The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 385, August 15, 1829

Weevils in Granaries

Wash the floor and sides of the granary with a mixture of urine and water before the corn is stored up; this washing is to be repeated several times, the walls and floors of the granary being well swept between each operation.—From the French.

French Eggs and Apples

In the year 1827 there were 63,109,618 hen's eggs, and 14,182 bushels of apples imported from France into England.

Enlargement of Artichokes

The gardeners in the south of France increase the size of artichokes by splitting the stem into four at the base of the receptacle, and introducing two small sticks in the form of a cross. This operation should not be made until the stem has attained the height it ought to have.—From the French.

Preservation of Potatoes

Potatoes at the depth of one foot in the ground, produce shoots near the end of spring; at the depth of two feet they appear in the middle of summer; at three feet they are very short, and never come to the surface; and between three and five feet they cease to vegetate. In consequence of observing these effects several parcels of potatoes were buried in a garden at the depth of three and a half feet, and were not removed. until after an interval of one or two years. They were then found without, any shoots, and possessing their original freshness, firmness, goodness, and taste. From the French.

Leeches

It is well known that atmospheric changes have a remarkable influence upon leeches. In 1825, M. Derheim, of St. Omer, ascribes the almost sudden death of them at the approach of, or during storms, to the coagulation of the blood of these creatures, caused by the impression of the atmospheric electricity.—From the French.

Carpenter's Microscope

Mr. Carpenter's achromatic solar microscope has now a white circular area of nine feet in diameter, to receive the images of the objects upon, some of which are magnified to the enormous size of upwards of eight feet in length!

Mr. Carpenter's lucernal microscopes are now arranged in a kind of temple, placed in the middle of a room, and illuminated by the light of one powerful Argand lamp, so as to be independent of all natural light; thus, in all seasons, even in cloudy weather, the objects are as brilliantly displayed as they could be last year when the sun shone.—Gill's Repository.

Beet Root Sugar

There are now in France upwards of one hundred manufactories of beet root sugar, from which were produced last year upwards of 5,000 tons of sugar, worth 60 l. per ton, or 300,000 l.; the profit of which is estimated at 15 l. an acre; but, says one of the manufacturers, the process may be so far improved, that sugar will be made in France from the beet root at 30 l. per ton, which will increase the profit to 24 l. an acre. A writer in the Quarterly Journal of Agriculture observes that "it is difficult to conceive that one half of the sugar consumed in Great Britain, or in all Europe, will not, in a few years, be home-made beet root sugar."

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

LORD BYRON AND SIR WALTER SCOTT AT WATERLOO

By a Sexagenarian

In his transit to Italy in August, 1816, Lord Byron visited Brussels (where I was residing) accompanied by Dr. Polidori. The moment I heard of his arrival, I waited on him, and was received with the greatest cordiality and kindness.

As he proposed visiting Waterloo on the following morning, I offered my services as his cicerone, which were graciously accepted, and we set out at an early hour, accompanied by his compagnon de voyage. The weather was propitious, but the poet's spirits seemed depressed, and we passed through the gloomy forest of Soignies without much conversation. As the plan of the inspection of the field had been left to me, I ordered our postilion to drive to Mont St. Jean, without stopping at Waterloo. We got out at the monuments. Lord Byron gazed about for five minutes without uttering a syllable; at last, turning to me, he said—"I am not disappointed. I have seen the plains of Marathon, and these are as fine. Can you tell me," he continued, "where Picton fell? because I have heard that my friend Howard was killed at his side, and nearly at the same moment."

The spot was well known, and I pointed with my finger to some trees near it, at the distance of one hundred and fifty yards: we walked to the spot. "Howard," said his lordship, with a sigh, "was my relation and dear friend; but we quarrelled, and I was in the wrong; we were, however, reconciled, at which I now rejoice." He spoke these words with great feeling, and we returned to examine the monument of Sir Alexander Gordon, a broken column, on which he made some criticisms, bestowing great praise on the fraternal affection of his brother, who had erected it. He did not seem much interested about the positions of the troops, which I pointed out to him; and we got into our carriage, and drove to the Château Goumont, the poet remaining silent, pensive, and in a musing mood, which I took care not to interrupt.

The gallant defence of this post seemed to interest him more, and I recapitulated all the particulars I knew of the attack. From the bravery displayed by the handful of troops (the Guards) who defended it, it has acquired its reputation. Though they were reinforced more than once, the number never exceeded twelve hundred; and notwithstanding the enemy having, by battering down the gate of the farmyard, and setting fire to the straw in it, got possession of the outer works, in the evening attack, they could make no impression on the strong hold, the garden—

"Whose close pleach'd walks and bowers have beenThe deadly marksman's lurking screen."

They reaped no advantage by these assaults; on the contrary, they sacrificed a great many brave men without any purpose. It was a most important post; for had they succeeded in getting possession of it, and driving out our troops, their guns would have enfiladed us, and we should have been obliged to change our front. The pompous title of château gives a little additional importance to this position, though it is only a miserable dwelling of two stories, somewhat resembling the habitations of our Bonnet Lairds about the beginning of the last century. The area of the house is about two Scotch acres, including the garden. The clipped and shady walks have been long since cut down, which takes away much interest from it; and the stupid Fleming to whom it belonged, cut down the young trees in front of it, because they had been wounded by the bullets, which he was informed "would cause them to bleed to death!" The nobleman who now possesses it, had, with better taste, repaired the château, and will not permit any alteration in its appearance.

I asked Byron what he thought of Mr. Scott's "Field of Waterloo," just published—if it was fair to ask one poet his opinion of a living contemporary. "Oh," said he, "quite fair; besides, there is not much subject for criticism in this hasty sketch. The reviewers call it a falling off; but I am sure there is no poet living who could have written so many good lines on so meagre a subject, in so short a time. Scott," he added, "is a fine poet, and a most amiable man. We are great friends. As a prose writer, he has no rival; and has not been approached since Cervantes, in depicting manners. His tales are my constant companions. It is highly absurd his denying, what every one that knows him believes, his being the author of these admirable works. Yet no man is obliged to give his name to the public, except he chooses so to do; and Scott is not likely to be compelled by the law, for he does not write libels, nor a line of which he may be ashamed." He said a great deal more in praise of his friend, for whom he had the highest respect and regard. "I wish," added the poet, with feeling, "it had been my good fortune to have had such a Mentor. No author," he observed, "had deserved more from the public, or has been so liberally rewarded. Poor Milton got only 15l. for his 'Paradise Lost,' while a modern poet has as much for a stanza." I know not if he made any allusion to himself in this remark, but it has been said that Murray paid him that sum for every verse of "Childe Harold."

Lord Byron, in reading aloud the stanzas of Mr. Scott,

"For high, and deathless is the name,Oh Hougoinont, thy ruins claim!The sound of Cressy none shall own,And Agincourt shall be unknown,And Blenheim be a nameless spotLong ere thy glories are forgot," &c.

he exclaimed, striking the page with his hand, "I'll be d–d if they will, Mr. Scott, be forgot!"

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Sir Walter Scott visited Brussels about the middle of August, 1816, when I had the good fortune to meet him at the house of Sir Frederick Adam, who was prevented by a wound from joining his brigade, though he was able to do the duties of the small garrison there.

Mr. Scott accepted my services to conduct him to Waterloo. The general's aid-de-camp was also of the party, Mr. Scott being accompanied by two friends, his fellow travellers. He made no secret of his having undertaken to write something on the battle; and he took the greater interest on this account in every thing that he saw. Besides, he had never seen a field of such a conflict; and never having been before on the Continent, it was all new to his comprehensive mind. The day was beautiful; and I had the precaution to send out a couple of saddle-horses, that he might not be fatigued in walking over the fields which had been recently ploughed up. The animal he rode was so quiet that he was much gratified, and had an opportunity of examining every spot of the positions of both armies; and seemed greatly delighted, especially with the Farm of Goumont, where he loitered a couple of hours. In our rounds we fell in with Monsieur Da Costar, with whom he got into conversation, though I had told him he was an impostor. But he had attracted so much notice by his pretended story of being about the person of Napoleon, that he was of too much importance to be passed by: I did not, indeed, know as much of this fellow's Charlatanism at that time as afterwards, when I saw him confronted with a blacksmith of La Belle Alliance, who had been his companion in a hiding-place, ten miles from the field, during the whole day; a fact which he could not deny. But he had got up a tale so plausible, and so profitable, that he could afford to bestow hush-money on the companion of his flight, so that the imposition was but little known, and strangers continued to be gulled. He had picked up a good deal of information about the positions and details of the battle, and being naturally a sagacious Wallon, and speaking French pretty fluently, he became the favourite cicerone, and every lie he told was taken for gospel. Year after year, until his death, in 1824, he continued his popularity, and raised the price of his rounds from a couple of francs to five; besides as much for the hire of a horse, his own property; for he pretended that the fatigue of walking so many hours was beyond his powers. It has been said, that in this way he realized every summer a couple of hundred Napoleons. It is surprising how any one could believe the story he told; for supposing that he had been seized upon by Napoleon, what use could such a vagabond be as a guide? What was he to show? The British army was staring the Emperor in the face at a mile distant. This soi-disant hero could only be an incumbrance during the conflict, if his courage could have been screwed up to remain at Napoleon's side, as he pretended he had done, and that when he became panicstruck on the approach of the Prussians, he was rewarded for his services with a twenty-franc coin. He even pointed out the actual spot where he stood with the Emperor on the chaussée—heard him exclaim "Sauve qui peut!" and saw him mount his horse, and brush!—facts, which are become historical!

When Sir Walter had examined every point of defence and attack we adjourned to the "Original Duke of Wellington," at Waterloo, to dinner, after the fatigues of the ride. Here he had a crowded levée of peasants, and collected a great many trophies, from cuirasses down to buttons and bullets. He picked up himself many little relics, and was fortunate in purchasing a grand cross of the legion of honour. But the most precious relic was presented to him by my wife—a French soldier's book, well stained with blood, and containing some poetical effusions, called "Troubadours," which he found so interesting that he translated them into English, and they were introduced into his "Paul's Letters;" on the publication of which he did her the honour of sending her a copy, with a most flattering letter, to say, "that he considered her gift as the most valuable of all his Waterloo relics."

On our return from the field, he kindly passed the evening with us, and a few friends whom we invited to meet him. He charmed us with his delightful conversation, and was in great spirits from the agreeable day he had passed; and with great good humour promised to write a stanza in the lady's Album. The following morning he called to achieve this; and I put him into my little library, the door of which I locked to prevent interruption, as a great many of my friends had paraded in the Parc opposite my window to get a peep of the celebrated man, many having dogged him from his hotel.

Brussels affords but little worthy of the notice of such a traveller as the author of "Waverley;" but he greatly admired the splendid tower of the Maison de Ville, and the ancient sculpture and style of architecture of the buildings which surround the Grand Place.

He told us, with great humour, a laughable incident which had occurred to him at Antwerp. The morning after his arrival at that city from Holland, he started at an early hour to visit the tomb of Rubens in the Church of St. Jacques, before his party were up. Having provided himself with a map of the city, he had no other guide; but after wandering about for an hour, without finding the object he had in view, he determined to make inquiry, and observing a person stalking about like himself, he addressed him, in his best French; but the stranger pulling off his hat, very respectfully replied, in the pure Highland accent, "I'm vary sorry, Sir, but I canna speak ony thing besides English."—"This is very unlucky indeed, Donald," said Mr. Scott, "but we must help one another; for, to tell you the truth, I'm not good at any other tongue but the English, or rather, the Scotch."—"Oh, Sir, maybe," replied the Highlander, "you are a countryman, and ken my maister, Captain Cameron, of the 79th, and could tell me where he lodges. I'm just cum in, Sir, frae a place they ca' Machlin, and ha forgotten the name of the captain's quarters; it was something like the Laaborer."—"I can, I think, help you with this, my friend," rejoined Mr. Scott. "There is an inn just opposite to you, (pointing to the Hotel de Grand Laboreur,) I dare say that will be the captain's quarters;" and so it was. I cannot do justice to the humour in which Mr. Scott recounted this dialogue.

New Monthly Magazine.

The Gatherer

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.SHAKSPEARE.

SUPERSTITION

Catherine de Medicis, in order to be assured of the assistance of heaven in a certain project, vowed to send a pilgrim to Jerusalem, who should walk three feet forwards and one backwards all the way. A countryman of Picardy undertook the fulfilment of this vow, and having employed a whole year in the task, was rewarded with a title and a large sum of money.

The Romans deposed their Dictator, Minutius, and the general of their cavalry, Caius Flaminius, on the same day they had been elected, because one of the citizens of Rome had heard a mouse squeak.

A.V.M.

NAPKINS

When Diego de Torres, the Spanish ambassador, in 1547, first dined with the Emperor of Morocco at his court, he was amused by the customs of the table; neither knives, forks, nor spoons, were provided; but each person helped himself with his fingers, and cleaned his hands with his tongue, excepting the emperor, who wiped the hand he took his meat up with on the head of a black boy, ten years old, who stood by his side. The ambassador smiled, and the emperor observing it, asked what Christian kings wiped their hands with at meals, and what such things were worth? "Fine napkins," replied the ambassador, "a clean one at every meal, worth a crown a piece or more." "Don't you think this napkin much better," said the emperor, wiping his hand again on the black boy's head, "which is worth seventy or eighty crowns."

JUSTICE

"What is your fare, coachee," said a stout gentleman alighting from a hackney-coach.

Coachee.—"One shilling, sir."

Gent.—"One shilling! What an imposition for such a short distance."

Coachee.—"I'll take my oath that is my fare."

Gent.—"Will you? very well, I am a magistrate, proceed—(Coachee is sworn)—That will do, the shilling I shall keep for the affidavit."

Philip III. King of Spain, wept at an Auto da Fé, because he saw so many fellow creatures inhumanly tormented. This was thought by the Grand Inquisitor to be a great sin, and he terrified the king so much with his remonstrances, that Philip suffered himself to be bled, and the blood to be given to the common executioner, to be burnt at the next Auto da Fé, by way of penance.

Cobweb comes from the Dutch word Kopwebbe; and Kop in that language signifies a spider.

(S.I.B.'s interesting paper on the Birth of Edward VI. and Death of Queen Jane Seymour, did not reach us till our description of Hampton Court was ready for press: our Correspondent's contribution shall appear next week.)

LIMBIRD'S EDITION OF THE FOLLOWING NOVELS IS ALREADY PUBLISHED:

1

An obsolete French term of salutation, abridged from Bon prou vous, i.e. much good may it do you.

2

Stow's Annals.

3

Fuller's Church History.

4

Rymer's Foedera.

5

Clarendon's History of the Rebellion.

6

Cibber tells us that the expenses of each play were £50. and the players were allowed the same sum. The King likewise gave the managers £200. more, for all the performances. For the last play, the actors received £100. One of the plays acted here was Shakspeare's Henry VIII—thus making the palace the scene of Wolseys downfall, as it had been of his splendour.

7

For an Engraving of the Maze, see MIRROR, vol. vi. page 105.

8

History of Whalley.