The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 331, September 13, 1828

W.H.HTHE ROSE(For the Mirror.)Mark, Laura, dearest, yonder roseIts inner folds are sad and pale, love;While blushing, outward leaves discloseA lively crimson to the gale, love.Yet as the secret canker-wormPreys deeply on its drooping heart, love,Soon from the flow'ret's with'ring formWill all that vivid glow depart, love.Then turn to me those beaming eyes—A blooming cheek although you see, love,Since hope is fled, then pleasure dies,And read the rose's fate in me, love.OLD WINE(For the Mirror.)

The passion for old wines has sometimes been carried to a very ridiculous excess, for the "thick crust," the "bee's wing," and the several other criterions of the epicure, are but so many proofs of the decomposition and departure of some of the best qualities of the wine. Had the man that first filled the celebrated Heidleburg tun been placed as sentinel, to see that no other wine was put into it, he would have found it much better at twenty-five or thirty years old, than at one hundred, had he lived so long, and been permitted now and then to taste it.

At Bremen there is a wine-cellar, called the Store, where five hogsheads of Rhenish wine have been preserved since 1625. These five hogsheads cost 1,200 francs. Had this sum been put out to compound interest, each hogshead would now be worth above a thousand millions of money, a bottle of this precious wine would cost 21,799,480 francs, or about 908,311l., and a single wine-glass 2,723,808 francs, or about 113,492l..

J.L.STHE HEROINEA SKETCH FROM SUNDRY NOVELS(For the Mirror.)

She must be, à plaisir, tall and slender in person, or of humbler stature, but never inclining to stoutness, since the en bon point savours (at least in romance) of vulgarity. Her complexion may be light or dark, according to fancy; but her interesting pallidness may occasionally be relieved by a hectic flush, yet more interesting. She must possess small alabaster hands, coral or ruby lips, enchasing a double row of pearls; a neck rivalling ivory or driven snow, (yes, even if our heroine be a brunette, for incongruity is the very essence of romance); velvet cheeks, golden or jet black hair, diamond eyes, marvellous delicate feet, shrouded at all times in bas-de-soie, and defended by the most enchanting slippers imaginable; her figure must be a model for the statuary, and at all seasons, and in every situation, arrayed in muslins or silks, which, wondrous to relate, resist the injuries of time, weather, and wear in a manner perfectly astounding. What heroine had ever an hiatus in her stocking, or a fracture in her gown of finest woof? Ye gods! what an insult to suppose her repairing such! The lady's mental accomplishments and qualifications are as follow:—She sings divinely, plays on the harp (and piano too in modern days) à merveille; occasionally condescends to fascinate on the guitar, and the lute also, should that instrument, now rather antiquated, fall in her way. She takes portraits, and sketches from nature; she understands all languages, or rather that desideratum, an universal tongue, since in the most foreign lands she is never at a loss to render herself understood, nor to comprehend that which is addressed to her; she is of a melancholy cast of mind, and carries sal-volatile in her reticule, and fountains of tears in her eyes, for use on the most public occasions; she likes gloomy apartments, looking upon the sea, mountains, or black forests, and leading into endless corridors; she has an Æolian lyre ever at her casement, writes verses and weeps by moonlight, for—effect, or— nothing; and is enamoured with a being, who, in the common course of nature, could not exist; he possessing, amongst other fine qualities, that of omnipresence in an impious degree. Should the heroine reside in a town, and especially London, she must have dwelt previously in some isolated mansion, seldom visited by beings superior in intellect to the foxes they hunt; an idiot mother, vulgar aunt, a father, an uncle, or a guardian in his dotage, must have superintended her education; and when, at the age of sixteen, some fortunate chance throws her into society, her accomplishments and manners are found more fitting for it and finished, than those of persons who have from their cradles associated with families of the highest distinction, and possessed all the advantages of a polished and liberal education. The heroine has, in all situations, an abundant store of money, jewels, and clothes, supplied no one knows when, how, or by whom; and these, with her musical instruments, drawing materials, &c. accompany her into every reverse of situation, in a manner perfectly incomprehensible, but highly amusing and edifying. A miniature portrait of some mysterious relative or friend, seldom or ever seen, nay, indeed, a sacred memento of the dead, is highly scenic and effective in a romance. The heroine ought, by all means, to possess such; it may do good, and it can do no harm. Finally, the lady must frequently faint, be twice or thrice on the brink of the grave, undergo exquisite varieties of suffering, run all hazards, but retain her beauty and reputation unblemished to the last, i.e. to her marriage; after which, this wondrous and superlative creature, and her partner in perfection, are never heard of more. Why?

M.L.BANCIENT ROMAN FESTIVALSSEPTEMBER

The Septmontium was a festival of the seven mountains of Rome, which was celebrated in this month, near the seven mountains, within the walls of the city; they sacrificed seven times in seven different places; and on that day the emperors were very liberal to the people.

The Meditrinalia were feasts instituted in honour of the goddess Meditrina, and celebrated on the 13th of September. They were so called from medendo, because the Romans then began to drink new wine, which they mixed with old, and that served them instead of physic.

P.T.W

NOTES OF A READER

THE ANNUALS FOR 1829

These elegant little works are already in a forward state. MR. ALARIC WATTS announces the plates of the SOUVENIR, "of a more important size than heretofore," and twelve in number, already completed. Among them are Cleopatra embarking on the Cydnus, drawn by Danby, and engraved by Goodall; Love taught by the Graces, drawn by Hilton, and engraved by J.C. Edwards; a beautiful scene from Lalla Rookh, drawn by Stephanoff, and engraved by Bacon; She never told her Love, drawn by Westall, and engraved by Rolls. Whilst Mr. Watts has been catering for the "children of a larger growth," Mrs. W. has been preparing a "New Year's Gift; or Juvenile Souvenir", to be accompanied with exquisite illustrations of Nursery literature; as the Children in the Wood, Red Riding Hood, &c. with two historical subjects after Northcote.

Mr. Ackermann, to whom we are indebted for the naturalization of "Annuals", announces that one of his plates in the forthcoming "FORGET ME NOT"—(4 inches by 3 in dimension) has cost one hundred guineas! The subject is "the Ruined City," by Martin, engraved by Le Keux. Fine engraving is thus almost as dear as building-ground at Brighton.

The KEEPSAKE will appear much earlier than last year. Sir Walter Scott has written three or four articles, and two or three "noble lords" are among the contributors. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the specimens of the illustrations.

The FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING passes into the editorial hands of Mr. T. Pringle, of whose poetical talents we have lately had some exquisite specimens.

The ANNIVERSARY.—Allan Cunningham has joined Mr. Sharp (of whose taste in "getting up" books, our readers must be aware) in a splendid volume to be called "The Anniversary." Among the engravings are Psyche, after Sir Thomas Lawrence; Young Cottagers, after Gainsborough; the Author of Waverley in his Study, after W. Allen; a Monkey, &c. by Landseer. This is a new adventure, and we wish its projectors many anniversaries.

The CHRISTMAS BOX is to contain "A Story," from the pen of Miss Edgworth. Mrs. Hofland, Miss Mitford, and Mrs. Hemans, likewise, contribute their pleasing aid.

The PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP is to be altered to The Gem, to be edited by Mr. T. Hood, whose wit and fancy will sparkle among the contributions; and who hopes that it may prove one of those "hardy annuals," which are to become perennials; the writers are to be of "authorized popularity"—"the plates not of the common dessert kind, but a welcome service"—the engravers "as true as steel" to their originals—and the whole equally "mental" and "ornamental:" so the wight has begun already.

The WINTER'S WREATH promises to bloom more vigorously than ever, and earlier too—in September. Among the contributors are the names of Hemans, Opie, Mitford, Montgomery, Wiffen, Delta, &c.

The AMULET is to be edited, as last year, by Mr. Hall.

The BIJOU is printing with two-fold energy.

We read the other day that Schiller's "History of the German War," was originally published in Damen Almanach—a Lady's Almanack! This is real azure. "Annuals" do not, however, progress on the continent; for a new one, lately published contained but a single original contribution. In America they have bloomed with some success, though not with the elegance and polish of our own country. Here their effect on the Fine Arts has been very important, and they have done much for light reading, every name of literary eminence, except those of Moore, Campbell, and Rogers, having been enlisted in their ranks. We do not, however, remember Leigh Hunt, although his pleasantries would relieve the plaintiveness of some of the poetical contributions. A few Shandean articles would be very agreeable—something like the Housekeepers in the last "Friendships' Offering."

Nothing is said of the "Literary Pocket Book;" but our old friend, "Time's Telescope," will be mounted as usual.

We also take this opportunity to state that the "ARCANA OF SCIENCE AND ART, FOR 1829," will appear towards the close of the present year; and, we are enabled to promise its patrons a still greater modicum of novelty and interest than was even comprised in its very successful forerunner.

MARTYRDOM

There is no truth more abundantly exemplified in the history of mankind, than that the blood of martyrs, spilt in whatever cause, political or religious, is the best imaginable seed for the growth of favour towards their persons, and, as far as conversion depends on feeling, of conversion to their opinions. "Quoites mori emur toties nasciemur." —Edin. Rev.

ENGLISH LIBERTY

Our liberty is neither Greek nor Roman; but essentially English. It has a character of its own,—a character which has taken a tinge from the sentiments of the chivalrous ages, and which accords with the peculiarities of our manners, and of our insular situation. It has a language, too, of its own, and a language too singularly idiomatic, full of meaning to ourselves, scarcely intelligible to strangers. —Ibid.

SENSUALITY

How different is the night of Nature from that of man, and the repose of her scenes from the misrule of his sensual haunts; what a contrast between the refreshing return of her morning, and the feverish agonies of his day-dreams. —Cameleon Sketches.

THE FLIMSY AGE

Poets sing of the "golden age," the "silver age," and the "iron age," but were they to celebrate this, I think they should call it the flimsy age, for every thing seems made to suit a temporary purpose, without any regard to the sound and substantial. From printed calico to printed books, from Kean's acting to Nash's architecture, all is made to catch the eye, to gratify the appetite for novelty, without regard to real and substantial excellence. —Blackwood.

VILLAGE CHURCHES

We find very few monasteries founded after the twelfth century; the great majority, which rose through the kingdom "like exhalations," were founded between the eleventh and twelfth centuries; and in all county histories and authentic records, we scarce find a parish church, with the name of its resident rector recorded, before the twelfth century. The first notice of any village church occurs in the Saxon Chronicle, after the death of the conqueror, A.D. 1087. They are called, there, "upland churches." "Then the king did as his father bade him ere he was dead; he then distributed treasures for his father's soul to each monastery that was in England; to some ten marks of gold, to some six; to each upland church sixty pence."—Ingram's Saxon Chronicle. Gibson's note on the passage is, "unicuique ecclesiae rurali." These rare rural churches, after the want of them was felt, and after the lords of manors built, endowed, and presented to them, spread so rapidly, that in 1200 in almost every remote parish there was an "upland church," if not a resident minister, as at this day.

The convents, however, still remained in their pristine magnificence, though declining in purity of morals and in public estimation. In place of new foundations of this august description, the—

"Village parson's modest mansion rose,"

gracefully shewing its unostentatious front, and, at length, humbly adorning almost all the scattered villages of the land.—Bowles's History of Bremhill.

It was pleasantly observed by a sentimental jockey, who lost by a considerable length the first race he ever rode, "I'll never ride another race as long as I live. The riders are the most selfish, narrow minded creatures on the face of the earth. They kept riding and galloping as fast as they could, and never had once the kindness or civility to stop for me."—Penelope.

IRELAND

It has lately been proved by indisputable evidence, that the present condition of the peasantry of Ireland is much superior, to that of the population of the same island some centuries ago, when the number of people did not exceed one million. Spenser describes them as inhabiting "sties rather than houses, which is the chiefest cause of the farmer's so beastly manner of living and savage condition, lying and living together with his beast, in one house, in one room, in one bed, that is clean straw, or rather a foul dunghill."

In 1712, Dobbs, a man particularly conversant with the general condition of Ireland, estimated that its population had increased 200,000. He states that "the common people are very poorly clothed, go barelegged half the year, and very rarely taste of that flesh meat with which we so much abound, but are pinched in every article of life."

In 1762, Sir William Petty computed that the inhabitants of Ireland amounted to about one million three hundred thousand. Their habitations, he says, "are lamentable wretched cabins, such as themselves could make in three or four days, not worth five shillings the building, and filthy and disgusting to a degree, which renders it necessary for us to refrain from quoting his description. Out of the 200,000 houses of Ireland," says he, "160,000 are wretched cabins, without chimney, window, or door shut, even worse than those of the savages of America." Their food at the same period, consisted "of cakes, whereof a penny serves for each a week; potatoes from August till May; mussels, cockles, and oysters, near the sea; eggs and butter made very rancid by keeping in bogs; as for flesh they seldom eat it; they can content themselves with potatoes."

SELF KNOWLEDGE

We often hear people call themselves fools. Now a man ought to know whether he is a fool or not, and he would not say it if he did not believe it; and there is also a degree of wisdom in the discovery that one has been a fool, for thereby it is intimated that the season of folly is over. Whosoever therefore actually says that he was a fool formerly, virtually says that he is not a fool now.—Penelope.

THE MAIDEN'S CHOICEGenteel in personage,Conduct and equipage,Noble by heritage,Generous and free;Brave, not romantic,Learn'd, not pedantic,Frolic, not frantic,This must he be.Honour maintaining,Meanness disdaining.Still entertaining,Engaging and new:Neat, but not finical,Sage, but not cynical,Never tyrannical,But ever true.Old MSCUNNING

In England, no class possesses so much of that peculiar ability which is required for constructing ingenious schemes, and for obviating remote difficulties, as the thieves and the thief-takers. Women have more of this dexterity than men. Lawyers have more of it than statesmen; statesmen have more of it than philosophers.

STORY-TELLING

A friend of mine has one, and only one, good story, respecting a gun, which he contrives to introduce upon all occasions, by the following simple, but ingenious device. Whether the company in which he is placed be numerous or select, addicted to strong potations, or to long and surprising narratives; whatever may happen to be the complexion of their character or conversation, let but a convenient pause ensue, and my friend immediately hears, or pretends to hear, the report of a gun. Every body listens, and recalls his late impressions, upon which "the story of a gun" is naturally, and as if by a casual association, introduced thus—"By the by, speaking of guns, that puts me in mind of a story about a gun;" and so the gun is fixed in regular style, and the company condemned to smell powder for twenty minutes to come! To the telling of this gun story, it is not, you see, at all necessary that there should be an actual explosion and report; it is sufficient that there might have been something of the kind.

PLEASURES OF TRAVELLING

Dover quite full—horrible place! Shocking, the inns! Amphibious wretches, the population. Ashore (from steam-packet) at four in the morning. Fires out at The Ship. No beds! Think of it! Had to wait till a party got up—going off at six. Six came—changed their minds (lazy!) wouldn't go! Woke the whole house with ringing the bells, however—took care they shouldn't sleep. Filthy breakfast! Bad butter—vile chops—eggs! I never got an egg properly boiled in my life! Royal Society ought to give a premium. Set off, starved and shuddering—roads heavy—four horses. Ruined with the expense. Man wanted to take half. Fat—looked greasy. Thought ruin best. Got up to Pagliano's a petrifaction! Worthy creature, the cook! Tossed me up such a "Saumon, Tartare"—"Vol au vent"—"Maccaroni"—all light. Coffee—liqueur—no wine for fear of fever—went to bed quite thawed in body and mind; and walked round Leicester-square next morning like "a giant refreshed!"—Blackwood.

A woman's true dowry is virtue, modesty, and desires restrained; not that which is usually so called.

DOMESDAY

Mr. Bowles in his History of Bremhill, makes a few observations suggested by the account in Domesday Book, on the wages, and some of the prices of agricultural produce on the farms where the villani and servi, literally slaves and villans, laboured. When we find two oxen sold for seventeen shillings and four-pence, we must bear in mind that one Norman shilling was as much in value as three of ours; when we find that thirty hens were sold for three farthings each, we must bear in mind the same proportion. The price of a sheep was one shilling, that is three of ours. Wheat was six shillings a-quarter; that would be, according to our scale, two shillings and three-pence a-bushel. Now, at the time of this calculation, everything must have borne a greater price, reckoning by money, than at the time of Domesday; for the prices of articles now set down (from an authentic document of the accounts of the Duke of Cornwall, first published from the original by Sir R.C. Hoare, in his History of Mere,) bear date somewhat more than two hundred years afterwards, in the reign of Edward the First, 1299. But at that time, what were the wages of the labourer? The ploughman's wages were about five shillings a-year, fifteen shillings by the present scale; a maid for making "pottage" received a penny a week!

THE SKETCH BOOK

STRIKING INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF A MIDSHIPMAN

I have read some theories, or rather hypotheses, of apparitions, in which the authors attempt to account for the appearance of those unsubstantial shadows, resembling the forms of living men, by circumstances connected with the physical laws of matter. But I am rather inclined to hold, with another class of inquirers, that the origin of such marvels must be looked for in the mind of the seers; although I do not go the length of their scepticism, and deny the actual existence of the ghostly show, as a real and visible spectacle, before the eyes.

These observations will derive some illustration at least, if not entire confirmation, from the following narrative, which is deemed to be authentic in the neighbourhood in which the scene is laid; and the application of which the judicious reader will, no doubt, be able to make for himself.

About the middle of the last war, the Polly, tender, commanded by lieutenant Watts, came swooping up one evening to the small town of Auchinbreck, in Scotland, and, resolving to pounce, without warning, upon her prey, as soon as she had anchored in the roads, sent ashore the press-gang to pick up as many of the stout boat-builder lads as they could catch. The towns-people, however, were not so unprepared as the captain of the tender imagined; some of those, indeed, who were fit for sea, ran up into the hills, but by far the greater number collected about the corner of a building-shed as you go on to the main street, and, when the signal of hostility was given, by the capture of a man by the press-gang, they rushed down upon them in a body, every one with his axe on his shoulder like a troop of Indians with their tomahawks. It had now become so dark that the sailors had much to do to keep their footing upon the loose stones of the beach, which was just at this time rendered a still more troublesome passage by the scattered materials of a pier, then beginning to be built; and, besides, their number was so small compared to the townspeople, that, after a few strokes of the cutlas, and as many oaths as would have got a line-of-battle ship into action and out again, they were fain to retreat to their boat, pursued by the boat-builders, young and old, like furies. A midshipman, sitting in the stern, whose name was William Morrison, a fine lad of fifteen, observed the fate of the action with feelings in which local and professional spirit struggled for the mastery. One moment he would rub his hands with glee, and the next unsheath his dagger in anger, as he saw the axe of a fellow-townsman descend on the half-guarded head of a brother sailor; but, when the combatants came within oar's length of the boat, and the retreat began to resemble a flight, the esprit de corps got the upper hand in the Auchinbrecken midshipman's feelings, and, unsheathing his dagger, he jumped nimbly ashore and joined in the fray. At last the sailors got fairly into their boat without a single man being either missing or killed, although the list of the wounded included the whole party; and the landsmen, apparently pretty much in the same circumstances, although unable, from their number and the darkness, to reckon as instantaneously the amount of the loss or damage, after giving three cheers of triumph, retired in good order.

William Morrison, after discharging his duty so manfully, was permitted to go on shore the same evening, to visit his friends; and, indeed, the captain could not have known before that he belonged to the place, as he surely would not have confided to the lad so unpopular a task as that of kidnapping his own relations and acquaintances. He was landed at the point of Scarlough, to prevent the necessity of going through the streets, which might have been dangerous in the excited state of the people's minds; and, stretching across the fields, and along the side of the hill, he steered steadily on in the direction of his paternal home, which was about a mile and a half from the Point, but only one mile from the town. The moon had now risen, but was only visible in short glimpses through the clouds that were hurrying across the sky; and the tall, strange shadows of the willows and yews that skirted the churchyard, appearing and disappearing as he passed, probably by recalling the associations of his earlier years, made William shrink, and almost tremble. His own shadow, however, was a more pleasing thing to look at. The dress, which, grown familiar by usage, he would not have noticed elsewhere, was here brilliantly contrasted in his recollection with the more clownish and common garb of his boyhood—for he already reckoned himself a man; and the dagger, projecting smartly from his belted side, gave, in his opinion, a finish quite melodramatic to his air. He drew out the tiny blade from its sheath, and its sparkle in the moonlight seemed to be reflected in his eyes as he gazed on it from hilt to point; but the expression of those eyes was changed as they discovered that its polish in one place was dimmed by blood. This could easily be accounted for by the affray on the beach—and at any other time and place it would have been thought nothing of;—but at this moment, and on this spot, he was as much startled by the sight, as if his conscience had accused him of a deliberate murder. The impressions his mind had received while passing the churchyard, now returned upon him with added gloom; a kind of misgiving came over him; and a thousand boding thoughts haunted him like spirits, and hanging, as it were, on his heart, dragged it down farther and farther at every step. He bitterly regretted that he had not remained in the boat, as he had at first resolved, a neutral spectator of the strife. How did he know that his hand had not been raised against the life of his own brother? As far as he could see or learn, indeed, no fatal accident had occurred; but there have been instances of people walking cheerily off the field of battle, and dying of their wounds after all. And yet it was not likely—it was hardly possible—that John could have been in the affray, his indentures protecting him from the impress. These cogitations were speedily followed by others of as gloomy a character; for the thoughts breed faster than we can perceive them, and each multiplies after his kind. It was a year since he had heard from his friends, and five years since he had seen them. Who could tell what changes had taken place in that time? Who could tell whether poor John had even lived to be killed by the pressgang? His father, his mother, and his sisters—were they dead, were they living, were they sick, or in health? His sister had been always a delicate girl, one of those gentle and fragile flowers of mortality that are sure not to live till the summer; perhaps consumption, with the deceitful beauty of his smile, had already led his fair partner down the short dance of life.