The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 362, March 21, 1829

One instance, out of many of the kindness and affection with which my departed master uniformly treated me, occurred at Jenna, on our journey into the interior. I was dangerously ill with fever in that place, when he generously gave up his own bed to me, and slept himself on my mat, watched over me with parental assiduity and tenderness, and ministered to all my wants. No one can express the joy he felt on my recovery; and who, possessing a spark of gratitude, could help returning it but by the most inviolable attachment and devoted zeal? It was his sympathy for me in all my sufferings that had so powerful a claim on my feelings and affections, and taught me to be grateful to him in hours of darkness and distress, when pecuniary recompense was entirely out of the question.

The great sufferings, both mental and bodily, I had undergone at the death and burial of my master, and the constant agitation in which I was kept, occasioned a rapid increase in my disorder; and on the 16th I could with difficulty crawl round my hut, and was obliged to lay myself on my mat, from which I had not strength to arise till the 27th; old Pascoe, during that period, being very kind and attentive to me.

In the course of this day (27th) the Gadado, Malem Moodie, and Sidi Sheik, came with a commission from the sultan to search my boxes, as he had been informed they were filled with gold and silver; but, to their great amazement, found I had not sufficient money to defray my expenses to the sea-coast. They, however, took an inventory of all my articles, and carried it to Bello. The gold watch intended for him, and the private watches of Captains Clapperton and Pearce, I had taken the precaution to conceal about my person. In a short time the Gadado and his companions returned with a message from the sultan, commanding me to deliver to them the following articles, viz. a rifle-gun, double-barrelled ditto, two bags of ball, a canister of powder, a bag of flints, a ream and a half of paper, and six gilt chains, for which he promised to give me whatever I might ask. I consequently charged him 245,000 cowries, which I was to receive from Hadji Hat Sallah, at Kano; and an order was given me to receive this sum, and, what more I might require in my journey over the Great Desert. A letter was also sent by me to Hadji Hat Sallah.

SONG

My Mary of the curling hair,The laughing teeth, and bashful air,Our bridal morn is dawning fair,With blushes in the skies.Shule! Shule! Shule, agra!Shule asucur, agus shule, aroon! 2My love! my pearl!My own dear girl!My mountain maid arise!Wake, linnet of the osier grove!Wake, trembling, stainless, virgin dove!Wake, nestling of a parent's love!Let Moran see thine eyes.Shule, Shule, &c.I am no stranger, proud and gay,To win thee from thy home away,And find thee, for a distant day,A theme for wasting signs.Shule, Shule, &c.But we were known from infancy,Thy father's hearth was home to me,No selfish love was mine for thee,Unholy and unwise.Shule, Shule, &c.And yet, (to see what love can do!)Though calm my hope has burned, and true,My cheek is pale and worn for you,And sunken are mine eyes!Shule, Shule, &c.But soon my love shall be my brideAnd happy by our own fire-side,My veins shall feel the rosy tide,That lingering Hope denies.Shule, Shule, &c.My Mary of the curling hair,The laughing teeth and bashful air,Our bridal morn is dawning fair,With blushes in the skies.Shule! Shule! Shule, agra!Shule, asucur, agus shule, aroon!My love! my pearl!My own dear girl!My mountain maid, arise!—The Collegians

SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY

Pyrothonide

A French physician has lately introduced into the Materia Medica, a substance produced by the combustion of linen, hemp, or cotton cloth, in the open air. He considers it useful in various inflammatory affections, especially in opthalmia, or diseases of the eye, and chilblains. To prepare pyrothonide, take a handful of cloth, old or new, place it in a shallow basin, set fire to it, moving it about, so that the basin do not become too hot; after the combustion is finished, throw out the ashes; at the bottom of the vessel will be found a semi-aqueous, semi-oleaginous product, of a reddish brown colour, and possessing a pungent odour. Pour upon this 5 oz. of cold water, which will dissolve it entirely, forming the solution of pyrothonide, which is used in a more or less diluted state, as may be requisite, for collyria, fomentations, &c—Medical Journal.

French Carpet

At the exhibition in the Louvre for 1827, was a carpet which occupied two years in making, and contains 3 or 4,000 ostrich feathers.

French Pigs

Whoever has travelled from Calais to Paris must have noticed the lank, greyhound-like forms of the French pigs; but it is not perhaps generally known that the Chinese and English breeds are getting into use for crossing. The fact that there are four millions of pigs yearly killed in France, shows of how great importance they are to agriculturists.

Indian Plaster

All the fine plaster with which the walls of the houses are covered in India, and which is so much admired by strangers, is composed of a mixture of fine lime and soapstone, rubbed down with water: when the plaster is nearly dry, it is rubbed over with a dry piece of soapstone, which gives it a polish very much resembling that of well-polished marble.

Method of preserving Currants fresh till January or February

When the fruit is ripe, choose those bushes enjoying a southern aspect, and which are most convenient in their shape, and most loaded with fruit, and surround them with thick straw mats, so that they shall be completely sheltered from atmospheric cold and other changes. By this simple method it will be found that the fruit may be preserved quite fresh till after Christmas.

H.B.AChromate of Iron

Is used in painting, dyeing, and calico-printing; and its value is so great, the proprietor of a serpentine tract in Shetland, where chromate of iron was found by Professor Jameson, cleared, in a few years, 8,000l.—Dr. Murray.

Temperature of Springs

In those situations where the cold is not sufficient to hinder the circulation of water, the temperature of perennial springs is almost identical with the atmosphere. Thus, in the vicinity of Edinburgh, the temperature of the perennial springs agrees with the mean temperature of the atmosphere. The same is the case in the whole of Atlantic Europe, and also to a great extent in Southern Europe. The temperature of springs in northern regions, when the surface water is frozen, is higher than the mean temperature of the superincumbent atmosphere; and in the countries from the south of Europe to the Tropic, the temperature of springs is lower than that of the medium temperature of the atmosphere.

Humboldt's Journey to Siberia

Humboldt, although now past his 60th year, will leave Germany in the spring, accompanied by Professor G. Rose, for Siberia. He will probably extend his researches to the high land which separates India from the Russian empire.

Egyptian Manuscript relative to the History of Sesostris

At the sitting of the Aix Academy, on the 3rd of August, M. Sallier read a report of some very important discoveries in Egyptian history, made at his house, and amongst his Egyptian papyri, by M. Champollion, jeune. The latter gentleman was on his way to Egypt with M. Rosellini, and stopped two days with M. Sallier previous to proceeding to Toulon for the purpose of embarking. During this short period he examined ten or twelve Egyptian papyri, which had been purchased some years ago, with other antiquities, from an Egyptian sailor. They were principally prayers or rituals which had been deposited with mummies; but there was also the contract of the sale of a house in the reign of one of the Ptolemies; and finally three rolls united together and written over with fine demotic characters, reserved, as is well known, for civil purposes.

The first of these rolls was of considerable size, and to M. Champollion's astonishment contained a History of the Campaigns of Sesostris Rhamses, called also Sethos, or Sethosis, and Sesoosis, giving accounts the most circumstantial of his conquests, the countries which he traversed, his forces, and details of his army. The manuscript is finished with a declaration of the historian, who, after stating his names and titles, says he wrote in the ninth year of the reign of Sesostris Rhamses, king of kings, a lion in combats, &c.

M. Champollion has promised, that, on his return from Egypt, he will fix the manuscript on cloth for its future preservation, and give a complete translation. The period of the history is close to the time of Moses; and apparently the great Sesostris was the son of the king who pursued the Israelites to the borders of the Red Sea; so that a most important period in ancient history will be elucidated.

On the same MS. commences another composition, called Praises of the great King Amemnengon. There are only a few leaves of it, and they form the beginning of the history contained in the second roll. This Amemnengon is supposed to have reigned before Sesostris, because the author wrote in the ninth year of the reign of the latter. M. Champollion had not time to enter into a particular examination of these rolls.

The third roll relates to astronomy or astrology, or more likely to both these subjects. It has not been far opened; but will probably prove of the utmost interest, if, as it is expected, it contains any account of the system of the heavens as known to or acknowledged by the Egyptians and Chaldeans, the authors of astronomical science.

A small basaltic figure was purchased with the MSS., and it is supposed found with them. On the shoulders of the figure is written in hieroglyphic characters the name, with the addition of clerk and friend of Sesostris. It did not occur to ascertain, until M. Champollion was gone, whether the name on the figure was the same with any of those mentioned in the rolls as belonging to the historian, or to others.—From the French.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

THE VICAR

A SECOND EVERY-DAY CHARACTERSome years ago, ere time and tasteHad turn'd our parish topsy-turvy,When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,And roads as little known as scurvy,The man who lost his way betweenSt. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket,Was always shown across the Green,And guided to the parson's wicket.Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,Led the lorn traveller up the path,Through clean clipt rows of box and myrtle.And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,Upon the parlour steps collected,Wagg'd all their tails, and seem'd to say,"Our master knows you; you're expected."Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown,Uprose the doctor's "winsome marrow;"The lady laid her knitting down,Her husband clasp'd his pond'rous Barrow:What'er the stranger's cast or creed,Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,He found a stable for his steed,And welcome for himself, and dinner.If, when he reach'd his journey's end,And warm'd himself in court or college,He had not gain'd an honest friend,And twenty curious scraps of knowledge;—If he departed as he came,With no new light on love or liquor,—Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,And not the vicarage, nor the vicar.His talk was like a stream which runsWith rapid change from rocks to roses:It slipp'd from politics to puns;It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses:Beginning with the laws which keepThe planets in their radiant courses,And ending with some precept deepFor dressing eels, or shoeing horses.He was a shrewd and sound divine,Of loud dissent the mortal terror;And when, by dint of page and line,He 'stablish'd truth, or startled error,The Baptist found him far too deep,The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow;And the lean Levite went to sleep,And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow.His sermon never said or show'dThat earth is foul, that heaven is gracious,Without refreshment on the roadFrom Jerome, or from Athanasius:And sure a righteous zeal inspiredThe hand and head that penn'd and plann'd them;For all who understood admired,And some who did not understand them.He wrote too, in a quiet way,Small treatises, and smaller verses;And sage remarks on chalk and clay.And hints to noble lords and nurses:True histories of last year's ghost,Lines to a ringlet, or a turban;And trifles for the Morning Post,And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.He did not think all mischief fair,Although he had a knack of joking;He did not make himself a bear,Although he had a taste for smoking:And when religious sects ran mad,He held, in spite of all his learning,That if a man's belief is bad,It will not be improved by burning.And he was kind, and loved to sitIn the low hut or garnish'd cottage,And praise the farmer's homely wit,And share the widow's homelier pottage:At his approach complaint grew mild;And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter,The clammy lips of fever smiledThe welcome, which they could not utter.He always had a tale for meOf Julius Caesar, or of Venus;From him I learn'd the rule of three,Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus:I used to singe his powder'd wig,To steal the staff he put such trust in;And make the puppy dance a jig,When he began to quote Augustin.Alack the change! in vain I lookFor haunts in which my boyhood trifled;The level lawn, the trickling brook,The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled:The church is larger than before;You reach it by a carriage entry;It holds three hundred people more,And pews are fitted up for gentry.Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hearThe doctrine of a gentle Johnian,Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.Where is the old man laid?—look down.And construe on the slab before you,Hic jacetGULIELMUS BROWN,Vir nulla non donandus lauru.New Monthly Magazine.

TAILORS

There is nothing upon earth that is of so much utility to men in general as fine clothes. A splendid equipage, a magnificent house, may draw the gaze of idle passers, and excite an occasional inquiry. But who, that has entered taverns and coffeehouses, has not perceived that the ratio of civility and attention from the waiter is regulated by the dress of his various customers? Any stranger, elegantly and fashionably attired, will find little difficulty in obtaining deference, politeness, and even credit, in every shop he enters; whereas the stranger, in more homely, or less modish garb, is really nobody. In truth, the gentleman is distinguished in the crowd only by the cut of his trousers, and he carries his patent of nobility in his coat-lap. And to whom does he owe this index of his identity, but to his despised and much calumniated tailor?

There is not a metamorphosis in all the pages of Ovid so wonderful as that which the great magician of the shears and thimble is capable of effecting. If there be the most unpleasant disproportions in the turn of your limbs—any awkwardness or deformity in your figure, the enchantment of this mighty wizard instantly communicates symmetry and elegance. The incongruous and unseemly furrows of your shape become smooth and harmonized; and the total want of all shape is immediately supplied by the beautiful undulations of the coat, and the graceful fall of the pantaloons. And all this is by the potency of your tailor. His necromantic skill, unlike that of too many practisers of supernatural arts, is exercised only for the benefit of the world: and whilst Circe transformed the companions of Ulysses into brute beasts, the benevolent enchanter of our day transforms brute beasts into handsome and attractive men. Nay, had Olympus been furnished with a tailor, Brotheus would have had no necessity to burn himself to death for the purpose of escaping ridicule from the gods on account of his deformity.

But he who is most indebted to this manufacturer of elegant forms, is the lover; and the base ingratitude of this sort of person is dreadfully enormous. After he has riveted the gaze of his mistress upon his charming figure, drawn forth sighs of admiration for his remarkable elegance, excited the most tender perturbations by the grace of his movements, and finally acquired a complete surrender of her heart by the striking interest of his attitude when kneeling at her feet, he ignorantly and presumptuously ascribes this to his own intrinsic qualities, without ever remembering that the abilities of his tailor are the sole source of all his success. The very being, who has endowed such a man with all his attractions, rests contented with the payment of his bills, (if he be fortunate enough to obtain that;) whilst the other, by the power of fascinations so procured, obtains a lovely wife and twenty thousand pounds. Sic vos non vobis, &c.

Such is the skill of that wonderful being, the tailor, that his transformations are not more extraordinary than sudden. The time which is occupied in thus new-moulding the human frame is really trivial compared with the stupendous change which is literally wrought. It is true, the soul may remain the same, but a new body is actually given to it by the interposition of vestiary talent: and this is what we have always believed to be the genuine meaning of the metempsychosis of Pythagoras.

It is not, therefore, without the most cogent reasons that we assert our opinion, that the distich of Pope, "Worth makes the man," or the title appended by Colley Cibber to one of his dramas, "Love makes the man," ought henceforth to yield, in point of truth, to the irrefragable principle which we here solemnly advance, "that it is the tailor makes the man."—Blackwood's Magazine.

THE ACTOR

Perhaps Fortune does not buffet any set of beings with more industry, and withal less effect, than Actors. There may be something in the habitual mutability of their feelings that evades the blow; they live, in a great measure, out of this dull sphere, "which men call earth;" they assume the dress, the tone, the gait of emperors, kings, nobles; the world slides, and they mark it not. The Actor leaves his home, and forgets every domestic exigence in the temporary government of a state, or overthrow of a tyrant; he is completely out of the real world until the dropping of the curtain. The time likewise not spent on the stage is passed in preparation for the night; and thus the shafts of fate glance from our Actor like swan-shot from an elephant, If struck at all, the barb must pierce the bones, and quiver in the marrow.

Our Actor—mind, we are speaking of players in the mass—is the most joyous, careless, superficial flutterer in existence. He knows every thing, yet has learned nothing; he has played at ducks and drakes over every rivulet of information, yet never plunged inch-deep into any thing beyond a play-book, or Joe Miller's jests. If he venture a scrap of Latin, be sure there is among his luggage a dictionary of quotations; if he speak of history,—why he has played in Richard and Coriolanus. The stage is with him the fixed orb around which the whole world revolves; there is nothing worthy of a moment's devotion one hundred yards from the green-room. It is amusing to perceive how blind, how dead, is our real Actor to the stir and turmoil of politics; he will turn from a Salamanca to admire a Sir John Brute's wig; Waterloo sinks into insignificance before the amber-headed cane of a Sir Peter Teazle. What is St. Stephen's to him—what the memory of Burke and Chatham? To be sure, Sheridan is well remembered; but then Sheridan wrote the Critic.

A mackerel lives longer out of water than does an Actor out of his element: he cannot, for a minute, "look abroad into universality." Keep him to the last edition of a new or old play, the burning of the two theatres, or an anecdote of John Kemble, and our Actor sparkles amazingly. Put to him an unprofessional question, and you strike him dumb; an abstract truth locks his jaws. On the contrary, listen to the stock-joke; lend an attentive ear to the witticism clubbed by the whole green-room—for there is rarely more than one at a time in circulation—and no man talks faster—none with a deeper delight to himself—none more profound, more knowing. The conversation of our Actor is a fine "piece of mosaic." Here Shakspeare is laid under contribution—here Farquhar—here Otway. We have an undigested mass of quotations, dropping without order from him. In words he is absolutely impoverishable. What a lion he stalks in a country town! How he stilts himself upon his jokes over the sleek, unsuspecting heads of his astonished hearers! He tells a story; and, for the remainder of the night, sits embosomed in the ineffable lustre of his humour.—Monthly Mag.

THE NOVELIST

THE BROKEN HEART

A mutual affection had existed from their very childhood between Henri Merville and Louise Courtin; their respective parents were near neighbours, and on very friendly terms with one another; they, therefore, watched the infantile attachment of their children with great pleasure, and with still more self-congratulation did they perceive that, growing with their growth, and strengthening with their strength, it had ripened into an ardent and deep-rooted passion. When Henri, however, had attained his twentieth year, Louise being also only seventeen, it became necessary that he should leave the humble village of Verny, and perfect himself in his trade as a cabinet-maker, by visiting and working in some large and opulent towns. The lovers, amid their increasing happiness, had never thought of this long separation; so that when Henri was told by his father that he must leave home, and be away three years, and Louise informed by her mother of the same circumstance, the intelligence came upon them like an earthquake. Woman's feelings are more easily excited, and Louise felt as if Verny would be a desert without her dear Henri; he too was sad enough, although the preparations for his journey occupied the greatest portion of his time, and prevented his so continually thinking of the separation as she did. Grief and regret were useless; the parting hour arrived, and the now miserable pair were left to themselves. They mutually made vows of eternal constancy and fidelity; as is the custom in the provinces, they exchanged rings, and became rather more resigned to their unavoidable separation.

Henri at last departed, and was ten miles from Verny before he could comprehend how he had summoned up resolution enough to leave it. Louise, shut up in her little room, was weeping bitterly, and felt no inclination to go out, since she could no longer meet Henri; but, in a short time, both of them, without feeling less regret, bethought themselves of making the wearisome interval useful to their future prospects.

During the first eighteen months, he travelled about from town to town; but at last, in Lyons, made an engagement with a person who had a very extensive business, of the name of Gerval, for the remaining period. His master preferred cards and the bottle to work, and finding Henri honest and attentive, was anxious to retain him in his situation. He had a daughter, named Annette, a quick, lively, and fascinating girl, who seemed rather disposed to coquet with Henri, and was somewhat frequently in the workshop with him. Gerval observed, and by no means discouraged, this, thinking that, even after all, his assistant would become neither a bad partner for Annette nor himself; and that their intercourse, at all events, would keep away Louis, a former workman, who had affected a great regard for his daughter, but possessed very little inclination to use the saw or the plane. All this attention was very delightful to Henri, particularly as it proceeded from so interesting a creature as his present companion. Are, then, Verny and the sorrowful Louise quite forgotten? It must be confessed, that they almost escaped his memory, when thus employed with Annette; but, to do him justice, in the solitude of his chamber he experienced feelings almost akin to remorse; often in his dreams did he behold Louise, ever tender, ever affectionate, as in their infancy; this vision was recalled when he awoke, and he arose, vowing that she should never have a rival in his heart: but Henri was young, Louise two hundred miles off, and Annette only two steps.

Gerval, to keep away all aspirants, gave it out that they were betrothed, and especially informed Louis, the dismissed swain, of this agreement, who, in consequence thereof, immediately left Lyons. Henri's time, meanwhile, was passing away; he had received some very tender letters from Louise, and had written to her, but less frequently than he would have done if Annette had not occupied his leisure hours. Having, however, received no intelligence from Verny for more than three months, he began to be disquieted, and determined to leave Gerval, notwithstanding all Annette's attractions. To be sure, he had found her very pretty and agreeable—he had romped and flirted with her—but had never, for a moment, thought of marrying her, and had, strictly speaking, been faithful to Louise. Judge then of his surprise, when, one night, Gerval returned home half-drunk, and asked them, if they were not beginning to think of the wedding. Annette threw herself into her father's arms; Henri, pale as death, hid his face with his hands, and knew not how to articulate a refusal; and Gerval, at the sight of this confusion, burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter; "You put me in mind," said he, at last, "of one of those ninnies of lovers on the stage, who throw themselves on their knees before their mistresses, as if they were idols. Come, my lad, embrace your betrothed—exchange rings—and long live joy, for it costs nothing." The words "exchange rings" restored Henri to his senses, for he thought he beheld his beloved Louise, amid her tears, softly exclaim, "Dear Henri, what will become of me without you?" And this ring, too, which was asked from him, was the self-same one that he had received from her!—He immediately addressed Gerval in a firm, yet touching, tone of voice, and, having thanked him, told him that he should never forget his friendship and his kind intentions, that he should always love Annette as a sister, but that he could not marry her, because he was already engaged in his own native place. He requested him to ask his daughter if he had ever said a single word about marriage to her; he might, indeed, have added, that he had often spoken to her of Louise, and showed her the ring, about which she had teased him; but he did not wish to draw the old man's reproaches on her. These reproaches all fell on him; he bore them, however, with so much gentleness, that Gerval, who was "a good sort of fellow," was, in the end, affected by it. "Go, then, and marry your betrothed," said he, in a half-friendly, half-vexed, tone; "since it is not Annette, the sooner you set off the better. I must say, I shall regret you; and you may, perhaps, sometime or other, regret old Gerval and his daughter."