The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 273, September 15, 1827

ANECDOTES AND RECOLLECTIONS

Notings, selections,Anecdote and joke:Our recollections;With gravities for graver folk.

THE BAR—THE MASTER OF THE ROLLS

It must be admitted (talking of the late Vice) that he really was enough to annoy any sober staid master, by his frolics and gambols since he has been made a judge. I remember him a quiet good sort of man enough: with a bed-room and kitchen in the area of No. 11, New-square; and his dining-room above, serving also for consultations: and his going, now and then, only to have a game of whist and glass of negus at Serle's;—but, now, he is a perfect Monsieur Tonson to all continental travellers. Never can you take up the police-book at the hotels, on the road to Italy, without Sir John Leach staring you in the face. The other day at the Cloche at Dijon (I will never go there again, and beg Sir John to do me the favour to withdraw his patronage also,—the Parc is worth twenty of it), yawning over my bottle of Cote d'Or, I inquired of the waiter who of my "land's language" had lately been there. "Vy, Sare, ve have de Milor Leash." "Lord Leash?"—"Oui, Monsieur;—mais, Fanchette, apportez le livre ici pour Monsieur—le voila."—"Ah, ha! Sir John Leach; I see."—"Ah qu'il est bon enfant! qu'il est gai!" exclaimed the garcon. "Ah! qu'il est aimable!" sighed Fanchette—Enter De Molin the banker's little bureau at Lausanne—(by the way, it is the favourite chamber of Gibbon the historian, and if you pay the house a visit from motives of curiosity respecting its former occupant, you will be happy to be allowed to remain and converse with the actual owner, for a more honourable, liberal, and better-informed man, does not exist)—there, I say, in the glass over the mantlepiece, will you see the card of Sir John Leach. Milan—Florence—the same. At Torlogna's the same. Then at Naples: go to San Carlos'; and if you get behind the scenes, ask for Braccini, the poetá of the theatre, who has been long in England; "Cospetto di Bacco!" he will exclaim: "il degn uomo, quel Vice Cancelliere: il Cavaliere Licci!—Gran Dio! quale talento per la musica!-Cappari! egli ha guadagnato i cuori di tutte le donne Napolitane."3 I certainly expect to hear him some day astonish the bar, by unwittingly striking up "O Pescator delle onde," or "Sul margine del Rio," in the Rolls Court; and, as in ancient Greece ('tis said) pleadings were chanted, let us yet hope to hear an argument preferred to the tune of "They are a' noddin, noddin, noddin;" an answer stated andante; a reply given in a bravura, and judgment pronounced presto. With all his faults (if they be such, which I do not admit), the present Master of the Rolls is a good judge, and an able man;—"un peu vif, peut-etre," as Fanchette might say; and it is more agreeable than otherwise, to see one who has devoted his life to the study of the law, enjoying himself in lighter pursuits, after having attained rank and dignity in the profession; and after having punctually and satisfactorily executed the important duties of the day, seeking at its close, and participating in the gaiety which society offers. It speaks a good heart and cheerful temper; whereas, when we hear a distaste declared for music, and that of the highest character, we cannot but call to mind "He who has not the concord of sweet sounds" within himself;—but I will not pursue the quotation. Besides, were there persons fools enough to blame Sir John for his social propensities, he might answer them as the Parisian coachman did.—"What was that?"—"Why, a French Jehu was tried in 1818, for some accident caused by his cabriolet, before the Criminal Court of Paris; when, having heard the evidence, the President of the Tribunal declared that he stood acquitted, but that the court felt it its duty to blame him, and that he was blamed accordingly." "Blamed!" exclaimed Jehu; "Blamed!—I don't quite understand your Honor;—but—but—will it prevent my handling the ribands, and driving the wehicle?"—"No!" said the judge. "Then, with all respect for your Honor, I just laugh at it," said coachee, bowing. "And so do I," said the president also, in rising to leave the court.—New Monthly Magazine.

FINE ARTS

THE CARTOONS OF RAPHAEL

These Cartoons were executed by the famous Raphael, while engaged in the chambers of the Vatican, under the auspices of Pope Julius II. and Leo X. As soon as they were finished, they were sent to Flanders to be copied in tapestry, for adorning the pontifical apartments; but the tapestries were not conveyed to Rome till after the decease of Raphael, and probably not before the dreadful sack of that city in 1527, under the pontificate of Clement VII; when Raphael's scholars having fled from thence, none were left to inquire after the original Cartoons, which lay neglected in the storerooms of the manufactory, the money for the tapestry having never been paid. The revolution that happened soon after in the low countries prevented their being noticed during a period in which works of art were wholly neglected. They were purchased by king Charles I. at the recommendation of Rubens, but had been much injured by the weavers. At the sale of the royal pictures in 1653, these Cartoons were purchased for 300l. by Oliver Cromwell, against whom no one would presume to bid. The protector pawned them to the Dutch court for upwards of 50,000l., and, after the revolution, King William brought them over again to England, and built a gallery for their reception in Hampton Court. Originally there were twelve of these Cartoons, but four of them have been destroyed by damps and neglect. The subjects were the adoration of the Magi, the conversion of St. Paul, the martyrdom of St. Stephen and St. Paul before Felix and Agrippa. Two of these were in the possession of the King of Sardinia, and two of Louis XIV. of France, who is said to have offered 100,000 louis d'ors for the seven, which are justly represented as "the glory of England, and the envy of all other polite nations." The twelfth, the subject of which was the murder of the innocents, belonged to a private gentleman in England, who pledged it for a sum of money; but when the person who had taken this valuable deposit found it was to be redeemed, he greatly damaged the drawing; for which the gentleman brought an action against him. A third part of it is still remaining in the possession of William Hoare, R.A., at Bath.

Cartoon is derived from the Italian cartone, a painting or drawing upon large paper. Raphael died on the same day of the year on which he was born, Good Friday, in 1520, at the age of thirty-seven, deeply lamented by all who knew his value. His body lay for awhile in state in one of the rooms wherein he had displayed the powers of his mind, and he was honoured with a public funeral; his last produce, the transfiguration, being carried before him in the procession. The unrelenting hand of death (says his biographer) set a period to his labours, and deprived the world of further benefit from his talents, when he had only attained an age at which most other men are but beginning to be useful. "We see him in his cradle (said Fuseli); we hear him stammer; but propriety rocked the cradle, and character formed his lips."

P.T.W

TO MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. WRITTEN ON VISITING WESTMINSTER ABBEY

My murder'd queen, as on thine image onceThe gaze alike of prince and peasant rested—As if, unsated of thy thrilling glance,They never until then of beauty tasted:So I, by lonely contemplation ledTo muse awhile amid the silent dead—Turn me from all around I hear or see—From all of Shakspeare and of great to thee:And think on all thy wrongs—on all the shameThat dims for ever thine oppressor's name;On all thy faults, nor few nor far between,But then thou wert—a woman and a queen.Proud titles, even in a barb'rous age,To stem th' impetuous tide of party rage;While as I gaze each well-known feature seemsTo stir with life, and realise my dreamsThat paint thee seated on the Scottish throne,With all the blaze of beauty round thee thrown;Then see thee passing from thy dungeon cell,And hear thy parting sigh—thy last farewell.Stray Leaves

ANCIENT GRECIAN SEPULCHRE

A beautiful illustration of an ancient Grecian sepulchre or funeral chamber, heads the second chapter of Mr. Britton's "Union of Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting," from which work we have copied the annexed engraved view. The interior of the chamber exhibits a skeleton and the urns containing the ashes of the dead. The combat leads us to the conclusion, that the tomb contains the remains of a chief; for it was the barbarous custom of the Greeks to sacrifice captives at the tombs of their heroes.

Of the funeral rites and ceremonies of the Greeks and other nations, we subjoin the following:—

The most simple and natural kind of funeral monuments, and therefore the most ancient and universal, consist in a mound of earth, or a heap of stones, raised over the ashes of the departed: of such monuments mention is made in the Book of Joshua, and in Homer and Virgil. Many of them still occur in various parts of this kingdom, especially in those elevated and sequestered situations where they have neither been defaced by agriculture nor inundation.

The ancients are said to have buried their dead in their own houses, whence, according to some, the original of that species of idolatry consisting in the worship of household gods.

The place of burial amongst the Jews was never particularly determined. We find that they had burial-places upon the highways, in gardens, and upon mountains. We read, that Abraham was buried with Sarah, his wife, in the cave of Macphelah, in the field of Ephron, and Uzziah, King of Judah, slept with his fathers in the field of the burial which pertained to the kings.

The primitive Greeks were buried in places prepared for that purpose in their own houses; but in after ages they adopted the judicious practice of establishing the burial grounds in desert islands, and outside the walls of towns, by that means securing them from profanation, and themselves from the liability of catching infection from those who had died of contagious disorders.

The Romans prohibited burning or burying in the city, both from a sacred and civil consideration, that the priests might not be contaminated by touching a dead body, and that houses might not be endangered by the frequency of funeral fires.

The custom of burning the dead had its foundation laid deep in nature: an anxious fondness to preserve the great and good, the dear friend and the near relative, was the sole motive that prevailed in the institution of this solemnity. "That seems to me," says Cicero, "to have been the most ancient kind of burial, which, according to Xenophon, was used by Cyrus. For the body is returned to the earth, and so placed as to be covered with the veil of its mother." Pliny also agrees with Cicero upon this point, and says the custom of burial preceded that of burning among the Romans. According to Monfauçon, the custom of burning entirely ceased at Rome about the time of Theodorius the younger. When cremation ceased on the introduction of Christianity, the believing Romans, together with the Romanized and converted Britons, would necessarily, as it is observed by Mr. Grough, "betake themselves to the use of sarcophagi (or coffins,) and probably of various kinds, stone, marble, lead," &c. They would likewise now first place the body in a position due east and west, and thus bestow an unequivocal mark of distinction between the funeral deposit of the earliest Roman inhabitants of this island, and their Christian successors. The usual places of interment were in fields or gardens,4 near the highway, to be conspicuous, and to remind the passengers how transient everything is, that wears the garb of mortality. By this means, also, they saved the best part of their land:

—Experiar quid concedatur in illosQuorum Flaminia tegitur cinis, atque Latina.Juv. Sat I.

The Romans commonly built tombs for themselves during their lifetime. Hence these words frequently occur in ancient inscriptions, V.F. Vivus Facit, V.S.P. Vivus Sibi Posuit. The tombs of the rich were usually constructed of marble, the ground enclosed with walls, and planted round with trees. But common sepulchres were usually built below ground, and called hypogea. There were niches cut out of the walls, in which the urns were placed: these, from their resemblance to the niche of a pigeon-house, were called columbaria.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY

I am fond of travelling: yet I never undertake a journey without experiencing a vague feeling of melancholy. There is to me something strangely oppressive in the preliminaries of departure. The packing of a small valise; the settlement of accounts—justly pronounced by Rabelais a blue-devilish process; the regulation of books and papers;—in short, the whole routine of valedictory arrangements, are to me as a nightmare on the waking spirit. They induce a mood of last wills and testaments—a sense of dislocation, which, next to a vacuum, Nature abhors—and create a species of moral decomposition, not unlike that effected on matter by chemical agency. It is not that I have to lament the disruption of social connexions or domestic ties. This, I am aware, is a trial sometimes borne with exemplary fortitude; and I was lately edified by the magnanimous unconcern with which a married friend of mine sang the last verse of "Home! sweet home!" as the chaise which was to convey him from the burthen of his song drove up to the door. It does not become a bachelor to speculate on the mysteries of matrimonial philosophy; but the feeling of pain with which I enter on the task of migration has no affinity with individual sympathies, or even with domiciliary attachments. My landlady is, without exception, the ugliest woman in London; and the locality of Elbow-lane cannot be supposed absolutely to spellbind the affection of one occupying, as I do, solitary chambers on the third floor.

The case, it may be supposed, is much worse when it is my lot to take leave, after passing a few weeks at the house of a friend in the country;—a house, for instance, such as is to be met with only in England:—with about twenty acres of lawn, but no park; with a shrubbery, but no made-grounds; with well-furnished rooms, but no conservatory; and with a garden, in which dandy tulips and high-bred anemones do not disdain the fellowship of honest artichokes and laughing cauliflowers—no bad illustration of the republican union of comfort with elegance which reigns through the whole establishment. The master of the mansion, perhaps an old and valued schoolfellow:—his wife, a well-bred, accomplished, and still beautiful woman—cordial, without vulgarity—refined, without pretension—and informed, without a shade of blue! Their children!… But my reader will complete the picture, and imagine, better than I can describe, how one of my temperament must suffer at quitting such a scene. At six o'clock on the dreaded morning, the friendly old butler knocks at my room-door, to warn me that the mail will pass in half an hour at the end of the green lane. On descending to the parlour, I find that my old friend has, in spite of our over-night agreement and a slight touch of gout, come down to see me off. His amiable lady is pouring out for me a cup of tea—assuring me that she would be quite unhappy at allowing me to depart without that indispensable prelude to a journey. A gig waits at the door: my affectionate host will not permit me to walk even half a mile. The minutes pass unheeded; till, with a face of busy but cordial concern, the old butler reminds me that the mail is at hand. I bid a hasty and agitated farewell, and turn with loathing to the forced companionship of a public vehicle.

My anti-leave-taking foible is certainly not so much affected when I quit the residence of an hotel—that public home—that wearisome resting-place—that epitome of the world—that compound of gregarious incompatibilities—that bazaar of character—that proper resort of semi-social egotism and unamalgable individualities—that troublous haven, where the vessel may ride and tack, half-sheltered, but finds no anchorage. Yet even the Lilliputian ligatures of such a sojourn imperceptibly twine round my lethargic habits, and bind me, Gulliver-like, a passive fixture. Once, in particular, I remember to have stuck at the Hôtel des Bons Enfants, in Paris—a place with nothing to recommend it to one of ordinary locomotive energies. But there I stuck. Business of importance called me to Bordeaux. I lingered for two months. At length, by one of those nervous efforts peculiar to weak resolutions, I made my arrangements, secured my emancipation, and found myself on the way to the starting-place of the Diligence. I well remember the day: 'twas a rainy afternoon in spring. The aspect of the gayest city in the world was dreary and comfortless. The rain dripped perpendicularly from the eves of the houses, exemplifying the axiom, that lines are composed of a succession of points. At the corners of the streets it shot a curved torrent from the projecting spouts, flooding the channels, and drenching, with a sudden drum-like sound, the passing umbrellas, whose varied tints of pink, blue, and orange, like the draggled finery of feathers and flounces beneath them, only made the scene more glaringly desolate. Then came the rush and splatter of cabriolets, scattering terror and defilement. The well-mounted English dandy shows his sense by hoisting his parapluie; the French dragoon curls his mustachio at such effeminacy, and braves the liquid bullets in the genuine spirit of Marengo; the old French count picks his elastic steps with the placid and dignified philosophy of the ancien régime; while the Parisian dames, of all ranks, ages, and degrees, trip along, with one leg undraped, exactly in proportion to the shapeliness of its configuration.

The huge clock of the Messagéries Royales told three as I entered the gateway. The wide court had an air of humid dreariness. On one side stood a dozen of those moving caravansaras, the national vehicles, with their leathern caps—like those of Danish sailors in a north-wester—hanging half off, soaked with wet. Opposite was the range of offices, busy with all the peculiar importance of French bureaucracie. Their clerks, decorated with ribbons and crosses, wield their pens with all the conscious dignity of secretaries of state; and "book" a bale or a parcel as though they were signing a treaty, or granting an amnesty. The meanest employé seems to think himself invested with certain occult powers. His civility savours of government patronage; and his frown is inquisitorial. To his fellows, his address is abrupt and diplomatic. He seems to speak in cipher, and to gesticulate by some rule of freemasonry. But to the uninitiated he is explanatory to a scruple, as though mischief might ensue from his being misapprehended. He makes sure of your understanding by an emphasis, which reminds one of the loudness of tone used towards a person supposed to be hard of hearing—a proceeding not very flattering where there happens to be neither dulness nor deafness in the case. In a word, the measured pedantry of his whole deportment betrays the happy conviction in which he rejoices of being conversant with matters little dreamt of in your philosophy. Among the bystanders, too, there are some who might, probably with more reason, boast their proficiency in mysterious lore—fellows of smooth aspect and polite demeanour, whom at first you imagine to have become casual spectators from mere lack of better pastime, but whose furtive glances and vagrant attention betray the familiars of the police—that complex and mighty engine of modern structure, which, far more surely than the "ear of Dionysius," conveys to the tympanum of power each echoed sigh and reverberated whisper. It is a chilling thing to feel one's budding confidence in a new acquaintance nipped by such frosty suspicions; yet—Heaven forgive me!—the bare idea has, before now, caused me to drop, unscented, the pinch of carote which has been courteously tendered by some coffee-house companion. In the group before me, I fancied that I could distinguish some of this ungentle brotherhood; and my averted eye rested with comparative complacency even on a couple of gens d'armes, who were marching up and down before the door, and whose long swords and voluminous cocked hats never appeared to me less offensive.

In the mean time, knots of travellers were congregating round the different vehicles about to depart. In the centre of each little band stood the main point of attraction—Monsieur le Conducteur—that important personage, whose prototype we look for in vain among the dignitaries of Lad-lane, or the Bull-and-Mouth, and whose very name can only be translated by borrowing one of Mr. M'Adam's titles—"the Colossus of Roads." With fur cap, official garb, and the excursive eye of a martinet, he inspects every detail of preparation—sees each passenger stowed seriatim in his special place—then takes his position in front—gives the word to his jack-booted vice, whose responsive whip cracks assent—and away rolls the ponderous machine, with all the rumbling majesty of a three-decker from off the stocks.—Monthly Magazine.

EPIGRAM.

THE RETORT MEDICAL

Quoth Doctor Squill of Ponder's End,"Of all the patients I attend,Whate'er their aches or ails,None ever will my fame attack.""None ever can," retorted Jack:"For dead men tell no tales"New Monthly Magazine.

THE SELECTOR, AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS

CIRCASSIAN WOMEN

We observed two women looking out of a balcony, and earnestly beckoning to us. We were the more surprised at their appearance, as we believed that the Mahometan women of the Caucasus, like those of Persia, were strictly confined to the interior of their houses, or that, at all events, they never went unveiled, a custom which we found was not general among the inhabitants of the Caucasus. We, however, entered the house, and saw in the court two Russian grenadiers, who, by a mistake of their corporal, had taken there quarters here, and whose presence was the cause of the inquietude manifested by the two ladies, who, with an old man, were the only inhabitants of the house. Whilst the soldiers were explaining these things to us, they appeared at the top of the stairs, and again renewed their invitation by violent gesticulations. On a nearer approach, we guessed by their age that they were mother and daughter. The former, who still preserved much of the freshness and beauty of youth, wore very tight trousers, a short tunic, and a veil, which fell in graceful folds on her back, while round her neck she had some valuable jewels, though badly mounted. With respect to the daughter, who was scarcely fifteen years of age, she was so extraordinarily beautiful, that both my companion and myself remained awhile motionless, and struck with admiration. Never in my life have I seen a more perfect form. Her dress consisted of a short white tunic, almost transparent, fastened only at the throat by a clasp. A veil, negligently thrown over one shoulder, permitted part of her beautiful ebony tresses to be seen. Her trousers were of an extremely fine tissue, and her socks of the most delicate workmanship. The old man received us in a room adjoining the staircase: he was seated on the carpet, smoking a small pipe, according to the custom of the inhabitants of the Caucasus, who cultivate tobacco. He made repeated signs to us to sit down, that is to say, in the Asiatic manner, a posture extremely inconvenient for those who, like ourselves, wore long and tight trousers, whilst the two beautiful women on their side earnestly seconded his request. We complied with it, though it was the first time that either of us had made the essay. The ladies, having left the room for a moment, returned with a salver of dried fruits, and a beverage made of sugar and milk; but I was so much engaged in admiring their personal attractions, that I paid but little attention to their presents. It appeared to me an inconceivable caprice of nature to have produced such prodigies of perfection amidst such a rude and barbarous people, who value their women less than their stirrups. My companion, who like myself was obliged to accept of their refreshments, remarked to me, whilst the old man was conversing with them, what celebrity a woman so transcendently beautiful as the daughter was would acquire in any of the capitals of Europe, had she but received the benefits of a suitable education.—Van Halen's Narrative.