*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12498 ***

THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. XIII, NO. 362.] SATURDAY, MARCH 21, 1829. [PRICE 2d.

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[Illustration: CHESTER TERRACE, REGENT'S PARK.]




CHESTER TERRACE,

REGENT'S PARK.

On the annexed page is a spirited representation of this splendid range
of palatial residences, which present as noble an appearance as any
similar structure in the Park.

To familiarize the topography of Chester Terrace, we should say it
stands between the Colosseum and St. Katharine's Church, these being the
most conspicuous buildings in the circle; and the majestic cupola of the
former building is shown in the distance of our engraving.

This terrace is named from the royal earldom of Chester. It is from
the designs of Mr. Nash, the architect of York Terrace engraved in our
No. 358. Like the majority of that gentleman's works, Chester Terrace
evinces great genius, with many of its irregularities. It is of the
Corinthian order of architecture, characterized by its richness; but the
present specimen is weak in its details, and the form and proportions of
its balustrade are starved and lanky. The capitals of the columns want
the gracefulness of the Corinthian, and the volutes are but puny
illustrations of that beautiful order.

Leaving these defects to be further scrutinized by the more critical
spectator, we cannot fail to be impressed with this grand and commanding
terrace; the composition exhibits great genius and powerful conception;
and the effect of the whole would be extremely beautiful, were it not
for the defective details.

At each end of the terrace is a Corinthian arch, the idea of which
is altogether novel. These arches connect with pavilion temple-like
mansions, and their effect is very rich and picturesque. They remind
one of some of the trophied glories of old Rome--the arches beneath
which her laurelled heroes passed in triumphal state. Chester Terrace
may, therefore, be said to associate _otium cum dignitate_, since these
arches give a splendid finish to the range of handsome residences. The
mementos of Roman triumph still remain; but a century hence, where will
be the lath-and-plaster glories of the Regent's Park?

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HAVER.

(_For the Mirror_.)


"Haver" is a common word in the northern counties for oats; as "haver
bread," for oaten bread; perhaps properly "aven," from "_avena_," Latin
for oats.

_Query_.--Is not "haversack," or, Gallice, "_havre-sac_," a bag to
carry a soldier's bread and provisions, derived from the same word?

W.T.H.

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ANCIENT POWER OF THE _HARO_, OR _HAROL_.

(_For the Mirror_.)


_Clamour de haro_ is a cry or formula of invoking the assistance of
justice against the violence of some offender, who, upon hearing of
the word _haro_, is obliged to desist, on pain of being severely
punished for his outrage, and to go with the party before the judge. The
word is commonly derived of _ha_ and _roul_, as being supposed
an invocation of the sovereign power, to assist the weak against the
strong, on occasion of Raoul, first duke of Normandy, about the year
912, who rendered himself venerable to his subjects, by the severity
of his justice; so that they called on him, even after his death, when
they suffered any oppression. Some derive it from _Harola_, king of
Denmark, who, in the year 826, was made grand conservator of justice at
Mentz. Others from the Danish _a a rau_, help me, a cry raised by
the Normans in flying from a king of Denmark, named Roux, who made
himself duke of Normandy. The _haro_ had anciently such vast power,
that a poor man of the city of Caen, named Asselin, in virtue thereof,
arrested the corpse of William the Conqueror, in the middle of the
funeral procession, till such time as his son Henry had paid the value
of the land in question, which was that whereon the chapel was built
wherein he was interred.

P.T.W.

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THE GREAT TUN OF KONIGSTEIN.

(_For the Mirror_.)


One of the greatest curiosities in the neighbourhood of Dresden is the
Great Tun, erected at Fort Konigstein by General Kyaw, the height of
which is 17 Dresden ells, and its diameter at the bung 12 ells. This
vast vessel, which is always replenished with excellent wine, is capable
of containing 3,709 hogsheads; and on its head is a plate with a Latin
inscription, to the following purport:--

"Welcome, traveller, and admire this monument, dedicated to festivity,
in order to exhilarate the mind with a glass, in the year 1725, by
Frederick Augustus, king of Poland and elector of Saxony, the father of
his country, the Titus of the age, the delight of mankind. Therefore,
drink to the health of the sovereign, the country, the electoral family,
and Baron Kyaw, governor of Konigstein; and if thou art able, according
to the dignity of this cask, the most capacious of all casks, drink to
the prosperity of the whole universe--and so farewell."

INA.

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THE COOK AND THE CRANES.

FROM THE SPANISH.

(_For the Mirror_.)


    Don John de Ayala,--a chap
    Whose worst mishap
  Was to be curs'd with a purloining cook.
    (A fellow, who 'twas plain
    Play'd "cut and come again,"
  And scarcely reck'd, if all was seen he took.)
  Don John de Ayala, went forth to look
    For birds, and shot a crane;
  Which, forthwith giving the aforesaid knave
    To cook, according to the Spanish taste;
  _He_, to his dainty-loving _sposa_ gave
    A leg at once, well deeming, that to waste
  So fair an opportunity for sin
    Would be (as _he_ should say a _burning_ shame;)
  But, when the bird, at dinner-time went in,
    Cried Juan, "Where's the left leg of my game?"
  "Soul of my body, sir!" roar'd cook,--no fire
    In his own kitchen, showing phiz more red,
  Yet whether thus, from guilt he blazed, or ire,
    Or _shame_ perdie, hath ne'er been sung or said,
  "Soul of my body!--other leg?--Well done!--
  No crane that e'er _I_ saw, had more than _one_."

  Juan, thus silenc'd, but not satisfied,
    In his own mind revolv'd
    The neatest way
  Of telling master Brazenface, he lied;
    And so resolv'd
    To take him out crane-shooting the next day.
  They went:--"Well, cook," quoth Ayala, "for fun
    I've brought thee here,
    Where quickly 'twill appear
  That if cranes have not _two_ legs,--why, they've _none_."
    "Say you so, Senor?--look!--yon long-neck'd flock,
  Each bird of it on _one_ foot, ends the matter;
    Ay--there they stand,--as firm as any rock,
  I swear by ev'ry dish I ever broke, or platter."
    Straight to the flock, flight, covey, (we've no name
    In Albion, to designate _such_ game.)
  Rush'd Ayala, whose hearty psho! psho! psho!
  Took the cranes off _one_ leg,--discovering _two_,
  As up they rose, on rustling, sullen wing:
  "Well cook?" "Why, body of my soul, sir, there's the thing,
  Had you said _psho! psho!_ to your _roasted_ crane,
  Belike you'd seen its hidden leg again!"


M.L.B.

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SPOONS.

(_For the Mirror_.)


Spoons are objects of great antiquity, and our forefathers bestowed
great pains in enriching them with masterly workmanship. So much
did _taste_ and fashion rule the time then, that spoons were
distinguished as it were by so many devices. It was, and is still with
some persons, a custom to present spoons at christenings, or on visiting
"the lady in the straw;" and in both cases they were adorned with
suitable imagery. A gentleman with whom I am acquainted, and who "keeps
a cabinet of curiosities," lately showed me two very curious silver
spoons, which he informed me had remained in his family many years; but
how they became possessed of them, he could only say that he attributed
it to the custom of presenting spoons on certain occasions. One was
beautifully wrought; the bowl was very large, and its edges carved with
exquisite workmanship. In the middle of the bowl was a representation
of "the nativity," carved in so masterly a manner, that, although it
was considerably defaced, it must have required the ablest artists to
accomplish. The handle, which was likewise superbly carved, ended in a
figure of the Virgin Mary, with our Saviour in her lap. The other spoon
was so much injured, that we could trace out nothing decisive; although
here and there we could perceive it had been richly ornamented.

The same gentleman also showed me a set of Apostle-spoons, which,
although objects of curiosity, had, in conformity with the prevailing
fashion, undergone the alteration of the silversmith. There were twelve
of them, each of which represented an Apostle, boldly carved on the
handle; a large round hat is placed on each of their heads, which was
probably to save the features from being injured. They are standing on
the stem of the spoon, which is carved somewhat like a Doric pillar. The
bowls are very large and deep, and are rather awkwardly turned in at the
sides. A complete set, in good condition, is very rare and valuable; and
it is to be regretted that so many of these relics have fallen into the
silversmith's furnace, merely for the sake of their silver.

Apostle-spoons were presented by sponsors or visiters at christenings
and at marriages; and those who could not afford a complete set, gave
one or two, as their circumstances might permit. Some presented a spoon
with the figure of the saint after whom the child was baptized, or to
whom it was dedicated. In his "Bartholomew Fair," Ben Jonson has a
character to say, "And all this for a couple of apostle-spoons and a
cup to eat caudle in." Likewise in the "Noble Gentleman," by Beaumont
and Fletcher,

  "I'll be a gossip, Bewford--
  I have an odd apostle-spoon."


In "The Gossips," a poem, by Shipman, in 1666, there is the following
mention of the custom of presenting apostle-spoons at christenings,
which it appears was then on the decline:--

  "_Formerly_, when they used to troul
  Gilt bowls of sack, they gave the bowl
  Two _spoons_ at least--an _use ill kept_;
  'Tis well if now our own be left."


On St. Paul's, or any other apostle's day, it was usual for persons
of quality to send round a present of a spoon with the figure of
such apostle to their friends. In some Catholic families these and
the before-mentioned customs are still retained, though I question
whether the spoons are enriched with such superb workmanship.

W.H.H.

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THE TOPOGRAPHER.

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HORSHAM, SUSSEX.

The town of Horsham is pleasantly situated on the liver Arun, in the
county of Sussex, about 36 miles S. by W. of London. It is a borough,
and contains the county gaol. The spring assizes are likewise held here.
Horsham is of considerable antiquity. It was founded by Horsa, the
Saxon, about the year A.D. 450, to employ his soldiers while he was
enslaved by the captivating chains of a lovely country girl, the
daughter of a woodman in the forest. The town was named after himself,
Horsa, and the Saxon word Ham, signifying a home. Horsa was killed in
Kent, in a battle fought between the Britons and the Saxons, and was
buried at Horsted, named also after him, Horsa, and Sted, signifying a
place. The foundation of the church is uncertain; but it can be traced
as far back as the reign of Henry I. A.D. 1100. The oldest tombstone in
the church is to the memory of Robert Hurst, of Hurst Hill, in this
county, who died 1483.[1] The church is at the southern extremity of the
town, at the foot of Denne, or Dane Hill, on the summit of which is an
artificial mound, raised by the Danes after the death of Guthrum, their
chief, to defend themselves from Alfred the Great. The top of this mound
commands an extensive view, a most prominent feature of which is a part
of the forest of St. Leonard, called Mike Mills' Race, a beautiful
avenue, a mile and a quarter long, containing about 15,000 full-grown
trees. There is a legend connected with this "race," viz. that this
part of Horsham Forest was the haunt of Mike Mills, a noted smuggler,
whom his Satanic Majesty had often endeavoured to carry off in vain.
He therefore determined on attacking him in his strong hold; and
accordingly met Mike one night accompanied by other more congenial
spirits, when old Nick challenged Mike as his property. Mike, nothing
daunted, set down his tubs, took advantage of Nick's old age, and
challenged him to a race. "If you can catch me, Nick, before I get to
the end of the avenue, you shall have me; if not, you'll have nothing
more to do with me."--"Agreed," says Nick. Away ran Mike--away ran Nick.
Nick being of too hot a temperament was soon knocked up, and Mike won
the race by half a mile; from which circumstance the place was named,
and Mike Mills rendered immortal.

W. BERGER.

    [1] The steeple of the church, which is 150 feet high, is shingled,
        which is the prevailing mode of the village churches in Sussex.
        It has also one of the finest windows in Sussex.

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THE SELECTOR, AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_

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DEATH OF CAPTAIN CLAPPERTON AT SOCCATOO.

Agreeably to our promise at the close of the _Memoir of Captain
Clapperton_, prefixed to Vol. XI. of THE MIRROR, we subjoin the
following very interesting narrative of the death of this enterprizing
traveller, as narrated by Richard Lander, his servant. It forms,
perhaps, the most attractive portion of the _Journal of the Second
Expedition_, just published; and to the readers of the foregoing
memoir, will afford still further illustration of all that we have
there said of the high character of Clapperton, and his faithful
attendant, Lander.

On the 12th of March 1827, I was greatly alarmed on finding my dear
master attacked with dysentery. He had been complaining a day or two
previously of a burning heat in his stomach, unaccompanied, however,
by any other kind of pain. From the moment he was taken ill he perspired
freely, and big drops of sweat were continually rolling over every part
of his body, which weakened him exceedingly. It being the fast of
Rhamadan, I could get no one, not even our own servants, to render
me the least assistance. I washed the clothes, which was an arduous
employment, and obliged to be done eight or nine times each day, lit
and kept in the fire, and prepared the victuals myself; and in the
intermediate time was occupied in fanning my poor master, which was also
a tedious employment. Finding myself unable to pay proper attention to
his wants in these various avocations, I sent to Mallam Mudey, on the
13th, entreating him to send me a female slave to perform the operation
of fanning. On her arrival I gave her a few beads, and she immediately
began her work with spirit; but she soon relaxed in her exertions, and
becoming tired, ran away, on pretence of going out for a minute, and
never returned. Alla Sellakee, a young man my master had purchased
on the road from Kano to take care of the camels, and whom he had
invariably treated with his usual kindness, and given him his freedom,
no sooner was made acquainted with his master's illness than he became
careless and idle, and instead of leading the camels to the rich
pasturage in the vicinity of Soccatoo, let them stray whereever they
pleased, whilst he himself either loitered about the city, or mixed with
the most degraded people in it: by this means the camels became quite
lean; and being informed of the reason, I told my master, who instantly
discharged him from his service.

My master grew weaker daily, and the weather was insufferably hot, the
thermometer being, in the coolest place, 107 at twelve in the morning,
and 109 at three in the afternoon. At his own suggestion I made a couch
for him outside the hut, in the shade, and placed a mat for myself by
its side. For five successive days I took him in my arms from his bed in
the hut to the couch outside, and back again at sunset, after which time
he was too much debilitated to be lifted from the bed on which he lay.
He attempted to write once, and but once, during his illness; but before
paper and ink could be brought him, he had sunk back on his pillow,
completely exhausted by his ineffectual attempt to sit up in his bed.
Fancying by various symptoms he had been poisoned, I asked him one day
whether he thought that, in any of his visits the Arabs or Tuaricks, any
poisonous ingredients had been put into the camel's milk they had given
him, of which he was particularly fond. He replied, "No, my dear boy; no
such thing has been done, I assure you. Do you remember," he continued,
"that when on a shooting excursion at Magaria, in the early part of
February, after walking the whole of the day, exposed to the scorching
rays of the sun, I was fatigued, and lay down under the branches of a
tree for some time? The earth was soft and wet, and from that hour to
the present I have not been free from cold: this has brought on my
present disorder, from which, I believe, I shall never recover."

For twenty days my poor master remained in a low and distressed state.
He told me he felt no pain; but this was spoken only to comfort me, for
he saw I was dispirited. His sufferings must have been acute. During
this time he was gradually, but perceptibly, declining; his body,
from being robust and vigorous, became weak and emaciated, and indeed
was little better than a skeleton. I was the only person, with one
exception, he saw in his sickness. Abderachman, an Arab from Fezzan,
came to him one day, and wished to pray with him, after the manner of
his countrymen, but was desired to leave the apartment instantly. His
sleep was uniformly short and disturbed, and troubled with frightful
dreams. In them he frequently reproached the Arabs aloud with much
bitterness; but being an utter stranger to the language, I did not
understand the tenor of his remarks. I read to him daily some portions
of the New Testament, and the 95th Psalm, which he was never weary of
listening to, and on Sundays added the church service, to which he
invariably paid the profoundest attention. The constant agitation of
mind and exertions of body I had myself undergone for so long a time,
never having in a single instance slept out of my clothes, weakened me
exceedingly, and a fever came on not long before my master's death,
which hung upon me for fifteen days, and ultimately brought me to the
very verge of the grave. Finding myself unequal to pay that attention
to my master's wants which his situation so particularly required,
I solicited and obtained his consent to have old Pascoe once more to
assist me. On entering the hut, he fell on his knees, and prayed to
be forgiven, promising to be faithful to my master's service. Master
immediately pardoned him, and said he would forget all that had passed,
if he conducted himself well: by this means the washing and all the
drudgery was taken from my shoulders, and I was enabled to devote all
my time and attention to my master's person. I fanned him for hours
together, and this seemed to cool the burning heat of his body, of which
he repeatedly complained. Almost the whole of his conversation turned
upon his country and friends, but I never heard him regret his leaving
them; indeed he was patient and resigned to the last, and a murmur of
disappointment never escaped his lips.

On the 1st of April, he became considerably worse, and though
evidently in want of repose, his sleep became more and more disturbed.
He swallowed eight drops of laudanum, four times a day, for three days;
but finding it did him not the least benefit, he discontinued taking it
altogether: this, with the exception of two papers of Seidlitz powders
and four ounces of Epsom salts, was the only medicine he had during
his illness. On the 9th, Maddic, a native of Bornou, whom master had
retained in his service, brought him about twelve ounces of green
bark from the butter tree, and said it would do him much good.
Notwithstanding all my remonstrances, master immediately ordered a
decoction of it to be prepared, observing, "No man will injure me."
Accordingly Maddie himself boiled two basins-full, the whole of which
he drank in less than an hour. Next morning he was much altered for the
worse, and regretted his not having followed my advice. About twelve
o'clock of the same day, he said, "Richard, I shall shortly be no more;
I feel myself dying." Almost choked with grief, I replied, "God forbid,
my dear master: you will live many years yet." "Don't be so much
affected, my dear boy, I entreat you," said he: "it is the will of the
Almighty; it cannot be helped. Take care of my journal and papers after
my death; and when you arrive in London, go immediately to my agents,
send for my uncle, who will accompany you to the colonial office, and
let him see you deposit them safely into the hands of the secretary.
After I am buried, apply to Bello, and borrow money to purchase camels
and provisions for your journey over the desert, and go in the train of
the Arab merchants to Fezzan. On your arrival there, should your money
be exhausted, send a messenger to Mr. Warrington, our consul at Tripoli,
and wait till he returns with a remittance. On reaching Tripoli, that
gentleman will advance what money you may require, and send you to
England the first opportunity. Do not lumber yourself with my books;
leave them behind, as well as the barometer, boxes, and sticks, and
indeed every heavy article you can conveniently part with; give them to
Malam Mudey, who will take care of them. The wages I agreed to give you
my agents will pay, as well as the sum government allowed me for a
servant; you will of course receive it, as Columbus has never served me.
Remark what towns or villages you pass through; pay attention to
whatever the chiefs may say to you, and put it on paper. The little
money I have, and all my clothes, I leave you: sell the latter, and put
what you may receive for them into your pocket; and if, on your journey,
you should be obliged to expend it, government will repay you on your
return." I said, as well as my agitation would permit me, "If it be the
will of God to take you, you may rely on my faithfully performing, as
far as I am able, all that you have desired; but I trust the Almighty
will spare you, and you will yet live to see your country." "I thought
I should at one time, Richard," continued he; "but all is now over;
I shall not be long for this world; but God's will be done." He then
took my hand betwixt his, and looking me full in the face, while a tear
stood glistening in his eye, said, in a low but deeply affecting tone,
"My dear Richard, if you had not been with me, I should have died long
ago; I can only thank you, with my latest breath, for your kindness and
attachment to me, and if I could have lived to return with you, you
should have been placed beyond the reach of want; but God will reward
you." This conversation occupied nearly two hours, in the course of
which my master fainted several times, and was distressed beyond
measure. The same evening he fell into a slumber, from which he awoke
in much perturbation, and said he had heard with much distinctness the
tolling of an English funeral bell: I entreated him to be composed, and
observed that sick people frequently fancy they hear and see things
which can possibly have no existence. He made no reply.

About six o'clock in the morning of the 11th, on asking how he did, my
master answered he was much better, and requested me to shave him. He
had not sufficient strength to lift his head from the pillow; and after
finishing one side of the face, I was obliged to turn his head, in order
to shave the other. As soon as it was done, he desired me to fetch him a
looking-glass which hung on the other side of the hut. On seeing himself
in it, he observed that he looked quite as ill at Bornou, on his former
journey: and as he had borne his disorder so long a time, he might yet
recover. On the following day he still fancied himself getting better.
I began to flatter myself, also, that he was considerably improved. He
eat a bit of hashed guinea-fowl in the day, which he had not done before
since his illness, deriving his sole sustenance from a little fowl-soup
and milk and water. On the morning of the 13th, however, being awake,
I was much alarmed by a peculiar rattling noise, proceeding from my
master's throat, and his breathing was loud and difficult; at the same
instant he called out, "Richard!" in a low and hurried tone. I was
immediately at his side, and was astonished at seeing him sitting
upright in his bed, and staring wildly around. I held him in my arms,
and placing his head gently on my left shoulder, gazed a moment on his
pale and altered features; some indistinct expressions quivered on his
lips; he strove, but ineffectually, to give them utterance, and expired
without a struggle or a sigh. When I found my poor master so very ill,
I called out with all my strength, "O God, my master is dying!" which
brought Pascoe and Mudey into the apartment. Shortly after the breath
had left his body, I desired Pasco to fetch some water, with which I
washed the corpse. I then got Pascoe and Mudey to assist me in taking it
outside of the hut, laid it on a clean mat, and wrapped it in a sheet
and blanket. Leaving it in this state two hours, I put a large clean mat
over the whole, and sent a messenger to Sultan Bello, to acquaint him of
the mournful event, and ask his permission to bury the body after the
manner of my own country, and also to know in what particular place
his remains were to be interred. The messenger soon returned with the
sultan's consent to the former part of my request; and about twelve
o'clock at noon of the same day a person came into my hut, accompanied
by four slaves, sent by Bello to dig the grave. I was desired to follow
them with the corpse. Accordingly, I saddled my camel, and putting
the body on its back, and throwing a union-jack over it, I bade them
proceed. Travelling at a slow pace, we halted at Jungavie, a small
village, built on a rising ground, about five miles to the south-east
of Soccatoo. The body was then taken from the camel's back, and placed
in a shed, whilst the slaves were digging the grave; which being quickly
done, it was conveyed close to it. I then opened a prayer-book, and,
amid showers of tears, read the funeral service over the remains of
my valued master. Not a single person listened to this peculiarly
distressing ceremony, the slaves being at some distance, quarrelling and
making a most indecent noise the whole of the time it lasted. This being
done, the union-jack was taken off, and the body was slowly lowered into
the earth, and I wept bitterly as I gazed for the last time upon all
that remained of my generous and intrepid master. The pit was speedily
filled, and I returned to the village, about thirty yards to the east of
the grave, and giving the most respectable inhabitants, both male and
female, a few trifling presents, entreated them to let no one disturb
its sacred contents, I also gave them 2,000 cowries to build a house,
four feet high, over the spot, which they promised to do. I then
returned, disconsolate and oppressed, to my solitary habitation, and
leaning my head on my hand, could not help being deeply affected with my
lonesome and dangerous situation; a hundred and fifteen days' journey
from the sea-coast, surrounded by a selfish and cruel race of strangers,
my only friend and protector mouldering in his grave, and myself
suffering dreadfully from fever. I felt, indeed, as if I stood alone in
the world, and earnestly wished I had been laid by the side of my dear
master: all the trying evils I had endured never affected me half so
much as the bitter reflections of that distressing period. After a
sleepless night, I went alone to the grave, and found that nothing had
been done, nor did there seem the least inclination on the part of the
inhabitants of the village to perform their agreement. Knowing it would
be useless to remonstrate with them, I hired two slaves at Soccatoo the
next day, who went immediately to work, and the house over the grave
was finished on the 15th.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


SONG.

  My Mary of the curling hair,
  The laughing teeth, and bashful air,
  Our bridal morn is dawning fair,
    With blushes in the skies.
  _Shule! Shule! Shule, agra!
  Shule asucur, agus shule, aroon!_[2]
    My love! my pearl!
    My own dear girl!
  My mountain maid arise!

  Wake, linnet of the osier grove!
  Wake, trembling, stainless, virgin dove!
  Wake, nestling of a parent's love!
    Let Moran see thine eyes.
  _Shule, Shule, &c._

  I am no stranger, proud and gay,
  To win thee from thy home away,
  And find thee, for a distant day,
    A theme for wasting signs.
  _Shule, Shule, &c._

  But we were known from infancy,
  Thy father's hearth was home to me,
  No selfish love was mine for thee,
    Unholy and unwise.
  _Shule, Shule, &c._

  And yet, (to see what love can do!)
  Though calm my hope has burned, and true,
  My cheek is pale and worn for you,
    And sunken are mine eyes!
  _Shule, Shule, &c._

  But soon my love shall be my bride
  And happy by our own fire-side,
  My veins shall feel the rosy tide,
    That lingering Hope denies.
  _Shule, Shule, &c._

  My Mary of the curling hair,
  The laughing teeth and bashful air,
  Our bridal morn is dawning fair,
    With blushes in the skies.
  _Shule! Shule! Shule, agra!
  Shule, asucur, agus shule, aroon!_
    My love! my pearl!
    My own dear girl!
  My mountain maid, arise!--_The Collegians_


    [2] Come! come! Come, my darling--
        Come, softly,--and come, my love!


       *       *       *       *       *




SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Pyrothonide._

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


_French Carpet._

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


_French Pigs._

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


_Indian Plaster._

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


_Method of preserving Currants fresh till January or February._

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

H.B.A.


_Chromate of Iron._

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


_Temperature of Springs._

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


_Humboldt's Journey to Siberia._

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


_Egyptian Manuscript relative to the History of Sesostris._

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *




SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE VICAR.

A SECOND EVERY-DAY CHARACTER.


  Some years ago, ere time and taste
    Had turn'd our parish topsy-turvy,
  When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
    And roads as little known as scurvy,
  The man who lost his way between
    St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket,
  Was always shown across the Green,
    And guided to the parson's wicket.

  Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;
    Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,
  Led the lorn traveller up the path,
    Through clean clipt rows of box and myrtle.
  And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
    Upon the parlour steps collected,
  Wagg'd all their tails, and seem'd to say,
    "Our master knows you; you're expected."

  Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown,
    Uprose the doctor's "winsome marrow;"
  The lady laid her knitting down,
    Her husband clasp'd his pond'rous Barrow:
  What'er the stranger's cast or creed,
    Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,
  He found a stable for his steed,
    And welcome for himself, and dinner.

  If, when he reach'd his journey's end,
    And warm'd himself in court or college,
  He had not gain'd an honest friend,
    And twenty curious scraps of knowledge;--
  If he departed as he came,
    With no new light on love or liquor,--
  Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,
    And not the vicarage, nor the vicar.

  His talk was like a stream which runs
    With rapid change from rocks to roses:
  It slipp'd from politics to puns;
    It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses:
  Beginning with the laws which keep
    The planets in their radiant courses,
  And ending with some precept deep
    For dressing eels, or shoeing horses.

  He was a shrewd and sound divine,
    Of loud dissent the mortal terror;
  And when, by dint of page and line,
    He 'stablish'd truth, or startled error,
  The Baptist found him far too deep,
    The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow;
  And the lean Levite went to sleep,
    And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow.

  His sermon never said or show'd
    That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious,
  Without refreshment on the road
    From Jerome, or from Athanasius:
  And sure a righteous zeal inspired
    The hand and head that penn'd and plann'd them;
  For all who understood admired,
    And some who did not understand them.

  He wrote too, in a quiet way,
    Small treatises, and smaller verses;
  And sage remarks on chalk and clay.
    And hints to noble lords and nurses:
  True histories of last year's ghost,
    Lines to a ringlet, or a turban;
  And trifles for the Morning Post,
    And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

  He did not think all mischief fair,
    Although he had a knack of joking;
  He did not make himself a bear,
    Although he had a taste for smoking:
  And when religious sects ran mad,
    He held, in spite of all his learning,
  That if a man's belief is bad,
    It will not be improved by burning.

  And he was kind, and loved to sit
    In the low hut or garnish'd cottage,
  And praise the farmer's homely wit,
    And share the widow's homelier pottage:
  At his approach complaint grew mild;
    And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter,
  The clammy lips of fever smiled
    The welcome, which they could not utter.

  He always had a tale for me
    Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus;
  From him I learn'd the rule of three,
    Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus:
  I used to singe his powder'd wig,
    To steal the staff he put such trust in;
  And make the puppy dance a jig,
    When he began to quote Augustin.

  Alack the change! in vain I look
    For haunts in which my boyhood trifled;
  The level lawn, the trickling brook,
    The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled:
  The church is larger than before;
    You reach it by a carriage entry;
  It holds three hundred people more,
    And pews are fitted up for gentry.

  Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear
    The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
  Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
    Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.
  Where is the old man laid?--look down.
  And construe on the slab before you,
  _Hic jacet_
    GULIELMUS BROWN,
  _Vir nulla non donandus lauru_.


_New Monthly Magazine._

       *       *       *       *       *


TAILORS.

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


THE ACTOR.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *




THE NOVELIST.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE BROKEN HEART.

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

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

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

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

Henri took his departure on the next day, quite overpowered at the idea
of having bidden Annette adieu for ever. During the four or five first
days, the young traveller was pensive enough: Annette's smiling
countenance occupied his thoughts, but he could no longer dissemble
from himself, that he had acted unkindly towards Louise--"Annette will
console herself; but will the gentle Louise forgive me? Oh, yes!--she is
so good; I will tell her every thing, and she will admire my fidelity,
when she knows how fascinating Annette was, and in what a situation I
was placed." Full of this fond hope, he pursued his journey more gaily,
and the nearer he approached his own dear province, the more was Annette
effaced from his thoughts; for every thing around him inspired him with
the sweetest reminiscences. It was just the beginning of May: each
lover, on the first Sunday of that month, planted a young fir, or
birch-tree, adorned with flowers, before his fair one's door. Henri
thought how many he had fixed before the window of his dear Louise,
and how happy he had been on hearing it said, the next day, that the
loveliest girl in the village had had the finest May-offering. Oh! could
he but arrive soon enough to announce his return in that way! He tried
to do so, but his efforts were fruitless: the first Sunday arrived,
and he was still two days' journey from Verny. In the evening he found
himself in a large town, called Nuneville, fatigued with his now useless
endeavours, and resolved to proceed no further that day. Every thing
seemed prepared for the festival--the street was neat and clean--the
fountains adorned with branches, and decorated with large nosegays,
tied together with beautiful ribands--fir-trees marked the dwellings of
the young females--all had flowers around them, but he remarked, that
_one_ had only white ones on it, fastened with a crape riband--the
street was deserted. Before he could reach the inn, which was at
the other end of the town, he had to pass by the church and the
burial-ground; the former seemed full of women, and in the latter there
was an open grave. This melancholy sight rendered it evident, that some
one was dead; that her loss had suspended the public joy; and the
_bouquet_, encircled with crape, had been planted before the "house
of mourning." He entered the church-yard--groups of females were walking
there. They were conversing in a low tone, and Henri discovered that the
deceased was young and beautiful; and that she had been the victim of a
misplaced affection; he could not restrain his tears, for he thought how
near, perhaps, he had been occasioning the death of his Louise. "But,"
said one of the females, "why did she not imitate her fickle lover? Why
did she not receive the addresses of your brother Guillaume?"--"She
always told me," replied Isabelle, (the person addressed, and who was in
deeper mourning than the others,) "that she could only love once, and
that she had no longer a heart to give."--"Well, then," said another,
"was she sure that her lover was faithless?"--"Quite sure. She had
long feared that he was; she saw it in his letters, for when a woman
like Marie loves, the heart divines every thing; still, however, she
flattered herself with the fond hope that he would return, and that
her forgiveness of his neglect would revive in him all his former
affection. Three months ago this hope was destroyed, she heard that he
was--_married_. Since that time she has only languished; she wished
to live for the sake of her parents, but her grief has proved the most
powerful. He quitted me in the month of May," said she to me; "in the
month of May I shall quit life." "That time is come, and Marie is no
more."--"Tell us her whole history," exclaimed two or three of the
listeners, at once. Isabelle consented; they were crowding round her,
and Henri was approaching nearer, and redoubling his attention, when
the funeral bell tolled drearily and solemnly. He started, and Isabelle
said, with a sigh, "I must tell you my dear friend's story another time;
we must now accompany her remains to their last sad home, and place
these flowers upon her coffin."

They walked on mournfully, two and two, and Henri followed them with an
interest that he could not account for, or define. The coffin advanced,
preceded by the priests, bearing torches that were obscured by the
silvery light of the moon; it was carried by six men, and among them it
was easy to recognise Guillaume, by his profound sorrow; for, to Henri's
great surprise, he alone wept. The more aged men who followed the
corpse, the one even next it, and who, of course, was the father, or
nearest relative of the deceased, had, like the rest, merely a composed
and serious countenance, undisfigured by any great affliction. The body
was lowered into the grave; the officiating minister made a brief, and
somewhat cold, discourse on the frailty of life; the young females
afterwards came forward, and each threw her wreath of flowers on the
coffin; and then chanted some rhymes.

The grave was then about to be filled up; the noise of the earth, in
falling, resounded on the coffin, and Henri shuddered. The crowd
gradually dispersed; Guillaume and Isabelle alone remained beside the
tomb; Henri approached it, and Isabelle observing him, with a forced
smile, said, "Did you know her? I have seen you follow the funeral train
with apparent interest, and now I behold you in tears; are you a
relation, friend, or only even a native of the same place?" Henri
listened to these questions with great surprise; "I scarcely understand
you," he at length replied; "I am merely a traveller; but the deceased
was, doubtless, _your_ friend?"--"Yes, my best, my dearest friend;
yet our friendship was doomed to be of very short continuance. I was
not at all acquainted with her until, about three months ago, she
came to reside with my father, who is a physician, and to whose care
her relations, when aware of her forlorn state, confided her." "Her
relations," remarked Henri, "did not seem to be much affected; they
appeared, indeed, quite resigned to their loss." "Her relations!"
replied Isabelle, "she had none here; she was a stranger, and my father
attended as chief mourner; he lamented her loss, but Marie was not his
daughter, although I _myself_ loved her as a sister." "Marie!" she
was called Marie! but what was her family-name? Often shall I think of
her unhappy destiny. "Marie was only a name that she adopted, and we
called her, because she could never bear to hear her own." "Isabelle,"
said she to me, almost at our first meeting, "never name me as he who
has destroyed me named me; never, I entreat you, call me _dear
Louise_." "Louise!" exclaimed Henri, growing pale as death; "Louise!"
"Yes, Louise Courtin, of Verny!" No sooner had Isabelle uttered these
words, than she beheld the young traveller fall senseless beside the
grave, feebly repeating the name of Louise. Isabelle, in alarm, called
her brother to her assistance; they raised up the stranger, who opened
his eyes for a moment, and again muttered the same words. "Gracious
Providence!" exclaimed the affrighted girl, "it is--it must be--Henri!"
The youth made an effort, and cried out, in a frantic manner: "Yes!
Henri, the murderer of his beloved; the assassin of Louise!" He then
again fell down exhausted, and to all appearance dead. Guillaume had
him conveyed to his father's, where every assistance that skill could
devise, was tendered him; but he only recovered his recollection
sufficiently to learn from Isabelle, that a person named Louis had
brought positive intelligence to Verny, that Henri had espoused his
master's daughter at Lyons; that her father himself had made him
acquainted with the circumstance, and that he had seen the newly married
couple in all the raptures of connubial happiness. It was impossible to
discredit this news, which was a death-blow to the sensitive Louise.

After having listened to this melancholy narrative, Henri, when he had
regained sufficient composure, entrusted Isabelle with his vindication,
for Louise's parents and his own, and expired without a groan the next
day. The same moon which had illuminated his betrothed's funeral shone
upon his, and they repose beside each other in the picturesque
burial-ground of Nuneville, not quite forgotten or unlamented by its
inhabitants.--_Abridged from a collection of interesting Tales and
Sketches, entitled "A Cantab's Leisure."_

       *       *       *       *       *




THE ANECDOTE GALLERY.

       *       *       *       *       *


BEARS ON THE ICE.

_From the Tales of a Voyager._

With two boats, we assailed six of these animals, who had collected
round the "crang," or carcass of a whale. After lying at the bottom
of the sea for some time, the body of the whale rises to the surface,
probably buoyed up by gas generated by putrefaction in its entrails.
This circumstance is by no means uncommon, especially late in the
summer, when time has been allowed for fermentation; but it seems to
point out that the depths of the Arctic Ocean contain few or no animals
to prey upon the numerous carcasses which are let sink after flinching,
since, otherwise, the mass would become pierced and unable to float,
if not wholly devoured. We slew five of the six bears, and brought a
half-grown cub on board alive. This poor harmless beast was wounded in
two or three places superficially with a boat hook, but its disposition
seemed scarcely to have warranted these trifling blows. I was moved to
compassion as it sat upon the jaw-bone of a whale, which projected
beneath the tafrail, at one moment devouring pieces of its mother and
sister with avidity, and at the next stretching its throat and blaring
out mournfully, when a fragment of ice met its view, passing astern as
we sailed on our course. It was about the size of a sheep, and after
their tea the sailors got it down below, and turned it loose betwixt
decks, from whence it sent up all hands with precipitation, some of them
quitting their berths half-naked, as if a fall had been called. After
a sufficient allowance of frolic had gratified the crew, a daring
Shetlander collared the bear as if it had been a dog, and fastened a
fresh rope round its neck, and having forced it to leap overboard, the
rope's end was thrown to the boat's crew of a visiter, at that moment
about to leave us, and it was towed or rather led away. The following
day I saw its skin stretched on the shrouds of the vessel, to whose
captain it had been presented. The other bear chace was after a
monstrous male, who resolutely faced us, and would have boarded our boat
had it not shot past him. He was flanked by the ship, which had run down
upon him as he lay exactly in her course, and by the boat, which had got
between him and the ice, and seeing no other resource, he turned upon
the boat. When discovered, he was so near the floe that, wishing to
intercept him, we leaped into the boat, and lowered away without waiting
for a gun; we were, therefore, obliged to meet him at close quarters.
But while we stood prepared, Shipley with a lance, and myself with the
boat's hatchet, to receive his onset, the skiff was allowed to keep on
her headway, and we passed beyond our foe, who took advantage of the
error, and dashed forward to the ice, which he gained just as our boat
in pursuit of him ran her nose up against the floe, and almost tripped
his heels.

It was said by the harpooner, who first caught sight of this bear, that
he was floating on his back in the water; and Greenlanders maintain, how
truly or wrongly I know not, that bears sometimes throw themselves into
this position to avoid being seen. Another reason for this attitude they
affirm to be, a power possessed by bears of flinging themselves suddenly
forward, by a violent jerk, whilst extended on their backs, so as to
bring themselves at once into a boat; but this is a feat of which I do
not believe them capable. Whilst speaking of bears, I may mention here,
that the mate of the Dundee nearly lost his life this summer, from the
fury of a she brownie, who attacked him on the ice. After killing her
cub, he had fired at her, and struck her on the jaw, which remained
gasping, as if dislocated, and believing her _hors de combat_, he
got upon the floe, to take possession of her slain offspring. The she
bear, however, though she had fled, now returned, and rushing towards
her enemy, threw him down, but was unable to mangle him; for though her
mouth was wide open, she had lost the ability to close it. Nevertheless,
she mounted upon his prostrate body, and trampled it severely, before
the crew of his boat could come to his rescue. When they did arrive, a
sailor who brought the gun lost his presence of mind at the sight before
him, and stood staring at the scene inactive; others, more bold, thrust
the bear aside with lances; and the mate being freed from its weight,
arose, took the gun from its bearer, and shot away the unlucky lower jaw
of the beast completely. She then fell a victim to the weapons of his
men. When I received this account from him, he was nearly recovered from
the violence he had suffered from the enraged brute, but not till after
having been for some time confined to his hammock.


       *       *       *       *       *




THE GATHERER.


  A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
  SHAKSPEARE.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANCIENT AND MODERN THEATRES.

It appears, that our ancient theatres were little better than
_barns_, while those of the present day may vie with palaces in
extent, splendour, and decoration; and nothing can more strongly exhibit
the contrast between the present age and that of Queen Elizabeth, than
the difference in the expense of a London theatre. The Rose playhouse,
which was erected about the year 1592, cost only 103l. 2s. 7d.,--a sum
which would scarcely pay half the expenses of a modern patent theatre
for a single night. Only let the reader think of the rush roof of the
_Globe_, and the gilt-work ceilings of our present theatres; the
open area,--and the cloth-covered seats of the pit; and the magnificence
of our saloons, halls, staircases, and corridors,--all in the noblest
style of architectural decoration--_Companion to the Theatres._

       *       *       *       *       *


Covent Garden was once the emporium of the arts and sciences, and the
residence of the chief nobility of the kingdom. Barton Booth lived at
No. 4, Charles-street; Colley Cibber lived at No. 3; and Easty's Hotel,
Southampton-street, was Mr. Garrick's; Mrs. Oldfield lived in the same
street; Wilkes built the house in Bow-street, next door but one to the
theatre--Garrick and Macklin lodged in it.--_Ibid._

       *       *       *       *       *


At Kirlees, Yorkshire, about three miles from Hutherfield, is, or was
lately, a funeral monument of the famous outlaw, Robin Hood, with the
following inscription:--

  Here, undernead dis laid stean,
  Lais Robert, Earl of Huntingtun;
  Nea arter az hie sa geud,
  Ah pipl kauld him Robin Heud.
  Sick outlawz hi an iz men
  Vil England niven si agen.
    Obiit 24 kal Decembrio, 1247.

HALBERT H.

       *       *       *       *       *


REGENT-STREET.

The expenditure of the Commissioners of Woods and Forests in forming
this splendid street, is stated to have been 1,533,582l. 16s. 10d.;
and the probable revenue is 36,330l.

       *       *       *       *       *


STEALING PICTURES.

The celebrated Raphael of the Louvre--_Christ and his Disciples_--is
said to have been, at some unknown time, abstracted from its frame, and
a modern _copy_ substituted. The picture has been valued at
£20,000. and it is surmised that it has found a hiding-place in England.
Harlowe's _Kemble Family_ is also missing at the present moment.

_Literary Gazette._

       *       *       *       *       *


RAMSAY'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF, IN A POEM ADDRESSED TO MR. JAMES ARBUCKLE.

  Imprimis, then, for tallness, I
  Am five feet four inches high;
  A black-a-vic'd, snod, dapper fallow,
  Nor lean, nor overlaid wi' tallow;
  Wi' phiz of a Morocco cut,
  Resembling a late man of wit,
  Auld gabbet Spec, wha was sae cunning,
  To be a dummie ten years running.
  Then for the fabric of my mind,
  'Tis mair to mirth than grief inclin'd:
  I rather choose to laugh at folly,
  Than shew dislike by melancholy;
  Weel judging a sour heavy face
  Is not the truest mark of grace.
  I hate a drunkard or a glutton,
  Yet I'm nae fae to wine and mutton:
  Great tables ne'er engaged my wishes
  When crowded with o'er mony dishes;
  A healthfu' stomach sharply set
  Prefers a back-sey pipin het.
  I never could imagine 't vicious
  Of a fair fame to be ambitious:
  Proud to be thought a comic poet,    }
  And let a judge of numbers know it,  }
  I court occasion thus to show it.    }
  Second of thirdly--Pray take heed,
  Ye's get a short swatch of my creed.
  To follow method negatively,
  Ye ken takes place of positively:
  Weel then, I'm neither Whig nor Tory,
  Nor credit give to purgatory.
  Frae twenty-four to five-and-forty,
  My muse was neither sweer nor dorty,
  My Pegasus would break his tether,
  E'en at the shagging of a feather,
  And through ideas scour like drift,
  Streaking his wings up to the lift;
  Then, then my soul was in a low,
  That gart my members safely row;
  But eild and judgment 'gin to say,
  Let be your sangs, and learn to pray.

I.S.W.

       *       *       *       *       *


ESPRIT DE CORPS.

    Old Captain Humdrum,
    Being sent home in rum,
  The tars as they brought him on shore,
    Got drunk with the pickle:
    "'Tis natural," says Jekyll,
  "They should all feel the _Esprit de Corps_."

_Weekly Review._

       *       *       *       *       *

LIMBIRD'S EDITION OF THE

_Following Novels are already Published_:


                                     _s_. _d_.
Mackenzie's Man of Feeling              0         6
Paul and Virginia                       0         6
The Castle of Otranto                   0         6
Almoran and Hamet                       0         6
Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia     0         6
The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne      0         6
Rasselas                                0         8
The Old English Baron                   0         8
Nature and Art                          0         8
Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield          0        10
Sicilian Romance                        1         0
The Man of the World                    1         0
A Simple Story                          1         4
Joseph Andrews                          1         6
Humphry Clinker                         1         8
The Romance of the Forest               1         8
The Italian                             2         0
Zeluco, by Dr. Moore                    2         6
Edward, by Dr. Moore                    2         0
Roderick Random                         2         6
The Mysteries of Udolpho                3         6


       *       *       *       *       *

_Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset
House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, Leipsic, and
by all Newsmen and Booksellers._

       *       *       *       *       *









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