{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11408/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11408","id":"gutenberg_11408","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11408","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: British Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - British","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Popular literature -- Great Britain -- Periodicals","The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction"],"text":"THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION\n\nVOL. 12, No. 346.]    SATURDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1828.    [PRICE 2d.\n\n\n\nOLD COVENT GARDEN.\n\n\n[Illustration: Old Covent Garden. ]\n\nThe notoriety of Covent Garden is of too multifarious a description to\nrender the above illustration uninteresting to either of our readers. It\nis copied from one of Hollar's prints, and represents the Garden about\nthe time of Charles II., before its area had been polluted with filth\nand vegetable odours.\n\nThe spot was originally the garden belonging to the abbot of\nWestminster, which extended to St. Martin's church, was called the\n_Convent Garden_, and may be distinctly traced in Ralph Agar's View of\nLondon, bearing date about 1570. It was granted, after the dissolution,\nby Edward VI. first to the protector Somerset, on whose attainder, in\n1582, it passed into the Bedford family. About the year 1634, Francis,\nEarl of Bedford, began to clear away the old buildings, and to form the\npresent handsome square. Its execution was confided to Inigo Jones, but\nunfortunately, only the north, and part of the east side, was completed;\nfor, had the piazza been continued on the other this would have been one\nof the noblest quadrangles in the metropolis. Previously to the erection\nof the present mass of huts and sheds, the area was neatly gravelled,\nhad a handsome dial in the centre, and was railed in on all sides, at\nthe distance of sixty feet from the buildings. The south side was\nbounded by the garden wall of Bedford-House, the town house of the noble\nfamily of that name; and along this wall only were the market booths.\nBut the mansion has long given way to Little Bedford-street.\n\nThe most striking object in the engraving is, however, the original\nchurch of St. Paul, as built by Inigo Jones, connected with which is the\nfollowing anecdote:--When the Earl of Bedford sent for Jones, in 1640,\nhe told him he wanted a chapel for the parishioners of Covent Garden;\nbut added, he would not go to any considerable expense. \"In short,\" said\nhe, \"I would not have it much better than a barn.\"--\"Well, then,\"\nreplied Jones, \"you shall have the handsomest barn in England.\" The\nceiling was very beautifully painted by Edward Pierce, sen. a pupil of\nVandyke. In 1795, the church was accidentally destroyed by fire, but it\nwas rebuilt by Mr. Hardwick, in imitation of the original design.\n\nIn a note at page 236 of vol. x. of the MIRROR, we adverted to the\ndisgraceful state of Covent Garden Market, which of late years has been\nlittle better than a public nuisance. The broom of reform at length\npromises to cleanse this _Augean_ area; and a new market is in the\ncourse of erection. The design, it will be recollected, was in this\nyear's Exhibition at Somerset House, and in an early Number we may\nprobably give a view of the Elevation.\n\nThe celebrity of Covent Garden as a depot for vegetable produce is of\nconsiderable antiquity; and it is but reasonable that such an\nimprovement should be made, consistent with the increased and increasing\nwants of this overgrown metropolis, and the augmented supplies which are\npoured in from all quarters. When this improvement is completed, it may\nlead to the finishing of the quadrangle. The parish (in extent, not in\nfeeling) is, perhaps, one of the most compact in London; but when its\nproximity to the theatres is considered, little surprise can reasonably\nbe felt at the immorality of the district. It may not be so easy a\nmatter to mend the public morals as to build new markets; but the links\nof popular improvement are too closely connected to make the case\nhopeless.\n\nIt would be amusing to compare this emporium of fruits and vegetables in\nancient and modern times. At the first enclosure of Covent Garden, in\n1635, the supply must have been very scanty. Upon the authority of Hume,\nwe learn that when Catherine, queen of Henry VIII., was in want of any\nsalads, carrots, or other edible roots, &c. she was obliged to send a\nspecial messenger to Holland for them. But the mention of water-cresses,\nkales, gooseberries, currants, &c., by old writers, appears to\ninvalidate the pursy historian. The garden must, nevertheless, have\npresented a very different appearance to that of our day. Only let the\n_gourmand_ take a walk through the avenues of the present Covent\nGarden--from the imperial pine, to the emerald leaves sprinkled with\npowdered diamonds--_vulgo_, savoys. Then the luscious list of autumnal\nfruits, and the peppers, or capsicums, and tomatas, to tickle the\nappetite of the veriest epicure of east or western London--not to\nmention the exotic fragrance of oranges, which come in just opportunely\nto fill up the chasm in the supply of British fruits.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nANCIENT ROMAN FESTIVALS\n\nDECEMBER.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\nThe feasts of _Opalia_ were celebrated in honour of the goddess _Ops_;\nthey were held on the 9th of December. Saturn and Ops were husband and\nwife, and to them we owe the introduction of corn and fruits; for which\nreason the feast was not held till the harvest and fruit time were over.\nThe vows offered to this goddess were made sitting on the ground, to\nshow that she was Earth, the mother of all things.\n\nThe _Saturnalia_ were festivals in honour of Saturn, celebrated the 16th\nor 17th, or, according to others, the 18th of December. They were\ninstituted long before the foundation of Rome, in commemoration of the\nfreedom and equality which prevailed on earth in the golden reign of\nSaturn. Some, however, suppose that the Saturnalia were first observed\nat Rome in the reign of Tullus Hostilius, after a victory obtained over\nthe Sabines; while others support, that Janus first instituted them in\ngratitude to Saturn, from whom he had learnt agriculture; others suppose\nthat they were first celebrated in the year of Rome 257, after a victory\nobtained over the Latins by the dictator, Posthumius. The Saturnalia\nwere originally celebrated only for one day, but afterwards the\nsolemnity continued for three, four, five, and at last for seven days.\nThe celebration was remarkable for the license which universally\nprevailed. The slaves were permitted to ridicule their masters, and to\nspeak with freedom upon any subject. It was usual for friends to make\npresents one to another; all animosity ceased; no criminals were\nexecuted; schools were shut; war was never declared, but all was mirth,\nriot, and debauchery. In the sacrifices the priests made their offerings\nwith their heads uncovered,--a custom which was never observed at other\nfestivals.\n\nThe _Divalia_ was a feast held on the 2lst of December, in honour of the\ngoddess _Angerona_, whence it is also called Angeronalia. On the day of\nthis festival the pontifices performed sacrifices in the temple of\nVoluptia, or the goddess of joy and pleasure, who, some say, was the\nsame with _Angerona_, and supposed to drive away all the sorrow and\nchagrin of life.\n\nThe feast of _Laurentinalia_ was held on the 23rd of December, but was\nordered to be observed twice a year by Augustus; by some supposed to be\nin honour of the _Lares_, a kind of domestic genii, or divinities,\nworshipped in houses, and esteemed the guardians and protectors of\nfamilies, supposed to reside in chimney-corners. Others have attributed\nthis feast in honour of Acca Laurentia, the nurse of Romulus and Remus,\nand wife of Faustulus.\n\nP.T.W.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nCELTIC ETYMOLOGIES.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\n_Hibernia_.--Ireland is called by the Latin writers, _Hibernia,\nIvernia--Ierne_[1]--and _Verna_--names differing but little in sound,\nand all, merely Latinizations of the Irish words _Ibh Eirin_--that is,\nthe Land of Eri\u00e9--for _Ibh_, in Irish, signifies a land, or country, and\n_Eirin_ is the genitive case of _Eire_, the name of Ireland in the Irish\ntongue--from _Ibh Eirin_ the Romans formed Hibernia, &c. the termination\nonly being Latin--and from _Eire_, by adding _land_, the Saxons formed\n_Eireland_ or _Ireland_. This Eire was a very ancient queen who gave her\nname to the country, as in modern times _Virginia_ was called after\nQueen Elizabeth, _Maryland_ after the queen of Charles I., &c.\n\n    [1] Scotorum cumulos flevit glacialis _Ierne_. CLAUDIAN.\n\n_Tory_.--A robber, an outlaw, literally, _one hunted_--a name originally\ngiven to the outlawed Irish chiefs of Ulster, in the reign of James I.,\nwho after the seizure of their lands, had a price set upon their heads,\nand were _hunted_ by the soldiery like wild beasts; hence the name of\n_Tories_, meaning the _hunted_ people, for _Toriacht_ in Irish signifies\na pursuit or hunting, and _Torihe_, hunted. In the reign of Charles II.\nit began to be used to designate a party in the state favourable to\nabsolute monarchy; many of these \"Tories\" having followed the fortunes\nof that prince in exile, returned with him, and being his most devoted\npartisans when reseated on his throne.\n\n_Admiral_.--This word, which appears to have sadly puzzled the\netymologists, having been derived from the Phoenician, the Coptic, and\nhalf a dozen languages besides, is pure Celtic, but little altered too,\nin its transit from one language to another. _Ard_, high or chief,\n_Muir_, the sea, and _Fear_, (in composition pronounced _ar_) a man, so\nthat _Ardmurar_, or _Admiral_, signifies literally the _Chief Seaman_.\nThere is nothing of torture in this derivation, as may be seen by\nreferring to any Irish dictionary, and it is a curious fact, that the\nIrish seamen in the navy very generally call the Admiral \"_the\nArdmurar_.\" In Irish it is frequently written in two words, thus--_Ard\nmuirfhear_.\n\n_Beltin day_.--The first of May is so called in many places in the North\nof England. It was a custom in the days of Druidism to light large fires\non the tops of hills on the evening of the first of May, in honour of\n_Bel_ or the Sun, and hence that day is still called in Irish, _La\nBheltine_, or the day of Bel's fire, from _La_, a day, _Bel_, the god\nBel, and _teine_, fire. The same ceremony was practised in Britain,\nbeing a Druidical rite, and the name (_Beltin day_) remains, although\nthe custom from which it originated, has in England, at least, been long\nforgotten.\n\nGuthrie, in his \"Geographical Grammar,\" tells us, that the English\nlanguage is a compound of the Saxon, the French, and the _Celtic_. As\nfar as this latter is concerned, the assertion appears to me to have\nbeen made without due consideration; I do not believe that there are\ntwenty words of _genuine Celtic_ in the English language; there are, it\nis true, a very few Irish words, which have become as it were, English\ndenizens, and of these I have sent you a specimen above; but I do not\nbelieve it possible to increase their number to twenty, even in broad\nScotch, in which dialect of the Saxon (from the neighbourhood of the\nHighlanders who use the Irish language) some Celtic words might be\nexpected, but very few occur;[2] there is, however, one very curious\nexception to this rule, and for which, I confess, I am unable to\naccount, (though perhaps your correspondent, _Rupert C._ in No. 342,\nmight,) it is this--that in Grose's _Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, or\nCant Language_, if the words which are evidently figurative be thrown\nout, nearly the whole of what remain are pure Irish.\n\n    [2] As _Oe_ a grandson--Irish _O_ or _Ux byre_, a\n    cowhouse--Irish boyach (boi-theach.)\n\nH.S.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTURKISH CANNON.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\nThe Turks use the largest cannon of any people in Europe. In our ships,\nand I believe in our batteries, we seldom use a heavier gun than a\n32-pounder. No man-of-war carries a gun of a larger calibre; but the\nTurks make use of 800-pounders. Mahommed II. is stated to have used at\nthe siege of Constantinople, in 1453, cannon of an immense calibre, and\nstone shot. When Sir J. Duckworth passed the Dardanelles to attack\nConstantinople, in 1807, his fleet was dreadfully shattered by the\nimmense shot thrown from the batteries. The Royal George (of 110 guns)\nwas nearly sunk by only one shot, which carried away her cut-water, and\nanother cut the main-mast of the Windsor Castle nearly in two; a shot\nknocked two ports of the Thunderer into one; the Repulse (74) had her\nwheel shot away and twenty-four men killed and wounded by a single shot,\nnor was the ship saved but by the most wonderful exertions. The heaviest\nshot which struck our ships was of granite, and weighed 800 pounds, and\nwas two feet two inches in diameter. One of these huge shots, to the\nastonishment of our tars, stove in the whole larboard bow of the Active;\nand having thus crushed this immense mass of timber, the shot rolled\nponderously aft, and brought up abreast the main hatchway, the crew\nstanding aghast at the singular spectacle. One of these guns was cast in\nbrass in the reign of Amurath; it was composed of two parts, joined by a\nscrew at the chamber, its breach resting against massy stone work; the\ndifficulty of charging it would not allow of its being fired more than\nonce; but, as a Pacha said, \"that single discharge would destroy almost\nthe whole fleet of an enemy.\" The Baron de Trott, to the great terror of\nthe Turks, resolved to fire this gun. The shot weighed 1,100 pounds, and\nhe loaded it with 330 pounds of powder: he says, \"I felt a shock like an\nearthquake, at the distance of eight hundred fathoms. I saw the ball\ndivide into three pieces, and these fragments of a rock crossed the\nStrait, and rebounded on the mountain.\"\n\nW.G.C.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nAN ORIGINAL SCOTCH SONG FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF ST. ANDREW'S DAY.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\nAir.--\"_The kail brose o' awld Scotland_.\"\n\n  Ye vintners a' your ingles[3] mak clear,\n  An brew us some punch our hearts a' to cheer,\n  On November the thritie let's meet ilkie year\n  To drink to the memory o' Andrew,\n  To Andrew the auld Scottish saint.\n\n  Peace was his word in the ha' or the fiel'[4]\n  An his creed it was whalsome to those that were leal\n  To mak' the road straight O' he was the cheel,\n  Sae here's to the memory o' Andrew,\n  To Andrew the auld Scottish saint.\n\n  In days o' langsyne as auld chronicles tell,\n  When clans wi' their dirks gaid to it pell mell,\n  O he was sad' that a' fewds cou'd expel,\n  Sae here's to the memory o' Andrew,\n  To Andrew the auld Scottish saint.\n\n  For since at the Spey when M'Duff led the van,\n  He vow'd that the charrians[5] he'd slay every one,\n  But by Andrew's doctren he slew na a man,\n  Sae here's to the memory o' Andrew,\n  To Andrew the auld Scottish saint,\n\n  When he to the Culdees the truth did explain\n  They a' rubb'd their beard, an' looket right fain\n  An' vow'd that his council they'd ever retain,\n  Sae here's to the memory o' Andrew,\n  To Andrew the auld Scottish saint.\n\n  Altho' at fam'd Patres[6] he closed his e'e,\n  Yet Regulus, the monk, brought him far oure the sea,\n  In St. Andrew's he sleeps, an' there let him be.\n  Sae here's to the memory o' Andrew,\n  To Andrew the auld Scottish saint.\n\nC.\n\n    [3] Fires.\n    [4] Field.\n    [5] See Buchanan's History of Scotland, book p. 186.\n    [6] See Cook's Geography, book ii. p. 302.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nORIGIN OF THE WORD BANKRUPT.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\nThis word is formed from the ancient Latin _bancus_ a _bench_, or\n_table_, and _ruptus, broken_. Bank originally signified a bench, which\nthe first bankers had in the public places, in markets, fairs, &c. on\nwhich they told their money, wrote their bills of exchange, &.c. Hence,\nwhen a banker failed, they broke his bank, to advertise the public that\nthe person to whom the bank belonged was no longer in a condition to\ncontinue his business. As this practice was very frequent in Italy, it\nis said the term bankrupt is derived from the Italian _banco_ rotto,\nbroken bench. Cowel (in his 4th Institute 227) rather chooses to deduce\nthe word from the French _banque, table_, and _route, vestigium, trace_,\nby metaphor from the sign left in the ground, of a table once fastened\nto it and now gone. On this principle he traces the origin of bankrupts\nfrom the ancient Roman _mensarii_ or _argentarii_, who had their\n_tabernae_ or _mensae_ in certain public places; and who, when they\nfled, or made off with the money that had been entrusted to them, left\nonly the sign or shadow of their former station behind them.\n\nP.T.W.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nORIGIN OF THE WORD _BROKER_, &c.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\nThe origin of this word is contested; some derive it from the French\n_broyer, \"to grind_;\" others from _brocader, to cavil or riggle_; others\ndeduce broker from a trader _broken_, and that from the Saxon _broc_,\n\"misfortune,\" which is often the true reason of a man's breaking. In\nwhich view, a broker is a broken trader, by misfortune; and it is said\nthat none but such were formerly admitted to that employment. The Jews,\nArmenians, and Banians are the chief brokers throughout most parts of\nthe Levant and the Indies. In Persia, all affairs are transacted by a\nsort of brokers, whom they call \"_delal_\" i.e. \"_great talkers_.\" Their\nform of contract in buying and selling is remarkable, being done in the\nprofoundest silence, only by touching each other's fingers:--The buyer,\nloosening his _pamerin_, or girdle, spreads it on his knee; and both he\nand the seller, having their hands underneath, by the intercourse of the\nfingers, mark the price of pounds, shillings, &c., demanded, offered,\nand at length agreed on. When the seller takes the buyer's whole hand,\nit denotes a thousand, and as many times as he squeezes it, as many\nthousand pagods or roupees, according to the species in question\ndemanded; when he only takes the five fingers, it denotes five hundred;\nand when only one, one hundred; taking only half a finger, to the second\njoint, denotes fifty; the small end of the finger, to the first joint,\nstands for ten. This _legerdemain_, or _squeezing system_, would not do\nfor the _latitude_ of London.\n\nP.T.W.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nSELECT BIOGRAPHY\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nDR. GALL.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\nThe loss which the scientific world has lately sustained by the death of\nDr. Gall, will be longer and more deeply felt than any which it has\nexperienced for some years. This celebrated philosopher and physician\nwas born in the year 1758, of respectable parents, at a small village in\nthe duchy of Baden, where he received the early part of his education.\nHe afterwards went to Brucksal, and then to Strasburgh, in which city he\ncommenced his medical studies, and became a pupil of the celebrated\nProfessor Hermann. From Strasburgh he removed to Vienna, where he\ncommenced practice, having taken the degree of M.D. In this capital,\nhowever, he was not permitted to develope his new system of the\nfunctions of the brain; and from his lectures being interdicted, and the\nilliberal opposition which he here met with, as well as in other parts\nof Austria, he determined to visit the north of Germany. Here he was\nwell received in all the cities through which he passed, as well as in\nPrussia, Sweden, and Denmark, and explained the doctrines he had founded\non his observations from _nature_ before several sovereigns, who\nhonoured him with such marks of approbation and respect as were due to\nhis talents. In the course of his travels he likewise visited England,\nand at length, in 1807, settled in Paris, where his reputation had\nalready preceded him, and which, from its central situation, he\nconsidered as the fittest place for disseminating his system. In this\ncity, in 1810, he published his elaborate work on the brain, the\nexpenses of which were guaranteed by one of his greatest friends and\npatrons, Prince Metternich, at that time Austrian minister at the court\nof France.\n\nIt was natural to expect that the system of Dr. Gall, which differed so\nwidely from the long confirmed habits of thinking, and having to contend\nwith so many prejudices, should encounter a large host of adversaries;\nfor if _phrenology_ be true, all other systems of the philosophy of the\nhuman mind must consequently be false. The brain, which, from the\nearliest periods, has generally been considered as the seat of our\nmental functions, Dr. Gall regards as a congeries of organs, each organ\nhaving a separate function of its own. This system, first promulgated by\nhim, is now rapidly advancing in the estimation of the world; and its\ndoctrines, which a few years since were thought too extravagant and\nabsurd for investigation, are now discussed in a more liberal and candid\nmanner. The _test_ for the science of phrenology, and a test by which\nits validity alone can be tried, consists in an induction of facts and\nobservations; and by this mode it is that the disciples of Gall and\nSpurzheim challenge their antagonists.\n\nAfter a life of the most indefatigable industry and active benevolence,\nDr. Gall breathed his last at his country house at Montrouge, a short\ndistance from Paris, on August the 22nd, 1828, at the age of seventy-\none. The examination of his body took place forty hours after death, in\nthe presence of the following members of the faculty:--Messrs. Fouquier,\nJ. Cloquet, Dauncey, Fossati, Cassimir-Broussais, Robouane, Sarlandi\u00e8re,\nFabre-Palaprat, Londe, Costello, Gaubert, Vimont, Jobert, and Marotti.\nThe exterior appearance of the body presented a considerable falling\naway, particularly in the face. The skull was sawed off with the\ngreatest precaution; the substance of the brain was consistent, and this\norgan was firm and perfectly regular.\n\nThe funeral of Dr. Gall, which was conducted with as much privacy as\npossible, took place at Paris on the 27th of August. He was interred in\nthe burial-ground of P\u00e8re la Chaise, between the tombs of Moli\u00e8re and La\nFontaine, being attended to the grave by several members of the faculty.\nThree _eloges_, or _oraisons fun\u00e8bres_, were delivered at the place of\ninterment by Professor Broussais, Dr. Fossati, and Dr. Londe.\n\nBroussais informs us, that Dr. Gall possessed most of the social\nvirtues, particularly beneficence and good-nature--qualities, he\nobserves, precious in all ranks of society, and which ought to make\namends for many defects; but for Gall, they had only to palliate a\ncertain roughness of character, which might wound the susceptibility of\ndelicate persons, although the sick and unfortunate never had to\ncomplain; and, indeed, the doctor ought, in strict justice, to have more\nmerit in our ideas, from never having once lost sight, in his writings,\nof either decency or moderation, particularly when it is remembered how\nseverely he was attacked in propagating his favourite doctrine.\n\nT.B.\n\n         *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nFROM CATULLUS.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\n  My Lydia says, \"believe me I speak true,\n  I ne'er will marry any one but you;\n  If Jove himself should mention love to me,\n  Not even Jove would be preferred to thee.\"\n  She says--but all that women tell\n  Their doting lovers--I, alas! too well\n  Know, should be written on the waves or wind,\n  So little do their words express their mind.\n\nT.C.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nTHE NOVELIST\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nGERMAN TRADITIONS.\n\n\n  I have a song of war for knight,\n  Lay of love for lady bright,\n  Faery tale to lull the heir,\n  Goblin grim the maids to scare!\n\n                 SIR WALTER SCOTT.\n\nGermany! land of mystery and of mind! birth-place of Schiller and\nGo\u00ebthe, with what emotions does not every lover of romance sit down to\nperuse thy own peculiar, dreamy traditions! Thy very name conjures up\nvisions of demons, and imps, and elfs, and all the creations of faery\nland, with their varied legends of _diablerie_, almost incredible in\nnumber and singular in detail--and romance, in his gloomy mood, seems\nhere to have reared his strong hold.\n\nAt a time when a taste for the beauties of German literature is becoming\ngeneral throughout this country, we conceive that a few specimens of her\ntraditions may not be unacceptable to the reader. Few subjects are more\ninteresting than the popular legends of a country, which are the source\nfrom whence many of our later novelists draw several of their writings:\nthey offer a field for reflection to the contemplative observer of man;\nand those of Germany, although some are disfigured with a little too\nmuch absurdity in their details, are confessedly a mine of wealth to the\nlover of research in such matters. Here Schiller first drew the sources\nof his inspiration; here Go\u00ebthe first electrified mankind with his\nwritings--works which will render both immortal; it is, indeed, a mine\nwhich has been and will bear much working.\n\nWe have chosen the following tradition, both on account of the merit it\npossesses, and its being the unquestionable origin of Washington\nIrving's inimitable _Rip Von Winkle_. Indeed, the similarity of the\nstory is strikingly obvious. We believe there are several legends on\nthis subject, which, with the present, probably all refer to the Emperor\nFrederic Barbarossa, whose adventures form the source of many a story\namong the Germans. The original tale is nearly as follows:--It seems the\nemperor was once compelled to conceal himself, with a party of his\nfollowers, amongst the Kyffha\u00fcsen mountains; there he still lives, but\nis under the influence of magic. He sits with his adherents on a seat\nbefore a stone table, leaning his head upon his hands, seeming to\nslumber; but apparently his sleep is very restless, and his head nods,\nand seems as if he were going to awake, and his red beard has grown\nthrough the table down to his feet. He takes pretty long naps, not more\nthan a hundred years in length at a stretch: when his slumber is\ninterrupted, he is fabled to be very fond of music; and it is said that\nthere was a party of musicians, who once gave him a regular serenade in\nhis subterranean retreat, doubtless expecting some wonderful token of\nhis generosity in return; but they received nothing for their pains but\na number of green boughs, which so disgusted them, that they all threw\nthem away on their return to earth, save one, who, however, had no\nsuspicion of its worth, for on showing it to his wife, to his great\nastonishment, each leaf became a golden coin.\n\nAn author before us observes, that this tale of the emperor's slumbers\ncannot, perhaps, be deemed original, and is probably a popular version\nof the Seven Sleepers, \"not a little disfigured by the peculiar\nsuperstition of the country.\" The same writer remarks, with justice,\nthat it is surprising how few are the sources, and how scanty the parent\nstock, from whence all the varieties of European legend are derived.\nIndeed, the foundation of a great part of these legendary stories seems\nto have been the heathen mythology of the different countries, and the\nvarious tales of superstition being handed down from one generation to\nanother, have gradually assumed the shape they now bear; from whence may\nbe traced most of our popular superstitions.\n\nTHE LEGEND OF THE GOATHERD.\n\n  When I behold a football to and fro,\n    Urged by a throng of players equally,\n  Methinks I see, resembled in that show,\n    This round earth poised in the vacant sky.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  And all we learn whereas the game is o'er,\n  That life is but a dream, and nothing more.\n\n                            AMADIS JANRYN.\n\n  \"Know'st thou me not?\"----------------\n  \"Oh, yes, (I cried,) thou art indeed the same.\"\n\n                                 GOETHE.\n\nAt the peaceful village of Sittendorf dwelt Peter Klaus, the goatherd.\nHe daily tended his flocks to pasture in the Kyffh\u00e4usen mountains, and\nnever failed, as evening approached, to muster them in a little mead,\nsurrounded by a stone wall, preparatory to driving them home; for some\ntime, however, he had observed, that one of the finest of his herd\nregularly disappeared soon after coming to this nook, and did not join\nher companions till late. One night, watching her attentively, he\nremarked that she slipped through a hole or opening in the wall, on\nwhich he cautiously crept after the animal, and found she was in a cave,\nbusily engaged in gleaning the grains of corn that fell down singly from\nthe roof. Peter did not look long before the shower of corn that now\nsaluted him made him shake his ears, and inflamed his curiosity the more\nto discover the cause of so singular an occurrence in that out-of-the-\nway place. However, at last he heard the neigh and stamping of horses,\napparently proceed from above; and it was doubtless from their mangers\nthat the oats had fallen.\n\nWhile standing, still wrapped in amazement at the singularity of the\nadventure, Peter's surprise was not diminished on observing a boy, who,\nwithout saying a word, silently beckoned him to follow. Peter\nmechanically obeyed the gestures of the lad, and ascended some steps,\nwhich led over a walled court into a hollow place, completely surrounded\non all sides by lofty rocks, and crowned by the rich foliage of shrubs,\nthrough which an imperfect twilight displayed a smooth, well-trimmed\nlawn, that formed the ground he stood upon. Here were twelve knights,\nwho, without so much as uttering a syllable, were very gravely playing\nat nine-pins; and as silently was Peter inducted into the office of\nassistant, namely, in setting up these nine-pins. Peter's courage was\nnone of the strongest during all this time, and his knees smote each\nother most devoutly as he commenced his duties; while he occasionally\nventured to steal a glance at the venerable knights, whose long beards\nand antique slashed doublets filled him with profound awe.\n\nHis fears, however, began to be on the wane, as he became more\naccustomed to his new employment. Indeed, he went so far as to gaze on\none of the noble knights straight in the face--nay, even at last\nventured to sip out of a bowl of wine that stood near him, which\ndiffused a most delicious odour around. He found this sip so\ninvigorating, that he soon took a somewhat longer pull; and in a short\ntime Peter had quite forgotten that such things as Sittendorf, Wife, or\nGoats had ever existed; and on finding himself the least weary, he had\nonly to apply to the never-failing goblet. At last he fell fast asleep.\n\nOn waking, Peter found he was in the same little enclosure where he was\nwont to count his flocks. He shook himself well, and rubbed his eyes;\nbut neither dog nor goats were to be seen; and he was astonished in no\nslight degree to observe that he was nearly surrounded with high grass,\nand trees, and shrubs, which he never before remarked, growing about\nthat spot. Lost in perplexity, he followed his way to all the different\nhaunts he had frequented with his herds, but no traces of them were to\nbe discovered; at last he hastily bent his steps to Sittendorf, which\nlay beneath.\n\nThe persons whom he met on his way to the village were all strangers to\nhim; they were differently dressed, and did not precisely speak the\nlanguage of his acquaintance; and on inquiring after his goats, all\nstared and touched their chins. At last he mechanically did the same,\nbut what was his surprise when he found his beard lengthened at least a\nfoot; on which he began to conclude that he and those around him were\nall under the influence of magic or enchantment. Yet the mountain he had\ndescended was certainly the Kyffh\u00e4usen--the cottages, too, with their\ngardens and enclosures, were all quite familiar to him--and he heard\nsome boys reply to the passing questions of a traveller, that it was\nSittendorf.\n\nHis doubt and perplexity now increased every moment, and he quickened\nhis steps towards his own dwelling; he hardly knew it, it was so much\ndecayed; and before the door lay a strange goatherd's boy, with a dog\napparently at the last extreme of age, that snarled when he spoke to\nhim. He entered the house through an opening, which had formerly been\nclosed by a door. All was waste and void within; he staggered out as if\nhe had lost his senses, calling on his wife and children by their names;\nbut no one heard--none answered. Before long, a crowd of women and\nchildren had collected around the strange old man, with the long hoary\nbeard, and all inquired what it was he was seeking after. This was\nalmost too much; to be thus questioned before his own door was more than\nstrange, and he felt ashamed to ask after his wife and children, or even\nof himself; but to get rid of his querists he mentioned the first name\nthat occurred to him, \"Kurt Steffen?\" The people looked around in\nsilence, till at length an old woman said, \"He has been in the\nchurchyard these twelve years past, and you'll not go thither to-day.\"--\n\"Velten Meier?\"--\"Heaven rest his soul!\" replied an ancient dame,\nleaning on a crutch. \"Heaven rest his soul! he has lain in the house he\nwill never leave these fifteen years!\"\n\nThe goatherd shuddered to recognise in the last speaker his next\nneighbour, who seemed all at once to have grown old; but he had lost all\ndesire to inquire further. Suddenly a smart young woman pressed through\nthe surrounding gapers, with an infant in her arms, and leading a girl\nabout fourteen years old--all three the exact image of his wife. With\ngreater surprise than ever he inquired her name. \"Maria!\"--\"And your\nfather's name?\"--\"Peter Klaus! Heaven rest his soul! It is now twenty\nyears since his goats returned without him, and we sought for him in\nvain day and night in the Kyffh\u00e4usen mountains--I was then hardly seven\nyears old.\"\n\nOur goatherd could no longer contain himself. \"I am Peter Klaus!\" he\nroared, \"I am Peter Klaus, and no one else!\" and he caught the child\nfrom his daughter's arms. Every one, for an instant, stood as if\npetrified, till at length one voice, and another, and then another,\nexclaimed, \"Yes, this is, indeed, Peter Klaus! welcome, neighbour!\nwelcome, after twenty years!\"\n\nVYVYAN.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nSPIRIT OF DISCOVERY\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.\n\n\nSince our last visit, many of the tenants have begun to _hybernate_, and\ntasteful erections have been made for their winter quarters in all parts\nof the gardens. Several others are in progress, and a semi-circular\naviary for British birds is already built. The _season_ is far advanced,\nand there have been but few _arrivals_ of late. The _emus'_ grounds have\nbeen enclosed with elegant iron-work, and several removals or _changes_\nhave taken place. Some of the animals are much affected by the cold\nweather. Thus, the monkeys have left their houses on poles, and retired\nto enclosed cages, where they nestle in groups of threes and fours, and\namuse themselves by teazing the least of their company; for here, as\nelsewhere, the weakest goes to the wall. Three fine wolves, previously\nshut up in a small den, now enjoy a large cage, where they appear much\ninvigorated by the bracing season. Here and there a little animal lies\ncurled up in the corner of his cage, in a state of torpidity. Among the\nbirds, the macaws were holding an in-door council in their robes of\nstate; whilst one fine fellow, in blue coat and yellow waistcoat,\nperched himself outside the aviary, and by his cries, proved that fine\ncolours were not weather-proof. The snowy plumage of the storks was\n\"tempered to the wind;\" but they reminded us of their original\nabode--the wilderness. The eagles and vultures in the circular aviary\nsat on their perches, looking melancholy and disconsolate, but well\nprotected from cold. The kangaroos have removed into their new house,\nand their park has been relaid, although they still look unsettled. A\nvery pretty beaver-house has been built of mimic rocks.\n\nAmong the _introductions_, or new faces, we noticed a pair of fine\nmastiffs from Cuba, and two Thibet watch-dogs. One of the latter stood\nshivering in the cold, with bleared eyes, and crying \"like a lubberly\npostmaster's boy.\" The three bears exhibited as much good-breeding as\nthe visiters encouraged,--climbing to the top of the pole when there was\nany thing to climb after, and an Admiralty expedition could do no more.\n\n_Poisoning of Vegetables_.\n\nSeveral very curious experiments on the poisoning of vegetables, have\nrecently been made by M. Marcet, of Geneva.--His experiments on arsenic,\nwhich is well known to every one as a deadly poison to animals, were\nthus conducted. A vessel containing two or three bean plants, each of\nfive or six leaves, was watered with two ounces of water, containing\ntwelve grains of oxide of arsenic in solution. At the end of from\ntwenty-four to thirty-six hours, the plants had faded, the leaves\ndrooped, and had even begun to turn yellow; the roots remained fresh,\nand appeared to be living. Attempts to restore the plants after twelve\nor eighteen hours, by abundant watering, failed to recover them. The\nleaves and stem of the dead plant gave, upon chemical examination,\ntraces of arsenic. A branch of a rose-tree, including a flower, was\ngathered just as the rose began to blow; the stem was put into a vessel,\ncontaining a solution of six grains of oxide of arsenic in an ounce of\nwater. The flower and leaves soon showed symptoms of disease, and on the\nfifth day the whole branch was withered and dead, though only one-fifth\nof a grain of arsenic had been absorbed. Similar stems, placed in pure\nwater, had, after five days, the roses fully expanded, and the leaves\nfresh and green.\n\nOn June 1st, a slit of one inch and a half in length was made in the\nstem of a lilac tree, the branch being about an inch in diameter. The\nslit extended to the pith. Fifteen or twenty grains of moistened arsenic\nwere introduced, the cut was closed, and the stem retained in its\noriginal position by osier ties. On the 8th, the leaves began to roll up\nat the extremity; on the 28th, the branches were dry, and, in the second\nweek of July, the whole of the stem was dry, and the tree itself dead.\nIn about fifteen days after the first, a tree, which joined the former a\nlittle above the earth, shared the same fate, in consequence of its\nconnexion with that into which the poison had been introduced. Other\ntrees similarly cut, but without having been poisoned, suffered no kind\nof injury.\n\nM. Marcet's experiments upon vegetable poisons are no less interesting,\nand still more wonderful, as indicating a degree of irritability in\nplants somewhat similar to that which depends on the nervous system in\nanimals. After having ascertained that the bean plants could exist in a\nhealthy state for five or six days, if immersed in the same quantity of\nspring water, he tried them with five or six grains of opium dissolved\nin an ounce of water, the consequence of which was, that in the evening\nthe leaves had dropped, and, by the middle of next day, they were dead\nbeyond recovery. Other vegetable poisons of the narcotic class produced\na similar effect. Hemlock was equally fatal, and six grains of dry\npowdered foxglove, in an ounce of water, began to operate, by wrinkling\nsome of the leaves of the bean in a few moments, which it completely\nkilled in twenty-four hours. Oxalic acid or salt of sorrel, though found\nin common and wood sorrel, and a great many plants, proved a very fatal\npoison to others. The absorption of one-tenth of a grain, killed a rose\nbranch and flower in forty--eight hours.--\n\n_Quar. Jour. of Agriculture._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nNOTES OF A READER\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nKNOWING PEOPLE.\n\n\nHow happily do these few lines characterize a certain set of people who\npick up news from \"good authority,\" and settle the fate of the nation\nover strong potations of brandy and water, or Calvert's porter,\nforgetting that \"people who drink beer, think beer.\" Suppose a question\nof great public interest afloat:--\"Reports are abroad, precisely of the\nproper pitch of absurdity, for the greedy swallowing of the great\ngrey-goggle-eyed public, who may be seen standing with her mouth wide\nopen like a crocodile, with her hands in her breeches-pockets, at the\ncrosses of cities on market-days, gluttonously devouring whatever rumour\nflings into her maw--nor in the least aware that she is all the time\neating wind. People of smallish abilities begin to look wiser and wiser\nevery day--their nods seem more significant--in the shaking of their\nheads there is more of Burleigh--and in short sentences--that sound like\napophthegms--they are apt to impose themselves on their credulous selves\nas so many Solomons.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nNEW CHURCHES.\n\n\nAmong the numerous sermons lately preached in pursuance of the King's\nletter for the enlargement and building of churches and chapels, we\nnotice one by the vicar of Dorking, in Surrey, from which we extract the\nfollowing:--\"In many places of this country it is lamentable to behold\nthe ruinous state of churches. If a man's dwelling-house be decayed, he\nwill never cease till it be restored; if his barn, where he bestows all\nhis fruits and his goods, be out of repair, what diligence doth he use\nto make it perfect? If the stable for his horse, or the sty for his\nswine, be not able to exclude the severity of weather, when the rains\nfall, and the winds blow, how careful is he to incur the necessary cost?\nShall we then be so mindful of our common houses, deputed to such low\noccupations, and be forgetful toward that house of God, in which are\nexpounded the words of our eternal salvation--in which are administered\nthe sacraments and mysteries of our redemption?\"--The persuasiveness of\nthis argument is admirable, and its amiable tone and temper are\ninfinitely more suitable than the florid appeal.\n\nWe also learn that Parliament has already voted a million and a half of\nmoney to the sole use of building churches, and that in the diocese in\nwhich Dorking is situated, thirty-two cases have been aided by the sum\nof 6,230_l_.\n\nBut the _church of Dorking_ is in a dilapidated state, and is capable of\ncontaining only one-fifth of the inhabitants. It was \"probably erected\nabout the commencement of the twelfth century; and the crumbling walls\nmay almost be said to totter under the massive roof.\" This calls forth\nthe following pious exhortation: \"Our lot is cast in a pleasant place.\nLet us manifest our thankfulness to the Giver of every good gift by a\nstructure dedicated to his service, corresponding with the magnificence\nof private mansions, and the natural beauties of local scenery.\" We can\nonly wonder that, in a neighbourhood abounding with men of rank and\nopulence, such an appeal is necessary.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nSHORT-HAND.\n\n\n\"Sound is the gauge of short-hand, and connexion the master-key for\ndeciphering.\" Such is one of the axioms in Mr. Harding's eighth edition\nof his very valuable little \"System of Short-Hand,\"--to which, by way of\npleasant illustration, he appends, the \"Dirge on Miss LN G,\" copied by\nus from the \"New Monthly Magazine;\" but we give Mr. H. credit for the\npresent application. We could write a whole number of the MIRROR on the\nadvantages of short-hand to the community; but as that would not be a\npractical illustration, we desist. Only think of the \"Times\" newspaper\nbeing scores of miles from town before half London has risen; and the\nDuke of Bedford, reading the previous night's debates at his breakfast\ntable at Woburn Abbey. What would all Mr. Applegath's machinery do\ntowards producing the newspaper without the aid of short-hand, which\nmakes its expedition second only to thought. Half an hour's delay of\n\"the paper\" makes us fret and fume and condemn the fair provider of our\nbreakfast--for over-roasted coffee and stale eggs--all because the paper\nis not \"come;\" but when would it come without short-hand? why at\ndinner-time, and that would make short work of a day--for thousands\ncannot set to work till they have consulted it as a mainspring of\naction. People who aim at the short cuts to knowledge should study\nstenography, and for this purpose they will do well to provide\nthemselves with Mr. Harding's System, which will be as good as \"a cubit\nto a man's height.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nLOVE'S MASTERY.\n\n\n  She was his own, his all:--the crowd may prove\n  A transient feeling, and misname it love:--\n  His was a higher impulse; 'twas a part\n  Of the warm blood that circled through his heart,\n  A fervid energy, a spell that bound\n  Thoughts, wishes, feelings, in one hallow'd round.\n\n                         _The Winter's Wreath._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nCRUELTY TO ANIMALS.\n\n\nThe second edition of a pamphlet, entitled the Voice of Humanity, has\njust reached us. It contains details of the disgusting cruelties of the\nmetropolis--as bear and badger baiting, dog-fighting, slaughtering-\nhorses, &c.--and reference to the _abattoirs_, or improved\nslaughter-houses for cattle, which was illustrated in our 296th Number.\nIn the appendix are many interesting particulars of Smithfield Market\nand similar nuisances. The pamphlet is dedicated to that enlightened\nfriend of humanity, Sir James Mackintosh, and it appears worthy of his\npatronage.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nWOMANKIND.\n\n\nThe womankind never looks sae bonnie as in wunter, accepp indeed it may\nbe in spring. You auld bachelors ken naething o' womankind--and hoo\nshould ye, when they treat you wi' but ae feelin', that o' derision? Oh,\nsirs! but the dear creters do look weel in muffs--whether they haud\nthem, wi' their invisible hauns clasped thegither in their beauty within\nthe cozy silk linin', close prest to their innicent waists, just aneath\nthe glad beatins o' their first love-touched hearts. Or haud them\nhingin' frae their extended richt arms, leavin' a' the feegur visible,\nthat seems taller and slimmer as the removed muff reveals the clasps o'\nthe pelisse a' the way doon frae neck till feet! Then is there, in a'\nthe beautifu' and silent unfauldin's o' natur amang plants and flowers,\nony thing sae beautifu' as the white, smooth, saft chafts o' a bit\nsmilin' maiden o' saxteen, aughteen, or twunty, blossomin' out, like\nsome bonnie bud or snaw-white satin frae a coverin' o' rough\nleaves,--blossomin' out, sirs, frae the edge o' the fur-tippet, that\nhaply a lover's happy haun had delicately hung ower her gracefu'\nshoothers--oh, the dear, delightfu' little Laplander!--_Noctes--\nBlackwood's Magazine._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nCAPTAIN ROCK.\n\n\nThere are few of our readers who need to be informed that Captain Rock's\nLetters to the King are certainly not written by Mr. Moore, to whom,\nwhile the publication was suspended, they were so positively\nascribed.--_Q. Rev._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE LIBRARY AT HOLKHAM.\n\n\nThe manuscripts of Lord Coke are in the possession of his descendant,\nMr. Coke, of Norfolk, his representative through the female issue of\nLord Leicester, the male heir of the chief justice. At this gentleman's\nprincely mansion of Holkham, is one of the finest collections, or,\nindeed, libraries of manuscripts anywhere preserved; certainly the\nfinest in any private individual's possession. It partly consists of the\nchief justice's papers; the rest, and the bulk of it, was collected by\nthat accomplished nobleman who built the mansion, the last male heir of\nthe great lawyer. He had spent many years abroad, where his taste was\nimproved and his general education perfected. He collected a vast number\nof the most valuable manuscripts. Of these the exquisitely illuminated\nmissals, and other writings of a similar description, which would from\ntheir perfect beauty and great rarity bear the highest price in the\nmarket, are certainly by far the least precious in the eyes of literary\nmen. Many of the finest _codices_ of the Greek, Latin, and old Italian\nclassics are to be found in this superb collection. Among others are no\nless than thirteen of Livy, a favourite author of Lord Leicester, whom\nhe had made some progress in editing, when he learnt that\nDrakenborchius, the well known German critic, had proceeded further in\nthe same task, and generously handed over to him the treasures of his\nlibrary. The excellent edition of that commentator makes constant\nreference to the Holkham manuscripts, under the name of _MSS.\nLovelliana_, from the title of Lovell; Lord Leicester not having then\nbeen promoted to the earldom. Mr. Coke, with a becoming respect for the\nvaluable collection of his ancestors, was desirous to have the\nmanuscripts unfolded, bound, and arranged, both with a view to their\npreservation and to the facility of consulting them. They had lain for\nhalf a century neglected, and in part verging towards decay, when he\nengaged his valued friend, William Roscoe, to undertake the labour so\ncongenial to his taste and habits, of securing these treasures from the\nravages of time. From the great number of the manuscripts, the state in\nwhich many of them were, and the distance of Mr. Roscoe's residence,\nthis was necessarily a work of time. After above ten years employed on\nit, the task is now finished. Each work is beautifully and classically\nbound; and to each Mr. Roscoe has prefixed, in his own fair hand\nwriting, a short account of the particular manuscript, with the\nbibliographical learning appertaining to it.--_Library of Useful\nKnowledge_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nPHRENOLOGY.\n\n\nMr. Crook, of the Phrenological Society, has just published a\n\"Compendium of Phrenology,\" which cannot fail to be acceptable to the\ningenious inquirers after that very ingenious science. It is a lucid\nlittle arrangement of principles, and will materially assist them; but,\nfor our part, we confess we would sooner take the public opinion of the\ncontents of our cranium than that of a whole society of phrenologists;\nand if our head be as full as our sheet, we shall be content. But,\njoking apart, the little synopsis before us cannot be too highly\nrecommended; and by way of hint to some friends who send us witty\narticles for \"the Gatherer,\" we take the following:--\n\n\"Wit. _Primitive Power._ Perception of the disjunction or incongruity of\nideas; the analytical faculty. _Uses_: Separation of compound or general\nideas into those that are elementary or more simple; knowledge of\ncharacteristic differences and discrepance. _Abuses_: A disposition to\njest or ridicule; irony, sarcasm, and satire, without respect to truth,\nor the circumstances of person, place, or time. _Organ_, on the other\nside of Causality.\n\n\"It is not the definition of Wit, but the function of a particular\nportion of the brain at which I aim. Dr. Spurzheim, in some of his\nworks, calls the faculty connected with this organ, 'the feeling of the\nludicrous;' in his later ones, 'Gayness,' and 'Mirthfulness.' But each\nof these is properly an effect, not a primitive power. The ludicrous\nowes its origin to the contrariety between the parts or means, as\nperceived by this faculty, and the general whole, or purpose, perceived\nby Comparison, or the necessary connexion perceived by Causality; and\nGaiety, Mirth, and Laughter, arise from the mutual influence and\nreaction of the feelings. Some kinds of contrariety or incongruity\nexcite one class of feelings, other kinds altogether different feelings;\nand consequently, according to the faculty or combination of faculties\naffected, the kinds of mirth and laughter are varied from the Sardonic\ngrin of Destructiveness to the lover's smile. This view of the origin of\nlaughter enables us to give a satisfactory answer to the hitherto\nperplexing question, 'Why is man the only laughing animal?'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nEPIGRAM\n\n_From the Greek Anthology, (Author unknown.)_\n\nBY THE REV. W. SHEPHERD.\n\n\n  If at the bottom of the cask,\n  Be left of wine a little flask,\n  It soon grows acid:--so when man,\n  Living through Life's most lengthened span.\n  His joys all drain'd or turn'd to tears,\n  Sinks to the lees of fourscore years,\n  And sees approach Death's darksome hour--\n  No wonder if he's somewhat sour!\n\n                _The Winter's Wreath_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nPORTRAIT PAINTING.\n\n\nThe good portrait painter always flatters; for it is his business, not,\nindeed, to alter and amend features, complexion, or mien, but to select\nand fix (which it demands genius and sense to do) the best appearance\nwhich these ever do wear. Happy the creature of sense and passion who\nhas always with him that self which he could take pleasure in\ncontemplating! Happy--to pass graver considerations--the fair one whose\ncountenance continues as youthful as her attire! When Queen Elizabeth's\nwrinkles waxed deep and many, it is reported that an unfortunate master\nof the mint incurred disgrace by a too faithful shilling; the die was\nbroken, and only one mutilated impression is now in existence. Her maids\nof honour took the hint, and were thenceforth careful that no fragment\nof looking-glass should remain in any room of the palace. In fact, the\nlion-hearted lady had not heart to look herself in the face for the last\ntwenty years of her life; but we nowhere learn that she quarrelled with\nHolbein's portraitures of her youth, or those of her stately prime of\nviraginity by De Heere and Zucchero.\n\nHe who has \"neither done things worthy to be written, nor written things\nworthy to be read,\" takes the trouble of transmitting his portrait to\nposterity to very little purpose. If the picture be a bad one, it will\nsoon find its way to the garret; if good, as a work of art, it will\nperpetuate the fame, probably the name, indeed, of the artist alone.\nThese are the _obscurorum virorum imagines_ which, as Walpole said, \"are\nchristened commonly in galleries, like children at the Foundling\nHospital, _by chance_\"--Q. Rev.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nLOSING A SHOE AND A DINNER.\n\n\nAs Ozias Linley, Sheridan's brother-in-law, was one morning setting out\non horseback for his curacy, a few miles from Norwich, his horse threw\noff one of his shoes. A lady, who observed the accident, thought it\nmight impede Mr. Linley's journey, and seeing that he himself was\nunconscious of it, politely reminded him that one of his horse's shoes\nhad just come off. \"Thank you, madam,\" replied Linley; \"will you then\nhave the goodness to put it on for me?\"\n\nLinley one day received a card to dine with the late archbishop of\nCanterbury, who was then bishop of Norwich. Careless into what hole or\ncorner he threw his invitations, he soon lost sight of the card, and\nforgot it altogether. A year revolved, when, on wiping the dust from\nsome papers he had stuck on the glass over the chimney, the bishop's\ninvitation for a certain day in the month (he did not think of the year\none instant,) stared him full in the face, and taking it for granted\nthat it was a recent one, he dressed himself on the appointed day, and\nproceeded to the palace. But his diocesan was not in London, a\ncircumstance of which, though a matter of some notoriety to the clergy\nof the diocese, he was quite unconscious; and he returned dinnerless\nhome.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nSENTIMENT AND APPETITE.\n\n\nWe remember an amiable enthusiast, a worshiper of nature after the\nmanner of Rousseau, who, being melted into feelings of universal\nphilanthropy by the softness and serenity of a spring morning, resolved,\nthat for that day, at least, no injured animal should pollute his board;\nand having recorded his vow, walked six miles to gain a hamlet, famous\nfor fish dinners, where, without an idea of breaking his sentimental\nengagement, he regaled himself on a small matter of crimped cod and\noyster sauce--Q. Rev.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nFORTIFICATION.\n\n\nThe walls of Tenchira, in Africa, form one of the most perfect remaining\nspecimens of ancient fortification. They are a mile and a half in\ncircuit, defended by 26 quadrangular towers, and admitting no entrance\nbut by two opposite gates.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nMEDIOCRITY, in poetry, is intolerable to gods and to booksellers, and to\nall intermediate beings.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nSONNET TO THE CAMELLA JAPONICA.\n\nBY W. ROSCOE, ESQ.\n\n\n  Say, what impels me, pure and spotless flower,\n    To view thee with a secret sympathy?\n    --Is there some living spirit shrined in thee?\n  That, as thou bloom'st within my humble bower,\n  Endows thee with some strange, mysterious\n    power,\n    Waking high thoughts?--As there perchance\n      might be\n    Some angel-form of truth and purity,\n  Whose hallowed presence shared my lonely hour?\n    --Yes, lovely flower, 'tis not thy virgin glow,\n    Thy petals whiter than descending snow,\n  Nor all the charms thy velvet folds display;\n    'Tis the soft image of some beaming mind,\n    By grace adorn'd, by elegance refin'd,\n  That o'er my heart thus holds its silent sway.\n\n                         _The Winter's Wreath._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nPIGS.\n\n\nOne day when Giotto, the painter, was taking his Sunday walk, in his\nbest attire, with a party of friends, at Florence, and was in the midst\nof a long story, some pigs passed suddenly by, and one of them, running\nbetween the painter's legs, threw him down. When he got on his legs\nagain, instead of swearing a terrible oath at the pig on the Lord's day,\nas a graver man might have done, he observed, laughing, \"People say\nthese beasts are stupid, but they seem to me to have some sense of\njustice, for I have earned several thousands of crowns with their\nbristles, but I never gave one of them even a ladleful of soup in my\nlife.\"--_Lanzi._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTURKISH FIREMEN.\n\n\nThe firemen of Constantinople are accused of sometimes discharging oil\nfrom their engines instead of water.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nSPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nFLIES.\n\n\nCruelty to animals is a subject which has deservedly attracted\nparliamentary investigation. It is not beneath the dignity of a\nChristian legislator to prevent the unnecessary sufferings of the\nmeanest of created things; and a law which is dictated by humanity can\nsurely be no disgrace to the statute-book. Who that has witnessed the\nbarbarous and unmanly sports of the cock-pit and the stake--the\nfiendlike ingenuity displayed by the lord of the creation in teaching\nhis dependents to torture, mangle, and destroy each other for his own\namusement--the cruelties of the greedy and savage task-master towards\nthe dumb labourer whose strength has decayed in his service--or the\nsufferings of the helpless brute that drags with pain and difficulty its\nmaimed carcass to Smithfield--what reasonable being that has witnessed\nall or any of this, will venture to affirm that interference is\nofficious and uncalled for? Yet it is certain that Mr. Martin acted\nproperly and wisely in excluding flies from the operation of his\nact--well knowing, as he must have done, that the feeling of the\nmajority was decidedly averse from affording parliamentary countenance\nand immunity to those descendants of the victims of Domitian's just\nindignation; although it is understood that such a provision would have\nbeen cordially supported by the advocates for universal toleration. The\nsimple question for consideration would be, whether the conduct and\nprinciples of the insect species have undergone such a material change\nas to entitle them to new and extraordinary enactments in their favour?\nHave they entirely divested themselves of their licentious and predatory\nhabits, and learnt now for the first time to distinguish between right\nand wrong? Do they understand what it is to commit sacrilege? To intrude\ninto the sanctum sanctorum of the meat-safe? To rifle and defile the\nhalf roseate, half lily-white charms of a virgin ham? To touch with\nunhallowed proboscis the immaculate lip of beauty, the unprotected scalp\nof old age, the savoury glories of the kitchen? To invade with the most\nreckless indifference, and the most wanton malice, the siesta of the\nalderman or the philosopher? To this we answer in the eloquent and\nemphatic language of the late Mr. Canning--_No_! Unamiable and\nunconciliating monsters! The wildest and most ferocious inhabitants of\nthe desert may be reclaimed from their savage nature, and taught to\nbecome the peaceful denizens of a menagerie--but ye are altogether\nuntractable and untameable. Gratitude and sense of shame, the better\nparts of instinct, have never yet interposed their sacred influence to\nprevent the commission of one treacherous or unbecoming action of yours.\nThe holy rites of hospitality are by you abused and set at naught; and\nthe very roof which shelters you is desecrated with the marks of your\nirreverential contempt for all things human and divine. Would that--(and\nthe wish is expressed more in sorrow than in anger)--would that your\nentire species were condensed into one enormous bluebottle, that we\nmight crush you all at a single swoop!\n\nMany, calling themselves philanthropists and Christians, have omitted to\nsquash a fly when they had an opportunity of so doing; nay, some of\nthese people have even been known to go the length of writing verses on\nthe occasion, in which they applaud themselves for their own humane\ndisposition, and congratulate the object of their mistaken mercy on its\nnarrow escape from impending fate. There is nothing more wanting than to\npropose the establishment of a Royal Humane Society for the\nresuscitation of flies apparently drowned or suffocated. Can it possibly\nbe imagined by the man who has succeeded after infinite pains in\nrescuing a greedy and intrusive insect from a gin-and-watery grave in\nhis own vile potations, that he has thereby consulted the happiness of\nhis fellow creatures, or promoted the cause of decency, cleanliness,\ngood order, and domestic comfort? Let him watch the career of the\nmischievous little demon which he has thus been the means of restoring\nto the world, when he might have arrested its progress for ever. Observe\nthe stout and respectable gentleman, loved, honoured, and esteemed in\nall the various relations of father, husband, friend, citizen, and\nChristian, who is on cushioned sofa composing himself for his wonted\nnap, after a dinner in substance and quantity of the most satisfactory\ndescription, and not untempered by a modicum of old port. His amiable\npartner, with that refined delicacy and sense of decorum peculiar to the\nfemale sex, has already withdrawn with her infant progeny, leaving her\ngood man, as she fondly imagines, to enjoy the sweets of uninterrupted\nrepose. At one moment we behold him slumbering softly as an infant--\"so\ntranquil, helpless, stirless, and unmoved;\" in the next, we remark with\nsurprise sundry violent twitches and contortions of the limbs, as though\nthe sleeper were under the operation of galvanism, or suffering from the\npangs of a guilty conscience. Of what hidden crime does the memory thus\nagitate him--breaking in upon that rest which should steep the senses in\nforgetfulness of the world and its cares? On a sudden he starts from his\ncouch with an appearance of frenzy!--his nostrils dilated, his eyes\ngleaming with immoderate excitation--an incipient curse quivering on his\nlips, and every vein swelling--every muscle tense with fearful and\npassionate energy of purpose. Is he possessed with a devil, or does he\nmeditate suicide, that his manner is so wild and hurried? With impetuous\nvelocity he rushes to the window, and beneath his vehement but futile\nstrokes, aimed at a scarcely visible, and certainly impalpable object,\nthe fragile glass flies into fragments, the source of future colds and\ncurtain lectures without number. The immediate author of so much\nmischief, it is true, is the diminutive vampire which is now making its\nescape with cold-blooded indifference through a very considerable\nfracture in one of the panes; but surely the person who saved from\ndestruction, and may thus be considered to have given existence to the\ncause of all this loss of temper and of property, cannot conscientiously\naffirm that _his_ withers are unwrung! Mercy and forbearance are very\ngreat virtues when exercised with proper discretion; but man owes a\nparamount duty to society, with which none of the weaknesses, however\namiable, of his nature should be allowed to interfere. It is no mercy to\npardon and let loose upon the community one who, having already been\nconvicted of manifold delinquencies, only waits a convenient season for\nadding to the catalogue of his crimes; and what is larceny, or felony,\nor even treason, compared with the perpetration of the outrages above\nattempted to be described?--We pause for a reply.\n\nSummer is a most delectable--a most glorious season. We, who are fond of\nbasking as a lizard, and whose inward spirit dances and exults like a\nvery mote in the sun-beam, always hail its approach with rapture; but\nour anticipations of bright and serene days--of blue, cloudless, and\ntransparent skies--of shadows the deeper from intensity of surrounding\nlight--of yellow corn-fields, listless rambles, and lassitude rejoicing\nin green and sunny banks--are allayed by this one consideration, that\n\n  Waked by the summer ray, the reptile young\n  Come winged abroad. From every chink\n  And secret corner, where they slept away\n  The wintry storms; by myriads forth at once,\n  Swarming they pour.\n\nGo where you will, it is not possible to escape these \"winged reptiles.\"\nThey abound exceedingly in all sunny spots; nor in the shady lane do\nthey not haunt every bush, and lie perdu under every leaf, thence\nsallying forth on the luckless wight who presumes to molest their\n\"solitary reign;\" they hang with deliberate importunity over the path of\nthe sauntering pedestrian, and fly with the flying horseman, like the\nblack cares (that is to say, blue devils) described by the Roman lyrist.\nWithin doors they infest, harpy-like, the dinner-table--\n\n  Diripiuntque dapes, contactuque omnia foedant\n  Immundo--\n\nand hover in impending clouds over the sugar basin at tea; in the pantry\nit is buz; in the dairy it is buz; in the kitchen it is buz; one loud,\nlong-continued, and monotonous buz! Having little other occupation than\nthat of propagating their species, the natural consequence, as we may\nlearn from Mr. Malthus, is that their numbers increase in a frightfully\nprogressive ratio from year to year; and it has at length become\nabsolutely necessary that some decisive measures should be adopted to\ncounteract the growing evil.\n\nUpon the whole, he would not, perhaps, be considered to speak rashly or\nunadvisedly, who should affirm, that no earthly creature, of the same\ninsignificant character and pretensions, is the agent of nearly so much\nmischief as the fly.--What a blessed order of things would immediately\nensue, if every one of them was to be entirely swept away from the face\nof the earth! This most wished-for event, we fear, it will never be our\nlot to witness; but it may be permitted to a sincere patriot, in his\nbenevolent and enthusiastic zeal for the well-being of his country, to\nindulge in aspirations that are tinged with a shade of extravagance.\nWith respect, however, to the above mentioned vermin, the idea of their\ntotal annihilation may not be altogether chimerical. We know that the\nextirpation of wolves from England was accomplished by the commutation\nof an annual tribute for a certain number of their heads; and it is well\nworth the consideration of the legislature, whether, by adopting a\nsomewhat similar principle, they may not rid the British dominions of an\nequally great and crying nuisance. The noble Duke, now at the head of\nhis Majesty's Government, has it in his power to add another ray to his\nillustrious name, to secure the approbation and gratitude of all classes\nof the community, and to render his ministry for ever memorable, by the\naccomplishment of so desirable an object. In the mean time, let the\nSociety of Arts offer their next large gold medal to the person who\nshall invent the most ingenious and destructive fly-trap. A certain\nquantity of quassia might be distributed gratis at Apothecaries' Hall,\nas vaccinatory matter is at the Cow-pox Hospital, with very considerable\neffect; and an act of parliament should be passed without delay,\ndeclaring the wilful destruction of a spider to be felony.--_Blackwood's\nMagazine._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.[7]\n\nBY MRS. HEMANS.\n\n\n    \"Tableau, a\u00fa l'Amour fait alliance avec la\n    Tombe; union redoubtable de la mort et de la\n    vie.\"                   MADAME DE STAEL.\n\n  There was music on the midnight;\n    From a royal fane it roll'd,\n  And a mighty bell, each pause between,\n    Sternly and slowly toll'd.\n  Strange was their mingling in the sky,\n    It hush'd the listener's breath;\n  For the music spoke of triumph high,\n    The lonely bell, of death.\n\n  There was hurrying through the midnight:--\n    A sound of many feet;\n  But they fell with a muffled fearfulness,\n    Along the shadowy street;\n  And softer, fainter, grew their tread,\n    As it near'd the Minster-gate,\n  Whence broad and solemn light was shed\n    From a scene of royal state.\n\n  Full glow'd the strong red radiance\n    In the centre of the nave,\n  Where the folds of a purple canopy\n    Sweep down in many a wave;\n  Loading the marble pavement old\n    With a weight of gorgeous gloom;\n  For something lay 'midst their fretted gold,\n    Like a shadow of the tomb.\n\n  And within that rich pavilion\n    High on a glittering throne,\n  A woman's form sat silently,\n    Midst the glare of light alone.\n  Her Jewell'd robes fell strangely still--\n    The drapery on her breast\n  Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill,\n    So stone-like was its rest.\n\n  But a peal of lordly music\n    Shook e'en the dust below,\n  When the burning gold of the diadem\n    Was set on her pallid brow!\n  Then died away that haughty sound,\n    And from th' encircling band,\n  Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound,\n    With homage to her hand.\n\n  Why pass'd a faint cold shuddering\n    Over each martial frame,\n  As one by one, to touch that hand,\n    Noble and leader came?\n  Was not the settled aspect fair?\n    Did not a queenly grace,\n  Under the parted ebon hair.\n    Sit on the pale still face?\n\n  Death, Death! canst _thou_ be lovely\n    Unto the eye of Life?\n  Is not each pulse of the quick high breast\n    With thy cold mien at strife?\n  --It was a strange and fearful sight,\n    The crown upon that head,\n  The glorious robes and the blaze of light,\n    All gather'd round the Dead!\n\n  And beside her stood in silence\n    One with a brow as pale,\n  And white lips rigidly compress'd,\n    Lest the strong heart should fail;\n  King Pedro with a jealous eye\n    Watching the homage done\n  By the land's flower and chivalry\n    To her, his martyr'd one.\n\n  But on the face he look'd not\n    Which once his star had been:\n  To every form his glance was turn'd,\n    Save of the breathless queen;\n  Though something, won from the grare's embrace,\n    Of her beauty still was there,\n  Its hues were all of that shadowy place,\n    'Twas not for _him_ to bear.\n\n  Alas! the crown, the sceptre,\n    The treasures of the earth,\n  And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts,\n    Alike of wasted worth!\n  The rites are closed--bear back the Dead\n    Unto the chamber deep,\n  Lay down again the royal head,\n    Dust with the dust to sleep.\n\n  There is music on the midnight--\n    A requiem sad and slow.\n  As the mourners through the sounding aisle\n    In dark procession go,\n  And the ring of state, and the starry crown,\n    And all the rich array,\n  Are borne to the house of silence down,\n    With her, that queen of clay.\n\n  And tearlessly and firmly,\n    King Pedro led the train--\n  But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,\n    When they lower'd the dust again.\n  --'Tis hush'd at last, the tomb above,\n    Hymns die, and steps depart:\n  Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love?\n    _Mightier_ thou wert and art!\n\n                   _New Monthly Magazine._\n\n    [7] Don Pedro of Portugal, after his accession to the kingdom,\n    had the body of the murdered Inez taken from the grave, solemnly\n    enthroned and crowned.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nART THOU THE MAID?\n\n\n  Art thou the maid from whose blue eye\n    Mine drank such deep delight?\n  Was thine that voice of melody\n  Which charm'd the silent night?\n\n  I fain would think thou art not she\n    Who hung upon mine arm,\n  When love was yet a mystery,\n    A sweet, resistless charm.\n\n  It seemed to me as though the spell\n    On both alike were cast;\n  I prayed but in thy sight to dwell,\n    For thee, to breathe my last.\n\n  Mine inmost secret soul was thine,\n    Thou wert enthroned therein,\n  Like sculptured saint in holy shrine,\n    All free from guile and sin.\n\n  And, heaven forgive! I did adore\n    With more than pilgrim's zeal;\n  And then thy smile----But oh! no more!\n    No more may I reveal.\n\n  Enough--we're parted----Both must own\n    The accursed power of gold.\n  I wander through the world _alone_;\n    _Thou_ hast been bought and sold.\n\n                    _Blackwood's Magazine._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt would be a very pleasant thing, if literary productions could be\nsubmitted to something like chemical analysis,--if we could separate the\nmerit of a book, as we can the magnesia of Epsom salts, by a simple\npractical application of the doctrine of affinities.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nTHE GATHERER\n\n\n    A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.\n\n    SHAKSPEARE.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nA GOOD FELLOW.\n\n\nThe secretary of a literary society being requested to draw up \"_a\ndefinition of a good fellow_,\" applied to the members of the club,\nindividually, for such hints as they could furnish, when, he received\nthe following:--\n\nMr. _Golightly_.--A good fellow is one who rides blood horses, drives\nfour-in-hand, speaks when he's spoken to, sings when he's asked, always\nturns his back on a dun, and never on a friend.\n\nMr. _Le Blanc_.--A good fellow is one who studies deep, reads\ntrigonometry, and burns love songs; has a most cordial aversion for\ndancing and D'Egville, and would rather encounter a cannon than a fancy\nball.\n\nHon. _G. Montgomery_.--A good fellow is one who abhors moralists and\nmathematics, and adores the classics and Caroline Mowbray.\n\nSir _T. Wentworth_.--A good fellow is one who attends the Fox-dinners,\nwho goes to the Indies to purchase independence, and would rather\nencounter a buffalo than a boroughmonger.\n\nMr. _M. Sterling_.--A good fellow is a good neighbour, a good citizen, a\ngood relation; in short, a good man.\n\nMr. _M. Farlane_.--A good fellow is a bonnie braw John Hielandman.\n\nMr. _O'Connor_.--A good fellow is one who talks loud and swears louder;\ncares little about learning, and less about his neckcloth; loves\nwhiskey, patronizes bargemen, and wears nails in his shoes.\n\nMr. _Musgrave_.--A good fellow is prime--flash--and bang-up.\n\nMr. _Burton_.--A good fellow is one who knows \"what's what,\" keeps\naccounts, and studies Cocker.\n\nMr. _Rowley_.--A good fellow likes turtle and cold punch, drinks Port\nwhen he can't get Champagne, and dines on mutton with Sir Robert, when\nhe can't get venison at my lord's.\n\nMr. _Lozell_.--A good fellow is something compounded of the preceding.\n\nMr. _Oakley_.--A good fellow is something perfectly different from the\npreceding,--or Mr. Oakley is an ass.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nMERCHANT TAILORS' SCHOOL.\n\n\n  At Merchant Tailors' School, what time\n    Old Bishop held the rod,\n  The boys rehearsed the old man's rhyme\n    Whilst he would smile and nod.\n\n  Apart I view'd a little child\n    Who join'd not in the game:\n  His face was what mammas call mild\n    And fathers dull and tame.\n\n  Pitying the boy, I thus address'd\n    The pedagogue of verse--\n  \"Why doth he not, Sir, like the rest,\n    Your epigrams rehearse?\"\n\n  \"Sir!\" answered thus the aged man,\n    \"He's not in Nature's debt;\n  His ears so tight are seal'd, he can-\n    Not learn his alphabet.\"\n\n  \"Why not?\" I cried:--whereat to me\n    He spoke in minor clef--\n  \"He cannot learn his A, B, C,\n    Because he's D, E, F.\"\n\n                     _New Monthly Magazine._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nROYAL LEARNING.\n\n\nThe king of Persia made many inquiries of Sir Harford Jones respecting\nAmerica, saying, \"What sort of a place is it? How do you get at it? Is\nit underground, or how?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nCOMPLIMENT MAL-APROPOS.\n\n\nNapoleon was once present at the performance of one of Pasiello's\noperas, in which was introduced an air by Cimarosa. Pasiello was in the\nbox with the emperor, and received many compliments during the evening.\nAt length, when the air by Cimarosa was played, the emperor turned\nround, and taking Pasiello by the hand, exclaimed, \"By my faith, my\nfriend, the man who has composed that air, may proclaim himself the\ngreatest composer in Europe.\" \"It is Cimarosa's,\" feebly articulated\nPasiello. \"I am sorry for it; but I cannot recall what I have said.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA gentleman taking an apartment, said to the landlady, \"I assure you,\nmadam, I never left a lodging but my landlady shed tears.\" She answered,\n\"I hope it was not, Sir, because you went away without paying.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLOMBIRD'S EDITION OF THE _Following Novels are already Published:_\n\n                                      _s_  _d_\nMackenzie's Man of Feeling . . . . . . 0    6\nPaul and Virginia. . . . . . . . . . . 0    6\nThe Castle of Otranto. . . . . . . . . 0    6\nAlmoran and Hamet. . . . . . . . . . . 0    6\nElizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia. . 0    6\nThe Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne . . 0    6\nRasselas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 0    8\nThe Old English Baron. . . . . . . . . 0    8\nNature and Art . . . . . . . . . . . . 0    8\nGoldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield . . . . 0   10\nSicilian Romance . . . . . . . . . . . 1    0\nThe Man of the World . . . . . . . . . 1    0\nA Simple Story . . . . . . . . . . . . 1    4\nJoseph Andrews . . . . . . . . . . . . 1    6\nHumphry Clinker. . . . . . . . . . . . 1    8\nThe Romance of the Forest. . . . . . . 1    8\nThe Italian. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2    0\nZeluce, by Dr. Moore . . . . . . . . . 2    6\nEdward, by Dr. Moore . . . . . . . . . 2    0\nRoderick Random. . . . . . . . . . . . 2    6\nThe Mysteries of Udo'pho . . . . . . . 3    6","title":"The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 346, December 13, 1828","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":13182}