The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 338, November 1, 1828

"Donner et blitzen," exclaimed the Baron, using the first oath that came uppermost, "but this exceeds belief." The boar no sooner perceived him than he turned upon him with the utmost fury. The Baron hastily dismounted under the aged tree, though he was stiff and fatigued, for Hans was now utterly incapable of exertion. His sword quickly glanced in the moonshine—"Time was" said he, "when this had been the very pastime I desired." The murderous animal attacked him with such impetuosity that his well-tried skill failed him, and he was the next moment thrown under its feet. The struggle now became desperate, for the animal had no common foe to contend with. Before it could wound him with its tusks, which seemed of unusual size, it required not an instant's thought in Rudolf to draw his dagger from his belt, and the next instant it was buried to its hilt in the throat of his adversary. At the same moment the tusks of the boar entered his side. Rudolf breathed a few words of an almost forgotten prayer, when the animal, uttering a dreadful yell, gave a convulsive spring into the air, and fell lifeless, half smothering the Baron with its gore.

Life was now fast ebbing from the side of Rudolf, when he was aroused by the sound of a voice, whose tones even at this dreadful moment thrilled through his soul with horror. Enveloped in a thick fog which had been gradually spreading around the scene of the combat, he could discern the fiend Heidelberger and his charmed circle; with an air of triumph they chanted the following lines:—

Mortal vain, thy course is run,Thou hast seen thy setting sun—Told I not true when I saw thee last,That 'ere the circling year had passed,Under the greenwood thou should'st be dying,On the bloody greensward lying!Deceived once, I tell thee neverShall my victim from me sever—Thou hast dared to brave our hate,Rashly run upon thy fate!Thou art on the greensward dying,Underneath the greenwood lying!

The hounds bayed. The moon entered a dark cloud; and, when it emerged, its pale beams fell upon the green amphitheatre and the aged tree; but there was no one under its shade.

The following tradition is still related amongst the surrounding peasantry:—The Baron Rudolf, it is said, was enticed to sign over the bodies and souls of his future offspring to the fiend, Heidelberger, on condition that the latter would enable him to gain the person and possessions of the Lady Agatha. The contract, however, was obliged to be renewed at the birth of each child. Should he violate this convocation (which he signed with his own blood,) he granted similar power over himself; and the legend goes on to relate, that the whole of the members of the charmed circle were persons similarly enticed, who were doomed to a sort of perpetual labour, being compelled to chisel out their coffins in stone, which as soon as finished, were broken in pieces, when they were obliged to begin afresh.

The consequence of the Baron's non-fulfilment of his convocation have already been seen; his son is related to have died childless, and the property to have been dispersed into the hands of others, having never remained since his death more than two generations in one family; apparently blighting all its possessors. And the peasantry aver that the noise made by the continual labour of its victims, may still be heard by the adventurous at the close of day.

VYVYANSPIRIT OF DISCOVERYOn Planting Poor Light Land

Besides paring and burning, and trenching the soil previous to making the plantation, Mr. Withers, (who received the large silver medal from the Society for the Encouragement of Arts, &c. London, for experiments conducted on the subject in Norfolk,) spreads on it marl and farmyard dung, as for a common agricultural crop, and at the same time keeps the surface perfectly free from weeds by hoeing till the young trees have completely covered the ground. The progress that they make under this treatment is so extremely rapid, as apparently to justify, in an economical point of view, the extraordinary expenses that attend it. In three years, even oaks and other usually slow growing forest trees have covered the land, making shoots by three feet in a season, and throwing out roots well qualified, by their number and length, to derive from the subsoil abundant nourishment, in proportion as the surface becomes exhausted.—Trans. Soc. Arts.

The Air Plant

Prince Leopold has succeeded in bringing to perfection that extraordinary exotic, the air plant. It is suspended from the ceiling, and derives its nourishment entirely from the atmosphere.

Potato Flour

The farina, or meal, obtained from potatoes is now regularly sold in the markets of Scotland. It is stated to be quite equal to genuine arrow root; but this is quite a mistake, unless the nutritious properties of arrow root have been overrated. Sir John Sinclair has devoted much of his time to the preparation of the flour; but as we gave his process many weeks since, it is not necessary to repeat it here.

Kynaston's Cave

We are indebted to the portfolio of an interesting lady correspondent for the original of the above engraving. The ingenious draughtswoman states the drawing to have been taken during a recent tour; and our readers will allow it to be fair sketch. By way of rendering it unique, we append the following description from the same fair hand:—

From Shrewsbury to the Ness Cliff, (on the road to Ceriogg Bridge,) there is in the scenery little worthy of remark, until we approach the latter place, when the cliff on the right hand, and the Brathyn mountains (Montgomeryshire) on the left of the traveller, produce a very picturesque effect; and the post-house of Ness Cliff commands an extensive and lovely view of mountainous and champagne country. At this place we were invited to see a curious cave cut in the rock, which was, in the sixteenth century, the residence of one Humphrey Kynaston, a notorious bandit. This, however, was not his own work, since Ness Cliff, having been worked as a quarry, the cave, either by accident or design, was wrought by the labourers, and used by them as salle á manger, dormitory, or tool-house, according to circumstances. We proceeded to it by a broad rising walk of red sand, delightfully wooded, and presenting an enchanting view of the Brathyn and Wrekin, as well as the country for some miles round. At the end of this walk is a gate, which opens into a small grove; proceeding a little into which, we saw the cave in the high red cliff immediately before us. We ascended by a considerable flight of narrow and rugged steps cut from the solid rock: the interior of this curious place is as black as a coal-mine, and a partition, more than half the way across, divides the part where Kynaston used to reside by day from that in which he slept and kept his horse, for he had actually the ingenuity to make the animal ascend and descend the stairs above-mentioned. The robber's initials, and the date of the year in which we may suppose he cut them, appear on the partition just opposite the entrance. The romance of the place was not a little augmented by the appearance of its inhabitant, (a blacksmith,) whose tall, thin figure, and whose pale, wild, and haggard countenance, well accorded with the singularity of his abode. He read for our amusement and instruction, I conceive, a few choice passages from a well-thumbed penny pamphlet, purporting to contain the veritable history of the adventurous Kynaston; from whence it appeared that Master Humphrey was a gentleman, like "that prince of thieves," Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor, avenging the innocent, and chivalrous where ladies, or the lure of plunder, called forth his prowess; that his depredations were numerous, even in the face of day, and in the teeth of his enemies; and yet that those who admired and sided with him were for a considerable period the terror of the whole legal force who were on the alert to seize him. This interesting memoir was recited by the son of Vulcan, with an enthusiasm and delectable pronunciation, that could only be appreciated by hearing it, and was altogether inimitable. Strange! thought I, that this cave, once the residence of a robber, should now have become that of a forger.

M.L.B

The Selector; and Literary Notices of New Works

RIENZI

In No. 335, we gave the outline of the story of Rienzi, principally from Gibbon, but interspersed from other authorities. Miss Mitford's tragedy has since been represented with considerable success, and published. In the preface, we are told, that in addition to the splendid narrative of Gibbon, recourse has been had to "the still more graphical and interesting account of Rienzi's eventful career," contained in L'Abbé de Sade's Memoirs of Petrarque; and that, "as far as the female characters are concerned," the materials are entirely from invention. All this may appear well enough for the construction of the drama, and the female characters are drawn with peculiar grace and feeling; but we do not see why the character of Rienzi should be so essentially altered from history as it has been; neither do we think that any desirable effect has been gained by this change. In history, Rienzi is a master-spirit of reckless and atrocious daring, but in the drama, he is softened down to a fickle liberty brawler, and the sternest of his vices are glossed over with an almost inconsistent show of affection and tenderness. As he there stands, he is rather like an injured man, than one who so liberally dealt oppression and injustice around him.

Miss Mitford's tragedy will, however, be read with considerable interest in the closet, and fully to appreciate its beauties, every one who has witnessed it, ought to read it; for many of its "delicate touches" must be lost in the immense area of Drury Lane Theatre. 2 The plot is simple, and is effectively told; but as the newspapers, daily and weekly, have already detailed it, we shall confine ourselves to a few passages, which, in our reading, appeared to us among the many beauties of the drama.

PROGRESS OF RIENZI'S DISAFFECTIONClaudia. He is changed,Grievously changed; still good and kind, and fullOf fond relentings—crossed by sudden gustsOf wild and stormy passion. Then, he's so silent—He once so eloquent. Of old, each show,Bridal, or joust, or pious pilgrimage,Lived in his vivid speech. Oh! 'twas my joy,In that bright glow of rapid words, to seeClear pictures, as the slow procession coiledIts glittering length, or stately tournamentGrew statelier, in his voice. Now he sits mute—His serious eyes bent on the ground—each senseTurned inward.Rienzi. Claudia, in these bad days,When man must tread perforce the flinty pathOf duty, hard and rugged, fail not thouDuly at night and morning to give thanksTo the all-gracious power that smoothed the wayFor woman's tenderer feet.Colonna. He hath turnedA bitter knave of late, and lost his mirth,And mutters riddling warnings and wild talesOf the great days of heathen Rome; and pratesOf peace, and liberty, and equal law,And mild philosophy, to us the knightsAnd warriors of this warlike age, who ruleBy the bright law of arms. The fool's grown wise—A grievous change.Hatred—And danger—the two hands that tightest graspEach other—the two cords that soonest knitA fast and stubborn tie: your true love-knotIs nothing to it. Faugh! the supple touchOf pliant interest, or the dust of time,Or the pin-point of temper, loose, or not,Or snap love's silken band. Fear and old hate,They are sure weavers—they work for the storm,The whirlwind, and the rocking surge; their knotEndures till death.RIENZI'S TRIUMPHHark—the bell, the bell!The knell of tyranny—the mighty voice,That, to the city and the plain—to earth,And listening heaven, proclaims the glorious taleOf Rome reborn, and Freedom. See, the cloudsAre swept away, and the moon's boat of lightSails in the clear blue sky, and million starsLook out on us, and smile.[The gate of the Capitol opens, and Alberti and Soldiers join the People, and lay the keys at Rienzi's feet.]Hark! that great voiceHath broke our bondage. Look, without a strokeThe Capitol is won—the gates unfold—The keys are at our feet. Alberti, friend,How shall I pay thy service? Citizens!First to possess the palace citadel—The famous strength of Rome; then to sweep on,Triumphant, through her streets.[As Rienzi and the People are entering the Capitol, he pauses.]Oh, glorious wreckOf gods and Caesars! thou shalt reign again,Queen of the world; and I—come on, come on,My people!Citizens. Live Rienzi—live our Tribune!CLAUDIA'S LAMENT FOR HER HUMBLE HOMEMine own dear home!Father, I love not this new state; these halls,Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids,Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home!My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtleWoven round the casement; and the cedar by,Shading the sun; my garden overgrownWith flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields;My pretty snow-white doves: my kindest nurse;And old Camillo!—Oh! mine own dear home!AMBITIONAlas! alas!I tremble at the height, Whene'er I thinkOf the hot barons, of the fickle people,And the inconstancy of power, I trembleFor thee, dear father.RIENZI'S WRONGSOne of the Ursini is condemned to death—his brother intercedes.Rie. And darest talk thou to me of brothers? Thou,Whose groom—wouldst have me break my own just laws,To save thy brother? thine! Hast thou forgottenWhen that most beautiful and blameless boy,The prettiest piece of innocence that everBreath'd in this sinful world, lay at thy feet,Slain by thy pampered minion, and I kneltBefore thee for redress, whilst thou—didst neverHear talk of retribution? This is justice,Pure justice, not revenge!—Mark well, my lords,Pure, equal justice. Martin UrsiniHad open trial, is guilty, is condemned,And he shall die!Colonna. Yet listen to us—Rie. Lords,If ye could range before me all the peers,Prelates, and potentates of Christendom,—The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee,And emperors crouching at my feet, to sueFor this great robber, still I should be blindAs justice. But this very day a wife,One infant hanging at her breast, and two,Scarce bigger, first-born twins of misery,Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hidHer squalid form, grasped at my bridle-reinTo beg her husband's life; condemned to dieFor some vile, petty theft, some paltry scudi:And, whilst the fiery war-horse chaf'd and sear'd,Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free,There, midst the dangerous coil, unmov'd, she stood,Pleading in piercing words, the very cryOf nature! And, when I at last said no—For I said no to her—she flung herselfAnd those poor innocent babes between the stonesAnd my hot Arab's hoofs. We sav'd them all—Thank heaven, we sav'd them all! but I said noTo that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare notAsk me for mercy now.THE USURPERHe bears him like a prince, save that he lacksThe port serene of majesty. His moodIs fitful; stately now, and sad; anon,Full of a hurried mirth; courteous awhile,And mild; then bursting, on a sudden, forth,Into sharp, biting taunts.New powerMounts to the brain like wine. For such disease,Your skilful leech lets blood.RIENZI ON HIS DAUGHTER'S MARRIAGEA bridalIs but a gilt and painted funeralTo the fond father who hath yielded upHis one sweet child. Claudia, thy love, thy duty,Thy very name, is gone. Thou are another's;Thou hast a master now; and I have thrownMy precious pearl away. Yet men who giveA living daughter to the fickle willOf a capricious bridegroom, laugh—the madmen!Laugh at the jocund bridal feast, and weepWhen the fair corse is laid in blessed rest,Deep, deep in mother earth. Oh, happier far,So to have lost my child!FICKLE GREATNESSThou art as onePerched on some lofty steeple's dizzy height,Dazzled by the sun, inebriate by long draughtsOf thinner air; too giddy to look downWhere all his safety lies; too proud to dareThe long descent to the low depths from whenceThe desperate climber rose.RIENZI'S ORIGINThere's the sting,—That I, an insect of to-day, outsoarThe reverend worm, nobility! Wouldst shame meWith my poor parentage!—Sir, I'm the sonOf him who kept a sordid hostelryIn the Jews' quarter—my good mother cleansedLinen for honest hire.—Canst thou say worse?Ang. Can worse be said?Rie. Add, that my boasted schoolcraftWas gained from such base toil, gained with such pain,That the nice nurture of the mind was oftStolen at the body's cost. I have gone dinnerlessAnd supperless, the scoff of our poor street,For tattered vestments and lean, hungry looks,To pay the pedagogue.—Add what thou wiltOf injury. Say that, grown into man,I've known the pittance of the hospital,And, more degrading still, the patronageOf the Colonna. Of the tallest treesThe roots delve deepest. Yes, I've trod thy halls,Scorned and derided midst their ribald crew,A licensed jester, save the cap and bells,I have borne this—and I have borne the death,The unavenged death, of a dear brother.I seemed, I was, a base, ignoble slave.What am I?—Peace, I say!—What am I now?Head of this great republic, chief of Rome—In all but name, her sovereign—last of all,Thy father.CIVIL WARThe city's fullOf camp-like noises—tramp of steeds, and clashOf mail, and trumpet-blast, and ringing clangOf busy armourers—the grim ban-dog bays—The champing war horse in his stall neighs loud—The vulture shrieks aloft.FEARTerror, not love,Strikes anchor in ignoble souls. THE CAPITOL BELL. 3 It is the bell that thou so oft hast heardSummoning the band of liberty—"the bellThat pealed its loud, triumphant note, and raisedIts mighty voice with such a masteryOf glorious power, as if the spirit of soundThat dwells in the viewless wind, and walks the wavesOf the chafed sea, and rules the thunder-cloudThat shrouded him in that small orb, to spreadTidings of freedom to the nations."RIENZI'S FALLAnd for such I leftThe assured condition of my lowliness,—The laughing days, the peaceful nights, the joysOf a small, quiet home—for such I riskedThy peace, my daughter. Abject, crouching slaves!False, fickle, treacherous, perjured slaves!Oh, had I laidAll earthly passion, pride, and pomp, and power,And high ambition, and hot lust of rule,Like sacrificial fruits, upon the altarOf Liberty, divinest Liberty!Then—but the dream that filled my soul was vastAs his whose mad ambition thinned the ranksOf the Seraphim, and peopled hell. These slaves!These crawling reptiles! May the curse of chainsCling to them for ever.LIBERTYFor liberty! Go seekEarth's loftiest heights, and ocean's deepest caves;Go where the sea-snake and the eagle dwell,'Midst mighty elements,—where nature is.And man is not, and ye may see afar,Impalpable as a rainbow on the clouds.The glorious vision! Liberty! I dream'dOf such a goddess once—dream'd that yon slavesWere Romans, such as rul'd the world, and ITheir tribune—vain and idle dream! Take backThe symbol and the power.

We can well imagine the effect which Mr. Young gives to some of these eloquent passages. They are full of poetical and dramatic fire. Indeed, we know of no professor of the histrionic art who could give so accurate an embodiment of Rienzi—as Mr. Young, the most chaste and discreet, if not the most impassioned, actor on the British stage. Again, we can conceive the force of these lines in the manly tones of Mr. Cooper:

I know no father, save the valiant deadWho lives behind a rampart of his slainIn warlike rest. I bend before no king,Save the dread Majesty of heaven, Thy foe,Thy mortal foe, Rienzi.

In reprinting Rienzi, we suggest a larger size; we fear people in a second row of either circle of boxes, will find the type of the present edition too small; besides, they do not want to be checking the performers, or to be puzzled with "stage directions."

THE BOY'S OWN BOOK

The sight of this little book, as thick as, and somewhat broader than, a Valpy's Virgil, will make scores of little Lord Lingers think of "bygone mirth, that after no repenting draws." It is all over a holiday book, stuck as full of wood-cuts as a cake is of currants, and not like the widely-thrown fruit of school plum puddings.

To begin with the exterior, which is one of the most ingenious specimens of block-printing we have yet seen. The medallion frontispiece contains the Publishers' Dedication to "the young of Great Britain," in return for which their healths should be drunk at the next breaking-up of every school in the empire.

As it professes to be a complete encyclopaedia of the sports and pastimes of youth, it contains, 1. Minor Sports, as marbles, tops, balls, &c. 2. Athletic Sports. 3. Aquatic Recreations. 4. Birds, and other boy fancies. 5. Scientific Recreations. 6. Games of Skill. 7. The Conjuror; and 8. Miscellaneous Recreations. All these occupy 460 pages, which, like every sheet of the MIRROR, are as full as an egg. The vignettes and tail-pieces are the prettiest things we have ever seen, and some are very picturesque.

In our school-days there was no such book as this Justinian of the play-ground, if we except a thin volume of games published by Tabart. Boys then quarrelled upon nice points of play, parties ran high, and civil war, birch, and the 119th psalm were the consequences. A disputed marble, or a questioned run at cricket, has thus broken up the harmony of many a holiday; but we hope that such feuds will now cease; for the "Boy's Own Book," will settle all differences as effectually as a police magistrate, a grand jury, or the house of lords. Boys will no longer sputter and fume like an over-toasted apple; but, even the cares of childhood will be smoothed into peace; by which means good humour may not be so rare a quality among men. But to complete this philanthropic scheme, the publishers of the "Boy's Own Book," intend producing a similar volume for Girls. This is as it should be, for the Misses ought to have an equal chance with the Masters—at least so say we,—plaudite, clap your little hands, and valete, good bye!

THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT AND JUVENILE SOUVENIR

The editor, or editress, (for we doubt whether the former is epicene,) of this elegant little volume is the lady of Mr. Alaric A. Watts, the editor of the Literary Souvenir. It is expressly designed for the perusal of children from six to twelve years old, and is, we think, both by its embellishments and literary contents, calculated to attract hundreds of juvenile admirers. Indeed, we are surprised that the children have been so long without their "Annuals," whilst those of "a larger growth" have been supplied in abundance; but, as Sir Walter Scott has set the example of writing for masters and misses, we hope that our nursery literature will rise in character, and it will not henceforth be the business of after-years to correct erroneous ideas imbibed from silly books during our childhood. In this task much time has been lost. Mrs. Watts is of the same opinion; and with this view, "the extravagances of those apocryphal personages—giants, ghosts, and fairies—have been entirely banished from her pages, as tending not only to enervate the infant mind, and unfit it for the reception of more wholesome nutriment, but also to increase the superstitious terrors of childhood,—the editor has not less scrupulously excluded those novel-like stories of exaggerated sentiment, which may now almost be said to form the staple commodity of our nursery literature."—(Preface.) Accordingly, we have in the New Year's Gift three historical pieces and engravings, illustrating the murder of the young princes in the Tower; Arthur imploring Hubert not to put out his eyes; and another. There are from thirty to forty tales, sketches, and poems, among which are a pretty story, by Mrs. Hofland; a Cricketing Story, by Miss Mitford, &c. There are two or three little pieces enjoining humanity to animals, and some pleasing anecdotes of monkeys and tame robins, and a few lines on the Reed-Sparrow's Nest:—

Only see what a neat, warm, compact little thing!Mister Nash could not build such a house for the king;Not he, let him labour his best.

Among the poetry are some graceful lines by Mr. Watts to his son; but our extract must be "The Spider and the Fly, a new version of an old story," by Mrs. Howitt. It is a lesson for all folks—great and small—from the infant in the nursery to the emperor of Russia, the grand signior of Turkey, and the queen of Portugal—or from those who play with toy-cannons to such as are now figuring on the theatre of war:—

"Will you walk into my parlour" said a spider to a fly:"'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,And I have many pretty things to show you when you are there.""Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "to ask me is in vain,For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again.""I'm sure you must be weary with soaring up so high,Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly."There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin;And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in.""Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said,They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"Said the cunning spider to the fly, "Dear friend, what shall I do,To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice—I'm sure you're very welcome—will you please to take a slice?""Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "kind sir, that cannot be,I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.""Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise.How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.""I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again:So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner, sly,And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did sing,"Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing;Your robes are green and purple—there's a crest upon your head—Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead,"Alas, alas how very soon this silly little fly.Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;Thinking only of her crested head—poor foolish thing!—At lastUp jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,Within his little parlour—but she ne'er came out again!—And now, dear little children, who may this story read,To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye,And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

Among the more serious pieces, we notice a beautiful lament of childhood by Mrs. Hemans, and a hymn by Mrs. Opie.