The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 529, January 14, 1832

(To be concluded in our next.)

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

BLONDEL DE NESLE

"Blondel de Nesle the favourite minstrel of Richard Coeur de Lion, and an attendant upon his person, devoted himself to discover the place of his confinement during the crusade against Saladin, emperor of the Saracens. He wandered in vain from castle to palace, till he learned that a strong and almost inaccessible fortress upon the Danube was watched with peculiar strictness, as containing some state-prisoner of distinction. The minstrel took his harp, and approaching as near the castle as he durst, came so nigh the walls as to hear the melancholy captive soothing his imprisonment with music. Blondel touched his harp; the prisoner heard and was silent: upon this the minstrel played the first part of a tune, or lay, known to the captive; who instantly played the second part; and thus, the faithful servant obtained the certainty that the inmate of the castle was no other than his royal master."—Tales of a Grandfather, p 69.

The Danube's wide-flowing water laveThe captive's dungeon cell,And the voice of its hoarse and sullen waveBreaks forth in a louder swell,And the night-breeze sighs in a deeper gust,For the flower of chivalry droops in dust!A yoke is hung over the victor's neck,And fetters enthral the strong,And manhood's pride like a fearful wreck,Lies the breakers of care among;And the gleams of hope, overshadow'd, seemThe phantoms of some distemper'd dream.But the heart—the heart is unconquer'd still—A host in its solitude!Quenchless the spirit, though fetter'd the will,Of that warrior unsubdued;His soul, like an arrow from rocky ground,Shall fiercely and proudly in air rebound.But the hour of darkness girds him nowWith a pall of deepest night,Anguish sits throned on his moody brow,And the curse of thy withering blight,Despair, thou dreariest deathliest foe!His senses hath steep'd in a torpid woe.From the dazzling splendour of gloriest pastThe warrior sickening turns.To list to the sound of the wailing blast,As the wan lamp dimly burns:For the daring might of the lion-heartedWith Freedom's soul-thrilling notes hath parted.O'er his harp-string droops his palsied hand,And the fitful strain aloneMurmurs the notes of his native land—Does echo repeat that moanFrom the dungeon wall so grim and so drear?—No!—an answering minstrel lingers there.Up starts the listening king—a flashOf memory's gifted loreBursts on his soul—a deed so rash,What captive would e'er deplore?Since bonds no longer unnerve the free,And valour hath won fidelity.Dark child of sorrow, sweet comfort take,In thy lone heart's widowhood,Some charmed measure may yet awakeArresting affliction's flood,And thy prison'd soul unfetter'd beBy the answering spirit of sympathy!Metropolitan.

ASMODEUS AT LARGE

The design of this paper, in the New Monthly Magazine, is by no means novel; but the fine, cutting satire—the pleasant, lively banter on our vices and follies—which pervades every page of the article, is a set-off to the political frenzy and the literary lumber of other Magazines of the month. Each of them, it is true, has a readable paper, but one gem only contributes to a Magazine in the proportion of one swallow to a summer.

Here are three pages of the New Monthly Devil:

"A stranger, Sir, in the library," said my servant in opening the door.

"Indeed! what a short, lame gentleman?"

"No, Sir; middle-sized,—has very much the air of a lawyer or professional man."

I entered the room, and instead of the dwarf demon Le Sage described, I beheld a comely man seated at the table, with a high forehead, a sharp face, and a pair of spectacles on his nose. He was employed in reading the new novel of "The Usurer's Daughter."

"This cannot be the devil!" said I to myself; so I bowed, and asked the gentleman his business.

"Tush!" quoth my visiter; "and how did you leave the Doctor?"

"It is you, then!" said I; "you have grown greatly since you left Don Cleofas."

"Wars fatten our tribe," answered the Devil; "besides shapes are optional with me, and in England men go by appearances more than they do abroad; one is forced to look respectable and portly; the Devil himself could not cheat your countrymen with a shabby exterior. Doubtless you observe that all the swindlers, whose adventures enliven your journals, are dressed 'in the height of fashion,' and enjoy 'a mild prepossessing demeanour.' Even the Cholera does not menace 'a gentleman of the better ranks;' and no bodies are burked with a decent suit of clothes on their backs. Wealth in all countries is the highest possible morality; but you carry the doctrine to so great an excess, that you scarcely suffer the poor man to exist at all. If he take a walk in the country, there's the Vagrant Act; and if he has not a penny to hire a cellar in town, he's snapped up by a Burker, and sent off to the surgeons in a sack. It must be owned that no country affords such warnings to the spendthrift. You are one great moral against the getting rid of one's money."

On this, Asmodeus and myself had a long conversation; it ended in our dining together, (for I found him a social fellow, and fond of a broil in a quiet way,) and adjourning in excellent spirits, to the theatre.

"Certainly," said the Devil, taking a pinch of snuff, "certainly, your drama is wonderfully fine, it is worthy of a civilized nation; formerly you were contented with choosing actors among human kind, but what an improvement to go among the brute creation! think what a fine idea to have a whole play turn upon the appearance of a broken-backed lion! And so you are going to raise the drama by setting up a club; that's another exquisite notion! You hire a great house in the neighbourhood of the theatre; you call it the Garrick Club. You allow actors and patrons to mix themselves and their negus there after the play; and this you call a design for exalting the drama. Certainly you English are a droll set; your expedients are admirable."

"My good Devil, any thing that brings actors and spectators together, that creates an esprit de corps among all who cherish the drama, is not to be sneered at in that inconsiderate manner."

"I sneer! you mistake me; you have adduced a most convincing argument—esprit de corps!—good! Your clubs certainly nourish sociality greatly; those little tables, with one sulky man before one sulky chop—those hurried nods between acquaintances—that, monopoly of newspapers and easy chairs—all exhibit to perfection the cementing faculties of a club. Then, too, it certainly does an actor inestimable benefit to mix with lords and squires. Nothing more fits a man for his profession, than living with people who know nothing about it. Only think what a poor actor Kean is; you would have made him quite a different thing, if you had tied him to a tame gentlemen in the 'Garrick Club'. He would have played 'Richard' in a much higher vein, I doubt not."

"Well," said I, "the stage is your affair at present, and doubtless you do right to reject any innovation."

"Why, yes," quoth the Devil, looking round; "we have a very good female supply in this quarter. But pray how comes it that the English are so candid in sin? Among all nations there is immorality enough, Heaven knows; but you are so delightfully shameless: if a crime is committed here, you can't let it 'waste its sweetness;' you thrust it into your papers forthwith; you stick it up on your walls; you produce it at your theatres; you chat about it as an agreeable subject of conversation; and then you cry out with a blush against the open profligacy abroad! This is one of those amiable contradictions in human nature that charms me excessively. You fill your theatres with ladies of pleasure—you fill your newspapers with naughty accounts—a robbery is better to you than a feast—and a good fraud in the city will make you happy for a week; and all this while you say: 'We are the people who send vice to Coventry, and teach the world how to despise immorality.' Nay, if one man commits a murder, your newspapers kindly instruct his associates how to murder in future, by a far safer method. A wretch kills a boy for the surgeons, by holding his head under water; 'Silly dog!' cries the Morning Herald, 'why did not he clap a sponge dipped in prussic acid to the boy's mouth?'"

Here we were interrupted by a slight noise in the next box, which a gentleman had just entered. He was a tall man, with a handsome face and very prepossessing manner.

"That is an Author of considerable reputation," said my Devil, "quiet, though a man of wit, and with a heart, though a man of the world. Talking of the drama, he once brought out a farce, which had the good fortune to be damned. As great expectations had been formed of it, and the author's name had transpired; the unsuccessful writer rose the next morning with a hissing sound in his ears, and that leaning towards misanthropy, which you men always experience when the world has the bad taste to mistake your merits. 'Thank Fate, however,' said the Author, 'it is damned thoroughly—it is off the stage—I cannot be hissed again—in a few days it will be forgotten—meanwhile I will take a walk in the Park.' Scarce had the gentleman got into the street, before, lo! at a butcher's shop blazed the 'very head and front of his offending.' 'Second night of its appearance, the admired Farce of –, by –, Esq.' Away posts the Author to the Manager.—'Good Heavens! Sir, my farce again! was it not thoroughly damned last night?'—'Thoroughly damned!' quoth the Manager, drily; 'we reproduce it, Sir—we reproduce it (with a knowing wink,) that the world, enraged at our audacity, may come here to damn it again.' So it is, you see! the love of money is the contempt of man: there's an aphorism for you! Let us turn to the stage. What actresses you have!—certainly you English are a gallant nation; you are wonderfully polite to come and see such horrible female performers! By the by, you observed when that young lady came on the stage, how timidly she advanced, how frightened she seemed. 'What modesty!' cry the audience; 'we must encourage her!' they clap, they shout, they pity the poor thing, they cheer her into spirits. Would you believe that the hardest thing the Manager had to do with her was to teach her that modesty. She wanted to walk on the stage like a grenadier, and it required fifteen lessons to make her be ashamed of herself. It is in these things that the stage mimics the world, rather behind the scenes than before!"

"Bless me, how Braham is improved!" cried a man with spectacles, behind me; "he acts now better than he sings!"

"Is it not strange," said Asmodeus, "how long the germ of a quality may remain latent in the human mind, and how completely you mortals are the creatures of culture? It was not till his old age that Braham took lessons in acting; some three times a week has he of late wended his way down, to the comedian of Chapel-street, to learn energy and counterfeit warmth; and the best of it is, that the spectators will have it that an actor feels all he acts; as if human nature, wicked as it is, could feel Richard the Third every other night. I remember, Mrs. Siddons had a majestic manner of extending her arm as she left the stage. 'What grace!' said the world, with tears in its eyes, 'what dignity! what a wonderful way of extending an arm! you see her whole soul is in the part!' The arm was in reality stretched impatiently out for a pinch from the snuff-box that was always in readiness behind the scenes."

It is my misfortune, Reader, to be rapidly bored. I cannot sit out a sermon, much less a play; amusement is the most tedious of human pursuits.

"You are tired of this, surely," said I to the Devil; "let us go!"

"Whither?" said Asmodeus.

"Why, 'tis a starlit night, let us ride over to Paris, and sup, as you promised, at the Rocher de Cancale."

"Volontiers."

Away—away—away—into the broad still Heavens, the stars dancing merrily above us, and the mighty heart of the City beating beneath the dusky garment of Night below.

"Let us look down," said Asmodeus; "what a wilderness of houses! shall I uncover the roofs for you, as I did for Don Cleofas; or rather, for it is an easier method, shall I touch your eyes with my salve of penetration, and enable you to see at once through the wall?"

"You might as well do so; it is pleasant to feel the power, though at present I think it superfluous; wherever I look, I can only see rogues and fools, with a stray honest man now and then, who is probably in prison."

Asmodeus touched my eyes with a green salve, which he took out of an ivory box, and all at once, my sight being directed towards a certain palace I beheld * * * *

THE GATHERER

A clergyman preaching in the neighbourhood of Wapping, observing that most part of his audience were in the seafaring way, very naturally embellished his discourse with several nautical tropes and figures. Amongst other things, he advised them "to be ever on the watch, so that on whatsoever tack the evil one should bear down on them, he might be crippled in action." "Ay, master," said a son of Neptune, "but let me tell you, that will depend upon your having the weather gage of him."

A poacher escaping one morn with his pillage,Unexpectedly met with the lord of the village;Who seeing a hare o'er his shoulder was thrown,Hail'd him quickly, "You fellow is that hare your own.""My own!" he replied, "you inquisitive prig,Gad's curse, pompous sir, do you think I've a wig?"

ORIGIN OF THE PHRASE "TO BOOT."

Bote or Bota, in our old law books, signifies recompense, repentance, or fine paid by way of expiation, and is derived from the Saxon. Hence our common phrase "to boot," speaking of something given by way of compensation.

P.T.W.

OLD SONG

"Syr Tankarde he is as bold a wightAs ever Old England bred;His armoure it is of the silver bright,And his coloure is ruby red;And whene'er on the bully ye calle,He is readye to give ye a falle;But if long in the battle with him ye be,Ye weaker are ye, and the stronger is he,For Syr Tankarde is victor of alle.""A barley-corn he mounts for a speare,His helmet with hops is hung,He lightes the eye with a laughing leere,With a carolle he tipps the tongue—And he marshals a valyant hosteOf spices and crabbes and toaste;And the stoutest of yeomen they well can o'erthrow,When he leads them in beakers and jugs to the foe,—And Syr Tankarde his prowess may boaste."

FRENCH—ENGLISH LOVE

The following is a copy of a letter addressed some years ago to a lady of fortune at Portsmouth, upwards of four score years of age, by a French prisoner of war at Porchester Castle:—

"Porchester.—Madam—Me rite de English very leet, and me very fears you no saave vat me speak; but me be told dat you vant one very fine man for your hosband; upon my soul me love you very well; and thou you be very old woman, and very cross, and ugly, and all de devil, and the English no like you, upon my soul we have one great passion for you, and me like you very well for all dat; and me told dat de man for you must be one very clen man, and no love de drink. Me be all dat: indeed me be one very grand man in France—upon my soul me be one count, me have one grand equipage in France, and me be very good for de esprit: indeed me be one grand beau-a-la-mode—one officier in de regiment: me be very good for de Engleterres. Indeed you be one very good old woman upon my soul; and if you have one inclination for one man, me be dat gentleman for you—one grand man for you. Me will be your hosband, and take de care for yourself, for de house, for de gardin, for de Schoff, for de drink, and for de little childs dat shall come. Upon my soul me kill myself very soon, if you no love me for this grand amour. Me be, madam, your great slave, votre tres humble serviteur, PRES A. BOIRE."

W.G.C.

OLD LONDON BRIDGE

It is well known that Peter of Colechurch, the founder of Old London Bridge, did not live to witness the completion of the structure, but died in 1205, and was buried in a crypt within the centre pier of the bridge, over which a chapel was erected, dedicated to St. Thomas-à-Becket. Mr. Brayley, in his Londiniana, wrote about five years since that "if due care be taken when the old bridge is pulled down, the bones and ashes of its venerable architect may still be found;"—and, true enough, the bones of old Peter were found on removing the pier about a fortnight since.

TAME LIONS

Hanno, a Carthaginian, was the first who tamed a lion. He was condemned to death, for what his fellow-citizens considered so great a crime. They asserted that the republic had to fear the worst consequences from a man who had been able to subdue so much ferocity. A little more experience, however, convinced them of the fallacy of that ridiculous judgment. The triumvir Antony, accompanied by an actress, was publicly drawn by lions in a chariot.

SAD-USING.

CITY OF LYONS

Lyons is situated on a sort of peninsula, formed by the confluence of two great rivers—the Rhone and the Laone. All the bridges, with the exception of one of stone, are of wood; and although in general more useful than ornamental, they are justly admired for the boldness of their construction. They form numerous and convenient communications between the city and the faubourgs.

Lyons is walled round, and strongly fortified. In 1791 it contained 121,000 inhabitants; but, in consequence of the siege of 1793, and the cruelties practised at that memorable period of French history, the numbers were reduced to less than 80,000. In 1802, the numbers were 88,662; and in 1827, the fixed population had increased to 97,439;—but there was a floating population, estimated at 43,684, which, with the inmates of the barracks and hospitals, stated at 8,600, made the total population at that period 149,723; and by adding the population of the suburbs, reckoned at 36,000, the whole amount of the inhabitants at the period of the census, in 1827, was 185,723; at the present time it is said to be, in round numbers, 200,000.

In 1828, the number of workshops in all branches of the silk trade within the walls, amounted to 7,140; that of the silk frames or looms to 18,829; and from 10,000 to 12,000 in the communes.

W.G.C.

The ditty sung by the first grave-digger in Hamlet, beginning—

"In youth, when I did love, did love"—

was written by Lord Vaux, an ancestor of Lord Brougham. It will be found entire in Percy's Reliques.

Number 527, price Twopence,

A SUPPLEMENT,

With a STEEL-PLATE PORTRAIT of His Present

Majesty, WILLIAM IV.

AT FOURTEEN YEARS OF AGE.

From a Picture by B. West, P.R.A.

Anecdotic Memoir; and Title-Page, Preface,

and Index; completing VOL. XVIII.

1

Quoted by Cunningham in his "Life of Wren," from a contemporary authority.

2

Wards of London.

3

We omitted to state that our interesting particulars of the Heckington Sepulchre were from Vetusta Monumenta, a splendid folio work published by the Antiquarian Society.

4

Sketches of New and Old Sleaford, County of Lincoln, and of several places in the Neighbourhood, p. 224. 8vo Baldwin and Co.

5

"Ill-omen'd in his form, the unlucky fowl,Abhorr'd by men, and call'd a screeching owl."—Garth's Trans.

6

"They fly by night, and assail infants in the nurse's absence."

7

"Even the ill-boding owl is declared a bird of good omen."

8

"The Stygian owl gives sad omens in a thousand places."

9

"A feather of the night owl."

10

——"And, on her palace top,The lonely owl with oft repeated screamComplains, and spins into a dismal lengthHer baleful shrieks."—Trapp's Trans.

11

"And sell bodies torn from their tombs."