The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 390, September 19, 1829

MOONLIGHT

When sunbeams on the river blaze,You on its glory scarce can gaze;But when the moon's delirious beam,In giddy splendour woos the stream,Its mellow'd light is so refined,'Tis like a gleam of soul and mind;Its gentle ripple glittering by,Like twinkle of a maiden's eye;While all amazed at Heaven's steepness,You gaze into its liquid deepness,And see some beauties that excel—Visions to dream of, not to tell—A downward soul of living hue,So mild, so modest, and so blue!Ettrick Shepherd.

PERILS OF TRAVEL

Humboldt and his party, on their memorable ascent of the volcano of Tunguragna, in the Nevado del Chimborazo, at the elevation of 19,300 feet, the highest spot ever trod by man, suffered severely. The air was reduced to half its usual density, and felt intensely cold and piercing. Respiration was laborious; and blood oozed from their eyes, their lips, and their gums. Another peculiarity of great elevations, noticed by travellers, is the astonishing clearness of the atmosphere. Captain Head was struck with it in the case of a condor shot, which appeared to fall within thirty or forty yards; but on sending one of his miners to bring it back, to his astonishment he found that the distance was such, as to take up above half an hour, going and returning. In Norway, a friend of the present writer stepped out of a boat to visit a spot, as he conceived, of a few hundred yards distant, when in fact it proved to be some miles. In the Pyrenees, the celebrated cascade of Gavarni appears about a short mile from the auberge, where travellers frequently leave their mules to rest, while they proceed on foot, little aware that they are thereby exposing themselves to a long and laborious walk of above an hour's duration. In the Andes, Humboldt remarks this phenomenon; stating that in the mountains of Quito he could distinguish the white poncho of a person on horseback, at the distance of seventeen miles. He also notices the extreme clear and steady light of the stars, which we can vouch to be true to a most extraordinary degree even in Europe, having distinctly seen the planet Venus, in a dazzling sunshine, at half past eleven, from the summit of the port of Venasque, in the Pyrenees.

London Review.

TITLES

Everybody knows that titles and dignities are not only integral parts of the person, but its most distinctive attributes. When Earl Grey said he would stand or fall by his order, it was as if he had said, he would stand or fall by himself. Take a noble lord, and, if the process be possible, abstract him mentally from his titles and privileges, and offer the two lots separately for sale in the market, who would not buy the latter if they could? who would, in most cases, even bid for the first? It is the title that is asked everywhere to dinner; it is the title receives all the bows and prostrations, that gets the nomination to so many places, that commands the regiments and ships-of-war, and "robs the Exchequer with unwashed hands." The man who owns it, may be what he can, an honest man, or a scoundrel, a mushroom or an Howard, a scholar, or a brute, a wit or a blockhead, c'est égal. Proud, haughty, highdaring, free England, is not this true to the letter?—New Monthly Magazine.

At Thetford, not far from his beloved Newmarket, James I. was threatened with an action of trespass for following his game over a farmer's corn.—Quarterly Review.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

"SIR DAN DANN'LY, THE IRISH HAROE."

From "Walks in Ireland," in the Monthly Magazine

In spite of all that yet remains, it must be admitted with a sigh, that the glory of Donnybrook has departed in the person of the renowned Daniel Donnelly, better known among his admiring followers, by the sounding title of "Sir Dan Dann'ly, the Irish haroe." Of course if you know any thing of the glorious science of self-defence, a necessary accomplishment which I hope you have not neglected amidst the general diffusion of knowledge which distinguishes this happy age, of course if you have cultivated that noble art which teaches us the superiority of practical demonstration over theoretical induction, the recollection of that celebrated champion must fill your mind with reverence for his exploits, mingled with regret that he was snatched so soon from the path of glory.

I was fortunate enough to possess the friendship of that great man, and I esteem among the happiest days of my life, that on which I was lucky enough to attract his attention: it was during a row at Donnybrook Fair. I was defending myself with whatever energy I possess, against overwhelming odds, when suddenly, as if Mars himself had listened to my invocation, and descended to the fray, Dan rushed from his tent to show fair play, and in an instant my cowardly assailants fled, as if scattered by a whirlwind. From that hour, gratitude on my part, and a consciousness of protection on his, cemented an intimacy between us.

During the fair week, Dan Donnelly's tent (he always kept one after he became a celebrated character) was always crowded to excess by all classes, high and low; some attracted by admiration of the good things of this life dispensed by the amiable Lady Dann'ly, others by the convivial and facetious qualities of her redoubted spouse; in the evening, especially, you were sure to find him the centre of a circle of wondering listeners, detailing some of his extraordinary adventures, the most astonishing of which it was heresy in the eyes of his followers to doubt for an instant, though my love of truth obliges me to confess, that one or two I have heard him relate sounded a little apocryphal. But great and extraordinary characters are not to be judged of by common rules; for instance, his account of the manner in which he obtained the honour of knighthood from the hands of our present gracious sovereign, then Prince Regent, always appeared to me to differ in some material circumstances from the ordinary routine of court etiquette, and rather to resemble one of those amusing and instructive narratives denominated fairy tales. But on this delicate subject perhaps the safest course is to suffer the reader to judge for himself: so without further circumlocution, I will submit my lamented friend's account to his perusal, in the precise words in which I have so often had the pleasure of hearing it:—

"My jewels, I was lyin' in bed one mornin', restin' myself, in regard ov bein' dhrunk the night afore, wid Scroggins an' Jack Randall, an' some more ov the boys; an' as I was lyin' on the broad ov my back, thinkin' ov nothin', a knock came to my door. 'Come in,' says I, 'iv you're fat.' So the door opened sure enough, an' in come a great big chap, dhressed in the most elegantest way ever you see, wid a cockade in his hat, an' a plume ov feathers out ov id, an' goolden epulets upon his shouldhers, an' tossels an' bobs of goold all over the coat ov him, jist like any lord ov the land. 'Are you Dan Dann'ly,' says he;—'Throth an' I am,' says I; 'an' that's my name sure enough, for want ov a better; an' what do ye want wid me now you've found me.'—'My masther is waitin' to spake to ye, an' sint me to tell you to come down to his place in a hurry.'—'An' who the devil is your masther?' says I; 'an' didn't think ye had one, only yourself, an' you so fine.'—'Oh,' says he, 'my masther is the Prence Ragin.'—'Blur an' ouns,' says I; 'tell his honour I'll be wid him in the twinklin' ov a bedpost, the minit I take my face from behind my beard, an' get on my clane flax; but stop a bit,' says I; 'where does the masther live?'—'Down at Carltown Palace,' says he; 'so make yourself dacent, an' be off wid yourself afther me.' Wid that away he wint.

"Up I gets, an' away I goes, the instant minit I put on my duds, down to Carltown Palace. An' it's it that's the place; twicet as big as the castle, or Kilmainham gaol, an' groves ov threes round about it, like the Phaynix Park. Up I goes to the gate, an' I gives a little asy rap to show I wasn't proud; who should let me in but the 'dentical chap that come to ax me up. 'Well, Dan,' says he, 'you didn't let the grass grow undher your feet; the masther's waitin', so away in wid ye as fast as ye can.'—'An' which way will I go?' says I.—'Crass the yard,' says he, 'an' folley your nose up through the house, ever 'till you come to the dhrawin'-room door, an' then jist rap wid your knuckle, an' ye'll get lave to come in.' So away I wint acrass the yard, an' it's there the fun was goin' on, soldiers marchin', and fiddlers playin', and monkeys dancin', an' every kind ov diversion, the same as ourselves here at Donnybrook Fair, only it lasts all the year round, from mornin' till night, I'm tould.

"When I come to the house, in I wint, bowin' an' doin' my manners in the most genteelest way to all the grand lords an' ladies that was there, folleyin' their own divarsion, the same as thim that was in the yard, every way they liked—dhrinkin', an' singin', an' playin' ov music, and dancin' like mad! I wint on, on, on, out ov one room an' into another, till my head was fairly addled, an' I thought I'd never come to the ind. And sich grandeur!—why, the playhouse was nothin' to id. At last I come to a beautiful big stairs, an' up I wint; an' sure enough there was the drawin'-room door, reachin' up to the ceilin' almost, an' as big as the gate ov a coach-house, an' wrote on a board over the door, 'No admittance for strangers, only on business.'—'Sure,' says I, 'I'm come on the best ov business, whin the Prence is afther sendin' his man to tell me to come on a visit.'—An' wid that I gave a knock wid my knuckle the way I was bid. 'Come in,' says a voice; and so I opened the door.

"Oh! then, ov all the sights ever I see, an' it's that was the finest! There was the Prence Ragin' himself, mounted up upon his elegant throne, an' his crown, that was half a hundred weight ov goold, I suppose, on his head, an' his sceptre in his hand, an' his lion sittin' on one side ov him, an' his unicorn on the other.—'Morrow, Dan,' says he, 'you're welcome here.'—'Good morning, my Lord,' says I, 'plase your Reverence.'—'An' what do you think ov my place,' says he, 'Dan, now you're in it?'—'By Dad! your worship,' says I, 'it bates all the places ever I see, an' there's not the like ov id for fun in the wide world, barrin' Donnybrook Fair.'—'I never was at the fair,' says he, 'bud I'm tould there's plenty ov sport there for them that has money, an' is able to take their own part in a row.'—'Throth, Majesty,' says I, 'your honour may say that; an' iv your holiness 'ill come an' see us there, it's myself that 'ill give you a dhrop ov what's good, an' show ye all the divarsion ov the place—ay, an' leather the best man in the fair, that dare say, Black is the white ov your eye!'—'More power to ye, Dan!' says he, laughin'; 'an' what id you like to dhrink now?'—'Oh, by Gor!' says I, 'I'm afeard to take any thing, for I was dhrunk last night, an' I'm not quite study yet.'—'By the piper that played afore Moses,' says he, 'ye'll not go out ov my house till ye dhrink my health;' so wid that he mounted down off his throne, an' wint to a little black cupboard he had snug in the corner, an' tuck out his gardy vine an' a couple of glasses. 'Hot or cowld, Dan?' says he.—'Cowld, plase your reverence,' says I. So he filled a glass for me, an' a glass for himself.—'Here's towards ye, Dan,' says he.—'The same to you, Majesty!' says I;—an' what do ye think it was? May I never tell a lie iv id wasn't as good whiskey as ever you see in your born days. 'Well,' says I, 'that's as fine sperits as ever I dhrunk, for sperits like id; might I make bould to ax who does your worship dale wid?'—'Kinahan, in Dublin,' says he.—'An' a good warrant he is,' says I: so we wint on, dhrinkin' and chattin', till at last, 'Dan,' says he, 'I'd like to spar a round wid ye.' 'Oh,' says I, 'Majesty, I'd be afeard ov hurtin' ye, without the gloves.'—'Arrah, do you think it's a brat ov a boy ye're spakin' to?' says he; 'do ye're worst, Dan, and divil may care!' An' so wid that we stud up.

"Do you know he has a mighty purty method ov his own, bud thin, though id might do wid Oliver, it was all nonsense wid me, so afore you could say Jack Lattin, I caught him wid my left hand undher the ear, an' tumbled him up on his throne. 'There now,' says I, 'Majesty, I tould ye how id would be, but you'd never stop until you got yourself hurt.'—'Give us your fist, Dan,' says he, 'I'm not a bit the worse of the fall; you're a good man, an' I'm not able for you.'—'That's no disgrace,' says I, 'for it's few that is; but iv I had you in thrainin' for six months, I'd make another man ov ye;' an' wid that we fell a dhrinkin' again, ever till we didn't lave a dhrop in the bottle; an' then I thought it was time to go, so up I got.—'Dan,' says he, 'before you lave me I'll make you a knight, to show I have no spite again ye for the fall.'—'Oh,' says I, 'for the matter ov that, I'm sure ye're too honourable a gintleman to hould spite for what was done in fair play, an' you know your reverence wouldn't be easy until you had a thrial ov me.'—'Say no more about id, Dan,' says he, laughin', 'bud kneel down upon your bended knees.' So down I kneeled.—'Now,' says he, 'ye wint down on your marrow bones plain Dan, but I give ye lave to get up Sir Dan Dann'ly, Esquire.'—'Thank your honour,' says I, 'an' God mark you to grace wherever you go.' So wid that we shook hands, an' away I wint. Talk of your kings and prences, the Prence Ragin' is the finest Prence ever I dhrunk wid."

I'D BE A PARODY

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEYI'd be a Parody, made by a ninnyOn some little song with a popular tune,Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea,And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.I'd never sigh for the sense of a Pliny,(Who cares for sense at St. James's in June?)I'd be a Parody, made by a ninny,And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.Oh! could I pick tip a thought or a stanza,I'd take a flight on another bard's wings,Turning his rhymes into extravaganza,Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings!When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenzaA nightingale loves, he supposes he sings!Oh, never mind, I will pick up a stanza,Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings!What though you tell me each metrical puppyMight make of such parodies two pair a day;Mocking birds think they obtain for each copyParadise plumes for the parodied lay:—Ladder of fame! if man can't reach thy top, heIs right to sing just as high up as he may;I'd be a Parody, made by a puppy,Who makes of such parodies two pair a day!Sharpe's Magazine.

THE ANECDOTE GALLERY

VISIT TO FERNEY IN 1829

Sharpe's London Magazine, (No, 3.),

Contains a pleasant article under the above title, describing the present state of Ferney, the residence of Voltaire, an engraving of which appeared in our No. 384. We would willingly have made the journey, and written our description in the Poet's salon, could we have "stayed time;" but as the old dials quaintly tell us, time "tarryeth for no man," and we were then compelled to adopt the most recent description.

Such of this last "Visit to Ferney" as relates to the Château will therefore be interesting, as a supplement to our previous illustration:—

"The road leading from Geneva to this celebrated spot is delightful, bordered on each side with superb villas, and presenting picturesque points of view only to be found in the environs of that enchanting city. A handsome avenue conducts the traveller to the château, the architecture of which is nothing very remarkable. After mounting three steps, and crossing a narrow vestibule, we entered the salon, which in its day received most of the wits and celebrated personages of Europe: for as a contemporary of Voltaire observed, 'to have been admitted at Ferney, is to have taken out a patent for genius.' The appearance of this salon is far from brilliant: a few indifferent pictures, some old red tapestry, and antiquated furniture compose the whole of its ornaments. To the left we entered the chamber of Voltaire.

"On one side of the apartment an humble mausoleum has been reared, the sanctity of which was not however respected by the sabres of the Austrians. The inscription on the top (a happy inspiration of the husband of Mademoiselle Varicourt), contains these simple words: 'Mon coeur est ici; et mon esprit est partout.' The most elaborate panegyric could not have conveyed a finer eulogium.

"On entering, the spectator is struck with the view of a bed of simple materials, and which was pillaged by the Austrians. Hung round the room are the portraits of Frederick, of Catharine, of Lekain—one of Voltaire himself, taken at the age of forty, and full of expression, with a number of silhouettes of the celebrated men of the day.

"The window of this apartment looks upon the gardens, and upon a little wood, which has undergone many changes since the death of Voltaire. Time however has hitherto respected a long and thick row of elm trees, whither he was wont to repair at sunrise, and where he usually meditated and recited aloud the scenes of his tragedies when finished, to any one whom he could find. His jealousy of criticism on such occasions is matter of record.

"The gardener at present belonging to the château was there during the latter period of Voltaire's life, and related to us with much naïveté several anecdotes, not generally known, of his master.

"Where the thickly-spreading branches of the elm trees present the slightest opening, the spectator enjoys one of the most beautiful views that can be imagined. In the distance, that giant of the hills—Mont Blanc, crowned with its eternal snows, rises majestically. At the base of the mountain the eye is gratified with the sight of variegated plains, smiling with verdure, and cultivated with the most industrious care. The Rhone with its silver stream floats through the beautiful country that surrounds Geneva, which may be said to describe an amphitheatre just above the lake.

"A spacious park, not far from the château, usually formed the termination of Voltaire's rambles: in its cool shades he delighted to indulge his poetic meditations. To this place he was in the habit of driving daily in a little open calèche, drawn by a favourite black mare. The space which separates the park from the château, and which forms a gentle acclivity, is planted with vines."

THE GATHERER

"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."SHAKSPEARE.

A WELSH RABBIT

Colonel A– baiting for the first time in his life at a Welsh inn, thought he would order for his dinner, a dish which must be perfection in its own country: viz. a Welsh rabbit. The dinner hour arrived, and the colonel lifting up the cover of the dish next him, exclaimed in angry astonishment to the waiter, upon beholding a large, dry-looking, fleshy animal before him. "What the d–l d'ye call this, a Welsh rabbit?" "Why, noo, noo, Sir!" replied the man, perfectly cool, and unconscious of the error, "Noo, it certainly an't exactly a Welsh rabbit, but 'tis a Monmouthshire one!"

J.R.

ODD MEAL

The celebrated David Hartley entertained, at his apartments in Merton College, of which he was fellow, a party of his friends; they all dined well, comme de raison; and there was every likelihood that the evening would conclude with the utmost festivity, when a letter was brought to the naturalist; after due apology, he opened and read it; then starting up, he rushed out of the room. He soon returned, with horror on his face and a basketful of feathers in his hand; "Gentlemen, what do you think we have been eating?" Some of the guests began to fear they had been poisoned; even the boldest felt qualms. "Oh! that the letter had but arrived before the bird!" Then holding up some of the feathers, and letting them fall into the basket to display them to the company, he relieved their apprehensions, while he revealed the cause of his own grief, "we have eaten a nondescript." Though no blame could attach to him, there was something in all appearance so disreputable in the untoward accident by which, under his auspices, a scientific object had been treated in so vulgar a manner, that Hartley did not quickly recover from the mortification.

THE COMEDY OF LIFE

The world is the stage; men are the actors; the events of life form the piece; fortune distributes the parts; religion governs the performance; philosophers are the spectators; the opulent occupy the boxes; the powerful the amphitheatre; and the pit is for the unfortunate; the disappointed snuff the candles; folly composes the music; and time draws the curtain.

DUKE OF GRAFTON

The late duke, when hunting, was thrown into a ditch, at the same time a young curate called out, "Lie still, my lord," leaped over him, and continued the chase. Such apparent want of feeling, might be presumed, was properly resented. But on being helped out by his attendants, his grace said, "that man shall have the first good living that falls to my disposal, had he stopped to have taken care of me I would never have given him any thing:" his grace being delighted with an ardour similar to his own, or with a spirit that would not stoop to flatter.

C.C.

Be ignorance thy choice when knowledge leads to woe.

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1

The intelligent friend from whose conversation the writer gleaned the following account, has resided three years in Genoa, and therefore is fully competent to speak of the customs of its inhabitants. This paper is derived from the same source as that entitled "A Recent Visit to Pompeii."—Vide MIRROR, vol xiii p. 276.

2

The Nautilus, or Sailor-shell, is said to be the origin of Music and Navigation.

3

Exodus, xxxiv. 33, 34, and 35.

4

In connexion with the decay of this venerable pile, we notice with sincere regret the recent and premature death of Mr. George Gwilt, jun., who assisted his father in the restoration of the tower and the choir of St. Saviour's, (see MIRROR, vol. xiii p. 227.) Though little advanced in his 27th year, he had already proved an honour to his family and his profession of an architect, by the production of a design for the restoration of the church, for which a premium of one hundred guineas was awarded to him about five years since. Of his excellent disposition and many good qualities as a friend and associate, we are enabled to speak with equal confidence; and seldom has it been our lot to meet with so much good sense and correct taste in an individual as we were wont to enjoy in the society of the deceased. This is far from a full eulogium on his merits; but as the above extract, presented an opportunity, we could not omit this slight tribute to the memory of A LAMENTED FRIEND.