THE MIRROR
OF
LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

The Return of a Victorious Armament to a Greek City.

SPIRIT OF “THE ANNUALS” FOR 1828.

Our readers have annually anticipated a high treat from this
splendid intellectual banquet, served up by some of the
master¹
spirits of the age.

We doubt whether the comparison is refined enough for the
fair authoresses; but our fancy has led us to class their
contributions to the present feast as follow:—

with a due proportion of vin ordinaire. This
comparison may be pleasant enough as after-dinner chat, but
we fear our readers will think it like cooks circulating the
Bills of Fare on the morning of Lord Mayor’s Day; and lest we
should incur their displeasure, we shall proceed with our
select course: but we are mere disposers.

THE LITERARY SOUVENIR.

In literary talent, as well as in graphic beauty, this
elegant volume stands first; and from it we have selected the
subject of the above engraving, accompanied by the following

[pg
410]

ANCIENT SONG OF VICTORY.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

BYRON.

The original engraving is by Edward Goodall, from a painting
by William Linton, Esq. It is altogether a rich and glorious
composition, at this moment too, glowing with more than
pictorial interest; and the carmen triumphale of the
poetess is a worthy accompaniment. Among the other engravings
the frontispiece and opposite page of this work are extremely
rich and beautiful: Psyche borne by the Zephyrs to the
Island of Pleasure, is full of languishing beauty;
Medora, painted by Pickersgill and engraved by Rolls,
is a delightfully placid moonlight scene; the
Declaration, easy and graceful: there are, however, in
our opinion, two decided failures in the volume, which, for
the credit of the artists, had better been omitted. Our
present notices of the literary department must be
confined to the following selection:

THE CITY OF THE DEMONS.

By William Maginn, Esq.

In days of yore, there lived in the flourishing city of
Cairo, a Hebrew Rabbi, by name Jochorian, who was the most
learned of his nation. His fame went over the East, and the
most distant people sent their young men to imbibe wisdom
from his lips. He was deeply skilled in the traditions of the
fathers, and his word on a disputed point was decisive. He
was pious, just, temperate, and strict; but he had one
vice—a love of gold had seized upon his heart, and he
opened not his hand to the poor. Yet he was wealthy above
most, his wisdom being to him the source of riches. The
Hebrews of the city were grieved at this blemish on the
wisest of their people; but though the elders of the tribes
continued to reverence him for his fame, the women and
children of Cairo called him by no other name than that of
Rabbi Jochonan the miser.

None knew, so well as he, the ceremonies necessary for
initiation into the religion of Moses; and, consequently, the
exercise of those solemn offices was to him another source of
gain. One day, as he walked in the fields about Cairo,
conversing with a youth on the interpretation of the law, it
so happened, that the angel of death smote the young man
suddenly, and he fell dead before the feet of the Rabbi, even
while he was yet speaking. When the Rabbi found that the
youth was dead, he rent his garments, and glorified the Lord.
But his heart was touched, and the thoughts of death troubled
him in the visions of the night. He felt uneasy when he
reflected on his hardness to the poor, and he said, “Blessed
be the name of the Lord! The first good thing that I am asked
to do in that holy name, will I perform.”—But he
sighed, for he feared that some one might ask of him a
portion of his gold.

While yet he thought upon these things, there came a loud cry
at his gate.

“Awake, thou sleeper!” said the voice; “Awake! A child is in
danger of death, and the mother hath sent me for thee that
thou may’st do thine office.”

“The night is dark and gloomy,” said the Rabbi, coming to his
casement, “and mine age is great; are there not younger men
than I in Cairo?”

“For thee only, Rabbi Jochonan, whom some call the wise, but
whom others call Rabbi Jochonan the miser, was I sent. Here
is gold,” said he, taking out a purse of sequins—”I
want not thy labour for nothing. I adjure thee to come, in
the name of the living God.”

So the Rabbi thought upon the vow he had just made, and he
groaned in spirit, for the purse sounded heavy.

“As thou hast adjured me by that name, I go with thee,” said
he to the man, “but I hope the distance is not far. Put up
thy gold.”

“The place is at hand,” said the stranger, who was a gallant
youth, in magnificent attire. “Be speedy, for time presses.”

Jochonan arose, dressed himself, and
[pg
411] accompanied the stranger, after having carefully
locked up all the doors of his house, and deposited his keys
in a secret place—at which the stranger smiled.

“I never remember,” said the Rabbi, “so dark a night. Be thou
to me as a guide, for I can hardly see the way.”

“I know it well,” replied the stranger with a sigh, “it is a
way much frequented, and travelled hourly by many; lean upon
mine arm and fear not.”

They journeyed on; and though the darkness was great, yet the
Rabbi could see, when it occasionally brightened, that he was
in a place strange to him. “I thought,” said he, “I knew all
the country for leagues about Cairo, yet I know not where I
am. I hope, young man,” said he to his companion, “that thou
hast not missed the way;” and his heart misgave him.

“Fear not,” returned the stranger. “Your journey is even now
done,” and, as he spoke, the feet of the Rabbi slipped from
under him, and he rolled down a great height. When he
recovered, he found that his companion had fallen also, and
stood by his side.

“Nay, young man,” said the Rabbi, “if thus thou sportest with
the grey hairs of age, thy days are numbered. Wo unto him who
insults the hoary head!”

The stranger made an excuse, and they journeyed on some
little further in silence. The darkness grew less, and the
astonished Rabbi, lifting up his eyes, found that they had
come to the gates of a city which he had never before seen.
Yet he knew all the cities of the land of Egypt, and he had
walked but half an hour from his dwelling in Cairo. So he
knew not what to think, but followed the man with trembling.

They soon entered the gates of the city, which was lighted up
as if there were a festival in every house. The streets were
full of revellers, and nothing but a sound of joy could be
heard. But when Jochonan looked upon their faces—they
were the faces of men pained within; and he saw, by the marks
they bore, that they were Mazikin [demons]. He was terrified
in his soul; and, by the light of the torches, he looked also
upon the face of his companion, and, behold! he saw upon him
too, the mark that shewed him to be a Demon. The Rabbi feared
excessively—almost to fainting; but he thought it
better to be silent; and sadly he followed his guide, who
brought him to a splendid house, in the most magnificent
quarter of the city.

“Enter here?” said the Demon to Jochonan, “for this house is
mine. The lady and the child are in the upper chamber;” and,
accordingly, the sorrowful Rabbi ascended the stair to find
them.

The lady, whose dazzling beauty was shrouded by melancholy
beyond hope, lay in bed; the child, in rich raiment,
slumbered on the lap of the nurse, by her side.

“I have brought to thee, light of my eyes!” said the Demon,
“Rebecca, beloved of my soul! I have brought thee Rabbi
Jochonan the wise, for whom thou didst desire. Let him, then,
speedily begin his office; I shall fetch all things
necessary, for he is in haste to depart.”

He smiled bitterly as he said these words, looking at the
Rabbi; and left the room, followed by the nurse.

When Jochonan and the lady were alone, she turned in the bed
towards him, and said:—

“Unhappy man that thou art! knowest thou where thou hast been
brought?”

“I do,” said he, with a heavy groan; I know that I am in a
city of the Mazikin.”

“Know, then, further,” said she, and the tears gushed from
eyes brighter than the diamond, “know then, further, that no
one is ever brought here, unless he hath sinned before the
Lord. What my sin hath been imports not to thee—and I
seek not to know thine. But here thou remainest for
ever—lost, even as I am lost.” And she wept again.

The Rabbi dashed his turban on the ground, and tearing his
hair, exclaimed, “Wo is me! Who art thou, woman! that
speakest to me thus?”

“I am a Hebrew woman,” said she, “the daughter of a Doctor of
the Laws in the city of Bagdad; and being brought hither, it
matters not how, I am married to a prince among the Mazikin,
even him who was sent for thee. And that child, whom thou
sawest, is our first-born, and I could not bear the thought
that the soul of our innocent babe should perish. I therefore
besought my husband to try to bring hither a priest, that the
law of Moses (blessed be his memory!) should be done; and thy
fame, which has spread to Bagdad, and lands further towards
the rising of the sun, made me think of thee. Now my husband,
though great among the Mazikin, is more just than the other
Demons; and he loves me, whom he hath ruined, with a love of
despair. So he said, that the name of Jochonan the wise was
familiar unto him, and that he knew thou wouldst not be able
to refuse. What thou hast done, to give him power over thee,
is known to thyself.”

[pg
412] “I swear, before Heaven!” said the Rabbi, “that I
have ever diligently kept the law, and walked stedfastly
according to the traditions of our fathers, from the day of
my youth upward. I have wronged no man in word or deed, and I
have daily worshipped the Lord; minutely performing all the
ceremonies thereto needful.”

“Nay,” said the lady, “all this thou mightest have done, and
more, and yet be in the power of the Demons. But time passes,
for I hear the foot of my husband mounting the stair. There
is one chance of thine escape.”

“What is that? O lady of beauty?” said the agonized Rabbi.

“Eat not, drink not, nor take fee or reward while here; and
as long as thou canst do thus, the Mazikin have no power over
thee, dead or alive. Have courage, and persevere.”

As she ceased from speaking, her husband entered the room,
followed by the nurse, who bore all things requisite for the
ministration of the Rabbi. With a heavy heart he performed
his duty, and the child was numbered among the faithful. But
when, as usual, at the conclusion of the ceremony, the wine
was handed round to be tasted by the child, the mother, and
the Rabbi, he refused it when it came to him, saying:—

“Spare me, my lord, for I have made a vow that I fast this
day; and I will not eat, neither will I drink.”

“Be it as thou pleasest,” said the Demon, “I will not that
thou shouldst break thy vow;” and he laughed aloud.

So the poor Rabbi was taken into a chamber, looking into a
garden, where he passed the remainder of the night and the
day weeping, and praying to the Lord that he would deliver
him from the city of Demons. But when the twelfth hour came,
and the sun was set, the Prince of the Mazikin came again
unto him, and said:—

“Eat now, I pray thee, for the day of thy vow is past;” and
he set meat before him.

“Pardon again thy servant, my lord,” said Jochonan, “in this
thing. I have another vow for this day also. I pray thee be
not angry with thy servant.”

“I am not angry,” said the Demon, “be it as thou pleasest; I
respect thy vow;” and he laughed louder than before.

So the Rabbi sat another day in his chamber by the garden,
weeping and praying. And when the sun had gone behind the
hills, the Prince of the Mazikin again stood before him, and
said:—

“Eat now, for thou must be an hungered. It was a sore vow of
thine;” and he offered him daintier meats.

And Jochonan felt a strong desire to eat, but he prayed
inwardly to the Lord, and the temptation passed, and he
answered:—

“Excuse thy servant yet a third time, my lord, that I eat
not. I have renewed my vow.”

“Be it so, then,” said the other; “arise, and follow me.”

The Demon took a torch in his hand, and led the Rabbi through
winding passages of his palace, to the door of a lofty
chamber, which he opened with a key that he took from a niche
in the wall. On entering the room, Jochonan saw that it was
of solid silver—floor, ceiling, walls, even to the
threshold and the door-posts. And the curiously carved roof,
and borders of the ceiling, shone, in the torch-light, as if
they were the fanciful work of frost. In the midst were heaps
of silver money, piled up in immense urns of the same metal,
even over the brim.

“Thou hast done me a serviceable act, Rabbi,” said the
Demon—”take of these what thou pleasest; ay, were it
the whole.”

“I cannot, my lord,” said Jochonan. “I was adjured by thee to
come hither in the name of God; and in that name I came, not
for fee or for reward.”

“Follow me,” said the prince of the Mazikin; and Jochonan did
so, into an inner chamber.

It was of gold, as the other was of silver. Its golden roof
was supported by pillars and pilasters of gold, resting upon
a golden floor. The treasures of the kings of the earth would
not purchase one of the four-and-twenty vessels of golden
coins, which were disposed in six rows along the room. No
wonder! for they were filled by the constant labours of the
Demons of the mine. The heart of Jochonan was moved by
avarice, when he saw them shining in yellow light, like the
autumnal sun, as they reflected the beams of the torch. But
God enabled him to persevere.

“These are thine,” said the Demon; “one of the vessels which
thou beholdest would make thee richest of the sons of
men—and I give thee them all.”

But Jochonan refused again; and the Prince of the Mazikin
opened the door of a third chamber, which was called the Hall
of Diamonds. When the Rabbi entered, he screamed aloud, and
put his hands over his eyes; for the lustre of the jewels
dazzled him, as if he had looked upon the noon-day sun. In
vases of agate were heaped diamonds beyond enumeration, the
smallest of which was larger
[pg
413] than a pigeon’s egg. On alabaster tables lay
amethysts, topazes, rubies, beryls, and all other precious
stones, wrought by the hands of skilful artists, beyond power
of computation. The room was lighted by a carbuncle, which,
from the end of the hall, poured its ever-living light,
brighter than the rays of noontide, but cooler than the
gentle radiance of the dewy moon. This was a sore trial on
the Rabbi; but he was strengthened from above, and he refused
again.

“Thou knowest me then, I perceive, O Jochonan, son of
Ben-David,” said the Prince of the Mazikin; “I am a Demon who
would tempt thee to destruction. As thou hast withstood so
far, I tempt thee no more. Thou hast done a service which,
though I value it not, is acceptable in the sight of her
whose love is dearer to me than the light of life. Sad has
been that love to thee, my Rebecca! Why should I do that
which would make thy cureless grief more grievous? You have
yet another chamber to see,” said he to Jochonan, who had
closed his eyes, and was praying fervently to the Lord,
beating his breast.

Far different from the other chambers, the one into which the
Rabbi was next introduced, was a mean and paltry apartment,
without furniture. On its filthy walls hung innumerable
bunches of rusty keys, of all sizes, disposed without order.
Among them, to the astonishment of Jochonan, hung the keys of
his own house, those which he had put to hide when he came on
this miserable journey, and he gazed upon them intently.

“What dost thou see,” said the Demon, “that makes thee look
so eagerly? Can he who has refused silver, and gold, and
diamonds, be moved by a paltry bunch of rusty iron?”

“They are mine own, my lord,” said the Rabbi, “them will I
take, if they be offered me.”

“Take them, then,” said the Demon, putting them into his
hand;—”thou may’st depart. But, Rabbi, open not thy
house only, when thou returnest to Cairo, but thy heart also.
That thou didst not open it before, was that which gave me
power over thee. It was well that thou didst one act of
charity in coming with me without reward, for it has been thy
salvation. Be no more Rabbi Jochonan the miser.”

The Rabbi bowed to the ground, and blessed the Lord for his
escape. “But how,” said he, “am I to return, for I know not
the way?”

“Close thine eyes,” said the Demon. He did so, and in the
space of a moment, heard the voice of the Prince of Mazikin
ordering him to open them again. And, behold, when he opened
them, he stood in the centre of his own chamber, in his house
at Cairo, with the keys in his hand.

When he recovered from his surprise, and had offered
thanksgivings to God, he opened his house, and his heart
also. He gave alms to the poor, he cheered the heart of the
widow, and lightened the destitution of the orphan. His
hospitable board was open to the stranger, and his purse was
at the service of all who needed to share it. His life was a
perpetual act of benevolence; and the blessings showered upon
him by all, were returned bountifully upon him by the hand of
God.

But people wondered, and said, “Is not this the man who was
called Rabbi Jochonan the miser? What hath made the change?”
And it became a saying in Cairo. When it came to the ears of
the Rabbi, he called his friends together, and he avowed his
former love of gold, and the danger to which it had exposed
him; relating all which has been above told, in the hall of
the new palace that he built by the side of the river, on the
left hand, as thou goest down by the course of the great
stream. And wise men, who were scribes, wrote it down from
his mouth, for the memory of mankind, that they might profit
thereby. And a venerable man, with a beard of snow, who had
read it in these books, and at whose feet I sat, that I might
learn the wisdom of the old time, told it to me. And I write
it in the tongue of England, the merry and the free, on the
tenth day of the month Nisan, in the year, according to the
lesser computation, five hundred ninety and seven, that thou
may’st learn good thereof. If not, the fault be upon thee.

STANZAS

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

THE BRITISH SAILOR’S SONG.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Mr. Watts, the editor, besides the stanzas we have quoted,
has contributed indeed less than other editors, in similar
works, and much less than we could wish, for we are sincere
admirers of his plaintive muse. His preface should be read
with due attention, for it is calculated to set the public
right on the fate and merit of numberless works.

THE FORGET ME NOT.

The avant-courier of the “Annuals” is of equal
literary merit with its precursors; but not quite equal in
its engravings—The Sisters’ Dream, by Davenport,
from a drawing by Corbould, is, however, placidly
interesting; the Bridal Morning, by Finden, is also a
pleasing scene; and the Seventh Plague of Egypt, by Le
Keux, from a design by Martin, though in miniature, is
terrific and sublime. In the literary department we
especially notice the Sun-Dial, a pensive tale, by
Delta, but too long for extract; and the Sky-Lark by
the Ettrick Shepherd, soaring with all the freshness and
fancy of that extraordinary genius. The Sword, a
beautiful picture of martial woe, by Miss Landon, is
subjoined:—

As a relief, we quote the following characteristic sketch by
Miss Mitford:—

A COUNTRY APOTHECARY.

One of the most important personages in a small country town
is the apothecary. He takes rank next after the rector and
[pg
415] the attorney, and before the curate; and could be
much less easily dispensed with than either of those
worthies, not merely as holding “fate and physic” in his
hand, but as the general, and as it were official, associate,
adviser, comforter, and friend, of all ranks and all ages, of
high and low, rich and poor, sick and well. I am no despiser
of dignities; but twenty emperors shall be less intensely
missed in their wide dominions, than such a man as my friend
John Hallett in his own small sphere.

The spot which was favoured with the residence of this
excellent person was the small town of Hazelby, in
Dorsetshire; a pretty little place, where every thing seems
at a stand-still. It was originally built in the shape of the
letter T; a long broad market-place (still so called,
although the market be gone) serving for the perpendicular
stem, traversed by a straight, narrow, horizontal street, to
answer for the top line. Not one addition has occurred to
interrupt this architectural regularity, since, fifty years
ago, a rich London tradesman built, at the west end of the
horizontal street, a wide-fronted single house, with two low
wings, iron palisades before, and a fish-pond opposite, which
still goes by the name of New Place, and is balanced, at the
east end of the street, by an erection of nearly the same
date, a large square dingy mansion enclosed within high
walls, inhabited by three maiden sisters, and called,
probably by way of nickname, the Nunnery. New Place being on
the left of the road, and the Nunnery on the right, the T has
now something of the air of the italic capital T, turned up
at one end and down at the other. The latest improvements are
the bow-window in the market-place, commanding the pavement
both ways, which the late brewer, Andrews, threw out in his
snug parlour some twenty years back, and where he used to sit
smoking, with the sash up, in summer afternoons, enjoying
himself, good man; and the great room, at the Swan,
originally built by the speculative publican, Joseph
Allwright, for an assembly-room. That speculation did not
answer. The assembly, in spite of canvassing and patronage,
and the active exertions of all the young ladies in the
neighbourhood, dwindled away, and died at the end of two
winters: then it became a club-room for the hunt; but the
hunt quarrelled with Joseph’s cookery: then a market-room for
the farmers; but the farmers (it was in the high-price time)
quarrelled with Joseph’s wine: then it was converted into the
magistrate’s room—the bench; but the bench and the
market went away together, and there was an end of justicing:
then Joseph tried the novel attraction (to borrow a
theatrical phrase) of a billiard-table; but, alas! that
novelty succeeded as ill as if it had been theatrical; there
were not customers enough to pay the marker: at last, it has
merged finally in that unconscious receptacle of pleasure and
pain, a post-office; although Hazelby has so little to do
with traffic of any sort—even the traffic of
correspondence—that a saucy mail-coach will often carry
on its small bag, and as often forget to call for the London
bag in return.

In short, Hazelby is an insignificant place;—my readers
will look for it in vain in the map of Dorsetshire;—it
is omitted, poor dear town!—left out by the map-maker
with as little remorse as a dropped letter!—and it is
also an old-fashioned place. It has not even a cheap shop for
female gear. Every thing in the one store which it boasts,
kept by Martha Deane, linen-draper and haberdasher, is dear
and good, as things were wont to be. You may actually get
there thread made of flax, from the gouty, uneven, clumsy,
shiny fabric, ycleped whited-brown, to the delicate commodity
of Lisle, used for darning muslin. I think I was never more
astonished, from the mere force of habit, than when, on
asking for thread, I was presented, instead of the pretty
lattice-wound balls, or snowy reels of cotton, with which
that demand is usually answered, with a whole drawerful of
skeins peeping from their blue papers —such skeins as
in my youth a thrifty maiden would draw into the
nicely-stitched compartments of that silken repository, a
housewife, or fold into a congeries of graduated
thread-papers, “fine by degrees, and beautifully less.” The
very literature of Hazelby is doled out at the pastry cook’s,
in a little one-windowed shop kept by Matthew Wise. Tarts
occupy one end of the counter, and reviews the other; whilst
the shelves are parcelled out between books, and dolls, and
ginger, bread. It is a question, by which of his trades poor
Matthew gains least; he is so shabby, so threadbare, and so
starved.

Such a town would hardly have known what to do with a highly
informed and educated surgeon, such as one now generally sees
in that most liberal profession. My friend, John Hallett,
suited it exactly. His predecessor, Mr. Simon Saunders, had
been a small, wrinkled, spare old gentleman, with a short
cough and a thin voice, who always seemed as if he needed an
apothecary himself. He wore generally a full suit of drab, a
flaxen wig of the sort called a Bob Jerom, and a very tight
muslin stock; a costume which he
[pg
416] had adopted in his younger days in imitation of
the most eminent physician of the next city, and continued to
the time of his death. Perhaps the cough might have been
originally an imitation also, ingrafted on the system by
habit. It had a most unsatisfactory sound, and seemed more
like a trick than a real effort of nature. His talk was
civil, prosy, and fidgetty: much addicted to small scandal,
and that kind of news which passes under the denomination of
tittle-tattle, he was sure to tell one half of the town where
the other drank tea, and recollected the blancmanges and
jellies on a supper-table, or described a new gown, with as
much science and unction as if he had been used to make
jellies and wear gowns in his own person. Certain
professional peculiarities might have favoured the
supposition. His mode of practice was exactly that popularly
attributed to old women. He delighted in innocent
remedies—manna, magnesia, and camphor julep; never put
on a blister in his life; and would sooner, from pure
complaisance, let a patient die, than administer an
unpalatable prescription.

So qualified, to say nothing of his gifts in tea-drinking,
cassino, and quadrille (whist was too many for him), his
popularity could not be questioned. When he expired, all
Hazelby mourned. The lamentation was general. The women of
every degree (to borrow a phrase from that great
phrase-monger, Horace Walpole) “cried quarts;” and the
procession to the churchyard—that very churchyard to
which he had himself attended so many of his
patients—was now followed by all of them that remained
alive.

It was felt that the successor of Mr. Simon Saunders would
have many difficulties to encounter. My friend, John Hallett,
“came, and saw, and overcame.” John was what is usually
called a rough diamond. Imagine a short, clumsy, stout-built
figure, almost as broad as it is long, crowned by a bullet
head, covered with shaggy brown hair, sticking out in every
direction; the face round and solid, with a complexion
originally fair, but dyed one red by exposure to all sorts of
weather; open good-humoured eyes, of a greenish cast, his
admirers called them hazel; a wide mouth, full of large white
teeth; a cocked-up nose, and a double chin; bearing
altogether a strong resemblance to a print which I once saw
hanging up in an alehouse parlour, of “the celebrated divine
(to use the identical words of the legend) Dr. Martin
Luther.”

The condition of a country apothecary being peculiarly liable
to the inclemency of the season, John’s dress was generally
such as might bid defiance to wind, or rain, or snow, or
hail. If any thing, he wrapt up most in the summer, having a
theory that people were never so apt to take cold as in hot
weather. He usually wore a bearskin great-coat, a silk
handkerchief over his cravat, top boots on those sturdy
pillars his legs, a huge pair of overalls, and a hat, which,
from, the day in which it first came into his possession to
that in which it was thrown aside, never knew the comfort of
being freed from its oilskin—never was allowed to
display the glossy freshness of its sable youth. Poor dear
hat! how its vanity (if hats have vanity) must have suffered!
For certain its owner had none, unless a lurking pride in his
own bluffness and bluntness may be termed such. He piqued
himself on being a plain downright Englishman, and on a voice
and address pretty much like his apparel, rough, strong, and
warm, fit for all weathers. A heartier person never lived.

In his profession he was eminently skilful, bold, confident,
and successful. The neighbouring physicians liked to come
after Mr. Hallett; they were sure to find nothing to undo.
And blunt and abrupt as was his general manner, he was kind
and gentle in a sick-room; only nervous disorders, the pet
diseases of Mr. Simon Saunders, he could not abide. He made
short work with them; frightened them away as one does by
children when they have the hiccough; or if the malady were
pertinacious and would not go, he fairly turned off the
patient. Once or twice, indeed, on such occasions, the
patient got the start, and turned him off; Mrs. Emery, for
instance, the lady’s maid at New Place, most delicate and
mincing of waiting-gentlewomen, motioned him from her
presence; and Miss Deane, daughter of Martha Deane,
haberdasher, who, after completing her education at a
boarding-school, kept a closet full of millinery in a little
den behind her mamma’s shop, and was by many degrees the
finest lady in Hazelby, was so provoked at being told by him
that nothing ailed her, that, to prove her weakly condition,
she pushed him by main force out of doors.

With these exceptions Mr. Hallett was the delight of the
whole town, as well as of all the farm-houses within six
miles round. He just suited the rich yeomanry, cured their
diseases, and partook of their feasts; was constant at
christenings, and a man of prime importance at weddings. A
country merry-making was nothing without “the Doctor.” He was
“the very prince of good fellows;” had
[pg
417] a touch of epicurism, which, without causing any
distaste of his own homely fare, made dainties acceptable
when they fell in his way; was a most absolute carver; prided
himself upon a sauce of his own invention, for fish and
game—”Hazelby sauce” he called it; and was universally
admitted to be the best compounder of a bowl of punch in the
county.

Besides these rare convivial accomplishments, his gay and
jovial temper rendered him the life of the table. There was
no resisting his droll faces, his droll stories, his jokes,
his tricks, or his laugh—the most contagious
cachination that ever was heard. Nothing in the shape of fun
came amiss to him. He would join in a catch or roar out a
solo, which might be heard a mile off; would play at hunt the
slipper or blind man’s buff; was a great man in a country
dance, and upon very extraordinary occasions would treat the
company to a certain remarkable hornpipe, which put the walls
in danger of tumbling about their ears, and belonged to him
as exclusively as the Hazelby sauce. It was a sort of parody
on a pas seul which he had once seen at the Opera-house, in
which his face, his figure, his costume, his rich humour, and
his strange, awkward, unexpected activity, told amazingly.
“The force of frolic could no farther go” than “the
Doctor’s hornpipe,” It was the climax of jollity.

In his shop and his household he had no need either of
partner or of wife: the one was excellently managed by an old
rheumatic journeyman, slow in speech, and of vinegar aspect,
who had been a pedagogue in his youth, and now used to limp
about with his Livy in his pocket, and growl as he compounded
the medicines over the bad latinity of the prescriptions; the
other was equally well conducted by an equally ancient
housekeeper and a cherry-cheeked niece, the orphan-daughter
of his only sister, who kept every thing within doors in the
bright and shining order in which he delighted. John Hallett,
notwithstanding the roughness of his aspect, was rather
knick-knacky in his tastes; a great patron of small
inventions, such as the improved ne plus ultra
cork-screw, and the latest patent snuffers. He also trifled
with horticulture, dabbled in tulips, was a connoisseur in
pinks, and had gained a prize for polyanthuses. The garden
was under the especial care of his pretty niece, Miss Susan,
a grateful warm-hearted girl, who thought she never could do
enough to please her good uncle, and prove her sense of his
kindness. He was indeed as fond of her as if he had been her
father, and as kind.

Perhaps there was nothing very extraordinary in his goodness
to the gentle and cheerful little girl who kept his walks so
trim and his parlour so neat, who always met him with a
smile, and who (last and strongest tie to a generous mind)
was wholly dependent on him—had no friend on earth but
himself. There was nothing very uncommon in that. But John
Hallett was kind to every one, even where the sturdy old
English prejudices, which he cherished as virtues, might seem
most likely to counteract his gentler feelings.

We have only room to particularize the Boroom Slave,
by Mrs. Bowditch; the Magician’s Visiter, by Neele;
and Scenes in the Life of a Favourite; all which
possess very powerful interest. Mr. Hood, too, has two
oddities—Death in the Kitchen, after Sterne, and
the Logicians, accompanied by engravings. Indeed, the
literary variety of the present Forget Me Not is
highly creditable to the editor, Mr. Shoberl.

[pg
418]

FRIENDSHIP’S OFFERING.

To begin with the exterior, which is somewhat novel in taste,
the proprietors seem to have united the utile cum
dulci, by substituting for the usual paper covering, an
elegantly embossed leather binding. This is altogether an
improvement on the original plan, since the slight coverings
of silk or paper is scarcely safe out of the drawing-room or
boudoir, and some of the contributions to the “annuals”
entitle them to a higher stand. The presentation plate of the
present Offering is a chaste and classical specimen of
a kind of gold enamel engraving; The Sylph, engraved
by Humphreys, is a pleasing picture; Virginia Water,
from a picture by Daniell, is a delightful scene of rural
repose; a Sculpture Group, by Fry; a View of
Bombay; and the Captive Slave, by Finden; among
the embellishments, are entitled to our commendatory notice.

The present editor is Mr. Charles Knight, who, according to
his preface, succeeded “at an advanced period of the year to
the duties which had previously been performed by a gentleman
of acknowledged taste and ability.” This may account for the
imperfect state of some of the engravings; but the apology is
not so requisite for the execution of the literary portion of
the present volume. Our extracts must be short, for we have
other claimants to our attention. The Housekeepers, a
Shandean extract, is from one of the best prose
contributors:—

There were two heavy, middle-aged merchants; they were either
Dutch or German, I know not which, but their name was
Vanderclump. Most decided old bachelors they were, with
large, leathern, hanging cheeks, sleepy grey eyes, and round
shoulders. They were men not given to much speech, but great
feeders; and, when waited upon, would point clumsily to what
they wanted, and make a sort of low growl, rather than be at
the trouble to speak. These Messrs. Vanderclump were served
by two tall, smooth-faced dawdles; I never could discover
which held the superior station in the ménage.
Each has been seen trotting home from market with a basket on
her arm; each might be observed to shake a duster out of the
upper windows; each would, occasionally, carry a huge bunch
of keys, or wait at table during dinner; and, in the summer
evenings, when it was not post-day, both of them would
appear, dressed alike, sitting at work at the lower
counting-house window, with the blinds thrown wide open.
Both, I suppose, were housekeepers.

It happened, one cold, foggy spring, that the younger
brother, Mr. Peter Vanderclump, left London to transact some
business of importance with a correspondent at Hamburgh,
leaving his brother Anthony to the loneliness of their gloomy
house in St. Mary Axe. Week after week passed away, and Mr.
Peter was still detained at Hamburgh. Who would have supposed
that his society could have been missed? that the parlour
could have seemed more dismally dull by the absence of one of
those from whom it chiefly derived its character of dulness?
Mr. Anthony took up his largest meerchaum, and enveloped
himself in its smoke by the hour; but the volumes of smoke
cleared away, and no Peter Vanderclump appeared emerging from
the mist. Mr. Anthony brought some of his heavy folios from
below; and, in their pages of interest, (no common, but often
compound, interest,) lost, for awhile, the dreary sense of
loneliness. But, a question was to be asked! Peter’s solemn
“yah” or “nien” was waited for in vain. Forgetful, and almost
impatient, Anthony looked up—the chair was unoccupied
which his brother had constantly filled.

Mr. Anthony began to sigh—he got into a habit of
sighing. Betty and Molly (they were soft-hearted baggages)
felt for their master—pitied their poor master! Betty
was placing the supper on the table one evening, when her
master sighed very heavily. Betty sighed also, and the
corners of her mouth fell—their eyes
met—something like a blush crimsoned Betty’s sleek,
shining cheek, when, on raising her eyes again, her master
was still staring at her. Betty simpered, and, in her very
soft, very demure voice ventured to say, “Was there any thing
she could do?” Mr. Vanderclump rose up from his chair. Betty,
for the first time, felt awed by his approach. “Batee!” he
said, “my poor Batee! Hah! you are a goot girl!” He chucked
her under the chin with his large hand. Betty looked meek,
and blushed, and simpered again. There was a pause—Mr.
Vanderclump was the first to disturb it. “Hah! hah!” he
exclaimed, gruffly, as if suddenly recollecting himself; and,
thrusting both hands into his capacious breeches-pockets, he
sat down to supper, and took no further notice of Betty that
night.

The next morning, the sun seemed to have made a successful
struggle with the dense London atmosphere, and shone full in
Mr. Vanderclump’s face while he was at breakfast, and set a
piping bullfinch singing a tune, which his master loved
rather for the sake of old associations, than from any
delight in music. Then Lloyd’s
[pg
419] List was full of arrivals, and the Price Current
had that morning some unusual charm about it, which I cannot
even guess at. Mr. Vanderclump looked upon the bright and
blazing fire; his eye rested, with a calm and musing
satisfaction, on the light volumes of steam rising from the
spout of the tea-kettle, as it stood, rather murmuring
drowsily, than hissing, upon the hob. There was, he might
have felt, a sympathy between them. They were both placidly
puffing out the warm and wreathing smoke.

He laid down his pipe, and took half a well-buttered muffin
into his capacious mouth at a bite; he washed the mouthful
down, with a large dish of tea, and he felt in better
spirits. That morning he entered the counting-house rubbing
his hands.

Within an hour a crowd of huge, dusky clouds shut out the
merry sunshine, and the Hamburgh mail brought no tidings
whatever of Mr. Peter. Mr. Anthony worked himself up into a
thorough ill-humour again, and swore at his clerks, because
they asked him questions. When he entered his apartment that
evening he felt more desolate than ever. Betty placed a
barrel of oysters on the table—he heeded her
not;—a large German sausage—his eyes were fixed
on the ground;—a piece of Hamburgh beef —Mr.
Vanderclump looked up for an instant, and, Europa-like, his
thoughts crossed the sea, upon that beef, to Hamburgh.
Gradually, however, a genial warmth spread throughout the
room, for Betty stirred up the fire, and let down the
curtains, and snuffed the dim candles; while Molly loaded the
table with bottles of divers shapes and sizes, a basin of
snow-white sugar, and a little basket of limes, of well-known
and exquisite flavour; placing, at the same time, a very
small kettle of boiling water on the fire.—”Why,
Mollee! my goot girl!” said Mr. Vanderclump, in a low and
somewhat melancholy tone, (his eyes had mechanically followed
these latter proceedings,) “Mollee! that is ponch!”
—”La, sir! and why not?” replied the damsel, almost
playfully. “Why not be comfortable and cheery? I am
sure”—and here she meant to look encouraging, her usual
simper spreading to a smile—”I am sure Betty and I
would do our best to make you so.”

“Goot girls, goot girls!” said Mr. Vanderclump, his eyes
fixed all the while upon the supper-table—he sat down
to it. “My goot girls!” said he, soon after, “you may go
down; I do not want you; you need not wait.” The two timid,
gentle creatures instantly obeyed. More than an hour elapsed,
and then Mr. Vanderclump’s bell rang. The two matronly
maidens were very busily employed in making a new cap. Betty
rose at once; but suddenly recollecting that she had been
trying on her new and unfinished cap, and had then only a
small brown cotton skull-cap on her head, she raised both her
hands to her head to be certain of this, and then said, “Do,
Molly, there’s a dear! answer the bell; for such a figure as
I am, I could not go before master, no how. See, I have
unpicked this old cap for a little bit of French edging at
the back.” Molly looked a little peevish; but her cap
was on her head, and up stairs she went. Mr. Vanderclump was
sitting before the fire, puffing lustily from his eternal
pipe. “Take away,” he said abruptly, “and put the leetle
table here.” He pointed and growled, and the sagacious Molly
understood. She placed the table beside him, and upon it the
punch, which he had been drinking. “Batee, my poor Batee!”
said Mr. Vanderclump, who had not yet noticed that Betty was
absent. “It is not Betty, but Molly, sir!” replied the latter
damsel, in a voice of childlike simplicity. “Hah!” said he,
apparently considering for a moment, “Hah! Batee, Mollee, all
the same! Mollee, my poor Mollee, you are a goot girl! Get up
to-morrow morning, my poor Mollee, and put on your best gown,
and I will marry you!” Molly, was, as she afterwards
declared, struck all of a heap. She gaped, and gasped with
astonishment; and then a power of words were rushing and
racing up her throat to her tongue’s end: a glance at her
master stopped their explosion. His hands were in his
pockets, his face towards the fire, his pipe in his mouth.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, humbly and distinctly. A few tears
trickled down her cheeks, as she curtseyed low at the door,
and disappeared. She knew his ways, she thought within
herself, as she walked very slowly down the stairs, and she
congratulated herself that she had not risked another word in
reply. “And now, Betty,” she said, as she entered the
kitchen, “I’ll put the finishing stitch to my cap, and go to
bed, for master will want nothing more to-night.” She sat
down quietly to work, and conversed quietly with Betty, not
disclosing a word of her new prospects, Betty, however,
observed that she took off the trimming with which her new
cap had been already half-adorned. “Why, bless me, Molly!”
she cried, “you are not going to put on that handsome white
satin bow, are you?”—”Why, yes! I think I shall,”
replied Molly, “for now I look at your cap, with that there
yellow riband upon it, mine seems to me quite old-maidish.”

[pg
420] The next morning, Molly got up before her sister,
and put on her best gown and her new cap. The morning was
dark and dull, and Betty was sleepy, and Molly kept the
window-curtain and the bed-curtains closely drawn.
Unsuspected, she slipped out of the chamber, her shawl and
her bonnet in her hand.

As the clock struck eight, Molly was standing beside her
master before the rails of the marriage-altar; and, not long
after, she burst upon the astonished eyes of her sister, as
Mrs. Vanderclump.

La Villegiatura is a pleasant article; but we do not
think there is much of the “love of pastoral associations”
left in the English character, and we are sorry for it. The
Rustic Wreath, by Miss Mitford, is very sweet; the
Cacadore, a story of the peninsular war, is a
soul-stirring narrative; there is much pleasantry in Mrs.
Hofland’s Comforts of Conceitedness; Virginia Water,
by the editor, could hardly be written by his
fireside—it has too much local inspiration in every
line; Auguste de Valcour, by the author of Gilbert
Earle, is in his usual felicitous vein of philosophic
melancholy; Miss Roberts has a glittering Tale of
Normandy; the Orphans, by the editor, is simple
and pathetic; Palinodia we subjoin:—

The First Ball, by L.E.L. is rife and gay; which, with
Mr. Croker’s Three Advices, are all we can spare room
to point out to our readers.

The Amulet.

Of this volume we have already availed ourselves. Some of the
engravings are in a vigorous and first-rate style of
excellence; the binding, too, is somewhat gay for so grave a
title—being crimson silk. Our favourites are a
Voyage Round the World, by Montgomery, one of the best
poems of the year; Faustus, with a Visit to Goethe; Angel
Visits, by Mrs. Hemans; The Departed, by L.E.L.;
and some pieces by the editor, Mr. Hall. Our present extract
is

THE LAST VOYAGE. A TRUE STORY.

By Mrs. Opie.

We cannot fail to observe, as we advance in life, how vividly
our earliest recollections recur to us, and this
consciousness is accompanied by a melancholy pleasure, when
we are deprived of those
[pg
421] who are most tenderly associated with such
remembrances, because they bring the beloved dead “before our
mind’s eye;” and beguile the loneliness of the present
hour, by visions of the past. In such visions I now
often love to indulge, and in one of them, a journey to
Y—— was recently brought before me, in which my
ever-indulgent father permitted me to accompany him, when I
was yet but a child.

As we drove through C——r, a village within three
miles of Y——, he directed my attention to a
remarkable rising, or conical mound of earth,
on the top of the tower of C——r church. He then
kindly explained the cause of this singular, and
distinguishing appearance, and told me the
traditionary anecdote connected with it; which now, in my own
words, I am going to communicate to my readers.

It is generally supposed, that great grief makes the heart so
selfishly absorbed in its own sufferings, as to render it
regardless of the sufferings of others; but the conduct of
her, who is the heroine of the following tale, will prove to
this general rule an honourable exception.

I know nothing of her birth, and parentage, nor am I
acquainted even with her name—but I shall call her
Birtha—the story goes, that she lived at
C——r, a village three miles from Y——
in N——, and was betrothed to the mate of a
trading vessel, with the expectation of marrying him, when he
had gained money sufficient, by repeated voyages, to make
their union consistent with prudence.

In the meanwhile, there is reason to believe that Birtha was
not idle, but contrived to earn money herself, in order to
expedite the hour of her marriage; and at length, her lover
(whom I shall call William) thought that there was no reason
for him to continue his sea-faring life, but at the end of
one voyage more, he should be able to marry the woman of his
choice, and engage in some less dangerous employment, in his
native village.

Accordingly, the next time that he bade farewell to Birtha,
the sorrow of their parting hour was soothed by William’s
declaring, that, as the next voyage would be his last, he
should expect, when he returned, to find every thing ready
for their marriage.

This was a pleasant expectation, and Birtha eagerly prepared
to fulfil it.

By the time that Birtha was beginning to believe that William
was on his voyage home, her neighbours would often help her
to count the days which would probably elapse before the ship
could arrive; but when they were not in her presence, some of
the experienced amongst the men used to express a
hope, the result of fear, that William would
return time enough to avoid certain winds, which made
one part of the navigation on that coast particularly
dangerous.

Birtha herself, had, no doubt, her fears, as well as
her hopes; but there are some fears which the
lip of affection dares not utter, and this was one of them.

Birtha dreaded to have her inquiries respecting that
dangerous passage, answered by “Yes, we know that it is a
difficult navigation;” she also dreaded to be told by some
kind, but ill-judging friends, to “trust in Providence;” as,
by such advice, the reality of the danger would be still more
powerfully confirmed to her. This recommendation would to her
have been needless, as well as alarming; for she had,
doubtless, always relied on Him who is alone able to save,
and she knew that the same “Almighty arm was underneath” her
lover still, which had hitherto preserved him in the time of
need.

Well—time went on, and we will imagine the little
garden before the door of the house which Birtha had hired,
new gravelled, fresh flowers sown and planted there; the
curtains ready to be put up; the shelves bright with polished
utensils; table linen, white as the driven snow, enclosed in
the newly-purchased chest of drawers; and the neat, well
chosen wedding-clothes, ready for the approaching occasion:
we will also picture to ourselves, the trembling joy of
Birtha, when her eager and sympathizing neighbours rushed
into her cottage, disturbing her early breakfast, with the
glad tidings, that William’s ship had been seen approaching
the dangerous passage with a fair wind, and that there was no
doubt but that he would get over it safe, and in day-light!
How sweet is it to be the messenger and the bearer of good
news, but it is still sweeter to know that one has friends
who have pleasure in communicating pleasure to us!

But Birtha’s joy was still mingled with anxiety, and she
probably passed that day in alternate restlessness and
prayer.

Towards night the wind rose high, blowing from a quarter
unfavourable to the safety of the ship, and it still
continued to blow in this direction when night and darkness
had closed on all around.

Darkness at that moment seemed to close also upon the
prospects of Birtha! for she knew that there was no beacon,
no landmark to warn the vessel of its danger, and inform the
pilot what coast they were approaching, and what perils they
were to avoid; and, it is probable, that the almost
despairing girl was, with
[pg
422] her anxious friends, that livelong night a
restless wanderer on the nearest shore.

With the return of morning came the awful confirmation of
their worst fears!

There was no remaining vestige of William’s vessel, save the
top of the mast, which shewed where it had sunk beneath the
waves, and proved that the hearts which in the morning had
throbbed high with tender hopes and joyful expectations were
then cold and still “beneath the mighty waters!” How
different now was the scene in Birtha’s cottage, to that
which it exhibited during the preceding morning.

That changed dwelling was not indeed deserted, for
sympathizing neighbours came to it as before; but though many
may be admitted with readiness when it is a time for
congratulation, it is only the few who can be welcome in a
season of sorrow; and Birtha’s sorrow, though quiet,
was deep—while neither her nearest relative, nor
dearest friend, could do any thing to assist her, save, by
removing from her sight the new furniture, or the new
dresses, which had been prepared for those happy hours that
now could never be hers.

At length, however, Birtha, who had always appeared calm and
resigned, seemed cheerful also! still she remained pale, as
in the first moments of her trial, save when a feverish flush
occasionally increased the brightness of her eyes; but she
grew thinner and thinner, and her impeded breath made her
affectionate friends suspect that she was going into a rapid
decline.

Medical aid was immediately called in, and Birtha’s pleased
conviction that her end was near, was soon, though
reluctantly confirmed to her, at her own request.

It is afflicting to see an invalid rejoice in knowing that
the hour of death is certainly approaching; because it proves
the depth and poignancy of the previous sufferings: but then
the sight is comforting and edifying also. It is
comforting, because it proves that the dying person is
supported by the only “help that faileth not;” and it is
edifying, because it invites those who behold it to endeavour
to believe, that they also may live and die
like the departing Christian.

But it was not alone the wish “to die and be with Christ,”
nor the sweet expectation of being united in another world to
him whom she had lost, that was the cause of Birtha’s
increasing cheerfulness, as the hour of her dissolution drew
nigh. No—

Her generous heart was rejoicing in a project which she had
conceived, and which would, if realized, be the source of
benefit to numbers yet unborn. She knew from authority which
she could not doubt, that had there been a proper
landmark on the shore, her lover and his ship would not,
in all human probability, have perished.

“Then,” said Birtha, “henceforth there shall be a land-mark
on this coast! and I will furnish it! Here at least, no fond
and faithful girl shall again have to lament over her
blighted prospects, and pine, and suffer as I have done.”

She sent immediately for the clergyman of the parish, made
her will, and had a clause inserted to the following effect:
“I desire that I may be buried on the top of the tower of
C——r church! and that my grave may be made very
high, and pointed, in order to render it a perpetual
land-mark to all ships approaching that dangerous navigation
where he whom I loved was wrecked. I am assured, that, had
there been a land-mark on the tower of C——
church, his ship might have escaped; and I humbly trust, that
my grave will always be kept up, according to my will, to
prevent affectionate hearts, in future, from being afflicted
as mine has been; and I leave a portion of my little property
in the hands of trustees, for ever, to pay for the
preservation of the above-mentioned grave, in all its
usefulness!”

Before she died, the judicious and benevolent sufferer had
the satisfaction of being assured, that her intentions would
be carried into effect.

Her last moments were therefore cheered by the belief, that
she would be graciously permitted to be, even after death, a
benefit to others, and that her grave might be the means of
preserving some of her fellow-creatures from shipwreck and
affliction.

Nor was her belief a delusive one—-The conical grave in
question gives so remarkable an appearance to the tower of
C——r church, when it is seen at sea, even at a
distance, that if once observed it can never be forgotten,
even by those to whom the anecdote connected with it is
unknown —therefore, as soon as it appears in sight,
pilots know that they are approaching a dangerous coast, and
take measures to avoid its perils.

But if the navigation on that coast is no longer as perilous
as it was, when the heroine of this story was buried, and the
tower of C——r church is no longer a necessary
land-mark, still her grave remains a pleasing memorial of
one, whose active benevolence rose superior to the
selfishness both of sorrow and of sickness; and enabled her,
even on the bed of [pg 423] death, to contrive
and will for the benefit of posterity.

It is strange, but true, that the name of this humble, but
privileged being, is not on record; but many whose names are
forgotten on earth, have been, I doubt not, received and
rewarded in heaven.

The Bijou

Is a new adventurer in the “annual” field, and deserves a
foremost rank as a work of art. Thus, the Child with
Flowers, by Humphreys, after Sir Thomas Laurence, is
really fit company for the president’s beautiful picture; the
Boy and Dog, by the same painter and engraver, is also
very fine; but the selection of both of the pictures for one
volume is hardly judicious. With Haddon Hall our
readers are already familiar. Sans Souci, after
Stothard, is a delightful scene. In the literature, almost
the only very striking composition is Sir Walter Scott’s
illustration of Wilkie’s painting of the baronet’s own
family, which, having been copied into every newspaper, we do
not reprint. For our part, we do not admire the painting;
there is too much rank and file for a family group.
Mr. Hood has a Lament of Chivalry, in his best style;
and a few Verses for an Album, by Charles Lamb, are to
our taste.

A LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.

BY THOMAS HOOD, ESQ.

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM.

THE LITERARY POCKET-BOOK.

Is this year resumed, but we think it is not so successful
as, were its previous fasciculi. The “literary”
is a good epithet for its sale among would-be authors, like
the “Gentleman’s” Magazine among a certain class of
worthies. But of what use are such articles as the following
to literary men:—The Seasons, by a Man of
Taste, (like the carte of a restaurateur;)
Sayings of a Man about Town; Remonstrance with J.F.
Newton; Lines on Crockford’s &c.—all amusing
enough in their way, but, in a literary pocket-book, out of
place, and not in good taste. The “lists,” too, the only
useful portion of the volume, are, in many instances, very
incorrect. Apropos, how long has Morris Birbeck been dead?
Our Illinois friend might be alive when the editor published
his last pocket-book; but if he stands still, time does not.
There is, too, an affectation of fashion about the work which
does not suit our sober taste; but as a seasonable Christmas
extract, we are induced to quote Winter from the
Seasons:—

Now is the high season of beef; beef, which Prometheus killed
for us at first, ere he filched the fire from heaven, with
which to constitute it a beef-steak—that foundation of
the most delightful of clubs, and origin of the most
delightful of all memoirs of them. Nor be the sirloin, boast
of Englishmen, forgot! nor its vaunted origin; which proves
that the age of chivalry, despite of Burke, is not yet gone!
Stewed beef too, and ample round, and filet de boeuf saute
dans sa glace, and stewed rump-steaks, and ox-tail soup.

Henry the Eighth.

No—when beef flies the English shores, then you may, as
the immortal bard exquisitely expresses it, “make a silken
purse out of a sow’s ear.” But mutton, too, invites my Muse.
It is calculated that fifteen hundred thousand sheep are
annually sacrificed in London to the carnivorous taste of
John Bull. “Of roast mutton (as Dr. Johnson says) what
remains for me to say? It will be found sometimes succous,
and sometimes defective of moisture; but what palate has ever
failed to be pleased with a haunch which has been duly
suspended? what appetite has not been awakened by the
fermentation that glitters on its surface, when it has been
reposing for the requisite number of hours before a fire
equal in its fervency?”

We quite agree with Dr. Johnson; but a boiled leg of mutton,
its whiteness transparent through the verdant capers that
decorate its candour, is not to be despised; nor is a hash,
whether celebrated as an Irish stew, or a hachis de
mouton, most relishing of rifacciamenti! Chops and
garlic à la Francaise are exquisite; and the
saddle, cut learnedly, is the Elysium of a gourmand.

Now also is the time of house-lamb and of doe-venison. Now is
the time of Christmas come, and the voice of the turkey is
heard in our land! This is the period of their annual
massacre—a new slaughter of the innocents! The Norwich
coaches are now laden with mortals; that, while alive, shared
with their equally intelligent townsmen, fruges consumere
nati, the riches of their agricultural county.

Let others talk as they will about the Greek and the
Ottoman!—in cookery, I abhor Greece, and love Turkey.
And yet how inconsistent I am in my politics! for I sometimes
regard the partition of Turkey as a thing well purchased by
the sacrifice of every Ottoman in the world—would they
were all under my feet!—especially when I have
the gout. I confess, the dismemberment of Poland did not
affect me much. A man who is much accustomed to dismember
fowls, will not care much about that of kingdoms.

Nor be the cod (a blessing on his head—and shoulders!)
forgotten. Beautifully candid, his laminae separate readily
before the tranchant silver, and each flake, covered with a
creamy curd, lies ready to receive the affusion of molten
(not oiled) butter, which, with its floating oyster-islands,
seems in impatient agitation for the moment of overflowing
the alluring “white creature,” as a modern poet styles it.

TIMES TELESCOPE.

Having transported the public for the term of
fourteen years, our readers need not be told that the
present is the fifteenth volume. We should say more in its
praise had it said less in our own. In richness and variety
it is quite equal to any of its predecessors; and we promise
our readers an occasional sip of its original sweets.

The Keepsake and the Christmas-Box (the latter
a juvenile annual) must stand over for an early
number.

Footnote 1:
(return)

We hope this epithet will not be considered
ungallant—for, to say the truth, the ladies
have contributed the best poetical portion of the feast.
This display of female talent has increased in brilliancy
year after year: and the Lords should look to it.

Printed and published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near
Somerset House,) and sold by all Newsmen and Booksellers.