THE MIRROR
OF
LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

Glammis Castle

Here is a castellated palace, or princely castle, associated
with many great and daring events in the roll of Scottish history.
It stands in the valley of Strathmore, in a park of 160 acres, a
little to the north of Glammis, a village of Angus, N.B. The
original foundation is of high antiquity; for Malcolm II. was
assassinated here in the year 1034, and the chamber in which he
expired is still shown. Two obelisks, one near the Manse, and the
other in a neighbouring field, denote the places where he was
attacked. In this castle also, according to some historians,
Macbeth murdered Duncan. We notice, however, that Sir Walter Scott,
in his recently-published version of the story of Macbeth, states
the murder to have been committed at “a great castle near
Inverness,” in which he is corroborated by Bæthius, who says,
the castle stood upon an eminence south-east of Inverness. But
Fordun says the murder was perpetrated near Elgin; and others say
at Cawdor Castle.

The Castle originally consisted of two rectangular towers,
longer than broad, with walls of fifteen feet in thickness; they
were connected by a square projection, and together formed a figure
somewhat like the letter Z, saving that in the castle all the
angles were right ones; this form gave mutual defence to every part
of the building. It contains a spiral staircase of 143 steps,
reaching from the bottom to the top of the building.

Glammis Castle is still the seat of the Strathmore family. It
was given by Robert I. of Scotland, in the year 1376, with his
daughter, to John Lyon, Lord Glammis, chancellor of Scotland. Great
alterations and additions were made to the building by Patrick,
Earl of Strathmore, his lineal heir and successor: these
improvements, according to the above cited plan, a date carved on a
stone on the outside of the building, and other authorities, were
made in the year 1606, and not in 1686, as is said in an old print
engraved about that time, and from which our view is copied. The
architect employed on this occasion, as tradition reports, was
Inigo Jones; indeed, the work seems greatly to resemble Heriot’s
Hall at Edinburgh, and other buildings designed by him. The great
hall was finished in the year 1621; it is a handsome room with a
[pg
226] carved ceiling, adorned with heads and ornaments in
stucco. Among the apartments shown to visitors, are a wardrobe
containing a curious collection of old state dresses; the armoury,
in which are preserved the sword and coat of mail of Macbeth, as
well as some articles supposed to have been carried off by
Malcolm’s murderers, and found in the Loch of Forfar, during the
last century; and the chapel built about 1500, the furniture of
which remains in its original state. Here also are about one
hundred portraits; among which is a large picture, in a carved
frame, representing Earl Patrick and his three sons; in the
background is a view of the castle, as it was in the year 1683. At
that time there were three gates leading from the park. Some idea
may be formed of the extent of this establishment from the
circumstance of eighty beds being made up within the house, for the
Pretender and his retinue, during their sojourn here, besides those
for the inferior servants, in the offices out of doors. The
forfeiture of the estate was prevented by the earl’s brother being
killed at the head of his regiment on Shiremore.

In the courtyard is shown a stone, on which is engraved a cross
and divers figures, said to allude to the murder of Malcolm, and
the death of the murderers, who attempting to cross the Lake of
Forfar, then slightly frozen over, the ice broke, and they were
drowned: this stone is described and engraved by Mr. Pennant, in
his Tour through Scotland.

By way of enlivening these historical data, and as an
epigrammatic conclusion to our description, we subjoin a pleasant
little anecdote related by Sir Walter Scott, of a certain old Earl
of Strathmore, who, in superintending some improvements of the
castle, displayed an eccentric love of uniformity. “The earl and
his gardener directed all in the garden and pleasure-grounds upon
the ancient principle of exact correspondence between the different
parts, so that each alley had its brother—a principle now
renounced by gardeners. It chanced once upon a time that a fellow
was caught committing some petty theft, and, being taken in the
manner, was sentenced by the Bailie M’Wheeble of the jurisdiction
to stand for a certain time in the baronial pillory, called the
jougs, being a collar and chain attached to the uppermost
portal of the great avenue which led to the castle. The thief was
turned over accordingly to the gardener as the ground officer, to
see the punishment duly inflicted. When the Thane of Glammis
returned from his morning ride, he was surprised to find both sides
of the gateway accommodated each with a prisoner. He asked the
gardener, whom he found watching the place of punishment, as his
duty required, whether another delinquent had been detected? ‘No,
my lord,’ said the gardener, in the tone of a man excellently well
satisfied with himself, ‘but I thought the single fellow looked
very awkward standing on one side of the gateway, so I gave
half-a-crown to one of the labourers to stand on the other side
for uniformity’s sake.'”

ON LOCALITIES:

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS OF LONDON.

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

No intellectual enjoyment, in my opinion, can surpass the
delight we experience when traversing those spots of the habitable
earth where celebrated warriors fought, minstrels sang,
philosophers pondered, or where philanthropists have immortalized
their names by deeds of charity. To roam through the romantic vales
of Italy—surrounded at all turns by the sad memorials of its
former magnificence—the mighty ruins of its temples and
palaces, and the mutilated remains of its statues and triumphal
columns, conveying to the mind mournful images of the fallen fates
of those who had for ages been its proud possessors; where the
Mantuan bard first caught inspiration from the deathless muse;
where Tully charmed the listening throng, whilst defending with
mild persuasion the arts and the sciences he loved, and condemning
in terrible denunciations the mad ambition that threatened the
destruction of his country; to wander among its groves, and say,
here Ovid, in lonely exile, soothed his sorrows with the melody of
his heaven-inspired strain; here Petrarch wooed his much-loved
Laura in sonnets soft as the affection that gave them birth; here
Tasso made history and Jerusalem immortal by crowning them with the
garlands of his Promethean genius; and here Ariosto, Dante,
Metastasio, and a galaxy of poets and philosophers shed the
splendour of their gifted imaginations on the expiring greatness of
their country.

Where is the portion of the civilized globe that has not some
delightful reminiscence connected with it? There is not a country
in the world, even the most barbarous, where the inhabitants will
not feel pride and pleasure in pointing out to your attention some
sacred [pg
227] spot ever dear to their memories: some battle-field or
scene of conquest; some warrior’s grave; some monarch’s sepulchre,
or some chieftain or legislator’s dwelling. And what shall we say
of the classic soil of Greece? where the eye cannot turn, or the
foot move to a place which is not eternalized by its associations:
where the waters will not remind you of Castalian founts; the
flowers of Parnassian wreaths; the eminences of the Phocian hills;
and where the air of all breathes inspiration. To a mind prone to
contemplation, a walk through Athens must awaken the most exquisite
reveries. Although “fallen from its high estate,” there is enough
in the tottering ruins which yet remain to recall the history of
its ancient grandeur: the shattered Acropolis and the Pyraeus tell
the tale of other days, in language at once pathetic and
intelligible—

The mind must be distracted with the multiplicity of its
recollections; all that is great or good or glorious in our nature,
must be identified with some forcible remembrance; and heroes,
poets, statesmen, patriots, legislators, philosophers, and the
historical events connected with their names, must congregate
before us in sublime and touching similitude. “Alas, poor
country!”—On those shores the monuments of science and of
art, which drew admirers from the remotest corners of the earth,
are now demolished by the savage and cowardly slaves of a despot,
who is himself a slave; the eloquence which swayed the passions of
applauding multitudes is dumb; the pencil of Appelles that breathed
over the canvass, and the chisel of Praxiteles that gave life and
animation to shapeless blocks, are now no more; and the
all-powerful lyre, whose sweeping chords would rouse the soul to
rage or melt it into pity, is now, and perhaps FOR EVER, mute and
unstrung!

These observations, which you may think too enthusiastic, were
elicited by the perusal of an article in your No. 388, entitled “A
Desultory Chapter on Localities.” Your Correspondent states, that
“it is needless to travel to foreign countries in search of
localities. In our own metropolis and its environs a diligent
inquirer will find them at every step.” The following Collection
will serve to confirm the truth of his statement, and should you
deem it worthy “a local habitation” in your excellent journal, I
doubt not it will prove interesting, if not quite new to many of
your readers. ¹

C.E.

“In St. Giles’ Church lie Chapman, the earliest and best
translator of Homer; and Andrew Marvell, the wit and patriot, whose
poverty Charles II. could not bribe.—Who would suppose that
the Borough was the most classical ground in the metropolis? And
yet it is undoubtedly so. The Globe Theatre was there, of which
Shakspeare himself was a proprietor, and for which he wrote his
plays. Globe-lane, in which it stood, is still extant, we believe,
under that name. It is probable that he lived near it: it is
certain that he must have been much there. It is also certain that
on the Borough side of the river, then and still called the
Bank-side, in the same lodging, having the same wardrobe, and some
say, with other participations more remarkable, lived Beaumont and
Fletcher. In the Borough, also, at St. Saviour’s, lie Fletcher and
Massinger in one grave; in the same church, under a monument and
effigy, lies Chaucer’s contemporary, Gower; and from an inn in the
Borough, the existence of which is still boasted, and the site
pointed out by a picture and inscription, Chaucer set out his
pilgrims and himself on their famous road to Canterbury.

“To return over the water, who would expect any thing poetical
from East Smithfield? Yet there was born the most poetical even of
poets, Spenser. Pope was born within the sound of Bowbell, in a
street no less anti-poetical than Lombard-street. So was Gray, in
Cornhill. So was Milton, in Bread-street, Cheapside. The presence
of the same great poet and patriot has given happy memories to many
parts of the metropolis. He lived in St. Bride’s Churchyard,
Fleet-street; in Alders-gate-street, in Jewin-street, in Barbican,
in Bartholomew-close; in Holborn, looking back to Lincoln’s Inn
Fields; in Holborn, near Red-lion-square; in Scotland-yard; in a
house looking to St. James’ Park, now belonging to an eminent
writer on legislation, and lately occupied by a celebrated critic
and metaphysician; and he died in Artillery-walk, Bunhill-fields;
and was buried in St. Giles’, Cripplegate.

“Ben Jonson, who was born ‘in Hartshorne-lane, near
Charing-cross,’ was at one time ‘master’ of a theatre in Barbican.
He appears also to have visited a tavern called the Sun and
[pg
228] Moon, in Aldersgate-street; and is known to have
frequented with Beaumont and others, the famous one called the
Mermaid, which was in Cornhill.

“The other celebrated resort of the great wits of that time was
the Devil Tavern, in Fleet-street, close to Temple-bar. Ben Jonson
lived also in Bartholomew-close, where Milton afterwards lived. It
was in the passage from the cloisters of Christ’s Hospital into St.
Bartholomew’s. Aubrey gives it as a common opinion, that at the
time when Jonson’s father-in-law made him help him in his business
of bricklayer, he worked with his own hands upon the Lincoln’s Inn
garden wall, which looks upon Chancery-lane, and which seems old
enough to have some of his illustrious brick and mortar still
remaining.

“Under the cloisters in Christ’s Hospital (which stand in the
heart of the city unknown to most persons, like a house kept
invisible for young and learned eyes) lie buried a multitude of
persons of all ranks; for it was once a monastery of Gray Friars.
Among them is John of Bourbon, one of the prisoners taken at the
battle of Agincourt. Here also lies Thomas Burdet, ancestor of the
present Sir Francis, who was put to death in the reign of Edward
IV., for wishing the horns of a favourite white stag, which the
King had killed, in the body of the person who advised him to do
it. And here too (a sufficing contrast) lies Isabella, wife of
Edward II.

“Her ‘mate’s’ heart was buried with her, and placed upon her
bosom! a thing that looks like the fantastic incoherence of a
dream. It is well we did not know of her presence when at school;
or after reading one of Shakspeare’s tragedies, we should have run
twice as fast round the cloisters at night time, as we used.
Camden, ‘the nourrice of antiquitie,’ received part of his
education in this school; and here also, not to mention a variety
of others known in the literary world, were bred two of the most
powerful and deep-spirited writers of the present day; whose visits
to the cloisters we well remember.

“In a palace on the site of Hatton-garden, died John of Gaunt.
Brook House, at the corner of the street of that name in Holborn,
was the residence of the celebrated Sir Fulke Greville, Lord Brook,
the ‘friend of Sir Philip Sydney.’ In the same street, died, by a
voluntary death, of poison, that extraordinary person, Thomas
Chatterton—-

He was buried in the workhouse in Shoe-lane; a circumstance, at
which one can hardly help feeling a movement of indignation. Yet
what could beadles and parish officers know about such a being? No
more than Horace Walpole. In Gray’s Inn, lived, and in Gray’s Inn
Garden meditated, Lord Bacon. In Southampton-row, Holborn, Cowper
was a fellow-clerk to an attorney with the future Lord Chancellor
Thurlow. At the Fleet-street corner of Chancery-lane, Cowley, we
believe, was born. In Salisbury-court, Fleet-street, was the house
of Thomas Sackville, first Earl of Dorset, the precursor of
Spenser, and one of the authors of the first regular English
tragedy. On the demolition of this house, part of the ground was
occupied by the celebrated theatre built after the Restoration, at
which Betterton performed, and of which Sir William Davenant was
manager. Lastly, here was the house and printing-office of
Richardson. In Bolt-court, not far distant, lived Dr. Johnson, who
resided also for some time in the Temple. A list of his numerous
other residences is to be found in Boswell².
Congreve died in Surrey-street, in the Strand, at his own house. At
the corner of Beaufort-buildings, was Lilly’s, the perfumer, at
whose house the Tatler was published. In Maiden-lane,
Covent-garden, Voltaire lodged while in London, at the sign of the
White Peruke. Tavistock-street was then, we believe, the
Bond-street of the fashionable world; as Bow-street was before. The
change of Bow-street from fashion to the police, with the theatre
still in attendance, reminds one of the spirit of the Beggar’s
Opera. Button’s Coffee-house, the resort of the wits of Queen’s
Anne’s time, was in Russell-street—we believe, near where the
Hummums now stand. We think we recollect reading also, that in the
same street, at one of the corners of Bow-street, was the tavern
where Dryden held regal possession of the arm chair. The whole of
Covent-garden is classic ground, from its association with the
dramatic and other wits of the times of Dryden and Pope. Butler
lived, perhaps died, in Rose-street, and was buried in
Covent-garden Churchyard; where Peter Pindar the other day followed
him. [pg
229] In Leicester-square, on the site of Miss Linwood’s
exhibition and other houses, was the town mansion of the Sydneys,
Earls of Leicester, and the family of Sir Philip and Algernon
Sydney. In the same square lived Sir Joshua Reynolds. Dryden lived
and died in Gerrard-street, in a house which looked backwards into
the garden of Leicester House. Newton lived in St. Martin’s-street,
on the south side of the square. Steele lived in Bury-street, St.
James’; he furnishes an illustrious precedent for the loungers in
St. James’-street, where scandal-mongers of those times delighted
to detect Isaac Bickerstaff in the person of captain Steele, idling
before the Coffee-house, and jerking his leg and stick alternately
against the pavement. We have mentioned the birth of Ben Jonson,
near Charing-cross. Spenser died at an inn, where he put up on his
arrival from Ireland, in King-street, Westminster—the same
which runs at the back of Parliament-street to the Abbey. Sir
Thomas More lived at Chelsea. Addison lived and died in Holland
House, Kensington, now the residence of the accomplished nobleman
who takes his title from it. In Brook-street, Grosvenor-square,
lived Handel; and in Bentinck-street, Manchester-square, Gibbon. We
have omitted to mention that De Foe kept a hosier’s shop in
Cornhill; and that, on the site of the present
Southampton-buildings, Chancery-lane, stood the mansion of the
Wriothesleys, Earls of Southampton, one of whom was the celebrated
friend of Shakspeare. But what have we not omitted also? No less an
illustrious head than the Boar’s, in Eastcheap—the Boar’s
Head Tavern, the scene of Falstaff’s revels. We believe the place
is still marked out by a similar sign. But who knows not Eastcheap
and the Boar’s Head? Have we not all been there time out of mind?
And is it not a more real, as well as notorious thing to us, than
the London Tavern, or the Crown and Anchor, or the Hummums, or
White’s, or What’s-his-name’s, or any other of your contemporary
and fleeting taps?

“Before we rest our wings, however, we must take another dart
over the city, as far as Stratford at Bow, where, with all due
tenderness for boarding-school French, a joke of Chaucer has
existed as a piece of local humour for nearly four hundred and
fifty years. Speaking of the Prioress, who makes such a delicate
figure among his Canterbury Pilgrims, he tells us, among her other
accomplishments, that—

adding with great gravity,

CURIOUS FACTS RELATING TO SLEEP.

(For the Mirror.)

“Next to those nourishments that sustain the body (says Dr.
Venner) moderate and seasonable sleep is most profitable and
necessary. It helps digestion, recreates the mind, repairs the
spirits, and comforts and refreshes the whole body.” It is also
observed by Dr. Hufeland, that “sleep is one of the wisest
regulations of nature, to check and moderate at fixed periods, the
incessant and impetuous stream of vital consumption. It forms as it
were, stations for our physical and moral existence, and we thereby
obtain the happiness of being daily reborn, and of passing every
morning through a state of annihilation, into a new and refreshed
life.”

The writer of the article “Sleep.” in Rees’s
Cyclopædia, says, “the proportion of time passed in
sleep differs in different persons, and at different ages. From six
to nine hours may be reckoned about the average proportion. Men of
active minds whose attention is engaged in a series of interesting
enjoyments, sleep much less than the listless and indolent, and the
same individual will spend fewer hours in this way, when strongly
interested in any pursuits, than when the stream of life is gentle
and undisturbed. The Great Frederic of Prussia, and John Hunter,
who devoted every moment of their time to the most active
employments of body and mind, generally took only four or five
hours’ sleep. A rich and lazy citizen, whose life is merely a
chronicle of breakfast, dinners, suppers, and sleep, will slumber
away ten or twelve hours daily. When any subject strongly occupies
us, it keeps us awake in spite of ourselves. The newly born child
sleeps most of its time, and seems to wake merely for the purpose
of feeding. Very old persons sleep much of their time; in the
natural progress towards death, the animal faculties are first
extinguished; accordingly, when they begin to decline in decrepit
old age, the periods of their intermissions are longer. The
celebrated De Moivre, when eighty-three years of age, was awake
only four hours out of the twenty-four; and Thomas Parr at last
slept the greatest part of his time. An eye-witness relates that
some boys, completely [pg 230] exhausted by exertion, fell asleep
amid all the tumult of the battle of the Nile; and other instances
are known of soldiers sleeping amid discharges of artillery, and
all the tumult of war. Couriers are known to sleep on horseback,
and coachmen on their coaches. A gentleman who saw the fact,
reported, to the writer of this article, that many soldiers in the
retreat of Sir John Moore, fell asleep on the march, and continued
walking on. Even stripes and tortures cannot keep off sleep beyond
a certain time. Noises at first prevent us from sleeping, but their
influence soon ceases, and persons rest soundly in the most noisy
situations. The proprietors of some vast iron-works, who slept
close to them, through the incessant din of hammers, forges, and
blast furnaces, would awake if there were any interruption during
the night. And a miller, being very ill and unable to sleep, when
his mill was stopped, on his account, rested well and recovered
quickly when the mill was set going again. Great hunger prevents
sleep, and cold affecting a part of the body has the same effect.
These causes operated on the unfortunate women who lived
thirty-four days in a small room overwhelmed by snow, and with the
slightest sustenance, they hardly slept the whole time.”

P.T.W.

PERU: SIMPLICITY OF PASTORAL LIFE.

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

After all that has been written and said on South America, by
many recent travellers, it may probably be thought that the
following remarks are rather out of time; but as a single fact may
sometimes serve to show the state of a country more forcibly than
volumes, I am induced to relate an anecdote which will throw a
little light on the present situation of one portion of the natives
of Peru.

The Andes take their rise literally at the “end of the World;”
for Cape Horn certainly deserves that epithet, and the Straights of
Magellan, which divide Terra del Fuego from the continent are
comparatively no more than a mountain stream in a hilly country, so
that that island may without any impropriety be deemed a part of
it. The Andes are not one continuous chain of mountains; but an
immensity of piles raised one on another, at different elevations
of which are extensive plains, termed “Pampas,” some of which
appear as boundless as the horizon, and totally divested of
herbage. On one of these plains, called the Pampa of Diesmo, in the
province of Junin, I was detained some days at the only hut to be
seen for leagues. One of the arreóros, or muleteers,
with me, a native of Madrid, remarked on the solitude of the spot,
adding, with a sigh, “This was a different place when first I
visited it.” Within about half a mile from where we were then
conversing was an astonishing freak of Nature. In the midst of the
plain were about one hundred naked rocks rising abruptly from the
surface, in detached groups, some of which were as high as St.
Paul’s, and many appeared like the spires of a cathedral. Pointing
to these eminences, the muleteer went on to say, “for five months
these rocks were my refuge from white men, and from them have I
seen an army of twenty-five thousand men traverse this plain again
and again; their only support for nearly fourteen months being
drawn from the spot.” On asking an explanation, he bid me look
round and say if I thought I could count the number of sheep on the
Pampa. I readily answered I did not think there were fifty. “What
will you say, sir,” said he, “when I tell you that sixteen years
since, there were, on this plain alone, eight hundred thousand
sheep! besides oxen; at that time there was scarcely an Indian
that did not possess at least two thousand, and this was only a
part of the wealth of Peru. The desolation that now exists may
justly be laid to the account of a revolution, which has only been
the means of creating a spirit of animosity amongst those who
before were cordially united; you yourself must be aware that if it
were known I was a Godo, (Old Spaniard), my life would not be worth
an hour’s purchase; another thing you have yourself experienced, is
the total absence of hospitality in Peru. This is also an effect of
the revolution; for at the time I alluded to, a stranger in this
country need not expend a maravedi in travelling; but those days, I
fear, will never return.”

This conversation occurred in the summer of 1827, and there are
a few readers of the MIRROR who were then in Peru, who will readily
recognise the writer.

VIATOR.

ON FEAR.

By Sir Thomas More.

MANNERS & CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS.

SKIMINGTON RIDING.

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

I have been amused by the accounts given in a former volume of
the MIRROR, of the curious custom called “Stanging;” may I be
allowed to edge in a few words descriptive of a ceremony belonging
to the same order, which prevails in my native county, (Dorset),
instituted and practised on the same occasions as those mentioned
in vol. xii., but differing from them in many material points, and
in my opinion partaking more of the theatrical cast than either of
those two mentioned by your correspondents. Having been an eye
witness to one or two of these exhibitions, I am enabled to give an
accurate account of the same. The name which they give to this
ceremony, as near as I can make out from the pronunciation, is
Skimington Riding; the origin of which name I have
endeavoured in vain to ascertain. The ceremony commences by two
fellows armed with stump brooms mounting on a ladder borne by four
or five more of the crowd, when sitting back to back, they commence
a fierce attack on each other with the brooms over their shoulders,
maintaining at the same time as the procession advances, a scolding
dialogue, or rather duet; one of them squeaking to represent the
angry tones of the better half, while the other growls his
complaints an octave below. In this manner, accompanied by the
shouts of the crowd, the rattling of old tin kettles, and the
blowing of cow’s horns, producing altogether a horrible din, they
parade before the dwelling house of some peace-breaking couple; and
should they be in possession of any word or words made use of by
the unhappy pair in their squabbles, you may be sure such
expressions are repeated with all due emphasis by the performers on
the (stage) ladder. After making as much noise as they possibly can
before the fated dwelling, where they sometimes meet with a most
ungracious reception, they proceed in the same style through all
the streets of the parish in order that the whole place may be
apprized of the conduct of the offending couple; and they keep up
the game as long as they possibly can.

Sturminster.

RURIS.

A SEA-SIDE MAYOR.

(For the Mirror.)

At Yarmouth, a person is selected from among those employed on
the beach during the fishing season, who is denominated the
Sea-side Mayor, his office being to inflict certain
punishments and penalties on such fishermen as are found guilty of
pilfering herrings, &c.

The fishing commences in the latter part of September, a day or
two previous to which a procession goes round the town, the object
and order of which are as follow:—

A person grotesquely attired, and carrying a trident, to
represent Neptune,³ precedes,
followed by four or five men bearing colours with inscriptions of
“Prosperity to the town of Yarmouth.” “Death to our best Friends,”
(meaning the herrings), “Success to the Herring Fishery,” &c.
Then follows a band of musicians. The Sea-side Mayor (dressed as a
sailor, and wearing a gilt chain around his neck) brings up the
rear, in a handsome boat built for the occasion, and borne on the
shoulders of ten or a dozen men, wearing white ribands on the
breast of their jackets and on their hats.

In this order the procession calls at the shops of different
tradespeople, or any one at all connected with the herring fishery,
where they solicit contributions, and those who are disposed to be
liberal, are honoured with a tune from the musicians, and the
cheering of the mayor. After parading the town they retire to a
tavern to dinner. A great number of French and Dutch fishing boats
resort to Yarmouth at the herring fishing, and on the Sunday
previous to the 21st of September, “Dutch Fair,” as it is
denominated, is held on the beach, and presents a novel and
interesting appearance.

From twenty to thirty of their flat bottomed boats are run on
shore at high water, and as the tide recedes, are left high and
dry. Dutch pipes, dried flounders, wooden shoes, apples, and
gingerbread, are then offered for sale, and if the weather be fine,
the beach is thronged with company, many of whom come from a great
distance.

W. S. L.

SAXON NAMES OF THE MONTHS.

(For the Mirror.)

December, which stood first, was styled “Mid-winter monath.”
January was “Aefter-yule,” or after Christmas. February
“Sol-monath,” from the returning sun. March “Rhede, or Rhede
monath,” rough, or rugged month. April “Easter monath,” from a
favourite Saxon goddess, whose name we still preserve. May was
“Trimilchi,” from the cows being then milked thrice in the day.
June “Sere monath,” dry month. July “Maed monath,” the meads being
then in their bloom. August was “Weod monath,” from the luxuriance
of weeds. September “Haerfest monath.” October they called “Winter
fylleth,” from winter approaching with the full moon of that month.
And lastly, November was styled “Blot monath,” from the blood of
the cattle slain that month, and stored for winter provision.
Verstegan names the months somewhat differently.

P.T.W.

CURIOUS BEQUEST.

(For the Mirror.)

John Wardell, by will, dated August 29, 1656, gave to the
Grocers’ Company, a tenement known by the name of the White Bear,
in Walbrook, to the intent that they should yearly, within thirty
days after Michaelmas, pay to the churchwardens of St. Botolph,
Billingsgate, £4. to provide a good and sufficient iron and
glass lantern, with a candle, for the direction of passengers, to
go with more security to and from the water side, all night long,
to be placed at the north-east corner of the parish church of St.
Botolph, from the Feast Day of St. Bartholomew to Lady Day; out of
which sum £1. is to be paid to the sexton for taking care of
the said lantern.

H.B.A.

SLEEPERS IN CHURCH.

(For the Mirror.)

Richard Davey, in 1659, founded a free-school at Claverley,
Salop, and directed to be paid yearly the sum of eight shillings to
a poor man of the said parish, who should undertake to awaken
sleepers, and to whip out dogs from the church of Claverley, during
divine service.

H.B.A.

THE SELECTOR;

AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

THE EPPING HUNT.

By Thomas Hood, Esq.

We remember the appearance of Mr. Hood’s first
work—Odes and Addresses to Great People; and many a
reviewer and printer rejoiced in the light columns which it
furnished them by way of extract. They made up very prettily beside
a theological critique, a somewhat lumbering book on political
economy, or a volume of deep speculations on geology. Hood’s little
book, a mere thin pocket size, soon grew into notice and favour;
the edition ran off, and one or two more impressions have followed.
A host of imitators soon sprung up, but we are bound to acknowledge
that from the above to the present time, Mr. Hood has kept the
field—the Pampa of pun—to himself, and right sincerely
are we obliged for the many quips and quiddities with which he has
enabled us to garnish our pages. We say garnish, for what
upon earth can better resemble the garnishings of a table than Mr.
Hood’s little volumes: how they enliven and embellish the feast,
like birds and flowers cut from carrots, turnips, and beet-root;
parsley fried crisp; cascades spun in sugar, or mouldings in
almond paste, at a pic-nic supper party.

We love a good motto, and one like Mr. Hood’s speaks
volumes:

“HUNTS ROASTED”—

Next comes an advertisement of the author’s endeavour to record
a yearly revel (the Epping Hunt,) already fast hastening to decay.
Mr. Hood is serious, as the following epistle will
show:—

“It was penned by an underling at the Wells, a person more
accustomed to riding than writing.”

“Sir,—About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their
as been a great falling off laterally, so much so this year that
there was nobody allmost. We did a mear nothing provisionally,
hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt
may be sad to be in the last Stag of a Decline.

“I am, Sir,

“With respects from

“Your humble Servant,

“BARTHOLOMEW RUTT.”

Then begins the tale.

Huggins gets “Epping in his head,” and resolves to go to “the
Hunt.”

His friend had gone to Enfield Chase:

The portrait is excellent:

They start—

Then comes the motley mob—

The deer is brought—-

Robin bounds out, and the hunt starts: Huggins—

A jolly wight comes by upon

Huggins now betook him to the Wells—the Hunt was
o’er—and many a joke is told—

Huggins claims the horse, and offers “a bottle and a pound” for
his recovery:

MORAL.

The tale occupies less than thirty pages, and may be read whilst
smoking a cigar. It is all quaint fun, whim, humour, and frolic,
and one of those merry morsels which amuse us more than the whole
leaven of utilitarianism; and if to laugh and learn be your maxim,
why read the “Epping Hunt.” After this, hold your sides, and look
at the cuts, designed by George Cruikshank, and engraved by
Branston, Bonner, Slader, and T. Williams. Old Tom Rounding is the
frontispiece, in a cosy chair, and glass in hand—framed with
foxes’, and Towler and Jowler’s heads, antlers, &c. The rich
twinkle of Tom’s eye, and the benevolent rotundity of his form, are
admirable. Huggins hitched on a tree is the next—then comes
“the beast charging in Tom’s rear;” his perturbed look and the
saucy waggery of a round headed wight who has climbed into an
adjoining tree are a good contrast; Huggins “sitting on a thorn” is
another [pg 235] ludicrous picture of perturbation;
the cit on the grass, with “cattle grazed here” on a tree, is the
fifth; and Huggins being cleared of clay by two of Tom Roundhead’s
helpers, with mop and broom, completes the cuts and catastrophes of
the Epping Hunt.

The engravings, one and all, are exceedingly clever, and
proof impressions, (which we observe are advertised,) will
soon find their way into scores of scrapbooks.

The Sketch-Book.

THE SPIRIT OF THE STORM.

(For the Mirror.)

When the unfortunate Cedric (who had imbued his hands in the
blood of another,) was endeavouring by flight to a distant land to
evade the arm of justice, there existed a belief in a supernatural
being, whose exclusive office was,

To guide the whirlwind and direct the storm.

It was imagined that he circumnavigated the globe in a chariot
of fire that was wafted on the wings of the wind through the
illimitable fields of aether, but that he ever kept within the
bounds of our atmosphere. His course was preceded by thunder and
lightning—and storm and tempest followed him wherever he
went. He visited every climate in succession, and had a vast
concourse of inferior spirits at his command. He never paused in
his terrible career, but to witness the shipwreck of a felon, and
then only was he visible to mortal view. He was The Spirit of the
Storm!

The recollection of this personage occurred to the mind of
Cedric, accompanied with no very pleasing associations, just as the
Levantine cleared the mouth of the harbour, and was bearing a full
sail before a propitious northern gale for India.

A quick voyage had almost brought the vessel successfully to the
desired port, when an accident, fatal in its termination occurred,
which we shall endeavour to relate.

There was on board an old man who had long been in the habit of
reading the almanac, observing the changes of the wind and moon,
the rising and setting of the sun, the degree of heat or cold,
dryness or dampness of the atmosphere, the form and colour of the
clouds, the rising and falling of the mercury, and several other
similar indications of the weather, who for his knowledge in these
matters, had obtained the epithet of “weatherwise,” and indeed not
without reason, for although he might sometimes be wrong in his
prognostications to the no small amusement of others, and to his
own mortification; yet in general they were pretty correct,
especially of the approach of a storm in a tropical climate.

One fine evening whilst walking on the deck, he carelessly
observed, that there would be a heavy sea gale, accompanied by
rain, before morning. The captain of the vessel, who happened to be
within hearing, cursed the poor fellow for his prediction,
declaring that he kept the whole crew in a state of alarm, and
vowing that if he foretold another tempest he would throw him
overboard. The old man, who had a considerable opinion of his own
talents, calmly replied, “experientia docet.”

Cedric, from being one of the most daring and reckless spirits
of his age, on hearing the above parley, and aware of their
proximity to a rocky and dangerous shore, became terrified. The
fear of a wreck overcame his once undaunted but now agitated frame,
and a stiff glass of grog was found necessary to support him.

At midnight (having previously been sleeping soundly, composed
by the soporific effects of the dram, lulled by the music of the
rising breeze, and the gentle undulations of the reeling vessel) he
was flung several yards from his hammock, and received a contusion
on the head, which for some time deprived him of his senses. When
he had somewhat recovered, the rocking of the vessel, the howling
of the wind, and the creeking of the timbers, told him but too
truly that the old man’s prophecy was being fulfilled.

He went hastily on deck, half dressed and nearly frantic through
fear, to ascertain his opinion of the probable extent of the danger
to which they were exposed. But, alas! the old man, who had been
placed at the helm as the only person capable of conducting the
vessel in so perilous a situation, had been swept overboard by one
of the early surges. He spoke to many, but none seemed disposed to
listen to him; each person being too much engaged with his own
concerns to attend to those of others.

Every hand seemed paralyzed; the vessel without a steersman at
the helm—without a sailor to haul down a shroud, was cleaving
the ocean at the mercy of the winds and the waves!

His sense of guilt at this moment was overpowering; hitherto
(partly occasioned by ignorance, and partly by [pg 236]
depraved habits of life) a degree of thoughtlessness had possessed
him, which it is almost impossible to conceive could reign in the
breast of a being endued with reason. Now indeed his eyes were open
to his fate—to his earthly fate; a strange foreboding came
upon him; it was a species of instinctive horror; he could not look
beyond it. Whether there was a being who ruled the world, or
whether there was not, had never been the subject of his
meditations; yet a secret whisper intimated to him that death would
not be the bound of his hopes and his fears—of his joys and
his sorrows.

He was conscious of the blackness of his crime, which indeed was
of the deepest dye, and that he had never till then experienced the
arm of vengeance. He shuddered as the violence of the tempest
increased.

He had braved the seas—he had fought with the enemies of
his country; but never did fear paralyze the daring Cedric before.
He fell senseless on the deck entangled in the shattered cordage,
whereby he was preserved from being washed overboard by the
mountain billows, which every moment engulfed the vessel,
threatening immediate destruction to all on board.

The murkiest cloud that ever hid the skies from the view of man,
now rode in universal blackness over the horror-stricken crew,
which, opening every pore, as though at once to overwhelm creation,
poured forth its contents like one vast sea descending to overflow
another. The winds gathered from every quarter with unparalleled
fury. Thunders rolled with that incessant clamour which pervades a
field of earthly battle; but artillery, whose dreadful note hath
made the hardiest and the boldest quake, utters with but feeble
voice to that which that night growled on the craggy shores of
India. And lightnings fell, as when Elijah called on heaven to
answer him, and fire descended to proclaim the true Jehovah’s name,
and hail the one true prophet!

The Levantine now struck with tremendous force against a rock,
which lay concealed amidst the swelling waters, and instantaneously
disappeared, leaving the wretched crew floating on the
surface—borne on the billows!

Cedric, by the tumultuous fury of the element, was thrown on a
shelf of one of the steep rocks which form a natural barrier
between the sea and land; being recovered from his stupor, he was
again awake to the horrors that surrounded him; what had become of
his comrades he knew not—he thought not. He clung to a
fragment of the precipice with the desperation and firm grasp of
madness—while every successive tide that rolled over his head
became stronger and stronger.

He counted the billows as they passed over him; he watched the
receding wave—he looked sternly at the approaching one. Time
with him was fast ebbing. The wave that was to wash him into
eternity was already curling towards him in fearful whiteness,
which the glare of lightnings that seemed to illuminate the
universe showed him in all its terrors.

At the same time he distinguished a towering rock which the
darkness had hitherto obscured, but which now rose in awful majesty
before him, amidst the spray and foam of the heaving surges, and
seemed a sea-god’s throne! The sublimity and magnificence of the
storm were now at their height! On the summit of the conical rock,
which was reddened by the fierce blaze of the brilliant fires that
incessantly played around it, appeared a colossal figure, arrayed
in white, whose long tresses and flowing robes streamed with the
wind. The figure pointed at the hopeless Cedric with a deadly smile
on his countenance. Cedric glared wildly at the unearthly vision.
The last whelming wave approached and buried him for ever in the
foaming sea.

The spectre mounted his car, attended by an innumerable host of
tributary spirits, and was borne on the whirlwind to visit other
climes. He was the Spirit of the Storm!

CYMBELINE.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD FAVOURITE.

“In his wine he would volunteer an imitation of
somebody, generally of Incledon. His imitation was vocal; I made
pretensions to the oratorical parts; and between us, we boasted,
that we made up the entire phenomenon.”
LEIGH HUNT’S BYRON.

“Of Incledon? poor Charles Incledon!” said I, turning to his
portrait in the “Storm,” hanging in goodly fellowship with a few of
the idols of my theatrical days, Siddons, Kemble, Bannister, Mrs.
Jordan, and G. Cook, in my little book-room—”Poor Charles
Incledon! The mighty in genius, the high in birth, the conceited in
talent, have not forgotten thee, then—and will even
condescend to imitate thee, to imitate thee who wast
inimitable!” I arose and walked about [pg 237] my
little sanctum in meditative mood. The days of old came o’er
me—the benefit nights—the play-bills, with the “Storm,”
“Black-eyed Susan,” &c. in the largest type, as forming the
most attractive morceaux in the bill of fare. Then followed the
squeeze in June! through that horrid passage in the old Covent
Garden Theatre!—then the well-earned climax—Incledon in
blue jacket, white trousers, red waistcoat, smart hat and
cane—the representative of Britain’s best defenders, in
holiday garb—unaccompanied by orchestra or instruments,
depending upon naught but “the human voice divine,” after his usual
walk before the lights, and repeatedly licking his lips, (as if he
thought that the sweet sounds which were accustomed to flow from
them must leave honey behind),—rolling forth with that vast
volume of voice, at once astonishing and delightful—”All in
the downs the fleet lay moored;” and then followed the strain of
love, manly love and constancy, in the beautiful language of Gay,
and in tones so rich, so clear, so sweet! every faculty was
absorbed in the sense of hearing! the hair seemed to rise, the
flesh to stir! the silence of the audience was holy—they
durst not, they could not, even applaud that which so enchanted
them, for fear of losing a note—I really think I could have
struck any one who could have shouted a “bravo!”—Never were
Milton’s lines,

so illustrated as in the last line of Gay’s “Black-eyed
Susan,”—

“Adieu, she cried, and waved her lily
hand,”

as sung by Incledon in his prime.

‘Tis strange! here was “a voice that hath failed,” and little or
nothing said of it—”Died at Worcester, on ——, the
celebrated vocalist, Charles Incledon,” without further comment,
was all that most of the periodicals said at his decease. I
recollect nothing worthy of him being put forth, no essay upon his
voice and style—and why? because poor Charles Incledon had
ceased to be the fashion!

The time is somewhat advanced, but the quotation at the head of
this article has brought to my mind what ought to have been done by
abler hands; and I will endeavour to point out what we possessed in
this singer, and what we have lost by his death.

And how am I qualified, for the task? With respect to the
knowledge of the science of music I cannot boast—but
Rousseau says—”Disoit autrefois un sage, c’est an poete
à faire de la poesie, et an musicien à faire de la
musique; mais il n’appartient qu’au philosophe de bien parle
de l’une et de l’autre.” And there are hearts, such as inspired the
poet when he wrote—

such as warmed Spenser when he wrote his “Bowre of Blesse;”
Tasso his “Gardens of Armida;” Collins his “Melancholy,” who

“Pour’d through the mellow horn her pensive
soul”—

such hearts, I say, and such as have drunk with unsatiated
thirst at the fountains of these “masters of the lay,” are better
qualified to speak upon a question of the “concord of sweet sounds”
than all the merely scientific musicians, whether professors or
amateurs, in the world.

“Of melody aye held in thrall,” I profess myself an admirer of
that English music which preceded the appearance of Mr.
Braham—the music of Arne, Jackson, Carter, Storace, Linley,
Shield, Davy, even of Dibdin, and of those fine airs, (the names of
whose composers are now little better than traditional), which glow
in the Beggar’s Opera. And of this music there never was heard a
singer equal to Incledon, and perhaps never will. The pathos, the
richness, the roundness, the satisfying fulness to the ear, which
characterize these composers, can never be mastered by the
merely scientific singer; they composed for the
voice, and without that organ in its most perfect state,
complete justice can never be done to their strains.

I before said these masters flourished previous to the debut of
Mr. Braham; for it is in a great measure owing to that gentleman,
and the false taste he introduced and has kept alive, that they are
now so seldom heard in our theatres, concerts, or drawing-rooms. We
have lost the notes of melody and feeling, [pg 238] and
what have we in their stead? The glitter and plagiarism of Rossini,
the ponderous science of Weber, and the absolute trash of all our
English composers. The last mentioned gentlemen certainly came into
court “in forma pauperis,”—satisfied with the merit of
arrangers, harmonizers, &c., and are found to confess, when
detection is probable, that the very soul of their pieces—the
melody⁵—is taken from such an Italian,
such a Sicilian, Greek, nay even Russian air.

I think I can, in some degree, account for the fashion these
composers have gained, and why, I fear, they are likely to maintain
it. It is that the public have become too musical. Every
female, from the highest to the lowest, whose parents can purchase
a piano-forte, and pay a master, must learn music; the
number of teachers and pupils are multiplied without end; and out
of either class how many are there qualified by nature as singers?
Not two in fifty. What follows? By labour and attention
science may be acquired, although voice cannot. The
voiceless teacher may instruct his voiceless pupil in the foppery
of an art, the spirit of which is unattainable by either;
pieces merely scientific are placed by him on her piano—are
performed to the credit of both, with vast execution, as far as
respects the science and the harmony—-but as for the singing,
as singing ought to be, ’tis

“Worse than the howling of Irish wolves against the
moon.”

Well—Miss, from the expense and pains bestowed upon
her, must, of course, be the musical oracle of the family; the
father must forego his favourite old songs, written by
“honest Harry Carey,” (as Ritson insists on his being
called); the mother is laughed to scorn if she mentions “Auld Robin
Gray,” “Mary’s Dream,” “Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?”—or
such obsolete stuff;—and even the brothers, who might stickle
a little for Moore’s melodies,

“With thoughts that breathe and words that
burn,”

are silenced with, “Pooh! any body can sing them.”

Thus is the family taste made up; and this extends to the
patronage of singers in the style alone deemed correct, as it is
the quantity of public patronage which must influence the manager
of either theatre or concert in the persons he engages. And thus
has the great extension of musical taste been injurious to
music.

But, to return to our old favourite. All who remember him must
likewise remember his powers of attraction ere this blight of
fashion had come over us. Witness his various benefits, and
above all, that at the Opera House, producing, it is said,
1,500l. Such marks of public favour, added to the constant
request of company, both public and private, and to a man who, like
Incledon, loved his art, were sure to be productive of
vanity—vanity, the besetting sin of all great men,
from Alexander on his Persian throne, to Mr. Kean enthroned in the
Coal Hole.—His education had been limited. The songs chiefly
in vogue at the early part of the late war were nautical,
which led him to a bold, free style; these were his
faults—vanity, want of cultivation, and a freedom of manner
approaching to excess. But he had a qualification as a singer which
threw all these into shade. The “Spectator,” I believe, somewhere
says it is necessary for a good dancer to have a good
understanding; but I think it is much more necessary for a good
singer to have a good and feeling heart; and whether singing
or acting his part in the drama of life, with family, friends, or
brother (not forgetting sister) performers, Charles Incledon had as
warm a heart as ever beat.

I cannot completely effect my purpose of reminding the public of
what they have lost in this fine singer, without recurrence to the
songs in which he earned his fame. “Pleasant is the recollection of
the joys that are passed,” says Ossian; and what a delightful
store-house of melody is opened by the remembrance of these songs!
At the head of the list, in unapproachable beauty, stand his
“Black-eyed Susan,” “Storm,” “Old Towler,” and “Lads of the
Village;” songs which few voices can attempt, and none dare hope to
equal him in. Then, as operas, we had first his Macheath, a part in
which, notwithstanding what has been said of his slovenly acting, I
think him unequalled. His was the voice to burst forth in the rich
melodies of that equivocal piece—he was the
gentleman who, if ruined by excess, could become the
highwayman—his was the dashing, manly style to ensnare
either a Polly or a Lucy. Poor Macheath is now emasculated, because
no man has voice to sing his songs. I have heard Mr. Young
has played the part, and “report speaks goldenly” of [pg 239] his
singing, and I deeply regret not having heard him. I understand he
sings Moore’s melodies better than any body; and think it likely,
from the few “snatches” I have heard him give. By the bye,
excepting the hurried, thick utterance of Incledon when speaking,
there is great resemblance, as far as regards voice, between that
singer and Mr. Young.

As a Shakspearean, I must class next his two sweet songs in “As
You Like it.” His was the pipe to be listened to amongst the
warblers of “Ardenne,” in Dr. Arne’s delicious “Blow! blow! thou
Winter’s wind,” and “Under the green-wood tree.” “Oh!” as Jaques
says, “I can suck melancholy from the recollection of these songs
as a weasel sucks eggs.” Then follow Jackson of Exeter’s “Lord of
the Manor,” and Dibdin’s “Quaker” and “Waterman;” pieces after
Incledon’s own heart; all free, rich, clear melody, without
glitter.

But of all the composers of his own day, Shield⁶ was his favourite; and justly. He
furnished him with most of his popular songs. The singer was the
peculiar organ of the composer—his “Thorn,” his “Mouth which
a Smile,” “Tom Moody,” “Heaving the Lead,” and many, many others,
seem to have faded away with the voice of the melodist.

But I find, were I to run through, as I proposed, all the songs
peculiar to my hero, I should, most likely, tire my reader.
The delight with which I dwell upon them is a species of egotism; I
will therefore only name a few more, and “leave him alone with his
glory.”—”Sally in our Alley,” the song Addison was so fond
of; what an association! “Post Captain,” “Brown Jug.” In his
decline, even “His father he lost,” and “On Lethe’s banks,” in
Artaxerxes;—hear the singers of the present day sing these
songs! “Bay of Biscay,” “When Vulcan forged,” the second of “All’s
Well,” “Bet, sweet blossom,” “Will Watch,” “Last Whistle,” &c.
&c. Alas! alas! and all this over! He has piped his last
whistle, and poor Charles “sleeps in peace with the dead!”

In concluding, I cannot but observe, that no singer has so
completely identifies himself with particular songs. Those in which
he most excelled, he stamped as his own—no one can touch them
“while his memory be green.”

When the race who heard him has faded away, some one may attempt
them; but I should as soon think of going to see Mr. Kean play
Coriolanus, as to hear another sing “Black-eyed Susan.” My mind is
filled—I have Kemble’s noble patrician perfect before
me; I have Gay’s ballad in Incledon’s notes as fully in “my mind’s
ear,” and I would not have them displaced.

Blackwood’s Magazine.

THE GATHERER.

The following is inscribed on a black Tablet in Sherborne
Church, Dorset:

This Monument was erected by Mr. Thomas Mansel, of this
Towne, in remembrance of a great hailstorme, May 16th, 1709,
between the hours of one and four in the afternoon; which stopping
the course of a small river, west of this church, caused of a
sudden an extraordinary flood in the Abbey Garden and Green,
running with so rapid a stream, that it forced open the north door
of the church, displaced and removed about 1,222 feet of the
pavement, and was two feet and ten inches high as it passed out at
this south door.

Sturminster.

RURIS.

ANTIQUITY AND INTEREST.

In the kitchen of a public house called the Cross in Hand, at
Waldron, in Sussex, there is an ancient couple, who appear to have
been companions for more than seven hundred years. These are a pair
of dog, or brandirons, with the date of 1115 on each. Suppose their
original cost to have been five shillings; this sum put out at
simple interest, together with the principal, would now have
amounted to nine pounds, twelve shillings, and sixpence; but at
compound interest it would be two hundred and fifty eight billions,
seven hundred and eighty four millions, two hundred and thirty
thousand, six hundred and fifty six pounds sterling.

J.B.—Y.

King James I. mounting a horse that was unruly, said, “The de’il
tak’ my saul, sirrah, and ye be na quiet, I’ll send ye to the five
hundred kings in the House of Commons—they’ll soon tame
you.”

On the road to Hastings are two hotels, nearly opposite one
another, the one kept by a person of the name of Hogsflesh, the
other by a person named Bacon.

T.R.W.

A JUDICIOUS TITLE.

On a vacancy on the Scotch bench, a certain advocate of some
standing at the bar, but by no means remarkable for the brilliancy
of his parts, or the extent of his legal knowledge, was in full
expectation of being appointed to the vacant gown. This is done by
a court letter, signed with the King’s sign manual. In the full
flutter of his darling hopes, he one day encountered an old brother
lawyer, notorious for the acidity of his temper, and the poignancy
and acrimony of his remarks. “Weel, friend Robby,” said the latter,
“I hear you’re to get the vacant gown.”—”Yes, Mr. C—k,
I have every reason to believe so.”—”Have ye gotten doon your
letter yet frae London?”—”No: but I expect an express every
minute.”—”Nae doot, nae doot; have you bethocht yoursel o’
what teetle ye’re to tak’? Lord H—n will never do; ye ken
that’s the teetle o’ ane o’ oor grandest dukes. Gudesake, for a bit
session lordy, like you, to gang by that style and teetle o’ ane
high and michty prince! that wad be a bonny boorlesque on a’
warldly honours and dignities. Weel a weel, let that be a pass
over. Noo a teetle ye maun hae, that’s as clear as the licht, and
there’s ane come just now into my head that will answer ye to a T;
when ye’re a lord, freend, Robby, ye’ll be Lord Preserve
Us?”—”You are very impertinent Mr. C—k,” replied the
nettled judge expectant; “I am sure you may find a
waur.”—There never, perhaps, was, or will be, comprehended so
much pithy meaning and bitter sarcasm in a single syllable, as that
which formed the astounding response—”Whaur (where)?”

GREGORY THE GREAT A PUNSTER.

Gregory the great was a punster, as appears from an anecdote
related of him, and which gave the first impulse to his exertions
to promulgate Christianity in this country. It was sometime before
he was advanced to St. Peter’s chair, and when he was only a deacon
in the church, that he saw some handsome youths for sale in the
open market: struck with their appearance, he inquired whence they
were, and was answered they were Angli (English.) “They are
rightly called,” said he, “for they seem Angeli,” (of or belonging
to angels,) and asking what province they were of among the Angli;
he was told of Deira (part of the kingdom of Northumbria.)
Ah, exclaimed he, De ira Dei sunt liberandi. Learning
farther that their king was named Alle, he said how fitly
may he sing Allelujahs to God, who possesseth such subjects.
From that time he seriously endeavoured to bring about the
conversion of the English nation, and a few years afterwards, being
Pope, he happily effected it by the travels and labours of St.
Augustine, who was the first Archbishop of Canterbury.

EPITAPH

In St. Mary’s Churchyard, Lambeth.

MUSIC.

Voluntary composed under the impulse of peculiar sensibility,
by Rainer, of Frankfort.

ORTHOGRAPHY.

The following is a literal copy of a notice upon a gate between
Cheltenham and Gloucester:—

“Here is No Public Road: whosdomnever tresprss on wil
be proccuted to the hutmast Reglar.”

C.J.T.

HONOURABLE SERVICE.

LIMBIRD’S EDITION OF THE _Following Novels is already
Published;_

Footnote 1:(return)

Is not this very interesting extract by Leigh Hunt?—We
have not his Indicator at hand for reference.

Footnote 2:(return)

The Temple must have had many eminent inmates. Among them, it is
believed, was Chaucer, who is also said, upon the strength of an
old record, to have been fined two shillings for beating a
Franciscan Friar in Fleet-street.

Footnote 3:(return)

An individual named Joseph Penny, was for many years the
representative of Neptune. He was a man of daring spirit, and there
are many living at this time who were indebted to his intrepidity
for being rescued from drowning. In the month of November 1825,
accompanied by his son, he went off from the beach in an open boat,
to a vessel in distress, soon after which the boat was washed
ashore, with the body of the son entangled in the rigging; but the
father was never again heard of.

Footnote 4:(return)

“Lingua.” Dodsley’s Old Plays.

Footnote 5:(return)

“Melody is the essence of Music,” said Mozart to Michael Kelly;
“I compare a good melodist to a fine racer, and
counter-points to hack post-horses.”

Footnote 6:(return)

Let the lover of melody look over the list of works published,
in the obituary of that beautiful composer!

Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD 143, Strand, (near
Somerset House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market,
Leipsic; and by all Newsmen and Booksellers.