The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 10, Issue 267, August 4, 1827, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 10, Issue 267, August 4, 1827 Author: Various Posting Date: December 6, 2011 [EBook #9922] Release Date: February, 2006 First Posted: October 31, 2003 Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AUGUST 4, 1827 *** Produced by Jonathan Ingram and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION. Vol. 10, No. 267.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1827. [PRICE 2d. HADLEY CHURCH. 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 [pg 81] [pg 82] 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. THE SKETCH BOOK. NO. XLIII. THE BUTCHER. 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. CONFIDENCE AND CREDIT. (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. [pg 83] 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! JESSE HAMMOND. CURIOUS SCRAPS RELATING TO CELEBRATED PERSONS. (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." P.T.W. "THE LILY BELLS ARE WET WITH DEW." (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, J.T.S. 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:— [pg 84] 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. ASTRONOMICAL OCCURRENCES FOR AUGUST, 1827. (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. [pg 85] PASCHE. THE NOVELIST. NO. CVI. ROSALIE BERTON. (Concluded from page 74.) 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. [pg 86] 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. ANECDOTES AND RECOLLECTIONS. Notings, selections, Anecdote and joke: Our recollections; With gravities for graver folk. TAVERNS AND CLUB-HOUSES. 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. [pg 87] CONVERSATION OF WOMEN. 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. —Addison. BILDERDYK. 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. SIR ANTHONY CARLISLE, 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. A FACT. 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?" [pg 88] "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!" M.L.B. THE MONTHS. AUGUST. All around The yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam, Glow, golden lustre. MRS. ROBINSON. 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 SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS. LEOPARD-HUNTING. 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 [pg 89] [pg 90] 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. GLOAMING. BY DELTA. 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 fann-stead— All waken thoughts of Being's early day, Loves quench'd, hopes past, friends lost, and pleasures fled. Blackwood's Magazine. ON READING NEW BOOKS. 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? [pg 91] 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 boo...