AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION, VOL. 20, NO. 581, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 15,
1832***


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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. 20, NO. 581.] SATURDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1832. [PRICE 2d.




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[Illustration: CHAPEL ON THE BRIDGE, WAKEFIELD.]




CHAPEL ON THE BRIDGE, WAKEFIELD


Chapels on bridges are not so unfrequent in architectural history as
the rarity of their remains would indicate. Among the early records
of bridge-building we read that "the Romans built many bridges in
the provinces; viz. in France, Spain, Germany, Britain, &c. some
of which had arches or towers on them."[1] Plutarch derives the word
_Pontifex_, (high priest,) from sacrifices made upon bridges, a
ceremony of the highest antiquity. The priests are said to have been
commissioned to keep the bridges in repair, as an indispensable part of
their office. This we may conclude to have given rise to the annexation
of chapels to almost all our bridges of note; and the offerings were
of course for repairs: so that priests are considered to have been the
olden surveyors of bridges, and chapels on them to have been displaced
by the more secular establishment of toll-houses.[2]

The bridge, upon which stands the above chapel, crosses the Calder, at
the south-east entrance into Wakefield, in the West Riding of Yorkshire.
It was built in the reign of Edward III. and is a fine specimen of the
masonry of that age. In the centre projecting from the eastern side, and
resting partly on the sterlings, is the chapel, built in the richest
style of Gothic architecture. It is about ten yards in length, and about
eight in breadth. The east window, overhanging the river, is adorned
with various and beautiful tracery, and the parapets are perforated.
The windows on the north and south sides are equally rich. But the west
front facing the passage over the bridge, (as shown in the Engraving,)
exceeds all the rest in profusion of ornament; being divided by
buttresses into compartments, forming recesses, with lofty pediments
and pointed arches; whilst above is an entablature bearing five
basso-relievos, the whole being crowned with battlements. The
buttresses, finials, tracery, &c. form an assemblage of Gothic
embellishments, which, for richness and delicacy can scarcely be
equalled. This chapel was built by Edward IV. in memory of his father,
Richard, Duke of York, and those of his party who fell in the battle of
Wakefield.[3] It appears, however, that a chapel had been built on this
bridge by Edward III., and dedicated to St. Mary; but it was undoubtedly
rebuilt and embellished by Edward IV. who, on this account, may be
regarded as the founder of the present structure.

The beautiful embellishments have received considerable injury; and,
about twenty years since this superb relic of ecclesiastical
architecture was used as a warehouse. As architectural renovation is
becoming somewhat the taste of the day, it is to be hoped that the
restoration of the chapel at Wakefield will not be overlooked.

    [1] Britton, Arch. Dict. art. Bridge. On the decline of the Roman
        Empire, travelling became dangerous, and robberies and murders
        were frequently committed. To check this system, and protect
        travellers, several religious persons associated in fraternities,
        and formed an order called the "Brothers of the Bridge." Their
        object was to build bridges, establish ferries, and receive and
        protect travellers in hospitals, raised near the passes over
        rivers. In like manner we account for the erection of many
        bridges in England. According to Stow, the monks of St. Mary
        Overie's were the first builders of London Bridge: and Peter of
        Colechurch, who founded the first _stone_ bridge, also built
        a chapel on the eastern central pier, in which the architect was
        afterwards interred: his remains, as we first communicated to the
        public, were found as aforesaid during the recent removal of the
        old bridge; and "the lower jaw and three other bones of Peter of
        Colechurch" were sold by auction a few days since.

    [2] At the old bridge at Droitwich, the high road passed through the
        midst of the chapel, the reading-desk and pulpit being on one
        side, and the congregation on the other. Other public buildings
        were not uncommon on bridges. In 1553 an alderman of Stamford
        built the Town Hall upon the bridge there; and on an old bridge
        at Bradford, Wills, there is a sort of dungeon, or prison raised
        on one of the piers.


    [3] Camden. Tindal's Notes on Rapin.

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THE BROTHER OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

(_To the Editor._)

As I was personally acquainted with Charles Goldsmith, the younger
brother of Oliver, the Poet, I am enabled to furnish a few particulars
in addition to those of _Philo_, contained in No. 573 of _The
Mirror_. Charles, on his coming to this country, from the West
Indies, had with him two daughters, and one son named Henry; all under
14 years of age. He purchased two houses in the Polygon, Somers Town, in
one of which he resided: here, the elder of his girls died; I attended
her funeral; she was buried in the churchyard of St. Pancras, near the
grave of Mary Wolstonecroft Godwin. Henry was my fellow pupil; but not
liking the profession of engraving, after a short trial, he returned to
the West Indies. At the peace of Amiens, Charles Goldsmith sold his
houses, and, with his wife and daughter, and a son born in England,
christened Oliver, he went to reside in France, where his daughter
married. In consequence of the orders of Buonaparte for detaining
British subjects, Charles again returned home by way of Holland, much
reduced in circumstances, and died, about 25 years since at humble
lodgings in Ossulston Street. Somers Town. After his death, his wife,
who was a native of the West Indies, and her son Oliver, returned
thither. Charles Goldsmith had in his possession a copy, from Sir Joshua
Reynolds's portrait of his brother; and I can vouch his resemblance to
the picture was most striking. Charles, like the poet, was a performer
on the German flute, and, to use his own words, found it in the hour
of adversity his best friend. He only once, I have heard him say, saw
Oliver in England, which was during his prosperity.

R. ROFFE.

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RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LATE COLONEL MOLESWORTH PHILLIPS.

(_From a Correspondent._)


Colonel Phillips was the last surviving person who accompanied Captain
Cook in his last voyage of discovery to ascertain the practicability of
a passage between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, along the northern
coast of America. I was an inmate of his residence in Lambeth in the
summer of 1828, for some few weeks, and during that period received
many commissioned attentions, for he ever avoided meeting or seeing
strangers. He was invariably his own cook; slept but little, and seldom
retired regularly to bed, but rested on a sofa, or chairs, as accident
might dictate. His employment chiefly consisted in turning fanciful
devices at his lathe, but he seldom completed his designs: however, I saw
the model of a mausoleum dedicated to Napoleon, which evinced much taste
and ingenuity. His workshop at once intimated that its occupant was
not abundantly gifted with the organ of order. Plates, dishes, knives,
forks, candlesticks, coats, hats, books, and mathematical instruments,
lay in one confused mass, each enveloped with its portion of dust.
To attempt any thing like arrangement, was at once sacrilege in the
estimation of the Colonel. To summon his attendant he usually approached
the stairs, and rang a small hand bell, accompanying it with his
deep-toned voice with the words: "Ahoy! ahoy! all hands ahoy!" His
liquors, and tankards of ale he always drew up from the window of his
room, to avoid intrusion, and in returning the empty pewters he would
frequently take too sure an aim at the potboy's head. Then came a
concert of "curses" and every association but amity. The close of the
scene was generally modified with something in the shape of a shilling,
and the parties separated, mutually satisfied. Colonel Phillips, during
his residence in Ireland, was possessed of considerable property, but
from what circumstance he suffered a reverse of fortune I am not
informed; indeed, so unwilling was he to connect himself with bygone
days that it was impossible to gather from him a clue to the active
services he had given to the world.

Thus lived Colonel Molesworth Phillips, glorying in most of the
eccentricities of human nature. It is astonishing, considering the
active part he took in society, that he should, towards the close of
life, have secluded himself so entirely from the world, and those with
whom he must have from circumstances have been associated. Colonel
Phillips might probably have survived some years longer, had he not
fallen a victim to cholera.

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APOLOGUES.--(FROM THE GERMAN.)

THE VINE.


On the day of the Creation, the trees exultingly extolled themselves
one towards another, every one about itself. "The Lord, by whom I was
planted," said the lofty Cedar, "has united in me firmness, fragrance,
duration, and strength." "Jehovah's affection has rendered me blessed,"
said the widely-spreading Palm-tree; "in me has He conjoined utility
and beauteousness." "Like a bridegroom among the youths," said the
Apple-tree, "I parade among the trees of Paradise." "Like the rose among
the thorns," said the Myrtle, "I stand among my sisterhood, the lowly
shrubs." So all extolled themselves, the Olive, the Fig, and the Pine.
The Vine alone was silent, and drooped to the ground. "To me," said he
to himself, "appears everything to be denied--trunk, branches, blossoms,
and fruit; but such as I am, I will yet hope and wait." He then sank
down, and his tendrils wept. He had not long waited and wept, before the
friendly man, the godhead of the earth, stepped up to him. He saw that a
feeble plant, the sport of the breezes, had sunk, and required help; he
compassionately raised him up, and twined the tender tree to his bower.
More gladly now the breezes played with his tendrils; the glow of the
sun penetrated their hard, greenish buds, preparing in them the sweet
juice, the drink for gods and men. Adorned with rich clusters, the Vine
soon bowed himself down to his master, and he tasted the enlivening
juice, and named him his friend. The proud trees now envied the feeble
shoot, for many of them already stood without fruit; but he was glad of
his slender form and of his steadfast hope. The juice, therefore, even
now gladdens the heart of man, and lifts upwards the courage of the
dejected, and refreshes the afflicted. Despair not, forsaken one, and
abide enduring. In the unsightly cane springs the sweetest juice, and
the feeble tendril brings forth inspiration and rapture.


TEARS.


As Hillel and his disciple Sadi wandered, on a moon and starlight night,
among the gardens of the Mount of Olives, "See," said Sadi, "the man
yonder, in the ray of the moon; what does he there?"--"It is Zadok,"
answered Hillel, "he sits at the grave of his son and weeps."--"Cannot
he moderate his mourning?" said the youth, "for the people term him the
just and wise."--"Shall he therefore," answered Hillel, "not experience
pain?"--"But," asked Sadi, "what preference then has the wise man before
the fool?" Then answered the teacher, "See, the bitter tear of his eye
sinks to the earth, but his countenance is turned up to heaven."

W.G.C.

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THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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THE OLD SOLDIER.


I have often occasion to pass through a village on the St. Alban's road,
at one end of which there is so tidy and convenient a public-house, that
I always give my horse his bait there, if I happen to be travelling in
my gig. I had frequently observed an old soldier, who having lost an
eye, a leg, and an arm in the service of his country, had pretty well
earned the privilege of idling away the rest of his life in a manner
particularly congenial with the habits of one of his calling. He would
sit on a bench, outside the door of this inn, with a pipe in his mouth,
and a can of beer by his side; and thus he would pass all the fine
months of the year. In winter, he merely changed his seat. He was
constant to his pipe and his can; he took both with him to the warm
chimney-corner: and thus he enjoyed his out-pension. During the hour of
baiting, I have often talked with this old man. He had served last in
the early part of the war on the Peninsula. He was loquacious enough on
other subjects; but if one questioned him concerning these last military
services, he became on the instant morose and uncommunicative, and one
could not but perceive, that the topic was disagreeable and painful
to him.

What most interested me about this man was his love for young children.
He was generally surrounded by a parcel of curly-headed urchins; and
often have I seen the mistress of the little inn consign her infant to
the protection of his one arm, when, by an arrival, she has been called
upon to attend to the business of the house. The old fellow never
appeared so contented as when thus employed. His pipe was laid aside,
his beer forgotten, and he would only think of amusing and caressing his
charge, or of lulling it to sleep. The bigger children would cluster
round him, clamber over him, empty his pipe, upset his can, take all
sorts of liberties with him, yet never meet with a rebuke. At times,
however, he would appear lost in uneasy thought; gazing with earnestness
upon the features of the sleeping infant, while tears would course each
other down his cheeks.

As I drove one morning up to the door of the inn, and passed the bench
on which the old soldier was, as usual, sitting, with his little flock
of children playing round him, one of them, a very young one, suddenly
backed into the road, and in another moment more would have been
crushed: but the old man sprang forward; with a vigorous and wonderful
effort he seized the child with his only arm, and threw it several feet
out of the way of danger; he fell with the exertion, and was among my
horse's feet. In suddenly drawing up, I had unwittingly done my very
worst by the poor fellow; for I had caused the animal to trample upon
him a second time, and a wheel had likewise passed over his body.

He was taken up insensible. We carried him to a bed, and after a little
time he recovered his recollection. But he was so severely injured, that
we feared every moment would be his last.

The first words he uttered were, "The child! the child!" We assured him
that the child was safe; but he would not believe us, and it became
necessary to send into the village to search for the little creature,
who had been hurried home with the others upon the confusion that the
accident had occasioned. He continued to call for the child, and was in
the greatest distress of mind till we had found it, and had taken it to
him as he lay. His delight at seeing it alive and unhurt was intense; he
wept, he laughed, he hugged it to his bosom, and it was not till he grew
very faint and weary that he would suffer us to remove it.

A surgeon arrived; and pronounced that the poor man was so much hurt,
inwardly as well as outwardly, that nothing could be done to save him;
and desired us merely to give him cordials or cooling drink, as he
should appear to wish for either. He lingered for a few days.

I had been the cause, although innocently, of the poor fellow's death:
of course I took care that all was done that could alleviate his
sufferings; and, as long as he lasted, I went everyday to pass a few
hours by his bed-side. The rescued child, too, was brought to him each
day by his own desire. From the moment he had first ascertained that it
was unhurt, he had been calm and contented. He knew he was dying, but he
could part with life without regret; and the cloud which I had so often
observed upon his weather-beaten countenance before the accident never
after returned.

The day before he died, as I was watching alone by his side, he asked me
for a cordial. Soon after he had swallowed it, he laid his hand upon my
arm, and said,--"Sir, if you will not think it too great a trouble to
listen to an old man's talk, I think it will ease my mind to say a few
words to you."

He was of course encouraged to proceed.

"I die contented," he continued; "happier than I have for some years
lived. I have had a load upon my heart, which is not quite removed, but
it is a great deal lightened. I have been the means, under Providence,
of saving a young child's life. If I have strength to tell you what I
wish, sir, you will understand the joy that blessed thought has brought
to my heart."

I gave him another cordial, and he spoke as follows:--

"It was in a stirring time of the Duke of Wellington's wars, after the
French had retreated through Portugal, and Badajos had fallen, and we
had driven them fairly over the Spanish frontier, the light division
was ordered on a few of their long leagues further, to occupy a line
of posts among the mountains which rise over the northern hanks of the
Guadiana. A few companies of our regiment advanced to occupy a village
which the French had just abandoned.

"We had had a brisk march over a scorched and rugged country, which
had already been ransacked of all that could have supplied us with
fresh provisions; it was many days since we had heard the creak of a
commissary's wagon, and we had been on very short commons. There was no
reason to expect much in the village we were now ordered to. The French,
who had just marched out, would, of course, have helped themselves to
whatever was portable, and must have previously pretty well drained the
place. We made a search, however, judging that, possibly, something
might have been concealed from them by the peasants; and we actually
soon discovered several houses where skins of wine had been secreted.
A soldier, sir, I take it, after hot service or fatigue, seldom thinks
of much beyond the comfort of drinking to excess; and I freely own that
our small party soon caused a sad scene of confusion.

"Every house and hovel was searched, and many a poor fellow, who had
contrived to hide his last skin of wine from his enemies, was obliged to
abandon it to his allies. You might see the poor natives on all sides
running away; some with a morsel of food, others with a skin of wine
in their arms, and followed by the menaces and staggering steps of the
weary and half-drunken soldiers.

"'Vino! vino!' was the cry in every part of the village. An English
soldier, sir, may be for months together in a foreign land, and have a
pride in not knowing how to ask for anything hut liquor. I was no better
than the rest.

"'Vino! quiero vino!' said I, to a poor half-starved and ragged native,
who was stealing off, and hiding something under his torn cloak;--'Vino!
you beggarly scoundrel! give me vino!' said I.

"'Vino no tengo!' he cried, as he broke from my grasp, and ran quickly
and fearfully away.

"I was not very drunk--I had not had above half my quantity--and I
pursued him up a street. But he was the fleeter; and I should have lost
him, had I not made a sudden turn, and come right upon him in a forsaken
alley, where I suppose the poor thing dwelt. I seized him by the collar.
He was small and spare, and he trembled under my gripe; but still he
held his own, and only wrapped his cloak the closer round his property.

"'Vino! quiero vino!' said I again; 'give me vino!'

"'Nada, nada tengo!' he repeated.

"I had already drawn my bayonet.--I am ashamed, sir, to say, that we
used to do that to terrify the poor wretches, and make them the sooner
give us their liquor.--As I held him by the collar with one hand, I
pointed the bayonet at his breast with the other, and I again cried,
'Vino!'

"'Vino no tengo--nino, nino es!'--and he spoke the words with such a
look of truth and earnestness, that, had I not fancied I could trace
through the folds of his cloak the very shape of a small wine skin,
I should have believed him.

"'Lying rascal!' said I, 'so you won't give me the liquor? then the dry
earth shall drink it!' and I struck the point of my bayonet deep into
that which he was still hugging to his breast.

"Oh, sir! it was not wine that trickled down--it was blood, warm
blood!--and a piteous wail went like a chill across my heart!--The poor
Spaniard opened his cloak--he pointed to his wounded child--and his wild
eye asked me plainer than words could have done,--'Monster! are you
satisfied!'

"I was sobered in a moment. I fell upon
my knees beside the infant, and I tried to
staunch the blood. Yes, the poor fellow understood
the truth: he saw, and he accepted
my anguish--and we joined our efforts to save
the little victim.--Oh! it was too late!

"The little boy had fastened his small clammy hands round a finger of
each of us. He looked at us alternately; and seemed to ask, alike from
his father and his murderer, that help which it was beyond the power of
one of earth to give. The changes in the poor child's countenance showed
that it had few minutes to live. Sometimes it lay so still I thought the
last pang was over; when a slight convulsion would agitate its frame,
and a momentary pressure of its little hands, would give the gasping
father a short vain ray of hope.

"You may believe, sir, that an old soldier, who has only been
able to keep his own life at the expense of an eye and two of his
limbs--who has lingered out many a weary day in a camp-hospital after a
hot engagement--must have learnt to look on death without any unnecessary
concern. I have sometimes wished for it myself; and often have felt
thankful when my poor, wounded comrades have been released by it from
pain. I have seen it, too, in other shapes. I have seen the death-blow
dealt, when its effects have been so instant, that the brave heart's
blood has been spilt, and the pulses have ceased to beat, while the
streak of life and health was still fresh upon the cheek--when a smile
has remained upon the lips of my brother-soldier, even after he had
fallen a corpse across my path. But, oh! sir, what is all this compared
with what I suffered as I watched life ebb slowly from the wound which
I had myself so wantonly inflicted in the breast of a helpless, innocent
child!--It was by mistake, by accident. Oh, yes! I know it, I know it
well; and day and night I have striven to forget that hour. But it is of
no use; the cruel recollection never leaves my mind--that piteous wail
is ever in my ears!--The father's agony will follow me to the
grave!"--_Legends of the Lib. at Lilies._

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THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

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THE CITADEL OF ANTWERP.

(_From personal inspection, by a Contributor to the United Service
Journal._)


This spot, on which the eye of all Europe is at present concentrated,
lies at the southern extremity of Antwerp, and forms one continued
line with its defences along the banks of the Scheldt. It is a regular
pentagon in shape, protected by bastions ranging at progressive
elevations, and connecting themselves with curtains of proportionate
height. In advance of these defences are a further series of spacious
bastions, immediately connected with the preceding, but of later
construction. The one were erected by Paciotti and Cerbolini, two
Italian engineers, by order of the tyrant Alba, 1568, and the others
according to Vauban's principles in 1701. Every side of this citadel is
equally formidable for its strength; that towards the town is furnished
with a raveline; and this is also the case with the front which faces
the river, and opens upon a paved line of road, from which all
communication with Antwerp itself has latterly been cut off. Two of
the sides of this fastness front towards the adjacent country, and are
likewise supplied with ravelines; the centre bastion in this direction
bears Paciotto's name, which has been denaturalized in that of Paniotto
in the French elevations. The defences of the town terminate in the
centre of the fifth side, which circumstance has left it unprovided with
a raveline. On the summit (or capital) of the two bastions on the land
side, two large lunettes have been thrown forward, one being called Fort
Kiel, from the adjacent suburb, and the other, which stands more away
from the town, Fort St. Laurent. Internally the citadel of Antwerp
contains every provision for the safe housing of its defenders, and
possesses more than the requisite accommodation under ground for its
supplies. All the barracks, exposed to the enemy's fire, are so placed,
that the strength of the garrison may be readily collected at the point
endangered; the kind of defence to be brought into action is plain and
obvious; and the _materiel_ for standing a siege has been as
liberally provided as the means of subsistence for preserving the
_morale_ of the besieged from being deteriorated. The garrison
consists of picked troops, who place unlimited confidence in their
commandant. The citadel is encompassed by a ditch, which has eighteen
feet of water in every part of its circuit, and is protected by ramparts
of adequate elevation, and strength in proportion. With such elements of
defence as these its capture cannot be effected without a sacrifice of
human lives, which none but the flint-hearted can contemplate or foresee
without deprecation and horror.

In the year 1792, when it was carried by the revolutionary forces
of France, they took the direction of the city walls as their line of
attack, and mounted the bastion which bears Paciotto's name; this,
at that time of day, formed indisputably the most advantageous point
of assault; but its increased strength in this quarter would, at the
present moment, render any attack an act of temerity. An esplanade
of the average width of four hundred paces, which was laid out as a
handsome promenade, before the bombardment in 1830, separates the
citadel from the town: but the effect of that bombardment has been to
throw a wide area of fifteen hundred paces open to the very marge of
the Scheldt; and to disconnect the fortress still more completely from
the inhabited portion of Antwerp. Lamentable as may be the prospect,
Antwerp, the mistress of the finest naval station and commercial port in
Europe, is doomed to destruction, if a single gun be directed against
its citadel. It is not possible for its commandant, as a soldier and
a subject, to avoid any and every means of annoying a besieger; and
amongst these, none so ready and effectual, present themselves, as that
of preventing the town from becoming the covert for an assailant. We have
witnessed the deplorable havoc which a few mortars brought upon it in
1830; but how frightful will be the issue when rockets and red-hot shot
come to be poured upon the devoted city. Nay, more,--by opening the
<DW18>s along the Scheldt, a large portion of the western provinces of
Belgium is capable of being inundated; and if this fresh calamity ensue,
as a second resource on the part of the besieged, from the adoption
of which the recognised laws of warfare cannot absolve them, not only
Antwerp will have ceased to exist, but her citadel will rear its head,
a frowning islet, amidst a waste of waters. As to the blockade of the
Scheldt, it will be impotent with regard to distressing the citadel; for
the windings of that stream, as well as of the Maas, at their mouths,
preclude the possibility of effectually staying the Dutch from
communication with it.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PLAINT OF CERTAIN CORAL BEADS.


  Spoiler of forbidden wealth,
    Guarded by the hoary waves!
  When we mourn thy cruel stealth,
    Sorrowing for our quiet caves.
  Doth it calm our wistful pining
  That the chains we hate are shining?
    Boast we beauty's gauds to be?
  Can the state such bondage shares,
  Thoughtless liking, loveless cares,
  Sudden angers, wilful airs,
    Sooth us like the mighty sea?

  Though, in hours when suitors press
    Near the shrine of star-bright eyes,
  Mysteries, some would die to guess,
    Our familiar touch descries;
  When a startled throb or tremble,
  Woman's craft would fain dissemble,
    Through our light embraces swells;--
  Fruitless secrets--vainly taught,--
  Bliss unheeded--trust unsought--
  Can they quench the constant thought
    Of our dreamy ocean-cells?

  Though the glowing bands we form,
    Oft by redder lips be pressed,
  And a slumber, soft and warm,
    Fold us on a dove-like breast,--
  Not to love, but love's bestowing
  Gentle care and kiss are owing:--
    Is the passion changed or cloyed,
  Doth the giver's light grow less?
  Banished from the sweet recess,
  Sportive pressure, fond caress,
    See our mimic worth destroyed!

  Then in close and narrow keep,
    Pent, with scorned and faded toys,
  Mourn we for the glassy deep,
    Sigh we for our early joys!
  What has earth like ocean's treasures?
  More than craving avarice measures,
    More than Fancy's dream enchants,
  Deck the booming caves below,
  Where green waters ever flow
  Under groves of pearl, that grow
    In the mermaid's glimmering haunts.

  Under spar-enchased bowers,
    Bending on their twisted stems,
  Glow the myriad ocean-flowers,
    Fadeless--rich as orient gems.
  Hung with seaweed's tasselled fringes,
  Dyed with all the rainbow's tinges,
    Rise the Triton's palace walls.
  Pallid silver's wandering veins
  Stream, like frostwork, o'er the stains;
  Pavements thick, with golden grains,
    Twinkle through their crystal halls.

  And a music wild and low
    Ever, o'er the curved shells,
  Wanders with a fitful flow
    As the billow sinks or swells.
  Now, to faintest whispers hushing,
  Now, in louder cadence gushing,
    Wakens from their pleasant sleep
  All the tuneful Nereid-throng,
  Till their notes of wreathed song
  Float in magic streams along,
    Chanting joyaunce through the deep.

  Chance or change,--the clouds of time--
    Sorrow,--winter storm, or blight,
  Comes not near our peaceful clime;
    Nor the strife of day with night.
  Death, who walks the earth in riot,
  Stirs not our primeval quiet:
    Scarce his distant rage we know
  From the dreary things of clay,
  Slain, alas! in ocean's play,
  Whom the sea-maids shroud and lay
    In the silent caves below.

  Fond! to deem we count it pride
    Thus to deck the fair of earth!
  We, whose beauty-peopled tide
    Gave the foam-born goddess birth!
  Her, whose glory's radiant fulness.
  All too bright for mortal dulness,
    Sparkles in a lovelier star!
  Are not Ocean's shady places
  Rich in kindred forms and faces,
  Choral bands of sister-Graces
    Circling Amphitrite's car?

  Toiling o'er the shallow page,
    Vainly pedants seek the lore
  Taught us by that prophet sage,
    Whom our azure Thetis bore.
  Wiser Eld his solemn numbers,
  Listening, stole from Ocean's slumbers,
    Signs of coming doom to learn.
  Poor were all your labours reap,
  To the gifted seers that keep
  Mysteries of the ancient deep,
    Drawn from Nereus' sacred urn.

  Let us find our old retreat,
    Yield us to the kissing wave,
  From the daylight's parching heat
    In its cool profound to lave.
  If ye needs must rob for beauty,
  Earth's abysses teem with booty.
    Gems, that love the blaze of day:--
  We are tired of glittering shows,
    And the strife of man's display;
  Let us sink to sweet repose
  Where the lulling water flows;
    Give us to our native bay!


_Tait's Edinburgh Magazine._

       *       *       *       *       *


SHELLEY.

[We find the clever and curious sketches of Shelley, in the _New
Monthly Magazine_, concluded with the following interesting
anecdote.]

That Shelley gave freely, when the needy scholar asked, or in silent,
hopeless poverty seemed to ask, his aid, will he demonstrated most
clearly by relating shortly one example of his generosity, where the
applicant had no pretensions to literary renown, and no claim whatever,
except perhaps honest penury. It is delightful to attempt to delineate
from various points of view a creature of infinite moral beauty,--but
one instance must suffice; an ample volume might be composed of such
tales, but one may be selected, because it contains a large admixture of
that ingredient which is essential to the conversion of alms-giving into
the genuine virtue of charity--self-denial. On returning to town after
the long vacation, at the end of October, I found Shelley at one of the
hotels in Covent Garden. Having some business in hand he was passing a
few days there alone. We had taken some mutton chops hastily at a dark
place in one of the minute courts of the city, at an early hour, and we
went forth to walk; for to walk at all times, and especially in the
evening, was his supreme delight. The aspect of the fields to the north
of Somers-Town, between that beggarly suburb and Kentish-Town, has been
totally changed of late. Although this district could never be accounted
pretty, nor deserving a high place even amongst suburban scenes, yet
the air, or often the wind, seemed pure and fresh to captives emerging
from the smoke of London; there were certain old elms, much very green
grass, quiet cattle feeding, and groups of noisy children playing with
something of the freedom of the village green. There was, oh, blessed
thing! an entire absence of carriages and of blood-horses; of the
dust and dress and affectation and fashion of the parks: there were,
moreover, old and quaint edifices and objects which gave character to
the scene. Whenever Shelley was imprisoned in London,--for to a poet a
close and crowded city must be a dreary gaol,--his steps would take that
direction, unless his residence was too remote, or he was accompanied by
one who chose to guide his walk. On this occasion I was led thither,
as indeed I had anticipated: the weather was fine, but the autumn was
already advanced; we had not sauntered long in these fields when the
dusky evening closed in, and the darkness gradually thickened. "How
black those trees are," said Shelley, stopping short, and pointing to
a row of elms; "it is so dark the trees might well be houses, and the
turf, pavement,--the eye would sustain no loss; it is useless therefore
to remain here, let us return." He proposed tea at his hotel, I
assented; and hastily buttoning his coat, he seized my arm, and set off
at his great pace, striding with bent knees over the fields and through
the narrow streets. We were crossing the New Road, when he said shortly,
"I must call for a moment, but it will not be out of the way at all,"
and then dragged me suddenly towards the left. I inquired whither we
were bound, and, I believe, I suggested the postponement of the intended
call till the morrow. He answered, it was not at all out of our way.
I was hurried along rapidly towards the left; we soon fell into an
animated discussion respecting the nature of the virtue of the Romans,
which in some measure beguiled the weary way. Whilst he was talking with
much vehemence and a total disregard of the people who thronged the
streets, he suddenly wheeled about and pushed me through a narrow door;
to my infinite surprise I found myself in a pawnbroker's shop! It was
in the neighbourhood of Newgate Street; for he had no idea whatever in
practice either of time or space, nor did he in any degree regard method
in the conduct of business. There were several women in the shop in
brown and grey cloaks with squalling children: some of them were
attempting to persuade the children to be quiet, or at least, to scream
with moderation; the others were enlarging upon and pointing out the
beauties of certain coarse and dirty sheets that lay before them to a
man on the other side of the counter. I bore this substitute for our
proposed tea some minutes with tolerable patience, but as the call did
not promise to terminate speedily, I said to Shelley, in a whisper, "Is
not this almost as bad as the Roman virtue?" Upon this he approached the
pawnbroker: it was long before he could obtain a hearing, and he did not
find civility. The man was unwilling to part with a valuable pledge so
soon, or perhaps he hoped to retain it eventually; or it might be, that
the obliquity of his nature disqualified him for respectful behaviour.
A pawnbroker is frequently an important witness in criminal proceedings:
it has happened to me, therefore, afterwards to see many specimens of
this kind of banker; they sometimes appeared not less respectable than
other tradesmen, and sometimes I have been forcibly reminded of the
first I ever met with, by an equally ill conditioned fellow. I was so
little pleased with the introduction, that I stood aloof in the shop,
and did not hear what passed between him and Shelley. On our way to
Covent-Garden, I expressed my surprise and dissatisfaction at our
strange visit, and I learned that when he came to London before, in
the course of the summer, some old man had related to him a tale of
distress,--of a calamity which could only be alleviated by the timely
application of ten pounds; five of them he drew at once from his
pocket, and to raise the other five he had pawned his beautiful solar
microscope! He related this act of beneficence simply and briefly, as if
it were a matter of course, and such indeed it was to him. I was ashamed
of my impatience, and we strode along in silence.

It was past ten when we reached the hotel; some excellent tea and
a liberal supply of hot muffins in the coffee-room, now quiet and
solitary, were the more grateful after the wearisome delay and vast
deviation. Shelley often turned his head, and cast eager glances towards
the door; and whenever the waiter replenished our teapot, or approached
our box, he was interrogated whether any one had yet called. At last the
desired summons was brought: Shelley drew forth some bank notes, hurried
to the bar, and returned as hastily, bearing in triumph under his arm a
mahogany box, followed by the officious waiter, with whose assistance he
placed it upon the bench by his side. He viewed it often with evident
satisfaction, and sometimes patted it affectionately in the course of
calm conversation. The solar microscope was always a favourite plaything
or instrument of scientific inquiry; whenever he entered a house his
first care was to choose some window of a southern aspect, and, if
permission could be obtained by prayer or by purchase, strightway to
cut a hole through the shutter to receive it. His regard for his solar
microscope was as lasting as it was strong; for he retained it several
years after this adventure, and long after he had parted with all the
rest of his philosophical apparatus.

Such is the story of the microscope, and no rightly judging person who
hears it will require the further accumulation of proofs of a benevolent
heart; nor can I, perhaps, better close these sketches than with that
impression of the pure and genial beauty of Shelley's nature which this
simple anecdote will bequeath.

[In parting with this very ingenious series of papers, we beg to concur
in the well-expressed wish of the Editor of the _New Monthly Magazine_,
"that their author could be tempted to give the world a complete history
of one whose peculiar and subtle nature he so well comprehends."]

       *       *       *       *       *




THE NATURALIST.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW SPECIES OF BAT.--(VESPERTILIO AUDUBONI.)

(_By Richard Harlan, M.D._)


Of the numerous creatures which attract our admiration, or excite
our fears, the greater part display their appetites, or develope
their instincts, during the day time only; especially--with few
exceptions--all those remarkable for beauty of plumage, and vocal
melody. Predacious animals are chiefly distinguished for their nocturnal
habits; and ideas of rapine, terror and blood, are ever associated with
the tiger, the hyena, and the wolf. Among the feathered tribes, the
_owl_ and the _bat_, also companions of darkness, are shunned
by many, as horrible objects, and full of ill-omen. Haunted castles,
ruined battlements, and noisome caverns, are the chosen abodes of these
noctural maurauders, and it is to such associations that these animals
are indebted for the unamiable character they have obtained. The
prejudices conceived against that portion of these animals, with which
we are familiar, are founded entirely upon these their habits; for small
quadrupeds, reptiles and fish, constitute the food of the first, whilst
insects and fruit suffice for the other. It is at the close of the
day, when the hum of nature is beginning to subside, that the patient
_bat_ steals from his dark retreat, and spreads his leathery
wings in search of his food.

[Illustration]

The new species of this little flying quadruped, which we are now about
to notice, belongs to a very large and respectable family. In the days
of Linnaeus, they all--from their appearance at twilight--went by the
family name of _Vespertilio_. They further belong to the order
_Carnivora_, their teeth being constructed for masticating flesh;
though some--and in this they resemble ourselves--are also fond of
fruit. In one important point, the whole race has a common character, in
their organ of flight. The bones of the fingers are extremely elongated,
and united by a membrane, which is continued down the side of the body;
and extending on the leg as far as the tarsus, also unites the legs and
tail. Agreeing so universally in this particular, they form a very
natural family, under the appropriate term. Cheiroptera, constructed
from two Greek words, signifying _hand and wing_.

The vespertilio are again divided into GENERA and
_Species_,--divisions which are grounded on certain peculiarities
of dental structure, and various developements of the brachial, digital,
and interfemoral appendages, with other modifications of the organs of
progression. These genera include species which are discovered in every
habitable part of the globe, of various magnitudes, from the size of a
half grown cat, to that of a half grown mouse.

Of this numerous family only three genera, of modern authors, inhabit
the United States, viz. RHINOPOMA, VESPERTILIO, and TAPHOZOUS. Seven
species, exclusive of the present, are all that have been hitherto
discovered in North America.

We propose to dedicate this new species, to our valuable friend the
justly celebrated naturalist J.J. AUDUBON, as a small tribute of
respect to his eminent talents, and the highly important services he
has rendered science. The drawing which accompanies this paper, is
from his inimitable pencil.

This species was first observed, during the summer of 1829, when an
individual female flew into the apartment of the late Dr. Hammersly,
then one of the resident physicians of the Pennsylvania hospital: on
the subsequent evening a male individual, of the same species, was
also taken in the same manner. In August 1830, a very fine specimen
was brought to the Academy of Natural Sciences, and Mr. Audubon informs
me that the species has very recently been observed in New York.

The natural characters of the species are--General colour black,
sprinkled with gray above and beneath; ears black and naked; auriculum,
short and broad or obtusely triangular; interfemoral membrane, sparsely
hairy; last joint of the tail free: two incisors, with notched crowns,
on each side of the canine teeth of the upper jaw, with a broad
intervening space without teeth.

The dimensions are.--Total length 3 inches 7 tenths; tail 1.7; length
of ear 0.5. breadth of ear 0.4; length of leg 1.7; spread of wings
10.7. inhabit Pennsylvania and New York, and probably the southern
states.--_Cab. of Acad. Nat. Sc. Philad._ (Abridged from
Featherstonhaugh's _Monthly American Journal of Geology and Natural
Science._)

       *       *       *       *       *




FINE ARTS.

       *       *       *       *       *


MOSAIC PAVEMENT.


The chief object of curiosity at Palestrina, (ancient Praeneste,) is
the castle or palace of the prince, in the highest part of the city, to
which there is an ascent by an excellent coach-road to the right, by
the Capucin Convent, without entering the narrow street. Before it is a
level space of considerable length; which formed the highest platform of
the Temple of Fortune. Two flights of steps lead to an amphitheatre, or
semicular staircase, in excellent preservation, which is the same that
led to the sanctuary of the temple, on the foundation of which the
palace is built: in the middle of the semicircle is a well; each step
is about a foot and a half high, like the ancient steps of the capitol
which led to the church of Ara Coeli, at Rome. Another short flight
conducts to the hall of entrance, where there is a double staircase, and
a recess closed by iron grates, which contains the celebrated antique
pavement, of which Pliny speaks in the following terms, "The fine mosaic
of small stones, placed by Sylla as a pavement in the Temple of Fortune
at Praeneste, was the first thing of the kind seen in Italy." There does
not seem to be the smallest room to doubt of this being the genuine
mosaic he mentions; it is in excellent preservation, and appears to be
about twenty feet by sixteen. It was found in the same cellar of the
seminary, where is still the altar of Fortune, and may be considered as
one of the most interesting relics of antiquity. Towards the upper part
of it are mountains, with <DW64> savages hunting wild beasts; animals of
different sorts, with their names in Greek written below them, such
as the rhinoceros, crocodile, and lynx. Lower down are seen houses of
various forms, temples, vessels of different constructions, particularly
a galley of 32 oars, manned with armed blacks, and commanded by a white
man; a tent with soldiers, a palm tree, flowers, a collation in an
arbour, an altar of Anubis; in short, almost every circumstance
imaginable in life. The scene apparently lies in Egypt. The figures are
well drawn, the light and shadows happily disposed, and the colouring
harmonious. The stones which compose this very curious pavement are
remarkably small which renders the effect peculiarly pleasing, from
the neatness of its appearance.

W.G.C.

       *       *       *       *       *


PANORAMA OF STIRLING.


Stirling, or Strivelin, and its storied environs have furnished Mr.
Burford with a new Panorama, of more than usual interest in its details.
The town is fraught with historical association, and the surrounding
country is of picturesque and poetical character. A Scottish poet
describes its attractions in these enthusiastic lines:

  O! grander far than Windsor's brow!
  And sweeter to the vale below!
  Whar Forth's unrivalled windings flow
              Through varied grain,
  Brightening, I ween wi' glittering glow,
              Strevlina's plain!
  There, raptured trace, (enthroned on hie)
  The landscape stretching on the ee,
  Frae Grampian hills down to the sea--
              A dazzling view--
  Corn, meadow, mansion, water, tree,
              In varying hue.
  There, seated, mark, wi' ardour keen,
  The Skellock bright 'mang corn sae green,
  The purple pea, and speckled bean,
              A fragrant store--
  And vessels sailing, morn and een,
              To Stirling's shore.
  And Shaw park, gilt wi' e'ening's ray:
  And Embro castle, distant grey;
  Wi' Alva screened near Aichil brae,
              'Mang grove and bower!
  And rich Clackmannan rising gay
              Wi' woods and tower.


_Hector Macneill._


Stirling is seated on the river Forth, upon a precipitous basaltic
rock, about one hundred feet from the level of the plain. Upon the rock
stands the Castle, from the outer court of which the present Panorama
was sketched. The town, in external appearance, bears a miniature
resemblance to Edinburgh, being situate like the old town of that
city, on the sloping ridge of a rock, running from east to west, the
precipitous end of which is occupied by the Castle. But, of the town
itself, little is seen in the Panorama. The view, as we have stated, is
from the Castle, and is generally allowed to be one of the finest in
Scotland. Its scenery has many sublime and picturesque features, and
has moreover been the site of some of the most stirring incidents in
Scottish history; no less than twelve fields of battle, including three
important ones fought by the first and second Edwards, being distinctly
visible. Beginning with the Castle, we find, from its situation
commanding the passes and fords between the north and south of Scotland,
it was in early times styled the Key, as Dumbarton was the Lock, to the
Highlands. Its first fortification is referred to the time of Agricola;
the Picts had a strong fortress here, which was totally destroyed in the
ninth century by the Scots, under Kenneth II. Stirling formed part of
the ransom of his brother and successor, who had been taken prisoner by
the Northumbrians; they rebuilt the Castle, but subsequently restored
the place to the Scots. In the twelfth century, it was considered one of
the strongest forts in Scotland. It was often visited by the Scottish
monarchs, but it did not become a royal residence until the accession of
the Stuarts. Here was born James II., and in an apartment now forming
part of the deputy-governor's lodging, this king perpetrated the murder
of Earl Douglas. James III. made it his chief residence, erected the
parliament-house, and a richly-endowed chapel, since destroyed. James V.
was crowned here, and erected the palace. Mary was crowned here, as
was James VI. when thirteenth months old; he was educated here by the
celebrated Buchanan. During the regency of Mary of Lorraine, a strong
battery was erected here; and in the reign of Queen Anne, the
fortifications were strengthened and enlarged. In 1806, the rocky ground
in front was converted into an esplanade; since which the towers have
been repaired and castellated, it being one of the Scottish forts,
which, by the articles of the Union, are always to be kept in repair.
It mounts about 36 guns; but if regularly invested in modern warfare, it
could not hold out many hours. To enumerate its sieges, dismantlings,
and repairs would occupy too much space. Among the most memorable of its
stormy annals, is its siege by Edward II. in 1301, for three months,
when it was battered with stones of two hundred pounds weight each,
thrown by engines, in the formation of which was used all the lead
from the monastery of St. Andrew's. It was last besieged in 1746 by the
Highlanders under Prince Charles. The chief parts of the building seen
in the Panorama are the additions by Queen Anne, the parliament-house,
(though not the unsightly, modern roof,) and the palace, a stately
and curious structure of hewn stone, and embellished with grotesque
sculpture. The latter building forms a quadrangle, the central court of
which is called the lion's den, from the king's lions being formerly
kept there. The whole is now used as barracks. From the Castle, looking
over the town, towards the east, is a vast plain, nearly 40 miles
in extent, called the Carse of Stirling, through which the Firth in
meandering, forms a number of peninsulas, in places approximating so
closely as to have an isthmus of only a few yards, the effect of which
in the picture, reminded us of the contrived intricacies of a child's
puzzle; in this direction is seen Alla, or Alloa, a thriving seaport
town, with a Gothic church, and celebrated for its excellent ale;
Clackmannan, a miserable town, where in a tower lived King Robert Bruce,
and where an old Jacobite lady knighted Burns with a sword which
belonged to Bruce, observing that she had a better right to do so than
_some folk_; Falkirk, known for its _trysts_, or markets, where
the country-people point out a battle-field, and a stream called the
Red Burn, from its running with blood on the day of the conflict; Bruce
lived near this spot, the view from which he said was not surpassed by
any he had seen in his travels: next lies the Firth of Forth, and the
country as far as Edinburgh and the Pentland Hills. Towards the south
stands the ancient village of St. Ninian's, and Bannockburn, the
battleground of the most celebrated and important contest that ever took
place between English and Scots; the Torwood, where till lately stood
a tree said to have sheltered Wallace; and the Carron, bounded by the
green hills of Campsie. Towards the west are the plains of Menteith,
a district, says Chambers, distinguished almost above all the rest of
Scotland, for the singular series of beautiful and romantic scenes which
it presents to the view of the traveller, and bounded by the majestic
Grampians. On the north are the famous ruins of Cambuskenneth, and the
precipitous Abbey Craig, beyond which lies the richly-cultivated vale of
Devon; the moor on which the battle of Dumblain was fought; and Ochill
Hills, clothed with blooming heath, and overtopped by the summits of
Perthshire. Such is the artist's outline of the prospect: our task shall
be to select a few of its most entertaining details.

To return to the Panoramic arrangement: next the castle is Gowlan Hill,
the ordinary place of execution in times of wicked bloodshed, and thus
apostrophized by Douglas, in the _Lady of the Lake_:

  And thou O sad and fatal mound!
  That oft hast heard the death-axe sound,
  As on the noblest of the land,
  Fell the stern headsman's bloody hand.


The hill has, however, less terrible association; it being after called
Hurly Hacket, from James V. and his nobles there playing at that game,
which consisted in sliding down the steep banks on an inverted cutty
stool. This was, at least, more rational than cutting off heads. Next is
Abbey Craig, a rock upon which Wallace defeated the English; Dollava, a
village on a gloomy rock, almost insulated by two streams, whose Celtic
names signify the glens of care and the burns of sorrow; Tillabody, the
birthplace and property of Sir Ralph Abercrombie; the crumbling walls
and bell tower of Cambuskenneth Abbey, wherein several parliaments were
held, and at whose high altar the clergy and nobles swore fealty to
Robert and David Bruce; Edinburgh, with its castle, thirty-eight miles
from Stirling, whence it is discernable in clear weather; the Carron
Iron-works; and the Carron, of more classic celebrity in Ossian, and the
battles of the Romans and the Scots and Picts; the dome-shaped hill of
Tinto, in Lanarkshire, 60 miles from Stirling, and 2,336 feet in height;
Arthur's Hill, a circular mound of earth, surrounded by seats of turf
in the royal gardens, sometimes called the king's knot, where the court
held fetes, and where James used to amuse himself with the pastime
called the Knights of the Round Table; Ben Lomond, 3,240 feet above the
lake, which is 32 feet above the level of the sea; Ben Venue, and Ben
Ledy, or the hill of God, in Perthshire, 3,009 feet in height, so called
from the inhabitants of the surrounding villages, in former times,
meeting on its summit at the summer solstice, three days and nights for
the purpose of devotion. These three mountains, with their vicinities
are enshrined in Sir Walter Scott's _Lady of the Lake_; and the
village of Balquidder, at the foot of Ben Ledy, is the burial place of
Rob Roy. We have just described the circle: over the garden wall of
the Castle, at a considerable distance, is the well-wooded estate and
mansion of Craig Forth, said to have once belonged to a blacksmith of
Stirling: this man having placed the iron bars (which still remain to
the windows of the palace), and done other work for James VI. when that
monarch came to the throne of England, made a demand of one thousand
pounds Scots,--but by some error, the accounts being paid in Stirling
money, he with it purchased the estate and built the house of Craig
Forth. Next, to the right is Blair Drummond, formerly the residence of
the accomplished Lord Kaimes; and beyond are the celebrated ruins of
Donne Castle; not the least interesting incident of its annals was the
imprisonment there in 1745, of John Home, (the author of Douglas,)
who has left a narrative of his clambering escape over the high walls.

It is time to speak of the Panorama as a work of art; for hitherto we
have rather considered its intellectual interest. The Castle and Palace
we take to be finely painted, with admirable picturesque effect: the
huge gateway, flanked with two towers, the battlemented walls, and
battery, are in fine bold relief, as is the clinging vegetation about
the building; nor must we omit the grotesque figures or corbelled
pedestals, and the identical window bars, the work of the wily Scot
of Craig Forth; the latter especially, are clever. A portion of the
esplanade otherwise devoid of interest, is peopled with a meeting of the
Highland Society celebrating the feats of the ancient Caledonians, the
object of the Society being to preserve their language, costume, music,
gymnastic sports, and martial games. This introduction happily fills up
what would otherwise have been the only void in the scene, so thickly
is it studed and storied with objects and recollections. Altogether, we
have rarely seen a topographical panorama of such diversified character:
it has reminiscences of history and poetry to lead us through the
retrospect of chivalrous ages, princely contests for crowns that rarely
sat lightly on their wearers, and the last flickering hopes of defeated
ambition and ill-starred fortune. Yet, how powerfully, not to say
painfully, are these pages in the chronicles of human actions, when
contrasted with the broad volume of nature, as spread before us in this
picture. Alas! what is the majesty of the mightiest of the kings that
dwelt in its palace in comparison with the sublimities of Tinto, Ben
Lomond, Venue, or Ledy; or what the peace of their halls amidst the
smiling expanse of the Carse of Stirling in all its quiet luxuriance.
They and their houses have become dust or crumbling ruin, and death has
with a little pin bored through their castle walls--while Nature has
been flourishing from year to year, and reading man an epitome of
existence in the succession of her changes.

It has been stated that Mr. Burford, the successful painter of Stirling,
is engaged on a Panorama of the Falls of Niagara. All admirers of this
style of painting must be anxious for his success.

       *       *       *       *       *


SIR WALTER SCOTT.


Mr. Parker has issued in addition to the Medal already noticed in
our pages, a _Medallion_ of the lamented Poet and Novelist, from
Chantrey's bust. It is, we think, the obverse of the Medal, with bronzed
circular frame work bearing the motto suggested by Sir Walter. Though
handsome, it is an economical memorial of one whose amiable talents must
endear him to every fireside in the kingdom.

       *       *       *       *       *




NEW BOOKS.

       *       *       *       *       *


POMPEII.


[The second and concluding volume of the descriptive history of
Pompeii, in the _Library of Entertaining Knowledge_, is still more
attractive than its predecessor. It contains the very domestic economy
of the ancient inhabitants--chapters on domestic architecture, paintings
and mosaics, streets and fountains, private houses, villas, and tombs;
and, moreover, on the art of baking, and the forms of domestic utensils.
We are, therefore, led through hall, parlour, bath, kitchen, and shop,
with amusing minuteness; and, in the account of furniture and domestic
implements, it is curious to observe, how far we are indebted to the
ancients for the forms of similar contrivances now in use. One of the
best passages in this portion of the work is the following, on the]

_Lamps and Candelabra._

No articles of ancient manufacture are more common than lamps. They are
found in every variety of form and size, in clay and in metal, from the
most cheap to the most costly description. We have the testimony of
the celebrated antiquary Winkelmann to the interest of this subject:
"I place among the most curious utensils, found at Herculaneum, the
lamps, in which the ancients sought to display elegance, and even
magnificence. Lamps of every sort will be found in the museum at
Portici, both in clay and bronze, but especially the latter; and as
the ornaments of the ancients have generally some reference to some
particular things, we often meet with rather remarkable subjects."
A considerable number of these articles will be found in the British
Museum, but they are chiefly of the commoner sort. All the works,
however, descriptive of Herculaneum and Pompeii, present us with
specimens of the richer and more remarkable class, which attract
admiration both by the beauty of the workmanship, and the whimsical
variety of their designs. We may enumerate a few which occur in a work
now before us, "Antiquites d'Herculanum," in which we find a Silenus,
with the usual peculiarities of figure ascribed to the jolly god rather
exaggerated, and an owl sitting upon his head between two huge horns,
which support stands for lamps. Another represents a flower-stalk,
growing out of a circular plinth, with snail-shells hanging from it by
small chains, which held the oil and wick. The trunk of a tree, with
lamps suspended between the branches. Another, a naked boy, beautifully
wrought, with a lamp hanging from one hand, and an instrument for
trimming it from the other, the lamp itself representing a theatrical
mask. Beside him is a twisted column, surmounted by the head of a Faun,
or Bacchanal, which has a lid in its crown, and seems intended as a
reservoir of oil. The boy and pillar are both placed on a square
plateau, raised upon lions' claws. But, beautiful as those lamps are,
the light which they gave must have been weak and unsteady, and little
superior to that of common street-lamps, with which indeed they are
identical in principle. The wick was merely a few twisted threads, drawn
through a hole in the upper surface of the oil-vessel; and there was no
glass to steady the light, and prevent its varying with every breeze
that blew.

Still, though the Romans had not advanced so far in art as to apply
glass-chimneys and hollow circular wicks to their lamps, they had
experienced the inconvenience of going home at night through a city
ill-paved, ill-watched, and ill-lighted, and, accordingly, soon invented
lanterns to meet the want. These we learn from Martial, who has several
epigrams upon this subject, were made of horn or bladder;--no mention,
we believe, occurs, of glass being thus employed. The rich were preceded
by a slave bearing their lantern. This, Cicero mentions, as being the
habit of Catiline upon his midnight expeditions; and when M. Antony was
accused of a disgraceful intrigue, his lantern-bearer was tortured, to
extort a confession whither he had conducted his master.[4] One of these
machines, of considerable ingenuity and beauty of workmanship, was found
in Herculaneum in 1760, and another, almost exactly the same, at
Pompeii, a few years after.

One of the most elegant articles of furniture in ancient use was the
candelabrum, by which we mean those tall and slender stands which served
to support a lamp, but were independent of and unconnected with it.
These, in their original and simple form, were probably mere reeds, or
straight sticks, fixed upon a foot by peasants, to raise their light
to a convenient height; at least, such a theory of their origin is
agreeable to what we are told of the rustic manners of the early Romans,
and it is in some degree countenanced by the fashion in which many of
the ancient candelabra are made. Sometimes the stem is represented as
throwing out buds; sometimes it is a stick, the side branches of which
have been roughly lopped, leaving projections where they grew; sometimes
it is in the likeness of a reed or cane, the stalk being divided into
joints. Most of those which have been found in the buried cities are of
bronze; some few of iron. In their general plan and appearance there
is a great resemblance, though the details of the ornaments admit of
infinite variety. All stand on three feet, usually griffins', or lions'
claws, which support a light shaft, plain or fluted according to the
fancy of the maker. The whole supports either a plinth large enough for
a lamp to stand on, or a socket to receive a wax-candle, which the
Romans used sometimes instead of oil in lighting their rooms. Some of
them have a sliding shaft, like that of a music-stand, by which the
light might be raised or lowered at pleasure.

We may here say a few words on the art of inlaying one metal with
another, in which, as in all ornamental branches of the working of
metals, the ancient Italians possessed great skill. In the time of
Seneca, ornaments of silver were seldom seen, unless their price was
enhanced by being inlaid with solid gold. The art of uniting one metal
to another was called by the general term _ferruminare_. Inlaid
work was of two sorts; in the one, the inlaid work projected above the
surface, and was called _emblemata_, as the art itself was called,
from the Greek, _embletice_. It is inferred, from the inspection of
numerous embossed vases in the Neapolitan Museum, that this embossed
work was formed, either by plating with a thin leaf of metal figures
already raised upon the surface of the article, or by letting the solid
figures into the substance of the vessel, and finishing them with
delicate tools after they were attached. In the second sort, the inlaid
work was even with the surface, and was called _crusta_, and the
art was called, from the Greek, _empaestice_. This is the same as
the damask work so fashionable in the armour of the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries, which is often seen beautifully inlaid with gold.
It was executed by engraving the pattern upon the surface of the metal,
and filling up the lines with fine plates of a different metal; the two
were then united with the assistance of heat, and the whole burnished.
Pliny has preserved a receipt for solder, which probably was used in
these works. It is called santerna; and the principal ingredients are
borax, nitre, and copperas, pounded, with a small quantity of gold and
silver, in a copper mortar.

[The volume is enriched with four steel-plate engravings, and 154 cuts,
of clever execution.]

    [4] Val. Max. vi. 8.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE WONDERS OF THE LANE.


  Strong climber of the mountain's side,
    Though thou the vale disdain,
  Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide
    The wonders of the lane.
  High o'er the rushy springs of Don
    The stormy gloom is rolled;
  The moorland hath not yet put on
    His purple, green, and gold.
  But here the titling[5] spreads his wing,
    Where dewy daisies gleam;
  And here the sunflower[6] of the spring
    Burns bright in morning's beam.
  To mountain winds the famish'd fox
    Complains that Sol is slow,
  O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
    His royal robe to throw.
  But here the lizard seeks the sun
    Here coils, in light, the snake;
  And here the fire-tuft[7] hath begun
    Its beauteous nest to make.
  Oh! then, while hums the earliest bee
    Where verdure fires the plain,
  Walk thou with me, and stoop to see
    The glories of the lane!
  For, oh! I love these banks of rock,
    This roof of sky and tree,
  These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,
    And wakes the earliest bee!
  As spirits from eternal day
    Look down on earth, secure,
  Look here, and wonder, and survey
    A world in miniature:
  A world not scorned by Him who made
    E'en weakness by his might;
  But solemn in his depth of shade,
    And splendid in his light.
  Light!--not alone on clouds afar,
    O'er storm-loved mountains spread,
  Or widely teaching sun and star,
    Thy glorious thoughts are read;
  Oh, no I thou art a wondrous book
    To sky, and sea, and land--
  A page on which the angels look--
    Which insects understand!
  And here, O light! minutely fair,
    Divinely plain and clear,
  Like splinters of a crystal hair,
    Thy bright small hand is here!
  Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide
    Is Huron, girt with wood;
  This driplet feeds Missouri's tide--
    And that Niagara's flood.
  What tidings from the Andes brings
    Yon line of liquid light,
  That down from heaven in madness flings
    The blind foam of its might?
  Do I not hear his thunder roll--
    The roar that ne'er is still?
  'Tis mute as death!--but in my soul
    It roars, and ever will.
  What forests tall of tiniest moss
  Clothe every little stone!--
  What pigmy oaks their foliage toss
    O'er pigmy valleys lone!
  With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge,
    Ambitious of the sky,
  They feather o'er the steepest edge
    Of mountains mushroom-high.
  Oh, God of marvels! who can tell
    What myriad living things
  On these gray stones unseen may dwell!
    What nations, with their kings!
  I feel no shock, I hear no groan,
    While fate, perchance, o'erwhelms
  Empires on this subverted stone--
    A hundred ruined realms!
  Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,
    Impelled by woe or whim,
  May crawl, some atom's cliffs to see--
    A tiny world to him!
  Lo! while he pauses, and admires
    The works of nature's might,
  Spurned by my foot, his world expires,
    And all to him is night!
  Oh, God of terrors! what are we?--
    Poor insects sparked with thought!
  Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee,
    Could smite us into naught!
  But should'st thou wreck our father-land,
    And mix it with the deep,
  Safe in the hollow of thy hand
    Thy little one will sleep.

_Amulet._


    [5] The hedge-sparrow.

    [6] The dandelion.

    [7] The golden-crested wren.

       *       *       *       *       *




RETROSPECTIVE GLEANINGS.

       *       *       *       *       *


POVERTY.


Owen Feltham says--"The poverty of a poor man is the least part of his
misery. In all the storms of fortune, he is the first that must stand
the shock of extremity. Poor men are perpetual sentinels, watching in
the depth of night against the incessant assaults of want; while the
rich lie strowd in secure reposes, and compassed with a large abundance.
If the land be ruffetted with a bloodless famine, are not the poor the
first that sacrifice their lives to hunger? If war thunders in the
trembling country's lap, are not the poor those that are exposed to the
enemy's sword and outrage? If the plague, like a loaded sponge, flies,
sprinkling poison through a populous kingdom, the poor are the fruit
that are shaken from the burdened tree; while the rich, furnished with
the helps of fortune, have means to wind out themselves, and turn these
sad indurances on the poor, that cannot avoid them. Like salt-marshes,
that lie low, they are sure, whenever the sea of this world rages, to be
first under, and embarrened with a fretting care. Who like the poor are
harrowed with oppression, ever subject to the imperious taxes, and the
gripes of mightiness? Continual care checks the spirit; continual labour
checks the body; and continual insultation both. He is like one rolled
in a vessel full of pikes--which way soever he turns, he something finds
that pricks him. Yet, besides all these, there is another transcendent
misery--and this is, that maketh men contemptible. As if the poor man
were but fortune's dwarf, made lower than the rest of men, to be laughed
at. The philosopher (though he were the same mind and the same man), in
his squalid rags, could not find admission, when better robes procured
both an open door and reverence. Though outward things can add nothing
to our essential worth, yet, when we are judged on, by the help of
others' outward senses, they much conduce to our value or disesteem.
A diamond set in brass would be taken for a crystal, though it be not
so; whereas a crystal set in gold will by many be thought a diamond.
A poor man wise shall be thought a fool, though he have nothing to
condemn him but his being poor. Poverty is a gulf, wherein all good
parts are swallowed;--it is a reproach, which clouds the lustre of the
purest virtue. Certainly, extreme poverty is worse than abundance. We
may be good in plenty, if we will; in biting penury we cannot, though we
would. In one, the danger is casual; in the other, it is necessitating.
The best is that which partakes of both, and consists of neither.
He that hath too little wants feathers to fly withal; he that hath too
much, is but cumbered with too large a tail. If a flood of wealth could
profit us, it would be good to swim in such a sea; but it can neither
lengthen our lives, nor inrich us after the end. There is not in the
world such another object of pity as the pinched state; which no man
being secured from, I wonder at the tyrant's braves and contempt.
Questionless, I will rather with charity help him that is miserable, as
I may be, than despise him that is poor, as I would not be. They have
flinty and steeled hearts that can add calamities to him that is already
but one entire mass."

W.G.C.

       *       *       *       *       *


ACCOUNT OF THE IRISH MANTLE.


Edmund Spencer (the English poet) in his _View of the State of
Ireland_, says--"First the outlaw, being for his many crimes and
villanies banished from the towns and houses of honest men, and
wandering in waste places, far from danger of law, maketh his
_mantle_ his house, and under it covereth himself from the wrath of
heaven, from the offence of the earth, and from the sight of men. When
it raineth, it is his pent-house; when it bloweth, it is his tent; when
it freezeth, it is his tabernacle. In summer he can wear it loose; in
winter he can wrap it close; at all times he can use it--never heavy,
never cumbersome. Likewise for a rebel it is as serviceable; for in his
warre that he maketh, (if at least it deserve the name of warre), when
he still flyeth from his foe, and lurketh in the thick woods and strait
passages, waiting for advantages, it is his bed, yea, and almost his
household stuff; for the wood is his house against all weathers, and his
mantle is his couch to sleep in. Therein he wrappeth himselfe round, and
coucheth himself strongly against the gnats, which in that country doe
more annoye the naked rebells, whilst they keepe the woods, and doe more
sharply wound them than all their enemies' swords, or spears, which can
seldome come nigh them; yea, and oftentimes their mantle serveth them,
when they are neare driven, being wrapped about their left arme, instead
of a target, for it is hard to cut through with a sword; besides, it is
light to bear, light to throw away, and being (as they commonly are)
naked, it is to them all in all. Lastly, for a thiefe it is so handsome,
as it may seem it was first invented for him; for under it he may
cleanly convey any fit pillage that cometh handsomely in his way, and
when he goeth abroad in the night free-booting, it is his best and
surest friend; for lying, as they often doe, two or three nights
together abroad, to watch for their booty, with that they can prettily
shroud themselves under a bush, or bankside, till they may conveniently
do their errand; and when all is over, he can, in his mantle, passe
through any town or company, being close hooded over his head, as he
useth, from knowledge of any to whom he is endangered. Besides this,
he, or any man els that is disposed to mischiefe or villany, may under
his mantle goe privily armed, without suspicion of any, carry his
head-piece, his skean, or pistol, if he please, to be always in
readinesse."

Spencer traces these mantles from the Scythians. He says--"The Irish
have from the Scythians _mantles_ and long _glibs_, which is a
thick curled bush of hair, hanging down over their eyes, and monstrously
disguising theme."

This curious _View of the State of Ireland_ remained in manuscript
till it was printed, in 1633, by Sir James Ware, denominated "the Camden
of Ireland."

P.T.W.

       *       *       *       *       *




DOMESTIC HINTS.

       *       *       *       *       *


CONSUMPTION OF FISH.


There is but little fish consumed in the interior of Great Britain; and
even in most seaport towns the consumption is not very great. In London,
indeed, immense quantities of fish are annually made use of; and there
can be little doubt that the consumption would be much greater, were it
not for the abuses in the trade, which render the supply comparatively
scarce, and, in most instances, exceedingly dear. All fish brought to
London is sold in Billingsgate market; and, in consequence of this
restriction, the salesmen of that market have succeeded in establishing
what is really equivalent to a monopoly, and are in a great measure
enabled to regulate both the supply and the price.--_Macculloch._

This inconsiderable consumption of fish will be a matter of surprise,
when we see that the supply of fish in the seas round Britain is most
abundant, or rather quite inexhaustible. "The coasts of Great Britain,"
says Sir John Boroughs, "doe yield such a continued harvest of gain and
benefit to all those that with diligence doe labour in the same, that no
time or season of the yeare passeth away without some apparent meanes
of profitable employment, especially to such as apply themselves to
fishing; which, from the beginning of the year unto the latter end,
continueth upon some part or other of our coastes; and there in such
infinite shoals and multitudes of fishes are offered to the takers as
may justly cause admiration, not only to strangers, but to those that
daily are employed amongst them."--"That this harvest," says Mr. Barrow,
"ripe for gathering at all seasons of the year,--without the labour of
tillage--without expense of seed or manure--without the payment of rent
or taxes--is inexhaustible, the extraordinary fecundity of the most
valuable kinds of fish would alone afford abundant proof. To enumerate
the thousands, and even millions of eggs which are impregnated in the
herring, the cod, the ling, and, indeed, in almost the whole of the
esculent fish, would give but an inadequate idea of the prodigious
multitudes in which they flock to our shores. The shoals themselves
must be seen, in order to convey to the mind any just notice of their
aggregate mass." Mr. Macculloch, however, observes, that "notwithstanding
this immense abundance of fish, and notwithstanding the bounties that
have been given by the legislature to the individuals engaged in the
fishery, it has not been profitable to those by whom it has been carried
on, nor has it made that progress which might have been expected."

       *       *       *       *       *


NANKEEN.


Nankeen, or Nanking, takes its name from Nanking in China, where the
reddish-yellow thread of which the stuff is made was originally spun.
In England, we erroneously apply the term Nankeen to one colour; though,
in the East Indies, vast quantities of white, pink, and yellow nankeens
are made.

       *       *       *       *       *


WHITE PEPPER.


The relative value of black and white pepper is but imperfectly
understood. The former is decidedly the best. It grows in long, small
clusters of from 20 to 50 grains. When ripe, it is of a bright red
colour. After being gathered, it is spread on mats in the sun, when it
loses its red colour, and becomes black and shrivelled as we see it.
White pepper is of two sorts, common and genuine. The former is made by
blanching the grains of the common black pepper, by steeping them for a
while in water, and then gently rubbing them, so as to remove the dark
outer coat. It is milder than the other, and much prized by the Chinese,
but very little is imported into England. _Genuine_ white pepper is
merely the blighted or imperfect grains picked from among the heaps of
black pepper. It is, of course, very inferior.

From the Singapore Chronicle we learn, that the average annual quantity
of pepper obtained from different countries is 46,066,666 lbs,
avoirdupois.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE GATHERER.

       *       *       *       *       *


_How to acquire Knowledge._--Edmund Stone, the celebrated
mathematician, was a native of Scotland, and the son of the Duke of
Argyle's gardener. Before he attained the age of eighteen years, he
had acquired a knowledge of geometry, &c., without a master. When he
was asked by the Duke of Argyle how he had gained this knowledge, he
replied, "I first learned to read; and the masons being at work on your
house, I saw that the architect used a rule and compasses, and that he
made calculations. Upon inquiring into the uses of these things, I was
informed there was a science named arithmetic. I purchased a book of
arithmetic, and I learned it. I was told there was another science
called geometry, and I learned that also. Finding that there were good
books on these two sciences in Latin, I bought a dictionary, and learned
Latin. I also understood there were good books of the same kind in
French, and I learned French. This, my lord, is what I have done; and
it seems to me that we may learn anything when we know the twenty-four
letters of the alphabet." The Duke, pleased with this simple answer,
drew Stone out of obscurity, and provided for him an employment which
allowed of his favourite pursuit.

P.T.W.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Duelling._--The students of the Berlin University lately
introduced a new mode of duelling. In order that chances might be equal
on both sides, the combatants went to the bed of a man attacked with
cholera, and kissed him. Neither of the parties having experienced the
least symptom of the epidemic during the next twenty-four hours, the
seconds declared that the two adversaries had satisfied the laws of
honour, and the affair was consequently settled.--SWAINE. (We take this
piece of irony to be well applied.)

       *       *       *       *       *

_Popes._--His Highness Leo. XII., the present Pope's predecessor,
was, according to the visual mode of reckoning, the two hundred and
fifty-second since Peter the Apostle. Of these 208 were natives of
Italy, 14 were Frenchmen, 11 Greeks, 8 Syrians and Dalmatians, 5
Germans, 3 Spaniards, 2 North Africans, and 1 Englishman.

W.G.C.

       *       *       *       *       *


In the churchyard of Arthuret, a village in Cumberland, are interred,
the remains of poor Archy Armstrong, jester or fool to Charles I.; and
by an accident suitable to his profession, the day of his funeral was
the first of April.

SWAINE.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Imperial Extravagance._--Asses' milk is said to be a great
beautifier and preserver of the skin. Poppaea, wife of the Emperor Nero,
used it for that purpose, having four or five hundred asses constantly
in her retinue, to furnish her every morning with a fresh bath.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANNUALS FOR 1833.

With the present Number, a SUPPLEMENT,

CONTAINING THE

Spirit of the Annuals for 1833:

With a large Engraving, and Three Comic Cuts.


  St. Goar                                      _Picturesque Annual._
  The Enchantress                               _Book of Beauty._
  The Flybekins                                 _Comic Offering._
  What's in a Name?                             _Ditto ditto._
  Song, by Miss Mitford                         _Ditto ditto._
  History of the Holy Cross, by Lord Mahon      _Amulet._
  Trials of Grace Huntley, by Mrs. S.C. Hall    _Ditto._
  The Armada                                    _Friendship's Offering._
  The Tornado                                   _Ditto  ditto._

       *       *       *       *       *

_Printed and published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset
House,) London; sold by G.G. BENNIS, 55, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris;
CHARLES JUGEL, Francfort; and by all Newsmen and Booksellers._



***