The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 270, August 25, 1827

RELIGIOUS BOOKS

There is an amusing anecdote related of a country curate, who having published a volume of sermons, in which he more particularly pointed out the dangers of a lax morality, and the want of strict religious principles among the higher classes of society, wrote a few weeks afterwards to a friend in town, inquiring in his extreme simplicity, "whether he did not observe any signs of reformation in the fashionable world?" the answer that he obtained may easily be divined. The good man had entirely forgotten that those who most needed his exhortations, were precisely those who would not read them; or who, if they read, would be the last to attend to them. If books could reform the world, it had been reformed long ago; but no disparagement either to good books—something else is necessary.

AN AMBIGUOUS COMPLIMENT

An author having shown a portion of a manuscript, which he was preparing for the press, to a friend, the latter suggested some improvements, and pointed out some errors; but instead of receiving his suggestions, the irritable man of letters plainly showed that he did not intend to adopt them. A short time after, he submitted the remainder of his work to the same judge, who having perused it, exclaimed, it could not possibly be better. "Indeed, you really think so?" "Yes," returned the other, "I really do; for how can it possibly be better when you are resolved to adopt no improvements?"

GLORY

During the war in the Peninsula, two British soldiers were regaling themselves after a long fast, on a crust of mouldy bread. "This is but sorry fare, Tom," observed one of them, "especially after the hardships and dangers we have suffered." "What do you mean by sorry fare," exclaimed his comrade, with philosophical composure, at the same time holding up a piece of the mouldy bread; "this is what the good people in England, who sit down to a comfortable hot dinner every day, call military glory!"

TORTURE QUINTUPLE

That solid preacher and able annotator, Philip Limborch, quotes in his History of the Inquisition, a writer of the name of Julius Clarus, who, it would appear formed a very forcible idea of the powers of imagination, since he allows them four parts in five of the torments decreed by that satanic tribunal. "Know," Limborch represents Clarus saying, "that there are five degrees of torture, videlicit, first, the torture of being threatened to be tortured; secondly, the torture of being conveyed to the place of torture; thirdly, the torture of being, and bound for torture; fourthly, the torture of being hoisted on the torturing rack; and fifthly, and lastly, the torture of squassation."

APPEARANCES

Bourganville, when trading to Otaheite, was accustomed to leave there two of some kind of European domestic animals. In his last voyage he had on board a Capuchin and a Franciscan, who differ from each other in the single circumstance of one having the beard shaved and the other wearing it long on the chin. The natives who had successively admired the various animals as they were disembarked, whether bulls and cows, hogs and sows, or he and she goats, shouted with joy at the appearance of the Capuchin, "What a noble animal! what a pity there is not a pair!" scarcely was the wish expressed, when the shaven Franciscan made his appearance, "Huzza, huzza!" exclaimed the savages, "we've got the male and the female."

W.C.B.—M.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

FIRESIDE ENJOYMENTS

The evening of Thursday, the 15th of February, 1827, was one of the most delightful I ever remember to have spent. I was alone; my heart beat lightly; my pulse was quickened by the exercise of the morning; my blood flowed freely through my veins, as meeting with no checks or impediments to its current, and my spirits were elated by a multitude of happy remembrances and of brilliant hopes. My apartments looked delightfully comfortable, and what signified to me the inclemency of the weather without. The rain was pattering upon the sky-light of the staircase; the sharp east wind was moaning angrily in the chimney; but as my eye glanced from the cheerful blaze of the fire to the ample folds of my closed window-curtains—as the hearth-rug yielded to the pressure of my foot, while, beating time to my own music, I sung, in rather a louder tone than usual, my favourite air of "Judy O'Flannegan;"—the whistling of the wind, and the pattering of the rain, only served to enhance in my estimation the comforts of my home, and inspire a livelier sense of the good fortune which had delivered me from any evening engagements. It may be questioned, whether there are any hours in this life, of such unmixed enjoyment as the few, the very few, which a young bachelor is allowed to rescue from the pressing invitations of those dear friends, who want another talking man at their dinner tables, or from those many and wilily-devised entanglements which are woven round him by the hands of inevitable mothers, and preserve entirely to himself.—Talk of the pleasure of repose! What repose can possibly be so sweet, as that which is enjoyed on a disengaged day during the laborious dissipations of a London life?—Talk of the delights of solitude! Spirit of Zimmerman!—What solitude is the imagination capable of conceiving so entirely delightful, as that which a young unmarried man possesses in his quiet lodging, with his easy chair and his dressing-gown, his beef-steak, and his whisky and water, his nap over an old poem or a new novel, and the intervening despatch of a world of little neglected matters, which, from time to time, occur to recollection between the break of the stanzas or the incidents of the story?

Such were the reflections that hastily passed along my mind, on the afternoon of Thursday, the 15th of February, 1827, as I sat with a volume of the Tor Hill in my hand, in the back drawing-room of my lodging in Conduit-street. It was about ten o'clock in the afternoon. My dinner was just removed. It had left me with that gay complacency of disposition, and irrepressible propensity of elocution, which result from a satisfied appetite, and an undisturbed digestion. My sense of contentment became more vigorous and confirmed, as I cast my eye around my apartment, and contemplated my well-filled book-case, and the many articles of convenience with which I had contrived to accommodate my nest; till, at length, the emotions of satisfaction became too strong to be restrained within the bonds of silence, and announced themselves in the following soliloquy:—

"What capital coals these are!—There's nothing in the world so cheering— so enlivening—as a good, hot, blazing, sea-coal fire."—I broke a large lump into fragments with the poker, as I spoke—"It's all mighty fine," I continued, "for us travellers to harangue the ignorant on the beauty of foreign cities, on their buildings without dust, and their skies without a cloud; but, for my own part, I like to see a dark, thick, heavy atmosphere, hanging over a town. It forewarns the traveller of his approach to the habitations, the business, and the comforts of his civilized fellow-creatures. It gives an air of grandeur, and importance, and mystery, to the scenes: it conciliates our respect. We know that there must be some fire where there is so much smother.—While, in those bright, shining, smokeless cities, whenever the sun shines upon them, one's eyes are put out by the glare of their white walls; and when it does not shine!—why, in the winter, there's no resource left for a man but hopeless and shivering resignation, with their wide, windy chimneys, and their damp, crackling, hissing, sputtering, tantalizing fagots."—I confirmed my argument in favour of our metropolitan obscurity by another stroke of the poker against the largest fragment of the broken coal; and then, letting fall my weapon, and turning my back to the fire, I exclaimed, "Certainly—there's no kind of furniture like books:—nothing else can afford one an equal air of comfort and habitability.—Such a resource too!—A man never feels alone in a library.—He lives surrounded by companions, who stand ever obedient to his call, coinciding with every caprice of temper, and harmonising with every turn and disposition of the mind.—Yes: I love my book:—they are my friends—my counsellors—my companions.—Yes; I have a real personal attachment, a very tender regard, for my books."

I thrust my hands into the pockets of my dressing-gown, which, by the by, is far the handsomest piece of old brocade I have ever seen,–a large running pattern of gold hollyhocks, with silver stalks and leaves, upon a rich, deep, Pompadour-coloured ground,—and, walking slowly backwards and forwards in my room, I continued,—"There never was, there never can have been, so happy a fellow as myself! What on earth have I to wish for more? Maria adores me—I adore Maria. To be sure, she's detained at Brighton; but I hear from her regularly every morning by the post, and we are to be united for life in a fortnight. Who was ever so blest in his love? Then again John Fraser—my old schoolfellow! I don't believe there's anything in the world he would not do for me. I'm sure there's no living thing that he loves so much as myself, except, perhaps, his old uncle Simon, and his black mare."

I had by this time returned to the fireplace, and, reseating myself, began to apostrophize my magnificent black Newfoundland, who, having partaken of my dinner, was following the advice and example of Abernethy, and sleeping on the rug, as it digested.—"And you, too, my old Neptune, aren't you the best and handsomest dog in the universe?"

Neptune finding himself addressed, awoke leisurely from his slumbers, and fixed his eyes on mine with an affirmative expression.

"Ay, to be sure you are; and a capital swimmer too!"

Neptune raised his head from the rug, and beat the ground with his tail, first to the right hand, and then to the left.

"And is he not a fine faithful fellow? And does he not love his master?"

Neptune rubbed his head against my hand, and concluded the conversation, by again sinking into repose.

"That dog's a philosopher," I said; "He never says a word more than is necessary:—then, again, not only blest in love and friendship, and my dog; but what luck it was to sell, and in these times too, that old, lumbering house of my father's, with its bleak, bare, hilly acres of chalk and stone, fat eighty thousand pounds, and to have the money paid down, on the very day the bargain was concluded. By the by, though, I had forgot:—I may as well write to Messrs. Drax and Drayton about that money, and order them to pay it immediately to Coutts's,—mighty honest people and all that: but faith, no solicitors should be trusted or tempted too far. It's a foolish way, at any time, to leave money in other people's hands—in anybody's hands—and I'll write about it at once."

As I said, so I did. I wrote my commands Messrs. Drax and Drayton, to pay my eighty thousand pounds into Coutts's; and after desiring that my note might be forwarded to them, the first thing in the morning, I took my candle, and accompanied by Neptune, who always keeps watch by night at my chamber door, proceeded to bed, as the watchman was calling "past twelve o'clock," beneath my window.

Blackwood's Magazine.

TO THE LADY BIRD"Lady Bird! Lady Bird! fly away home"—The field-mouse is gone to her nest,The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes,And the bees and the birds are at rest.Lady Bird! Lady Bird! fly away home—The glow-worm is lighting her lamp,The dew's tailing fast, and your fine speckled wingsWill flag with the close-clinging damp.Lady Bird! Lady Bird! fly away home—Good luck if you reach it at last:The owl's come abroad, and the bat's on the roam,Sharp set from their Ramazan fast.Lady Bird! Lady Bird! fly away home—The fairy bells tinkle afar,Make haste, or they'll catch ye, and harness ye fastWith a cobweb, to Oberon's car.Lady Bird! Lady Bird! fly away home—But, as all serious people do, firstClear your conscience, and settle your worldly affairs,And so be prepared for the worst.Lady Bird! Lady Bird! make a short shrift—Here's a hair-shirted Palmer hard by;And here's Lawyer Earwig to draw up your will,And we'll witness it, Death-Moth and I.Lady Bird! Lady Bird! don't make a fuss—You've mighty small matters to give;Your coral and jet, and … there, there—you can tackA codicil on, if you live.Lady Bird! Lady Bird! fly away nowTo your house in the old willow-tree,Where your children, so dear, have invited the ant.And a few cozy neighbours, to tea.Lady Bird! Lady Bird! fly away home,And if not gobbled up by the way,Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon's car,You're in luck—and that's all I've to say.Ibid."THE OLD MANOR HOUSE."

The following circumstances respecting the foundation upon which Charlotte Smith built her popular novel, "The Old Manor House," may probably prove interesting to the public. Near Woodcot, where Mrs. Smith resided at the time she commenced her novel, was a very old house and domain called Brookwood, in which resided some Misses Venables, elderly maiden ladies, whom our authoress visited; and her acquaintance with them and their abode, gave her the idea of her romance. They kept an old housekeeper,– one whom we may presume was quite in keeping with the house,—whose niece or daughter was per favour allowed to reside with her at Brookwood— this girl, I need scarcely say, was the Monimia of the novel, nor was her Orlando a feigned character, although a highly-ornamented one; in truth, alas! for the shadowy beauty of romance, alas! for the spell of gorgeous poesy, he was not more made for a hero than was Dulcinea del Toboso for a heroine, being the young butcher of the village!! "Often and often," said the intelligent friend who favoured me with the account, "has he supplied our family with meat when we resided at Brookwood, and the beautiful Monimia, his wife, is only slightly disfigured by an interesting squint." The same friend who had frequently rambled over the house, part of which is now pulled down, spoke of it thus: "It was what I term an ancient Vandyked building, in toto an old manor-house; the exterior had a castellated appearance, nor had the interior much less, with its dim vasty apartments, sliding panels for the secretion of treasure, and secret passages; in one of the chambers is a closet, wherein part of the boarding of the floor is made to slide, and when moved, reveals a kind of vault, the descent down which is by a long narrow flight of steps; use is made of this, I think, in 'The Old Manor House,' but some friends of mine who went down discovered nothing but a gloomy kind of den, not capable of containing more than six persons standing, and nearly filled with oyster-shells. Do you recollect," continued my friend, "in which of Charlotte Smith's novels it is that she describes an eccentric old gentleman manuring his ground with wigs? because the fact is, it really was done by such a one at Brookwood."—New London Literary Gazette.

THE DELICACY OF THE MARIKINA

The marikina is a pretty little animal which has often been brought into Europe. Its elegant form, graceful and easy motions, beautiful fur, intelligent physiognomy, soft voice, and affectionate disposition, have always constituted it an object of attraction.

The marikina, or silken monkey, can be preserved in European climates only by the utmost care in guarding it from the operation of atmospheric temperature. The cold and humidity of our winters are fatally injurious to its health. Neatness and cleanliness to a fastidious degree are constitutional traits of the marikina, and the greatest possible attention must be paid to it in this way, in a state of captivity. The slightest degree of dirt annoys them beyond measure, they lose their gaiety, and die of melancholy and disgust. They are animals of the most excessive delicacy, and it is not easy to procure them suitable nourishment. They cannot accustom themselves to live alone, and solitude is pernicious to them in an exact proportion to the degree of tenderness and care with which they have been habitually treated. The most certain means of preserving their existence, is to unite them to other individuals of their own species, and more especially to those of an opposite sex. They will soon accustom themselves to live on milk, biscuit, &c. but mild and ripe fruit is most agreeable to their taste, which to a certain degree is also insectivorous.—London Magazine.

THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS

A SONG FOR MUSICBY T. HOOD, ESQA lake and a fairy boatTo sail in the moonlight clear,And merrily we would floatFrom the dragons that watch us here!Thy gown should be snow-white silk,And strings of orient pearls,Like gossamers dipp'd in milk,Should twine with thy raven curls.Red rubies should deck thy hands,And diamonds should be thy dower—But fairies have broke their wands,And wishing has lost its power!

The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies and other Poems.

THE ARRIVAL OF A TRANSPORT

Numbers of boats soon surround the ship, filled with people anxious to hear news, and traffickers with fruit and other refreshments, besides watermen to land passengers; a regular establishment of the latter description has long existed here, many of whose members formerly plied that vocation on the Thames, and among whom were a few years back numbered that famous personage once known by all from Westminster stairs to Greenwich, by the shouts which assailed him as he rowed along, of "Overboard he vent, overboard he vent!" King Boongarre, too, with a boat-load of his dingy retainers, may possibly honour you with a visit, bedizened in his varnished cocked-hat of "formal cut," his gold-laced blue coat (flanked on the shoulders by a pair of massy epaulettes) buttoned closely up, to evade the extravagance of including a shirt in the catalogue of his wardrobe; and his bare and broad platter feet, of dull cinder hue, spreading out like a pair of sprawling toads, upon the deck before you. First, he makes one solemn measured stride from the gangway; then turning round to the quarter-deck, lifts up his beaver with the right hand a full foot from his head, (with all the grace and ease of a court exquisite,) and carrying it slowly and solemnly forwards to a a full arm's-length, lowers it in a gentle and most dignified manner down to the very deck, following up this motion by an inflection of the body almost equally profound. Advancing slowly in this way, his hat gracefully poised in his hand, and his phiz wreathed with many a fantastic smile, he bids massa welcome to his country. On finding he has fairly grinned himself into your good graces, he formally prepares to take leave, endeavouring at the same time to take likewise what you are probably less willing to part withal—namely, a portion of your cash. Let it not be supposed, however, that his majesty condescends to thieve; he only solicits the loan of a dump, on pretence of treating his sick gin [wife] to a cup of tea, but in reality with a view of treating himself to a porringer of "Cooper's best," to which his majesty is most royally devoted. You land at the government wharf on the right, where carts and porters are generally on the look-out for jobs; and on passing about fifty yards along the avenue, you enter George-street, which stretches on both hands, and up which, towards the left, you now turn, to reach the heart of the town.

Although all you see are English faces, and you hear no other language but English spoken, yet you soon become aware that you are in a country very different from England, by the number of parrots and other birds of strange notes and plumage which you observe hanging at so many doors, and cagesful of which you will soon see exposed for sale as you proceed. The government gangs of convicts, also, marching backwards and forwards from their work in single military file, and the solitary ones straggling here and there, with their white woollen Paramatta frocks and trousers, or gray or yellow jackets with duck overalls, (the different styles of dress denoting the oldness or newness of their arrival,) all bedaubed over with broad arrows, P.B.'s, C.B.'s, and various numerals in black, white, and red, with perhaps the jail-gang straddling sulkily by in their jingling leg-chains,—tell a tale too plain to be misunderstood. At the corners of streets, and before many of the doors, fruit-stalls are to be seen, teeming, in their proper seasons, with oranges, lemons, limes, figs, grapes, peaches, nectarines, apricots, plums, apples, pears, &c. at very moderate prices.—Two Years in New South Wales.

MELANCHOLYFROM MATTHISONThe nightingale's sad note in gloom is ringing,As wails the bride above her lover's grave;Like Grief above the tomb her tresses wringing,So gleams the star of evening o'er the wave.A melancholy haze hangs o'er the ocean;The rocky cliffs reflect a sallow light—Such as through cloister'd halls of dim devotion,The moon-beams pour upon the cloudy night.Ye rocky heights—ye violet-meads appearingOnce fairer to my gaze than poet's dream—Now all your golden light to gloom is veering,And every floweret laves in Lethe's stream.Hills, valleys, meads, no changes ye are mourning;'Tis to the hopeless every star appearsLike lamps in dark sepulchral vistas burning—And every dew-tipp'd flower is gemm'd with tears!

Stray Leaves; or, Translations from the German Poets.

THE GATHERER

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

The projector of one of the new canals, accompanied by two or three friends, was superintending the operations of the workmen, and frequently lamented the loss which the speculation was likely to occasion to him. He was mounted on horseback at the time, when the animal, suddenly becoming unruly, plunged, and threw his rider into the water. Being quickly rescued from his disagreeable situation, and safely landed on the bank, one of his companions begged to congratulate him on the happy change that had taken place in his fortune, "for have I not often told you (said the wit) that the canal would one day fill your pockets?"

A cube of gold, of little more than five inches on each side, contains the value of 10,000l. sterling.

"There is a rich rector in Worcestershire," said one of the colonel's guests, "whose name I cannot now recollect, but who has not preached for the last twelve months, as he every Sunday requests one of the neighbouring clergy to officiate for him."—"Oh!" replied Colonel Landleg, "though you cannot recollect his name, I can; it is England—England expects every man to do his duty."

The church-bells at Lima are very musical, the brass of which they are composed having a considerable quantity of silver mixed with it; but they are rung in the most discordant manner. Instead of being pulled in chimes, as in England, thongs of leather are fixed to the clappers, and at the appointed times boys ascend the belfry, and swing the tongues of all the bells at once, from one side to another, producing the most barbarous combination of sounds imaginable. A friar who had been in England observed, that the English had very good bells if they knew but how to ring.

A laborious special pleader, being constantly annoyed by the mewing of his favourite cat, at length resolved to get rid of it. He accordingly told his clerk to take and place it where it might remain in safety, but still where it could never get out. The clerk instantly walked off with poor puss in his lawyer's bag. On his return, being asked by his employer whether the noisy animal had been so disposed of that it could not come back to interrupt him, the cat carrier duly answered, "Certainly, I have put him where he cannot get out—in the Court of Chancery."—Reynolds' Life.