. When the hearse drew near to his own Melrose, the bell
tolled sadly from the steeple of the church; and as we entered the
street, we saw that here, as elsewhere, the inhabitants had vied with
each other in unaffected and unpretending demonstrations of their
individual affliction. In the little market-place we found the whole
male population assembled, all decently dressed in deep mourning,
drawn up in two lines, and standing with their hats off, silent and
motionless. The effect of the procession when crossing the Fly Bridge
over the Tweed, and still more when winding around that high and long
sweep of the road which is immediately opposite to the promontory of Old
Melrose, was extremely striking and picturesque; and the view, looking
back from the high ground towards the Eildon hills and Melrose, over
the varied vale of the Tweed, till the eye was arrested by the distant
mountains, then seen under a rich Claude effect; and the devious course
of the river, betrayed by fragments of water that sparkled here and
there amid the yellow stubbles and green pastures, was exquisitely
beautiful. But nothing gave so much interest to this glorious scene
as the far-off woods of Abbotsford, then dimmed by the warm haze, and
melting, as it were, from their reality, and so reminding us even yet
more forcibly of the fleeting nature of all the things of this
perishable world.

Having descended from our elevation, we entered the grounds of Dryburgh.
These occupy a comparatively level space, embraced by a bold sweep of
the Tweed, where the house of Dryburgh and the picturesque ruins of
Dryburgh Abbey, standing about two hundred yards distant from it, are
surrounded by groups of noble trees of all sorts, rare as well as
common; and among them the cedar is seen to throw out his gigantic limbs
with that freedom and vigour which could only be looked for on his
native Lebanon. The hearse drew up close to the house of Dryburgh; and
the, company, having quitted their carriages, pressed eagerly towards
it, Not one word was spoken; but, as if all had been under the influence
of some simultaneous instinct, they decently and decorously formed
themselves into two lines. The servants of the deceased, resolved that
no hireling should lay hands on the coffin of their master, approached
the hearse. Amongst these, the figure of the old coachman who had driven
Sir Walter for so many years was peculiarly remarkable, reverentially
bending to receive the coffin. No sooner did that black casket appear,
which contains all that now remains of the most precious of Scotia's
jewels, than, with downcast eyes and with countenances expressive of
the deepest veneration, every individual present took off his hat.
A moment's delay took place, whilst the faithful and attached servants
were preparing to bear the body, and whilst the relatives were arranging
themselves around it in the following order:--


                           HEAD.
    Major Sir WALTER SCOTT, eldest son of the deceased.

         RIGHT.                         LEFT.

  CHARLES SCOTT,             T     J.G. LOCKHART, Esq.,
    second Son.              H       Son-in-Law.
                             E
  CHARLES SCOTT,                   JAMES SCOTT, Esq.,
    of Nesbitt, Cousin.              of Nesbitt, Cousin.
                             B
  WILLIAM SCOTT, Esq.,       O     ROBERT RUTHERFORD, Esq.,
    of Raeburn, Cousin.      D       W.S., Cousin.
                             Y
  Colonel RUSSELL,           .     HUGH SCOTT, Esq.,
    of Ashiesteel, Cousin.           of Harden.

                           FOOT.
             WILLIAM KEITH, Esq., of Edinburgh.


When all were in their places, the bearers moved slowly forward,
preceded by two mutes in long cloaks, carrying poles covered with crape;
and no sooner had the coffin passed through the double line formed by
the company than the whole broke up, and followed in a thick press.
At the head was the Rev. J. Williams, rector of the Edinburgh Academy,
dressed in his canonicals as a clergyman of the Church of England; and
on his left hand walked Mr. Cadell, the well-known publisher of the
Waverley Works. There was a solemnity as well as a simplicity in the
whole of this spectacle which we never witnessed on any former occasion.
The long-robed mutes--the body, with its devotedly-attached and
deeply-afflicted supporters and attendants--the clergyman, whose
presence indicated the Christian belief and hopes of those assembled--and
the throng of uncovered and reverential mourners stole along beneath the
tall and umbrageous trees with a silence equal to that which is believed
to accompany those visionary funerals which have their existence only in
the superstitions of our country. The ruined Abbey disclosed itself
through the trees; and we approached its western extremity, where a
considerable portion of vaulted roof still remains to protect the poet's
family place of interment, which opens to the sides in lofty Gothic
arches, and is defended by a low rail of enclosure. At one extremity
of it, a tall, thriving young cypress rears its spiral form. Creeping
plants of different kinds, "with ivy never sere," have spread themselves
very luxuriantly over every part of the Abbey. Amongst other
decorations, we observed a plum-tree, which was, perhaps, at one period,
a prisoner, chained to the solid masonry, but which having long since
been emancipated, now threw out its wild, pendant branches, laden with
purple fruit, ready to drop, as if emblematical of the ripening and
decay of human life.

In such a scene as this, then, it was, that the coffin of Sir Walter
Scott was set down on trestles placed outside the iron railing; and here
that solemn service, beginning with those words so cheering to the souls
of Christians, "I am the resurrection and the life," was solemnly read
by Mr. Williams. The manly, soldier-like features of the chief mourner,
on whom the eyes of sympathy were most naturally turned, betrayed at
intervals the powerful efforts which he made to master his emotions, as
well as the inefficiency of his exertions to do so. The other relatives
who surrounded the bier were deeply moved; and amid the crowd of weeping
friends no eye and no heart could be discovered that was not altogether
occupied in that sad and impressive ceremonial which was so soon to shut
from them for ever him who had been so long the common idol of their
admiration, and of their best affections. * * *

It was not until the harsh sound of the hammers of the workmen who were
employed to rivet those iron bars covering the grave to secure it from
violation, had begun to echo from the vaulted roof, that some of us were
called to the full conviction of the fact, that the earth had for ever
closed over that form which we were wont to love and reverence; that eye
which we had so often seen beaming with benevolence, sparkling with wit,
or lighted up with a poet's phrenzy; those lips which we had so often
seen monopolizing the attention of all listeners, or heard rolling out,
with nervous accentuation, those powerful verses with which his head was
continually teeming; and that brow, the perpetual throne of generous
expression and liberal intelligence. Overwhelmed by the conviction of
the afflicting truth, men moved away without parting salutation, singly,
slowly, and silently. Tho day began to stoop down into twilight; and we,
too, after giving a last parting survey to the spot where now repose the
remains of our Scottish Shakspeare--a spot lovely enough to induce his
sainted spirit to haunt and sanctify its shades--hastily tore ourselves
away.

    [2] A celebrated stag-hound, which Sir Walter received from Glengarry.

       *       *       *       *       *


EFFECTS OF FASHIONABLE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS UPON SERVANTS AND TRADESMEN.

(_Concluded from page 332._)

The operation of the habits of fashionable life upon the class of
tradesmen whose custom lies in that direction, is not less injurious.
People of fashion are for the most part improvident: but even when
they are not so in the long run, it seems to be their pride to be
wantonly and perversely disorderly in the conduct of their pecuniary
transactions. The result of this to themselves is not here the point in
question, although there are few things which in their effects are more
certain to pervade the entire moral structure of the mind than habits
of order and punctuality, especially in money matters; nor is there
anything to which character and honour are more likely to give way than
to pecuniary difficulties. But we would speak of the consequences to the
tradesmen with whom they deal. In proportion to the delays which the
tradesman has had to contend with in procuring payment of the account,
is the degree of laxity with which he may expect to be favoured in the
examination of the items; especially if he have not omitted the visual
means of corrupting the fidelity of the servants. The accuracy of a bill
of old date is not in general very easily ascertainable, and it would
seem to be but an ungracious return for the accommodation which the
creditor has afforded, if the debtor were to institute a very strict
inquisition into the minutiæ of his claims. These considerations concur
with the habitual carelessness and indolence of people of fashion, as
inducements to them to lead their tradesmen into temptation.

Again, people of fashion, though (with occasional coarse exceptions)
very _civil-spoken_ to their tradesmen, are accustomed to show in their
conduct an utter disregard of what amount of trouble, inconvenience, and
vexation of spirit they may occasion, either by irregularity in paying
their bills, by requiring incessant attendance, or by a thousand
fanciful humours, changes of purpose, and fastidious objections.
Possibly, indeed, they are very little aware of the amount of it; so
inconsiderate are they of everything which is not made to dance before
their eyes, or to appeal to their sensibilities through their senses.
Their tradesmen, and the workmen whom their tradesmen employ, are
compelled, those by the competition they encounter in their business,
these by the necessities of their situation in life, to submit to all
the hardships and disquietudes which it is possible for fashionable
caprice to impose, without showing any sign of disturbance or
discontent; and because there is no outcry made, nor any pantomime
exhibited, the fashionable customer may possibly conceive that he
dispenses nothing but satisfaction among all with whom he deals. He
rests assured, moreover, that if he gives more trouble and inconvenience
than others _he pays for it_; the charges of the tradesmen of
fashionable people being excessively high. Here, however there is a
distinction to be taken. There is no doubt that all the fantastical
plagues and preposterous caprices which the spirit of fashion can
engender, will be submitted to for money; but he who supposes that the
outward submission will be accompanied by no inward feelings of
resentment or contempt, either is wholly ignorant of human nature, or
grossly abuses his better judgment. Between customer and tradesman the
balance is adjusted; between man and man there is an account which money
will not settle. It is not indeed to be desired, that any class of men
should be possessed With such a spirit of venal servility, as to be
really insensible to the folly and oppression which enters into the
exactions of fashionable caprice; or that, however compelled to be
obsequious in manner, they should altogether lose their perception of
what is due to common sense and to common consideration for others--

  "And by the body's action teach the mind
  A most inherent baseness."


If such be the actual result in some instances, then is that consequence
still more to be regretted than the other.

Moreover, if the master-tradesmen are willing to sell themselves into
this slavery, the consequence, to the much more numerous classes of
apprentices and journeymen, remains to be taken into the account. The
apprentices, at least, are not paid for the hardships which ensue to
them. There is an occurrence mentioned by George Alexander Steevens, of
a fashionable frequenter of taverns in his time, who threw the waiter
out of the window, and told the landlord to put him into the bill. Had
the landlord himself been the party ejected, this might or might not
have been a satisfactory proceeding, according to the light in which he
might be disposed to regard a contusion or a fracture. But it will
hardly be contended that such a proceeding could be satisfactory to the
waiter. Yet, we may seriously say, that the fate of the waiter was not
more to be deprecated, than that of some descriptions of the apprentices
of the trades-people who contend for the custom of the fashionable
world.

Many is the milliner's apprentice whom every London season sends to
her grave, because the dresses of fine ladies must be completed with a
degree of celerity which nothing but night-labour can accomplish. To the
question, "When must it be done?" "Immediately;" is the readiest answer;
though it is an answer which would perhaps be less inconsiderately and
indiscriminately given, if it were known how many young creatures have
come to a premature death in consequence of it, and how many hearts have
been hardened by the oppression which it necessitates. Nor does the evil
stop there. The dressmakers' apprentices in a great city have another
alternative; and it is quite as much to escape from the intolerable
labours which are imposed upon them in the London season, as from any
sexual frailty, that such multitudes of them adopt a vocation which
affords some immediate relief, whilst it ensures a doubly fatal
termination of their career. The temptations by which these girls are
beset might be deemed all-sufficient, without the compulsion by which
they are thus as it were, driven out into the streets. Upon them, "the
fatal gift of beauty" has been more lavishly bestowed than upon any
other class--perhaps not excepting even the aristocracy. They are many
of them, probably, the spurious offspring of aristocratical fathers,
and inherit beauty for the same reason as the legitimate daughters of
aristocrats, because the wealth of these persons enables them to select
the most beautiful women either for wives or for concubines. Nor are
they wanting in the grace and simplicity of manner which distinguish the
aristocracy; whilst constant manual occupation produces in them more
vacuity of mind than even that which dissipation causes in their sisters
of the superior class. They are thus possessed of exterior attractions,
which will at any moment place them in a condition of comparative
affluence, and keep them in it so long as those attractions last,--a
period beyond which their portion of thought and foresight can scarcely
be expected to extend: whilst, on the other hand, they have before them
a most bitter and arduous servitude, constant confinement, probably
a severe task-mistress (whose mind is harassed and exacerbated by the
exigent and thoughtless demands of her employers), and a destruction of
health and bloom, which the alternative course of life can scarcely make
more certain or more speedy. Goethe was well aware how much light he
threw upon the seduction of Margaret, when he made her let fall a hint
of discontent at domestic hardships:--

  "Our humble household is but small,
  And I, alas! must look to all.
  We have no maid, and I may scarce avail
    To wake so early and to sleep so late;
  And then my mother is in each detail
  So accurate."[3]


If people of fashion knew at what cost some of their imaginary wants
are gratified, it is possible that they might be disposed to forego the
gratification: it is possible, also, that they might not. On the one
hand they are not wanting in benevolence to the young and beautiful; the
juster charge against them being, that their benevolence extends no
farther. On the other hand, unless there be a visual perception of the
youth and beauty which is to suffer, or in some way a distinct image of
it presented, dissipation will not allow them a moment for the feelings
which reflection might suggest:

  "Than vanity there's nothing harder hearted;
  For thoughtless of all sufferings unseen,
  Of all save those which touch upon the round
  Of the day's palpable doings, the vain man,
  And oftener still the volatile woman vain,
  Is busiest at heart with restless cares,
  Poor pains and paltry joys, that make within
  Petty yet turbulent vicissitude."


    [3] Faust: Lord F.L. Gower's translation.

       *       *       *       *       *




NEW BOOKS.


LEGENDS OF THE LIBRARY AT LILIES. BY THE LORD AND LADY THERE.

[These are two volumes of tales and sketches from the pens of Lord and
Lady Nugent, whose literary recreations have not unfrequently graced the
fair pages of our Annuals. They are ushered in by a few pleasant words
"by way of advertisement," describing in four pages the delights of his
Lordship's rural retirement at Lilies, in Buckinghamshire; and this
portion of the work is so inviting that we quote it.]

If you would place yourself just midway between the three seas which
form the boundaries of southern England, you shall find yourself on a
small knoll, covered with antique elm, walnut, and sycamore trees, which
rises out of a vale famous in all time for the natural fertility of its
soil, and the moral virtues of its people. On this knoll, fitly called
by our ancestors "the Heart of South Britain," stood, distant about
half a mile from each other, two monasteries, known by the flowery
appellatives of Lilies and Roses; not unaptly setting forth a promise of
all that can recommend itself as fair and sweet unto the gentler senses.
These edifices have, for many centuries, been no more; but, on the site
of the first mentioned of the two, standeth a small mansion, of Tudor
architecture, bearing still its ancient name. Of the monastery little
memorial, beyond the name, remains; save only that under a small
enclosed space, erewhile its cemetery, now a wilderness of flowers, the
bones of the monks repose. Two lines of artificial slope to the westward
mark the boundaries of the pleasaunce, where they took their recreation,
and cultivated their lentils and fruits; and a range of thickly-walled
cellar still retains the same destination and office as when it
furnished to those holy men their more generous materials of refection.

What more shall be said of the mansion, or of the domain, full seventy
statute acres, which surrounds it?--of the herds and flocks content to
thrive in silence on the richness of its fields, and thrive they do in
wondrous measure of prosperity? Nothing.--Nor much of that more gamesome
troop of idle steeds, though pleasant to their master's eve, who, on its
green expanse, frisk and gambol out a sportive colthood, or graze and
hobble through a tranquil old age, with the active and laborious honours
of a public life past, but not forgotten. Little shall be said of that
smooth and narrow pool, scarce visible among the rising shrubs which
belt in and shroud the grounds from the incurious wayfarer; or of such
carp and tench as, having escaped the treacherous toils of the nightly
plunderer, gasp and tumble on its surface, delighting to display their
golden pride in the mid-day sun, before the gaze of lawful possession.
Nor shall the casual reader be led carelessly and wearily to note the
many sweet memorials of private friendship, records of the living and
the dead, which, standing forth from amid the lightsome glades and leafy
shadows around, make the place sacred to many a strong affection.
Romantic the scenery without is not, and for spacious halls and gorgeous
canopies the eye may search in vain within. But for the warm cheer of
the little oak library,--for the quaint carvings, the tracery of other
times, which abound therein,--for the awful note of the blood-hound,
baying upon his midnight chain,--and the pleasing melancholy of the
hooting owl from his hereditary chamber in the roof,--and for the
tunefulness of the cooing wood-quests, and the morning rooks which
bustle and caw, and of the high winds that pipe and roar, daily and
nightly, through the boughs,--and for the deep glossy verdure of the
pastures stretching forth to the brave distant hills which fence the
vale,--to those, who in such things take delight, Lilies hath still
its charms.

From the fireside of the afore-mentioned little oak library the
following legends proceed.

[Few of the pieces fall under the denomination of "Legends," if we
except "the Feast of alle Deuiles, an ancient ballad;" "the Costly
Dague;" "the Ladye's Counselloure;" and "the Dole of Tichborne;" which
are in the quaint olden style. Throughout the other papers there is a
pleasant spice of dry humour and knowledge of character, intermixed
with a few touches of pathos, and a nice perception of the finest
affections: now, with these various characteristics, the legends must
prove attractive and amusing. We have only space to quote briefly from
one of the most desultory of the papers--an ingenious one, on "Solecisms
in Language."]

"Is it your _pleasure_," now and then asks a dentist, "is it your
_pleasure_ to have your tooth out to-day?"

"I do not care a pin," is a very ordinary figure of speech, but of
doubtful propriety; for one's indifference, it appears to me, must very
much depend on the position of the pin. In the cushion of one's chair,
for instance, it is absolutely disagreeable, and what one should care
very much about.

The word "poor" is an epithet in very common misuse. It is often brought
into play, especially in its plaintive sense, in situations, where, poor
thing, it scarcely knows itself, and where there is not the slightest
provocation to account for the use of it. It is degraded to the
condition of a mere expletive; and, where there is a real good call for
it, how often is it thrust upon the wrong person, the one who, were he
consulted, would disclaim all compassion.

"_Poor_ Mr. ----, only think of him, _poor_ fellow! How very
odd! I believe he was not in joke. He told me a distant connection of
his, of another name, whom he never knew till after he heard that the
thing happened, who had been transported to New South Wales a matter of
sixteen years ago, is to be hanged to-morrow, by way of a secondary
punishment, for coming back from transportation."

The audience were profuse in their repetition of the epithet--generous
to excess in the free gift of it to Mr. ----. They did not happen to
consider it applicable to him who, for an unlawful love of native
country, was to undergo a violent and disgraceful death.

This, to be sure, might be attributed to the feeling that so many good
regular people have, that it is highly blameable to pity any man who
suffers capitally for a breach of the law; that it would be, in some
sort, to question the justice of the laws themselves. And the ten or
a dozen honest souls that formed the company were probably so good
themselves as to be justly scandalized at the notion of holding so much
communion with guilt, as to sympathize with it in its sufferings. But
I believe, after all, it was rather a flow of idiom than an effort of
principle.

Mr. Small, a farmer, well to do in ----shire, fell ill of an acute and
dangerous disorder. (By the by, every one was anxious to know if "poor"
Mrs. Small's husband was better.) He died,--Mrs. Small was, of course,
in decent affliction. But the word of pity was always transferred from
the principal sufferer to her, till he was beyond suffering. Then first
it was bestowed on the "poor" corpse, which every one came to visit, and
flattered as looking "pleasant."

Mrs. Small herself, in the first letter of her widowhood, addressed to
an intimate female friend, did not make a more judicious application of
the favourite epithet. To this friend it was her habit to write once
a quarter. We insert three passages; one extracted from each of these
quarterly epistles, which followed in due succession after her sad
bereavement:--

"Dear Nelly,--My brother-in-law has given the direction of the funeral
to a good economical undertaker, by name Peebles. I have not seen him,
and am not like; for he is in too large a way to attend himself, and he
sends his man for orders, and to see all done handsome, but cheap.

"_Poor_ Mr. Peebles's man came here last night, and the funeral
will be to-morrow. I am in much trouble, as might be expected. My
_poor_ new black bonnet is not come home, and keeps me fretting;
but _poor_ Peebles's man says I shan't be disappointed, even if he
has to go for it himself. _Poor_ Peebles's man! he is up early and
down late, to see all right. He was in my room this morning before I was
out of bed, that all might be decent, &c. &c. &c. Yours to command, dear
Nelly, MARY SMALL."

"Dear Nelly,--It is now three months and better since that _poor_
coffin was put under ground, and I declare I feel quite queer and
lonesome without it. But business goes on quite well and brisk. _Poor
kind_ Peebles's man! he is off and on; almost always about the house,
doing some kind job or other. He is a very decent body; but, I don't
know how it is, I'm not to say comfortable. There's a sad noise with
my sister's family. You know I never _could_ bear children. My late
husband, that's gone, was the only one of the family that could.
I am sure I don't know what I could do without _poor dear_ Peebles's
man. Yours to command, dear Nelly, MARY SMALL.

"Dear Nelly,--_Poor dear kind_ Peebles's man has never left here;
he's my right hand, and he is a very decent body indeed. It is now six
_good_ months since that _poor_ funeral took place. I find I
am not fit to live alone: I was married this morning to _poor_
Peebles's man. Your sincere friend, dear Nelly, MARY MERRIMATE.

"P.S. Excuse my change of name."

       *       *       *       *       *




THE GATHERER.


_Electioneering._--In 1749, during the great contested election
for Westminster, when Lord Trentham and Sir George Vandeput were
candidates, Dr. Barrowby greatly interested himself in favour of the
latter, who was put up to oppose the Court party. The doctor had for
some weeks attended the noted Joe Weatherby, landlord of the Ben
Jonson's Head, in Russell-street, who had become emaciated by a nervous
fever. During Dr. Barrowby's visits, the patient's wife, not knowing the
doctor's political attachment, had frequently expressed her uneasiness
that her dear Joey could not get up, and vote for _her_ good friend
Lord Trentham. Towards the end of the election, when very uncommon means
were used on both sides to obtain the suffrages of the people, the
doctor, calling one morning on his patient, to his great astonishment,
found him up and almost dressed.--"Hey-dey! what's the cause of this?"
exclaimed Barrowby. "Dear Doctor," said poor Joe, in broken accents, "I
am going to poll."--"To poll!" replied the doctor, with much warmth,
supposing him of the same opinion with his wife, "going to the d--l, you
mean!--why, do you know the cold air may kill you. Get to bed, get to
bed, man, as fast as you can, or immediate death may ensue!"--"Oh! if
that is the case, sir," returned the patient in a feeble voice, "to be
sure I must act as you advise me; but I love my country, sir, and
thought, while my wife was out, to seize this opportunity to go to
Covent-garden church, and vote for Sir G. Vandeput."--"How, Joe! for Sir
George?"--"Yes, sir, I wish him heartily well."--"Do you?" said the
medical politician. "Hold, nurse! don't pull off his stockings again;
let me feel his pulse. Hey! very well--a good, firm stroke--Egad! this
will do. You took the pills I ordered last night?"--"Yes, doctor, but
they made me very sick."--"Ay, so much the better. How did your master
sleep, nurse?"--"O charmingly, sir."--"Did he! Well, if his mind is
really uneasy about this election, he must be indulged; diseases of the
mind greatly affect those of the body. Come, come, throw a great coat or
blanket about him. It is a fine day; but the sooner he goes the
better--the sun will be down early. Here, here, lift him up; a ride will
do him good; he shall go with me to the hustings in my chariot." The
doctor was directly obeyed; and poor Joe Weatherby was conveyed in the
carriage to the hustings, where he gave his vote according to his
conscience, amidst the acclamations of the people; and two hours after
his politico-medical adviser had left him at his own house, Joe departed
this life, loaded with the reproaches of his beloved wife, and her
friends of the Court party.

SWAINE.

       *       *       *       *       *


_A Warning to Critics._--Zoilus, the critic, was called the
rhetorical dog: rhetorical, as his style was elegant, and dog, from
his practice of snarling.--Vitruvius tells us, that when he visited
Alexandria, he recited his writings against the _Iliad_ and
_Odyssey_ of Homer to King Ptolemy, which gave the king such
offence, that he would take no notice of him; and afterwards, when,
urged by indigence, he solicited charity, Ptolemy pulsed him with this
contemptuous reflection, that if Homer, who had been dead one thousand
years, could by his works give maintenance to many thousand people,
a writer so much his superior might surely maintain himself.

P.T.W.

       *       *       *       *       *


Some years since, an eccentric gentleman built himself a villa upon the
brow of one of the loftiest of the Surrey hills, to avoid annoyance from
the curious; but the odd situation of his residence drew scores of
visiters. This reminds us of some lines by Cowley--

    I should have then this only fear,
  Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
  Should hither throng to live like me,
    And so make a city here.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Imperial Ignorance._--Alexius Comnenus, Emperor of Constantinople,
was an arrant dunce: Fuller says, "he hated a booke more than a monster
did a looking-glasse; and when his tutor endeavoured to play him into
scholarship, by presenting pleasant authors unto him, he returned, that
learning was beneath the greatnesse of a prince, who, if wanting it,
might borrow it from his subjects, being better stor'd; _for_
(saith hee) _if they will not lend me their braines, I'll take away
their heads!_"

       *       *       *       *       *


_Party Spirit._--Fuller did not think party madness; for, he says
such men as will side with neither party "hope, though the great vessel
of the state be wrecked, in a private fly-boat of neutrality, to waft
their own private adventure safe to the shore. But who ever saw dancers
on ropes so equally poise themselves, that at last they fall not down
and break their necks?"

       *       *       *       *       *


_A Court Jester._--Fuller thus describes one: "Of this fellow, his
body, downwards, was a fool, his head a knave, who did carefully note,
and cunningly vent, by the privileges of his coat, many state-passages,
uttering them, in a _wary twilight_, betwixt sport and earnest."

       *       *       *       *       *


_An Excellent Courtier._--Sir Walter Raleigh speaks of Queen
Elizabeth, when sixty years of age, "riding like Alexander, hunting like
Diana, walking like Venus, the gentle wind blowing her fair hair about
her pure cheeks like a nymph,--sometime sitting in the shade like a
goddess, sometime singing like an angell, sometime playing like
Orpheus."

       *       *       *       *       *


_A Lock-et._--Mark Scaliot, blacksmith, in the 20th of Queen
Elizabeth, made a lock of eleven pieces of iron, steel, and brass, with
a pipe key, and golden chain of forty-three links, which were hung round
the neck of a flea.--The animal, together with this burthen, weighed
only one grain and a half.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Oil._--Both rape-oil and olive-oil were used in ancient cookery,
as appears from the provision bought for Archbishop Warham's dinner.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Printed and published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset House)
London; sold by G.G. BENNIS, 55, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris; CHARLES
JUGEL, Francfort; and by all Newsmen and Booksellers._

       *       *       *       *       *