{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11539/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11539","id":"gutenberg_11539","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11539","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Journals","Category: Nature/Gardening/Animals","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Popular literature -- Great Britain -- Periodicals","The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction"],"text":"THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.\n\nVOL. XIX, NO. 535.] SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1832. [PRICE 2d.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nZOOLOGICAL GARDENS, REGENT'S PARK.\n\n\n[Illustration: THE POLAR BEAR.]\n\n[Illustration: THE TUNNEL.]\n\n[Illustration: MONKEY CAGE.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nGARDENS OF THE ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY.\n\n\nREGENT'S PARK.\n\n\nA visit to these Gardens is one of the most delightful of the rational\nrecreations of the metropolis. The walk out is pleasant enough: though\nthere is little rural beauty on the road, the creations of art assume\na more agreeable appearance than in the city itself; and, with\ncottages, park-like grounds, and flourishing wood, the eye may enjoy a\nfew picturesque groupings.\n\nThe _Garden_ of the Society is one of the prettiest in the vicinity of\nthe metropolis; the _Menagerie_ is certainly the most important ever\ncollected in this country. It is a charming sight to behold myriads of\ntiny flowers fringing our very paths, and little groves of shrubs and\nyoung trees around us; yet it is a gratification of the highest order,\nto witness the animals of almost every country on the earth assembled\nwithin a few acres; and it is indeed a sublime study to observe how\nbeautifully the links in the great chain of nature are wrought, and\nhow admirably are the habits and structure of some of these animals\nadapted to the wants of man, while all are subservient to some great\npurpose in the scale of creation. How clearly are these truths taught\nby the science of Zoology; and how attractively are they illustrated\nin the Menagerie of the Zoological Gardens. Consider but for a moment\nthat the cat which crouches by our fireside is of the same tribe with\n\"the lordly lion,\" whose roar is terrific as an earthquake, and the\ntiger who often stays but to suck the blood of his victims: that the\nfaithful dog, \"who knows us personally, watches for us, and warns us\nof danger,\" is but a descendant from the wolf, who prowls through the\nwintry waste with almost untameable ferocity. Yet how do we arrive at\nthe knowledge of these interesting facts--but by zoological study.\n\nTwo of the Cuts in the annexed page will furnish our country friends\nwith the improved plan of keeping the animals in large open cages. The\nfirst represents that of the _Polar Bear_, of strong iron-work, with a\ndormitory adjoining. The enclosed area is flagged with stone, and\nin the centre is a tank, or pool, of water, in which the bear makes\noccasional plungings. The present occupant is but small in comparison\nwith the usual size of the species. \"Its favourite postures,\" observes\nMr. Bennett, \"are lying flat at its whole length; sitting upon its\nhaunches with its fore legs perfectly upright, and its head in a\ndependent position; or standing upon all fours with its fore-paws\nwidely extended and its head and neck swinging alternately from\nside to side, or upwards and downwards in one continued and equable\nlibration.\"[1]\n\n    [1] The Gardens and Menagerie of the Zoological Society\n        delineated. Vol. I.\n\nThe second Cut represents the tunnelled communication between the two\nGardens, beneath the carriage-road of the Park. Above, the archway is\na pediment, supported by two neat columns, and a terraced walk, with\nbalustrades. The whole is handsomely executed in cement or imitative\nstone. The decorative vases are by Austin, of the New Road. A lion's\nhead, in bold relief, forms an appropriate key-stone embellishment to\nthe arch. The sloping banks are formed of mimic rock-work profusely\nintermingled with plants and flowers.\n\nThe third Cut is the Monkey House, of substantial iron-work, with\ndormitories and winter apartments in the rear. In fine sunny weather\nthe monkeys may be here seen disporting their recreant limbs to the\ndelight of crowds of visiters. Their species are too numerous but for\na catalogue. Among them are the Negro and Sooty Monkeys,--the Mone\nMonkey: \"the name of _Monkey_ is supposed to be derived from\nthe African appellation of this species, _Mone_ corrupted into\n_Monachus_.\" Bonneted, pig-tailed, and Capuchin Monkeys; the last\nnamed from their dark crowns, like the capuch or hood of a Capuchin\nfriar; and black and white-fronted Spider Monkeys, named from their\ngreat resemblance to large spiders.\n\nBy the way, there is an abundance of still life in the Gardens at this\nungenial season. We find the Elephant, the Antelopes, and the Zebra,\nin their winter quarters, and their mightinesses, the large cats, as\nthe lions, tiger, and leopards, accommodated with a snug fire. The\ntropical birds, as the parrots, maccaws, &c., have been removed from\nthe extremity of the north garden to warmer quarters; and the hyaenas,\nleopards, and a host of smaller carnivorous quadrupeds have taken\ntheir places. The upper end is occupied by four roomy dens, with a\nlordly black-maned lion and a lioness, from Northern Africa; above\nthem are a fine lioness and a leopard from Ceylon: these we take to\nhave been among the recent arrivals from the Tower Menagerie.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nFRAGMENTS ON HUMAN LIFE.\n\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\n  \"Call not earth a barren spot,\n   Pass it not ungrateful by,\n   'Tis to man a lovely lot.\"\n\nThere is no subject on which such a variety of opinions exist, as on\nthe question \"Whether man is happy;\" and that it is not easy to be\nsettled, is certain. Many persons have been so far contented with\ntheir lot as to wish to have their life over again, and yet as many\nhave expressed themselves to the contrary.\n\nDr. Johnson, who always spoke of human life in the most desponding\nterms, and considered earth a vale of tears,\n\n  \"Yet hope, not life from pain or sorrow free,\n  Or think the doom of man reversed for thee--\"\n\ndeclared that he would not live over again a single week of his life,\nhad it been allowed him.[2] Such was his opinion on the past; but so\ngreat is the cheering influence with which Hope irradiates the mind,\nthat in looking forward to the future, he always talked with pleasure\non the prospect of a long life.\n\n    [2] Chamfort observes, that the writers on physics, natural\n        history, physiology, and chemistry, have been generally men of a\n        mild, even, and happy temperament, while the writers on politics,\n        legislation, and even morals, commonly exhibited a melancholy and\n        fretful spirit. It is to be expected that an inspection of the\n        beauty and order of nature should affect the mind with peculiar\n        pleasure.--_Gaieties and Gravities_.\n\nWhen he was in Scotland, Boswell told him that after his death, he\nintended to erect a memorial to him. Johnson, to whom the very\nmention of death was unpleasant, replied, \"Sir, I hope to see your\ngrand-children.\" On his death-bed he observed to the surgeon who was\nattending him, \"_I want life_, you are afraid of giving me pain.\"\n\nIt has been supposed that this question had been settled by the\nauthority of Scripture. \"Man is born to trouble,\" says Job, \"as\nthe sparks fly upward.\" In turning over a few pages more, we find\nourselves in doubt again. \"_The latter end of Job was more blessed\nthan his beginning_; for he had 14,000 sheep, and 6,000 camels, and\n1,000 yoke of oxen, and 1,000 she-asses. He had also seven sons and\nthree daughters. So Job died being old and full of days.\"\n\nIt may not be unpleasant to place before the reader the opinions of\nseveral celebrated men, on Life, that he may choose his side, and\neither like the bee or the spider, extract the poison or gather the\nhoney. We will begin with Sterne, one who well knew the human heart.\n\n    \"What is the life of man? is it not to shift from side to side!\n    from sorrow to sorrow!\"\n\n    \"When I consider how oft we eat the bread of affliction, when one\n    runs over the catalogue of all the cross reckonings and sorrowful\n    items with which the heart of man is overcharged, 'tis wonderful\n    by what hidden resources the mind is enabled to stand it out, and\n    bear itself up, as it does, against the impositions laid upon our\n    nature.\"--_T. Shandy_.\n\n    \"A man has but a bad bargain of it at the best.\"--_Chesterfield_.\n\n    \"No scene of human life but teems with mortal woe.\"--_Sir Walter\n    Scott_.\n\nIn opposition to these sentiments, Franklin, in writing on the death\nof a friend, gives us his opinion, \"_It is a party of pleasure_, some\ntake their seats first.\"\n\nAnd Lord Byron, describing Sunrise, in the second canto of _Lara_,\nsays\n\n  \"But mighty nature bounds as from her birth,\n  The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;\n  Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam.\n  Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.\n  Immortal Man! Behold her glories shine,\n  And cry exultingly, 'They are thine'\n  Gaze on, while yet thy gladdened eyes may see,\n  A morrow comes when they are not for thee.\"\n\nIn the same spirit Cowper begins his poem on Hope:\n\n  \"See Nature gay as when she first began,\n  With smiles alluring her admirer, man,\n  She spreads the morning over eastern hills.\n  Earth glitters with the drops the night distils.\n  The sun obedient at her call appears\n  To fling his glories o'er the robe she wears,\n       ...                to proclaim\n  His happiness, her dear, her only aim.\"\n\n\"The Thracians,\" says Cicero, \"wept when a child was born, and feasted\nand made merry when a man went out of the world, and with reason. Show\nme the man who knows what life is, and dreads death, and I'll show\nthee a prisoner who dreads his liberty.\"\n\nOf the misery of human life, Gray speaks in similar terms:\n\n  \"To all their sufferings all are men,\n  Condemn'd alike to groan,\n  The feeling for another's pain,\n  The unfeeling for his own.\"\n\nAudi alteram partem:\n\n    \"It's a happy world after all.\"--_Paley_.\n\nAnd Gray himself:\n\n  \"For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,\n    This careful, anxious being e'er resigned,\n  E'er left the precincts of the _cheerful day_\n    Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.\"\n\nAnd another popular author:\n\n    \"A world of pleasure is continually streaming in on every side. It\n    only depends on man to be a demi-god, and to convert this world\n    into Elysium.\"--_Gaieties and Gravities_.\n\nIt is doubtless wise to incline to the latter sentiment.\n\nOf the instability of human happiness and glory, a fine picture is\ndrawn by Appian, who represents Scipio weeping over the destruction of\nCarthage. \"When he saw this famous city, which had flourished seven\nhundred years, and might have been compared to the greatest empires,\non account of the extent of its dominions, both by sea and land,\nits mighty armies, its fleets, elephants and riches; and that the\nCarthaginians were even superior to other nations, by their courage\nand greatness of soul, as, notwithstanding their being deprived of\narms and ships, they had sustained for three whole years, all the\nhardships and calamities of a long siege; seeing, I say, this city\nentirely ruined, historians relate that he could not refuse his tears\nto the unhappy fate of Carthage. He reflected that cities, nations,\nand empires are liable to revolutions, no less than particular men;\nthat the like sad fate had befallen Troy, once so powerful; and in\nlater times, the Assyrians, Medes, and Persians, whose dominions were\nonce of so great an extent; and lastly, the Macedonians, whose empire\nhad been so glorious throughout the world.\" Full of these mournful\nideas, he repeated the following verse of Homer:\n\n  \"The day shall come, that great avenging day,\n  Which Troy's proud glories in the dust shall lay,\n  When Priam's powers, and Priam's self shall fall,\n  And one prodigious ruin swallow all--\"\n\nthereby denouncing the future destiny of Rome, as he himself confessed\nto Polybius, who desired Scipio to explain himself on that occasion.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nTHE SKETCH-BOOK\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA COASTING SCRAP.\n\n\n(_For the Mirror_.)\n\n\nIt was a bright summer afternoon: the estuary of Poole Harbour lay\nextended before me; its broad expanse studded with inlands of sand and\nfurze bushes, of which Brownsea is the most considerable. A slight\nripple marked the deeper channels which were of a blue colour, and the\nshallow mud banks being but barely covered by the tide, appeared like\nsheets of molten silver. The blue hills of Purbeck bounded the distant\nheath-lands to the westward, and the harbour extended itself inland\ntowards the town of Wareham, becoming more and more intricate in its\nnavigation, although it receives the contributions of two rivers, the\nPiddle and the Froome, arising probably from the soil carried down by\nthe streams, and the faint action of the tide at a distance of eight\nor ten miles from the mouth of the harbour. The Wareham clay boats\nadded life to the scene. Some were wending their way through the\nintricate channels close hauled upon a wind; others were going right\naway with a flowing sheet. On the eastern side was the bold sweep of\nthe shore, extending to the mouth of the harbour, and terminating in a\nnarrow point of bright sand hills, separating the quiet waters of the\nharbour from the boisterous turmoilings of the English Channel.\n\nSauntering along the Quay of Poole, indulging in a kind of reverie,\nthinking, or in fact, thinking of nothing at all, (a kind of waking\ndream, when hundreds of ideas, recollections, and feelings float with\nwonderful rapidity through the brain,) my attention was attracted by\na stout, hardy-faced pilot, with water boots on his legs, and a red,\nwoollen night-cap on his head, who was driving a very earnest bargain\nfor a \"small, but elegant assortment,\" of dabs and flounders. \"Dree\nand zixpence if you like,\" said he. \"I could a bought vour times as\nmuch vor one and zixpence coast-ways, if I'd a mind, and I'll give\nthee no more, and not a word of a lie.\" His oratory conquered the\ncoyness of the fishy damsel; and he invited the lady to take a glass\nof \"zomat avore he topped his boom for Swanwidge.\"\n\nHaving before me the certainty of a dull, monotonous afternoon, and\ncheerless evening, without any visible means of amusement, I instantly\nclosed a bargain with Dick Hart (for such was the pilot's name) to\ngive me a cast to Swanwidge. In a short time I found myself on board\na trim, little pilot boat, gliding along the waters as the sun was\nsliding his downward course, and shedding a mellow radiance over the\ndistant scenery towards Lytchett. The white steeple of Poole church\nwas lighted by the rays, while the town presented a neat and\npicturesque appearance with the masts of the shipping cutting against\nthe blue sky.\n\nDick Hart formed no small feature in the scene as he stood at the helm\nwith his red cap and black, curly hair, smoking a short, clay pipe,\nwhich like his own face, had become rather brown in service. He looked\naround him with an air of independence and unconcern, as the \"monarch\nof all he surveyed,\" casting his eye up now and then at the trim of\nhis canvass, but more frequently keeping it on me. Dick began to open\nhis budget of chat, and I found him as full of fun as his mainsail was\nfull of nettles.\n\nA voice from the forecastle called out to Dick, who was so intent on\nhis story that the helm slipped from his hand, and the ship flew up\nin the wind, \"Mind, skipper, or you will run down Old Betty.\" I was\nastonished at the insinuation against my noble captain that he was\nlikely to behave rude to a lady, but my suspicions were soon removed,\nwhen I saw Old Betty was a buoy, floating on the waters, adorned with\na furze bush. Old Betty danced merrily on the rippling wave with her\nfurze bush by way of a feather, with shreds of dried sea weed hanging\nto it forming ribbons to complete the head dress of the lady buoy.\nThe nearer we approached, the more rapid did Betty dance, and when\nwe passed close alongside of her, she curtsied up and down as if to\nwelcome our visit. Dick narrated why a buoy placed at the head of a\nmud bank obtained the name of a _lady fair_, and I briefly noted it\ndown.\n\nMany years ago a single lady resided at Poole, of plain manners,\nunaffected simplicity, affable, yet retiring, and--\n\n    \"Passing rich with forty pounds a-year.\"\n\nThe gentry courted her, but she still adhered to her secluded habits.\nYear after year rolled on, and though some may have admired her,\nshe was never led to the altar, and consequently her condition was\n_unaltered_. Kind and friendly neighbours kept a vigilant eye upon her\nproceedings, but her character was unimpeachable; and they all agreed\nthat she was a very suspicious person, because they could not slander\nher. She lived a blameless single lady.\n\nHer attentions were directed to an orphan boy. He was her constant\ncompanion, and the object of her tenderest solicitude. As he grew up\nhe excelled the youth of his own age in manly exercises; could thrash\nall of his own size, when insulted, but never played the tyrant, or\nthe bully. He could make the longest innings at cricket, and as for\nswimming in all its various branches, none could compare with William.\nIt was finally arranged by a merchant to send William a voyage to\nNewfoundland, and the news soon spread round the town that William\n(for he was a general favourite) was to _see_ the world by taking to\nthe _sea_.\n\nThe time arrived when the ship was to be warped out from the Quay, and\nto sail for her destination. The crew and the passengers were all on\nboard, and William was, by his absence, rather trespassing on the\nindulgence of the captain; but who could be angry with the boy whom\nevery body loved?\n\nThe town gossips, and many a fair maiden, were on the Quay to see\nyoung William embark. The tide had already turned, and the captain\nwas about to give the word \"to cast off and let all go;\" to send the\nvessel, as it were, adrift, loose and unfettered upon the waters, to\nstruggle as a thing of life with the billows of the Atlantic, but\nanimated and controled by the energies of men. Just at this moment\nWilliam appeared at the end of the Quay, walking slowly to the scene\nof embarkation with his kind and benevolent benefactress leaning, and\nleaning heavily, for her heart was heavy, upon the arm of her dutiful\nand beloved William. As they approached, the crowd made way with\nprofound respect, not the cringing respect paid to superior wealth,\nbut with that respect which worth of character and innate virtue can\nand will command, though poverty may smite and desolate.\n\nThey walked unconscious of the notice they attracted. Their hearts\nwere too full to heed the sympathies of others. The youth kept his\neye fixed upon the loosening topsails of his ship; his benefactress\ngrasped his arm almost convulsively, and looked, or rather stared,\nupon the ground. She dreaded the last, the hurried \"fare well,\" the\nlast look, the last word from her William, and she tottered as she\napproached the side of the ship. They stood locked hand in hand at the\nedge of the Quay; not a word was uttered by either; but they gazed\nat each other with a fondness which showed that their souls were in\ncommunion.\n\n\"Now, William, jump on board--cast off there forward,\" exclaimed the\ncaptain; \"swing her head round--heave away my boys--come, William,\ncome my boy.\"\n\nThe youth awoke as from a startled sleep. He imprinted a kiss, the\nlast kiss, upon the cold cheeks of his benefactress, and dashing away\nwith the sleeve of his jacket a tear, of which he felt ashamed, in a\nmoment he was on the quarter deck of his commander. He durst not look\nagain upon the Quay; but had he looked he would have seen many a\nweeping maiden who had never told her love, and he would have seen his\naffectionate benefactress borne away in a fainting fit. All this he\nsaw not, for he braced his courage up before his future messmates, and\nhe looked forward to his duties, considering the past as but a dream.\n\nMonths elapsed and tidings were frequently received of William. He had\ndistinguished himself by his activity and docility. His townsmen\nheard with pleasure of his good conduct, and looked forward with\nsatisfaction to welcome his return; when at length a pilot boat\nbrought intelligence that the ship was lying at anchor at the mouth of\nthe harbour, waiting the next tide with loss of foremast in a heavy\ngale the preceding night off the Bill of Portland. His benefactress,\nimpatient of delay, immediately hired a boat, and preceded to the ship\nbefore the tide had turned; but she no sooner reached the deck than\nshe was informed by the captain that William was aloft when the\nforemast went by the board on the preceding night, and that he fell\ninto the raging waves without the possibility of relief being afforded\nhim.\n\n\"God's will be done,\" murmured the unhappy woman as she clasped her\nhands, and taking her station at the gangway, she continued gazing on\nthe water as it rippled by, in a state of unconsciousness to every\npassing object. In the meantime the vessel was under weigh, and was\ncoming once more in sight of Brownsea, when a plunge was heard--\"she's\noverboard,\" exclaimed a sailor--\"cut away some spars--lower the\nboats--over with the hen coops--down with the helm, and back the\ntopsails\"--roared out many voices; but she had sunk to rise no more!\nHer corpse was found a few days after when the tide receded, lying on\na mud bank, close to the buoy which has ever since been known by every\nsailor and every pilot of Poole under the name of Old Betty. But to\ncomplete the sad narrative, it appeared that William, as he excelled\nin swimming, succeeded in gaining the shore of Portland, and arrived\nin time at Poole to attend the remains of his benefactress to the\ngrave in character of chief mourner.\n\nOn opening her papers it was discovered that in losing his\nbenefactress he had lost his mother! That she had been privately\nmarried to a widower of considerable fortune, who had one son by\nhis first wife, and that on his demise the estate would devolve\non William, provided his half brother had no children. A few days\nafterwards the death of Henry ----, Esq. of ---- Hall, Worcestershire,\nwas formally announced in the daily Journals, and the unexpected\nclaims of William being acknowledged, he succeeded to a very fine\nproperty and estate, and died as much respected in a good old age as\nhe was beloved in his buoyant childhood, when the gossips and the\nmaidens of Poole agreed that the orphan boy promised to be a \"nice\nyoung man.\"--\"And not word of a lie in it,\" said Dick Hart, as he\nfinished his story, his pipe, and his grog.\n\nWe were now steering across Studland Bay. Banks of dark clouds were\ngathering majestically on the eastern horizon, and the sun was\nrapidly sinking in a flood of golden light. Behind us was the Isle\nof Brownsea, with its dark fir plantations and lofty, cold-looking,\nawkward castle. On the left was the line of low sand hills, stretching\naway towards Christchurch, and seeming to join the Needles' Rocks,\nsituated at the western extremity of the Isle of Wight, the high chalk\ncliffs of which reflected the sun's last rays, giving a rich and\nplacid feeling to the cold and distant grey. On the right, and closer\nto us, was the brown and purple heath-land of Studland Bay. Here\nbarren, there patches of verdure, and the thin smoke threading its\nway from a cluster of trees, denoted where the village hamlet lay\nembosomed from the storms of the southwest gales, close at the foot\nand under the shelter of a lofty chalk range which abuts abruptly on\nthe sea, and before which stands a high, detached pyramidical rock,\nrising out of the waters like a sheeted spectre, and known to mariners\nunder the suspicious name of _Old Harry_.\n\nThis coast was once notorious for smuggling, but those days of\nnautical chivalry have ceased, if Dick Hart was to be credited, who\nshook his head very mournfully as he alluded to \"the _Block-head_\nservice.\"\n\nJAMES SILVESTER.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nSPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSCENE FROM A FRENCH DRAMA.\n\n\nNo. XVII. of the _Foreign Quarterly Review_, contains a paper of\nmuch interest to the playgoer as well as to the lover of dramatic\nliterature--on two French dramas of great celebrity--_La Mar\u00e9chale\nd'Ancre_, by de Vigny; and _Marion Delorme_, by Victor Hugo. We quote\na scene from the former. Concini, the principal character, is a\nfavourite of Louis XIII.; the Mar\u00e9chale, his wife, has a first love,\nBorgia, a Corsican, who, disappointed in his early suit by the\nstratagems of Concini, has married the beautiful but uncultivated\nIsabella Monti. On the conflicting feelings of this strange personage,\nhis hatred to the husband, and his relenting towards the wife; and the\nlicentious plans of Concini for the seduction of Isabella, whom he\nhas seen without knowing her to be the wife of his deadly enemy, the\ninterest of the piece is made to turn. The jealous Isabella is at last\npersuaded that the Mar\u00e9chale has robbed her of the attachment of her\nhusband, and appears as a witness against her on the pretended charge\nof witchcraft and sorcery.\n\nWhile the Mar\u00e9chal, even in the dungeon of the Bastile, is awing\nher oppressors into silence, bands of murderers are seeking Concini\nthrough the streets of Paris. As he issues from the house of the\nJew which contains Isabella, he hears through the obscurity of the\ntempestuous night the cries of the populace, but he thinks they are\nbut the indications of some passing tumult. He rests for a moment\nagainst a pillar on the pavement, but recoils again, as from a\nserpent, for he perceives it is the stone on which Ravaillac had\nplanted his foot when he assassinated Henry, and in that murder it is\ndarkly insinuated he had a share. Through the darkness of the Rue de\nla Ferronnerie, Michael Borgia is seen advancing, conducting the two\nchildren of his rival. He has promised to the Mar\u00e9chale to save them\nfrom the dangers of the night, and has brought them in safety to his\nown threshold. But his promise of safety extended not to Concini. The\nwild ferocity of the following scene has many parallels in the actual\nduels of the time, as delineated in Froissart and Brantome.\n\n_Borgia (with the children.)_--Poor children! come in; you will be\nsafer here than in the houses to which they have pursued us.\n\n_The Boy_.--Ah! there is a man standing up.\n\n_Borgia (turning the lantern which the child holds towards\nConcini.)_--Concini!\n\n_Concini_.--Borgia! (_Each raises his dagger, and seizes with the left\narm the right of his enemy. They remain motionless, and gazing at each\nother. The children escape into the street and disappear_.)\n\n_Concini_.--Let go my arm, and I will liberate yours.\n\n_Borgia_.--What shall be my security?\n\n_Concini_.--Those children whom you have with you.\n\n_Borgia_.--I am labouring to save them. Your palace is on fire--your\nwife is arrested--your fortune is wrecked--base, senseless adventurer!\n\n_Concini_.--Have done--let go--let us fight!\n\n_Borgia_ (_pushing him from him_.)--Back, then, and draw your sword.\n\n_Concini_ (_draws_.)--Begin.\n\n_Borgia_.--Remove those children--they would be in our way.\n\n_Concini_.--They are gone.\n\n_Borgia_.--Take these letters, assassin! I had promised to restore\nthem to you. (_He hands to Concini a black portfolio_.)\n\n_Concini_.--I would have taken them from your body.\n\n_Borgia_.--I have performed my promise--and now, ravisher! look to\nyourself.\n\n_Concini_.--Base seducer, defend _thyself_.\n\n_Borgia_.--The night is dark, but I shall feel you by my hate: Plant\nyour foot against the wall, that you may not retreat.\n\n_Concini_.--Would I could chain yours to the pavement, that I might be\nsure of my mark!\n\n_Borgia_.--Agree that the first who is wounded shall inform the other.\n\n_Concini_.--Yes, for we should not see the blood. I swear it by the\nthirst I feel for yours.--But not that the affair should end there.\n\n_Borgia_.--No, only to begin again with more spirit.\n\n_Concini_--To continue till we can lift the sword no longer.\n\n_Borgia_.--Till the death of one or other of us.\n\n_Concini_--I see you not. Are you in front of me?\n\n_Borgia_.--Yes, wretch! Parry that thrust. Has it sped?\n\n_Concini_.--No; take that in return.\n\n_Borgia_.--I am untouched.\n\n_Concini_.--What, still? Oh! would I could but see thy hateful visage.\n(_They continue to fight desperately, but without touching each other.\nBoth rest for a little_.)\n\n_Borgia_.--Have you a cuirass on, Concini?\n\n_Concini_.--I had, but I left it with your wife in her chamber.\n\n_Borgia_.--Liar! (_He rushes on him with his sword. Their blades are\nlocked for a moment, and both are wounded_.)\n\n_Concini_.--I feel no sword opposed to mine. Have I wounded you?\n\n_Borgia_, (_leaning on his sword, and staunching the wound in his\nbreast with, his handkerchief_.) No, let us begin again. There!\n\n_Concini_ (_binding his scarf round his thigh_.)--One moment and I am\nwith you. (_He staggers against the pillar_.)\n\n_Borgia_, (_sinking on his knees_.)--Are you not wounded yourself?\n\n_Concini_.--No, no! I am resting. Advance, and you shall see.\n\n_Borgia_ (_endeavouring to rise, but unable_.)--I have struck my foot\nagainst a stone--wait an instant.\n\n_Concini_ (_with delight_.)--Ah! you are wounded!\n\n_Borgia_.--No, I tell you--'tis you who are so. Your voice is changed.\n\n_Concini_, (_feeling his sword_.)--My blade smells of blood.\n\n_Borgia_.--Mine is dabbled in it.\n\n_Concini_.--Come then, if you are not--come and finish me.\n\n_Borgia_, (_with triumph_.)--Finish! then you are wounded.\n\n_Concini_, (_with a voice of despair_.)--Were I not, would I not\nhave already stabbed you twenty times over? But you are at least as\nseverely handled.\n\n_Borgia_--It maybe so, or I should not be grovelling here.\n\n_Concini_.--Shall we now have done?\n\n_Borgia_, (_enraged_.)--Both wounded--yet both living!\n\n_Concini_.--What avails the blood I have drawn, while a drop remains.\n\n_Borgia_.--O! were I but beside thee! _Enter_ Vitry, _followed by the\nGuards walking slowly. He holds the young_ Count de la Pene _by the\nhand; the boy leads his sister_.\n\n_Vitry_, (_a pistol in his hand_.)--Well, my child, which is your\nfather?\n\n_Count de la Pene_.--Oh! protect him, sir,--that is he leaning against\nthe pillar.\n\n_Vitry_, (_aloud_.)--Draw tip--remain at that gate--Guards! (_The\nGuards advance with lanterns and flambeaux_.) Sir, I arrest you--your\nsword.\n\n_Concini_, (_thrusting at him_.)--Take it. (Vitry _fires his\npistol_--Du Hallier, D'Ornano, _and_ Person _fire at the same\ntime_--Concini _falls dead_.)\n\nThe malice of Du Luynes, the inveterate enemy of the D'Ancres, and\nafterwards the minion of Louis, contrives that the Mar\u00e9chale, in her\nway to execution, shall be conducted to this scene, where her husband\nlies dead, on the spot which had been stained with the blood of Henry,\nlike Caesar at the foot of Pompey's statue; and the play concludes\nwith her indignant and animated denunciation of this wretch, who\nstands calm and triumphant, while the Mar\u00e9chale exacts from her son,\nover the body of Concini, an oath of vengeance against the destroyer\nof her house.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE MARTYR-STUDENT.\n\n\n  I am sick of the bird,\n    And its carol of glee;\n  It brings the voices heard\n    In boyhood back to me:\n  Our old village hall,\n    Our church upon the hill,\n  And the mossy gates--all\n    My darken'd eyes fill.\n\n  No more gladly leaping\n    With the choir I go,\n  My spirit is weeping\n    O'er her silver bow:\n  From the golden quiver\n    The arrows are gone,\n  The wind from Death's river\n    Sounds in it alone!\n\n  I sit alone and think\n    In the silent room.\n  I look up, and I shrink\n    From the glimmering gloom.\n  O, that the little one\n    Were here with her shout!--\n  O, that my sister's arm\n    My neck were roundabout!\n\n  I cannot read a book,\n    My eyes are dim and weak;\n  To every chair I look--\n    There is not one to speak!\n  Could I but sit once more\n    Upon that well-known chair,\n  By my mother, as of yore,\n    Her hand upon my hair!\n\n  My father's eyes seeking,\n    In trembling hope to trace\n  If the south wind had been breaking\n    The shadows from my face;--\n  How sweet to die away\n    Beside our mother's hearth,\n  Amid the balmy light\n    That shone upon our birth!\n\n  A wild and burning boy,\n    I climb the mountain's crest,\n  The garland of my joy\n    Did leap upon my breast;\n  A spirit walk'd before me\n    Along the stormy night,\n  The clouds melted o'er me,\n    The shadows turn'd to light.\n\n  Among my matted locks\n    The death-wind is blowing;\n  I hear, like a mighty rush of plumes,\n    The Sea of Darkness flowing!\n  Upon the summer air\n    Two wings are spreading wide;\n  A shadow, like a pyramid,\n    Is sitting by my side!\n\n  My mind was like a page\n    Of gold-wrought story,\n  Where the rapt eye might gaze\n    On the tale of glory;\n  But the rich painted words\n    Are waxing faint and old,\n  The leaves have lost their light,\n    The letters their gold!\n\n  And memory glimmers\n    On the pages I unrol,\n  Like the dim light creeping\n    Into an antique scroll.\n  When the scribe is searching\n    The writing pale and damp,\n  At midnight, and the flame\n    Is dying in the lamp.\n\n_FRASER'S MAGAZINE._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTHE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE ITALIAN REPUBLICS.\n\n\nM.J.C.L. De Sismondi, has, to suit the plan of the _Cabinet\nCyclopaedia_, endeavoured to include in one of its volumes--a summary\nof Italian history from the fall of the Roman empire to the end of\nthe Middle Age--a period of about six and a half centuries. What a\nsuccession of stirring scenes does this volume present; what fields\nof bloody action; what revelry of carnage; what schemes of petty\nambition; what trampling on necks, what uncrowning of heads; what\norgies of fire, sword, famine, and slaughter; what overtoppling of\nthrones, and unseating of rulers; what pantings after freedom; what\nslavery of passion; what sunny scenes of fortune to be shaded with\nmelancholy pictures of desolation and decay--are comprised in these\nfew pages of the history of a comparatively small portion of the\nworld for a short period--a narrow segment of the cycle of time.\nWhat Sismondi so ably accomplished in sixteen volumes, he has here\ncomprised in one. He tells us that he could sacrifice episodes and\ndetails without regret. The present is not, however, an abridgment of\nhis great work, \"but an entirely new history, in which, with my eyes\nfixed solely on the free people of the several Italian states, I have\nstudied to portray their first deliverance, their heroism, and their\nmisfortunes.\"\n\nWe quote a few sketchy extracts.\n\n\n_Last Struggle of Rome for Liberty_.\n\n\"1453. Stefano Porcari, a Roman noble, willing to profit by the\ninterregnum which preceded the nomination of Nicholas V., to make the\nRoman citizens demand the renewal and confirmation of their ancient\nrights and privileges, was denounced to the new pope as a dangerous\nperson; and, so far from obtaining what he had hoped, he had the\ngrief to see the citizens always more strictly excluded from any\nparticipation in public affairs. Those were entrusted only to\nprelates, who, being prepared for it neither by their studies nor\nsentiments, suffered the administration to fall into the most shameful\ndisorder.\n\n\"In an insurrection of the people in the Piazza Navona, arising from a\nquarrel, which began at a bull-fight, Stefano Porcari endeavoured to\ndirect their attention to a more noble object, and turn this tumult to\nthe advantage of liberty. The pope hastily indulged all the fancies\nof the people, with respect to their games or amusements; but firmly\nrejected all their serious demands, and exiled Porcari to Bologna. The\nlatter hoped to obtain by conspiracy what he had failed to accomplish\nby insurrection. There were not less than 400 exiled Roman citizens:\nhe persuaded them all to join him, and appointed them a rendezvous\nat Rome, for the 5th of January, 1453, in the house of his\nbrother-in-law. Having escaped the vigilance of the legate of Bologna,\nhe proceeded there himself, accompanied by 300 soldiers, whom he had\nenlisted in his service. The whole band was assembled on the night of\nthe appointed 5th of January; and Stefano Porcari was haranguing them,\nto prepare them for the attack of the capitol,--in which he reckoned\non re-establishing the senate of the Roman republic,--when, his secret\nhaving been betrayed, the house was surrounded with troops, the doors\nsuddenly forced, and the conspirators overcome by numbers before their\narms had been distributed. Next morning, the body of Stefano Porcari,\nwith those of nine of his associates, were seen hanging from the\nbattlements of the castle of St. Angelo. In spite of their ardent\nentreaties, they had been denied confession and the sacrament. Eight\ndays later, the executions, after a mockery of law proceedings, were\nrenewed, and continued in great numbers. The pope succeeded in causing\nthose who had taken refuge in neighbouring states to be delivered up\nto him; and thus the last spark of Roman liberty was extinguished in\nblood.\"\n\n\n_General Mildness of Italian Warfare_.\n\n\"1492. The horses and armour of the Italian men at arms were reckoned\nsuperior to those of the transalpine nations against which they had\nmeasured themselves in France, during \"the war of the public weal.\"\nThe Italian captains had made war a science, every branch of which\nthey thoroughly knew. It was never suspected for a moment that the\nsoldier should be wanting in courage: but the general mildness of\nmanners, and the progress of civilization, had accustomed the Italians\nto make war with sentiments of honour and humanity towards the\nvanquished. Ever ready to give quarter, they did not strike a fallen\nenemy. Often, after having taken from him his horse and armour, they\nset him free; at least, they never demanded a ransom so enormous as\nto ruin him. Horsemen who went to battle clad in steel, were rarely\nkilled or wounded, so long as they kept their saddles. Once unhorsed,\nthey surrendered. The battle, therefore, never became murderous. The\ncourage of the Italian soldiers, which had accommodated itself to this\nmilder warfare, suddenly gave way before the new dangers and ferocity\nof barbarian enemies. They became terror-struck when they perceived\nthat the French caused dismounted horsemen to be put to death by their\nvalets, or made prisoners only to extort from them, under the name of\nransom, all they possessed. The Italian cavalry, equal in courage, and\nsuperior in military science, to the French, was for some time\nunable to make head against an enemy whose ferocity disturbed their\nimaginations.\"\n\n\n_Battle of Marignano_.\n\n\"1515.--Francis I. succeeded Louis XII. on the 1st of January; on the\n27th of June he renewed his predecessor's treaty of alliance with\nVenice; and on the 15th of August, entered the plains of Lombardy, by\nthe marquisate of Saluzzo, with a powerful army. He met but little\nresistance in the provinces south of the Po, but the Swiss meanwhile\narrived in great force to defend Maximilian Sforza, whom, since they\nhad reseated him on the throne, they regarded as their vassal. Francis\nin vain endeavoured to negotiate with them; they would not listen\nto the voice of their commanders; democracy had passed from their\n_landsgemeinde_ into their armies, popular orators roused their\npassions; and on the 13th of September they impetuously left Milan\nto attack Francis I. at Marignano. Deep ditches lined with soldiers\nbordered the causeway by which they advanced; their commanders wished\nby some manoeuvre to get clear of them, or make the enemy change his\nposition; but the Swiss, despising all the arts of war, expected to\ncommand success by mere intrepidity and bodily strength. They marched\nto the battery in full front; they repulsed the charge of the knights\nwith their halberds, and threw themselves with fury into the ditches\nwhich barred their road. Some rushed on to the very mouths of the\ncannon, which guarded the king, and there fell. Night closed on the\ncombatants; and the two armies mingled together fought on for four\nhours longer by moonlight. Complete darkness at length forced them to\nrest on their arms; but the king's trumpet continually sounded, to\nindicate to the bivouac where he was to be found; while the two famous\nhorns of Uri and Unterwalden called the Swiss together. The battle was\nrenewed on the 14th at daybreak: the unrelenting obstinacy was the\nsame; but the French had taken advantage of the night to collect\nand fortify themselves. Marshal Trivulzio, who had been present at\neighteen pitched battles, declared that every other seemed to him\nchildren's play in comparison with this \"battle of giants,\" as he\ncalled it: 20,000 dead already covered the ground; of these two-thirds\nwere Swiss. When the Swiss despaired of victory they retreated\nslowly,--but menacing and terrible. The French did not dare to pursue\nthem.\"\n\nThe concluding paragraph of the volume is beautifully enthusiastic: it\nmay almost be regarded as prophetic in connexion with events that are\nat this moment shaking Italy to her very base:\n\n\"Italy is crushed; but her heart still beats with the love of liberty,\nvirtue, and glory: she is chained and covered with blood; but she\nstill knows her strength and her future destiny: she is insulted by\nthose for whom she has opened the way to every improvement; but she\nfeels that she is formed to take the lead again: and Europe will know\nno repose till the nation which, in the dark ages, lighted the torch\nof civilization with that of liberty, shall be enabled herself to\nenjoy the light which she created.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nCHILD'S ARITHMETICAL TABLES.\n\n\nThe Seventh Edition, besides being well adapted for Schools, will be\nfound useful in the business of life. It includes the monies, weights,\nand measures, mentioned in Scripture, the length of miles in different\ncountries, astronomical signs, and other matters computed with great\ncare.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE GEORGIAN ERA.\n\n\nThis work is intended to comprise Memoirs of the most eminent\ncharacters who have flourished in Great Britain during the reigns\nof the four Georges: the present volume being only a fourth of its\nextent, and containing the Royal Family, the Pretenders and their\nadherents, churchmen, dissenters, and statesmen. The importance of the\nchosen period is prefatorily urged by the editor: \"In comparison with\nthe Elizabethan or the Modern Augustan, (as the reign of Anne has been\ndesignated) that which may be appropriately termed the Georgian Era,\npossesses a paramount claim to notice; for not only has it been\nequally fertile in conspicuous characters, and more prolific of great\nevents, but its influence is actually felt by the existing community\nof Great Britain.\"\n\nThe several memoirs, so far as a cursory glance enables us to judge,\nare edited with great care. Their uniformity of plan is very superior\nto hastily compiled biographies. Each memoir contains the life\nand labours of its subject, in the smallest space consistent with\nperspicuity; the dryness of names, dates, and plain facts being\nadmirably relieved by characteristic anecdotes of the party, and a\nbrief but judicious summary of character by the editor. In the latter\nconsists the original value of the work. The reader need not, however,\ntake this summary \"for granted:\" he is in possession of the main facts\nfrom which the editor has drawn his estimate, and he may, in like\nmanner, \"weigh and consider,\" and draw his own inference. The\nanecdotes, to borrow a phrase from Addison, are the \"sweetmeats\" of\nthe book, but the caution with which they are admitted, adds to their\nworth. The running reader may say that much of this portion is not\nentirely new to him: granted; but it would be unwise to reject an\nanecdote for its popularity; as Addison thought of \"Chevy Chase,\" its\ncommonness is its worth. But, it should be added, that such anecdotes\nare not told in the circumlocutory style of gossip, nor nipt in the\nbud by undeveloped brevity. We have Selden's pennyworth of spirit\nwithout the glass of water: the quintessence of condensation, which,\nwe are told, is the result of time and experience, which rejects what\nis no longer essential. Here circumspection was necessary, and it has\nbeen well exercised. The anecdotes are not merely amusing but useful,\nsince only when placed in juxtaposition with a man's whole life, can\nsuch records be of service in appreciating his character.\n\nLet us turn to the volume for a few examples, and take George the\nFourth and Sheridan, for their contemporary interest; though the\nearlier characters are equally attractive. In the former the reader\nmay better compare the editor's inference with his own impression.\n\n\n_GEORGE THE FOURTH_.\n\n\"Endowed by nature with remarkably handsome features, and a form so\nfinely proportioned, that at one period of his life it was deemed\nalmost the best model of manly beauty in existence, George the Fourth,\nduring the early part of his manhood, eclipsed the whole of his gay\nassociates in fashion and gallantry, as much by personal attractions,\nas pre-eminence in birth. Byron describes him as having possessed\n\"fascination in his very bow;\" and it is said, that a young peeress,\non hearing of the prince's attentions to one of her fair friends,\nexclaimed, \"I sincerely hope that it may not be my turn next, for to\nrepel him is impossible.\" Towards the middle period of his life, he\nbecame so enormously fat, that four life-guardsmen could not, without\ndifficulty, lift him on horseback; but, as he advanced in years,\nalthough still corpulent, his inconvenient obesity gradually\ndiminished.\n\n\"He scarcely ever forgot an injury, an affront, or a marked opposition\nto his personal wishes. The cordiality which had previously subsisted\nbetween his majesty and Prince Leopold, entirely ceased, when the\nlatter volunteered a visit to Queen Caroline on her return to this\ncountry, in 1820: Brougham and Dentrum, for the zeal with which they\nhad advocated the cause of their royal client, were, during a long\nperiod, deemed unworthy of those legal honours to which their high\ntalents and long standing at the bar, justly entitled them: and Sir\nRobert Wilson was arbitrarily dismissed from the service, for his\ninterference at her majesty's funeral. On account of his unpopular\nreception, by the mob, when he accompanied the allied sovereigns to\nGuildhall, in 1814, he never afterwards honoured the city with his\npresence; and when Rossini rudely declined the repetition of a piece\nof music, in which the king had taken a conspicuous part, at a court\nconcert, his majesty turned his back on the composer, to whose works,\nfrom that moment, he displayed the most unequivocal dislike. But, on\nthe other hand, some cases have been recorded, in which his conduct\nwas unquestionably tolerant and forgiving. He allowed Canning, an\navowed supporter of the queen, to retain office, without taking any\npart in the ministerial proceedings against her majesty; and at the\nlast stage of his earthly career, sent the Duke of Sussex, with whom\nhe had long been at variance, his own ribbon of the order of St.\nPatrick, with an assurance of his most sincere affection. Erskine,\nwhile attorney-general to the prince, had so offended his royal\nhighness, by accepting a retainer from Paine, on a prosecution being\ninstituted against the latter for publishing the Rights of Man, that\nhis immediate resignation was required. But, sometime afterwards,\nErskine was desired to attend at Carlton house, where the prince\nreceived him with great cordiality, and, after avowing his conviction\nthat, 'in the instance that had separated them, his learned and\neloquent friend had acted from the purest motives, he wished to give\npublicity to his present opinion on the subject, by appointing Mr.\nErskine his chancellor.' On one occasion, at the opening of a session\nof parliament by George the Third in person, his royal highness, who\nwas then very much in debt, having gone down to the house of lords\nin a superb military uniform with diamond epaulettes, Major Doyle\nsubsequently remarked to him, that his equipage had been much noticed\nby the mob. 'One fellow,' added the major, 'prodigiously admired, what\nhe termed 'the fine things which the prince had upon his shoulders.'\n'Mighty fine, indeed,' replied another; 'but, mind me, they'll soon be\n_upon our shoulders_, for all that.' 'Ah, you rogue!' exclaimed the\nprince, laughing, 'that's a hit of your own, I am convinced:--but,\ncome, take some wine.'\n\n\"He had some inclination for scientific pursuits, and highly respected\nthose who were eminent for mechanical inventions. He contributed\nlargely towards the erection of a monument to the memory of Watt. Of\nhis medical information, slight as it undoubtedly was, he is said\nto have been particularly proud. Carpue had demonstrated to him the\ngeneral anatomy of the human body, in his younger days; and for a\nnumber of years, the ingenious Weiss submitted to his inspection all\nthe new surgical instruments, in one of which the king suggested some\nvaluable improvements.\n\n\"His talents were, undoubtedly, above the level of mediocrity: they\nhave, however, been greatly overrated, on the supposition that several\npowerfully written documents, put forth under his name, but composed\nby some of his more highly-gifted friends, were his own productions.\nHis style was, in fact, much beneath his station: it was inelegant,\ndestitute of force, and even occasionally incorrect. He read his\nspeeches well, but not excellently: he possessed no eloquence,\nalthough, as a convivial orator, he is said to have been rather\nsuccessful.\n\n\"At one time, while an associate of Sheridan, Erskine, Fox, &c., he\naffected, in conversation, to be brilliant, and so far succeeded,\nas to colloquial liveliness, that during their festive intercourse,\naccording to the witty barrister's own admission, 'he fairly kept up\nat saddle-skirts' even with Curran. Notwithstanding this compliment,\nhis pretensions to wit appear to have been but slender; the best\nsayings attributed to him being a set of middling puns, of which the\nfollowing is a favourable selection:--When Langdale's distillery was\nplundered, during the riots of 1780, he asked why the proprietor had\nnot defended his property. 'He did not possess the means to do so,'\nwas the reply. 'Not the means of defence!' exclaimed the prince,\n'and he a brewer--a man who has been all his life at _cart_ and\n_tierce_!--Sheridan having told him that Fox had _cooed_ in vain to\nMiss Pulteney, the prince replied, 'that his friend's attempt on the\nlady's heart was a _coup maoqu\u00e8_.'--He once quoted from Suetonius, the\nwords, '_Jure_ caesus videtur,' to prove, jestingly, that trial\nby jury was as old as the time of the first Caesar.--A newspaper\npanegyric on Fox, apparently from the pen of Dr. Parr, having been\npresented to his royal highness, he said that it reminded him of\nMachiavel's epitaph, 'Tanto nomini nullum _Par_ eulogium.'--A cavalry\nofficer, at a court ball, hammered the floor with his heels so loudly,\nthat the prince observed, 'If the war between the mother country and\nher colonies had not terminated, he might have been sent to America as\na republication of the _stamp_ act.'--While his regiment was in daily\nexpectation of receiving orders for Ireland, some one told him, that\ncountry quarters in the sister kingdom were so filthy, that the rich\nuniforms of his corps would soon be lamentably soiled: 'Let the men\nact as dragoons, then,' said his royal highness, 'and _scour the\ncountry_.' When Horne Tooke, on being committed to prison for treason,\nproposed, while in jail, to give a series of dinners to his friends,\nthe prince remarked, that 'as an inmate of Newgate, he would act more\nconsistently by establishing a _Ketch_-club.'--Michael Kelly having\nturned wine-merchant, the prince rather facetiously said, 'that Mick\n_imported_ his music, and _composed_ his wine!'\"\n\nWe reluctantly break off here till next week.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTHE TOPOGRAPHER\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBRIGHTON AS IT WAS.\n\n(_Concluded from page 90_.)\n\n\nThis immunity, however, deprived them of the privileges which the\npeople of the adjacent towns enjoyed; and was probably the true\nreason, why this town did not obtain a place among those called Cinque\nports. It lies in their neighbourhood, is more ancient, and was always\nmore considerable than most included in that number.\n\nTo reduce its consequence still more, the tithes were in this period\ntaken from the incumbent, appropriated to the use of the Priory at\nLewes, and have never since been restored; and a Convent of mendicant\nfriars, more burthensome than ten endowed ones of monks, was founded\nand dedicated to St. Bartholomew.\n\nStruggling under these difficulties, nothing but the Reformation\ncould enable the inhabitants of this place to emerge from their\nwretchedness. And accordingly we find, that, in the happier days of\nQueen Elizabeth, their affairs put on a new face. They then applied\nthemselves with vigour to their old employments of fishing, and\nfitting out vessels for trade; seeking subsistence from their darling\nelement the sea.\n\nPersecution prevailing at this juncture in many parts of Europe,\nnumbers fled to this island as to an asylum, and many settled in this\ntown, bringing with them industry, and an attachment to maritime\naffairs; or soon learning them here. The number of its inhabitants\nbeing thus increased, its trade became proportionably greater: so that\nin 1579, a record now subsisting says, \"There are in the said town\nof Brighthelmston of fishing-boats four-score in number, and of able\nmariners four hundred in number, with ten thousand fishing-nets,\nbesides many other necessaries belonging to their mystery.\"[3] And the\ndescendants of many of these French, Dutch, and Spanish families still\nreside here.[4]\n\n    [3] It is a melancholy reflection to compare the present state\n        of the fishery with its prosperity in 1579, or in more modern\n        periods. Within the recollection of the editor, there were 60\n        boats employed in catching mackerel, and in a propitious season,\n        that species of fish has produced in Billingsgate market a sum of\n        \u00a310,000, with which the town was enriched. In the autumn, 20 of\n        these boats were fitted out for the herring voyage, and one boat\n        has been known to land during the season from 20 to 30 lasts of\n        herrings, each last containing 10,000 fish, computing 132 to the\n        100.\n\n    [4] The families of Mighell and Wichelo are all that appear to\n        remain as of Spanish origin.\n\nFrom this record we likewise learn, that the town was fortified to the\nsea by a flint wall, and that the fort, called the Block-house, had\nbeen then lately erected. The east-gate of this wall, in a line with\nthe Block-house was actually standing last year, and has been since\ntaken down to open a more convenient entrance to a battery lately\nbuilt.[5]\n\n    [5] The kindness of a friend has enabled me to supply this work,\n        with a view of the town taken from the sea in 1743, when the\n        wall, Block house, and East gate were partly standing.\n\nThe town at present consists of six principal streets, many lanes, and\nsome spaces surrounded with houses, called by the inhabitants squares.\nThe great plenty of flint stones on the shore, and in the corn-fields\nnear the town, enabled them to build the walls of their houses with\nthat material, when in their most impoverished state; and their\npresent method of ornamenting the windows and doors with the admirable\nbrick which they burn for their own use, has a very pleasing effect.\nThe town improves daily, as the inhabitants, encouraged by the late\ngreat resort of company, seem disposed to expend the whole of what\nthey acquire in the erecting of new buildings, or making the old ones\nconvenient. And should the increase of these, in the next seven years,\nbe equal to what it has been in the last, it is probable there will\nbe but few towns in England, that will excel this in commodious\nbuildings.[6]\n\n    [6] The recent publications on the present state of the town, will\n        amply establish the prophecy of our historian.\n\nHere are two public rooms, the one convenient, the other not only so,\nbut elegant; not excelled perhaps by any public room in England, that\nof York excepted: and the attention of the proprietor in preparing\nevery thing that may answer for the conveniency and amusement of the\ncompany, is extremely meritorious.\n\nFor divine service there is a large Church, pleasantly situated on a\nrising ground above the town; but at a distance that is inconvenient\nto the old and infirm. The Dissenters, who, of all denominations,\namount to but forty families, have a Presbyterian, a Quaker's, and an\nAnabaptist's meeting-house.\n\nThe men of this town are busied almost the whole year in a succeeding\nvariety of fishing; and the women industriously dedicate part of their\ntime, disengaged from domestic cares, to the providing of nets adapted\nto the various employments of their husbands.\n\nThe spring season is spent in dredging for oysters, which are mostly\nbedded in the Thames and Medway, and afterwards carried to the London\nmarket; the mackerel fishery employs them during the months of May,\nJune, and July; and the fruits of their labour are always sent to\nLondon; as Brighthelmston has the advantage of being its nearest\nfishing sea-coast, and as the consumption of the place, and its\nenvirons, is very inconsiderable. In the early part of this fishery\nthey frequently take the red mullet; and near the close of it,\nabundance of lobsters and prawns. August is engaged in the\ntrawl-fishery, when all sorts of flat fish are taken in a net called\nby that name. In September they fish for whiting with lines; and\nin November the herring fishery takes place, which is the most\nconsiderable and growing fishery of the whole. Those employed in\nthis pursuit show an activity and boldness almost incredible, often\nventuring out to sea in their little boats in such weather as the\nlargest ships can scarce live in. Part of their acquisition in this\nway is sent to London, but the greatest share of it is either pickled,\nor dried and made red. These are mostly sent to foreign markets,\nmaking this fishery a national concern.[7]\n\n    [7] There are 300 fishermen, 11 vessels, and 57 fishing boats\n        belonging to this place.\n\nIn examining the ancient and modern descriptions of the Baiae in\nCampania, where the Romans of wealth and quality, during the greatness\nof that empire, retired for the sake of health and pleasure, when\npublic exigencies did not require their attendance at Rome, and\ncomparing them with those of Brighthelmston, I can perceive a striking\nresemblance; and I am persuaded, that every literary person who will\nimpartially consider this matter on the spot, will concur with me in\nopinion, giving, in some measure, the preference to our own Baiae, as\nexempt from the inconvenient steams of hot sulphureous baths, and the\ndangerous vicinity of Mount Vesuvius. And I have no doubt but it will\nbe equally frequented, when the healthful advantages of its situation\nshall be sufficiently made known.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nSPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA NIGHT ON THE NIGER.\n\n(_From the Landers' Travels; Unpublished_.)\n\n\nWe made no stop whatever on the river, not even at meal-times, our\nmen suffering the canoe to glide down with the stream while they were\neating their food. At five in the afternoon they all complained of\nfatigue, and we looked around us for a landing-place, where we might\nrest awhile, but we could find none, for every village which we saw\nafter that hour was unfortunately situated behind large thick morasses\nand sloughy bogs, through which, after various provoking and tedious\ntrials, we found it impossible to penetrate. We were employed three\nhours in the afternoon in endeavouring to find a landing at some\nvillage, and though we saw them distinctly enough from the water, we\ncould not find a passage through the morasses, behind which they lay.\nTherefore we were compelled to relinquish the attempt, and continue\nour course on the Niger. We passed several beautiful islands in the\ncourse of the day, all cultivated and inhabited, but low and flat. The\nwidth of the river appeared to vary considerably, sometimes it seemed\nto be two or three miles across, and at others double that width. The\ncurrent drifted us along very rapidly, and we guessed it to be running\nat the rate of three or four miles an hour. The direction of the\nstream continued nearly east. The day had been excessively warm, and\nthe sun set in beauty and grandeur, shooting forth rays tinged with\nthe most heavenly hues, which extended to the zenith. Nevertheless,\nthe appearance of the firmament, all glorious as it was, betokened a\ncoming storm; the wind whistled through the tall rushes, and darkness\nsoon covered the earth like a veil. This rendered us more anxious\nthan ever to land somewhere, we cared not where, and to endeavour to\nprocure shelter for the night, if not in a village, at least under\na tree. Accordingly, rallying the drooping spirits of our men, we\nencouraged them to renew their exertions by setting them the example,\nand our canoe darted silently and swiftly down the current. We were\nenabled to steer her rightly by the vividness of the lightning, which\nflashed across the water continually, and by this means also we could\ndistinguish any danger before us, and avoid the numerous small islands\nwith which the river is interspersed, and which otherwise might have\nembarrassed us very seriously. But though we could perceive almost\nclose to us several lamps burning in comfortable-looking huts, and\ncould plainly distinguish the voices of their occupants, and though\nwe exerted all our strength to get at them, we were foiled in every\nattempt, by reason of the sloughs and fens, and we were at last\nobliged to abandon them in despair. Some of these lights, after\nleading us a long way, eluded our search, and vanished from our sight\nlike an _ignis fatuus_, and others danced about we knew not how. But\nwhat was more vexatious than all, after we had got into an inlet, and\ntoiled and tugged for a full half hour against the current, which in\nthis little channel was uncommonly rapid, to approach a village from\nwhich we thought it flowed, both village and lights seemed to sink\ninto the earth, the sound of the people's voices ceased of a sudden,\nand when we fancied we were actually close to the spot, we strained\nour eyes in vain to see a single hut,--all was gloomy, dismal,\ncheerless, and solitary. It seemed the work of enchantment; every\nthing was as visionary as \"sceptres grasped in sleep.\" We had paddled\nalong the banks a distance of not less than thirty miles, every inch\nof which we had attentively examined, but not a bit of dry land could\nany where be discovered which was firm enough to bear our weight.\nTherefore, we resigned ourselves to circumstances, and all of us\nhaving been refreshed with a little cold rice and honey, and water\nfrom the stream, we permitted the canoe to drift down with the\ncurrent, for our men were too much fatigued with the labours of the\nday to work any longer. But here a fresh evil arose which we were\nunprepared to meet. An incredible number of hippopotami arose very\nnear us, and came plashing, snorting, and plunging all round the\ncanoe, and placed us in imminent danger. Thinking to frighten them\noff, we fired a shot or two at them, but the noise only called up from\nthe water and out of the fens, about as many more of their unwieldy\ncompanions, and we were more closely beset than before. Our people,\nwho had never in all their lives been exposed in a canoe to such\nhuge and formidable beasts, trembled with fear and apprehension, and\nabsolutely wept aloud; and their terror was not a little increased by\nthe dreadful peals of thunder which rattled over their heads, and by\nthe awful darkness which prevailed, broken at intervals by flashes of\nlightning, whose powerful glare was truly awful. Our people told us,\nthat these formidable animals frequently upset canoes in the river,\nwhen every one in them was sure to perish. These came so close to us,\nthat we could reach them with the butt-end of a gun. When I fired\nat the first, which I must have hit, every one of them came to the\nsurface of the water, and pursued us so fast over to the north bank,\nthat it was with the greatest difficulty imaginable we could keep\nbefore them. Having fired a second time, the report of my gun was\nfollowed by a loud roaring noise, and we seemed to increase our\ndistance from them. There were two Bornou men among our crew who were\nnot so frightened as the rest, having seen some of these creatures\nbefore on Lake Tchad, where, they say, there are plenty of them.\nHowever, the terrible hippopotami did us no kind of mischief whatever;\nthey were only sporting and wallowing in the river for their own\namusement, no doubt, at first when we interrupted them; but had they\nupset our canoe, we should have paid dearly for it. We observed a bank\non the north side of the river shortly after this, and I proposed\nhalting on it for the night, for I wished much to put my foot on firm\nland again. This, however, not one of the crew would consent to,\nsaying, that if the Gewo Roua, or water elephant, did not kill them,\nthe crocodiles certainly would do so before the morning, and I thought\nafterwards that we might have been carried off like the Cumbrie people\non the islands near Yaoorie, if we had tried the experiment. Our canoe\nwas only large enough to hold us all when sitting, so that we had no\nchance of lying down. Had we been able to muster up thirty thousand\ncowries at Rabba, we might have purchased one which would have carried\nus all very comfortably. A canoe of this sort would have served us for\nliving in entirely, we should have had no occasion to land excepting\nto obtain our provisions; and having performed our day's journey,\nmight have anchored fearlessly at night. Finding we could not induce\nour people to land, we agreed to continue on all night. The eastern\nhorizon became very dark, and the lightning more and more vivid;\nindeed, I never recollect having seen such strong fork lightning\nbefore in my life. All this denoted the approach of a storm. At eleven\nP.M. it blew somewhat stronger than a gale, and at midnight the storm\nwas at its height. The wind was so strong, that it washed over the\nsides of the canoe several times, so that she was in danger of\nfilling. Driven about by the wind, our frail little bark became\nunmanageable; but at length we got near a bank, which in some measure\nprotected us, and we were fortunate enough to lay hold of a thorny\ntree against which we were driven, and which was growing nearly in the\ncentre of the stream. Presently we fastened the canoe to its branches,\nand wrapping our cloaks round our persons, for we felt overpowered\nwith fatigue, and with our legs projecting half over the sides of the\nlittle vessel, which, for want of room, we were compelled to do, we\nlay down to sleep. There is something, I believe, in the nature of\na tempest which is favourable to slumber, at least so thought my\nbrother; for though the thunder continued to roar, and the wind to\nblow,--though the rain beat in our faces, and our canoe lay rocking\nlike a cradle, still he slept soundly. The wind kept blowing hard\nfrom the eastward till midnight, when it became calm. The rain then\ndescended in torrents, accompanied by thunder and lightning of the\nmost awful description. We lay in our canoe drenched with water, and\nour little vessel was filling so fast, that two people were obliged\nto be constantly baling out the water to keep her afloat. The\nwater-elephants, as the natives term the hippopotami, frequently came\nsnorting near us, but fortunately did not touch our canoe. The storm\ncontinued until three in the morning of the 17th, when it became\nclear, and we saw the stars sparkling like gems over our heads.\nTherefore, we again proceeded on our journey down the river, there\nbeing sufficient light for us to see our way, and two hours after, we\nput into a small, insignificant, fishing village, called _Dacannie_,\nwhere we landed very gladly. Before we arrived at this island, we had\npassed a great many native towns and villages, but in consequence of\nthe early hour at which we were travelling, we considered it would be\nimprudent to stop at any of them, as none of the natives were out of\ntheir huts. Had we landed earlier, even near one of these towns, we\nmight have alarmed the inhabitants, and been taken for a party of\nrobbers; or, as they are called in the country, _jacallees_. They\nwould have taken up arms against us, and we might have lost our lives;\nso that for our safety we continued down the river, although we had\ngreat desire to go on shore. In the course of the day and night, we\ntravelled, according to _our_ estimation, a distance little short of a\nhundred miles. Our course was nearly east. The Niger in many places,\nand for a considerable way, presented a very magnificent appearance,\nand, we believe, to be nearly eight miles in width.--_Lit. Gaz._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTHE GATHERER.\n\n\n_Ancient Trade_.--Alexandria was formerly the chief commercial city\nin the world. We may judge of its wealth and prosperity by the\ncircumstance, that, after the defeat of Queen Zenobia, a single\nmerchant of this city, undertook to raise and pay an army out of the\nprofits of his trade. Delos was the richest city in the Archipelago,\nit was a free port, where nations warring with each other, resorted\nwith their goods, and traded. Strabo calls it one of the most\nfrequented emporiums in the world; and Pliny tells us, that all the\ncommodities of Europe and Asia were sold, purchased, or exchanged\nthere. Trade was much encouraged at Athens; and if any one ridiculed\nit, he was liable to an action of slander. A fine of a thousand\ndrachmas (about \u00a337. 10s.) was inflicted on him who accused a merchant\nof any crime which he was unable to prove. Solon was engaged in\nmerchandize; the founder of the city of Messilia was a merchant;\nThales and Hippocrates, the mathematician, traded; Plato sold oil\nin Egypt; Maximinus the Roman emperor, traded with the Goths in the\nproduce of his estate in Thracia; Vespasian farmed the privies at\nRome; and the Emperor Pertinax, originally dealt in charcoal.\n\nP.T.W.\n\n_Unnecessary fears about the Cholera._--Nothing is more calculated to\nallay unnecessay and groundless fear, in the case of the cholera, than\nthe undeniable fact of the smallness of the mortality in proportion\nto the whole population, where it has raged with most violence. In\naddition to which, if it be borne in mind, that the disease invariably\nattacks those who are most predisposed to engender any malady, it is\nnot unreasonable to infer, that of those to whom it has proved mortal,\nmany would have died within the same period, had cholera not attacked\nthem.--_Morning Herald._\n\nKing Regner died singing the pleasure of falling in battle: his\nwords are, \"The hours of my life are passed away, I shall die\nlaughing.\"--_Britain's Historical Drama._\n\n              _On a very Fat Man._\n\n  All flesh is grass, so do the Scriptures say,\n  And grass, when mown, is shortly turn'd to hay.\n  When Time, to mow you down, his scythe doth take,\n  Good Man! how large a stack you then will make.\n                                           J.J.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE MIRROR.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPurchasers of the MIRROR who may wish to complete their Sets or\nVolumes, are informed that the whole of the Numbers are now in\nprint, and can he procured by giving an order to any Bookseller or\nNewsvender.\n\nComplete Sets. Vol. I. to XVIII in boards, price \u00a34. 18s. 6d.;\nhalf-bound, \u00a36. 6s.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset\nHouse,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, Leipsic;\nG.G. BENNIS, 55, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris; and by all Newsmen\nand Booksellers._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *","title":"The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 535, February 25, 1832","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":12190}