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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 10, Issue 267, August 4, 1827 by Various

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VOL. 10, No. 267.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1827. [PRICE 2d.

* * * * *



Hadley, Mankin, or Monkton, Hadley, was formerly a hamlet to Edmonton.
It lies north-west of Enfield, and comprises 580 acres, including 240
allotted in lieu of the common enclosure of Enfield Chase. Its name is
compounded of two Saxon words--Head-leagh, or a high place; Mankin is
probably derived from the connexion of the place with the abbey of
Walden, to which it was given by Geoffrey de Mandeville, earl of Essex,
under the name of the Hermitage of Hadley. The village is situated on
the east side of the great north road, eleven miles from London.

The manor belonged to the Mandevilles, the founder of the Hermitage, and
was given by Geoffrey to the monks of Walden; in the ensuing two
centuries the manorial property underwent various transmissions, and was
purchased by the Pinney family, in the year 1791, by the present
proprietor, Peter Moore, Esq.

The house of the late David Garrow, father to the present judge of that
name in the court of exchequer, is supposed to have been connected with
a monastic establishment. Chimney-pieces remain in _alto-relievo_: on
one is sculptured the story of Sampson; the other represents many
passages in the life of our Saviour, from his birth in the stall to his
death on the cross.

The parish church, of which our engraving gives a correct view, is a
handsome structure, built at different periods. The chancel bears marks
of great antiquity, but the body has been built with bricks. At the west
end is a square tower, composed of flint, with quoins of freestone; on
one side is the date Anno Domini 1393, cut in stone--one side of the
stone bearing date in the sculptured device of a wing; the other that of
a rose. The figures denote the year 1494; the last, like the second
numerical, being the _half eight_, often used in ancient inscriptions.
The unique vestige of the middle ages, namely, a firepan, or pitchpot,
on the south-west tower of the church, was blown down in January, 1779
and carefully repaired, though now not required for the purpose of
giving an alarm at the approach of a foe, by lighting pitch within it.
The church has been supposed to have been erected by Edward IV. as a
chapel for religious service, to the memory of those who fell in the
battle of Barnet in 1471.

On the window of the north transcept are some remains of painted glass,
among which may be noticed the rebus of the Gooders, a family of
considerable consequence at Hadley in the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries. This consists of a partridge with an ear of wheat in its
bill; on an annexed scroll is the word Gooder; on the capital of one of
the pillars are two partridges with ears of corn in the mouth, an
evident repetition of the same punning device, and it is probable the
Gooder's were considerable benefactors towards building the church.

The almshouses for six decayed housekeepers were founded by Sir Roger
Willbraham in 1616, but so slenderly endowed that they do not produce
more than 9l.6s. annually. Major Delafonte, in 1762, increased the
annuity, which expired in 1805; but Mr. Cottrell gained by subscription
2375l. in trust. The father of the late Mr. Whitbread, the statesman,
subscribed the sum of 1000l. for the support of the almshouses. The
charity-school for girls was established in 1773, and was enlarged and
converted into a school of industry in 1800. Twenty girls in the
establishment receive annually the sum of 1l. towards clothing; thirty
girls besides the above are admitted to the benefit of education, on
paying the weekly sum of 2d. and succeed to the vacancies which occur in
the class more largely assisted. This charity is in like manner
supported by contributions on the inhabitants. The boys' school,
supported in the same way, which in 1804 amounted to the sum of 103l.
10s., has about seventy day-scholars; twenty are allowed 1l. towards
clothing, and instructed without any charge; the remainder pay
2d. weekly.

* * * * *



* * * * *


Wolsey, they tell us, was a butcher. An alliterative couplet too was
made upon him to that import:--

"By butchers born, by bishops bred,
How high his honour holds his haughty head."

Notwithstanding which, however, and other similar allusions, there have
arisen many disputes touching the veracity of the assertion; yet,
doubtless, those who first promulgated the idea, were keen observers of
men and manners; and, probably, in the critical examination of the
Cardinal's character, discovered a particular trait which indubitably
satisfied them of his origin.

Be this as it may, I am inclined to think there is certainly something
peculiarly characteristic in the butcher.

The pursuit of his calling appears to have an influence upon his
manners, speech, and dress. Of all the days in the week, Saturday is the
choicest for seeing him to the best advantage. His hatless head, shining
with grease, his cheeks as ruddy as his mutton-chops, his sky-blue frock
and dark-blue apron, his dangling steel and sharp-set knife, which ever
and anon play an accompaniment to his quick, short--"Buy! buy!" are all
in good keeping with the surrounding objects. And although this be not
_killing_ day with him, he is particularly winning and gracious with the
serving-maids; who (whirling the large street-door key about their right
thumb, and swinging their marketing basket in their left hand) view the
well-displayed joints, undecided which to select, until Mr. Butcher
recommends a leg or a loin; and then he so very politely cuts off the
fat, in which his skilful hand is guided by the high or low price of
mutton fat in the market. He is the very antipode of a fop, yet no man
knows how to show a handsome _leg_ off to better advantage, or is
prouder of his _calves_.

In his noviciate, when he shoulders the shallow tray, and whistles
cavalierly on his way in his sausage-meat-complexioned-jacket, there is
something marked as well in his character as his _habits_, he is never
_moved_ to stay, except by a brother butcher, or a fight of dogs or
boys, for such scenes fit his singular fancy. Then, in the discussion of
his bull-dog's beauties, he becomes extraordinarily eloquent. Hatiz, the
Persian, could not more warmly, or with choicer figure, describe his
mistress' charms, than he does Lion's, or Fowler's, or whatever the
brute's Christian name may be; and yet the surly, cynical, _dogged_
expression of the bepraised beast, would almost make one imagine he
understood the meaning of his master's words, and that his honest nature
despised the flattering encomiums he passes upon his pink belly and
legs, his broad chest, his ring-tail, and his tulip ears!--_Absurdities,
in Prose and Verse._

* * * * *


(_For the Mirror._)

The day was dark, the markets dull,
The Change was thin, Gazettes were full,
And half the town was breaking;
The _counter-sign_ of Cash was "_Stop_!"
Bankers and bankrupts shut up shop,
And honest hearts were aching.

When near the Bench my fancy spied
A faded form, with hasty stride,
Beneath Grief's burden stooping:
Her name was CREDIT, and she said
Her father, TRADE, was lately dead,
Her mother, COMMERCE, drooping.

The smile that she was wont to wear
Was wither'd by the hand of care,
Her eyes had lost their lustre:
Her character was gone, she said,
For she had basely been betray'd,
And nobody would trust her.

For honest INDUSTRY had tried
To gain fair CREDIT for his bride,
And found the damsel willing,
But, ah! a _fortune-hunter_ came,
And SPECULATION was his name,
A rake not worth a shilling.

The villain came, on mischief bent,
And soon gain'd dad and mam's consent--
Ah! then poor CREDIT smarted;--
He filch'd her fortune and her fame,
He fix'd a blot upon her name,
And left her broken-hearted.

While thus poor CREDIT seem'd to sigh,
Her cousin, CONFIDENCE, came by--
(Methinks he must be clever)--
For, when he whisper'd in her ear,
She check'd the sigh, she dried the tear.
And smiled as sweet as ever!


* * * * *


(_For the Mirror._)

When the famous Cornelia, daughter of the great Scipio, was importuned
by a lady of her acquaintance to show her toilette, she deferred
satisfying her curiosity till her children, who were the famous Gracchi,
came from school, and then said, "_En! haec ornamenta mea
sunt._"--"These are my ornaments."

Cyneas, the minister of Pyrrhus, asked the king (before their expedition
into Italy) what he proposed to do when he had subdued the Romans? He
answered, "Pass into Sicily." "What then?" said the minister. "Conquer
the Carthaginians," replied the king. "And what follows that?" says the
minister. "Be sovereign of Greece, and then enjoy ourselves," said the
king. "And why," replied the sensible minister, "can we not do this
_last_ now?"

The emperors Nerva, Trajan, Antoninous, and Aurelius sold their palaces,
their gold and silver plate, their valuable furniture, and other
superfluities, heaped up by their predecessors, and banished from their
tables all expensive delicacies. These princes, together with Vespasian,
Pertinax, Alexander, Severus, Claudius the Second, and Tacitus, who were
raised to the empire by their merit, and whom all ages have admired as
the greatest and the best of princes, were always fond of the greatest
plainness in their apparel, furniture, and outward appearance.

Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, who lived unknown and disgraced in
Spain, was scarcely able to obtain an audience of his master Charles V.;
and when the king asked who was the fellow that was so clamorous to
speak to him, he cried out, "I am one who have got your majesty more
provinces than your father left towns."

Camoens, the famous Portuguese poet, was unfortunately shipwrecked at
the mouth of the river Meco, on the coast of Camboja, and lost his whole
property; however, he saved his life and his poems, which he bore
through the waves in one hand, whilst he swam ashore with the other. It
is said, that his black servant, a native of Java, who had been his
companion for many years, begged in the Streets of Lisbon for the
support of his master, who died in 1579. His death, it is supposed, was
accelerated by the anguish with which he foresaw the ruin impending over
his country. In one of his letters he uses these remarkable expressions:
"I am ending the course of my life; the world will witness how I have
loved my country. I have returned not only to die in her bosom, but to
die with her."

Henrietta, daughter of Henry IV. of France, and wife of Charles I. of
England, was reduced to the utmost poverty; and her daughter, afterwards
married to a brother of Louis XIV., is said to have lain in bed for want
of coals to keep her warm. Pennant relates a melancholy fact of fallen
majesty in the person of Mary d'Este, the unhappy queen of James II.,
who, flying with her infant prince from the ruin impending over their
house, after crossing the Thames from abdicated Whitehall, took shelter
beneath the ancient walls of Lambeth church a whole hour, from the rain
of the inclement night of December 6th, 1688. Here she waited with
aggravated misery till a common coach, procured from the next inn,
arrived, and conveyed her to Gravesend, from whence she sailed, and bid
adieu to this kingdom.

Pascal, one of the greatest geniuses and best men that ever lived,
entertained a notion that God made men miserable here in order to their
being happy hereafter; and in consequence of this notion, he imposed
upon himself the most painful mortification. He even ordered a wall to
be built before a window in his study, which afforded him too agreeable
a prospect. He had also a girdle full of sharp points next his skin; and
while he was eating or drinking any thing that was grateful to his
palate, he was constantly pricking himself, that he might not be
sensible of any pleasure. The virtuous Fenelon submitted without reserve
to the arbitrary sentence of the pope, when he condemned a book which he
had published, and even preached in condemnation of his own book,
forbidding his friends to defend it. "What gross and humiliating
superstitions (says their biographer) have been manifested by men, in
other respects of sound and clear understandings, and of upright,
honest hearts."

In the churchyard of St. Ann's, Soho, says Pennant, is a marble, erected
near the grave of that remarkable personage, Theodore Antony Newhoff,
king of Corsica, who died in this parish in 1756, immediately after
leaving the king's-bench prison, by the benefit of the act of
insolvency. The marble was erected, and the epitaph written, by the
honourable Horace Walpole:--

"The grave, great teacher, to a level brings
Heroes and beggars, galley-slaves and kings;
But Theodore this moral learn'd ere dead--
Fate pour'd its lesson on his living head,
Bestow'd a kingdom, and denied him bread."

He registered his kingdom of Corsica for the use of his creditors. His
biographer says, "He was a man whose claim to royalty was as
indisputable as the most ancient titles to any monarchy can pretend to
be; that is, the choice of his subjects, the voluntary election of an
injured people, who had the common right of mankind to freedom, and the
uncommon resolution of determining to be free."


* * * * *


(_To the Editor of the Mirror._)

Sir,--I have taken the liberty of transmitting to you a piece of a Latin
ode, which appears to me to be the original of the song--"The lily bells
are wet with dew," in Miss Mitford's "Dramatic Scenes," which appeared
in your miscellany of June 23, 1827.

It is copied from an old book published in the year 1697, by Charles
Elford, entitled "Gemmae Poetarum."

If you think it worthy insertion, I should feel obliged by its
appearance. Yours respectfully,


Lilia rorescuut, jubara osculo blande rosarum
Florem tangunt--ô, dives odore,
O, splendens tinctû floretum--est ...
Surge Feronia, et sertum texe
Cæsariem nunc implectare tuum coracinum
Ne æstu medio sol flores abripiat.
In coelo tenuis nubes est, lenta susurra
Cum aurâ veniunt--aut imbrem vaticinans
Aut nivem: orire, Feronia, crinem stringere cauté
Sertum age, ne veniat tempestas minitans.

I have translated it thus, which you may perceive is strictly literal:--

The lilies are wet with the dew--the sunbeams with a kiss
gently touch the flower of the roses.--O the garden is rich of
scent--is bright of hue.--Arise Feronia and weave the garland
even now to braid thy ravenlike hair, lest at mid-day the sun
should spoil the flowers.--In the sky there is a little cloud,
gentle whisperings come with the gale--they tell of rain or
snow.--Arise Feronia and carefully weave the garland to bind up
thy hair, lest the threatening storm should come.

* * * * *


(_For the Mirror._)

It has been computed, that all the celestial orbs perceived by the
unassisted eye (which on a clear night never exceed 1,000,) do not form
the 80,000 part of those which may be descried by the help of a
telescope, through which they appear prodigiously increased in number;
seventy stars have been counted in the constellation of the _pleiades_,
and no fewer than 2,000 in that of _Orion_.

The _galaxy_, or _via lactea_, (milky way,) is a remarkable appearance
in the heavens, being a broad ray of whitish colour surrounding the
whole celestial concave, whose light proceeds from vast clusters of
stars, discoverable only by the telescope. Mr. Brydone, in his journey
to the top of Mount Etna, found the phenomenon make a most glorious
appearance, "like a pure flame that shot across the heavens."

Dr. Herschel made many observations on this portion of the heavens,
using a Newtonian reflector of twenty feet focal length, and an aperture
of eighteen inches. With this powerful telescope he completely resolved
the whitish appearance into stars, which the telescopes he had formerly
used had not light enough to do. In the most vacant place to be met with
in that neighbourhood, he found sixty-three stars; other six fields, or
apparent spaces in the heavens, which he could see at once through his
telescope, averaged seventy-nine stars in each field: thus he found that
by allowing 15 min. of a deg. for the diameter of his field of view, a
belt of 15 deg. long, and 2 deg. broad, which he had often seen pass
before his telescope in an hour's time could not contain less than
50,000 stars, large enough to be distinctly numbered, besides which he
suspected twice as many more, which could be seen only now and then by
faint glimpses, for want of sufficient light. In the most crowded part
of that region he informs us, he has had fields of view which contained
no less than 588 stars, and these were continued for many minutes, so
that in one quarter of an hour's time there passed no less than 116,000
stars. He also intimates the probability of the sun being placed in this
great stratum, though perhaps not in the very centre of its thickness.

From the appearance of the galaxy it seems to encompass the whole
heavens, as it certainly must if the sun be within the same. From
succeeding observations made by Dr. Herschel, he gathers that the milky
way is a most extensive stratum of stars of various sizes, and our sun
evidently one of the heavenly bodies belonging to it. In viewing and
gauging this shining zone in almost every direction, he found the number
of stars composing it, by the account of those gauges constantly
increase and decrease in proportion to its apparent brightness to the
naked eye.

The _nebulæ_, or small whitish specks, discoverable by telescopes in
various parts of the heavens are owing to the same cause. Former
astronomers could only reckon 103, but Herschel counts upwards of 1,250.
He has also discovered a species of them, which he calls planetary
nebulæ, on account of their brightness, and shining with a well
defined disk.

The sun enters _Virgo_ on the 23rd at 11h. 42m. evening.

Mercury comes to his inferior conjunction on the 13th at 1-1/4h.
morning, becomes stationary on the 22nd, and is at his greatest
elongation on the 31st, when he passes his ascending node; he may be
seen early on that morning rising at 3-1/2h.

Venus is in conjunction with Mars on the 21st at 3h. afternoon; she
rises on the 1st at 2h. 38m., and on the 31st at 4h. 10m. morning.

Jupiter still continues a conspicuous object in the western part of the
heavens, setting on the 1st at 9h. 43m., and on the 31st at 8h. None of
the eclipses of his satellites are visible during the month in
consequence of his being so near the sun.

Herschel comes to the south on the 1st at 11h. 6m., and on the 31st at
9h. 43m. evening.

_Spica virginis_ (the virgin's spike), in the constellation Virgo
culminates on the 1st at 4h. 32m. afternoon, being situated 10 deg. 13m.
south of the equator, at a meridional elevation of 28 deg. 26m.
_Arcturus_ in Bootes south at 5h. 23m. with 20 deg. north delineation,
and at an altitude of 58 deg. 46m. _Antares_ in the heart of Scorpio at
7h. 34m., declination 26 deg. south, elevation 12 deg. 38m. _Altair_ in
the Eagle at 10h. 57m., declination 8 deg. 24m. north, altitude 47 deg.
3m. _Fomalhaut_ in the most southern fish of the constellation Pisces at
2h. 6m. morning, having a southern declination of 30 deg. 34m., being
elevated only 8 deg. 5m. above the horizon. The above stars come to the
meridian 4 min. earlier every evening; they are all of the first
magnitude (with the exception of _Altair_, which is of the second,) and
may be easily distinguished any hour of the day with a magnifying power
of thirty times; stars of the second magnitude require a power of 100,
but when the sun is not more than two hours above the horizon, they may
be seen with a power of sixty.


* * * * *



* * * * *


(_Concluded from page 74._ [Note: Mirror 266])

Things were in this state when I visited S----, and the union of Henri
and Rosalie, though not positively fixed, was regarded as an event by no
means distant. Every one was interested for the young and handsome
couple, and wished for their espousal. Rosalie's friends longed for the
day when she was to wed the young and handsome Henri; and Henri's
comrades were perpetually urging him to cement his union with the
lovely Rosalie.

We left the place with every kind wish for the young and betrothed pair.
I have not since revisited S----, but by letters from my friend, I have
been informed, that this commencement of their loves had a sad and
melancholy sequel.

After our departure, it seems, the lovers continued equally attached;
arrangements were making for their union, and it was intended that Henri
should leave the army previous to their marriage. But just at this
juncture, and as he was about to leave his corps, rumours of war were
circulated, the enterprise against Spain was projected, and the royal
guard was one of the first corps ordered for service. Henri, with the
natural enthusiasm of a soldier, felt all his former ardour revive; and
longed to mingle in the ranks of glory, ere he left them for ever. He,
doubtless, felt severely the separation from Rosalie; yet his feelings
were described to me as being of a joyous character, and as if evincing
that he felt happy that the opportunity of joining his brethren in arms,
and of signalizing himself perhaps for the last time, had presented
itself, previous to his marriage and his quitting the service.

The enterprise against Spain, he considered as the French army commonly
did, to be a mere excursion of pleasure, which, while it led them into a
country which many of them had never visited before, would also afford
them the occasion of gathering laurels which might serve to redeem
somewhat of their lost glory. He therefore looked forward to the
expedition, on the whole, with feelings of ardour and delight, and even
longed for its approach. Not so Rosalie! She looked on war and bloodshed
with the natural apprehensions of her sex; and saw in the projected
expedition, and its prospects of glory, only danger and death to her
lover! Her spirits received a severe shock when the intelligence was
first communicated--she gradually lost her cheerfulness and spirits; the
song, the dance, had no longer charm or interest for her, and she could
only contemplate the approaching separation with sorrow and dismay!

Henri perceived her depression, and endeavoured to combat and remove her
fears by arguments fond, but unavailing. It was only, he would urge, a
jaunt of pleasure; it would admit his speedy return, when he would come
to lay his services at her feet, and claim the hand which was already
promised to his hopes; and surely, then, Rosalie could not regret his
obeying the call of duty and of honour; or like her lover the worse,
when crowned with victory in the cause of his country. To these and
similar assurances, Rosalie could only reply with the mute eloquence of
tears; and nothing could divest her of the apprehension with which she
ever regarded an enterprise which she seemed to consider from the
first as fatal.

The time however drew on, the dreaded period arrived, the Royal Guard
left its quarters, and departed from S----. Henri took a fond and
passionate adieu of his betrothed; and Rosalie, having summoned all her
fortitude to her aid, went through the parting scene with more firmness
than could have been expected from her, though her feelings, afterwards,
were described as of the most agonizing kind.

Such is the difference between the ardent feelings of man, and the
tender and gentle sympathies of woman, that, while his sorrow is
alleviated by a thousand mitigating circumstances of ardour and
excitement, which relieve his attention, and soothe, though they do not
annihilate his grief; she can only brood over her feelings, and suffer
in silence and in sorrow. Henri marched out with his regiment in all the
vigour of manhood, and with all the "pomp, pride, and circumstance of
war," while Rosalie could only retire to her chamber and weep.

Time passed on; letters were received from Henri, which spoke in ardent
terms of his journey, and of the new and singular scenes unfolded to his
view. He adverted also to his return, mentioned the war as a mere
pastime, and as an agreeable jaunt, the termination of which he only
desired, because it would once more restore him to his Rosalie. It was
remarked, however, that she never recovered her cheerfulness; to all her
lover's assurances she could only reply with expressions of distrust,
and with feelings of sorrow; and when she wrote, it was to express her
fears of the campaign, and her wish that it were over, and that they
were again united in safety.

And constantly did the good and pious girl offer up her prayers for her
lover, as she repaired to the church of the Holy Virgin at S----, to
perform her daily devotions.

The season advanced: the French marched through Spain, and reached
Cadiz. At this last hope of the Constitutionalists, a strong resistance
was expected, and Henri had written from Seville, that his next letter
would announce the termination of the campaign. Alas! he never wrote
again! Time flew on; the journals announced the fall of the Trocadero;
the surrender of Cadiz, and the restoration of Ferdinand; yet there came
no news from Henri! Then did the gentle girl sink into all the
despondency of disappointment; and as day after day passed and brought
no tidings of her lover, her beauty and her health suffered alike, she
languished and pined till she scarce retained the semblance of her
former self.

At last came a letter; it was from Spain, but it was written in a
stranger's hand, and its sable appendages bespoke the fatal nature of
its contents. It was from a brother officer of Henri, stating that his
regiment had been foremost in the attack, and that the Trocadero, the
last resource of the Constitutionalists, had been carried with the loss
of but few killed; but, alas! among that few, was Henri! He was shot
through the body while leading his men to the assault. He fell instantly
dead, and the writer expressed his desire that the sad intelligence
should be conveyed as gently as possible to Rosalie.

Unhappily, by one of those chances which often occur, as if to aggravate
misfortune, it was Rosalie who received the fatal letter from the
postman's hands! She tore it open; read its dreadful contents; and with
a wild and frenzied shriek, fell senseless to the ground! She was borne
to her bed, where every care and attention was bestowed; but her illness
rapidly assumed a threatening and a dangerous character. A fever seized
her frame; she became at once delirious; nor did reason again resume her
throne; and it was not till after months of suffering and agony, that
she recovered, if that could be called recovery, which gave back a
deformed and hapless lunatic, bereft of intellect and of beauty, in
place of the once gay and fascinating Rosalie. The dread aberration of
intellect was attributed by her medical attendants to the fatal and
sudden shock which she had sustained, and to its effect on a mind
weakened by previous anxiety and sorrow; while they feared her malady
was of a nature, which admitted no hope of the return of reason.

Her mind, it was stated, remained an entire blank. Imbecile, vacant,
drivelling--she appeared almost unconscious of former existence; and of
those subjects which formerly engrossed her attention, and excited her
feelings, there were scarcely any on which she now evinced any emotion.
Even the name of her lover was almost powerless on her soul, and if
repeated in her hearing, seemed scarcely to call forth her notice.

One only gift remained, in all its native pathos, tenderness, and
beauty--her voice, so sweet before her illness, seemed, amid the wreck
of youth, and joy, and love, and all that was charming and endeared, to
have only become sweeter still! She was incapable or unwilling to learn
any new airs, but she would occasionally recollect snatches of former
songs or duets, which she and Henri had sung together, and she would
pour the simple melodies in strains of more than mortal sweetness!

This, alas! was the only relic of former talent or taste that she
retained; in all other respects, her mind and body, instead of evincing
symptoms of recovery, seemed to sink in utter hopelessness and despair;
and an early tomb seems to be the best and kindest boon which heaven, in
its mercy, can bestow, on the once fair and fascinating Rosalie!

_Tales of all Nations._

* * * * *


Notings, selections,
Anecdote and joke:
Our recollections;
With gravities for graver folk.

* * * * *


Almost every tavern of note about town hath or had its club. The Mermaid
Tavern is immortalized as the house resorted to by Shakspeare, Jonson,
Fletcher, and Beaumont; the Devil--which, Pennant informs us, stood on
the site of Child's-place, Temple Bar--was the scene of many a merry
meeting of the choice spirits in old days; at Will's Coffee-house, in
the Augustan age of English literature, societies were held to which
Steele, and Pope, and Addison belonged; Doctor Johnson, Hawkesworth, the
elder Salter, and Sir John Hawkins, were members of a club formerly held
at the King's-head, in Ivy-lane; the notorious Dick England, Dennis
O'Kelly, and Hull, with their associates, had, many years ago, a
sporting-club at Munday's Coffee-house; the Three Jolly Pigeons, in
Butcher-hall-lane, was formerly the gathering place of a set of old
school bibliopoles, who styled themselves the Free and Easy Counsellors
under the Cauliflower; stay-maker Hugh Kelly, Goldsmith, Ossian
Macpherson, Garrick, Cumberland, and the Woodfalls, with several noted
men of that day, were concerned in a club at the St. James's
Coffee-house; the Kit-Cat, which took its name from one Christopher Cat,
a pastry-cook, was held at a tavern in King-street, Westminster;
Button's--but truly the task of enumerating the several clubs, of which
we find notices "in the books," as the lawyers have it, would be
endless.--_Every Night Book_.


The usual conversation of ordinary women very much cherishes the natural
weakness of being taken with outside appearance. Talk of a new-married
couple, and you immediately hear whether they keep their coach-and-six,
or eat in plate. Mention the name of an absent lady, and it is ten to
one but you learn something of her gown and petticoat. A ball is a great
help to discourse, and a birthday furnishes conversation for a
twelvemonth after. A furbelow of precious stones, a hat buttoned with a
diamond, a brocade waistcoat or petticoat, are standing topics.


William Bilderdyk, admired as the first poet that modern Holland has
produced, and not less distinguished by the brilliant qualities of his
mind, did not, in his youth, seem to show any happy disposition for
study. His father, who formed an unfavourable opinion of his talents,
was much distressed, and frequently reproached him in severe terms for
his inattention and idleness, to which young Bilderdyk did not appear to
pay much attention. In 1776, the father, with a newspaper in his hand,
came to stimulate him, by showing the advertisement of a prize offered
by the Society of Leyden, and decreed to the author of a piece of
poetry, signed with these words, "An Author 18 years old," who was
invited to make himself known. "You ought to blush, idler," said old
Bilderdyk to his son. "Here is a boy only of your age, and though so
young, is the pride and happiness of his parents; and you----." "It is
myself," answered young William, throwing himself into his
father's arms.


Who has often filled the anatomical chair at the Royal Academy, is no
less abstruse and instructive than pleasant and amusing. His
illustrative anecdotes are always excellent, and his way of telling them
quite dramatic. We have found him even more agreeable as a private
talker than as a lecturer; he is rich in the old lore of England--he
will hunt a phrase through several reigns--propose derivations for words
which are equally ingenious and learned--follow a proverb for
generations back, and discuss on the origin of language as though he had
never studied aught beside: he knows more than any other person we ever
met with of the biography of talented individuals--in the philosophy of
common life he is quite an adept--a capital chronologist--a man of fine
mind and most excellent memory: his experience has, of course, been very
great, and he has taken good advantage of it. We remember he once amused
us for half a day by adducing instances of men who, although possessed
of mean talents, had enabled themselves to effect wonders, by simply
hoarding in their minds, and subsequently acting upon, an immense number
of facts: from this subject we naturally enough fell into a discourse on
the importance, in many cases and situations, of attending to trifles.
As a proof of this, he mentioned a circumstance which occurred to an
eminent surgeon within his own memory; it was as follows: A gentleman,
residing about a post-stage from town, met with an accident which
eventually rendered amputation of a limb indispensable. The surgeon
alluded to was requested to perform the operation, and went from town
with two pupils to the gentleman's house, on the day appointed, for that
purpose. The usual preliminaries being arranged, he proceeded to
operate; the tourniquet was applied, the flesh divided, and the bone
laid bare, when, to his astonishment and horror, he discovered that his
instrument-case was without the saw! Here was a situation! Luckily his
presence of mind did not forsake him. Without apprising his patient of
the terrible fact, he put one of his pupils into his carriage, and told
the coachman to gallop to town. It was an hour and a half before the saw
was obtained, and during all that time the patient lay suffering. The
agony of the operator, though great, was scarcely a sufficient
punishment for his neglect in not seeing that all his instruments were
in the case before he started.

Basil Montagu, the water drinking barrister, who was present during the
narration of this anecdote, and the previous discussion, mentioned
another instance of the propriety of noticing those minor circumstances
in life, which are usually suffered to pass unheeded by people in
general. A man of talent was introduced into a company of strangers; he
scarcely spoke after his first salutation until he wished the party good
night. Almost every one dubbed him a fool; the lady hostess, who, be it
remarked, had not been previously informed of the abilities of her new
guest, was of a different opinion, "I am sure," said she, "that you are
all wrong; for, though he said nothing, I remarked that _he always
laughed in the right place_."--_Every Night Book_.

* * * * *


Pat went to his mistress: "My lady, your mare
_In harness_, goes well as a dray-horse, I swear:
I tried, as you're thinking to sell her, or let her,
For _coming on_ thus, she'll _go off_ all the better."

"Twas very well thought of" the lady replied,
"You've acted a sensible part.
But Patrick, pray tell me the day that you tried,
Of whom did you borrow the cart?"

"The _cart_? why, she _walk'd_ well _in harness_, I saw,
But I thought not, by no _manes_, to try if she'd _draw_;
For says I, by Saint Patrick, who, her comes to view,
To tell him, she has been 'in harness' will do!"


* * * * *




All around
The yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,
Glow, golden lustre.


This is the month of harvest. The crops usually begin with rye and oats,
proceed with wheat, and finish with pease and beans. Harvest-home is
still the greatest rural holiday in England, because it concludes at
once the most laborious and most lucrative of the farmer's employments,
and unites repose and profit. Thank heaven, there are, and must be,
seasons of some repose in agricultural employments, or the countryman
would work with as unceasing a madness, and contrive to be almost as
diseased and unhealthy as the citizen. But here again, and for the
reasons already mentioned, our holiday-making is not what it was. Our
ancestors used to burst into an enthusiasm of joy at the end of harvest,
and even mingled their previous labour with considerable merry-making,
in which they imitated the equality of the earlier ages. They crowned
the wheat-sheaves with flowers, they sung, they shouted, they danced,
they invited each other, or met to feast as at Christmas, in the halls
of rich houses; and, what was a very amiable custom, and wise beyond the
commoner wisdom that may seem to lie on the top of it, every one that
had been concerned, man, woman, and child, received a little present,
ribbons, laces, or sweetmeats.

The number of flowers is now sensibly diminished. Those that flower
newly are nigella, zinnias, polyanthuses, love-apples, mignonette,
capsicums, Michaelmas daisies, auriculus, asters or stars, and
China-asters. The additional trees and shrubs in flower are the
tamarisk, altheas, Venetian sumach, pomegranates, the beautiful
passion-flower, the trumpet flower, and the virgin's bower or clematis,
which is such a quick and handsome climber. But the quantity of fruit is
considerably multiplied, especially that of pears, peaches, apricots,
and grapes. And if the little delicate white flowers have at last
withdrawn from the hot sun, the wastes, marshes, and woods are dressed
in the luxuriant attire of ferns and heaths, with all their varieties of
green, purple, and gold. A piece of waste land, especially where the
ground is broken up into little inequalities, as Hampstead-heath, for
instance, is now a most bright as well as picturesque object; all the
ground, which is in light, giving the sun, as it were, gold for gold.
Mignonette, intended to flower in winter, should now be planted in pots,
and have the benefit of a warm situation. Seedlings in pots should have
the morning sunshine, and annuals in pots be frequently watered.

In the middle of this month, the young goldfinch broods appear, lapwings
congregate, thistle-down floats, and birds resume their spring songs:--a
little afterwards flies abound in windows, linnets congregate, and bulls
make their shrill autumnal bellowing; and towards the end the beech tree
turns yellow,--the first symptom of approaching autumn.[1]

[1] _The Months_.

* * * * *


* * * * *


The leopard of Southern Africa is known among the Cape colonists by the
name of tiger; but is, in fact, the real leopard, the _Felis jubata_ of
naturalists, well known for the beauty of its shape and spotted skin,
and the treachery and fierceness of its disposition. The animal called
leopard (_luipaard_) by the Cape Dutch boors, is a species of the
panther, and is inferior to the real leopard in size and beauty. Both of
them are dreaded in the mountainous districts on account of the ravages
which they occasionally commit among the flocks, and on the young cattle
and horses in the breeding season.

The South African panther is a cowardly animal, and, like the hyena,
flies from the face of man. The leopard also, though his low,
half-smothered growl is frequently heard by night, as he prowls like an
evil spirit around the cottage or the kraal, will seldom or never attack
mankind, (children excepted,) unless previously assailed or exasperated.
When hunted, as he usually is with dogs, he instinctively betakes
himself to a tree, when he falls an easy prey to the shot of the
huntsman. The leopard, however, though far inferior in strength and
intrepidity to the lion, is yet an exceedingly active and furious
animal; and when driven to extremity, proves himself occasionally an
antagonist not to be trifled with. The colonists relate many instances
of arduous and even fatal encounters with the hunted leopard. The
following is one of these adventures, which occurred in a frontier
district in 1822, as described by one of the two individuals so
perilously engaged in it.

Two boors returning from hunting the Hartebeest, (_antelope bubalis_,)
fell in with a leopard in a mountain ravine, and immediately gave chase
to him. The animal at first endeavoured to escape by clambering up a
precipice; but being hotly pressed, and slightly wounded by a
musket-ball, he turned upon his pursuers with that frantic ferocity
which on such emergencies he frequently displays, and springing upon the
man who had fired at him, tore him from his horse to the ground, biting
him at the same time very severely in the shoulder, and tearing his face
and arms with his talons. The other hunter, seeing the danger of his
comrade, (he was, if I mistake not, his brother,) sprung from his horse,
and attempted to shoot the leopard through the head; but, whether owing
to trepidation, or the fear of wounding his friend, or the sudden
motions of the animal, he unfortunately missed.

The leopard, abandoning his prostrate enemy, darted with redoubled fury
upon this second antagonist; and so fierce and sudden was his onset,
that before the boor could stab him with his hunting-knife, he had
struck him in the eyes with his claws, and torn the scalp over his
forehead. In this frightful condition the hunter grappled with the
raging beast, and struggling for life, they rolled together down a steep
declivity. All this passed so rapidly, that the other boor had scarcely
time to recover from the confusion in which his feline foe had left him,
to seize his gun, and rush forward to aid his comrade, when he beheld
them rolling together down the steep bank in mortal conflict. In a few
moments he was at the bottom with them, but too late to save the life of
his friend. The leopard had torn open the jugular vein, and so
dreadfully mangled the throat of the unfortunate man, that his death was
inevitable; and his comrade had only the melancholy satisfaction of
completing the destruction of the savage beast, already exhausted with
several deep wounds in the breast from the desperate knife of the
expiring huntsman.--_London Weekly Review_.

* * * * *



There is a beauty in the grey twilight,
Which minds unmusical can never know,
A holy quietude, that yields to woe
A pulseless pleasure, fraught with pure delight:
The aspect of the mountains huge, that brave
And bear upon their breasts the rolling storms;
And the soft twinkling of the stars, that pave
Heaven's highway with their bright and burning forms;
The rustle of the dark boughs overhead:
The murmurs of the torrent far away;
The last notes of the blackbird, and the bay
Of sullen watch-dog, from the far farm-stead--
All waken thoughts of Being's early day,
Loves quench'd, hopes past, friends lost, and pleasures fled.

_Blackwood's Magazine_.

* * * * *


There is a fashion in reading as well as in dress, which lasts only for
a season. One would imagine that books were, like women, the worse for
being old;[2] that they have a pleasure in being read for the first
time; that they open their leaves more cordially; that the spirit of
enjoyment wears out with the spirit of novelty; and that, after a
certain age, it is high time to put them on the shelf. This conceit
seems to be followed up in practice. What is it to me that another--that
hundreds or thousands have in all ages read a work? Is it on this
account the less likely to give me pleasure, because it has delighted so
many others? Or can I taste this pleasure by proxy? Or am I in any
degree the wiser for their knowledge? Yet this might appear to be the
inference. _Their_ having read the work may be said to act upon us by
sympathy, and the knowledge which so many other persons have of its
contents deadens our curiosity and interest altogether. We set aside the
subject as one on which others have made up their minds for us, (as if
we really could have ideas in their heads,) and are quite on the alert
for the next new work, teeming hot from the press, which we shall be the
first to read, to criticise, and pass an opinion on. Oh, delightful! To
cut open the leaves, to inhale the fragrance of the scarcely-dry paper,
to examine the type, to see who is the printer, (which is some clue to
the value that is set upon the work,) to launch out into regions of
thought and invention never trod till now, and to explore characters
that never met a human eye before--this is a luxury worth sacrificing a
dinner party, or a few hours of a spare morning to. Who, indeed, when
the work is critical and full of expectation, would venture to dine out,
or to face a _coterie_ of blue stockings in the evening, without having
gone through this ordeal, or at least without, hastily turning over a
few of the first pages while dressing, to be able to say that the
beginning does not promise much, or to tell the name of the heroine?

[2] "Laws are not like women, the worse for being old."--_The
Duke of Buckingham's Speech in the House of Lords, in Charles
the Second's time_.

A new work is something in our power; we mount the bench, and sit in
judgment on it; we can damn or recommend it to others at pleasure, can
decry or extol it to the skies, and can give an answer to those who have
not yet read it, and expect an account of it; and thus show our
shrewdness and the independence of our taste before the world have had
time to form an opinion. If we cannot write ourselves, we become, by
busying ourselves about it, a kind of _accessaries after the fact_.
Though not the parent of the bantling that "has just come into this
breathing world, scarce half made up," without the aid of criticism and
puffing, yet we are the gossips and foster-nurses on the occasion, with
all the mysterious significance and self-importance of the tribe. If we
wait, we must take our report from others; if we make haste, we may
dictate ours to them. It is not a race, then, for priority of
information, but for precedence in tattling and dogmatising. The work
last out is the first that people talk and inquire about. It is the
subject on the _tapis_--the cause that is pending. It is the last
candidate for success, (other claims have been disposed of,) and appeals
for this success to us, and us alone. Our predecessors can have nothing
to say to this question, however they may have anticipated us on others;
future ages, in all probability, will not trouble their heads about it;
we are the panel. How hard, then, not to avail ourselves of our
immediate privilege to give sentence of life or death--to seem in
ignorance of what every one else is full of--to be behind-hand with the
polite, the knowing, and fashionable part of mankind--to be at a loss
and dumb-founded, when all around us are in their glory, and figuring
away, on no other ground than that of having read a work that we have
not! Books that are to be written hereafter cannot be criticised by us;
those that were written formerly have been criticised long ago; but a
new book is the property, the prey of ephemeral criticism, which it
darts triumphantly upon; there is a raw thin air of ignorance and
uncertainty about it, not filled up by any recorded opinion; and
curiosity, impertinence, and vanity rush eagerly into the vacuum. A new
book is the fair field for petulance and coxcombry to gather laurels
in--the butt set up for roving opinion to aim at. Can we wonder, then,
that the circulating libraries are besieged by literary dowagers and
their grand-daughters, when a new novel is announced? That mail-coach
copies of the _Edinburgh Review_ are or were coveted? That the
manuscript of the _Waverley_ romances is sent abroad in time for the
French, German, or even Italian translation to appear on the same day as
the original work, so that the longing continental public may not be
kept waiting an instant longer than their fellow-readers in the English
metropolis, which would be as tantalizing and insupportable as a little
girl being kept without her new frock, when her sister's is just come
home, and is the talk and admiration of every one in the house? To be
sure, there is something in the taste of the times; a modern work is
expressly adapted to modern readers. It appeals to our direct
experience, and to well-known subjects; it is part and parcel of the
world around us, and is drawn from the same sources as our daily
thoughts. There is, therefore, so far, a natural or habitual sympathy
between us and the literature of the day, though this is a different
consideration from the mere circumstance of novelty. An author now
alive, has a right to calculate upon the living public; he cannot count
upon the dead, nor look forward with much confidence to those that are
unborn. Neither, however, is it true that we are eager to read all new
books alike; we turn from them with a certain feeling of distaste and
distrust, unless they are recommended to us by some peculiar feature or
obvious distinction. Only young ladies from the boarding-school, or
milliners' girls, read all the new novels that come out. It must be
spoken of or against; the writer's name must be well known or a great
secret; it must be a topic of discourse and a mark for criticism--that
is, it must be likely to bring us into notice in some way--or we take
no notice of it. There is a mutual and tacit understanding on this head.
We can no more read all the new books that appear, than we can read all
the old ones that have disappeared from time to time.--_Monthly

* * * * *


* * * * *


The secretary carried us through several chambers, decorated with much
cost and barbarous splendour. The wainscot of one of the principal
saloons is inlaid with mother-of-pearl, ebony, coral, and ivory; but the
workmanship seems harsh and ungraceful. The ceiling is plastered with
massive gilding, the effect of which is rather cumbrous than ornamental;
"not graced with elegancy, but daubed with cost." Pillars, of a
composition to resemble the richest marble, support the compartments,
and the cornice is coloured with some imperfect efforts at arabesque
painting. There is, however, one article extremely elegant and
well-finished--a low sofa, carried round three-fourths of the room,
covered with dark velvet, tastefully embroidered, and hung with gold
fringe. The general arrangement of the rooms is certainly, grand and
imposing, though occasionally deformed by much bad taste. I should not
omit to mention, that our conductor desired us to notice two very
handsome carpets, which he gave us to understand were of British
manufacture. In the apartment where Ali sleeps, the walls are hung with
sabres and fire-arms of different descriptions; all of which are
ornamented with precious stones. One of the scimitars is profusely
adorned with diamonds and rubies, and a particular musket has a
cartouche-box, studded with brilliants of surpassing splendour, the
central stone being nearly the size of a die. A fowling-piece, sent to
the pasha by Bonaparte, is also enriched with gems, though this last
article is considered to derive its chief value from the circumstance of
having been once the property of the imperial warrior, by whom it was
presented. The chamber opens into a long and spacious gallery; at one
extremity we observed a singularly awkward piece of furniture,
resembling a large old-fashioned arm-chair. So useless an article in a
Turkish palace induced me to inquire the purpose to which it was
applied; and I was informed that, on certain festivals, the pasha gives
an entertainment for the diversion of the children of the principal
families in the capital, who on such occasions assemble in the gallery.
Ali himself always attends, to encourage and assist their gaiety; and,
while reclining on this cumbrous seat, distributes to them, as they are
successively presented to him, baskets of sweetmeats, and such other
tokens of regard as are suited to their respective ages and
condition.--_Narrative of an Excursion from Corfu to Smyrna_.

* * * * *


The police reports are frequently the most amusing part of the daily
press: they let the reader into many of the secrets of low, and, now and
then, of high life; they are redolent of the phraseology of the vulgar;
they often tickle our fancies by their humour, and sometimes touch our
sympathies by their pathos. As anecdotes of real life; daily catalogues
of droll and dismal occurrences among our fellow-citizens; pictures of
what is passing in the streets while we, who are sober sort of folks,
are dreaming in our beds; sketches of manners, and records of the
habits, feelings, and minor as well as major delinquencies of those who
breathe the same air with us; they could not fail to be interesting to
us all, were we not aware that, like the novels which are said to be
"founded on fact," their most rich and racy parts are frequently

Let not the non-gnostic portion of our readers imagine, that if they
haunt the justice-seat of Birnie and his judicial co-mates, that they
will ever witness such pleasant, sparkling, humorous examinations as
those reported in the columns of the papers which matinally grace their
breakfast-tables. The tyro upon town will stare at this. Why, will he
say, cannot I, if I frequent the same place, see and hear what those who
are employed for the press see and hear there? He can; but the fact is,
that our police reporters are by far too clever to set down the words of
other people, without throwing in something of their own. Their plan is
to drop the duller parts of a story or a speech, and to embellish its
livelier portion--to select the tit-bits, and sauce and spice them up
sufficiently high to please the palates of the news-reading public. The
offices afford them an excellent variety of characters, which, like
skilful dramatists, they work up until they become really humorous: many
of the cases afford them capital plots, into which they cleverly
dovetail pleasant little episodes, and adhere no closer to the deposed
facts than many of our by-gone playwrights have done to the sacred page
of history. We allude only to the cases of humour which occur at the
police-offices: those reports which can be interesting only in
proportion as they are correct, are, in general, accurately given; but
the matrimonial squabbles, the Irish farçettas, and the frays between
the Dogberrys of the night and late walkers--albeit they may,
peradventure, contain the leading facts disclosed--are highly wrought up
by the fanciful powers of those who cause the public and feed themselves
at a per-line-age for the daily press. Many cases which, on hearing, are
dull and oftentimes disgusting, under the magic pens of the
police-office scribes become lively and entertaining; they are furnished
with the raw material--the metal in its ore--which they purify and
polish, until it bears little or no resemblance to what it was before it
underwent the process of manufacturing for the paper-market under their
skilful hands. There are many who delight to visit the police-offices
for the sake of seeing those beings who appear there, of whom others
only read: some of our readers may, perhaps, be bitten with a similar
fancy; but, we warrant, that they will find the actual doings at
Bow-street very different to what they had imagined; as Charles Mathews'
_Sir Harry Skelton_ says, "There's nothing at all in it; people talk a
great deal about it--but there's nothing in it, after all--nothing."

It is not often that we look in at morning or evening sitting of the
magistrates; we are content to have the police reports served up to us
with our potted beef and buttered toast at breakfast; we enjoy them,
although we feel convinced that many of them bear no more resemblance to
the affairs they are founded on, than mock-turtle to calf's-head; still,
like the soup, they are by far the most pleasant and palatable of the
two.--_Every Night Book_.

* * * * *


The view in front was obstructed by a high ridge, of which we had nearly
gained the highest point, when we left our horses, and running up a few
yards of steep turf found ourselves all at once on the brink of the
Curral. It is a huge valley, or rather crater, of immense depth,
enclosed on all sides by a range of magnificent mountain precipices, the
sides and summit of which are broken in every variety of buttress or
pinnacle--now black and craggy and beetling--at other times spread with
the richest green turf, and scattered with a profusion of the evergreen
forest-trees, indigenous to the island; while far below, in the midst of
all these horrors, smiles a fairy region of cultivation and
fruitfulness, with a church and village, the white cabins of which seem
half smothered in the luxuriance of their own vines and orchards.

We gazed long and eagerly at the prospect. It is not easy to give an
accurate notion of its peculiar character; and even painting would but
ill assist, for one of the most striking features is the great and
sudden _depth_ which you look down, the effect of which we know the
pencil cannot at all convey. The side on which we stand, however, though
steep, is not absolutely precipitous; on the contrary, the gradation of
crag and projection, by which it descends to the bottom, is one of the
finest things in the view. Close on our right a lofty peak presents its
rocky face to the valley, to which it bears down in a magnificent mass,
shouldering its way, as it seemed, half across it. The opposite sides
appear more bare, precipitous, and lofty; and this last character is
heightened by some white clouds that rest upon and conceal
their summits.

Rejoining the road, we for awhile lost sight of the valley. When we
again came in view of it, it was rapidly filling with clouds, but at
first their interposition was hardly a disadvantage; they gave a vague
indefinite grandeur to the cliffs and mountains, which seemed to rise
one knew not from what depth, and lose their summits in regions beyond
our ken. The breaks, too, that occurred in this shrouding of the scene,
showed fragments of it with strange effect--till at length the whole
hollow filled, and presented a uniform sea of vapour.

_Rambles in Madeira_.

* * * * *


The ladies are carried in palanquins, and each received at the street
entrance by the master of the house--or if there be more than one lady,
by some gentlemen deputed for that purpose--who takes her hand, and so
ushers her up stairs. There is much of this elaborate gallantry
observable in the manner of the Portuguese towards the sex. Thus, a man
never passes a lady in the street, or in her balcony, without taking off
his hat, and this whether he be acquainted with her or not. We
understand they used to offer a similar mark of respect to the English
ladies, but desisted on finding that our gentlemen did not reciprocate
in the same homage towards the fair _Portuguezas_. I don't think that
this difference in the manners of the two people does us credit. Not
that all that kind of homage means much. In this, as in a more serious
concern, our southern neighbours may seem to have the advantage in the
practices of external devotion; but it would be a mistake to infer from
thence, that there is with us less of that service of the heart, which,
after all, is the one thing needful. The party was large, probably two
hundred, including most of the native rank and fashion of the island. We
found the ladies all seated together in one room, and the effect of this
concentration was sufficiently dazzling. Some people deny that there is
any standard of female beauty; and, at any rate, there is no doubt but
that habits and associations, as well as complexional and sentimental
considerations, interfere more with our perceptions in respect to this
than any other object of taste. It is not immediately that we enter into
the merits of a style of beauty very different from that which we have
been accustomed to. Perhaps it is owing to this circumstance that I was
not struck by so many instances of individual attractiveness as might
have been expected in so crowded a galaxy. The traits that first strike
a stranger in a Portuguese belle, are the tendency to _embonpoint_ in
the figure, and to darkness--I had almost said swarthiness, in
complexion. This last character, however, is not particularly obvious by
candle-light; and it is always relieved by the most raven hair, and eyes
such as one seldom sees elsewhere, so large and black; if their fire
were softened by a longer lash, and their expression less fixed, there
would be no resisting them. I fancy, too, that their effect would be
rather greater in a _tête-à-tête_ than in a circle like this, where,
looking round, one sees on all sides the same eyes--and which all (it is
everywhere the reproach of black eyes) say always the same thing. Their
dress was perfectly in the English fashion; and, in general, there was
something not un-English in their _mise_ and _tournure_. The superiority
of French women in these matters is incontestable. Perhaps we may
account for it something on the principle by which Dr. Johnson explained
the excellence of our neighbours in cookery, when he suspected that the
inferiority of their meats rendered indispensable some extraordinary
skill in dressing it. The general arrangement and progress of the
evening was very English too. They dance remarkably well, the men as
well as the women. Indeed, it is, I believe, the great end and
occupation of the earlier part of their existence. We came away at two
o'clock; few of the English staid later; but among the Portuguese, the
more ardent spirits kept up the dance till long after day-break, when it
is customary to serve up _caldo_, a sort of chicken-broth, for their

* * * * *


* * * * *


_What is a Lawyer?_--A lawyer is a man with a pale face and sunken eyes;
he passes much time in two small rooms in one of the inns of court; he
is surrounded with sheets of foolscap folio paper, tied up with a red
string; he has more books than one could read in a year, or comprehend
in seven; he walks slowly, speaks hesitatingly, and receives fees from
those who visit him, for giving "hypothetical answers" to "specious

_What is a Doctor?_--A doctor, _videlicit_ an M.D., is a sedate-looking
personage; he listens calmly to the story of your ailments; if your eye
and skin be yellow, he shrewdly remarks that you have the jaundice; he
feels your pulse, writes two or three unintelligible lines of Latin, for
which you pay him a guinea; he keeps a chariot, and one man-servant. The
standard board behind, _intended_ for a footman, is fearfully beset with
spikes, to prevent little boys from riding at the doctor's expense. He
ingeniously lets himself in and out of his vehicle, by means of a strap
attached to the steps, so contrived, that when in, he can dexterously
cause the steps to follow. His servant is a coachman abroad, and a
footman, valet, and butler at home.

_What is an Author?_--He is a man who weaves words into sentences; he
dissects the works of his predecessors and contemporaries, and
ingeniously dovetails the pieces together again, so that their real
owners can scarcely recognise them. He is furnished with a pair of
scissors and a pot of paste. He frequents the Chapter Coffee-house by
day, and the Cider-Cellar by night. He ruralises at Hampstead or
Holloway, and perhaps once a year steams it to Margate. He talks
largely, and forms the nucleus of a knot of acquaintances, who look up
to him as an oracle. He is always _going_ to set about some work of
great importance; he writes a page, becomes out of humour with the
subject, and begins another, which shares the same fate. His coat is
something the worse for wear; his wife is the only person in the world
who is blind to his transcendant abilities; and he has too much to do in
cultivating his own genius, to descend to the minutias of his children's


In a little manual of piety, composed, in 1712, for the young ladies who
were then pensioners at the monastery of St. Augustin, at Bruges, we
have been surprised into frequent smiles by the scrupulous watchfulness
with which the ghostly writer followed the lady-pensioners (though with
pious fancy only) to the very sacred of sacreds! He was not contented
with directing them concerning the prayers which he believed proper to
be used when they assumed, or laid aside, their respective garments, but
even directed them what to do before they attempted to close an eye on
the softness of their pillows! Prayers are specified by this zealous
pastor for the following curious occasions:--

In putting on your petticoat.
In putting on your night-gown.
In dressing your head.
In putting on your manteau.

In regard to the ceremony of laying aside these memorials of the
weakness of Eve, our general mother, there is a prayer to be offered
"whilst you undress yourself;" and the ladies are strictly enjoined,
before they "get into bed, to take holy water." The writer concludes
this part of his instructions by saying, "when you are in bed, write the
name of Jesus on your forehead with your thumb!"


After the battle of Marston, Cromwell, returning from the pursuit of a
party of the royalists, purposed to stop at Ripley; and, having an
officer in his troop, a relation of Sir William Ingilby's, that
gentleman was sent to announce his arrival. The officer was informed, by
the porter at the gate, that Sir William was absent, but that he might
send any message he pleased to his lady. Having sent in his name, and
obtained an audience, he was answered by the lady, that no such person
should be admitted there; adding, she had force sufficient to defend
herself and that house against all rebels. The officer, on his part,
represented the extreme folly of making any resistance, and that the
safest way would be to admit the general peaceably. After much
persuasion, the lady took the advice of her kinsman, and received
Cromwell at the gate of the lodge, with a pair of pistols stuck in her
apron-strings, and having told him she expected that neither he nor his
soldiers would behave improperly, led the way to the hall, where,
sitting each on a sofa, these two extraordinary personages, equally
jealous of each other's intentions, passed the whole night. At his
departure in the morning the lady observed, "It was well he had behaved
in so peaceable a manner; for that, had it been otherwise, he would not
have left that house with his life."


Of this celebrated man no portrait was ever painted, for he would never
sit to any artist. After his return from one of his journies to the
continent, he was showing to a friend the various things he had brought
with him, and among others a new dress made in Saxony: "it was a sort of
great coat, yet graceful in its appearance, and ornamented with sober
magnificence. His visiter exclaimed, 'This is the robe in which you
should be painted by Romney; I will implore the favour on my knees if
you will let me array you in this very picturesque habiliment, and
convey you instantly in a coach to Cavendish-square.'--'O fie!' replied
Howard, in the mildest tone of his gentle voice, 'O fie! I did not kneel
to the emperor.'--'And I assure you,' said the petitioner in answer to
the tender reproof, 'I would never kneel to you, if you were not above
an emperor in my estimation!' The philanthropist was touched by the
cordial eulogy, but continued firm in his resolution of not granting his
portrait to all the repeated requests of important affections."--
_Hayley's Life of Romney_.


Edward Drinker was born in a cottage in 1689, on the spot where the city
of Philadelphia now stands, which was inhabited at the time of his
birth, by Indians, a few Swedes, and Hollanders. He often talked of
picking blackberries, and catching wild rabbits, where this populous
city is now seated. He remembered William Penn arriving there the second
time, and used to point out the spot where the cabin stood in which Mr.
Penn and his friends were accommodated on their arrival.

The life of this aged citizen is marked with circumstances which never
befel any other man; for he saw greater events than any man, at least,
since the Patriarchs. He saw the same spot of earth, in the course of
his own life, covered with woods and bushes, the receptacles of wild
beasts and birds of prey, afterwards become the seat of a great city,
not only the first in wealth and arts in America, but equalled by few in
Europe; he saw great and regular streets, where he had often pursued
hares and wild rabbits; he saw fine churches rise upon morasses, where
he used to hear nothing but the croaking of frogs; great wharfs and
warehouses, where he had so often seen the Indian savages draw their
fish from the river; and that river afterwards full of great ships from
all the world, which in his youth had nothing bigger than a canoe; and
on the same spot, where he had so often gathered huckleberries, he saw
their magnificent city hall erected, and that hall filled with
legislators, astonishing the world with their wisdom and virtue. He also
saw the first treaty ratified between the united powers of America, and
the most powerful prince in Europe, with all the formality of parchment
and seal; and on the same spot where he once saw William Penn ratify his
first and last treaty with the Indians; and to conclude, he saw the
beginning and end of the British empire in Pensylvania. He had been the
subject of many crowned heads; but when he heard of the many oppressive
and unconstitutional acts passed in Britain, he bought them all, and
gave them to his great grandson to make kites of; and embracing the
liberty and independence of his country in his withered arms, and
triumphing in the last year of his life, in the salvation of his
country. He died on the 17th of November, 1782, aged 103 years.


When the wind follows the sun and settles about north-west, north, or
east, we have fine weather; when, on the contrary, the wind opposes the
sun's course, and returns by west, south-west, south, and south-east,
and settles in the east, foul weather prevails.

* * * * *


"I am but a _Gatherer_ and disposer of other men's

* * * * *

A man of learning was complaining to Voltaire, that few foreigners
relished the beauties of Shakspeare. "Sir," replied the wit, "bad
translations torment and vex them, and prevent them understanding your
great dramatist. A blind man, sir, cannot perceive the beauty of a rose,
who only pricks his fingers with the thorns."

* * * * *

The reign of Edward I. was marked with a singular occurrence, which
serves to Illustrate the general character of this monarch. In the year
1285, Edward took away the charter of London, and turned out the mayor,
in consequence of his suffering himself to be bribed by the bakers, and
invested one of his own appointing with the civic authority. The city,
however, by making various presents to the king, and rendering him other
signal services, found means to have their charter restored.

* * * * *

_Dr. E. D. Clarke's Rules far Travellers_.--"Remember that you are never
to conceive that you have added enough to your journal; never at liberty
to go to sleep, because you are fatigued, until you have filled up all
the blanks in it; never to go to the bottom of a mountain without also
visiting its top; never to omit visiting mines, where there are any;
never to listen to stories of banditti; nor in any instance to be
frightened by bugbears."

* * * * *

A traveller lately returned from Florida says, it is the most fertile
country he ever found, the lands producing forty bushels of frogs to
the acre, and alligators enough to fence them--_American paper_.

* * * * *

A rich banker of Paris happened to be present some time ago at the
representation of _Hamlet_ in which Talma, as usual, by the fidelity and
force of his delineation, drew tears from the whole of his numerous
audience. Being questioned by, a person sitting near him, who was
astonished to perceive that he alone remained unaffected during, the
most pathetic scene, the banker coolly replied, "I do not cry, because,
in the first place, none of thus is true; and secondly, supposing it to
be true; what business is it of mine?"--_La Furet_.

* * * * *

_Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset
House,) and sold by all Newsmen and Booksellers._

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