THE MIRROR
OF
LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

POPE’S TEMPLE, AT HAGLEY

Reader! are you going out of town “in search of the
picturesque“—if so, bend your course to the classic, the
consecrated ground of HAGLEY! think of LYTTLETON, POPE, SHENSTONE,
and THOMSON, or refresh your memory from the “Spring” of the
latter, as—

Such is the fervid language in which the Poet of the year
invoked

Yet these lines will kindle the delight and reverence of every
lover of Nature, in common with the effect of the Seasons on
the reader, who “wonders that he never saw before what Thomson
shows him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson
impresses.”¹

But we quit these nether flights of song to describe the
locality of Hagley Park, of whose beauties our Engraving is but a
mere vignette, and in comparison like holding a candle to the sun.
The village of Hagley is a short distance from Bromsgrove, in
Worcestershire, whence the pleasantest route to the park is to turn
to the right on the Birmingham road, which cuts the grounds into
two unequal parts. The house is a plain and even simple, yet
classical edifice. Whately, in his work on Gardening, describes it
as surrounded by a lawn, of fine uneven ground, and diversified
with large clumps, little groups, and single trees; it is open in
front, but covered on one side by the Witchbury hills; on the other
side, and behind by the eminences in the park, which are high and
steep, and all overspread with a lofty hanging wood. The lawn
pressing to the front, or creeping up the slopes of three hills,
and sometimes winding along glades [pg 50] into the depth of the
wood, traces a beautiful outline to a sylvan scene, already rich to
luxuriance in massive foliage, and stately growth. The present
house was built by the first Lord Lyttleton, not on, but near to,
the site of the ancient family mansion, a structure of the
sixteenth century. Admission may be obtained on application to the
housekeeper; and for paintings, carving, and gilding, Hagley is one
of the richest show-houses in the kingdom.²

Much as the visiter will admire the refined taste displayed
within the mansion, his admiration will be heightened by the
classic taste in which the grounds are disposed. A short distance
from the house, embosomed in trees, stands the church, built in the
time of Henry III.; with a sublime Gothic arch, richly painted
windows, and a ceiling fretted with the heraldic fires of the
Lyttleton family, whose tombs are placed on all sides; among them,
the resting-place of the gay poet is distinguished by the following
plain inscription:—

Leaving the church we ascend to the crest of a hill, on which
stands the Prince of Wales’s Pillar. From this point, the view is
inexpressibly beautiful, in which may be seen an octagon seat
sacred to the memory of Thomson, and erected on the brow of a
verdant steep, his favourite spot. In the foreground is a gently
winding valley; on the rising hill beyond is a noble wood, whilst
to the right the open country fades in the distance; on the left
the Clent hills appear, and a dusky antique tower stands just below
them at the extremity of the wood; whilst in the midst of it, we
can discern the Doric temple sacred to Pope. This exquisite
gem of the picturesque is represented in our Engraving.

In the adjoining grove of oaks is the antique tower; in a
beautiful amphitheatre of wood, an Ionic rotunda; and in an
embowering grove a Palladian bridge, with a light airy portico.
Here on a fine lawn is the urn inscribed to Pope, mentioned by
Shenstone:

At the end of the valley, in an obscure corner is a hermitage,
composed of roots and moss, whence we look down on a piece of water
in the hollow, thickly shaded with tall trees, (see the
engraving,) over which is a fine view of distant landscape.
This spot is the extremity of the park, and the Clent hills rise in
all their wild irregularity, immediately behind it.

We have not space to describe, or rather to abridge from
Whately’s beautiful description, a tithe of the classic
embellishments of Hagley. Shenstone as well as Pope has here his
votive urn. Ivied ruin, temple, grotto, statue, fountain, and
bridge; the proud portico and the humble rustic seat, alternate
amidst these ornamental charms, and never were Nature and art more
delightfully blended than in the beauties of Hagley. Here Pope,
Shenstone, and Thomson³ passed
many hours of calm contemplation and poetic ease, amidst the
hospitalities of the noble owner of Hagley. To think of their
kindred spirits haunting its groves, and their imaginative
contrivances of votive temples, urns, and tablets, and to combine
them with these enchanting scenes of Nature, is to realize all that
Poets have sung of Arcadia of old. Happy! happy life for the man of
letters; what a retreat must your bowers have afforded from the
common-place perplexities of every-day life: Alas! the picture is
almost too sunny for sober contemplation.

In part of the impression of our last Number, we stated the
architect of the front of Apsley House, to be Sir Jeffrey
Wyatville, instead of Mr. Benjamin Wyatt, by whom the design was
furnished, and under whose superintendence this splendid
improvement has been executed. Mr. B. Wyatt is likewise the
architect of the superb mansion built for the late Duke of
York.

INGRATITUDE.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

(For the Mirror.)

M. BOILEAU TO HIS GARDENER.

IMITATED

(For the Mirror.)

THE SELECTOR, AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

LIVES OF BRITISH PAINTERS, SCULPTORS, AND ARCHITECTS.

By Allan Cunningham.

This volume is the first of a series of Lives of Artists, and
the fourth number of Murray’s Family Library. The author is
a first-rate poet, but it appears that he undertook this task with
some diffidence. We have, however, few artists of literary
attainments, and they are more profitably employed than in
authorship. Little apology was necessary, for of all literary men,
poets are best calculated to write on the Fine Arts: and the genius
of Poetry, Painting, Sculpture, and Music, is often associated in
one mind, in love of the subjects at least, if not in practice.

Prefixed to the “Lives,” is a delightful chapter on British Art
before the birth of Hogarth, from which we quote the
following:—

“Poetry, Painting, Sculpture, and Music, are the natural
offspring of the heart of man. They are found among the most
barbarous nations; they flourish among the most civilized; and
springing from nature, and not from necessity or accident, they can
never be wholly lost in the most disastrous changes. In this they
differ from mere inventions; and, compared with mechanical
discoveries, are what a living tree is to a log of wood. It may
indeed be said that the tongue of poetry is occasionally silent,
and the hand of painting sometimes stayed; but this seems not to
affect the ever-living principle which I claim as their
characteristic. They are heard and seen again in their season, as
the birds and flowers are at the coming of spring; and assert their
title to such immortality as the things of earth may claim. It is
true that the poetry of barbarous nations is rude, and their
attempts at painting uncouth; yet even in these we may recognise
the foreshadowings of future excellence, and something of the
peculiar character which, in happier days, the genius of the same
tribe is to stamp upon worthier productions. The future Scott, or
Lawrence, or Chantrey, may be indicated afar-off in the barbarous
ballads, drawings, or carvings, of an early nation. Coarse nature
and crude simplicity are the commencement, as elevated nature and
elegant simplicity are the consummation of art.

“When the Spaniards invaded the palaces of Chili and Peru, they
found them filled with works of art. Cook found considerable beauty
of drawing and skill of workmanship in the ornamented weapons and
war-canoes of the islanders of the South Sea; and in the interior
recesses of India, sculptures and paintings, of no common merit,
are found in every village. In like manner, when Caesar landed
among the barbarians of Britain, he found them acquainted with arts
and arms; and his savage successors, the Saxons, added to
unextinguishable ferocity a love of splendour and a rude sense of
beauty, still visible in the churches which they built, and the
monuments which they erected to their princes and leaders. All
those works are of that kind called ornamental: the graces of true
art, the truth of action and the dignity of sentiment are wanting;
and they seem to have been produced by a sort of mechanical
process, similar to that which creates figures in arras. Art is,
indeed, of slow and gradual growth; like the [pg 53] oak, it
is long of growing to maturity and strength. Much knowledge of
colour, much skill of hand, much experience in human character, and
a deep sense of light and shade, have to be acquired, to enable the
pencil to embody the conceptions of genius. The artist has to seek
for all this in the accumulated mass of professional knowledge:
which time has gathered for his instruction, and with his best
wisdom, and his happiest fortune, he can only add a little more
information to the common stock, for the benefit of his successors.
In no country has Painting risen suddenly into eminence. While
Poetry takes wing at once, free and unincumbered, she is retarded
in her ascent by the very mechanism to which she must at last owe
at least half her glory. In Britain, Painting was centuries in
throwing off the fetters of mere mechanical skill, and in rising
into the region of genius. The original spirit of England had
appeared in many a noble poem, while the two sister arts were still
servilely employed in preserving incredible legends, in taking the
likeness of the last saint whom credulity had added to the
calendar, and in confounding the acts of the apostles in the
darkness of allegory.”

Then follows an outline of early Art in England, in the
embellishment of cathedrals, &c.; among which is the following
notice of one of the earliest of our attempts at historical
portraiture which can be authenticated:—

“It is a Painting on Wood; the figures are less than life, and
represent Henry the Fifth and his relations. It measures four feet
six inches long, by four feet four inches high, and was in the days
of Catholic power the altarpiece of the church of Shene. An angel
stands in the centre, holding in his hands the expanding coverings
of two tents, out of which the king, with three princes, and the
queen, with four princesses, are proceeding to kneel at two altars,
where crosses, and sceptres, and books are lying. They wear long
and flowing robes, with loose hair, and have crowns on their heads.
In the background, St. George appears in the air, combating with
the dragon, while Cleodelinda kneels in prayer beside a lamb. It is
not, indeed, quite certain that this curious work was made during
the reign of Henry the Fifth, but there can be little doubt of its
being painted as early as that of his son.”

In the next page we have the following character of an English
artist of about the same period:—

“He was at once architect, sculptor, carpenter, goldsmith,
armourer, jeweller, saddler, tailor, and painter. There is extant,
in Dugdale, a curious example of the character of the times, and a
scale by which we can measure the public admiration of art. It is a
contract between the Earl of Warwick and John Rag, citizen and
tailor, London, in which the latter undertakes to execute the
emblazonry of the earl’s pageant in his situation of ambassador to
France. In the tailor’s bill, gilded griffins mingle with Virgin
Marys; painted streamers for battle or procession, with the twelve
apostles; and ‘one coat for his grace’s body, lute with fine gold,’
takes precedence of St. George and the Dragon.”

We wish some of the criticism in this chapter had been milder,
and a few of the invectives not so highly charged; some of them
even out-Herod the fury of an article on Painting, in a recent
number of the Edinburgh Review. But we must pass on to
pleasanter matters—as the following poetical
paragraphs:—

“The art of tapestry as well as the art of illuminating books,
aided in diffusing a love of painting over the island. It was
carried to a high degree of excellence. The earliest account of its
appearance in England is during the reign of Henry the Eighth, but
there is no reason to doubt that it was well known and in general
esteem much earlier. The traditional account, that we were
instructed in it by the Saracens, has probably some foundation. The
ladies encouraged this manufacture by working at it with their own
hands; and the rich aided by purchasing it in vast quantities
whenever regular practitioners appeared in the market. It found its
way into church and palace—chamber and hall. It served at
once to cover and adorn cold and comfortless walls. It added
warmth, and, when snow was on the hill and ice in the stream, gave
an air of social snugness which has deserted some of our modern
mansions.

“At first the figures and groups, which rendered this
manufacture popular, were copies of favourite paintings; but, as
taste improved and skill increased, they showed more of originality
in their conceptions, if not more of nature in their forms. They
exhibited, in common with all other works of art, the mixed taste
of the times—a grotesque union of classical and Hebrew
history—of martial life and pastoral repose—of Greek
gods and Romish saints. Absurd as such combinations certainly were,
and destitute of those beauties of form and delicate gradations and
harmony of colour which distinguish paintings worthily [pg 54] so
called—still when the hall was lighted up, and living faces
thronged the floor, the silent inhabitants of the walls would seem,
in the eyes of our ancestors, something very splendid. As painting
rose in fame, tapestry sunk in estimation. The introduction of a
lighter and less massive mode of architecture abridged the space
for its accommodation, and by degrees the stiff and fanciful
creations of the loom vanished from our walls. The art is now
neglected. I am sorry for this, because I cannot think meanly of an
art which engaged the heads and hands of the ladies of England, and
gave to the tapestried hall of elder days fame little inferior to
what now waits on a gallery of paintings.”

Passing over Holbein, Sir Antonio Moore, Vandyke, Lely, Kneller,
and Thornhill, we come to the lives of
Hogarth—Wilson—Reynolds and Gainsborough—from
which we select a few characteristic anecdotes and sketches. In
noticing Hogarth’s early life, Mr. Cunningham has thrown some
discredit on a book, which on its publication, made not a little
chat among artists:—

“Of those early days I find this brief notice in Smith’s Life of
Nollekens the sculptor. ‘I have several times heard Mr. Nollekens
observe, that he had frequently seen Hogarth, when a young man,
saunter round Leicester Fields with his master’s sickly child
hanging its head over his shoulder.’ It is more amusing to read
such a book than safe to quote it. Hogarth had ceased to have a
master for seventeen years, was married to Jane Thornhill, kept his
carriage, and was in the full blaze of his reputation, when
Nollekens was born.”

Among Hogarth’s early labours are his Illustrations of Hudibras,
published in 1726. These were seventeen plates; and we have lately
seen in the possession of Mr. Britton, the architect, eleven
original paintings illustrative of Butler’s witty poem, and
attributed to Hogarth.

From the notices of Hogarth’s portraits we select the
following:—

“Hogarth’s Portrait of Henry Fielding, executed after death from
recollection, is remarkable as being the only likeness extant of
the prince of English novelists. It has various histories.
According to Murphy, Fielding had made many promises to sit to
Hogarth, for whose genius he had a high esteem, but died without
fulfilling them; a lady accidentally cut a profile with her
scissars, which recalled Fielding’s face so completely to Hogarth’s
memory, that he took up the outline, corrected and finished it and
made a capital likeness. The world is seldom satisfied with a
common account of any thing that interests it—more especially
as a marvellous one is easily manufactured. The following, then, is
the second history. Garrick, having dressed himself in a suit of
Fielding’s clothes, presented himself unexpectedly before the
artist, mimicking the step, and assuming the look of their deceased
friend. Hogarth was much affected at first, but, on recovering,
took his pencil, and drew the portrait. For those who love a
soberer history, the third edition is ready. Mrs. Hogarth, when
questioned concerning it, said, that she remembered the affair
well; her husband began the picture—and finished it—one
evening in his own house, and sitting by her side.

“Captain Coram, the projector of the Foundling Hospital, sat for
his portrait to Hogarth, and it is one of the best he ever painted.
There is a natural dignity and great benevolence expressed in a
face which, in the original, was rough and forbidding. This worthy
man, having laid out his fortune and impaired his health in acts of
charity and mercy, was reduced to poverty in his old age. An
annuity of a hundred pounds was privately purchased, and when it
was presented to him, he said, ‘I did not waste the wealth which I
possessed in self-indulgence or vain expense, and am not ashamed to
own that in my old age I am poor.’

“The last which I shall notice of this class of productions, is
the portrait of the celebrated demagogue John Wilkes. This singular
performance originated in a quarrel with that witty libertine, and
his associate Churchill the poet: it immediately followed an
article, from the pen of Wilkes, in the North Briton, which
insulted Hogarth as a man, and traduced him as an artist. It is so
little of a caricature, that Wilkes good humouredly observes
somewhere in his correspondence, ‘I am growing every day more and
more like my portrait by Hogarth.’ The terrible scourge of the
satirist fell bitterly upon the personal and moral deformities of
the man. Compared with his chastisement the hangman’s whip is but a
proverb, and the pillory a post of honour. He might hope oblivion
from the infamy of both; but from Hogarth there was no escape. It
was little indeed that the artist had to do, to brand and emblazon
him with the vices of his nature—but with how much
discrimination that little is done! He took up the correct
portrait, which Walpole upbraids him with skulking into a court of
law to obtain, and in a few [pg 55] touches the man sank, and the
demon of hypocrisy and sensuality sat in his stead. It is a fiend,
and yet it is Wilkes still. It is said that when he had finished
this remarkable portrait, the former friendship of Wilkes overcame
him, and he threw it into the fire, from which it was saved by the
interposition of his wife.”

All the criticisms on Hogarth’s moral pictures have an
air of originality and freshness of mind, which is so attractive,
as to make us regret that we have not room for them. In proof of
this, only let the reader turn to Mr. Cunningham’s remarks on the
Harlot and Rake’s Progress, at pages 98 and 99. His descriptions
too of the satirical pictures are extremely ludicrous, and in
effect second only to painting itself. The following anecdote of
the celebrated March to Finchley is curious, though well
known:—

“The original painting was, on the publication of the print,
disposed of by a kind of lottery. Seven shillings and sixpence were
fixed as the price of a print; and every purchaser of a print was
entitled to a chance in the lottery for the picture. Eighteen
hundred and forty-three chances were subscribed for; a hundred and
sixty-seven tickets, which remained, were presented to the
Foundling Hospital. One of the Hospital’s tickets drew the desired
prize; and on the same night Hogarth delivered the painting to the
governors, not a little pleased that it was to adorn a public
place.”

After quoting Walpole’s description of Hogarth’s
Sigismunda, in which he says—

“To add to the disgust raised by such vulgar expression, her
fingers were blooded by her lover’s heart, that lay before her like
that of a sheep for her dinner;—”

Mr. C. observes, “this is very severe, very pointed, and very
untrue. The Sigismunda of Hogarth is not tearing off her ornaments,
nor are her fingers bloodied by her lover’s heart. It is said that
the picture resembled Mrs. Hogarth, who was a very handsome woman;
and to this circumstance Wilkes maliciously alludes in his
unprincipled attack on her husband. ‘If the Sigismunda,’ says this
polite patriot, ‘had a resemblance of any thing ever seen on earth,
or had the least pretence to either meaning or expression, it was
what he had seen, or perhaps made—in real life—his own
wife in an agony of passion; but of what passion no connoisseur
could guess.’ That Mrs. Hogarth sat for the picture of Sigismunda
seems to have been known to conscientious John, and this is
supported by that lady’s conduct to Walpole. This noble biographer
sent her a copy of his Anecdotes, accompanied by a courtly and
soothing note; but she was so much offended by his description of
the Sigismunda, that she took no notice of his present. The widow
of the artist was poor—and an opinion so ill-natured—so
depreciating—and so untrue, injured the property which she
wished to sell: she loved too the memory of her husband, and
resented in the dignity of silence the malicious and injurious
attack. She considered the present as an insult offered when she
had no one to protect her. I love her pride and reverence her
affection.”

Of Hogarth’s house at Chiswick, we have the following slight
notice:—

“The time was now approaching when superstition, and folly, and
vice, were to be relieved from the satiric pencil which had awed
them so long—the health of Hogarth began to decline. He was
aware of this, and purchased a small house at Chiswick, to which he
retired during the summer, amusing himself with making slight
sketches and retouching his plates. This house stood till lately on
a very pretty spot; but the demon of building came into the
neighbourhood, choked up the garden, and destroyed the secluded
beauty of Hogarth’s cottage. The garden, well stored with walnut,
mulberry, and apple trees, contained a small study, with a
head-stone, placed over a favourite bullfinch, on which the artist
had etched the bird’s head and written an epitaph. The cottage
contained many snug rooms, and was but yesterday the residence of a
man of learning and genius, Mr. Cary, the translator of Dante. The
change of scene, the free fresh air, and exercise on horseback, had
for awhile a favourable influence on Hogarth’s health; but he
complained that he was no longer able to think with the readiness,
and work with the elasticity of spirit, of his earlier years. The
friends of this artist observed, and lamented, this falling away;
his enemies hastened to congratulate Churchill and Wilkes on the
success of their malevolence; and these men were capable of
rejoicing in the belief that the work of nature was their own.”

We are glad to see Mr. Cunningham throwing light on false
conclusions drawn from the eccentricities of genius, as in this
little anecdote:—

“With Dr. Hoadley, who corrected the manuscript of the Analysis
of Beauty for the press, Hogarth was on such [pg 56] friendly
terms that he was admitted into one of the private theatrical
exhibitions which the doctor loved, and was appointed to perform
along with Garrick and his entertainer, a parody on that scene in
Julius Caesar where the ghost appears to Brutus. Hogarth personated
the spectre, but so unretentive—(we are told)—was his
memory that though the speech consisted only of two lines he was
unable to get them by heart, and his facetious associates wrote
them on an illuminated lantern that he might read them when he came
upon the stage. Such is the way in which anecdotes are
manufactured, and conclusions of absence or imbecility drawn. The
speech of the ghost written on the paper lantern formed part of the
humour of the burlesque. Men, dull in comprehending the
eccentricities of genius, set down what passes their own
understanding to the account of the other’s stupidity.”

Here our notice of the Life of Hogarth would end, did we not
feel inclined to venture a word or two respecting the omission of
Hogarth’s Tailpiece, engraved in Ireland’s “Life,” and there
described as his last work. With the superstitious tale attached to
it almost every one is familiar; yet some notice ought surely to
have been taken of the story, even had it only been to expose its
falsehood and absurdity.

We find that we have proceeded but half through the volume, so
that Wilson, Reynolds, and Gainsborough must remain for another
number.

SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.

Microscopic Objects.

The most delicate test objects for microscopes are the lines on
the feathers of butterflies or moths’ wings, of which there are
many gradations; some easily demonstrated, and others only to be
seen with the most powerful reflectors, and to the best advantage
by the simple and uncondensed light of the lamp. The hair of a
mouse is a very good test object: it is best seen by daylight; the
most difficult parts of which are longitudinal lines in the
transparent part of the hair, which require high powers. The hair
of the bat and seal are also fine tests. The lines on the scales of
the diamond beetle, &c. are excellent opaque proof objects. The
feet of flies are likewise very interesting.

New Lilac Dyes.

Dr. Macculloch has lately produced two fine lilac dyes from
plants of domestic growth, not hitherto applied to this purpose.
One is from the berry of the Portugal laurel, and the other the
black currant. The simplest process with alum is all that is
required for either; and as far as his trials go, the best tint is
produced by the former fruit.

Dirty Windows.

We have frequently remarked small radiant and arborescent
crystallizations on dirty windows in London, and have found them to
consist of sulphate of ammonia. This salt, or at least,
sulphite of ammonia (which becomes sulphate by exposure to air), is
an abundant product of the combustion of coal.

Brande’s Journal.

Indigo.

This valuable plant, which gives rise to as great speculation in
India, as hops in England, is much injured by wet weather; although
the rapidity of the growth of plants during much rain, in the
temperature of the tropics, is extraordinary, yet a proportional
deficiency in all that characterizes the vegetable world
necessarily follows. This we find to be the case with all forced
vegetables; and the mildness of the radish of hastened growth, when
contrasted with the highly pungent and almost acrid flavour of the
slowly and gradually advanced one, may be adduced as explanatory of
this observation. Hence, it is practically well known to
manufacturers, that the indigo plant, however fine and luxuriant,
as is the natural result of much rain, is very deficient in
produce, and a similar loss is experienced even if the plant,
without the fall of too much rain, has grown up under cloudy
weather. Sunshine, much and continued sunshine, is essentially
necessary for the proper exercise of those secretory organs by
which this peculiar drug is formed and perfected.

Indigo leaves produce two dyes—blue and yellow; but the
refuse leaves, when boiled for an hour and a half, will render the
water yellow, tinged with green. This water, kept boiling for two
hours, (supplying the loss by evaporation), will, when filtered,
afford a precipitate, which, when dried, will in colour be a
dun-slate, and in quantity perhaps about equal to the blue extract
such leaves have produced. This observation, as it can lead to no
practical advantage, is made for the man of science, rather than
the man of business.—Mr. C. Weston—in
Brande’s Journal.

Chain Bridge.

Mr. Disney has lately erected at his seat the Hyde, Ingatestone,
Essex, a [pg
57] suspension bridge of common chain, which is much cheaper
than either wood or brick. It is fifty feet long, and four feet
wide. The whole cost of material, and workmanship scarcely exceeded
30l. Upon a rough estimate, a wooden bridge of the same span
would have cost from 80l. to 100l., and a high arch
probably from 150l. to 200l. The piers or posts
supporting the chains are of oak, but should they in ten or fifteen
years decay, 10l. in money, and three days in time would set
it up again.—Brande’s Jour.

Stone Roofs.

The Romans employed pumice in building their arched
incombustible roofs. This porous material possessed the additional
advantage, when combined with good cement, of rendering the arched
surface one united petrifaction, opposing (in consequence of its
firm union) little lateral pressure, comparatively, against the
sustaining walls.

Bonomi, the architect, suggests that the principal cause of the
destructiveness of fires in large buildings, is the want of arched
surfaces of incombustible materials. This has been disastrously
exemplified in the destruction of the choir of York Minster, where
the roof of the aisles, which are solidly arched with stone,
suffered no injury; while the choir-roof, although much more raised
above the action of the fire, has been entirely destroyed by
it.

Fossil Saurians.

Several beautiful specimens of fossil saurians, or animals of
the lizard tribe, have, as our scientific readers are aware, been
found at Lyme, in Dorsetshire; but the world would to this day have
remained ignorant of the treasures England possessed, but for the
patient labours of three female pioneers in this service, viz.
Mary Anning, a dealer; Miss Congrieve, and Miss
Philpots, residents, who for years had been collecting and
preserving these bodies from the wreck of the coast; the two last
without any other view than the gratification of a laudable
curiosity, and who, with unequalled liberality, communicated their
collections to every man of science that visited the place; and it
is to liberal minds like theirs, and Miss Bennet’s, of Wiltshire
that we owe the first rescuing of these natural gems from the
spoilers. We copy this from a communication of Mr. Cumberland to
Brande’s Journal, and are truly pleased to record such amiable
examples of female excellence in scientific pursuits. At Dover,
Portsmouth, and other places we could name, we obtained the best
information respecting the fossils of the coast, from females
resident there, and we need not add that this circumstance imparted
additional interest to our inquiries.

The Zoological Society.

We copy the following from the Report to the Zoological Society,
just published:

“In the Museum in Bruton-street various improvements have taken
place. Additional cases have been erected, wherever space could be
obtained, for the exhibition of the different collections; and two
persons have been in constant employment in preparing and setting
up the more interesting specimens. An assistant has also been
lately added, for the arrangement of the shells, insects, and the
other smaller subjects of the collection; and much care has been
bestowed upon the various departments of comparative anatomy. An
instructive as well as an attractive series in every branch of
zoology, but more particularly in the groups of mammalia, birds,
and insects, has thus been arranged for inspection. A catalogue of
the more important objects in the Museum has been published; and a
more detailed list, accompanied with scientific notices of all the
species, is in preparation.

“The increase in the number of subjects in the collection during
the last year has been considerable, and many of the additions have
been of the utmost importance to science. The whole of these, with
a few exceptions, have been presented by the friends of the
society. A detailed list of these donations which are too numerous
for insertion in this report, is laid upon the table; a reference
to the contents of which will evince that the spirit of liberality,
which laid the foundations of this already valuable collection, has
not decreased.

“A very extensive correspondence has been established with
naturalists of foreign countries, and persons resident in distant
parts, who are anxious to promote the objects of the Society.
Through these channels many valuable acquisitions have been already
received; and it is expected that much of novelty and interest will
continually pour in to increase the attractions of the Museum and
Menagerie.

“The Garden in the Regent’s Park is the principal source of
attraction and of expense. The nature of the soil, which consists
of a thick ungrateful clay, increases the cost of every work. The
health of the animals requires that oak [pg 58] floors be
raised above the surface of the ground; and it is necessary to lay
a thick substratum of dry material under every inclosure and every
walk. These disadvantages are however amply counterbalanced by its
immediate vicinity to the town. The Council have, notwithstanding
the nature of the soil, endeavoured to give to the garden all the
attractions which good cultivation and an abundance of flowers can
afford: and they have to return their thanks for the very liberal
supplies for this purpose which they have occasionally received
from the Horticultural Society. The resort to the garden has far
surpassed the most sanguine expectations of the Council; 112,226
persons have visited it during the last year.”

THE NOVELIST

THE SIEGE OF ABYDOS.

A Romantic Tale.

(For the Mirror.)

The infidel Turks, ever at variance with the Christians, were,
in the reign of king Orchanes, extremely ambitious to possess the
famous Castle of Abydos; and accordingly vast preparations were
made for a close siege. Previous to the arrival of the Turkish army
before the castle, the angelic Sophronia, daughter of the governor
of Abydos, was visited by a dream. She thought, that while walking
out on a beautiful evening, breathing the fragrant air, and gazing
on the brilliant stars, she fell into a loathsome ditch, in which
she remained an hour, terrified, and unable to move. At length, a
handsome youth passed, and she implored him to rescue her. She did
not implore in vain; the young man assisted her out, cleaned her
clothes, and comforted her with pleasant words. They then proceeded
to a delightful bower, put on costly attire, and the youth regaled
the rescued lady with delicious fruits, and sang sonnets on her
personal beauty. Sophronia awoke, sad and disappointed, to find
that her late bliss was only a dream. In a day or two afterwards,
the Turkish army appeared, and a vigorous siege commenced;
nevertheless, the Christians stoutly defended the place, and would,
ultimately, have obliged the enemy to retire, had no intervention
taken place. It happened, unfortunately for the garrison, that a
gallant Turkish captain, in the prime of youth, called Abdurachman
approached so near to the castle gates, as to be plainly observed
by the fair Sophronia, from a small turret window, out of which she
had viewed the besiegers. The lady imagined this captain to be the
person to whom she was so much obliged in her dream, and rejoiced
at the supposed discovery; she hoped that the assailants would be
successful in taking her father’s castle that she might have an
opportunity of falling into the hands of the gallant captain she so
greatly admired. The siege still raged with much fury, but was
continually repulsed by the brave Christians, insomuch that the
Turkish general became disconcerted, and in the evening of the
third day after the commencement of the siege, retired to his camp,
about a league distant from the scene of action. Sophronia,
meanwhile, was agitated at the ill success of the Turks, though she
did not despair of seeing the captain again.

She made a confidante of her maid Annis, who undertook, daring
as the attempt was, to steal from the castle to the enemy’s camp,
in order to convey a letter from her mistress to Abdurachman. The
intrepid Annis commenced her task in the night: she avoided passing
the sentinels and wardens of the castle, but found her way to a
postern gate, scarcely known to any but herself. She arrived at
Abdurachman’s tent; the captain was conversing with his friends
about what the general intended to do on the morrow. Annis desired
to speak with him in private, to which he consented. She then
delivered the letter, which was bound with a lock of the fair
writer’s hair, and the astonished Abdurachman perused the
following:—

“Adored Youth,

“I am passionately in love with you, and am sorry that you have
been frustrated in your endeavours to take the castle. As I adore
you beyond measure, and shall certainly take poison if you do not
succeed; I engage to deliver Abydos with all its riches into your
hands, provided you follow my instructions. I advise, that in the
morning by sunrise, you raise the siege and withdraw your whole
army from the castle, and return not again till you hear from
me. My father will be so rejoiced at your departure, that he
will be off his guard, and then I can easily conduct you with
secrecy into the castle.”

The delighted Turk very politely answered this remarkable
billet doux, assuring [pg 59] the fair writer that he was at her
service, and that he would implicitly follow her directions as to
the taking of Abydos. As soon as he had dismissed Annis, he flew
with Sophronia’s letter to the general, who, upon reading it,
expressed great astonishment; he determined to raise the siege the
next morning, and resolved to rely fully on the beautiful traitress
for the future success of his enterprise. The next day came, and
the general raised the siege and departed. The Christians were
rejoiced to see it, and in the evening made merry and drunk wine.
The governor’s daughter took advantage of the garrison at this
unguarded moment; and fearing to trust again to the sincerity of
her maid, resolved to proceed herself to Abdurachman’s tent. Annis
led the way. The night was serene, and the light of the moon showed
the stately castle of Abydos, dark and majestic. No noise was
heard, save the heavy and uniform step of the sentinels, whose
bright arms, as they caught the moon’s rays, sparkled against the
gloomy looking building. Little did the inmates, now as tranquil as
the night, dream of being surprised by an enemy; and little did the
brave governor imagine that his own beloved daughter, at this
moment, was treacherously hastening to a merciless foe, with the
intent to conduct him to Abydos! Sophronia reached her lover’s tent
weary and faint, for she had walked with great haste. She sank into
the captain’s arms, and then, almost inaudibly, informed him that
not a moment was to be lost, and that he must follow her
immediately to the castle.

He obeyed, and having formed a litter for the lady, she was
borne on the shoulders of four stout Turks. When they arrived at
the postern gate, Sophronia told the captain that he, with his men,
must first enter the castle, and then kill the sentinels and
wardens, after which he would be enabled to give admittance to all
his friends. The Turks strictly obeyed the lady, who before the
affair began hastened with Annis to her apartment in order to await
the issue of her plot. The Turks entered the castle by hundreds,
killing all they met, and were soon masters of the place.
Meanwhile, Sophronia and Annis, both dreadfully agitated, heard
from their chamber the dying groans of the poor Christians.
Sometimes the clashing of swords was distinguished, as if a number
of persons were engaged in combat; sometimes the loud lamentations
of women intervened; and sometimes the voices of the conquerors
were alone heard in exultation. At length the door of Sophronia’s
room burst open, and Abdurachman rushed in to seize her, while
Annis, nearly dead with terror, calmly submitted to the grasp of a
common soldier who accompanied the captain.

The dreadful scene was acted and over; the Turks were possessors
of the famed castle of Abydos, and Sophronia’s father, the
governor, was hanged. Alas! deluded Sophronia! The faithless
Abdurachman, whom she supposed to have seen in a dream, regarded
her not; even lots were cast for her, and she fell to the share of
one whom she did not know. The beautiful Sophronia took poison and
expired.

G.W.N.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

THE LIBERTINE’S CONFESSION.

In Imitation of the Writers of the Sixteenth
Century.

Dublin is a great city. Dublin, as the late Lord
L——th used to say, is “one of the tay-drinkenest,
say-bathinest, car-drivinest places in the world; it flogs for
divarsion.“

THE TOYMAN IS ABROAD.

(Concluded from page 46.)

There is a point at which the inconvenience of superfluities so
far exceeds their utility, that luxury becomes converted into a
perfect bore. What, for instance, but an annoyance, would be the
most splendid feast, to a man whose stomach is already overladen
with food? Human ingenuity may effect much; and the Romans, by
means of emetics, met this emergency with considerable skill; but
on a more enlarged experience of general history, it must be
conceded, that it is quite impossible to add one more superfluous
meal to those already established by general usage. So also in
matters of dress, ladies’ hats must not be larger than the actual
doorways of the country will admit—not at least until time is
allowed for a corresponding increase in our architectural
proportions. With respect to personal ornaments also, ear-rings
must not be so weighty as to tear the lobes of the ears; nor should
a bracelet prevent, by its size, the motions of the arm. “Barbaric
pomp and gold” is a fine thing; but a medallion, as heavy and as
cumbrous as a shield, appended to a lady’s bosom, would be any
thing but a luxury. So, in the other extreme, a watch should not be
so small as to render the dial-plate illegible; nor should a shoe
be so tight as to lame its wearer for life. Beauty, it has been
said, should learn to suffer; and there are, I am aware, resources
in vanity, that will reconcile man, and woman too, to martyrdom;
but these resources should not be exhausted wantonly; and in
pleasure, as in economy, there is no benefit in lighting the candle
at both ends. The true philosopher extracts the greatest good out
of every thing; and fools only, as Horace has it, run into one vice
in trying to avoid another. Let not the reader, from these remarks,
suppose that their author is a morose censurer of the times; or
that the least sneer is intended against that idol of all orthodoxy
“things as they are.” As a general proposition, nothing can be more
true, than that whatever is established, even in the world of
fashion, is, for the time being, wisest, discreetest, best; and,
woe betide the man that flies too directly in its face.

There is, however, one point upon which I own myself a little
sore; and in which, I do think, superfluities are carried to a
somewhat vicious excess. The point to which I allude, and I beg the
patience of the reader, is the vast increase of superfluities,
which of late years have become primary necessaries in the
appointment of a well-furnished house. Here, indeed, is a
revolution; a revolution more formidable than the French and the
American emancipation put together. We all remember the time when
one tea-table, two or three card-tables, a pier glass, a small
detachment of chairs, with two armed corporals to command them, on
either side the fire-place, with a square piece of carpet in the
centre of the floor, made a very decent display in the drawing, or
(as it was then preposterously called) the dining-room. As yet,
rugs for the hearth were not; and twice a day did Betty go upon her
knees to scour the marble and uncovered slab. In the bedrooms of
those days, a narrow slip of carpet round the bed was the maximum
of woollen integument allowed for protecting the feet of the
midnight wanderer from his couch; and, in the staircases of the
fairest mansions, a like slip meandered down the centre of the
flight of steps. At that time, curtains rose and fell in a line
parallel to the horizon, after the simple plan of the green
siparium of our theatres; and, being strictly confined to the
windows, they never dreamed of displaying themselves in front of a
door. No golden serpents then twisted their voluminous folds across
the entire breadth of the room; nor did richly-carved cods’ heads
and shoulders, under the denomination of dolphins, or glittering
spread eagles, with a brass ring in their mouths, support fenestral
draperies, which rival the display of a Waterloo-house
calico-vender. Thus far, I admit, the change is an improvement.
Nay, I could away with ladders to go to bed withal, though many a
time and oft they have broken my shins. I would not either object
to sofas and ottomans, in any reasonable proportion; but protest I
must, and in the strongest terms too, against such a multiplication
and variety of easy chairs, as effectually exclude the possibility
of easy sitting; and against the overweening increase of
spider-tables, that interferes with rectilinear progression. An
harp mounted on a sounding-board, which is a stumbling-block to the
feet of the short-sighted, is, I concede, an absolute necessity;
and a piano-forte, like a coffin, should occupy the centre even of
the smallest given drawing-room—”the court awards it, and the
law doth give it,”—but why multiply footstools, till there is
no taking a single step in safety? An Indian cabinet also, or a
buhl armoire, are, either, or both of them, very fit and becoming;
but it cannot be right to make a broker’s [pg 61] shop of
your best apartment. An ink-stand, as large as a show twelfth-cake,
is just and lawful; ditto, an ornamental escrutoire; and a
nécessaire for the work-table is, if there be meaning
in language, perfectly necessary. These, with an adequate
contingent of musical snuff-boxes, or molu clocks, China
figures, alabaster vases and flower-pots, together with a discreet
superfluity of cut-paper nondescripts, albums, screens, toys,
prints, caricatures, duodecimo classics, new novels and souvenirs,
to cut a dash, and litter the tables, must be allowed to the taste
and refinement of the times. But surely some space should be left
for depositing a coffee-cup, or laying down a useful volume, when
the hand may require to be relieved from its weight, or when it is
proper to take a pinch of snuff, or agreeable to wipe one’s
forehead. Josses, beakers, and Sevres’ vases have unquestionably
the entrée into a genteel apartment; but they are not
entitled to a monopoly of the locale; nor are Roman
antiquities, or statues even by Canova, justifiable in usurping the
elbow-room of living men and women. Most unfortunately for myself,
I have a very small house, and a wife of the most enlarged taste;
and the disproportion between these blessings is so great, that I
cannot move without the risk of a heavy pecuniary loss by breakage,
and a heavier personal affliction in perpetual imputations of
awkwardness. Then, again, it is no easy matter to put on a smiling
and indifferent countenance, whenever a friend, accustomed to some
latitude of motion, runs, as is often the case, his devastating
chair against a high-priced work of art, or overturns a table laden
with an “infinite thing” in costly bijouterie. I have long
made it a rule to exclude from my visiting-list, or at least not to
let up stairs, ladies who pay their morning calls with a retinue of
children: but the thing is not always possible; and one urchin with
his whip will destroy more in half an hour, than the worth of a
month’s average domestic expenditure. Oh! how I hate the little
fidgeting, fingering, dislocating imps! A bull in a china-shop is
innocuous to the most orderly and amenable of them. Why did
Providence make children? and why does not some wise Draconic law
banish them for ever to the nursery?

The general merit of nick-nacks is unquestioned. Ornaments, I
admit, are ornamental; and works of art afford intellectual
amusement of the highest order. But then perfection is their only
merit; and a crack or a flaw destroys all the pleasure of a
sensible beholder. Yet I have not a statue that is not a torso, nor
a Chelsea china shepherdess with her full complement of fingers. I
have not a vase with both its handles, a snuff-box that performs
its waltz correctly, nor a volume of prints that is not dogs-eared,
stained, and ink-spotted. These are serious evils; but they are the
least that flow from a neglect of the maxim which stands at the
head of my paper. Perpend it well, reader; and bear ever in mind
that, in our desires, as in our corporeal structure, it is not
given to man to add a cubit to his stature. I am very tired; so
“dismiss me—enough.” New Monthly Magazine.

NOTES OF A READER.

THE QUARTERLY REVIEW.

No. 81, of this truly excellent work had not reached us in time
for the close reading which it demands, and our “Notes” from it at
present are consequently few. The first in the number is a powerful
paper on Dr. Southey’s Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects
of Society—”a beautiful book,” says the reviewer, “full
of wisdom and devotion—of poetry and feeling; conceived
altogether in the spirit of other times, such as the wise men of
our own day may scoff at, but such as Evelyn, or Isaak Walton, or
Herbert would have delighted to honour.” The work is in general too
polemical and political for our pages; but we may hereafter be
tempted to carve out a few pastoral pictures of the delightful
country round Keswick, where Dr. Southey resides. The present
Review contains but few extracts to our purpose, and is rather a
paper on the spirit of the Colloquies, than analytical of
their merits. We take, for example, the following admirable passage
on the progress of religious indifference; in which we break off
somewhat hastily, premising that the reader will be induced to turn
to the Review itself for the remainder of the article:—

There was a time, since the worship of images, (and happy would
it have been if the religious habits of the country had thenceforth
stood fixed,) when appropriate texts adorned the walls of the
dwelling-rooms, and children received at night a father’s
blessing;—and “let us worship God” was said with solemn air,
by the head of the household; and churches were resorted to daily;
and “the parson in journey” gave notice for prayers in the hall of
the inn—”for [pg 62] prayers and provender,” quoth he,
“hinder no man;” and the cheerful angler, as he sat under the
willow-tree, watching his quill, trolled out a Christian catch.
“Here we may sit and pray, before death stops our breath;” and the
merchant (like the excellent Sutton, of the Charter House) thought
how he could make his merchandize subservient to the good of his
fellow-citizens and the glory of his God, and accordingly endowed
some charitable, and learned, and religious foundation, worthy of
the munificence of a crowned head; and the grave historian (Lord
Clarendon himself does so) chose a text in his Bible as a motto for
his chapter on politics; and religion, in short, reached unto every
place, and, like Elisha stretched on the dead child, (to use one of
Jeremy Taylor’s characteristic illustrations), gave life and
animation to every part of the body politic. But years rolled on;
and the original impulse given at the Reformation, and augmented at
the Rebellion, to undervalue all outward forms, has silently
continued to prevail, till, with the form of godliness, (much of
it, up doubt, objectionable, but much of it wholesome), the power
in a considerable degree expired too.

Accordingly, our churches are now closed in the week-days, for
we are too busy to repair to them; our politicians crying out, with
Pharaoh, “Ye are idle, ye are idle; therefore would ye go and do
sacrifice to the Lord.” Our cathedrals, it is true, are still open;
but where are the worshippers? Instead of entering in, the citizen
avails himself of the excellent clock which is usually attached to
them, sets his watch, and hastens upon ‘Change, where the
congregation is numerous and punctual, and where the theological
speculations are apt to run in Shylock’s vein pretty exclusively.
If a church will answer, then, indeed, a joint-stock company
springs up; and a church is raised with as much alacrity, and upon
the same principles, as a play-house. The day when the people
brought their gifts is gone by. The “solid temples,” that
heretofore were built as if not to be dissolved till doomsday, have
been succeeded by thin emaciated structures, bloated out by coats
of flatulent plaster, and supported upon cast-metal pegs, which the
courtesy of the times calls pillars of the church. The painted
windows, that admitted a dim religious light, have given place to
the cheap house-pane and dapper green curtain. The front, with its
florid reliefs and capacious crater, has dwindled into a miserable
basin.

AN ARTIST’S FAME.

TRUE PATRIOTISM.

Promote religion—protect public morals—repress vice
and infidelity—keep the different classes of the community in
strict subordination to each other—and cherish the
principles, feelings, and habits, which give stability, beauty, and
happiness to society.

Descend from the clouds of political economy, and travel in
safety on your mother earth; cast away the blinding spectacles of
the philosophers, and use the eyes you have received from nature.
Practise the vulgar principles, that it is erroneous to ruin
immense good markets, to gain petty bad ones—that you cannot
carry on losing trade—that you cannot live without
profit—and that you cannot eat without income. And pule no
more about individual economy, but eat, and drink, and enjoy
yourselves, like your fathers. What! in these days of free trade,
to tell the hypochondriacal Englishman that the foaming tankard,
the honest bottle of port, and the savoury sirloin, must be
prohibited articles! You surely wish us to hang and drown ourselves
by wholesale.—Ibid.

THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

The following account of the origin of the name “Forget-me-not,”
is extracted from Mill’s History of Chivalry, and was
communicated to that work by Dr. A.T. Thomson:—”Two lovers
were loitering on the margin of a lake on a fine [pg 63] summer’s
evening, when the maiden espied some of the flowers of
Myosòtis growing on the water, close to the bank of an
island, at some distance from the shore. She expressed a desire to
possess them, when the knight, in the true spirit of chivalry,
plunged into the water, and swimming to the spot, cropped the
wished for plant, but his strength was unable to fulfill the object
of his achievement, and feeling that he could not regain the shore,
although very near it, he threw the flowers upon the bank, and
casting a last affectionate look upon his lady-love, he cried
‘Forget me not!’ and was buried in the waters.”—Gardener’s
Magazine.

HOME.

IRISH SONGS.

It is impossible to conceive any trash more despicable than the
slang songs which are current amongst the common people in Ireland;
and this is the more to be lamented, as the extreme susceptibility
of the people makes them liable to be easily moved to either good
or evil by their songs. Even the native Irish songs, as we are
informed in Miss Brooke’s Reliques of Irish Poetry, are
sadly interpolated with nonsensical passages, which have been
introduced to supply the place of lost or forgotten lines; and of
humorous lyrical poetry, she says there was none in the language
worth translating. Moore has given to the beautiful airs of Ireland
beautiful words; but Moore is a poet for ladies and gentlemen, not
for mankind. It may be, that there are not materials in Ireland,
for a kindred spirit to that of Burns to work upon; but the fact is
but too true, that the poor Irishman has no song of even
decent ability, to cheer his hours of merriment, or soothe the
period of his sadness. Honour and undying praise be upon the memory
of Burns, who has left to us those songs which, like the breath of
nature, from whose fresh inspiration they were caught, are alike
refreshing to the monarch and the clown!—Ibid.

A REAL MIRACLE.

The fable of Dr. Southey’s Pilgrim of Compostella,
is as follows:—

A family set forth from Aquitaine to visit the shrine of St.
James, at Compostella, whither, according to the Catholic faith,
the decapitated body of that saint was conveyed from Palestine,
(miraculously of course,) in a ship of marble. At a certain small
town by the way, their son Pierre is tempted by the innkeeper’s
daughter. Like a second Joseph, he resists the immodest damsel;
like Potiphar’s wife, she converts her love to hate, and accuses
the virtuous youth of a capital crime. Her false oaths prevail, and
he is condemned to the gallows. Rejoicing in his martyred
innocence, he exhorts his parents to pursue their pilgrimage, and
pray for the peace of his soul. Sorrowing, they proceed, and
returning, find their son hanging by the neck alive, and singing
psalms—in no actual pain—but naturally desirous to be
freed from his extraordinary state of suspended animation. They
repair to the chief magistrate of the town, by whose authority the
youth was executed—find his worship at dinner—relate
the wonderful preservation of their son—and request that he
may be restored. The magistrate is incredulous, and declares that
he would sooner believe that the fowls on which he was dining would
rise again in full feather. The miracle is performed. The cock and
hen spring from the ocean of their own gravy, clacking and crowing,
with all appurtenances of spur, comb, and feather. Pierre, of
course, is liberated, and declared innocent. The cock and hen
become objects of veneration—live in a state of
chastity—and are finally translated—leaving just two
eggs, from which arise another immaculate cock and hen. The breed
is perhaps still in existence, and time hath been, that a lucrative
trade was carried on in their feathers!!!—Ibid..

THE GATHERER.

Of Hogarth’s first attempt at satire, the following story is
related by Nichols, who had it from one of Hogarth’s fellow
workmen. “One summer Sunday, during his apprenticeship, he went
with [pg
64] three companions to Highgate, and the weather being warm
and the way dusty, they went into a public house, and called for
ale. There happened to be other customers in the house, who to free
drinking added fierce talking, and a quarrel ensued. One of them on
receiving a blow with the bottom of a quart pot, looked so
ludicrously rueful, that Hogarth snatched out a pencil and sketched
him as he stood. It was very like and very laughable, and
contributed to the restoration of order and good humour.”

THE “GOOD BOY” LOVER.

“When I was a lad,” said a facetious gentleman to the recorder
of the anecdote, “I was, or rather fancied myself to be,
desperately in love with a very charming young lady. Dining at her
parents’ house one day, I was unfortunately helped to the gizzard
of a chicken, attached to one of the wings. Aware, like most
‘good boys‘ that it was extremely ungenteel to leave
anything upon my plate, and being over anxious to act with
etiquette and circumspection in this interesting circle, I, as a
‘good boy’ wished strictly to conform myself to the rules of good
breeding. But the gizzard of a fowl! Alas! it was
impossible! how unfortunate! I abhorred it! No, I could not
either for love or money have swallowed such a thing! So,
after blushing, playing with the annoyance, and casting many a
side-long glance to see if I was observed, I contrived at length to
roll it from my plate into my mouchoir, which I had placed
on my knees purposely for its reception; the next minute all was
safely lodged in my pocket. Conversing with the object of my
affections, during the evening, in a state of nervous
forgetfulness, I drew forth my handkerchief, and in a superb
flourish, out flew the GIZZARD! Good heavens! my fair one stared,
coloured, laughed; I was petrified; away flew my ecstatic dreams;
and out of the house I flung myself without one ‘au revoir,’
but with a consciousness of the truth of that delectable ballad
which proclaims, that ‘Love has EYES!!’ I thought no more of
love in that quarter, believe me!” M.L.B.

ADMIRAL RODNEY.

During the heat of the memorable battles with Count de Grasse,
of April 9th and 12th, 1782, the gallant Rodney desired his young
aid-de-camp (Mr. Charles Dashwood⁹) to make
him a glass of lemonade, the ingredients for which were at hand.
Not having any thing to stir it with but a knife, already
discoloured by the cutting of the lemon, Sir George coolly said, on
Mr. Dashwood presenting it to him, “Child, that may do for a
midshipman, but not for an admiral—take it yourself, and send
my servant to me.” C.C.

EXPRESSIVE WORDS.

I knew very well a French Chevalier, who on coming to England,
applied himself with amazing ardour to the study of our language,
and his remarks upon it, if not always very acute were at least
entertaining. One day, reading aloud an English work, he stopped at
the word SPLASH; expressed himself highly delighted with it, as a
term, which minutely described the thing meant; then repeating it
many times with marked pleasure, and a strong sibillation, he
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dat de same would be like splash!” Perhaps the following
sentence from the satire of a notorious wit in Elizabeth’s reign,
is a fair specimen of those expressive words which paint,
the object of which they speak:—”To which place, Gabriel
came, ruffling it out, hufty-tufty, in his new suit of
velvet.” The man was vain; the writer has made him a
peacock. M.L.B.

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Footnote 1:(return)

Johnson’s Life of Thomson.

Footnote 2:(return)

Show-houses is a very appropriate term for such of the
mansions of our nobility and gentry as are open to public
inspection. Hagley is extremely rich in treasures of art. A mere
catalogue of them would occupy the whole of our sheet; but we must
notice two curiously carved mahogany tables, which cost
£200.; four exquisitely carved busts of Shakspeare, Milton,
Spenser, and Dryden, by Scheimaker, and bequeathed to George, Lord
Lyttleton, by Pope; the portrait of Pope and his dog, Bounce; a
fine Madonna, by Rubens; several pictures by Vandyke, Sir Peter
Lely, Le Brun, &c. &c. the Gobelin tapestry of the drawing
room; the ceiling painted by Cipriani; and the family pictures,
among which is Judge Lyttleton, copied from the painted glass in
the Middle Temple Hall.

Footnote 3:(return)

Thomson’s affectionate letter to his sister, (quoted by Johnson,
who received it from Boswell,) is dated “Hagley, in Worcestershire,
October the 4th, 1747.”

Footnote 4:(return)

Anteuil, near Paris.

Footnote 5:(return)

Horace speaks thus to his steward in the country. Epistle xiv.
book 1.

Footnote 6:(return)

Lewis XIV.

Footnote 7:(return)

See Ode sur la prise de Namur.

Footnote 8:(return)

This metaphor has been considered too bold, and perhaps justly,
but Despreaux did not think it so. He observed to M.
Dagnesseau that if this line were not good, he might burn the
whole production.

Footnote 9:(return)

Afterwards advanced to the rank of post captain, in 1801.