The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 379, July 4, 1829

FRANKLIN'S GRAVE

Captain Basil Hall, in his Travels in North America, just published, says, "On the 12th of December, we made a pilgrimage to the tomb of Franklin—dear old Franklin! It consists of a large marble slab, laid flat on the ground, with nothing carved upon it but these words:—

BENJAMIN AND DEBORAHFRANKLIN1790

Franklin, it will be recollected, wrote a humorous epitaph for himself; but his good taste and good sense showed him how unsuitable to his living character it would have been to jest in such a place. After all, his literary works, scientific fame, and his undoubted patriotism, form his best epitaph. Still, it may be thought, he might have been distinguished in his own land by a more honourable resting-place than the obscure corner of an obscure burying-ground, where his bones lie indiscriminately along with those of ordinary mortals; and his tomb, already wellnigh hid in the rubbish, may soon be altogether lost. One little circumstance, however, about this spot is very striking. No regular path has been made to the grave, which lies considerably out of the road; but the frequent tread of visiters having pressed down the rank grass which grows in such places, the way to the tombstone is readily found without any guide."

AN INDIAN SULTANA IN PARIS

It is known to very few even in France that an Indian Sultana, a descendant of Tamerlane, named Aline of Eldir, has been living in Paris, poor and forgotten, for above forty years. This heiress to a great kingdom was stolen almost out of her cradle, and deserted by the robbers on the coast of France. She was presented to the princesses of the old court, and conceived a particular attachment for the Princess de Lamballe; but when, at the age of only nine or ten years, her beauty had attracted too much notice, and nothing but a lettre de cachet could secure her from the persecutions of an exalted personage, she exchanged a convent for a prison. The revolution set Aline at liberty. At the time of the Egyptian campaign, the man who was destined to rule France, and almost all Europe, and who had probably thus early turned his attention to India, is said to have thought of the heiress of Tamerlane, and to have formed the plan of restoring the illustrious stranger to her native land. Josephine interested herself on this occasion for the Sultana; but this had no influence upon her condition. Unhappy, surrounded only by a few pious nuns, and urged by her confessor, she renounced the religion of Mahomet, and became a Christian. At length, in December, 1818, an Indian Sheik, named Goolam, arrived in Paris, with instructions to claim the Princess Aline from the Court of France. The Envoy sought out the Sultana: he informed her, that her relations were desirous of her return; that she should be reinstated in the rank which was her right, and again behold the bright sun and the beautiful face of her own Asia, upon the sole condition that she would forsake Christ for Mahomet. No persuasions, however, could prevail upon the convert to comply with this requisition; Goolam went back to India without accomplishing the object of his mission, which produced no improvement in her straitened circumstances. Two years afterwards, she learned that an Indian Prince had landed in England with a splendid retinue, including three females, but that he had been obliged by the English government to embark again immediately for India. Aline had no doubt that this event had some connexion with her history, but she heard no more of the matter.

These particulars are chiefly extracted from the preface to the books of the Princess, written by the Marquess de Fortia. This nobleman generously took upon himself the charge of supporting Aline, who has now attained the age of sixty years in a foreign land.—Court Journal.

MAKING PUNCH

(From the Noctes—Blackwood.)

Shepherd.—I hae mony a time thocht it took as muckle natural genius to mak a jug of punch as an epic poem, sic as Paradise Lost, or even Queen Hynde hersell.

Odoherty.—More, my friend, more. I think an ingenious comparison between these works of intellect could be easily made by a man of a metaphysical turn of mind.

North.—A more interesting consideration would be, the effect produced upon the national character, by the mere circumstance of the modes of preparing the different beverages of different countries. Much of the acknowledged inferiority of the inhabitants of wine countries, arises from the circumstance of having their liquor prepared to their hand. There is no stretch of imagination in pouring wine ready made from carafe, or barochio, or flask, into a glass—the operation is merely mechanical; whereas, among us punch drinkers, the necessity of a nightly manufacture of a most intricate kind, calls forth habits of industry and forethought—induces a taste for chemical experiment—improves us in hygrometry, and many other sciences—to say nothing of the geographical reflections drawn forth by the pressure of the lemon, or the colonial questions, which press upon every meditative mind on the appearance of white sugar.

LION-EATING AND HANGING

North.—When I was at Timbuctoo—

Shepherd (aside.)—A lang yarn is beginning the noo—

Moses Edrehi.—Sind sie geweson, sare, dans I'Afrique?

North.—Many years—I was Sultan of Bello for a long period, until dethroned by an act of the grossest injustice; but I intend to expose the traitorous conspirators to the indignation of an outraged world.

Tickler (aside to Shepherd.)—He's raving.

Shepherd (to Tickler.)—Dementit.

Odoherty (to both.)—Mad as a hatter. Hand me a segar.

Moses Edrehi.—Yo suis of Madoc.

North (aside.)—Zounds! (to Edrehi) I never chanced to pass that way—the emperor and I were not on good terms.

Moses Edrehi.—Then, sare, you was good luck to no pass, for the emperor was a man ver disagreeáble ven no gut humours. Gott keep ush! He hat lions in cage—and him gab peoples zu de lions—dey roarsh—oh, mucho, mucho!—and eats de poor peoples—Gott keep ush! a ver disagreeáble man dat emperor.

Shepherd.—Nae doot—it canna be a pleasant thing to be gobbled by a lion. Oh, sirs, imagine yoursell daundering out to Canaan, to take your kail wi' our frien' James, and as ye're passing the Links, out jumps a lion, and at you!

Odoherty.—The Links—oh! James, you are no Polyglott.

Tickler.—I don't wish to insinuate that I should like to be eaten, either by lion or shepherd, but I confess that I consider that the new drop would be a worse fate than either.

North.—Quite mistaken—the drop's a trifle.

Moses Edrehi.—Ja whöl, Milord.

Shepherd.—As to being hangit, why, that's a matter that happens to mony a deacent man, and it's but a spurl or tway, and a gaspin gurble, an' ae stour heave, and a's ower; ye're dead ere a body's weel certified that the board's awa' from behind you—and the night-cap's a great blessing, baith to you and the company. The gilliteen again, I'm tauld its just perfectly ridiculous how soon that does it's turn. Up ye come, and tway chiels ram your head into a shottle in a door like, and your hands are clasped ahint ye, and swee gangs the door, and you upset headforemost, and in below the axe, and hangie just taps you on the neck to see that it's in the richt nick, and whirr, whirr, whirr, touch the spring, and down comes the thundering edge, loaded with at least a hunder weight o' lead—your head's aff like a sybo—Tuts, that's naething—onybody might mak up their mind to be justified on the gilliteen.

Odoherty.—The old Dutch way—the broadsword—is, after all, the best; by much the easiest and the genteelest. You are seated in a most comfortable arm-chair with a silk handkerchief over your eyes—they read a prayer if you are so inclined—you call for a glass of wine, or a cup of coffee—an iced cream—a dram—any thing you please, in fact, and your desires are instantly complied with—you put the cup to the lip, and just at that moment swap comes the whistling sabre.

Shepherd.—Preserve us! keep your hand to yoursell, Captain.

Odoherty.—Sweep he comes—the basket is ready, they put a clean towel over it—pack off the cold meat to the hospital—scrub the scaffold—take it to pieces—all within five minutes.

Shepherd.—That's capital. In fact a' these are civilized exits—but oh! man, man, to think of a lion on the Burntsfield Links—what would your gowfers say to that, Mr. Tickler?

Tickler.—A rum customer certainly.

Shepherd.—Oh! the een, the red, fiery, fixit, unwinkin' een, I think I see them—and the laigh, deep, dour growl, like the purring o' ten hundred cats—and the muckle white sharp teeth girnin' and grundin'—and the lang rough tongue, and the yirnest slaver running outour the chaps o' the brute—and the cauld shiver–minutes may be—and than the loup like lightning, and your back-bane broken wi' a thud, like a rotten rash—and then the creature begins to lick your face wi' his tongue, and sniffle and snort over owre you, and now a snap at your nose, and than a rive out o' your breast, and then a crunch at your knee—and you're a' the time quite sensible, particularly sensible.

Odoherty.—Give him a dig in the muzzle, and he'll tip you the coup-de-grace.

North.—What a vivid imagination the Shepherd has—well, cowardice is an inspiring principle.

HEAD WAGER

The following is a story from a MS., copied by Gaillard, in his Life of Francis I.:—

Duprat said in one of the conversations with the emperor's minister, that he would consent to lose his head if his sovereign had aided Robert de la Mark against Charles. The Spanish chancellor claimed du Prat's head as forfeited, for, he said he had in his possession letters which proved Francis's connivance with Robert de la Mark. "My head is my own yet," replied Du Prat, "for I have the originals of the letters you allude to, and they in no manner justify the scorn you would put upon them." "If I had won your head," replied the imperial chancellor, "you might keep it still. I protest I would rather have a pig's head, for that would be more eatable." Monthly Mag.

The Novelist

FAIR FANARIOTE

In consequence of the numerous revolutions that have accompanied the fall of the Greek empire in Byzantium, most of the inhabitants of Fanari, near Constantinople, boast of being descendants of the dethroned imperial families; a circumstance which is probable enough, and which nobody takes the trouble to dispute, any more than the alleged nobility of the Castilian peasantry, or the absurd genealogies of certain great families.

In a retired street in Pera, (one of the suburbs of Constantinople,) a descendant of the Cantacuzenes followed the humble calling of a butcher; but, in spite of industry and activity, he had great difficulty in earning a sufficiency to pay his way, and maintain his wife and his only daughter, Sophia. The latter had just entered her fourteenth year, and her growing beauty was the admiration of the whole neighbourhood.

Fate, or, if you please so to call it, Providence, ordained that the poor butcher should suffer repeated losses, which reduced him to a condition bordering on beggary. His wife unfolded her distressed circumstances to a Greek, one of her relations, who was Dragoman to the French embassy, and who, in his turn, related the story to the Marquess de Vauban, the ambassador. This nobleman became interested for the unfortunate family, and especially for Sophia, whom the officious Dragoman described as being likely to fall into the snares that were laid for her, and to become an inmate of the haram of some Pasha, or even of a Turk of inferior rank. Prompted by pity, curiosity, or perhaps by some other motive, the ambassador paid a visit to the distressed family. He saw Sophia, was charmed by her beauty and intelligence, and he proposed that her parents should place her under his care, and allow him to convey her to France. The misery to which the poor people were reduced, may perhaps palliate the shame of acceding to this extraordinary proposition; but, be this as it may, they consented to surrender up their daughter for the sum of 1,500 piastres, and Sophia was that same day conducted to the ambassador's palace. She found in the Marquess de Vauban a kind and liberal benefactor. He engaged masters to instruct her in every branch of education; and elegant accomplishments, added to her natural charms, rendered her an object of irresistible attraction.

In the course of a few months the ambassador was called home, and he set out, accompanied by his Oriental treasure, to travel to France by land. To diminish as far as possible the fatigue of the long journey, they proceeded by short stages, and having passed through European Turkey, they arrived at Kaminieck in Podolia, which is the first fortress belonging to Russia. Here the Marquess determined to rest for a short time, before undertaking the remainder of his tedious journey.

Count de Witt, a descendant of the Grand Pensionary of Holland, who was governor of the place, received his noble visiter with every mark of attention. The Count, however, no sooner beheld Sophia, than he became deeply enamoured of her; and on learning the equivocal situation in which she stood, being neither a slave nor a mistress, but, as it were, a piece of merchandize purchased for 1,500 piastres, he wound up his declaration of love by an offer of marriage. The Count was a handsome man, scarcely thirty years of age, a lieutenant-general in the Russian service, and enjoying the high favour of his sovereign Catherine II. The fair Greek, as may well be imagined, did not reject this favour of fortune, but accepted the offer of her suitor without hesitation.

It was easy to foresee that the Marquis de Vauban would not be very willing to part with a prize which he regarded as lawfully acquired, and to which he attached no small value. The Count therefore found it advisable to resort to stratagem. Accordingly, his Excellency having one day taken a ride beyond the ramparts, the draw-bridges were raised, and the lovers repaired to church, where their hands were joined by a papa. When the Marquess appeared at the gates of the fortress and demanded admittance, a messenger was sent out to inform him of what had happened; and, to complete the denouement of the comedy, the marriage contract was exhibited to him in due form.

To save Sophia from the reproaches which her precipitancy, it may perhaps be said her ingratitude, would have fully justified, the Count directed the ambassador's suite to pack up their baggage, and join his Excellency extra muros. The poor Marquess soon discovered that it was quite useless to stay where he was, for the purpose of venting threats and complaints; and he had no hope that the Court of France would think it worth while to go to war, for the sake of avenging his affront. He therefore prudently took a hint from one of the French poets, who says:—

Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte pour le sot,L'honnête homme trompé, s'éloigne, et ne dit mot;"

and he set off, doubtless with the secret determination never again to traffic in merchandize which possesses no value when it can be either bought or sold.

About two years after his marriage, the Count de Witt obtained leave of absence, and, accompanied by his wife, he visited the different courts of Europe. Sophia's beauty, which derived piquancy from a certain Oriental languishment of manner, was every where the theme of admiration. The Prince de Ligne, who saw her at the Court of France, mentions her in his Memoirs, in terms of eulogy, which I cannot think exaggerated; for when I knew her at Tulczin, though she was then upwards of forty, her charms retained all their lustre, and she outshone the young beauties of the court, amidst whom she appeared like Calypso surrounded by her nymphs.

I now arrive at the second period of Sophia's life, which forms a sequel perfectly in unison with the commencement. Count Felix Patocka, at the commencement of the troubles in Poland, raised a considerable party by the influence of his rank and vast fortune. During a temporary absence from the Court of Poland, he made a tour through Italy, and on his return, he met the Count and Countess de Witt at Hamburgh, when he fell deeply in love with Sophia. Not to weary you with the details of the romance, I will come to the dénouement at once.

Nothing is so easy as to obtain a divorce in Poland. The law extends so far on this point, that I knew a gentleman, M. Wortrel, who had no less than four wives, all living, and bearing his name. Count Patocka, therefore, availing himself of this advantage, and having previously made every necessary arrangement, one morning called on Count de Witt, and, without further ceremony, said—"Count, I love your wife, and cannot live without her. I know that I am not indifferent to her; and I might immediately carry her off; but I wish to owe my happiness to you, and to retain for ever a grateful sense of your generosity. Here are two papers: one is an act of divorce, which only wants your signature, for you see the Countess has already affixed hers to it;—the other is a bond for two millions of florins, payable at my banker's, in this city. We may, therefore, settle the business amicably or otherwise, just as you please." The husband doubtless thought of his adventure at the fortress of Kaminieck, and, like the French ambassador, he resigned himself to his fate, and signed the paper. The fair Sophia became, the same day, Countess Patocka; and to the charms of beauty and talent, were now added the attractions of a fortune, the extent of which was at that time unequalled in Europe.—Court Journal.

Retrospective Gleanings

JOHN LOCKE

Lord King has just done the state of literature some service, by the publication of the Life of John Locke: with Extracts from his Journals, &c. In this task his lordship has drawn largely on some valuable papers of Locke, preserved by their having gone into the possession of Sir Peter King, the ancestor of Lord King, his near relation and sole executor. Among these treasures are Locke's correspondence, a journal of his travels in France and Holland, his common-place book, and many miscellaneous papers; all of which have been preserved in the same scrutoire in which they had been deposited by their author, and which was probably removed to Oakham, (Lord King's seat,) in 1710. From the latter portion of Lord King's valuable work, we select a few notes, illustrative of Manners and Customs in

ENGLAND, 1679

The sports of England, which, perhaps, a curious stranger would be glad to see, are horse-racing, hawking, and hunting; bowling,—at Marebone and Putney he may see several persons of quality bowling, two or three times a week all the summer; wrestling, in Lincoln's Inne Field every evening all the summer; bear and bull-baiting, and sometimes prizes, at the Bear-Garden; shooting in the long-bow and stob-ball, in Tothil Fields; cudgel-playing, in several places in the country; and hurling, in Cornwall. London.—See the East India House, and their magazines; the Custom House; the Thames, by water, from London Bridge to Deptford; and the King's Yard at Deptford; the sawing-windmill; Tradescant's garden and closet; Sir James Morland's closet and water-works; the iron mills at Wandsworth, four miles above London, upon the Thames; or rather those in Sussex; Paradise by Hatton Garden; the glass-house at the Savoy, and at Vauxhall. Eat fish in Fish Street, especially lobsters, Colchester oysters, and a fresh cod's head. The veal and beef are excellent good in London; the mutton better in several counties in England. A venison pasty and a chine of beef are good every where; and so are crammed capons and fat chickens. Railes and heathpolts, ruffs, and reeves, are excellent meat wherever they can be met with. Puddings of several sorts, and creams of several fashions, both excellent; but they are seldom to be found, at least in their perfection, at common eating-houses. Mango and saio are two sorts of sauces brought from the East Indies. Bermuda oranges and potatoes, both exceeding good in their kind. Chedder and Cheshire cheese. Men excellent in their arts. Mr. Cox, in Long Acre, for all sorts of dioptical glasses. Mr. Opheel, near the Savoy, for all sorts of machines. Mr. –, for a new invention he has, and teaches to copy all sorts of pictures, plans, or to take prospects of places. The King's gunsmith, at the Yard by Whitehall. Mr. Not, in the Pall Mall, for binding of books. The Fire-eater. At an iron-monger's, near the May-pole, in the Strand, is to be found a great variety of iron instruments, and utensils of all kinds. At Bristol see the Hot-well; St. George's Cave, where the Bristol diamonds are found; Ratcliff Church; and at Kingwood, the coal-pits. Taste there Milford oysters, marrow-puddings, cock-ale, metheglin, white and red-muggets, elvers, sherry, sack (which, with sugar, is called Bristol milk,) and some other wines, which, perhaps you will not drink so good at London. At Gloucester observe the whispering place in the cathedral. At Oxford see all the colleges, and their libraries; the schools and public library, and the physic-garden. Buy there knives and gloves, especially white kid-skin; and the cuts of all the colleges graved by Loggins. If you go into the North, see the Peak in Derbyshire, described by Hobbes, in a Latin poem, called "Mirabilia Pecci." Home-made drinks of England are beer and ale, strong and small; those of most note, that are to be sold, are Lambeth ale, Margaret ale, and Derby ale; Herefordshire cider, perry, mede. There are also several sorts of compounded ales, as cock-ale, wormwood-ale, lemon-ale, scurvygrass-ale, college-ale, &c. These are to be had at Hercules Pillars, near the Temple; at the Trumpet, and other houses in Sheer Lane, Bell Alley, and, as I remember, at the English Tavern, near Charing Cross. Foreign drinks to be found in England are all sorts of Spanish, Greek, Italian, Rhenish, and other wines, which are to be got up and down at several taverns. Coffé, thé, and chocolate, at coffeehouses. Mum at the mum houses and other places; and molly, a drink of Barbadoes, by chance at some Barbadoes merchants'. Punch, a compounded drink, on board some West India ships; and Turkish sherbet amongst the merchants. Manufactures of cloth that will keep out rain; flanel, knives, locks and keys; scabbards for swords; several things wrought in steel, as little boxes, heads for canes, boots, riding-whips, Rippon spurs, saddles, &c. At Nottingham dwells a man who makes fans, hatbands, necklaces, and other things of glass, drawn out into very small threads."

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

NEW MAGAZINE

Mr. Sharpe, the proprietor of the "Anniversary," has just published the first number of "The Three Chapters," which is one of the most splendid Magazines ever produced in this or any other country. It has a charming print by H. Rolls, from Wilkie's Hymn of the Calabrian Shepherds to the Virgin, which alone is worth the price charged for the number. Southey, A. Cunningham, L.E.L. and Hook, shine in the poetry and romance, one of the "Three Chapters," from which we have just room to give the following:—

EPITAPH IN BUTLEIGH CHURCH

BY ROBERT SOUTHEYDivided far by death were they, whose names,In honour here united, as in birth,This monumental verse records. They drewIn Dorset's healthy vales their natal breath,And from these shores beheld the ocean first,Whereon, in early youth, with one accordThey chose their way of fortune; to that courseBy Hood and Bridport's bright example drawn,Their kinsmen, children of this place, and sonsOf one, who in his faithful ministryInculcated, within these hallowed walls,The truths, in mercy to mankind revealed.Worthy were these three brethren each to addNew honours to the already honour'd name;But Arthur, in the morning of his day,Perished amid the Caribbean sea,When the Pomona, by a hurricaneWhirl'd, riven and overwhelmed, with all her crewInto the deep went down. A longer dateTo Alexander was assign'd, for hopeFor fair ambition, and for fond regret,Alas, how short! for duty, for desert,Sufficing; and, while Time preserves the rollOf Britain's naval feats, for good report.A boy, with Cook he rounded the great globe;A youth, in many a celebrated fightWith Rodney had his part; and having reach'dLife's middle stage, engaging ship to ship,When the French Hercules, a gallant foe,Struck to the British Mars his three-striped flag,He fell, in the moment of his victory.Here his remains in sure and certain hopeAre laid, until the hour when earth and seaShall render up their dead. One brother yetSurvived, with Keppel and with Rodney train'dIn battles, with the Lord of Nile approved,Ere in command he worthily upheldOld England's high prerogative. In the east,The west, the Baltic, and the midland seas,Yea, wheresoever hostile fleets have plough'dThe ensanguined deep, his thunders have been heard,His flag in brave defiance hath been seen,And bravest enemies at Sir Samuel's nameFelt fatal presage in their inmost heart,Of unavertable defeat foredoom'd.Thus in the path of glory he rode on,Victorious alway, adding praise to praise;Till full of honours, not of years, beneathThe venom of the infected clime he sunk,On Coromandel's coast, completing thereHis service, only when his life was spent.To the three brethren, Alexander's son(Sole scion he in whom their line survived,)With English feeling, and the deeper senseOf filial duty, consecrates this tomb.