THE MIRROR
OF
LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

EXETER HALL, STRAND.

We rejoice to see the site of Burleigh
House partly occupied by the above
Building. Its object is to afford accommodation
for the meetings of Philanthropic
Societies—so that whatever
may be the olden celebrity of the spot,
it is reasonable to expect that its present
appropriation will be associated
with the most grateful recollections.

This building is, perhaps, the most
perfect erection of its kind in England.
The approach from the Strand is remarkably
modest: it is by a very narrow,
though very chaste, door-way,
situated between two Corinthian columns
and pilasters. Within the door
is a hall, with two flights of steps, which
afterwards unite, and lead up to the entrance
of the great hall itself; the hall
below leads into a broad passage, which
extends to the farther extremity of the
building, opening right and left into
various offices. On entering the door
of the great hall, a vast and splendid
room is presented to view, with scarcely
a single interruption to the eye throughout
its whole extent, capable of containing,
with comfort, more than 3,000
persons. The floor is covered with substantial
oak seats, equal to the accommodation
[pg 402]
of 2,500 persons. The greater
portion of these are situated on a gentle
rise, to permit a perfect view of the
platform on which the proceedings
take place. The platform is raised
about six feet from the floor, and extends
the whole breadth of the room,
curving inwards, the extremities bending
towards the audience: it contains
seats for nearly 300 individuals. Behind
this gallery again, are very capacious
recesses, which will hold from three
to four hundred persons. The lower
part of the walls of the room is quite
plain, the architect, probably, regarding
the audience as a sufficient ornament
in that quarter, though the rising of
the seats would obscure carved-work if
it were there. The windows are at a
considerable height from the ground,
and are of dimmed glass, with a chaste
and classical border. The ceiling, which
is at a noble height, is beautifully laid
out in squares, with borderings and rosettes.
An oblong opening occurs in
the centre, with massive beams stretching
across, presenting to view an erection
in the roof, a form of construction,
probably, necessary to so immense a
mass of roofing, and serving also for
the purposes of ventilation, as it contains
windows at each end. There are
four pillars near the end of the hall,
rising to the ceiling, the capitals of
which, as also those of some pilasters
at the upper extremity of the hall,
are exquisitely carved in straw-coloured
marble. Behind the platform are numerous
and convenient committee-rooms.
The word “Philadelpheion,” which may
be rendered “loving brothers,” is carved
in Greek capitals over the entrance in
the Strand.¹

Exeter Hall has been erected by subscription,
by a public company established
for the purpose.

WILLS OF SHAKSPEARE, MILTON AND BUONAPARTE.

(To the Editor.)

The last wills and testaments of the
three greatest men of modern ages are
tied up in one sheet of foolscap, and
may be seen together at Doctors Commons.
In the will of the “Bard of
Avon” is an interlineation in his own
handwriting—”I give unto my wife my
brown best bed, with the furniture.” It
is proved by William Byrde, 22nd July,
1616.

The will of the Minstrel of Paradise
is a nuncupative one taken by his daughter,
the great poet being blind.

T.H.K.

VERNAL STANZAS.

(For the Mirror.)

G.R.C.

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

(For the Mirror.)

All power of fancy over reason is a degree of
insanity.—JOHNSON.

In a former number I gave some observations
on apparitions, and I shall here
continue my remarks.

The argument that was used by Dr.
[pg 403]
Johnson was founded on premises that
are as inadmissible as his conclusion,
viz. that the popular opinion in favour
of the reality of apparitions could only
obtain universal credence by its truth.
This is very plausible, but destitute of
foundation. Does the learned doctor
mean to deny the universality of errors?
does he mean to call the whole body of
the learned and enlightened cavillers?
and that because they are not willing to
consent to his monstrous opinion? To
reverse the argument, does he mean to
deny the truth of the Scriptures, or is
he bold enough to assert that they have
received universal credence? So much
for the arguments wielded by Dr.
Johnson, who has not been unaptly
termed the Colossus of Literature. The
idea that departed spirits revisited the
earth, probably took its rise from the
opinion of the immortality of the soul,
which was very general in both ancient
and modern times.² This supposition
is most consonant with probability. It
is always to be remarked that this species
of superstition is most prevalent in
those countries where learning and reason
have made but little progress. The
demons [Greek: Daimones] and genii of former
times were exactly the same as the
ghosts of this; the same attributes, the
same power, and the same malice were
observed of one, as are now attributed to
the other. By the Chaldeans these
demons were divided into two kinds,
good and bad. But as it is foreign to
my purpose to enter into an investigation
of the opinions of the ancients on
this subject, I shall content myself with
referring the curious reader to Stanley’s
History of Philosophy, a deservedly popular
work.

I shall here recount one of the most
extraordinary tales relating to this subject
that I ever heard; I believe the solution
is evident, and I am not aware that
it has appeared before; but if it has,
some of the readers of the Mirror may
not have seen it.

A surgeon of Edinburgh was confined
to his bed by some illness, and at “the
dewy hour of eve,” when the room was
lighted by nothing but the glimmering
and flickering light of a wood fire, he
perceived a female sitting at the foot of
the bed clothed in white! Imagining
that it was some defect in his sight, he
gazed more intensely at it, still it was
there. He then raised his hand before
his eyes and he did not perceive it; on
withdrawing it the apparition was there.
Closing his eyes he went through a mathematical
calculation to convince himself
he was in his right senses; upon
reopening them he still perceived her
there. The fire then went out and he
saw no more. I confess I see no difficulty
in accounting for this, by supposing
the gentleman was afflicted with
that horrid disease of which Sir Walter
Scott gives many cases in his Demonology
and Witchcraft. Although I have
no warrant for asserting spirits do not
return, yet I must say, all the tales I
have ever heard do not necessarily require
any such interpretation on them.
It may be true, and so may everything
which we have no evidence against or
for. If my opinion on the subject was
to be shaken by anything, it would be
with the following story, which was
given to me by one whose veracity I
have no reason to doubt.

There is, or rather was, a very ancient
castle in Lancashire, near Liverpool,
called Castle de Bergh, which
belongs to a noble family of that name.
Many years ago the possessor of the
castle, Mr. de Burgh, died, and the
castle was then let out to various of the
tenantry, among whom was a carpenter.
Two years after the death of Mr. de
Burgh, as this carpenter was employed
in his workshop, about a quarter of a
mile from the castle, melting glue, it
being evening, and only four of his
men with him, he perceived a gentleman
in mourning passing the lathe
where the men were at work. He was
immediately seized with a violent trembling
and weakness, his hair stood on
end, and a clammy sweat spread over his
forehead. The lights were put out, he
knew not how, and at last, in fear and
terror, he was obliged to return home.
On his arrival at the castle, as he was
passing up the stairs, he heard a footstep
behind, and on turning round he perceived
the same apparition. He hastily
entered his room, and bolted, locked,
and barred the door, but to his horror
and surprise this offered no impediment
to his ghostly visiter, for the door sprang
open at his touch, and he entered the
room! The apparition was seen by
various others, all of whom asserted it
bore the strongest resemblance to their
deceased master! One gentleman spoke
to him, and the spirit told him “that
he was not happy.”

Foley Place.

AN ANTIQUARY.

LINES.

(For the Mirror.)

COLBOURNE.

PARLIAMENTARY SCRAPS.

(For the Mirror.)

Lord Coke, in his fourth institute, defines
certain qualities essentially requisite
to constitute a good member of
parliament; and he refers to a parliament
roll, 3 Henry VI., which affirms
that a parliament man should have three
properties ascribed to the elephant—1.
That he hath no gall; 2. That he is inflexible,
and cannot bow; 3. That he is
of a most ripe and perfect memory.—1.
To be without malice, rancour, heat,
and envy;—in elephante melancholia
transit in nutrimentum corporis: every
gallish inclination, if any were, should
tend to the good of the whole body—the
commonwealth. 2. That he be constant,
inflexible, and not be bowed, or
turned from the right, either from fear,
reward, or favour; not in judgment respect
any person. 3. That in remembering
perils past, dangers to come may
be prevented.

To these, addition is made by Lord
Coke of two other properties of elephants:
the one, that though they be
maximæ virtutis et maximi intellectus,
of great strength and understanding,
tamen gregatim semper incedunt, yet
they are sociable, and go in companies;
for animalia gregalia non sunt nociva,
sed animalia solivaga sunt nociva: sociable
creatures that go in flocks or
herds are not hurtful—as deer, sheep,
&c.; but beasts that walk solely or
singularly, as bears, foxes, &c., are dangerous
and hurtful. The other property
is, that the elephant is philanthropos,
homini erranti viam ostendit.
And, in the opinion of Coke, these properties
ought every parliament man to
have.

Neither the ancient nor modern election
statutes mention, or imply, the existence
of a “candidate.” The old laws
direct that the representative shall be
freely and indifferently chosen by the
electors. The choice was of their own
motion, and the person elected was passive.
Even at the present day, the law
does not contemplate his asking for
votes, and therefore does not allow,
after the issuing of the writ, sufficient
time for a regular canvass. The term
“candidate” had its derivation from the
person being candidatus, clothed in
white, as symbolical of the wearer’s
purity.

James I. issued a proclamation, in
which the voters for members of parliament
are directed “not to choose
curious and wrangling lawyers, who
seek reputation by stirring needless
questions.”

At the Sussex election, in 1807, an
elector, named Morton, voted in right
of his patrimonial land at Rusper, which
had been in possession of his ancestors
750 years.

W.G.C.

SONNET

TO AN EOLIN HARP, HEARD AT EVENING.

(For the Mirror.)

COLBOURNE.

THE COSMOPOLITE

HINTS FOR SELF-ADVANCEMENT; OR,
HOW TO MAKE ONE’S WAY IN THE WORLD.

(For the Mirror.)

When you visit married people, pay
particular attention to their children:
the more noisy, troublesome, and disagreeable
they are, the more is it incumbent
upon you to praise them.
Should the baby entertain you with a
passionate squall for an hour or two,
vow that it is “a charming child”—”a
sweet pet”—”a dear, pretty, little creature,”
&c. &c. Call red hair auburn,
and “a sweet, uncommon colour;” a
squint, or cross-eye, think “an agreeable
expression;” maintain that an
ugly child is extremely handsome, and
the image either of one or other of its
parents, or of its handsomest, wealthiest,
[pg 405]
or most aristocratic relations. Discover
which of a family is mamma’s, and which
papa’s favourite, and pay your court accordingly;
for it is better to lavish, in
this case, your attentions and encomiums
upon one or two, than upon all.

When requiring an introduction to
any great people, scruple not to avail
yourself of the services of the little;
but when mounted as high as you please,
by all means kick down your ladders,
cast away your stepping stones—since
they might, instead of being of any further
assistance, only prove incumbrances
to you.

Take every opportunity of joining in
conversation with those to whom you
desire to recommend yourself. Should
you feel at a loss for topics of discourse,
mention servants, and tradesmen, upon
whom fail not to bestow most hearty
abuse;—vow that they are an unprincipled
set of knaves, scoundrels, and
thieves. Hence you will be thought to
have “much to say for yourself;” and
should you be enabled to narrate any
grievous losses sustained from these
members of society, you will obtain credit
for having “something to lose” at
any rate, and find it of incalculable
value.

When you direct a letter to a knight
bachelor—though it is indeed customary
and well-bred to omit altogether the
Knt.—yet it will never be taken amiss
should you venture to address him as a
Knight of the Garter, Bath, &c.&c., or
even as a Baronet. Undoubtedly it is
as vulgar to misapprehend and confound
titles, as it is to mispronounce and misspell
names; nevertheless rest assured,
that flattered vanity will go far to pardon
vulgarity.

If a gentleman, pay infinite attention
to the single ladies of a family—compliment,
flirt, converse with, and ask them
to dance. This conduct will obtain for
you, on account of the fair creatures,
marvellous good report, numerous invitations;
and if you have sufficient tact
to steer clear of committing yourself for
more than a few flattering and general
attentions, you may be considered one
of the happiest of those who live—by
their wits, and upon their friends.

Should your “dancing days be over,”
which is scarcely probable, considering
how greatly it is now the fashion for
“potent, grave, and reverend signors,”
and signoras also, to join the gay quadrille,
&c. (and here we may as well
note, that in genteel society, dowager
honourables and old ladies may dance,
whilst young, plain misses may not)—there
are sundry modes of rendering
yourself agreeable, which your own
taste and talents, it is to be presumed,
will naturally suggest: chess, whist,
ecarté, quadrille, &c. &c., not to mention
a little practical knowledge of
music, are acquirements which cause an
individual to be considered “very agreeable”—because
very useful; and rely
upon it, as the world goes, utility in
nine cases out of ten is, with society, a
consideration. Hence, no creature is
so universally voted disagreeable as one
from whom no kind of service can be
exacted; and whilst roués, gamesters,
and tipplers, duelists, pugilists, and
blacklegs, are tolerated in society, stupid
men are overlooked, or thrust out
of it with contempt.

Dress in the extreme of fashion: you
can neither gain nor maintain your
ground without so doing; and as you
have an end to answer, which your
tailors or milliners have not, of course
you will not suffer the unfashionable
dictates of conscience, respecting their
bills, to interfere with your proceedings.

Answer an invitation as soon as it is
received; many individuals defer so doing
for some days, which certainly shows
fashionable ease and nonchalance, besides
allowing time for the arrival of
another and preferable one; but, by
those who are absolutely bent upon advancing
themselves in society, this practice
is to be eschewed, since by perplexing,
it so annoys the donor of a fête,
that the chances are greatly against your
ever again being asked.

Never omit, the day after a party, to
send or leave your card, as an acknowledgment
for the civility you have received.
This ceremony, indeed, it is to
your interest frequently to repeat at the
doors of your friends, since it will ensure
your never being forgotten by them.

Never go to an evening party until
you are pretty certain that everybody
else is coming away. Your consequence
will by this conduct be enhanced;—you
may protest that you have already appeared
at two or three balls, &c. When,
if a student or fashionable novel-writer,
your time may have been more rationally
employed at home, you go too late to
dance much, if the exercise, or rather
the partners, be disagreeable to you;
you ensure being seen, which is something,—for,
alas! how many worthy
aspirants to fashion, fortune, and fame,
if of no actual importance, are fated to
pass unnoticed in a crowd! and the
opportunity is besides afforded you of
paying almost undivided attention to
your host, hostess, and family, which
must materially advance your interests.
[pg 406]
Neither be in too great haste to quit the
houses of those to whom you desire to
recommend yourself. Parties, even the
worst, cost both money and trouble;
and whilst the givers of them feel it no
compliment to be run away from, as if a
pestilence raged in their habitations, it
is positively insulting to inform them
that another soiree, from which you
hope better things, awaits your presence.

If a lady, “set up for a beauty:”
rely upon it, no persons will “cry you
up” as such unless you give them the
note. Should you be extremely plain,
no matter; friz your hair until it stands
out one English ell from your face, and
mount it, in bows, braids, &c., three
yards at least from the crown of your
head; drawl, or lisp in your speech;
bring out words and phrases from every
living tongue with which you may happen
to be slightly acquainted; boast of
“the continent;” mince your gait;
wriggle forward upon your toes when
you walk; and swim and dip, whenever
led into the atrocity of committing a
quad-rille. In brief, give yourself unimaginable
airs; then protest that your
manners, as well as your costume, are
of the newest Parisian mode—and it is
ten to one but that affectation will be
accepted in lieu of, or mistaken for,
beauty.

Never forget, that as it is sometimes
very prudent to be deaf and dumb in
society, so is it extremely convenient
upon occasions to be blind. The cuts,
direct and oblique—the looks at, and
the looks over—the distant, formal bow,
and the adroit turn upon the heel (should
you perceive the party, intended to be
cut for the time being at least, advancing
with dire intent of obliging a recognition),
may be, especially upon old and
provincial friends, practised ad libitum,
without the slightest danger of your
character for etiquette, politeness, suavity,
and general pleasantness, being
impeached. Indeed it is not incompatible
with the highest breeding, to allow
your slighted and amazed acquaintance
to hear you quizzing, and see you laughing
at, him heartily, should it be your
interest so to do; and then next day, to
walk boldly up to him, protest he is the
best fellow in the world; and should he
be so senseless as to venture an allusion
to your “late conduct,” to vow, with
the extremest audacity, that he happens
to be under some evident and deplorable
mistake, &c. &c. In short, should you
really find yourself in a scrape, to back
out of it as well as you are able.

When at a ball, it may sometimes be
to your advantage (though fashionable
insolence should not be carried too far)
to act in the following manner:—

1. Ask a lady if she is engaged to
dance. Should she answer “No,” whilst
her eyes say “Yes, if you will be my
partner,” then, instead of offering yourself
for that purpose, protest that
“dancing is a mighty bore, which no
gentleman would endure, could he possibly
help it,” and walk away.

2. Having elicited from a lady that
she is not engaged for the ensuing dance,
exclaim, with a smile of triumph, “I
am! and must go and find my partner.”

3. When conversing with one young
lady, whom you do not design to compliment
by leading out for waltz, quadrille,
or galoppe, mazurka, or Russian
cotillon, &c., take particular care, in
her hearing, to engage yourself to another.
This is equally kind and polite.

4. Upon the conclusion of a dance,
either leave your partner standing in the
middle of the room—which I have beheld
performed with admirable effect—-or,
hastily leading her to a seat, quit her
instantly: which proceeding says, in
plain English, “Lady, I would not stay
another moment with you for anything
that could be offered me, lest the world
should choose to fancy we are engaged.”

Respecting giving and lending, which
are sometimes necessary worldly duties,
your guide must be this brief, but infallible
rule—”Venture a small fish to
catch a large one.” Those antiquated
beings, indeed, whom the polite style
“horrid bores,” but whose generic appellation
is Christians, are accustomed to
“lend and give, not hoping to receive;”
yet this maxim cannot of course be supposed
to influence the conduct of those
who desire to advance themselves in the
world, because they are bound to bear
in mind, that they cannot admit of any
principle of action which tends, in the
slightest degree, to militate against their
interest.—Et caetera desunt.

M.L.B.

THE NATURALIST.

THE WHITE-HEADED, OR BALD EAGLE.

(Concluded from page 389.)

The intrepidity of character, before
mentioned, may be farther illustrated
by the following fact, which occurred a
few years ago, near Great Egg Harbour,
New Jersey. A woman, who happened
to be weeding in the garden, had set her
child down near, to amuse itself while
she was at work; when a sudden and
extraordinary rushing sound, and a
[pg 407]
scream from her child, alarmed her, and
starting up, she beheld the infant thrown
down, and dragged some few feet, and
a large bald eagle bearing off a fragment
of its frock, which being the only
part seized, and giving way, providentially
saved the life of the infant.

The appetite of the bald eagle,
though habituated to long fasting, is of
the most voracious and often the most
indelicate kind. Fish, when he can obtain
them, are preferred to all other
fare. Young lambs and pigs are dainty
morsels, and made free with on all
favourable occasions. Ducks, geese,
gulls, and other sea fowl, are also seized
with avidity. The most putrid carrion,
when nothing better can be had, is acceptable;
and the collected groups of
gormandizing vultures, on the approach
of this dignified personage, instantly disperse,
and make way for their master,
waiting his departure in sullen silence,
and at a respectful distance, on the adjacent
trees.

In one of those partial migrations of
tree squirrels that sometimes take place
in our western forests, many thousands
of them were destroyed in attempting
to cross the Ohio; and at a certain
place, not far from Wheeling, a prodigious
number of their dead bodies were
floated to the shore by an eddy. Here
the vultures assembled in great force,
and had regailed themselves for some
time, when a bald eagle made his appearance,
and took sole possession of
the premises, keeping the whole vultures
at their proper distance for several days.
He has also been seen navigating the
same river on a floating carrion, though
scarcely raised above the surface of the
water, and tugging at the carcass, regardless
of snags, sawyers, planters, or
shallows. He sometimes carries his
tyranny to great extremes against the
vultures. In hard times, when food
happens to be scarce, should he accidentally
meet with one of these who has
its craw crammed with carrion, he attacks
it fiercely in the air; the cowardly
vulture instantly disgorges, and the delicious
contents are snatched up by the
eagle before they reach the ground.

The nest of this species is generally
fixed on a very large and lofty tree, often
in a swamp or morass, and difficult to
be ascended. On some noted tree of
this description, often a pine or cypress,
the bald eagle builds, year after year,
for a long series of years. When both
male and female have been shot from the
nest, another pair has soon after taken
possession. The nest is large, being
added to and repaired every season,
until it becomes a black prominent mass,
observable at a considerable distance.
It is formed of large sticks, sods, earthy
rubbish, hay, moss, &c. Many have
stated to me that the female lays first a
single egg, and that, after having sat on
it for some time, she lays another; when
the first is hatched, the warmth of that,
it is pretended, hatches the other.
Whether this be correct or not, I cannot
determine; but a very respectable gentleman
of Virginia assured me, that he
saw a large tree cut down, containing
the nest of a bald eagle, in which were
two young, one of which appeared nearly
three times as large as the other. As
a proof of their attachment to their
young, a person near Norfolk informed
me, that, in clearing a piece of wood
on his place, they met with a large dead
pine tree, on which was a bald eagle’s
nest and young. The tree being on fire
more than half way up, and the flames
rapidly ascending, the parent eagle darted
around and among the flames, until
her plumage was so much injured that
it was with difficulty she could make her
escape, and even then, she several times
attempted to return to relieve her offspring.

The flight of the bald eagle, when
taken into consideration with the ardour
and energy of his character, is noble
and interesting. Sometimes the human
eye can just discern him, like a minute
speck, moving in slow curvatures along
the face of the heavens, as if reconnoitering
the earth at that immense distance.
Sometimes he glides along in a
direct horizontal line, at a vast height,
with expanded and unmoving wings, till
he gradually disappears in the distant
blue ether. Seen gliding in easy circles
over the high shores and mountainous
cliffs that tower above the Hudson and
Susquehanna, he attracts the eye of the
intelligent voyager, and adds great interest
to the scenery. At the great Cataract
of Niagara, already mentioned,
there rises from the gulf into which the
Falls of the Horse-Shoe descend, a
stupendous column of smoke, or spray,
reaching to the heavens, and moving off
in large black clouds, according to the
direction of the wind, forming a very
striking and majestic appearance. The
eagles are here seen sailing about, sometimes
losing themselves in this thick column,
and again reappearing in another
place, with such ease and elegance of
motion, as renders the whole truly sublime.

The white-headed eagle is three feet
long, and seven feet in extent; the bill
is of a rich yellow; cere the same,
slightly tinged with green; mouth flesh-coloured;
tip of the tongue, bluish
black; the head, chief part of the neck,
vent, tail coverts, and tail, are white in
the perfect, or old birds of both sexes,
in those under three years of age these
parts are of a gray brown; the rest of
the plumage is deep, dark brown, each
feather tipt with pale brown, lightest on
the shoulder of the wing, and darkest
towards its extremities. The conformation
of the wing is admirably adapted
for the support of so large a bird; it
measures two feet in breadth on the
greater quills, and sixteen inches on
the lesser; the longest primaries are
twenty inches in length, and upwards
of one inch in circumference where they
enter the skin; the broadest secondaries
are three inches in breadth across
the vane; the scapulars are very large
and broad, spreading from the back to
the wing, to prevent the air from passing
through; another range of broad
flat feathers, from three to ten inches in
length, also extend from the lower part
of the breast to the wing below, for
the same purpose; between these lies a
deep triangular cavity; the thighs are
remarkably thick, strong, and muscular,
covered with long feathers pointing backwards,
usually called the femoral feathers;
the legs, which are covered half
way below the knee, before, with dark
brown downy feathers, are of a rich
yellow, the colour of ripe Indian corn;
feet the same; claws blue black, very
large and strong, particularly the inner
one, which is considerably the largest;
soles, very rough and warty; the eye is
sunk, under a bony, or cartilaginous
projection, of a pale yellow colour, and
is turned considerably forwards, not
standing parallel with the cheeks, the
iris is of a bright straw colour, pupil
black.

The male is generally two or three
inches shorter than the female; the
white on the head, neck, and tail being
more tinged with yellowish, and its
whole appearance less formidable; the
brown plumage is also lighter, and the
bird itself less daring than the female, a
circumstance common to almost all birds
of prey.

The eagle is said to live to a great
age—sixty, eighty, and, as some assert,
one hundred years. This circumstance
is remarkable, when we consider the
seeming intemperate habits of the bird.
Sometimes fasting, through necessity,
for several days, and at other times
gorging itself with animal food till its
craw swells out the plumage of that
part, forming a large protuberance on
the breast. This, however, is its natural
food, and for these habits its whole
organization is particularly adapted. It
has not, like men, invented rich wines,
ardent spirits, and a thousand artificial
poisons, in the form of soups, sauces,
and sweetmeats. Its food is simple, it
indulges freely, uses great exercise,
breathes the purest air, is healthy, vigorous,
and long lived. The lords of
the creation themselves might derive
some useful hints from these facts, were
they not already, in general, too wise,
or too proud, to learn from their inferiors,
the fowls of the air and beasts
of the field.

NOTES OF A READER.

THE LATE MRS. SIDDONS.

The subsequent account of Mrs. Siddons,
nearly fifty years since, will perhaps
give the reader a better outline of
that “Queen of Tragedy” than any that
has since appeared. We ought to mention
that it is quoted from Mr. Boaden’s
Memoirs, and was written on the appearance
of Mrs. Siddons in the character
of Isabella, for the first time in London,
October 10, 1782. Mr. Boaden
thus introduces the quotation, in vol. i.
of his work:—

As the person of our great actress
has undergone some change, and her
features by time became stronger, I
should find it difficult now to describe
her accurately by memory, as she stood
before the audience on the night of the
10th of October. I am relieved from
this difficulty by an account of her written
at the time. I shall change only a
few of the expressions then used, more
from a feeling as to composition than
alteration as to sentiment.

There never, perhaps, was a better
stage-figure than that of Mrs. Siddons.
Her height is above the middle size, but
not at all inclined to the em-bon-point.
There is, notwithstanding, nothing sharp
or angular in the frame; there is sufficient
muscle to bestow a roundness upon
the limbs, and her attitudes are, therefore,
distinguished equally by energy and
grace. The symmetry of her person is
exact and captivating. Her face is peculiarly
happy, the features being finely
formed, though strong, and never for an
[pg 409]
instant seeming overcharged, like the
Italian faces, nor coarse and unfeminine
under whatever impulse; on the contrary,
it is so thoroughly harmonized
when quiescent, and so expressive when
impassioned, that most people think her
more beautiful than she is; so great,
too, is the flexibility of her countenance,
that the rapid transitions of passion
are given with a variety and effect
that never tire upon the eye. Her voice
is naturally plaintive, and a tender melancholy
in her level speaking denotes a
being devoted to tragedy; yet this seemingly
settled quality of voice becomes at
will sonorous or piercing, overwhelms
with rage, or in its wild shriek absolutely
harrows up the soul. Her sorrow,
too, is never childish—her lamentation
has a dignity which belongs, I
think, to no other woman: it claims
your respect along with your tears.
Her eye is brilliant and varying like the
diamond; it is singularly well placed;
“it pries,” in Shakspeare’s language,
“through the portal of the head,” and
has every aid from brows flexible beyond
all female parallel, contracting to disdain,
or dilating with the emotions of
sympathy, or pity, or anguish. Her
memory is tenacious and exact—her articulation
clear and distinct—her pronunciation
systematic and refined.

Nor has Nature been partially bountiful:
she has endowed her with a quickness
of conception, and a strength of
understanding equal to the proper use
of such extraordinary gifts. So entirely
is she mistress of herself, so collected,
and so determined in gestures, tone, and
manner, that she seldom errs, like other
actors, because she doubts her powers
or comprehension. She studies her author
attentively, conceives justly, and
describes with a firm consciousness of
propriety. She is sparing in her action,
because English nature does not act
much; but it is always proper, picturesque,
graceful, and dignified: it
arises immediately from the sentiments
and feeling, and is not seen to prepare
itself before it begins. No studied trick
or start can be predicted;—no forced
tremulation of the figure, where the vacancy
of the eye declares the absence
of passion, can be seen;—no laborious
strainings at false climax, in which the
tired voice reiterates one high tone beyond
which it cannot reach, is ever
heard;—no artificial heaving of the
breasts, so disgusting when the affectation
is perceptible;—none of those arts
by which the actress is seen, and not
the character, can be found in Mrs.
Siddons. So natural are her gradations
and transitions, so classical and correct
her speech and deportment, and so intensely
interesting her voice, form, and
features, that there is no conveying an
idea of the pleasure she communicates
by words. She must be seen to be
known. What is still more delightful,
she is an original: she copies no one
living or dead, but acts from nature and
herself.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

THE TWO MUNCHAUSENS.

By a veteran.

In the late —— Regiment of Light
Dragoons, were two worthy persons,
who were denominated the regimental
liars: a distinction to which, giving
every man his due, they were eminently
entitled. The great and fundamental
requisites for accomplished lying, I conceive
to be a good memory, a fertile
fancy, a ready wit, fluency of speech,
and a brazen countenance, so that you
shall tell a man a most bare-faced falsehood,
and afterwards adduce such connected
proofs as especially characterize
actual facts. The following dialogue
is a specimen of the talents of the aforementioned
mendacious personages.

C.—”See a man walk after he was
shot dead! so have I, a whole day’s
march.”

B.—”Come, come, that’s stealing a
march on our senses. No, no, it won’t
do: that’s a naked one; do pray turn
them out with some kind of probability
covering over them.”

C.—”What, doubt my veracity;”

B.—”Not for the world; that would
be illiberal and unkind, and by the way,
now I think on it, I believe the possibility
of a man travelling without his cranium,
for at the battle of Laswaree,
during that desperate contest for British
India, I saw a sergeant of the seventy-sixth
shot dead; yet the fellow pursued
his antagonist some hundred yards
afterwards, threatening vengeance on
the miscreant for having robbed the service
of one of its best men. Finding
himself weak from loss of blood, he deliberately
unscrewed his head, threw it
violently at the foe, and took him on the
spine; down he tumbled; the veteran
jumped upon him; fearful was the
struggle; chest to chest, fist to fist;
at last they joined in the death grapple,
and dreadful indeed was their dying
hug.”

C.—”My dear friend, I was an eye
[pg 410]
witness of the whole transaction. You
have however forgotten the best part of
the story. After the sergeant had well
pummelled his enemy, he picked up his
head again, and thrust into a neighbouring
great gun: from the want of his
peepers he made a random shot, and
killed the horse on which Lord Lake
was riding—his Lordship saluted the
sod.”

B.—”I recollect it perfectly; for the
nose of the said sergeant (recognised by
sundry carbuncles) was so hard, that the
following day it was extracted from the
abdomen of the unfortunate animal.”

C.—”You make a mistake about the
nose; it was discovered lodged in a loaf
in a corporal’s knapsack; the man
could swear to it, for it was perforated
by three balls, and otherwise curiously
marked. Report said that a shell had
once blown it completely off, and that it
was stitched on again by a shoe-maker,
who, ever after, went by the name of the
nosy cobbler.”

B.—”Nothing impossible. It reminds
me of a story somewhat as strange:
During the battle of Delhi there was a
quarter-master in the regiment, a queer
fellow, who was never at a loss; (he is
now in the corps, and can vouch for my
statement) he was charging at the head
of his squadron, when he caught a cannon
shot in his hands: instantly dismounting,
he chucked the ball into a
field-piece, but, for want of a ramrod,
he drove it home with his head. One
of the enemy, seeing him thus zealously
occupied, fired off the gun; strange to
tell he was not killed! From constant
exposure to the sun, in search of toddy,
and from the free use of cocoa-nut oil,
his head had become proof against shot.
The distance from the place whence he
was projected, to that where he was
picked up, measured three miles, two
furlongs, three yards, and eleven inches.
A hard-headed fellow, Sir.—In his career
he upset his colonel and a brace of
captains.”

C.—”He did; and where the colonel
was capsized, he made such a hole by
his enormous weight, that the sovereign
of Delhi ordered a large well to be dug
on the spot, in memory of the event.”

B.—”I remember the well—twelve
feet, three inches and a half, was the
exact depth of the excavation occasioned
by the fall.”

C.—”There you are wrong; only
eleven feet, three inches—”

B.—”No, believe me, I am right;
twelve feet, and three inches to a barleycorn.”

C.—”Never mind: a little, this way
or that, is of no consequence. The
most extraordinary thing was, that the
gallant colonel only sprained his right
arm.”

B.—”By no means extraordinary.
You remember the great gun of Agra,
in which a regiment of cavalry used to
drill.”

C—”I do. The one that fired the
stone ball to the wall of Futtipoore Sikrah—twenty
miles.”

B.—”The same. Well, when that
gun was fired, a thing that never occurred
but once, the head of the rash man
who fired it was afterwards found in the
Old Woman’s Tank, eleven miles from
the spot, without so much as a blemish,
except a slight singing of the right
whisker.”

C.—”Ah! I can never forget the
time; I had just landed in Calcutta when
we heard the report. Some of the wadding
went as far as Cawnpore.”

Here the trumpet, sounding for morning
drill, put a stop to the colloquy.—Englishman’s Magazine.

THE MISER’S GRAVE.

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

Blackwood’s Magazine.

THE SELECTOR;
AND
LITERARY NOTICES OF
NEW WORKS.

PARIS AND ITS HISTORICAL SCENES

(Library of Entertaining Knowledge,
Part 18.)

We have little inclination to quote more
than a few passages from the General
View of Paris in this Number; the topographical
portion of which, (as far as
a four months residence there will serve
our judgment) is eminently characteristic.

Ancient City.

The Archbishop of Narbonne, writing
in the reign of Francis I., (about 1520,)
calls Paris even then a world rather than
a city³; yet at that period its population
was probably not much more than the
fifth part of what it now is; nor did the
quantity of ground it covered bear even
the same proportion to the immense
space over which it has now extended.
But in both convenience and elegance,
Paris has made still more extraordinary
advances since the time of Francis than
even in population and extent. It was
then, compared to what it now is, but
a gloomy and incommodious fortress,
without even the security which encompassing
fortifications might be supposed
to yield. Lighted only by candles placed
here and there by the inhabitants themselves
in their windows, it was so infested
by thieves and assassins that hardly
any person ventured out after dark, and
the approach of night was the source of
constant terror even to those who remained
in their houses. The streets thus
imperfectly lighted, were worse paved;
and most of them were as dirty and narrow
as those still to be seen in the more
ancient part of the city. The supply of
water was so inadequate that the severest
miseries were sometimes suffered
from the absolute want of that necessary
of life, and the greatest inconveniences
at all times from its scarcity. Finally,
the public edifices were without splendour,
and even the best of the private
houses unprovided with many of what
are now accounted the most indispensable
accommodations. Instead of all this,
we behold Paris now one of the very central
seats of civilization; and although
[pg 412]
still deficient in many of the accommodations
which supply to the necessities of
the many instead of the luxuries of the
few, in possession of the greater portion
of the most important provisions which
ingenuity has found out, whether for the
comfort or the embellishment of existence.
What a contrast between the
French capital of 1831, and that Lutetia
of the ancient Parisii, which Caesar
found nearly nineteen hundred years ago
occupying the little island, around which
has since extended itself so wide a circle
of wealth, industry, intelligence, and the
works which these create!

Bridges.

Paris, stands, like London, on both
banks of a river, and is thus cut into two
great divisions, one to the north, and the
other to the south, of the water. The
Seine, however, is not nearly so broad
as the Thames; and the northern and
southern halves of Paris are not, therefore,
by any means so much separated
from each other, either locally, politically,
or socially, as are the corresponding
portions of the English metropolis.
They form, in all respects one city.

The Seine flows in a direction nearly
opposite to that of the Thames, namely,
from south-east to north-west. It preserves
almost a perfectly straight course
in passing through Paris, except that it
bends considerably to the south immediately
before leaving the town. The
river, as it flows through the heart of
the city, is interrupted by three small
islands lying in succession, the two most
westerly of which, the Ile de la Cité
(otherwise called the Ile du Palais) and
the Ile St. Louis, or de Notre Dame,
are covered with streets and houses.
The third, called the Ile Louvier, is used
only as a depôt for fire-wood. The parts
of the town on the opposite sides of the
river are connected with each other, and
with these islands, by nineteen bridges,
thirteen of which are constructed of stone,
and two of stone and iron: of the others
two are chain-bridges, one is built of
wood, and two of wood and iron. Several
of these structures, especially the
Pont des Arts, the Pont Louis XVI.,
and the Pont de Jena, or de l’Ecole
Militaire, all of which are to the west of
the Ile du Palais, are distinguished by
their majesty or elegance, and add much
beauty and picturesque effect to the
vista of the river. Excepting at one
place where the two branches enclosing
the Ile du Palais unite, immediately to
the west of that island, the breadth of
the Seine at Paris is no where greater
than about 550 English feet, and at some
points it is not more than half that distance
from the one bank to the other.
The bridges, therefore, by which the
Seine is traversed, are not to be compared
in point of magnitude with those
of the Thames at London. Even the
Pont Neuf, which connects the Ile du
Palais with both the northern and the
southern divisions of the city, and comprehends
in fact two bridges, with an
intermediate street, is shorter taken
altogether, than Waterloo bridge by
more than 200 feet; and the Pont Louis
XVI., which next to the Pont Neuf is
the longest of the Parisian stone bridges,
measures only about 485 feet between
the abutments, while Westminster Bridge
measures 1223, and Waterloo Bridge
1242 feet. It is in the number of its
bridges alone, therefore, that the Seine
is superior to the Thames.

The Boulevards.

The most remarkable feature in the
general appearance of Paris, is the inner
inclosure formed by the celebrated road
called the Boulevards. On the north
side of the river, the Boulevards follow
a line nearly midway, on an average,
between the river and the wall. The
space which they comprehend, therefore,
is but a small portion of that included
within the outer boundary of the city.
The length of this part of the road is
about 5,200 English yards, or somewhat
under three miles. That on the south
side of the river is of far greater extent,
approaching, as it does, throughout its
whole sweep, very much closer to the
wall, and in some parts entirely coinciding
with it. It measures about 16,000 yards,
or above nine miles in length. Each of
these lines, although in reality forming
an uninterrupted road from its commencement
to its termination, is divided into a
succession of parts, each having its particular
name. The northern Boulevards
are twelve in number, the southern
seven. We have nothing in England
like the Parisian Boulevards. They may
be generally described as a road or
street, of great breadth, along each side
of which are planted double rows of elms.
But these shady avenues do not present
merely a picture of rural beauty. Rising
as they do in the heart of a great city,
they partake also of its artificial elegance
and splendour, and are associated with
all the luxuries of architectural decoration.
Considered merely as a range of
streets, the Boulevards are hardly rivalled
by any other part of Paris. Those to
the north of the river are lined on both
sides throughout their whole extent, by
buildings more uniformly handsome than
[pg 413]
are those of almost any other street in
the city, and by many which may be
even described as magnificent. Some of
these are private residences; others are
shops, cafés, public hotels, and theatres.
The crowds by whom so many parts of
these Boulevards are frequented chiefly
give to the scene its singular liveliness
and brilliancy. The southern Boulevards,
though equally beautiful, are far
from being so much the habitual resort
of the citizens; but the walks on this
very account, have a charm for some
moods of mind which the others want.
Another road, planted in a similar manner,
has more recently been carried
round the outside of the present walls of
the city. It is distinguished from the
inner Boulevards by the name of the
Boulevards Extérieurs.

Streets.

To a person accustomed to the appearance
of the streets of London, or indeed
of any other English town, those of the
interior of Paris will present considerable
novelty of aspect. The extreme
narrowness, in the first place, of those
in the more ancient parts of the city, and
the great height of the houses, with
their windows in many cases fortified by
bars of iron, would alone give them an
air of gloom and precaution, almost
sufficient to impress the Englishman
who walks through them with the feeling
that he has been transported, not
only into another country, but into
another age. Even where these indications
of the more ancient evils of Paris
are not visible, the general aspect of the
town shows that it has not grown with
the growth of a free people, amongst
whom the inequalities of rank have been
softened down by respect to the comforts
of all classes. Under the ancient régime,
which was in full activity half a century
ago, there were only two classes in Paris,
the noblesse, and the bourgeoisie; and
the latter, being driven into the gutters
by the carriage-wheels of their arrogant
masters, went by the general name of
the canaille. Few of the streets even
now have any side pavement for foot
passengers—that invaluable accommodation
which gives such perfect security
to the pedestrian even in our most crowded
and tumultuous thoroughfare. The
causeway itself, on which walkers and
drivers are thus mingled together in
confusion, is often most uneven and
rugged. The stones of which it is formed,
about ten inches square, present each
a convex surface, usually wet and slippery,
so that under the most favourable
circumstances, walking in the streets of
Paris is anything but an agreeable exercise.
Still farther to abridge the level
space, the street is made to incline from
both sides towards the centre, in order
to form there a sort of ditch, in which
flows a black and fetid stream. From
the want of a proper system of drains,
this receptacle of filth is generally sufficiently
replenished even in the driest
weather, to keep the whole street wet
and dirty. Carriages, having usually
one wheel in the midst of the kennel,
dash about the offensive puddle in all
directions. But the principle of a clear
middle way, such as our English streets
possess, is neglected in all the arrangements
connected with those of Paris.
Even the lights, instead of being fixed
on posts, as ours are, at the sides, are
suspended in the middle on ropes swung
across, and having their opposite ends
fastened to the walls of the houses. It
was these ropes which the mob, in the
Revolution of 1789, were wont to make
use of as halters for their victims; whence
their famous cry of á la lanterne, as
they dragged them along to execution.

The aspect of Paris by night, except
in a few of the principal streets where
gas has been very partially introduced,
is singularly gloomy. The darkness is
occasionally relieved by the brilliancy of
a café; but in the more quiet parts of
the town, particularly in the fashionable
quarter of the Faubourg St. Germain, it
is almost impossible for the pedestrian
to direct his steps aright. It is quite
evident that the arrangements of this
capital have not been made for a walking
people. This evil, however, is fast
disappearing. Numerous passages have
been constructed, within the last ten
years, which are paved with flat stones,
and brilliantly lighted; and the active
and pleasure-seeking population of Paris
crowd to these attractive and convenient
places, to the Boulevards, or to the Palais-Royal,
and leave the narrow and
dirty streets principally to the few who
keep their own carriages, or to the many
who hire public conveyances. These
are of various kinds; and such was the
growing importance of the middle classes,
that fiacres (so called after the sign of
St Fiacre, at the house where they were
first established) were in use a century
and a half ago.

The remainder of the Part is occupied
with a sketch of the Revolution of 1789.

REFORM OF EARLY PARLIAMENTS.

Though no language can adequately
condemn the base subserviency of Henry’s
parliament, it may be reasonably doubted
[pg 414]
whether his reign was, in its ultimate
consequences, injurious to public
liberty. The immense revolutions of his
time in property, in religion, and in the
inheritance of the crown, never could
have been effected without the concurrence
of parliament. Their acquiescence
and co-operation in the spoliation
of property, and the condemnation of
the innocent, tempted him to carry all
his purposes into execution, through
their means. Those who saw the attainders
of queens, the alteration of an
established religion, and the frequent
disturbance of the regal succession, accomplished
by acts of parliament, considered
nothing as beyond the jurisdiction
of so potent an assembly.⁴ If the supremacy
was a tremendous power, it
accustomed the people to set no bounds
to the authority of those who bestowed
it on the king. The omnipotence of
parliament appeared no longer a mere
hyperbole. Let it not be supposed,
that to mention the good thus finally
educed from such evils, is intended or
calculated to palliate crimes, or to lessen
our just abhorrence of criminals. Nothing,
on the contrary, seems more to
exalt the majesty of virtue than to point
out the tendency of the moral government
of the world, which, as in this
instance, turns the worst enemies of all
that is good into the laborious slaves
of justice. Of all outward benefits,
the most conducive to virtue as well
as to happiness is, doubtless, popular
and representative government. It is the
reverse of a degradation of it to observe,
that its establishment among us
was perhaps partially promoted by the
sensuality, rapacity, and cruelty of Henry
VIII. The course of affairs is always
so dark, the beneficial consequences of
public events are so distant and uncertain,
that the attempt to do evil in order
to produce good is in men a most criminal
usurpation.

Some direct benefits the constitution
owes to this reign. The act which
established a parliamentary representation
in so considerable a territory as
Wales may be regarded as the principal
reformation in the composition of the
House of Commons since its legal maturity
in the time of Edward I. That
principality had been divided into twelve
shires: of which eight were ancient,⁵
and four owed their origin to a statute
of Henry’s reign.⁶ Knights, citizens,
and burgesses were now directed to be
chosen and sent to parliament from the
shires, cities, and burghs of Wales.⁷ A
short time before, the same privileges
were granted to the county palatine of
Chester, of which the preamble contains
a memorable recognition and establishment
of the principles which are
the basis of the elective part of our constitution.⁸
Nearly thirty members were
thus added to the House of Commons
on the principle of the Chester bill:
that is disadvantageous to a province to
be unrepresented; that representation
is essential to good government; and
that those who are bound by the laws
ought to have a reasonable share of direct
influence on the passing of laws.
As the practical disadvantages are only
generally alleged, and could scarcely
have been proved, they must have been
inferred from the nature of a House of
Commons. The British constitution
was not thought to be enjoyed by a
district till a popular representation was
bestowed on it. Election by the people
was regarded, not as a source of tumult,
but as the principle most capable of
composing disorder in territories not
represented.—Cabinet Cyclopaedia, vol.
xix. Sir James Mackintosh’s History of
England, vol. ii.

THE TOPOGRAPHER.

TRAVELLING NOTES IN SOUTH WALES.

(Continued from page 312.)

The grounds of Penrice Castle, which
stretch to the sea-shore, and on which
art has embellished scenery possessing
capabilities of a high order—are exceedingly
picturesque and extensive.
Penrice bears marks of having been a
Roman station. Henry de Newburgh,
Earl of Warwick, here defeated the
Welsh prince, Rhys, which decided the
fate of Gower. He was beheaded
after the battle, whence the Welsh
name, Pen-Rhys. On the field of battle
[pg 415]
the victor erected Penrice Castle,
which is now certainly a striking ruin.
On the coast near Penrice is the village
and ruins of the Castle of Oxwich,
now a barn—sic transit!

The afternoon was waxing apace—we
had lost time in attending to our
horses, for ostler there was none—and
in musing amongst the simply decorated
graves in the humble churchyard;⁹
after discussing with great relish our
repast of eggs and bacon, and Welsh
ale, the best the village afforded, (by
the way, we shall not readily forget the
fluster of our Welsh hostess when we
talked of dining on our arrival at the
little hostelrie) we then rode down to
the sea-shore, intending to cross the
sandy beach of Oxwich, which extends
several miles, on our return to the
Gower Inn. The tide flows with great
rapidity on this coast, and it had already
advanced to the foot of a stupendous
headland, which juts into the beach
about half way. We waded our horses
through the surf—but how can we do
justice to the splendour of the scenery
around us. The alternations of stern
and savage beauty—the gigantic masses
of “fantastic cliffs,” and caverns, that
have stood the combat of the mighty
Atlantic for countless ages? Oxwich is
almost unknown to the traveller, and
there are few coast scenes in these
islands that surpass it in beauty. We
lingered long on the shore. There is a
perpetual “jabble” against the cliffs on
this coast—and we have seldom met
with a soul save an aged and solitary
fisherwoman—a study for a Bonington—pursuing
her precarious calling of
crab or shrimp fishing, or of pulling
lobsters from their retreats in the savage
cliffs.

It was getting dusk when we ascended
from the shore, on our way homewards,
past the wild—the truly shattered, and
desolate ruins of Pennard Castle; which
bear, we think, decided marks of having
been erected long prior to the Norman
era. The country people tell you
its origin was supernatural; and some
writers ascribe it to that great castle-builder,
Henry de Newburgh. Pennard
stands in a situation of extreme beauty,
and deeply rivets the attention:

Our favourite mare and her companion
were in high spirits, (horses are
generally so on returning) exhilarated
by the rapid motion; and our hearts
elate with the “songs of spring,” we
returned home on as sweet an April
evening as ever blessed man.

Another interesting excursion maybe
made to Cefyn-bryn, the most elevated
hill in the district, about twelve miles
from Swansea. The road to Western
Gower is carried over it; the summit
is level, and a carriage may be driven in
safety for a couple of miles to the
southern point; which commands, on a
clear day, in one direction, a vast and
unbounded view of the Bristol Channel,
the whitened houses of Ilfracombe, with
the hills of Devon and Somerset, Lundy
Island, and the scenery of Swansea Bay.
And on the reverse of the picture, almost
the whole peninsula of Gower, the
extensive estuary of the Burry River,
and part of the beautiful expanse of the
County and Bay of Carmarthen, is
spread out like a map before you. King
Arthur’s Stone, an immense rock of
lapis molaris, twenty tons weight, supported
by a circle of others—the remains
of Druidism—invites the attention
of the antiquary, on the north-west
point of Cefyn-bryn. We may here remark
that this district, especially the
coast, offers a rich harvest to the geologist.
The general substratum of the
peninsula is limestone and marble,
bounded to the north by an immense
iron and coalfield. The limestone stratum
is continually “cropping out” in the interior,
and of course it can be worked
at a trifling expense. This may account
for the general healthiness of the district.
Though rain in consequence of
the western exposure, falls frequently,
and sometimes with great violence, yet
it speedily runs off, leaving none of the
bad effects which would be produced in
a tenacious soil. Marble of valuable
quality is worked at Oystermouth.

But we must hasten to close our Notes
on Gower—to proceed with our circuit
of the coast:—West from Oxwich is
Porteyron, where there is an extensive
lobster and oyster fishery, near which
is Landewy Castle. There is a wonderful
precipice here. Further west we
come to the village of Rossilly, near the
Worms-Head, the termination of a range
of rocks, which form the western point
of the peninsula, being connected with
it by a low isthmus. It extends more
than a mile into the ocean, and at half-flood
becomes an island. The name
arose by mariners comparing it to a
worm with its head erect, between the
Nass Point and St. Gower’s Head, in
Pembrokeshire. The scenery here is
[pg 416]
deeply interesting. This wild and desolate
coast has proved fatal to numberless
ships; the recent erection of the
light-house on Caldy Island, near Tenby,
on the opposite point of Carmarthen
Bay, has, however, been most important.
Several Indiamen have been wrecked
here, and about fifty years since, a
quantity of Spanish dollars, date 1625,
were found amongst the sand, when the
tide had receded unusually far, supposed
to be part of the cargo of the “Scanderoon
galley” lost on this coast nearly
two centuries ago. This would do for
the “Vigo Bay Company.” We proceed
along the western shore of Carmarthen
Bay, till we pass Whitford
Point, a singular peninsula of sand,
covered with reeds, which stands the
fury of the tide, forming one side of
the wide estuary of Barry, along the
coast of which we pass a Roman encampment
at Llanmadoc—the striking
Castle of Llanridian, and other ruins,
as we return eastward to Swansea; till
we arrive at the village—we forget ourselves,
the Borough of Castell Llwchyr,
or Loughor, the Leucarum of Antoninus,
and the fifth Roman station on the
Via Julia. It is seven miles from
Swansea. Upon a mount, the supposed
work of the Romans, is a square tower,
the remains of a castle built by Henry,
Earl of Warwick. Three miles to the
east are two Roman encampments; many
Roman coins have been found at Loughor,
from whence there is a ferry to the
Carmarthenshire side opposite, which
is fordable at low water. There is a
large colliery here. It is a delightful
sail from this village down the Burry
River to Whitford Point, or round the
coast to Worms-Head.

VYVYAN.

THE GATHERER.

“A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.”

SHAKSPEARE.

The following curious letter was found
among the papers of a Mr. Goldwyre,
Surgeon, of Salisbury.

To Mr. Edward Goldwyre, at his house
on the Close of Salisbury.

Sir,—Being informed that you are
the only surgeon in this city (or country)
that anatomises men, and I being under
the present unhappy circumstances, and
in a very mean condition, would gladly
live as long as I can, but by all appearances
I am to be executed next March,
but having no friends on earth that will
speak a word to save my life, nor send
me a morsel of bread to keep life and
soul together until that fatal day; so if
you will vouchsafe to come hither, I
will gladly sell you my body (being
whole and sound) to be ordered at your
discretion, knowing that it will rise
again at the general resurrection, as well
from your house as from the grave.
Your answer will highly oblige, yours,
&c.

JAMES BROOKE.
  Fisherton-Auger Gaol,
    Oct. 3, 1736.

A farmer walking out one day, by
chance met Jack Ketch, and jocosely
asked him whether he could tell him the
difference between their trades. “That
I can,” said Jack, “the only difference
is utility—you till, I tie.”

WALTER.

What is the most suitable motto for a
doctor’s carriage? Live or die.

Why is the carver in a cook-shop like
a naval officer? Because he commands
a cutter.

W.G.C.

EPITAPHS.

FOR ALL FAMILIES.

This Day, Second Edition, price 5s.

FAMILY MANUAL and SERVANTS’ GUIDE,

With upwards of One Thousand New and Approved
Receipts, arranged and adapted for Families
and all Classes of Servants.

“We shall recommend this book every where,
if it were only for the sake of the excellent suggestions
on the ‘self-improvement’ of house-servants.”—Gardeners’
Magazine, June 1830.

“It should find a place in the kitchen or servants’
hall of those who desire to blend comfort
with elegance, and prudence with luxury.”—New
Monthly Magazine, Feb. 1831.

“This book contains a mass of information
that cannot fail to be useful in the conduct of
household affairs.”—Atlas, May 22.

“No servant should he without it.”—Morning
Advertiser, April 27.

Printed for JOHN LIMBIRD, 143. Strand.

Footnote 1: (return)

Ballot Newspaper.

Footnote 2: (return)

It must not be supposed that the opinion on
the immortality of the soul was confined either
to Christians or Jews; according to Herodotus,
(lib. 2) the Massagetae believed in the immortality
of the soul; the most eminent of the ancient
philosophers invariably advocated that doctrine,
one of the most important in the Christian’s
Creed.

Footnote 3: (return)

Felibien, Histoire de Paris, tome i.

Footnote 4: (return)

The observations of Nathaniel Bacon, or
rather of Selden from whose MS. notes he is
said to have written his book, deserve serious
consideration. Bacon on the Laws and Government
of England, chap. 27.

Footnote 5: (return)

Glamorgan, Carmarthen, Pembroke, Cardigan,
Flint, Carnarvon, Anglesea and Merioneth.

Footnote 6: (return)

Radnor, Brecknock, Montgomery, and Denbigh,
27 Henry 8 c. 26.

Footnote 7: (return)

34 and 35 Henry 8. c. 26. s. 50.

Footnote 8: (return)

34 and 35 Henry 8. c. 13.—”That the said
county have hitherto been excluded from the
high court of parliament, to have any knights
and burgesses within the said court, by reason
whereof the inhabitants have sustained manifold
damages in their lands, goods, and bodies, as
well as in the good governance of the commonwealth
of their said country; and for as much as
they have been bound by the acts of the said
court, and yet have had no knights and burgesses
therein, for lack whereof they have been
often touched and grieved by the acts of the said
parliament, prejudicial to the commonwealth,
quietness, rest, and peace of your highness’s
bounden subjects, inhabiting within the said
county,” &c.

Footnote 9: (return)

See Mirror, vol. xvi. p. 253.

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