The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 394, October 17, 1829

As we have enumerated the least attractive of the papers in the London University Magazine, we ought also to run over the lighter portions of its pages. These are "A young head, and, what is still better, a young heart,"—discursive enough—"A Tale of the Irish Rebellion—the Guerilla Bride, a Poem," beginning

"It is a tale of Spain—Romantic Spain!"

—and a Sketch of the Irish Exchequer Court. A description of the University, with a Vignette view, and ground plan, is perhaps, the most interesting of the whole Number; but as dramatic critics sometimes say of a new performer, we had rather see him in another character before we form an estimate of his talents—so we wait for better things from the London University Magazine.

THE EDINBURGH JOURNAL OF NATURAL AND GEOGRAPHICAL SCIENCE, No. 1

We expected much from the announcement of this work, and are not disappointed in its first Number. It contains original papers—scientific Reviews—geographical and natural History Collections—and an abundance of scientific intelligence—somewhat on the plan of Mr. Loudon's excellent Magazines. We have not at present room for extract; but the Number before us will furnish several interesting Notes for a portion of our next publication. A Tour in the Island of Jersey is one of the most amusing articles we have read for some time, and we hope to abridge it for our columns.

THE FOREIGN REVIEW

The Eighth Number of this valuable Journal is just published, and its table of contents is exceedingly attractive. Among these are Phrenology—a characteristic article on Germany—the French and Italian Drama—anecdotical papers on Napoleon and General Jackson and the United States of America, and the History of the Cid. Ours will be a pleasing task to "note" through this Number.

UNPUBLISHED LINES ON DR. JOHNSON

By the late Dr. Wolcot. (Peter Pindar.)I own I like not Johnson's turgid style,That gives an inch the importance of a mile;Casts of manure a wagon-load aroundTo raise a simple daisy from the ground;Uplifts the club of Hercules—for what?—To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;Creates a whirlwind from the earth to drawA goose's feather or exalt a straw;Sets wheels on wheels in motion—such a clatter!To force up one poor nipperkin of water;Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar,To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore.Alike in every theme his pompous art,Heaven's awful thunder, or a rumbling cart!New Monthly Magazine.

GAS LIGHTS

We have now been so long accustomed to this new light in the streets, that, like all other terrene goods, we have almost become insensible to its blessings. Yet let him who desires to know what he owes to chemistry and "Old Murdoch," turn into any of the streets still lighted with oil, and then come back to the nocturnal day of the Strand or Pall Mall. The parish oil lamps were like light-houses on the ocean; guides, not lights; the gas has become a perpetual full moon; and it may assuredly be pronounced one of the most splendid and valuable applications of chemistry. Why has not old Murdoch his statue? He deserves it even better than his master; for the master was well paid in solid pudding. In other days, that statue would have equalled the Colossus at Rhodes, and the demi-philosopher would have breathed flame like the Chimera; in the fabulous ages before that, he would have come down to us a god, or a demi-god, the rival of Prometheus, Hercules, and Atlas. Why not cast him in Achillean brass, the rival of the great hero of gunpowder and Waterloo, and make him breathe gas like the Dragon of Wantley, to illuminate the triumphal arch. Ingrata Patria!

The new light! yes, much has been heard of its power and influence; but what has the new light of all the preachers done for the morality and order of London, compared to what has been effected by this new light. Old Murdoch alone, has suppressed more vice than the Suppression Society; and has been a greater police officer into the bargain than old Colquhoun and Sir Richard Birnie united. It is not only that men are afraid to be wicked when light is looking at them, but they are ashamed also; the reformation is applied to the right place. Where does vice resort? Where it can hide; in darkness, says the preacher, because its deeds are deeds of darkness. Seek it in Pudding-lane, and Dyot-street, and the abysses of Westminster. Why was not this new light preached to them long ago: twenty bushels of it would have been of more value than as many chaldrons of sermons, and taking even the explosions of the inspector into the bargain. But it is well, that this is at length to be compulsory; since it is never too late. Thieves and rogues are like moths in blankets: bring the sun to shine on them, and they can neither live nor breed. Let the Duke of Wellington place a gas-lamp at every door of these infernal abodes; and since they cannot be smoked out, make their houses as much like glass, on the principle of the old Roman, as we can compass. This is the remedy; at least till common sense will condescend to the better expedient of pulling down and laying open all these retreats of misery and vice; the disgrace and the nuisance of London, and not less a standing inhumanity to the poor themselves.—Westminster Review.

CAPE WINES

The commerce at the Cape is wine; and the vine has already increased tenfold, since the colony became British. But unfortunately more attention has been hitherto paid to quantity than to quality, except on the farms which yield Constantia. The latter have an eastern exposure, and are sheltered from the south-west, the only injurious blast. The soil being a deposit from the neighbouring mountains, is light, but enriched by manure. The subsoil, which is even more important, is still lighter, being mixed with sand and broken stone; on the contrary, in Drachenstein, where the chief vineyards are at present, the subsoil being clay, the wine receives an unpleasant flavour, the idea of which is inseparably associated with the very name of Cape wine. It is unnecessary to enter into the subject of its manufacture. If the subsoil be bad, so will the wine be. The vine does not require a rich subsoil. In Italy, flags are laid to prevent the roots from penetrating into clay; and in England, rubbish is thrown in to make a subsoil that shall not be so rich as to produce leaves, instead of fruit. It would be advantageous were premiums offered for wine that had not been produced from clay of subsoil, but had been reared in trellis, as requiring less labour than the standard, and made on a pure and good system, instead of being mixed with Cape brandy, or sulphuric acid, &c. Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, Cape wine is generally sold in England under the names, and at the prices, of Madeira, Sherry, Teneriffe, Stem, Pontac, and above all, Hock.—Gill's Repository.

A VIEW OF LONDON

The finest view in London is from the top of Whitehall Place, looking towards the river; but then you must see it as I did, at the same hour, and under similar circumstances.

It was about a fortnight since I beheld that memorable spectacle. I was on my way home, having dined with a friend, who, though not an habitual votary of Bacchus, occasionally sacrifices to the god with intense and absorbing zeal. After dinner we adjourned to the Opera, having only determined to renew at supper our intimacy with certain flasks of Champagne, which lay in their icy baths coolly expecting our return. We carried our determination into effect to the fullest extent; and at half-past three o'clock we parted, deeply impressed with a sense of each other's good qualities, and with as keen and lively an appetite for the sublime and beautiful as an X of Champagne2 usually imparts to its warm-hearted admirers. My way led me through Whitehall, at least I found myself there, as "Charles," the guardian of the night, was announcing the fourth hour. As my good fortune would have it, I happened to look towards the river, and never, while memory holds her seat, shall I forget the sight which presented itself. Six distinct St. Pauls lifted themselves through the cloudless morning air (so pure, that the smoke of a single cigar would defile it: I extinguished mine in awe) towards the blue transparent sky; nearer, and beneath this stately city of temples, were four Waterloo Bridges, piling their long arcades in graceful and harmonious regularity one above the other, with the chaste and lofty symmetry of a mighty aqueduct; while far away, in the dim distance, a dome of gigantic dimensions was faintly visible, as if presiding over the scene, linking shadow and substance, uniting the material with the intellectual world, like the realization of a grand architectural dream. Talk not to me of the Eternal City—in her proudest days of imperial magnificence she could not furnish such a view—thrice be that Champagne lauded!—Monthly Magazine.

NEW YORK

The distant view of New York, almost free from smoke, is singularly bright and lively; in some respects it refreshes a recollection of the sea-bound cities of the Mediterranean. The lower parts of the interior, next to the warehouses, resemble Liverpool; but the boast of the city is Broadway, a street that, for extent and beauty, the Trongate of Glasgow, which it somewhat resembles in general effect, alone excels. The style of the Trongate is, if the expression may be used, of a more massy and magnificent character, but there is a lightness in that of Broadway which most people will prefer. Those who compare the latter with Oxford-street, in London, do it injustice; for, although the shops in Oxford-street display a richer show of merchandize, the buildings are neither of equal consequence nor magnitude. Regent-street in London, is of course always excepted from comparisons of this kind.

The portico of the Bowery Theatre is immeasurably the finest morçeau of architecture in the city. It resembles that of Covent-Garden, but seems to be nobler and greater; and yet I am not sure if, in point of dimensions, it is larger, or so large as that of Covent-Garden. The only objection to it—and my objection is stronger against the London theatre—is the unfitness. In both cases, the style and order are of the gravest Templar character, more appropriate to the tribunals of criminal justice, than to the haunts of Cytherea and the Muses.—New Monthly Mag.

THE TRUE FORNARINA

The account of a journey which was taken in the year 1664, by Cosmo, the son of Ferdinand II. de Medici, was written at the time, by Philip Pizzichi, his travelling chaplain. This work was published for the first time at Florence, about seven months ago. It contains some curious notices of persons and things, and among them, what will interest every lover of the fine arts. It is this—speaking of Verona, he mentions the Curtoni gallery of paintings, and says, "The picture most worthy of attention is the lady of Raffaello, so carefully finished by himself, and so well preserved that it surpasses every other." The editor of these travels has satisfactorily shown that Raffaelo's lady here described is the true Fornarina; so that of the three likenesses of her said to be executed by this eminent artist, the genuine one is the Veronese, belonging to the Curtoni gallery, now in the possession of a lady Cavellini Brenzoni, who obtained it by inheritance.—Monthly Magazine.

ITALIAN SCENERY

Happy is the man, who, leaving the Alps behind him, has the plains of Lombardy on his right hand and on his left, the Apennines in view, and Florence as the city towards which he directs his steps. His way is through a country where corn grows under groves of fruit trees, whose tops are woven into green arcades by thickly-clustering garlands of vines; the dark masses of foliage and verdure which every where appear, melt insensibly, as he advances, into a succession of shady bowers that invite him to their depths; the scenery is monotonous, and yet ever various from the richness of its sylvan beauty, possessing all the softness of forest glades without their gloom. Towards Bologna, the landscape roughens into hills, which grow into Apennines, but Arcadia still breathes from slopes and lawns of tender green, which take their rise in the low stream-watered valleys, and extend up the steep ascent till met midway by the lofty chestnut groves which pale them in. To these gentler features succeeds the passage of the Apennines, which here, at least, are not as the author of "Italy as it Is," describes them, "the children of the Alps—smiling and gentle and happy as children should be," but, as we remember them, their summits form themselves into a wild, dreary region, sown with sterile mountain-tops, and torn to pieces by wind and storm; the only glimpse of peace is derived from the view on either side of the sea, which sometimes shows itself on the horizon, a misty line, half silver, half ether. This barren wilderness again softens into gracefully-swelling hills turned towards Florence. The fair olive tree and the dark cypress mingle their foliage with the luxuriant chestnut boughs, and the frequent marble villa flashes a white gleam from amid its surrounding laurel bowers. The sky is more beautiful than earth, and each symbolize peace and serene enjoyment.—Westminster Review.

MUSICAL MARVEL

One of the most amusing stories in ancient history, of the successful and happy use of fine music, is told of Arion, who, when about to be thrown overboard by some mutinous sailors, begged leave to sing to his lute one funeral strain before his death. Having obtained leave, he stood upon the prow with his instrument, chanted with a loud voice his sweetest elegy, and then threw himself into the sea. A dolphin, as the story goes, charmed with his music, swam to him while floating on the waves, bore him on his back, and carried him safely to Cape Taenarus, in Sparta, from whence he went to Corinth. It would have been well for the mutineers if their taste for music had been as great as the dolphin's, for the history not only affords a grand instance of the power of music, but of retributive justice, as the sailors accidentally going to Corinth, paid the penalty of their evil intentions with their lives.

POPULATION OF AUSTRALIA

Mr. Martin mentions a very curious fact. The increase of population, he says, has been most rapid, and is to be accounted for by the number of females born, the proportion being, with regard to males, as three to one! The great preponderating number of females brought forth among domesticated animals, will account for the countless herds of cattle which overspread the colony.—New Monthly Magazine.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

THE BLACK LADY OF ALTENÖTTING

With the exception of the shrine of the Three Kings at Cologne, there exists throughout Germany no spot of greater sanctity, no altar of richer endowments, than the Chapel of the Black Lady, on the frontier of Bavaria. The hearts of its sovereign electors have been deposited, from century to century, within the consecrated cells; nor is there an historic event, involving the interests of their own, or the adjacent kingdoms, which is not supposed to have been influenced by her potent interposition. A sufficient history, in fact, of the destinies of the whole empire, might be recorded in a mere catalogue of the national offerings to the shrine of Altenötting.

In rambling through the eastern provinces of Bavaria, some few springs ago, I chanced to arrive one glowing afternoon at the post-house of an inconsiderable town; which, from the grass-grown tranquillity of its streets, and from a peculiar air of self-oblivion, appeared to be basking fast asleep in the sunshine. There was little to admire in the common-place character of its site, or the narrow meanness of its distribution; yet there was something peculiar in its look of dreamy non-identity; and had it not been for the smiling faces of the fair-haired Bavarian girls, who were to be seen glancing here and there, with their embroidered purple bodices and coifs, and silver-chained stomachers, I could believe myself to have reached some enchanted realm of forgetfulness.

As I entered the Platz, or market-square, of the little town, chiefly with a view to the nearer inspection of the cunning workmanship of the aforesaid carcanets of silver, a light sprinkling of April rain began to moisten the pavement—one of those unheard, unseen, revivifying showers, which weep the earth into freshness, and the buds into maturity. I was anxious, however, to withdraw my mere human nature from participation in these herbaceous advantages; and looking about for some shelter which might preserve me from the mischiefs of the shower, without depriving me of its refreshing fragrance, I espied in the centre of the Platz—a square of no mighty area—a low, rotunda-like building, with slated roof, overhanging and resting upon wooden pillars, so as to form a sort of covered walk.

I settled with myself that this was the market-house of the town, and hastened to besiege so desirable a city of refuge. But during my rapid approach, I observed that the external walls of the nameless edifice beneath the arcade were covered, and without a single interstitial interval, by small pictures in oil-colours, equal in size, and equal in demerit, and each and all representing some calamitous crisis of human existence—a fire, a ship-wreck, a boat-wreck, a battle, a leprosy! It occurred to me at the same moment, that this gallery of mortal casualties and afflictions must be a collection of votive offerings, and that the seeming market-house was, probably, a shrine of especial sanctity. And so it was!—the shrine of "The Black Lady of Altenötting."

Instigated by somewhat more than a traveller's vague curiosity, I entered the chapel; the brilliancy of which, eternally illuminated by the reflection of a profusion of silver lamps upon the thousand precious objects which decorate the walls, forms a startling contrast with the dim shadows of the external arcade. In most cases, the entrance to a religious edifice impresses the mind with a consciousness of vastness, and a sensation of awe:—

"–the tombsAnd monumental caves of death look cold,And strike an aching dullness to the breast."

But the chapel of the Black Virgin is diminutive as a boudoir, and yet retains the usual character of listening and awful stillness, the ordinary impression of local sanctity. A few peasants were seen kneeling in utter immobility and self-abstraction beneath a lamp, which seemed to issue in a crimson flame from a colossal two-fold silver heart, suspended from the ceiling—their untutored minds were elevated into the belief of a heavenly commune.

In a glass case above the altar, is deposited this far-famed effigy of the Holy Galilean virgin—a hideous female negro, carved in wood, and holding an infant Jesus in her arms of the same hue and material; and exhibited in its extremity of ugliness by the reflected glare of the silver and diamonds, and gems of every description, by which she is surrounded. Chests, mimic altars, models of ships, crowns and sceptres, chalices and crosses of gold and silver and enamel, and enriched with

Turkish blue and emerald green,

and every jewel of every land, lie amassed in gorgeous profusion in the adjoining cases, and seemed to realize the fabled treasures of the preadamite Sultans. Boasting themselves as gifts of gratitude or invocation from emperors and popes, kings, princes, palsgraves, and all the other minor thrones and dominions of the earth, these splendid offerings form the most plausible illustration of the miraculous power attributed to the image of the Black Lady, which has been deposited in its actual abode since the year of Grace 696. In the course of the Thirty Years' War, this important relic and its treasury were twice removed into the city of Salzburg, for security from the Swedish invaders; and twice brought back in solemn triumph to their ancient sanctuary.

But a mightier charm than that of gems or metals, the most precious or the most beautiful, connects itself with the chapel of Altenötting—its association with historical names of all ages, from Charlemagne and Otto of Wittelsbach, whose monuments we find inscribed in Runic characters, to Pius the Sixth, whose dedication, "O clemens, O pia Virgo Oettingana!" is graven in a "fine Roman hand." It contains sepulchral vaults of the families of Wallenstein, Tilly, Montecuculi, besides those of divers electors, archbishops, and archdukes, whose titles speak far less stirringly to the heart; altogether forming an illustration of the past, which brings the dark ages in living majesty before our eyes.

Alternately dazzled and disgusted by this fruitless waste of splendour, this still more fruitless waste of national credulity, I was pondering over the domestic virtues of a certain "Franziska Barbara, Countess of Tilly," as recorded over her grave, when the chants of the priests, who had been engaged in the celebration of mass before the altar, suddenly ceased; and, as the last fumes of the incense circled upwards to the blackened roof, there arose another and a solitary voice, evidently of lay intonation, and deepened by that persuasive earnestness of devotion which, like an electric chain, connects in holy feeling all sects of the Christian church. It spoke in the fulness of gratitude, and in the humbleness of prayer; and although the dialect was tinged with village barbarism, and its thankfulness addressed to the Black Virgin, I heard in its simple solemnity only the beauty of holiness; and, overlooking the visible shrine, beheld in its ultimate object the tribunal of divine mercy!

The devout speaker was one of a peasant family who had entered the chapel unobserved, during my contemplation of its glittering decorations. He was apparently a Bavarian farmer, somewhat advanced in years, and wearing, in addition to his richly-substantial holiday attire, a deep green shade over his eyes, which accounted for the character of his thanksgivings to the miraculous image. "I thank thee, O most benign and saintly Maria!" had been the tenour of his prayer, "for the scattered and glorious gifts of Heaven, which had become as vain things to my soul, till thy grace renewed them in its knowledge. I thank thee for the summer skies and the green pastures—for the footsteps which no longer crave a helping hand—for the restored faces of my beloved ones—and, above all, O holiest Virgin! I glorify thy name in gratitude for the precious means by which the blessing of sight hath been again vouchsafed me!"

This last mode of expression excited my curiosity, and when the little group of votaries had concluded their ceremonies, had affixed their consecrated tapers at the shrine, and deposited their oblations with its officiating priests, I followed their joyful footsteps out of the chapel, and was again struck by the delicious transition from the heated and incense-laden atmosphere of its interior, to the pure, balmy April air without, gushing with the sweetness of the passing shower.

The ceremonies of the day were still far from their conclusion. The historical painter of Altenötting was in attendance in the arcade, bearing the votive picture which was to perpetuate the latest miracle of the Black Lady; and as far as I could observe or ascertain of the sacerdotal hangman of the consecrated gallery, the oldest and most weather-stained of the pictures was made to yield precedence to the new comer. Having profited by a stranger's privilege, and the English garb, which is held as sacred as a herald's tabard in many a foreign land, to unite myself to the little group, and address some casual inquiries to its frank and overjoyous members—old Philipp Stroer himself, the hero of the day, deigned to take the picture from the hands of the sacristan, and to ciceronize for my especial edification. I trust his restored vision was not yet sufficiently acute to admit of his noting the smile which, in spite of my better will, stole over my face, as I contemplated the phenomenon of bad taste, and worse execution, which he thrust upon my observation. It represented his worthy but very unpicturesque self in the hands of an oculist, and the endurance of a cataract. The eyes of his surrounding family were fixed with eager interest upon the event of the operation. "And what," said I, anxious to make some sympathy in this domestic crisis—"and what is the name of the surgeon whose efforts have been blessed by the protection of the Black Lady?"