The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 280, October 27, 1827

PORSON

The late professor having once exasperated a disputant by the dryness of his sarcasm, the petulant opponent thus addressed him:—"Mr. Porson, I beg leave to tell you, sir, that my opinion of you is perfectly contemptible." Person replied, "I never knew an opinion of yours, sir, which was not contemptible."

THE DRAMA AND ITS PROFESSORS

(For the Mirror.)

It is remarkable with what difference actors were treated among the ancients. At Athens, they were held in such esteem, as to be sometimes appointed to discharge embassies and other negotiations; whereas, at Rome, if a citizen became an actor, he thereby forfeited his freedom. Among the moderns, actors are best treated in England; the French having much the same opinion of them that the Romans had; for though an actor of talent, in Paris, is more regarded than here, he nevertheless is deeply degraded. He may die amid applauses on the stage, but at his natural death, he must pass to his grave, without a prayer or de profundis, unless a minister of religion receives his last sigh.

Cromwell and his Puritans had a holy horror of actors. They pronounced them Sons of Belial! and professors of abomination. During the whole reign of the Republican Parliament, and Protectorate, the theatres of that day were closed, or, if opened by stealth, were subject to the visits of the emissaries of "Praise God Barebones," "Fight the Good Fight," and their crew. The actors were driven off the stage by soldiers, and the cant word of that period is still recorded, "Enter red coat, exit hat and cloak." William Prynne was celebrated for his writings against the immorality of the stage, and the furious invectives of Jeremy Collier, are still extant; his pen was roused by Dryden's Spanish Friar, and Congreve's witty, but licentious comedies. Collier inveighed without mercy, but he certainly did much to reform the stage. Our Evangelicals and Methodists denounce the histrionic art to this day, with more than the zeal of the Church of Rome. But a follower of Wesley or Whitfield would not enter the den of abomination. Here, however, we take care all our comedies shall be purified, and our tragedies free, even from an oath; both are subject to the censor's unsparing pen, and must be subsequently licensed by the Lord Chamberlain.

The actors in England, have, it is true, only become respectable within the last half century, and though they are termed his majesty's servants, yet an unrepealed statute denounces them as vagabonds. As a body, numerous in itself, they are as free from crime as any other associated body or profession of men, and yet do they "his majesty's servants" continue to lay under the stigma which the above unrepealed act fixes upon them. This is perfectly anomalous, and it was spiritedly denounced by Sir Walter Scott, when on a recent and interesting occasion he nobly and manfully declared "Its professors had been stigmatized; and laws had been passed against them less dishonourable to them than to the statesman by whom they were proposed, and to the legislators by whom they were passed." To repeal, therefore, an act nugatory in itself, would not add to the reputation of the profession, nor give a license to further abuse; but it would be an act of justice, and remove a prejudice unjustly attached to the professors of a difficult art.

The critical pen of Mrs. Inchbald justly remarks, "To the honour of a profession long held in contempt by the wise—and still contemned by the weak—Shakspeare, the pride of Britain, was a player." To the illustrious bard, the modern drama is indebted for its excellence. His writings will remain for ever the grandest monument of a genius which opened to him the whole heart of man, all the mines of fancy, all the stores of nature, and gave him power beyond all other writers, to move, astonish, and delight mankind. In the drama, the most interesting emotions are excited; the dangerous passions of hate, envy, avarice, and pride, with all their innumerable train of attendant vices, are detected and exposed. Love, friendship, gratitude, and all those active and generous virtues which warm the heart and exalt the mind, are held up as objects of emulation. And what can be a more effectual method of softening the ferocity, and improving the minds of the inconsiderate? The heart is melted by the scene, and ready to receive an impression—either to warn the innocent, or to appal the guilty; and numbers of those who have neither abilities nor time for deriving advantage from reading, are powerfully impressed through the medium of the eyes and ears, with those important truths which while they illuminate the understanding, correct the heart. The moral laws of the drama are said to have an effect next after those conveyed from the pulpit, or promulgated in courts of justice. Mr. Burke, indeed, has gone so far as to observe that "the theatre is a better school of moral sentiment than churches." The drama, therefore, has a right to find a place; and to its professors are we indebted for what may justly be considered one of the highest of all intellectual gratifications.

F.K.Y.

MEMORY

(For the Mirror.)

How many a mortal bears a heavy chain,Of bitter sorrow, 'neath thy iron reign,And many a one, whose harder fate has given,Some early woes, by thee to madness driven,Sees the sad vision of some bygone day,And thinks on what he hath seen with dismay:So some lone murderer, wanders o'er the worldBy thy dread arm to desperation hurl'd;In vain he prays, or bends the lowly knee,With fiendlike power, thou dragg'st him back with thee,Point'st to some scene of early guilt and woe,Opening the source from whence his sorrows flow.As round the bark which feels the tempest's shock,The lightning plays, and shows the fatal rock,So memory brings our sorrows all to lightWith vivid truth presents them to the sight;Pursues the wretch who else some joy might find,To fix her seat of empire in his mind.As desert lakes in sad illusion fly,Before the weary traveller's cheated eyeSo memory shows, those hopes we still would cherish.Pleased but to fade, allured us but to perish.

M.B.S.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

ON COALHEAVERS

Although in this age of all but universal hypocrisy and make-believe, every man has at least two fashions of one countenance, it is in dress principally that most men are most unlike themselves. But the coalheaver always sticks close to the attire of his station; he alone wears the consistent and befitting garb of his forefathers; he alone has not discarded "the napless vesture of humility," to follow the always expensive, and often absurd fashions of his superiors. All ungalled of him is each courtier's heel or great man's kibe. Yet, is not even his every-day clothing unseemly, or his aspect unprepossessing. He casts as broad and proper a shadow in the sun as any other man. Black he is, indeed, but comely, like the daughters of Jerusalem.—To begin with the hat which he has honoured with a preference—what are your operas or your fire-shovels beside it? they must instantly (on a fair comparison) sink many degrees below zero in the scale of contempt. In a word, I would make bold to assert that it unites in perfection the two grand requisites of a head covering, beauty and comfort. Gentlemen may smile at this if they will, and take exception to my taste; but, I ask, does the modern round hat, whatever the insignificant variations of its form, possess either quality? No, not a jot of it. One would think, by our pertinacious adherence to the head-ach giving, circular conformation, that we wished to show our anger at the Almighty for not shaping our caputs like cylinders. In fine, though the parson's and the quaker's hat has each its several merits, commend me to the fan-tailed shallow. The flap part attached to the cap seems, at first sight, as to use, supernecessary, although so ornamental withal. It no doubt (as its name, indeed indicates) had its origin in gallantry, and was invented in the age of fans, for the purpose of cooling their mistresses' bosoms, heated—as they would necessarily be—at fair time, by their gravel-grinding walks, under a fervid sun, to the elegant revels of West-end, of Greenwich, or of Tothill-fields. Breeches, rejected by common consent of young and old alike, cling to the legs of the coalheaver with an abiding fondness, as to the last place of refuge; and, on gala-days, a dandy might die of envy to mark the splendour of those nether integuments—which he has not soul enough to dare to wear—of brilliant eye-arresting blue, or glowing scarlet plush, glittering in the sun's rays, giving and taking glory! But enough of the dress of these select "true-born Englishmen"—for right glad I am to state that there are but two Scotch coalheavers on the whole river, and no Irish. I beg leave to return to the more important consideration of their manners. Most people you meet in your walks in the common thoroughfare of London, glide, shuffle, or crawl onward, as if they conscientiously thought they had no manner of right to tread the earth but on sufferance. Not so our coalheaver. Mark how erect he walks! how firm a keel he presents to the vainly breasting human tide that comes rolling on with a show of opposition to his onward course! It is he, and he only, who preserves, in his gait and in his air, the self-sustained and conscious dignity of the first-created man. Surrounded by an inferior creation, he gives the wall to none. That pliancy of temper, which is wont to make itself known by the waiving a point or renouncing a principle for others' advantage, in him has no place; he either knows it not, or else considers it a poor, mean-spirited, creeping baseness, altogether unworthy of his imitation, and best befitted with ineffable contempt. He neither dreads the contact of the baker—the Scylla of the metropolitan peripatetic, nor yet shuns the dire collision of the chimney-sweep—his Charybdis. Try to pass him as he walks leisurely on, making the solid earth ring with his bold tread, and you will experience more difficulties in the attempt than did that famous admiral, Bartholomew Diaz, when he first doubled the Cape of Storms. Or let us suppose, that haply you allow your frail carcass to go full drive against his sturdiness, when lo!—in beautiful illustration of those doctrines in projectiles, that relate to the concussion of moving bodies—you fly off at an angle "right slick" into the middle of the carriage-way; whence a question of some interest presently arises, whether you will please to be run over by a short or a long stage.—But to return. Who hesitates to make way for a coalheaver? As for their drays—as consecutive a species of vehicles as a body can be stopped by—every one knows they make way for themselves.

I one Sunday met a party of my favourites in St. Paul's cathedral. They seemed to view with becoming respect and even awe that splendid place; and they listened to and observed, with apparent profound attention, the cathedral service. Yet I must confess my favourable opinion of their grave looks was rather staggered by overhearing afterwards one of them say to his neighbour, casting a look all round the while, "My eyes, Tom, what lots o' coals this here place would hold." Perhaps the observation was meant in honour.

Monthly Magazine.

TRAVELLING FARE

If you shut yourself up for some fifty hours or so in a mail-coach, that keeps wheeling along at the rate of ten miles an hour, and changes horses in half a minute, certainly, for obvious reasons, the less you eat and drink the better; and perhaps a few hundred daily drops of laudanum, or equivalent grains of opium, would be advisable, so that the transit from London to Edinburgh might be performed in a phantasma. But a free agent ought to live well on his travels—some degrees better, without doubt, than when at home. People seldom live very well at home. There is always something requiring to be eaten up, that it may not be lost, which destroys the soothing and satisfactory symmetry of an unexceptionable dinner. We have detected the same duck through many unprincipled disguises, playing a different part in the farce of domestic economy, with a versatility hardly to have been expected in one of the most generally despised of the web-footed tribe. When travelling at one's own sweet will, one feeds at a different inn every meal; and, except when the coincidence of circumstances is against you, there is an agreeable variety both in the natural and artificial disposition of the dishes.

Blackwood's Magazine.

ENGLISH FRUITS

(Continued from page 231.)

The Currant—The native place of this useful fruit is not exactly ascertained; nearly allied to the gooseberry, it receives the same treatment, shows the same changes, and may be further improved by the same means; a cross between the white Dutch and red, might be a valuable mule. It is probable the black also may be induced to sport from that steady character it has hitherto maintained; there are but few domesticated plants but which (like animals) depart, in some way or other, from their native caste.

The Apple.—It is difficult to find adequate terms to set forth the value of the advantages which have accrued to mankind from the cultivation of this deservedly high-prized fruit. One circumstance in the history of the apple must not pass unnoticed here, viz., the deterioration of the old sorts, which regaled and were the boast of our forefathers a century ago. It is the opinion of an eminent orchardist that as the apple is an artificial production, and, as such, has its stages of youth, maturity, and old age, it cannot, in its period of decrepitude, be by any means renovated to its pristine state, either by pruning or cutting down, changing its place, or by transferring its parts to young and vigorous stocks; and that, in whatever station it may be placed, it carries with it the decay and diseases of its parent. This is the most rational account which has been given of this indisputable fact; and though its accuracy has been called in question by some naturalists, the general failure in our old orchards, and the difficulties in forming new ones with the old favourite sorts, is a decisive proof that such deterioration exists. It is therefore the chief object of the modern pomologist, to obtain from seeds of the best wildings new varieties wherewith to form new and profitable orchards; and which may be expected to continue in health and fertility, as the old sorts have done, for the next century.

The foregoing are the fruits found wild in our climate; the difference in their aboriginal and cultivated state has been pointed out; we shall now give short descriptions of foreign fruits, which have been partly naturalized, the management of which forms so considerable a share of the gardener's art and attention.

The Apricot.—It is supposed that this fruit is a native of Africa: from thence it appears to have come through Persia and Greece to us, with the name "a praecox," significant of its earliness. There are several varieties which have been obtained by means similar to those already mentioned; and there is room for further exertion in endeavouring to improve the size of the fruit, or any other desirable quality.

The Peach—This delicate and excellent fruit is a striking instance of what judicious cultivation may produce. The common almond has always been considered the original stock of this monument of skill and assiduity. The estimation in which it is held, and the care and expense incurred in its cultivation both in forcing-houses and in the open air, is proof of its superiority: and no fruit repays the labour of the attendant, or the expense of the owner, more bountifully than this. Seedlings of this fruit are, if we can credit what is written and said of it, less inclined to depart from the properties or qualities of the parent, than most others of our improved fruits. In America, they are in common and general cultivation. No trouble is bestowed in either layering (which is practicable), or budding them. Sowing a quantity of the stones, they are sure to pick out from among the seedlings as many good sorts as they may wish to cultivate: few of these may be exactly like the parent; some may be superior, but all are passable, especially if the young trees have been selected by a skilful hand; and this he is enabled to do, merely from the appearance of the wood and leaves. Many new sorts have lately been obtained and brought into notice in this country; and this facility of the peach to multiply its varieties will no doubt be taken advantage of by propagators.

The Nectarine.—This, it is allowed by all writers, is certainly a child of cultivation: there being no wild plant from which it could be derived, except the almond. It is therefore a collateral branch with, or rather of, the peach: of this no better proof can be given, than the circumstance that nectarines are sometimes produced by a peach tree.

The Orange.—This endless family of fruits it is probable had the small but useful wild lime for its progenitor. The monstrous shaddock, citrons of all shapes and sizes, oranges and lemons, are all varieties, obtained in the course of long cultivation.

(To be concluded in our next.)

THE GATHERER

"I am but a Gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff."—Wotton.

TO CHLOE, AT SIXTY

Those teeth, as white as orient pearlsStolen from th' Indian deep,Those locks, whose light and auburn curlsSoft on thy shoulders sleep,Expose a woman to the sightNone but old friends can know;Thy locks were grey, thy teeth not white,Some twenty years ago.

Wilkes used to say, that a gentleman did not always require a footman to carry a parcel, for there were three things which he might always carry openly in his hand,—a book, a paper of snuff, and a string of fish.

HEREDITARY TALENT IN ACTORS

"Families are chequered as in brains, so in bulk."—FULLER.

The children of many obscure performers have become eminent: but there are very few instances in which the descendant of a considerable actor or actress has been distinguished. To take instances within recent recollection, or of the present day, for example—Mr. Elliston has a son upon the stage: with none of the striking talent of the father. Mr. Henry Siddons, the son of Mrs. Siddons, was a very bad actor indeed. Lewis had two sons upon the stage, neither of them of any value. Mr. Dowton has two sons (or had), in the same situation. And Mrs. Glover's two daughters will never rise above mediocrity. On the other hand, Mr. Macready and Mr. Wallack, are both sons of very low actors; and the late Mr. John Bannister and Mr. Tokely were similarly descended. Almost the only modern instance of the immediate descendant of a valuable performer turning out well, was in the case of Mrs. Jordan's daughter, Mrs. Alsop; who was very nearly as good an actress as her mother. We doubt, too, if there is an instance on record of a very young man being a considerable actor.

PRISON TORTURE

A horrible instance of human vengeance occurred a short time since, at Minden, in Westphalia. The object was a person who, from conscientious motives, peculiar to the religious body of which he was a member, had refused to serve in the militia. He was placed in a cell, the floor and sides of which were closely studded with projecting spikes, or pieces of sharpened iron resembling the blades of knives. The individual remained in this state for twenty-four hours, and the punishment was repeated at three distinct intervals. It is considered a rare occurrence for a person to survive the second infliction of this species of cruelty. In this instance, however, the sufferer did not perish—From the last Report of the Prison Discipline Society.

THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE

As her Grace was one day rambling in the neighbourhood of Chiswick, she was overtaken by a violent storm, and accordingly took shelter, in a cottage where she happened to be unknown. Among other topics she introduced with her usual affability, she asked the poor woman if she knew the Duchess of Devonshire? "Know her, (answered the woman,) everybody has cause to know her here; never was there a better lady born." "I am afraid you are mistaken, (said her Grace); from what I understand of her, she is no better than she should be." "I am sure you are no better than you should be, (returned the poor woman,) to find fault with the Duchess; but you'll never be worthy to wipe her shoes." "Well then, (rejoined her Grace,) I must be beholden to you, as they are at present very dirty." The good woman perceiving the awkward mistake, ran to perform the office with great humility, and received an ample reward.

KITCHEN CONUNDRUM

"Come Thomas," says Kitty, "pray make us a pun,—You're goodnatured and never refuse;""Ask coachee," says Tom, "he's the fellow for Fun,—For he knows the way to a-mews."Says coachee, "Why Thomas you puzzle my brains,For you never can bridle your wit;""But how comes it, that I, tho' exposed to the reinsEv'ry day, never suffer a bit?"

DEAR TIMES

After the union with Ireland, when the Irish members had taken their seats, one of them, in the heat of his maiden speech, blustered out, "Now, dare Mr. Speaker," which, of course, set the house in an immoderate fit of laughter. When the tumult had subsided, Sheridan observed, "that the honourable gentleman was perfectly in order, since, thanks to the ministry, everything at that time was immoderately dear."