{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11264/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11264","id":"gutenberg_11264","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11264","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Journals","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Popular literature -- Great Britain -- Periodicals","The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction"],"text":"THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION\n\nVOL. XII. No. 327.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 1828. [PRICE 2d.\n\n\n\nROSAMOND'S WELL AND LABYRINTH.\n\n\n[Illustration: Rosamond's Well and Labyrinth at Woodstock.]\n\nFor the originals of the annexed engravings we are indebted to the\nsketchbooks of two esteemed correspondents.[1] The sites are so\nconsecrated, or we should rather say perpetuated, in history, and the\nfates and fortunes of Rosamond Clifford are so familiar to our readers,\nthat we shall add but few words on the locality of the Well and Bower.\nTheir existence is thus attested by Drayton, the poet, in the reign of\nQueen Elizabeth:--\"Rosamond's Labyrinth, whose ruins, together with her\nWell, being paved with square stones in the bottom, and also her Tower,\nfrom which the Labyrinth did run, are yet remaining, being vaults arched\nand walled with stone and brick, almost inextricably wound within one\nanother, by which, if at any time her lodging were laid about by the\nqueen, she might easily avoid peril imminent, and, if need be, by secret\nissues, take the air abroad, many furlongs about Woodstock, in\nOxfordfordshire.\"\n\nSir Walter Scott (of whom, as of Goldsmith, it may hereafter be said, he\n\"left no species of writing untouched or unadorned by his pen\") has\nresuscitated the interest attached to this spot, in his masterly novel\nof _Woodstock_.[2] It is here that the beautiful Alice meets the\nfacetious Charles in his disguise of an old woman; and on the bank over\nthe Well is the spot where tradition relates fair Rosamond yielded to\nthe menaces of Eleanor. Our correspondent, _T.W._, jocosely observes,\nthat he sends us the Labyrinth \"without the silken cord which guided the\ncruel Eleanor to her rival, in the hope that the ingenuity of the reader\nwill be sufficient to serve him in its stead. Observe,\" continues he,\n\"the maze is entered at one of the side gates, and the bower must be\nreached without any of the barriers (--) being passed over--that is, by\nan uninterrupted pathway.\"[3]\n\nThe bower consists of fine tall trees, whose branches hang entwined over\nthe front of the well. The spring is contained in a large basin, formed\nby a plain stone wall, which serves as a facing and support to the bank;\nthe water flows from hence through a hole of about five inches in\ndiameter, and is conveyed by a channel under the pavement into another\nbasin of considerable dimensions, fenced with an iron railing. Hence it\nagain escapes by means of a grating into the beautiful lake of Woodstock\nPark, or, as it is more modernly termed, Blenheim.\n\nIn these days of \"hobgoblin lore,\" it may not be incurious to add, that\nWoodstock is distinguished in Dr. Plot's _History of Oxfordshire_ (the\n_title_ of which is well known to all readers of the marvellous) as the\nscene of a series of hoax and disturbance played off upon the\ncommissioners of the Long Parliament, who were sent down to dispark and\ndestroy Woodstock, after the death of Charles I.; and Sir Walter Scott\nthinks it \"highly probable\" that this \"piece of phantasmagoria was\nconducted by means of the secret passages and recesses in the Labyrinth\nof Rosamond\"--it must be admitted, a very convenient scene for such a\nfarce. Sir Walter says, \"I have not the book at hand\"--neither have we;\nbut we may probably allude to this curious affair on some future\noccasion. In the meantime, if our present reference should kindle the\ncuriosity of the reader, and he may not be disposed to await our time,\nwe beg to recommend him to Glanville's well-known work on witchcraft,\nwhich not only contains Dr. Plot's narrative of the Woodstock\ndisturbances, but a multitude of argument for all who are sceptical of\nthis and similar mysteries. This is an age of inquiry, and we do not see\nwhy such follies should be left unturned--from Priam's shade to the\nmurderous dreams and omens of our own times.\n\n    [1] SAGITTARIUS--and T.W. of Hoxton.\n\n    [2] For an abstract of \"Woodstock,\" an engraving, and much\n    valuable information respecting the palace, see our vol. vii.\n    pp. 289--316--322--327--338, &c.\n\n    [3] As there is a vulgar error on Rosamond's being buried in the\n    labyrinth, we subjoin the following by another correspondent.\n\n    Many readers of the MIRROR, perhaps, have hitherto been only\n    acquainted with the fictitious part of Fair Rosamond's history.\n    The few subjoined facts, relative to the eventful life of that\n    lady, may be implicitly relied on, as they are very carefully\n    gleaned from the _most authenticated sources_.\n\n    The first mistress to king Henry II. was Rosamond, daughter of\n    Walter Clifford, Baron of Hereford. She was esteemed the\n    greatest beauty in England, and her intrigue with Henry was most\n    probably began when he was not much above sixteen years of age.\n    Very soon after his amorous acquaintance with this lady, the\n    state of political affairs in England required his absence, and\n    he did not again return to this country until the year 1153; so\n    that there must have been a lapse of nearly six years from the\n    period of his first intimacy with Rosamond, to the renewal of\n    that intimacy at his return.\n\n    About the year 1157, king Henry took extraordinary precautions\n    to conceal his intrigue from the knowledge of queen Eleanor, a\n    woman, of wonderful spirit and penetration, to whom he had been\n    espoused at the period of his accession to the throne, in 1155.\n    This circumstance has given rise to the romantic tradition of\n    his forming a sort of labyrinth at Woodstock Palace, for the\n    purpose of concealing his fond mistress from the vengeance of\n    Eleanor; but the story of her being murdered in that palace by\n    the queen is perfectly false, for it is sufficiently evident\n    that she retired to the nunnery of Godstow, where she ended her\n    days in peace, though in what year it is difficult to decide.\n    After Rosamond's decease, the king bestowed large revenues on\n    the convent, in return for which, he required that lamps should\n    be kept continually burning about the lady's remains, which were\n    interred near the high altar, in a tomb covered with silk.\n\n    We may naturally conclude from these circumstances, that, as\n    long as the connexion between king Henry and Rosamond continued,\n    the former had no other object in his affections; yet we are\n    informed by a writer of Thomas \u00e0 Becket's life, that there lived\n    a remarkably handsome girl, at Stafford, with whom king Henry\n    was said to cohabit. However, observes the same writer, Rosamond\n    _might_ have been dead before the second intrigue was commenced.\n\n    G.W.N.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE \"NAPOLEON\" CHILD.\n\n\nOn Friday the 8th inst. we paid a visit to the Bazaar in Oxford-street,\nto witness this extraordinary sport of Nature, about which the French\nand English newspapers have lately been so communicative.\n\nThe child is an engaging little girl, about three years old. The colour\nof her eyes is pale blue, and on the iris, or circle round their pupils,\nthe inscriptions on\n\n    _Left Eye_.\n    NAPOLEON\n    EMPEREUR.\n\n    _Right Eye_.\n    EMPEREUR.\n    NAPOLEON.\n\nmay be traced in the above sized letters, although all the letters are\nnot equally visible, the commencement \"NAP\" and \"EMP\" being the most\ndistinct. The colour of the letters is almost white, and at first sight\nof the child they appear like _rays_, which make the eyes appear\nvivacious and sparkling. The accuracy of the inscriptions is much\nassisted by the stillness of the eye, on its being directed upwards, as\nto an object on the ceiling of the room, &c.; and with this aid the\nseveral letters may be traced with the naked eye.\n\nThis effect is accounted for by the child's mother earnestly looking at\na franc-piece of Napoleon's, which was given to her by her brother\nprevious to a long absence; and this operating during her pregnancy, has\nproduced the appearance in question. It was visible at the child's\nbirth, and has increased with her growth. She has been seen by Sir\nAstley Cooper and other leading members of the profession, and probably\nbefore our Number is published, she will have been shown to the King.\nShe is an interesting little creature, prattles playfully, and will\ndoubtless receive the caresses of thousands of visitors.\n\nOur contemporaries are, we perceive, somewhat divided as to the\ndistinctness of the inscription; but we have given our opinion\nfairly--and, as the proverb runs, \"seeing is believing.\" One of them\ndescribes the child as \"a little _boy_, about two years old.\" This\nreminds us of the man in the _Critic_, \"give these fellows a good thing,\nand they never know when to have done with it.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nPORTUGUESE PRISONS.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\nMost of the Portuguese prisons are horrible in the extreme; and it is\nutterly impossible for the most hardy individuals, who have the\nmisfortune to be long confined within them, to preserve their health\nfrom ruin.\n\nThe famous prison of the _Limoeiro_, at Lisbon, is a dreadful place of\ndurance. It is situated on one of the mountainous streets in the\nPortuguese metropolis, and was formerly the archbishop's palace. A vast\nproportion of the crimes committed in the city are plotted between the\npersons confined within, and those without, the prison; for there is\nnothing to prevent constant communication with the street through the\ndouble iron-bars, so that an unchecked and unobserved intercourse is\nmaintained, much to the furtherance of crime. Through these bars all\nsorts of food, liquors, raiment, weapons, &c. can be conveyed from the\nstreet; and, indeed, through these bars the meals of the prisoners are\nserved. The prison is capable of containing about 700 people; the usual\nnumber, however, is 400. The state of the apartments in which the\ncriminals pass their time is truly distressing. The stench is\noverpowering; and though visitors remain in the rooms only a few\nminutes, they often retire seriously indisposed. The expense of\nmaintaining the prisoners is 8,000 cruzados, or about 1,000_l_. per\nannum. Of this sum, one-half is paid by the city, and the other by the\n_Misericordia_, a benevolent association, possessing large funds from\nvarious bequeathed estates. Nevertheless, the food appears insufficient;\nit consists chiefly of a soup made of rice. The allowance of bread is\none pound and a half per day for four persons.\n\nG.W.N.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nADDRESSED TO MISS STREET.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\n  In London's variegated streets\n  The eye, whatever pleases, meets;\n  For like another Street, I know,\n  Those Streets each day more charming grow.\n\n  As if by magic's changeful wand,\n    Taste, beauty, order, strength combine;\n  And shew a mighty master's hand\n    In every graceful curve and line.\n\n  But meaner temples strive in vain\n  Perfection's envied height to gain;\n  For in our matchless Street alone,\n  The charm of perfect beauty's known.\n\n  How blest, if at that living shrine,\n    With deepest feeling, warm and true,\n  The nameless happiness were mine,\n    To bend in form--and spirit too.\n\n  But no--though in my ardent breast,\n  The fires of love must ever rise,\n  Th' adverse circles of my fate,\n  Forbid the outward sacrifice.\n\n  My spirit breathes its inmost breath,\n    In this my first--my last confession:--\n  The passion will survive till death,\n    But never more can know expression.\n\nW.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nCHILDE'S TOMB.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\nFrom \"time out of mind\" a tradition has existed in Dartmoor, Devon, and\nis noticed by several writers, that one _John Childe_, of Plymstock, a\ngentleman of large possessions, and a noted hunter, whilst enjoying that\nsport during a very inclement season, was benighted, lost his way, and\nperished through cold and fear, in the south quarter of the forest, near\nFox-tor, after taking the precaution to kill his horse, (which he much\nvalued), as a last resource, and for the sake of warmth and prolonging\nlife, to creep into its bowels, leaving a paper, denoting, that whoever\nshould find and bury his body, should have his lands at Plymstock.\n\n  \"_The furste that fyndes and bringes me to my grave,\n  The landes of Plymstoke they shal have_.\"\n\nThis couplet was found on his person afterwards. Childe, having no\nissue, had previously declared his intention of bestowing his estates\nupon the church wherein he might be buried, which coming to the\nknowledge of the monks of Tavistock, they eagerly seized the body, and\nwere conveying it to that place; but learning on the way, that some\npeople of Plymstock were waiting at a ford to intercept the prey, they\ncunningly ordered a bridge to be built out of the usual track, thence\npertinently called _Guile_-bridge, and succeeding in their object,\nbecame possessed of the lands until the dissolution, when the Russell\nfamily received a grant of them, and still retain it.\n\nIn memory of Childe, a tomb was erected to him in a place a little below\nFox-tor, where he perished, which stood perfect till about fifteen years\nsince; but it has been destroyed by some ignorant \"landlord or tenant,\"\nfor building materials, and it is now in a ruinous condition. It was\ncomposed of hewn granite, the under basement comprising four stones, six\nfeet long by four square, and eight stones more, growing shorter as the\npile ascended, with an octagonal basement, above three feet high, and a\ncross affixed to it. The whole, when perfect, wore an antique and\nimpressive appearance, and it may now, as it is, be looked upon as an\nobject of antiquity and curiosity.\n\nA socket and groove for the cross, and the cross itself, with its shaft\nbroken, are the only remains of this venerable tomb, on which Risdon\nsays there was an inscription, but now no traces of it are visible.\n\nW. H. H.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nREMEMBER THEE.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\n  Remember thee! thou wouldst not cherish--breathe,\n    One claim for Memory in a heart like mine;\n  Yet, all it-all its hopes for Heaven, or Earth beneath.\n    Were worthless, if unshared by thee and thine!\n\n  Remember thee! yes, bound in strongest ties\n    Are those blest ones, that at thy feet may fall,--\n  The heart whom Fortune such dear bonds denies,\n    Is proud to love thee dearer than them all!\n\n  Remember thee! there is no shame in this,\n    Though oft my heart may wander, and my eye,\n  Picturing fair shapes of too ideal bliss,\n    Forgets the \"cold world of reality.\"\n\n  Remember thee! there is no error here--\n    To love the gay, the beautiful, the bright,\n  With fondest passion, then to turn with fear\n    To sterner duties--tasks forgotten quite.\n\n  Remember thou that one, who loved thee well\n    Though scorned, and broken-hearted, and undone,\n  When, without shame, thy ruby lips may tell\n    How deep the passion of that nameless one!\n\n  Remember! oh, remember! in those years\n    Which fleet so fast--which I may never see;\n  Then, whilst I linger in this \"vale of tears,\"\n    What should I think upon, but God and thee!\n\nTHOMAS M----s.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nANCIENT ROMAN FESTIVALS\n\nAUGUST.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\nThe _Portumnalia_ was a festival in honour of _Portumnus_, who was\nsupposed to preside over ports and havens, celebrated on the 17th of\nAugust, in a very solemn and lugubrious manner, on the borders of the\nTiber.\n\nThe _Vinalia_ were festivals in honour of Jupiter and Venus. The first\nwas held on the 19th of August, and the second on the 1st of May. The\nVinalia of the 19th of August were called _Vinalia Rustica_, and were\ninstituted on occasion of the war of the Latins against Mezentius; in\nthe course of which war, that people vowed a libation to Jupiter of all\nthe wine in the succeeding vintage. On the same day likewise fell the\ndedication of a temple to Venus; whence some authors have fallen into a\nmistake, that these Vinalia were sacred to Venus.\n\nThe _Consuales Ludi_, or _Consualia_, were festivals at Rome in honour\nof _Consus_, the god of counsel, whose altar Romulus discovered under\nthe ground. This altar was always covered, except at the festival, when\na mule was sacrificed, and games and horse-races exhibited in honour of\nNeptune. It was during these festivals (says Lempriere) that Romulus\ncarried away the Sabine women, who had assembled to be spectators of the\ngames. They were first instituted by Romulus. Some say, however, that\nRomulus only regulated and re-instituted them after they had been before\nestablished by Evander. During the celebration, which happened about the\nmiddle of August, horses, mules, and asses were exempted from all\nlabour, and were led through the streets adorned with garlands and\nflowers.\n\nThe _Volturnalia_ was a festival kept in honour of the god Volturnus, on\nthe 26th of August.\n\nThe _Ambarvalia_ were festivals in honour of Ceres, in order to procure\na happy harvest. At these festivals they sacrificed a bull, a sow, and a\nsheep, which, before the sacrifice, were led in procession thrice around\nthe fields; whence the feast is supposed to have taken its name, _ambio,\nI go round_, and _arvum, field_. These feasts were of two kinds,\n_public_ and _private_. The _private_ were solemnized by the masters of\nfamilies, accompanied by their children and servants, in the villages\nand farms out of Rome. The _public_ were celebrated in the boundaries of\nthe city, and in which twelve _fratres arvales_ walked at the head of a\nprocession of the citizens, who had lands and vineyards at Rome. These\nfestivals took place at the time the harvest was ripe.\n\nThe _Vulcanalia_ were festivals in honour of Vulcan, and observed at the\nlatter end of August. The streets of Rome were illuminated, fires\nkindled every where, and animals thrown into the flames as a sacrifice\nto the deity.\n\nP.T.W.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nTHE NOVELIST\n\n\nBEBUT THE AMBITIOUS.\n\n\n    \"Hear this true story, and see whither you may\n    be conducted by ambition.\"\n\n    Hafiz, _the Persian Poet_.\n\nIn one of the suburbs of Ispahan, under the reign of Abbas the First,\nthere lived a poor, working jeweller. In his neighbourhood he was known\nby the name of Bebut the Honest. Numberless were the proofs of probity\nand disinterestedness which had gained for him this title.\n\nIn all disputes and quarrels, he was the chosen arbiter. His decisions\nwere generally as conclusive as those of the Kazi himself. Laborious,\nactive, and intelligent, and esteemed by all who knew him, Bebut was\nhappy; and his happiness was still enhanced by love. Tamira, the\nbeautiful daughter of his patron, was the object of his attachment,\nwhich she returned. One thought alone disturbed his felicity; he was\npoor, and the father of Tamira would never accept a son-in-law without a\nfortune. Bebut, therefore, often meditated upon the means of getting\nrich. His thoughts dwelt so much on this subject, that ambition at\nlength became a dangerous rival to the softer sentiment.\n\nThere was a grand festival in the harem. In the midst of it, the great\nSchah Abbas dropped the royal aigrette, called jigha, the mark of\nsovereignty among the Mussulmans. In changing his position, that it\nmight be sought for, he inadvertently trod upon it, and it was broken.\nThe officer who had charge of the crown jewels, knew the reputation of\nBebut; to him he applied to repair this treasure. None but the most\nhonest could be trusted with an article of such value, and who was there\nso honest as Bebut? Bebut was enraptured with the confidence. He\npromised to prove himself deserving of it.\n\nNow Bebut holds in his hands the richest gems of Persia and the Indies.\nAmbition has already stolen into his bosom. Could it be silent on an\noccasion like this? It ought to have been so, but it was not.\n\n\"A single one of these numerous diamonds,\" said Bebut to himself, \"would\nmake my fortune and that of Tamira! I am incapable of a breach of trust;\nbut were I to commit one, would Abbas be the worse for it? No, so far\nfrom it, he would have made two of his subjects happy without being\naware. Now, any body else situated as I am, would manage to put aside a\nvast treasure out of a job like this; but one, and that a very small\none, of these many gems will be enough for me. It will be wrong, I\nconfess, but I will replace it by a false one, cut and enchased with\nsuch exquisite taste and skill, that the value of the workmanship shall\nmake up for any want of value in the material. It will be impossible to\nsee the change; God and the Prophet will see it plainly enough, I know;\nbut I will atone for the sin, and it shall be my only one. Sometime or\nother I will go a pilgrimage to Mashad, or even to Mecca, should my\nremorse grow troublesome.\"\n\nThus, by the power of a \"but,\" did Bebut the Honest contrive to quiet\nhis conscience. The diamond was removed: a bit of crystal took its\nplace, and the jigha appeared more brilliant than ever to the courtiers\nof Abbas, who, as they never spoke to him but with their foreheads in\nthe dust, could, of course, form a very accurate estimate of the lustre\nof his jewels.\n\nOne day during the spring equinox, as the chief of the sectaries of Ali,\naccording to the custom of Persia, was sitting at the gate of his palace\nto hear the complaints of his people, a mechanic from the suburb of\nJulfa broke through the crowd; he prostrated himself at the feet of the\nAbbas, and prayed for justice; he accused the kazi of corruption, and of\nhaving condemned him wrongfully. \"My adversary and I,\" said he, \"at\nfirst appealed to Bebut the Honest, who decided in my favour.\" Being\ninformed who this Bebut was whose name for honesty stood so high in the\nsuburb of Julfa, the Schah ordered the kazi into his presence. The\nmonarch heard both sides and weighed the affair maturely. He then\npronounced for the decision of Bebut the Honest, whom he ordered the\nkalantar, or governor of the city, immediately to bring before him.\n\nWhen Bebut saw the officer and his escort halt before the shop where he\nworked, a sudden tremor ran through his frame; but it was much worse\nwhen, in the name of the Schah, the officer commanded him to follow. He\nwas on the point of offering his head at once, in order to save the\ntrouble of a superfluous ceremony which could not, he thought, but end\nwith the scimitar. However, he composed himself, and followed the\nkalantar.\n\nArrived before Abbas, he did not dare lift his eyes, lest he should see\nthe fatal aigrette, and the false diamond rise up in judgment against\nhim. Half dead with fright, he thought he already beheld the fierce\nrikas advancing with their horrid hatchets.\n\n\"Bebut, and you, Ismael-kazi,\" said Abbas to them, \"listen. Since, of\nthe two, it is the jeweller who best administers justice, let the\njeweller be a judge, and the judge be a jeweller. Ismael, take Bebut's\nplace in the workshop of his master: may you acquit yourself as well in\nhis office, as he is sure to do in yours.\"\n\nThe sentence was punctually executed; and I am told that Ismael turned\nout an excellent jeweller.\n\nBebut-kazi, on his side, took possession of his place. He was quite\ndetermined to limit his ambition to becoming the husband of Tamira, and\nliving holily. He immediately asked her in marriage, and was immediately\naccepted. Bebut thought himself at the summit of his wishes. He was\nforming the most delightful projects, when again the kalantar of Ispahan\nappeared at his door. Still, full of the fright into which this worthy\nperson's first visit had thrown him, he received him with more flurry\nthan politeness. He inquired, confusedly, to what he was indebted for\nthe honour of this second visit. The kalantar replied, \"When I went to\nthe house of your patron to transmit to you the mandate of the\nmagnanimous Abbas, I saw there the beautiful Tamira with the gazelle\neyes, the rose of Ispahan, brilliant as the azure campac which only\ngrows in Paradise. Her glance produced on me the magical effect of the\nseal of Solomon, and I resolved to take her for my wife. I went this\nvery morning to her father, but his word was given to you; and\nBebut-kazi is the only obstacle to my happiness. Listen! I possess great\nriches, and have powerful friends; give up to me your claim on Tamira,\nand, ere long, I will get you appointed divan-beghi; you shall be the\nchief sovereign of justice in the first city in the universe; I will\ngive you my own sister for a wife, she who was formerly the nightingale\nof Iran, the dove of Babylon. I leave you to reflect on my offer;\nto-morrow I return for the answer.\"\n\nThe new kazi was thunderstruck. \"What! yield my Tamira to him for his\nsister! Why, she may be old and ugly; 'tis like exchanging a pearl of\nBahrein for one of Mascata; but he is powerful. If I do not consent, he\nwill deprive me of my place; and I like my place; and yet I would freely\nsacrifice it for Tamira. But were I no longer kazi, would her father\nkeep his promise? Doubtful. I love Tamira more than all the world; but\nwe must not be selfish; we must forget our own interest, when it injures\nthose we love. To deprive Tamira of a chance of being the wife of a\nkalantar would be doing her an injury. How could I have the heart to\nforce her to forego such a glory, merely for the sake of the poor\ninsignificant kazi that I am! I should never get over it; 'tis done! I\nwill immolate my happiness to hers! I shall be very wretched;\nbut--but--I shall be divan-beghi.\"\n\nIf Bebut the Honest, misled by dawning avarice, fancied he committed his\nfirst fault for the sake of love, and not of ambition, he must have been\nundeceived when these two rival passions came into competition, and he\ncould only banish the first. If his eyes were not opened, those of the\nworld began to be; for, from that moment, he lost (when he had more need\nof them than ever) the esteem and confidence he had hitherto inspired,\nand became known by the name of Bebut the Ambitious.\n\nNot yet aware that the higher we rise in rank, the harder we find it to\nbe virtuous, he was for ever flattering himself with the future. Now,\nhis conduct was to be such as should edify the whole body of the\nmagistracy of Ispahan, of which he was become the head. He would not be\nsatisfied with going to Mecca to visit the black stone, the temple of\nKaaba, and purifying himself in the waters of Zim-zim, the miraculous\nspring which God caused to issue from the earth for Agar, and her son\nIsmael. He would do more; he would distribute a double zekath[4] to the\npoor, and win back for the divan-beghi the noble title which the people\ngave to the mechanic of the suburb of Julfa.\n\nThe first judgment which he pronounced as divan-beghi, bore evidence of\nthis excellent resolution; but an unfortunate event occurred, which\nproved the truth of the following verse of the renowned Ferdusi, in his\npoem of the \"Schah-nameh.\"[5]\n\n\"_Our first fault, like the prolific poppy of Aboutige, produces seeds\ninnumerable. The wind wafts them away, and we know not where they fall,\nor when they may rise; but this we know, they meet us at every step upon\nthe path of life, and strew it with plants of bitterness._\"\n\nThe royal aigrette of Schah Abbas was again broken, and immediately\nconfided to an old comrade of Bebut. He had not, however, the surname of\n\"Honest,\" and his work was consequently subjected to a cautious\nscrutiny. Now, it was discovered that a very fine diamond had been taken\nfrom the jigha and fraudulently replaced; the unfortunate jeweller was\narrested and dragged to the tribunal of the divan-beghi. The ambitious\nBebut felt that there was no chance for him if he did not hurry the\naffair to an immediate close. He forthwith condemned his innocent\nfellow-labourer to the punishment due to his own iniquity, and the\nsentence was executed on the instant.\n\nHis conscience told him that a man like him was unworthy to administer\njustice to his fellow-citizens. A pilgrimage to Mecca would now no\nlonger suffice to appease his remorse; his ambition told him it could be\nlulled by nothing but luxury and splendour. By severe exactions, he\namassed large sums; and by gifts contrived to gain over the most\ninfluential members of the divan; he thus got appointed Khan of\nSchamachia, and, from the modest distinctions of the judicature, he\npassed to the turbulent honours of military power--a change by no means\nrare in Persia.\n\nAbbas was then collecting all his forces to march against the province\nof Kandahar, and to reduce the Afghans, who have since ruled over his\ndescendants. In the battles fought on this occasion, Bebut the Ambitious\ngained the signal favour of one equally ambitious; for Abbas was an\nindefatigable conqueror, whom fortune, with all her favours, could never\nsatisfy.\n\nThe Khan of Schamachia was so thoroughly devoted to his master, so\nblindly subservient to his will, that he presently became his confidant.\nHe was the very man for the favour of a despot; he had no opinion of his\nown, and could always find good reasons for those to which he assented.\nThis, in the eyes of Abbas, constituted an excellent counsellor.\n\nThe monarch triumphed. Conqueror of the Kurdes, the Georgians, the\nTurks, and the Afghans, he re-entered Ispahan in triumph. He had already\nmade it the capital of his dominions, and now proposed to himself to\nenjoy there quietly, in the midst of his glory, the fruits of his vast\nconquests; but the heart of the ambitious can never know repose. The\ngrandeur of the sovereign crushed the people; Abbas felt this; he knew\nthat, though powerful, he was detested; he trembled even in the inmost\nrecesses of his palace. In pursuance of the Oriental policy which has of\nlate years been introduced into Europe, he resolved to give a diversion\nto the general hatred, which, in concentrating itself towards a single\npoint, endangered the safety of his throne. With this design, he\nestablished, in the principal towns, numerous colonies from the nations\nhe had conquered, and gave them privileges which excited the jealousy of\nthe original inhabitants. The nation immediately divided into two\npowerful factions, the one calling itself the Polenks, the other the\nFelenks party. Abbas took care to keep up their strength; by alternately\nexciting and moderating their violence, he distracted their attention\nfrom the affairs of government. The disputes between them sometimes\nlooked very serious; but they were kept under until the festival of the\nbirthday of the Schah; on that occasion, the contenders were at last\npermitted to show their joy by a general fight. Armed with sticks and\nstones, they strewed the streets with bodies of the dying and the dead.\nThen the royal troops suddenly appeared, and proclaimed the day's\namusements at an end, with slashes of the sabres drove back the Polenks\nand the Felenks to their homes.\n\nBut no sooner had this great politician ceased to fear his people, than\nhe began first to dread his court, and next, his own family. Of his\nthree sons, two had, by his command, been deprived of sight. By the laws\nof Persia, they were consequently declared incapable of reigning, and\nimprisoned in the castle of Alamuth.[6] He had only one now remaining.\nThis was the noble and generous Safi Mirza--the delight of his father,\nand the hope of the people. His brilliant qualities, however, were\ndestined only to be his destruction.\n\nAbbas was one day musing, with some uneasiness, on the valour and\npopular virtues of his son, when the young prince suddenly appeared. He\nthrew himself at his father's feet. He presented him a note which he had\njust received, and in which, without discovering their names, the nobles\nof the kingdom declared their weariness of his tyranny. They proposed to\nthe youth to ascend the throne, and undertook to clear his way to it.\nSafi Mirza, indignant at a project which tended to turn him into a\nparricide, declared all to the Sebah, and placed himself entirely at his\ndisposal. Abbas embraced him, covered him with caresses, and felt his\naffection for him increase; but, from that moment, his fears redoubled.\nHis anxiety even prevented him from sleeping. In order to get at the\nconspirators, he caused numbers of really innocent persons to die in\ntortures; and, feeling that every execution rendered him still more\nodious, he feared that his son would be again solicited, and would not\nagain have virtue to resist.\n\nThis state of terror and suspicion becoming insupportable to him, he\nresolved to rid himself of it at any cost. A slave was ordered to murder\nthe prince. He refused to obey, and presented his own head. \"Have I,\nthen, none but ingrates and traitors about me, to eat my bread and\nsalt?\" cried Abbas,--\"I swear by my sabre and by the Koran, that, to him\nwho will remove Safi Mirza, my generosity and gratitude shall he\nboundless.\" Bebut the Ambitious advanced, and said,--\"It is written,\nthat what the king wills cannot be wrong. To me thy will is sacred--it\nshall be obeyed.\" He went immediately to seek the prince. He met him\ncoming out of the bath, accompanied by a single akta or valet. He drew\nhis sabre, and presenting the royal mandate,--\"Safi Mirza,\" said he,\n\"submit! Thy father wills thy death!\"--\"My father wills my death!\"\nexclaimed the unfortunate prince, with a tone \"more in sorrow than in\nanger.\" \"What have I done, that he should hate me?\" And Bebut laid him\ndead at his feet.\n\nAs a reward for his crime, Abbas sent him the royal vest, called the\ncalaata, and immediately created him his Etimadoulet, or Prime Minister.\n\nPaternal love, however, presently resumed its power. Remorse now\nproduced the same effect upon the king, as terror had done before. His\nnights seemed endless. The bleeding shade of his son incessantly\nappeared before him, banishing the peace and slumber to which it had\nbeen sacrificed. Shrouded in the garb of mourning, the monarch of Persia\ndismissed all pleasure from his court; and, during the rest of his life,\ncould not be known by his attire from the meanest of his subjects.\n\nOne day he sent for Bebut, who found him standing on the steps of his\nthrone, entirely clothed in scarlet, the red turban of twelve folds\naround his head,--in short, in the garb assumed by the kings of Persia\nwhen preparing to pronounce the decree of death. Bebut shuddered. \"It is\nwritten,\" said the Sehah, \"that what the king wills cannot be wrong.\nGive me to-day the same proof of thy obedience which thou didst once\nbefore. Bebut, thou hast a son--bring me his head!\" Bebut attempted to\nspeak. \"Bebut, Etimadoulet, Khan of Schamachia--is, then, thy ambition\nsatiated, that thou hesitatest to satisfy my commands? Obey! Thy life\ndepends on it!\"\n\nBebut returned with the head of his only child. \"Well,\" said the father\nof Mirza, with a horrid smile, \"How dost feel?\"--\"Let these tears tell\nyou how,\" answered the unhappy Khan: \"I have killed with my own hand the\nbeing I loved best on earth. You can ask nothing beyond. This day, for\nthe first time, I have cursed ambition, which could subject me to a\nnecessity like this.\"--\"Go,\" said the monarch; \"You can now judge what\nyou have made me suffer, in murdering my son. Ambition has rendered us\nthe two most wretched beings in the empire. But, be it your comfort,\nthat your ambition can soar no higher; for this last deed has brought\nyou on a level with your sovereign.\"[7]\n\nAbbas received from his subjects and posterity the surname of THE GREAT.\nBebut the Ambitious was presently known only by the title of Bebut THE\nINFAMOUS. It is said, he was a short time after stabbed by the son of\nthe unfortunate jeweller, whom he had so unjustly condemned to death\nwhen divan-beghi. Thus were the words of the poet Ferdusi verified. His\nfirst fault was the cause of all the others, and their common\npunishment.--_Oriental Herald_.\n\n    [4] _Zekath_ is the Persian name for the tithe of alms which the\n    Koran enjoins to be distributed among the poor.\n\n    [5] _Schah-nameh_ signifies the royal book. It was composed by\n    order of Mahmoud the Gaznevide, and contains 60,000 distichs,\n    the history of the ancient sovereigns of Persia.\n\n    [6] That is to say, the _Castle of the Dead_. It was situated in\n    the Mazanderan, (the ancient Hircania), and had been the abode\n    of the Old Man of the Mountain, the Prince of Assassins.\n\n    [7] A king coolly ordering one of his subjects to cut off the\n    head of his own child, and being obeyed, is a circumstance so\n    monstrous, that it would appear beyond all possibility, if it\n    were not supported by numerous examples. But, incredible as it\n    may seem, it only paints the common manners of a court, where\n    tyranny, and the vices which it engenders, altogether extinguish\n    the influence of nature.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nNOTES OF A READER.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nMURDER\n\n\nWe are not accustomed to study the clap-traps of the day, but the\nfollowing observations, on our first reading of them, came so forcibly\non our imagination, that we then resolved to insert them in our columns\nwhenever an opportunity should offer; and as the public are now alive on\nthe subject, none can be better than the present. We should add, they\nare taken from the third edition of a valuable work on Home, written by\na lady:--\n\n\"I think,\" says our authoress, \"we are quite mistaken in our estimate of\nthe Italian character, in one respect. Murder is generally committed in\nthe sudden impulse of ungovernable passion, not with the slow\npremeditation of deliberate revenge. That it is too common a termination\nof Italian quarrels, it would be vain to deny; and it is equally true,\nthat however Englishmen may fall out, or however angry they may be,\ndrunk or sober, they never think of stabbing, but are always content\nwith beating each other. But in England murders are generally committed\nin cold blood, and for the sake of plunder. In Italy they are more\nfrequently perpetrated in the moment of exasperation, and for the\ngratification of the passions. An Italian will pilfer or steal, cheat or\ndefraud you, in any way he can. He would rob you if he had courage; but\nhe seldom murders for the sake of gain. In proof of this, almost all the\nmurders in Italy are committed amongst the lower orders. One man murders\nanother who is as much a beggar as himself. Whereas, our countrymen walk\nabout the unlighted streets of Rome or Naples, at all hours, in perfect\nsafety. I never heard of one having been attacked, although the riches\nof _Milor' Inglese_ are proverbial. Amongst the immense number of\nEnglish who have lately travelled through Italy, though all have been\ncheated, a few only have been robbed; and of these, not one has either\nbeen murdered or hurt. I am far, however, from thinking that murders are\nmore frequent in England than in Italy. In England they are held in far\nmore abhorrence; they are punished, not only with the terrors of the\nlaw, but the execrations of the people. Every murder resounds through\nthe land--it is canvassed in every club, and told by every village\nfireside; and inquests, trials, and newspapers proclaim the lengthened\ntale to the world. But in Italy, it is unpublished, unnamed, and\nunheeded. The murderer sometimes escapes wholly unpunished. Sometimes he\ncompounds for it by paying money, if he has any--and sometimes he is\ncondemned to the gallies, but he is rarely executed.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nWINDSOR CASTLE.\n\nWindsor Castle loses a great deal of its architectural impression (if I\nmay use that word) by the smooth neatness with which its old towers are\nnow chiselled and mortared. It looks as if it was washed every morning\nwith _soap and water_, instead of exhibiting here and there a straggling\nflower, or creeping weather-stains. I believe this circumstance strikes\nevery beholder; but most imposing, indeed, is its distant view, when the\nbroad banner floats or sleeps in the sunshine, amidst the intense blue\nof the summer skies, and its picturesque and ancient architectural\nvastness harmonizes with the decaying and gnarled oaks, coeval with so\nmany departed monarchs. The stately, long-extended avenue, and the wild\nsweep of devious forests, connected with the eventful circumstances of\nEnglish history, and past regular grandeur, bring back the memory of\nEdwards and Henries, or the gallant and accomplished Surrey.\n\n_On Windsor Castle, written 1825, not by a LAUREATE, but a poet of\nloyal, old Church-of-England feelings._[8]\n\n  Not that thy name, illustrious dome, recalls\n  The pomp of chivalry in banner'd halls;\n  The blaze of beauty, and the gorgeous sights\n  Of heralds, trophies, steeds, and crested knights;\n  Not that young Surrey here beguiled the hour,\n  \"With eyes upturn'd unto the maiden's tower;\"[9]\n\n  Oh! not for these, and pageants pass'd away,\n  gaze upon your antique towers and pray--\n  But that my SOVEREIGN here, from crowds withdrawn,\n  May meet calm peace upon the twilight lawn;\n  That here, among these gray, primaeval trees,\n  He may inhale health's animating breeze;\n  And when from this proud terrace he surveys\n  Slow Thames devolving his majestic maze,\n  (Now lost on the horizon's verge, now seen\n  Winding through lawns, and woods, and pastures green,)\n  May he reflect upon the waves that roll,\n  Bearing a nation's wealth from pole to pole,\n  And feel, (ambition's proudest boast above,)\n  A KING'S BEST GLORY IS HIS COUNTRY'S LOVE!\n\nThe range of cresting towers has a double interest, whilst we think of\ngorgeous dames and barons bold, of Lely and Vandyke's beauties, and gay,\nand gallant, and accomplished cavaliers like Surrey. And who ever sat in\nthe stalls at St. George's chapel, without feeling the impression, on\nlooking at the illustrious names, that here the royal and ennobled\nknights, through so many generations, sat each installed, whilst arms,\nand crests, and banners, glittered over the same seat?--_Bowles's\nHistory of Bremhill_.\n\n    [8] The author had been chaplain to the Prince Regent.\n\n    [9] Surrey's Poems.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE THREE TEACHERS.\n\n\nTo my question, how he could, at his age, have mastered so many\nattainments, his reply was, that with his three teachers, \"every thing\nmight be learned, common sense alone excepted, the peculiar and rarest\ngift of Providence. These three teachers were, _Necessity_, _Habit_, and\n_Time_. At his starting in life, _Necessity_ had told him, that if he\nhoped to _live_ he must _labour_; _Habit_ had turned the labour into an\n_indulgence_; and _Time_ gave every man an hour for every thing, unless\nhe chose to yawn it away.\"--_Salathiel._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nIRISH POOR.\n\n\nThe poor of England have suffered much and deeply from the change made\nin the administration of the poor laws in 1795; but of late years they\nhave suffered still more from the influx of Irish paupers. Great Britain\nhas been overrun by half-famished hordes, that have, by their\ncompetition, lessened the wages of labour, and by their example,\ndegraded the habits, and lowered the opinions of the people with respect\nto subsistence. The facilities of conveyance afforded by\nsteam-navigation are such, that the merest beggar, provided he can\ncommand a sixpence, may get himself carried from Ireland to England. And\nwhen such is the fact--when what may almost without a metaphor be termed\nfloating bridges, have been established between Belfast and Glasgow, and\nDublin and Liverpool--does any one suppose, that if no artificial\nobstacles be thrown in the way of emigration, or if no efforts be made\nto provide an outlet in some other quarter for the pauper population of\nIreland, we shall escape being overrun by it? It is not conceivable\nthat, with the existing means of intercourse, wages should continue to\nbe, at an average, 20_d_. per day in England, and only 4_d_. or 5_d_. in\nIreland. So long as the Irish paupers find that they can improve their\ncondition by coming to England, thither they will come. At this moment,\nfive or six millions of beggars are all of them turning their eyes, and\nmany of them directing their steps to this land of promise! The locusts\nthat \"will eat up every blade of grass, and every green thing,\" are\nalready on the wing.--_Edin. Rev._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAccording to the parliamentary returns of 1815, the number of paupers\nreceiving parochial relief in England amounts to 895,336, in a\npopulation of 11,360,505, or about one-twelfth of the whole community.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are many on the continent who might far better have been treading\ntheir turnip-fields, or superintending their warehouses at home, than\ntraversing the Alps, criticising the Pantheon, or loitering through the\ngalleries of the Vatican.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwenty years ago there were at Saffet and at Jerusalem but a small\nnumber of Polish Jews--some few hundreds at the most; there are now, at\nthe very least, 10,000.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBishop Watson compares a geologist to a gnat mounted on an elephant, and\nlaying down theories as to the whole internal structure of the vast\nanimal, from the phenomena of the hide.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is the harmony of strong contrasts in which greatness of character\ntruly dwells. As it rises, its variety and rich profusion, only remind\nus of those southern mountains, whose majestic ascent combines the\nfruits of every latitude, and the temperature of every clime; the\nvineyard is scattered around its base to gladden, and the corn-field\nwaves above to support, the family of man: mount a little higher, and\nthe traveller is surrounded by the deep, umbrageous forest, whilst the\nnext elevation will place his foot on its magnificent diadem of eternal\nsnows.--_Edin. Rev._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nPSALMODY.\n\n\nIs it not a melancholy reflection, at the close of a long life, that,\nafter reciting the Psalms at proper seasons, through the greatest part\nof it, no more should be known of their true meaning and application,\nthan when the Psalter was first taken in hand in school?--_Bishop\nHorne._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe most northern library in the world is that of Reikiarik, the capital\nof Iceland, containing about 3,600 volumes. That of the Faro Islands has\nbeen recently considerably augmented. Another is establishing at\nEskefiorden, in the north of Iceland.--_Foreign Q. Rev._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nFRENCH-ENGLISH.\n\n\nAll recent works of fiction exhibit the deplorable corruption of the\nvernacular English. You cannot open a novel or book of travels printed\nwithin the present year without stumbling on French or Italian words,\nand so frequent is their occurrence, that they are often printed in the\nsame type as the rest of the page, not in italic, as of old. In short,\nsome of the authors of the present day seem to have \"worn their language\nto rags, and patched it up with scraps and ends of foreign.\" This, in\ngreat measure proceeds from \"some far-journeyed gentlemen, who, at their\nreturn home, powder their talk with over-sea language. He that cometh\nlately out of France, will talk French-English, and never blush at the\nmatter.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nDEBAUCHERIES OF PARIS.\n\n\nWe see daily instances giving us cause to lament protracted residence\nabroad, and also the haunts of incessant transit across the channel,\nwhich makes our young men more familiar with the passages, arcades, and\ncafes of the Palais Royal, than with the streets of our own metropolis.\nWe have seen many who could name each single quay along the borders of\nthe Seine; but who were totally ignorant of those great works of art,\nthe bridges, docks, and warehouses of their native Thames, otherwise\nthan as they were hurried past them in the Calais steam-boat.\n\n_Quarterly Review_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe have been somewhat amused with the oddity of a few similes in the\narticle in Phillips's _State Trials_, in the last No. of the _Edinburgh\nReview_. Thus an ordinary reader would lose his way in _Howell's State\nTrials_, at the second page, \"from the number of volumes, smallness of\nprint, &c.\" \"A Londoner might as well take a morning walk through an\nIllinois prairie, or dash into a back-settlement forest, without a\nwoodman's aid.\" Mr. Phillips has \"enclosed but a corner of the waste,\nswept little more than a single stall in the Augean stable;\" \"holding a\ncandle to the back-ground of history,\" &c.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nLORD COLLINGWOOD\n\n\nWent to sea when eleven years old. He used, himself, to tell as an\ninstance of his simplicity at this time, \"that as he was sitting crying\nfor his separation from home, the first lieutenant observed him; and\npitying the tender years of the poor child, spoke to him in terms of\nsuch encouragement and kindness, which, as Lord C. said, so won upon his\nheart, that taking this officer to his box, he offered him in gratitude\na large piece of plum cake, which his mother had given him.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nCHANGES OF SOCIETY.\n\n\nThe circumstances which have most influence on the happiness of mankind,\nthe changes of manners and morals, the transition of communities from\npoverty to wealth, from knowledge to ignorance, from ferocity to\nhumanity--these are, for the most part, noiseless revolutions. Their\nprogress is rarely indicated by what historians are pleased to call\nimportant events. They are not achieved by armies, or enacted by\nsenates. They are sanctioned by no treaties, and recorded in no\narchives. They are carried on in every school, in every church, behind\n10,000 counters, at 10,000 fire-sides. The upper current of society\npresents no certain criterion by which we can judge of the direction in\nwhich the under current flows.--_Edinburgh Review_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nBATTLE OF THE HEADS.\n\n\n_Phrenologists--Anti-Phrenologists_.\n\n_Phrenologists_. The bantling which but a few years since we ushered\ninto the world, is now become a giant; and as well might you attempt to\nsmother him as to entangle a lion in the gossamer, or drown him in the\nmorning dew.\n\n_Anti-Phrenologists_. Your giant is a butterfly; to-day he roams on\ngilded wings, to-morrow he will show his hideousness and be forgotten.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nApf, a Norwegian prince, is stated to have had sixty guards, each of\nwhom, previous to being enrolled, was obliged to lift a stone which lay\nin the royal courtyard, and required the united strength of ten men to\nraise. They were forbidden to seek shelter during the most tremendous\nstorms, nor were they allowed to dress their wounds before the\nconclusion of a combat. What would some of our \"Guards\" say to such an\nordeal?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nPORTRAIT PAINTING.\n\n\nNo picture is exactly like the original; nor is a picture good in\nproportion as it is like the original. When Sir Thomas Lawrence paints a\nhandsome peeress, he does not contemplate her through a powerful\nmicroscope, and transfer to the canvass the pores of the skin, the\nbloodvessels of the eye, and all the other beauties which Gulliver\ndiscovered in the Brobdignagian maids of honour. If he were to do this,\nthe effect would not merely be unpleasant, but unless the scale of the\npicture were proportionably enlarged, would be absolutely false. And,\nafter all, a microscope of greater power than that which he had\nemployed, would convict him of innumerable omissions.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is calculated that Rome has derived from Spain, for matrimonial\nbriefs, and other machinery of the Papal court, since the year 1500--no\nless than 76,800,000_l_. or about three millions and a half per Pope!\nThis is preachee and payee too!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nSPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE BACHELOR'S VADE-MECUM.\n\n\nTo obviate the difficulties and remove the perplexing doubts of cautious\nmen, myself and a party of friends, who have a large acquaintance in\nLondon and its vicinity, propose publishing a work in monthly parts,\nwhich we mean to entitle \"The Bachelor's Vade-mecum, or a sure guide to\na good match.\" It will contain a list of all genuine and undoubted\nheiresses in the metropolis, and within ten miles around it, and of\nthose ladies whose fortune depends on contingencies: as our\ncorrespondence and information increase, we shall hope to extend the\ncircle of our inquiries, and we solicit those communications and\nassistances which the extent and utility of our plan require and\ndeserve. Notices will be given of all who drop off by death and\nmarriage, and of those whose value may be unexpectedly increased by a\nlegacy, or a sister or brother's decease. Particular attention will be\npaid to rich widows.--The first part of this truly useful work is nearly\nready for the press; and we flatter ourselves that its arrangement and\nexecution will excite universal applause. The particulars concerning\neach lady will be distributed under four heads; the first will be\ndevoted to her fortune and expectations; the second to a description of\nher person; the third to non-essentials; and under the fourth will be\nfound hints as to the readiest means of approach, cautions against\noffending peculiar tastes or prejudices, and much interesting and\nvaluable information.--A more clear idea, however, of our scheme will be\nconveyed by subjoining a few specimens taken at random from our first\nnumber, which will contain about seventy-five articles.\n\nNo. 14.\n\n_Fortune_.--10,000_l_. certain, left by a grandfather; two brothers have\nthe same, one of whom is likely to die before he is of age, which would\nproduce 5,000_l_. more. The father in business, supposed to live up to\nhis income. A rich, single aunt, but not on terms, on account of No.\n14's love of waltzing. A prudent husband might easily effect a\nreconciliation.\n\n_Person_.--Fair, with red hair, and freckled, nose depressed, brow\ncontracted, figure good, two false teeth.\n\n_Non-essentials_.--Bad-tempered, economical almost to parsimony. Sings a\ngreat deal, but has no voice. Dances well; a Roman Catholic.\n\n_Miscellaneous Information_.--Fond of winning at cards. A particular\ndislike to large whiskers; disapproves of hunting; makes her own gowns,\nand likes to have them admired.\n\nNo. 26.\n\n_Fortune_.--16,000_l_. from her father, who is dead, and 10,000_l_. more\ncertain on the death of her mother, who is at present ill. It is hoped\nthat her complaint is dropsy, but more information on this point shall\nbe given in our next Number.\n\n_Person_.--Fair, with fine blue eyes, good teeth, beautiful light hair.\nTall and well made. Hands and feet bad.\n\n_Non-essentials_.--Weak in understanding, and rather ungovernable in\ntemper. Has been taught all fashionable accomplishments; plays well on\nthe harp; sings Italian. Bites her nails, cannot pronounce her h's, and\nmisplaces her v's and w's. Her father was a butcher.\n\n_Miscellaneous Information_.--Keeps a recipe-book, and is fond of\nprescribing for colds and tooth-aches. Has a great dislike to lawyers.\nEats onions. Fond of bull-finches and canary-birds. Collects seals.\nAttends lectures on chemistry. Sits with her mouth open.\n\nNo. 43.\n\n_Fortune_.--60,000_l_. in her own disposal.\n\n_Person_.--Aquiline nose, large dark eyes, tall and thin. Fine teeth and\nhair, supposed false; but the lady's-maid has high wages, and has not\nyet been brought to confess.\n\n_Non-essentials_.--Plays well on the piano. Good-tempered. Aged\nsixty-three. Evangelical, and a blue-stocking.\n\n_Miscellaneous Information_.--Dislikes military and naval men. Fond of\nhares and trout. Has a great objection to waltzing. Aunt to No. 14. A\nprudent man might easily widen the breach between them. Attends\nBible-meetings and charity-schools. Lame of one leg.\n\nNo. 61.\n\n_Fortune_.--An only child; father a widower, with landed property to the\namount of 1,500_l_. per annum, and 40,000_l_. in the Three per Cents. It\nis possible he may marry again, but it is hoped that this may not occur.\nThe daughter lives with a maternal aunt.\n\n_Person_.--A decidedly handsome brunette. Tall, and well made.\n\n_Non-essentials_.--Charitable almost beyond her means; from which, and\nher wishing her father to marry, she is supposed to be extremely weak.\nTemper excellent; said to be well educated, but of too retiring a\ndisposition to allow of our discovering the fact without more trouble\nthan the matter is worth.\n\n_Miscellaneous Information_.--Fond of the country. Goes twice to church\non Sundays; but this affords no opportunity to a lover, as she never\nlooks about her. Has an uncle a bishop, which may recommend her to a\nclergyman.\n\nEvery person who has directed his attention to the subject, must\nperceive at a glance the immense utility of a work of this nature,\nconducted, as it will be, by men who pledge their characters on the\ncorrectness of the information they convey. When a bachelor decides on\nmarriage, by running over a few pages of our work, he will, in half an\nhour, be able to select a desirable match; by applying at our office,\nand giving testimonials of his respectability, he will receive the\nlady's name and address; and he may then pursue his object with a calm\ntranquillity of mind, a settled determination of purpose, which are in\nthemselves the heralds and pledges of success. Or, should he meet in\nsociety a lady who pleases his taste, before resigning himself to his\nadmiration, he will make inquiries at our office as to the number under\nwhich we have placed her in our list; and should she be of too little\nvalue to deserve a place in it, he will vigorously root her from his\nimagination, and suffer himself no longer to hover round her perilous\ncharms, \"come al lume farfalla.\"--_New Monthly Magazine_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nLONDON LYRICS.--TABLE TALK.\n\n\n  To weave a culinary clue,\n  Whom to eschew, and what to chew,\n    Where shun, and where take rations,\n  I sing. Attend, ye diners-out,\n  And, if my numbers please you, shout\n    \"Hear, hear!\" in acclamations.\n\n  There are who treat you, once a year,\n  To the same stupid set; Good cheer\n    Such hardship cannot soften.\n  To listen to the self-same dunce,\n  At the same leaden table, once\n    Per annum's once too often.\n\n  Rather than that, mix on my plate\n  With men I like the meat I hate--\n    Colman with pig and treacle;\n  Luttrell with ven'son-pasty join,\n  Lord Normanby with orange-wine,\n    And rabbit-pie with Jekyll.\n\n  Add to George Lambe a sable snipe,\n  Conjoin with Captain Morris tripe,\n    By parsley roots made denser;\n  Mix Macintosh with mack'rel, with\n  Calves-head and bacon Sydney Smith,\n    And mutton-broth with Spencer.\n\n  Shun sitting next the wight, whose drone\n  Bores, _sotto voce_, you alone\n    With flat colloquial pressure:\n  Debarr'd from general talk, you droop\n  Beneath his buzz, from orient soup,\n    To occidental Cheshire.\n\n  He who can only talk with one,\n  Should stay at home, and talk with none--\n    At all events, to strangers,\n  Like village epitaphs of yore,\n  He ought to cry, \"Long time I bore,\"\n    To warn them of their dangers.\n\n  There are whose kind inquiries scan\n  Your total kindred, man by man,\n    Son, brother, cousin joining.\n  They ask about your wife, who's dead,\n  And eulogize your uncle Ned,\n    Who died last week for coining.\n\n  When join'd to such a son of prate,\n  His queries I anticipate,\n    And thus my lee-way fetch up--\n  \"Sir, all my relatives, I vow,\n  Are perfectly in health--and now\n   I'd thank you for the ketchup!\"\n\n  Others there are who but retail\n  Their breakfast journal, now grown stale,\n    In print ere day was dawning;\n  When folks like these sit next to me,\n  They send me dinnerless to tea;\n    One cannot chew while yawning.\n\n  Seat not good talkers one next one,\n  As Jacquier beards the Clarendon;\n    Thus shrouded you undo 'em;\n  Rather confront them, face to face,\n  Like Holles-street and Harewood-place,\n    And let the town run through 'em.\n\n  Poets are dangerous to sit nigh--\n  You waft their praises to the sky,\n    And when you think you're stirring\n  Their gratitude, they bite you. (That's\n  The reason I object to cats--\n    They scratch amid their purring.)\n\n  For those who ask you if you \"malt,\"\n  Who \"beg your pardon\" for the salt,\n    And ape our upper grandees,\n  By wondering folks can touch Port-wine;\n  That, reader's your affair, not mine--\n    I never mess with dandies.\n\n  Relations mix not kindly; shun\n  Inviting brothers; sire and son\n    Is not a wise selection:\n  Too intimate, they either jar\n  In converse, or the evening mar\n    By mutual circumspection.\n\n  Lawyers are apt to think the view\n  That interests them must interest you;\n    Hence they appear at table\n  Or supereloquent, or dumb,\n  Fluent as nightingales, or mum\n    As horses in a stable.\n\n  When men amuse their fellow guests\n  With Crank and Jones, or Justice Best's\n    Harangue in Dobbs and Ryal--\n  The host, beneath whose roof they sit,\n  Must be a puny judge of wit,\n    Who grants them a new trial.\n\n  Shun technicals in each extreme,\n  Exclusive talk, whate'er the theme,\n    The proper boundary passes:\n  Nobles as much offend, whose clack's\n  For ever running on Almack's,\n    As brokers on molasses.\n\n  I knew a man, from glass to delf,\n  Who talk'd of nothing but himself,\n    'Till check'd by a vertigo;\n  The party who beheld him \"fluor'd,\"\n  Bent o'er the liberated board,\n    And cried, \"Hic jacet ego.\"\n\n  Some aim to tell a thing that hit\n  Where last they dined; what there was wit\n    Here meets rebuffs and crosses.\n  Jokes are like trees; their place of birth\n  Best suits them; stuck in foreign earth,\n    They perish in the process.\n\n  Ah! Merriment! when men entrap\n  Thy bells, and women steal thy cap,\n    They think they have trepann'd thee.\n  Delusive thought! aloof and dumb,\n  Thou wilt not at a bidding come,\n    Though Royalty command thee.\n\n  The rich, who sigh for thee--the great,\n  Who court thy smiles with gilded plate,\n    But clasp thy cloudy follies:\n  I've known thee turn, in Portman-square,\n  From Burgundy and Hock, to share\n    A pint of Port at Dolly's.\n\n  Races at Ascot, tours in Wales,\n  White-bait at Greenwich ofttimes fail,\n    To wake thee from thy slumbers.\n  E'en now, so prone art thou to fly,\n  Ungrateful nymph! thou'rt fighting shy\n    Of these narcotic numbers.\n\n                  _Ibid_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nSELECT BIOGRAPHY\n\nLEDYARD THE TRAVELLER.\n\n\nJohn Ledyard, by birth an American, was, in all respects, from the\nhabits of his life, a citizen of the world. He was born at a small\nvillage called Groton, in Connecticut, on the banks of the Thames; his\nfather was a captain in the West Indian trade, but died young, leaving a\nwidow and four children, of whom John was the eldest; his mother is\ndescribed as \"a lady of many excellences of mind and character,\nbeautiful in person, well informed, resolute, generous, amiable, kind,\nand, above all, eminent for piety and the religious virtues.\" Her little\nproperty, it seems, was lost through fraud or neglect, and the widowed\nmother, with her four infant children, thrown destitute upon the world.\nIn a few years, however, she was again married to Dr. Moor, and John was\nremoved to the house of his grandfather, at Hartford, where, at a very\nearly age, it is said, he showed many peculiarities in his manners and\nhabits, indicating an eccentric, an unsettled, and romantic turn of\nmind. Having gone through the grammar-school, he was placed with a\nrelative of the name of Seymour, to study the profession of the law; but\nthis dry kind of study was soon found to have no attractions for one of\nhis volatile turn of mind. Something, however, was to be done to rescue\nfrom sheer idleness a youth of nineteen, with very narrow means, few\nfriends, and no definite prospects; and, by the kindness of Dr.\nWheelock, the pious founder of Dartmouth College, who had been the\nintimate friend of his grandfather, he was enabled to take up his\nresidence at this new seat of learning, with the ostensible object of\nqualifying himself to become a missionary among the Indians.\n\nImpatient of restraint, and indignant at remonstrance and admonition, he\nsoon abandoned the missionary scheme that appeared to require too severe\ninitiation, and resolved to make his escape from the college. The mode\nadopted to carry this project into execution was strongly marked with\nthat spirit of enterprise by which, in after-life, he was so highly\ndistinguished.\n\nOn the margin of the Connecticut river, which runs near the college,\nstood many majestic forest trees, nourished by a rich soil. One of these\nLedyard contrived to cut down. He then set himself at work to fashion\nits trunk into a canoe, and in this labour he was assisted by some of\nhis fellow-students. As the canoe was fifty feet long and three wide,\nand was to be dug out and constructed by these unskilful workmen, the\ntask was not a trifling one, nor such as could be speedily executed.\nOperations were carried on with spirit, however, till Ledyard wounded\nhimself with an axe, and was disabled for several days. When recovered,\nhe applied himself anew to his work; the canoe was finished, launched\ninto the stream, and, by the further aid of his companions, equipped and\nprepared for a voyage. His wishes were now at their consummation, and\nbidding adieu to these haunts of the Muses, where he had gained a\ndubious fame, he set off alone, with a light heart, to explore a river,\nwith the navigation of which he had not the slightest acquaintance. The\ndistance to Hartford was not less than one hundred and forty miles, much\nof the way was through a wilderness, and in several places there were\ndangerous falls and rapids.\n\nWith a bear-skin covering, and a good supply of provisions, he launched\ninto the current and floated leisurely down, seldom using the paddle,\ntill, while engaged in reading, the canoe approached Below's Falls, the\nnoise of which, rushing among the rocks, suddenly aroused him; the\ndanger was imminent; had the canoe got into the narrow passage, it must\ninstantly have been dashed in pieces, and himself inevitably have\nperished.\n\nBy great exertion, however, he escaped the catastrophe and reached the\nshore; and by the kind assistance of some people in the neighbourhood,\nhad his canoe dragged by oxen around the falls, and again committed to\nthe water. \"On a bright spring morning,\" says his biographer, \"just as\nthe sun was rising, some of Mr. Seymour's family were standing near his\nhouse, on the high bank of the small river that runs through the city of\nHartford and empties itself into the Connecticut, when they espied, at\nsome distance, an object of unusual appearance moving slowly up the\nstream.\" On a nearer approach it was discovered to be a canoe, in the\nstern of which something was observed to be heaped up, but apparently\nwithout life or motion. At length it struck the shore, and out leapt\nJohn Ledyard from under his bear-skin, to the great astonishment of his\nrelatives at this sudden apparition, who had no other idea than that of\nhis being diligently engaged in his studies at Dartmouth, and fitting\nhimself for the pious office of a missionary among the Indians.\n\nNow, it was deemed expedient, both by his friends and by himself, that\nall further thoughts of his becoming a divine should be abandoned; and\nin the course of a few weeks we find him a common sailor, on board a\nvessel bound for Gibraltar. While at this place Ledyard was all at once\nmissing; he had enlisted into the army. The master, being the friend of\nhis late father, went and remonstrated with him for this strange freak,\nand urged him to return. The commanding officer assented to his release,\nand he returned to the ship.\n\nThe voyage being finished, the only profit yielded by it to Ledyard was\na little experience in the hardships of a sailor's life, as his scanty\nfunds were soon exhausted and poverty stared him in the face. At the age\nof twenty-two he found himself a solitary wanderer, dependent on the\nbounty of his friends, without employment or prospects, having tried\nvarious pursuits, and failed of success in all. But poverty and\nprivation were trifles of little weight with Ledyard; his pride was\naroused, and he determined to do something that should exonerate him\nfrom all dependence on his American friends.\n\nHe had often heard his grandfather descant on his English ancestors, and\nhis wealthy connexions in the old country; it struck him, therefore,\nwhile thus hanging loosely on society, that it might be no unwise thing\nto visit these relatives, and claim alliance with them. With this view\nhe proceeded to New York, and made his terms with the master of a vessel\nbound for Plymouth. Here he was set down, without money, without\nfriends, or even a single acquaintance. How to get to London, where he\nmade himself sure of a hearty welcome and a home among those connexions,\nwhose wealth and virtues he had heard so often extolled by his\ngrandfather, was a matter not easily settled. As good fortune would have\nit, he fell in with an Irishman as thoughtless as himself, and whose\nplight so exactly resembled his own, that, such is the sympathetic power\nof misfortune, they formed a mutual attachment almost as soon as they\ncame in contact. Both were pedestrians bound to London, and both were\nequally destitute of money or friends; and one _honest_ mode only\nremained for them to pursue, which was, to address themselves to \"the\ncharitable and humane.\" This point being settled, it was agreed to take\ntheir turn in begging along the road; and in this manner they reached\nLondon, without having any reason to complain of neglect, or that there\nwas any lack of generous and disinterested feeling in the human species.\nLedyard's first object, after arriving in the metropolis, was to find\nout his rich relations, in which he was so far successful as to discover\nthe residence of a wealthy merchant of the same name, to whose house he\nhastened. The gentleman was from home; but the son listened to his\nstory, and plainly told him he could put no faith in his\nrepresentations, as he had never heard of any relations in America. He\npressed him, however, to remain till his father's return, but the\nsuspicion of his being an impostor roused his indignation to such a\npitch that he abruptly left the house and resolved never to go near it\nagain. It is said that this merchant, on further inquiry, was satisfied\nof the truth of the connexion, and sent for Ledyard, who declined the\ninvitation in no very gracious manner; that, notwithstanding all this,\nthe merchant afterwards, on hearing of his distressed situation, sent\nhim money; and that the money was also rejected with disdain by the\nAmerican, who desired the bearer to carry it back, and tell his master\nthat he belonged not to the race of the Ledyards.\n\nThe next capacity in which we find Ledyard is that of a corporal of\nmarines, on board the ship of Captain Cook, then preparing for his third\nand last voyage round the world. Of this voyage Ledyard is said to have\nkept a minute journal, which, as in all cases of voyages of discovery,\nwent among the rest to the Admiralty, and was never restored. Two years\nafterwards, Ledyard, with the assistance of a brief outline of the\nvoyage published in London, and from his own recollection, brought out,\nin a small duodecimo, his narrative of the principal transactions of the\nvoyage, in which, we hear (for we have never seen it) he blames the\nofficers, and Captain Cook in particular, for several instances of\nprecipitate and incautious conduct, not to say severity, towards the\nvarious natives with whom they were brought in contact. It was to this\nwant of caution, and a due consideration for the habits and feelings of\nthe Sandwich Islanders, that he imputed the death of this celebrated\nnavigator. The late Admiral Burney, who served as a lieutenant on the\nvoyage, says that, \"with an ardent disposition, Ledyard had a passion\nfor lofty sentiment and description.\" He adds that, after Cook's death,\nLedyard proffered his services to Captain Clarke, to undertake the\noffice of historiographer of the expedition, and presented a specimen\ndescriptive of the manners of the Society Islanders; \"but,\" says this\nauthor, \"his ideas were thought too sentimental, and his language too\nflorid.\"\n\n_(To be concluded in our next.)_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nTHE GATHERER.\n\n\n  \"A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.\"\n  SHAKSPEARE.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nPOLSTEAD.\n\n_(For the Mirror.)_\n\n\nThe village of Polstead, though obscurely situate, is not entirely\ndestitute of celebrity, chiefly derived from an abundance of the small,\nsweet, black cherries,[10] so common in London, and known for miles\nround by the exclusive denomination of Polstead cherries. There are here\nlarge orchards of cherry-trees; and it is a common observation, that the\nface of a Polstead man is an index of a good or bad cherry season; if\nproductive, he may be seen with his chin in the air, his hands in his\npockets, and a saucy answer on the tip of his tongue; if, on the\ncontrary, the crop of cherries has failed, he hangs his head, folds his\nhands behind him, and if asked whence he comes, replies, in a subdued\ntone, \"_From poor Poustead_.\"\n\nUnhappily, as in the event that has given notoriety to this obscure\nvillage, there are some exceptions, but the inhabitants are for the most\npart peaceable, well conducted, and only remarkable for their orthodox\nbelief in ghosts and witches. An old gentleman, who died there some\nyears ago, lamented till his death a sight he had lost when a boy, only\nfor the want of five pounds--a man having undertaken for that sum to\nmake all the witches in the parish dance on the knoll together; and\nthough he grew up a penurious man, (and lived a bachelor till fifty), he\nnever ceased to lament that such an opportunity of seeing these\nweird-sisters collected together, never occurred again. He used to say\nhe had seen a witch \"_swam_ on Polstead Ponds,\" and \"she went over the\nwater like a cork.\" He had, when a boy, stopped a wizard in his way to\nStoke, by laying a line of single straws across the path; and, concealed\nin a hedge, he had watched an old woman (alias witch) feeding her imps\nin the form of three blackbirds.\n\nThe house in which Mrs. Corder lives is one of the best in the place,\nwhere, strictly speaking, there are not above half-a-dozen, including\nthe manor-house and rectory, the remainder being mere cottages; and yet\nthe parish is a rich one. It is singular, that among the peasantry are\nto be found the names of Montague, Bedford, Salisbury, Mortimer, and\nHolland, while the cognomens of those who inhabit the houses may be\nnearly comprised in as many syllables.\n\nIn the adjoining village of Stoke is the seat of Sir William Rowley, and\ndetached from it a street, called Thirteen Kings'-street, where,\naccording to local tradition, thirteen kings once met. In the same\nparish is Scotland-hall, and another detached street, called\nScotland-street, containing some five or six cottages; and half a mile\nfrom thence is a hilly field, of a dark clayey soil, occasioned, says\ntradition, by the flowing of blood down the hill, during a terrible\nbattle fought there between the Scots and English.\n\nZETA.\n\n    [10] Black orvones.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCONUNDRUM.\n\n\nWhy is the gravy of a leg of pork the best gravy in the world? Because\nthere's no Jews like it.--_John Bull_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nPOETRY AND PAINTING.\n\nWhat the monk said of Virgil's _AEneid_, \"that it would make an\nexcellent poem if it were only put into rhyme;\" is just as if a\nFrenchman should say of a beauty, \"Oh, what a fine woman that would be,\nif she was but painted!\"","title":"The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 327, August 16, 1828","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":12741}