The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 288, Supplementary Number

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

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

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

There was a time when I could feelAll passion's hopes and fears,And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal,By smiles, and sighs, and tears.The days are gone! no more, no more,The cruel fates allow;And, though I'm hardly twenty-four,I'm not a lover now.Lady, the mist is on my sight,The chill is on my brow;My day is night, my bloom is blight—I'm not a lover now!I never talk about the clouds,I laugh at girls and boys,I'm growing rather fond of crowds,And very fond of noise;I never wander forth aloneUpon the mountain's brow;I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone,—I'm not a lover now!I never wish to raise a veil,I never raise a sigh;I never tell a tender tale,I never tell a lie;I cannot kneel as once I did;I've quite forgot my bow;I never do as I am bid,—I'm not a lover now!I make strange blunders every day,If I would be gallant,Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey.And nieces for their aunt;I fly from folly, though it flowsFrom lips of loveliest glow;I don't object to length of nose,—I'm not a lover now!The muse's steed is very fleet—I'd rather ride my mare;The poet hunts a quaint conceit—I'd rather hunt a hare;I've learnt to utter yours and youInstead of thine and thou;And oh! I can't endure a Blue!—I'm not a lover now!I find my Ovid dry,My Petrarch quite a pill,Cut Fancy for Philosophy,Tom Moore for Mr. Mill;And belles may read, and beaux may write,I care not who or how;I burnt my album Sunday night,—I'm not a lover now!I don't encourage idle dreamsOf poison or of ropes,I cannot dine on airy schemes,I cannot sup on hopes:New milk, I own is very fine,Just foaming from the cow;But yet I want my pint of wine,—I'm not a lover now!When Laura sings young hearts away,I'm deafer than the deep;When Leonora goes to play,I sometimes go to sleep;When Mary draws her white gloves out,I never dance, I vow:"Too hot to kick one's heels about!"—I'm not a lover now!I'm busy now with state affairs,I prate of Pitt and Fox;I ask the price of rail-road shares,I watch the turns of stocks:And this is life! no verdure bloomsUpon the withered bough.I save a fortune in perfumes,—I'm not a lover now!I may be yet what others are,A boudoir's babbling fool;The flattered star of bench or har,A party's chief or tool:Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear,The palace or the plough—My heart and lute are broken here,—I'm not a lover now!Lady, the mist is on my sight,The chill is on my brow;My day is night, my bloom is blight,—I'm not a lover now!

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

The Amulet

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

THE LAST VOYAGE. A TRUE STORY

By Mrs. Opie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bijou

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

A LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRYBY THOMAS HOOD, ESQWell hast thou cried, departed Burke,All chivalrous romantic work,Is ended now and past!—That iron age—which some have thoughtOf metal rather overwrought—Is now all over-cast!Ay,—where are those heroic knightsOf old—those armadillo wightsWho wore the plated vest,—Great Charlemagne, and all his peersAre cold—enjoying with their spearsAn everlasting rest!—The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound,So sleep his knights who gave that RoundOld Table such eclat!Oh Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!And none engage at turneys nowBut those who go to law!Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by,And Guy is nothing but a Guy,Orlando lies forlorn!—Bold Sidney, and his kidney—nay,Those "early champions"—what are theyBut Knights without a morn!No Percy branch now perseveresLike those of old in breaking spears—The name is now a lie!—Surgeons, alone, by any chance,Are all that ever couch a lanceTo couch a body's eye!Alas! for Lion-Hearted Dick,That cut the Moslem to the quick,His weapon lies in peace,—Oh, it would warm them in a trice,If they could only have a spiceOf his old mace in Greece!The fam'd Rinaldo lies a-cold,And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,That scal'd the holy wall!No Saracen meets Paladin,We hear of no great Saladin,But only grow the small!Our Cressys too have dwindled sinceTo penny things—at our Black PrinceHistoric pens would scoff—The only one we moderns hadWas nothing but a Sandwich lad,And measles took him off:—Where are those old and feudal clans,Their pikes, and bills, and partizans!Their hauberks—jerkins—buffs?A battle was a battle then,A breathing piece of work—but menFight now with powder puffs!The curtal-axe is out of date!The good old cross-bow bends to Fate,'Tis gone—the archer's craft!No tough arm bends the springing yew.And jolly draymen ride, in lieuOf Death, upon the shaft.—The spear—the gallant tilter's prideThe rusty spear is laid aside,Oh spits now domineer!—The coat of mail is left alone,—And where is all chain armour gone?Go ask at Brighton Pier.We fight in ropes and not in lists,Bestowing hand-cuffs with our fists,A low and vulgar art!—No mounted man is overthrown—A tilt!—It is a thing unknown—Except upon a cart.Methinks I see the bounding barb,Clad like his Chief in steely garb,For warding steel's appliance!—Methinks I hear the trumpet stir!'Tis but the guard to Exeter,That bugles the "Defiance!"In cavils when will cavaliersSet ringing helmets by the ears,And scatter plumes about?Or blood—if they are in the vein?That tap will never run again—Alas the Casque is out!No iron-crackling now is scor'dBy dint of battle-axe or sword,To find a vital place—Though certain Doctors still pretendAwhile, before they kill a friend,To labour through his case.Farewell, then, ancient men of might!Crusader! errant squire, and knight!Our coats and customs soften,—To rise would only make ye weep—Sleep on, in rusty iron sleep,As in a safety-coffin!VERSES FOR AN ALBUMFresh clad from Heaven in robes of whiteA young probationer of light.Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright.A spotless leaf but thought, and care—And friends, and foes, in foul or fair,Have "written strange defeature" there.And Time, with heaviest hand of all,Like that fierce writing on the wall,Hath stamp'd sad dates—he can't recall.And error gilding worst designs—Like speckled snake that strays and shines—Betrays his path by crooked lines.And vice hath left his ugly blot—And good resolves, a moment hot,Fairly began—but finish'd not.And fruitless late remorse doth trace—Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace—Her irrecoverable race.Disjointed numbers—sense unknit—Huge reams of folly—shreds of wit—Compose the mingled mass of it.My scalded eyes no longer brook,Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look,Go—shut the leaves—and clasp the book!—

THE LITERARY POCKET-BOOK

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

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

"Spirits of beef, where are ye? are ye all fled?"

Henry the Eighth.

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

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

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

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

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

TIMES TELESCOPE

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

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

1

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