Read Ebook: The Mirror of Literature Amusement and Instruction. Volume 12 No. 324 July 26 1828 by Various

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The reader will doubtless conclude that, now at least, having satisfactorily settled his demands, I had done with my Tormentor for ever. This inference is in part correct. I followed up my vocation with an energy strangely contrasted with my recent indifference, was early and late in the schools, and for three months pursued this course with such ardour, that my adventures with the Mysterious Tailor, though not forgotten, were yet gradually losing their once powerful hold on my imagination. This was precisely the state of my feelings, when early one autumnal morning, just seven months from the date of my last visit to High Holborn, I chanced to be turning down Saint Giles's Church, on my way to--Hospital. I had nothing to render me more than usually pensive; no new vexations, no sudden pecuniary embarrassment; yet it so happened, that on this particular morning I felt a weight at my heart, and a cloud on my brain, for which I could in no way account. As I passed along Broad Street, I made one or two bold attempts to rally. I stared inquisitively at the different passers by, endeavouring, by a snatch at the expression of their faces, to speculate on the turn of their minds, and the nature of their occupations; I then began to whistle and hum some lively air, at the same time twirling my glove with affected unconcern; but nothing would do; every exertion I made to appear cheerful, not only found no answering sympathy from within, but even exaggerated by constrast my despondency. In this condition I reached Saint Giles's Church. A crowd was assembled at the gate opposite its entrance, and presently the long surly toll of the death-bell--that solemn and oracular memento--announced that a funeral was on the eve of taking place. The funeral halted at the entrance gate, where the coffin was taken from the hearse, and and thence borne into the chancel. This ceremony concluded, the procession again set forth towards the home appointed for the departed in a remote quarter of the church-yard. And now the interest began in reality to deepen. As the necessary preparations were making for lowering the coffin into earth, the mourners--even those who had hitherto looked unmoved--pressed gradually nearer, and with a momentary show of interest, to the grave. Such is the ennobling character of death.

SPIRIT OF THE

+PUBLIC JOURNALS.+

THE TOUR OF DULNESS.

From her throne of clouds, as Dulness look'd On her foggy and favour'd nation, She sleepily nodded her poppy-crown'd head, And gently waved her sceptre of lead, In token of approbation.

For the north-west wind brought clouds and gloom, Blue devils on earth, and mists in the air; Of parliamentary prose some died, Some perpetrated suicide, And her empire flourish'd there.

The Goddess look'd with a gracious eye On her ministers great and small; But most she regarded with tenderness Her darling shrine, the Minerva Press, In the street of Leadenhall.

This was her sacred haunt, and here Her name was most adored, Her chosen here officiated. And hence her oracles emanated, And breathed the Goddess in every word.

She pass'd from the east to the west, and paused In New Burlington-street awhile, To inspire a few puffs for Colburn and Co. And indite some dozen novels or so In the fashionable style.

Then turning her own Magazine to inspect, She was rather at fault, as of late The colour and series both were new; But the Goddess, with discernment true, Detected it by the weight.

She cross'd the Channel next, and peep'd At Dublin; but the zeal Of the liberty boys soon put her to flight. And she dropp'd her mantle in her fright, Which fell on Orator Shiel.

And chiefly she on McCulloch smiled, As a mother smiles on her darling child, Or a lady on her lover; Then, bethinking her of Parliament, She hasten'd South, but ere she went, She promised if nothing occurr'd to prevent, To return when the Session was over.

CANNIBALISM.

SIGNS OF THE TIMES.

"They say this town is full of cozenage, As nimble jugglers that deceive the eye, Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, And many such like libertines of sin." SHAKSPEARE.

Retrospective Gleanings

SONNET

O! Ginnee was a bony lasse, Which maks the world to woonder How ever it should com to passe That wee did part a sunder.

The driven snow, the rose so rare, The glorious sunne above thee, Can not with my Ginnee compare, She was so wonderous lovely.

Her merry lookes, her forhead high, Her hayre like golden-wyer, Her hand and foote, her lipe or eye, Would set a saint on fyre.

And for to give Giunee her due, Thers no ill part about her; The turtle-dove's not half so true; Then whoe can live without her?

King Solomon, where ere he lay, Did nere unbrace a kinder; O! why should Ginnee gang away, And I be left behind her?

Then will I search each place and roome From London to Virginny, From Dover-peere to Scanderoone, But I will finde my Ginny.

But Ginny's turned back I feare, When that I did not mind her; Then back to England will I steare, To see where I can find her.

And haveing Ginnee once againe, If sheed doe her indeavour, The world shall never make us twaine-- Weel live and dye together.

Each rosy field their odours spread, All fragrant was the shore; Each river God rose from his bed, And sighing own'd her pow'r; Curling the waves they deck'd their heads, As proud of what they bore.

Glide on ye waves, bear these lines, And tell her my distress; Bear all these sighs, ye gentle winds, And waft them to her breast; Tell her if e'er she prove unkind, I never shall have rest.

The Anecdote Gallery

VOLTAIRE.

The Chateau of Ferney, the celebrated residence of Voltaire, six miles from Geneva, is a place of very little picturesque beauty: its broad front is turned to the high road, without any regard to the prospect, and the garden is adorned with cut trees, parapet walls with flower-pots, jets d'eaux, &c. Voltaire's bed-room is shown in its pristine state, just as he left it in 1777, when, after a residence of twenty years, he went to Paris to enjoy a short triumph and die. Time and travellers have much impaired the furniture of light-blue silk, and the Austrians, quartered in the house during the late war, have not improved it; the bed-curtains especially, which for the last forty years have supplied each traveller with a precious little bit, hastily torn off, are of course in tatters. The bedstead is of common deal, coarsely put together; a miserable portrait of Le Kain, in crayons, hangs inside of the bed, and two others, equally bad, on each side, Frederic and Voltaire himself. Round the room are bad prints of Washington, Franklin, Sir Isaac Newton, and several other celebrated personages; the ante-chamber is decorated with naked figures, in bad taste; each of these rooms may be 12 feet by 15.

PHILO.

+THE GATHERER.+

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles. SHAKSPEARE.

SIR W. JONES AND MR. DAY.

One day, upon removing some books at the chambers of Sir William Jones, a large spider dropped upon the floor, upon which Sir William, with some warmth, said, "Kill that spider, Day, kill that spider!" "No," said Mr. Day, with that coolness for which he was so conspicuous, "I will not kill that spider, Jones; I do not know that I have a right to kill that spider! Suppose when you are going in your coach to Westminster Hall, a superior being, who, perhaps may have as much power over you as you have over this insect, should say to his companion, 'Kill that lawyer! kill that lawyer!' how should you like that, Jones? and I am sure, to most people, a lawyer is a more noxious animal than a spider."

BISHOP

Beneath some old oak, come and rest thee, my hearty; Our foreheads with roses, oh! let us entwine! And, inviting young Bacchus to be of the party, We'll drown all our troubles in oceans of wine!

GAZETTED AND IN THE GAZETTE.

UNFORTUNATE CASE.

LIQUIDATING CLAIMS.

"The carcass that you look at so, Is not Sam Deacon, you must know, But 'tis the carriage--the machine, Which Samuel Deacon rideth in."

ADVANTAGES OF LOQUACITY

A very pretty woman, who was tediously loquacious, complained one day to Madame de Sevign?, that she was sadly tormented by her lovers. "Oh, Madame," said Madame de Sevign? to her, with a smile, "it is very easy to get rid of them: you have only to speak."

FOOTNOTES:

At the time the chapel fell, the sexton, while digging a grave was buried under the ruins, with another person, and his daughter. The latter, notwithstanding she lay covered seven hours, survived this misfortune seventeen years, and was her father's successor. The memory of this event is preserved by a print of this singular woman, engraved by M'Ardell.

The work is dedicated to Dr. Babington, "in remembrance of some delightful days passed in his society, and in gratitude for an uninterrupted friendship of a quarter of a century;" and in the preface the author, after saying that the characters are imaginary, intimates that "in the portrait of HALIEUS, given in the last dialogue, a likeness, he thinks, will not fail to be recognised to that of a most estimable physician, ardently beloved by his friends, and esteemed and venerated by the public."

In our last volume, this was erroneously attributed to Swift.

See page 370, vol. xi. MIRROR.

As "kill him, crimp him," &c.

M. Huber was the father of the author of a work on the economy of bees, and the grandfather of the author of a work on the economy of ants. The first M. Huber had a very peculiar talent for drawing; with his scissors he could cut a piece of paper into a representation of anything, as accurately, and as fast, and with as much spirit, as he might have delineated with his pencil either figures or landscapes. Voltaire was his favourite subject; and he is known to have taught his dog to bite off a piece of crumb of bread, which he held in his hand, so as to give it as last the appearance of Voltaire.

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