Read Ebook: The Mirror of Literature Amusement and Instruction. Volume 12 No. 326 August 9 1828 by Various

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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

REGENT BRIDGE, EDINBURGH.

Edinburgh, "the Queen of the North," abounds in splendid specimens of classical architecture. Since the year 1769, when the building of the New Town commenced, its improvement has been prosecuted with extraordinary zeal; consequently, the city has not only been extended on all sides, but has received the addition of some magnificent public edifices, while the access to it from every quarter has been greatly facilitated and embellished. Of the last-mentioned improvement our engraving is a mere vignette, but it deserves to rank among the most superb of those additions.

The engraving is an interesting picture of classic beauty; and as the "approaches" and proposed "dry arches" to the New London Bridge are now becoming matters of speculative interest, we hope this entrance to our metropolis will ultimately present a similar display of architectural elegance. LONDON, with all her opulence, ought not to yield in comparison with any city in the world; and it is high time that the march of taste be quickened in this quarter.

from an exquisite lithograph by J. Goldicutt.

ON THE DEATH OF CARL MARIA VON WEBER.

Weep, for the word is spoken-- Mourn, for the knell hath knoll'd-- The master chord is broken, And the master's hand is cold! Romance hath lost her minstrel, No more his magic strain Shall throw a sweeter spell around, The legends of Almaine.

His fame had flown before him To many a foreign land, His lays are sung by every tongue, And harp'd by every hand! He came to cull fresh laurels, But fate was in their breath, And turn'd his march of triumph Into a dirge of death.

O! all who knew him lov'd him, For with his mighty mind, He bore himself so meekly, His heart it was so kind! His wildly warbling melodies, The storms that round them roll, Are types of the simplicity And grandeur of his soul.

Though years of ceaseless suffering Had worn him to a shade, So patient was his spirit, No wayward plaint he made. E'en death itself seem'd loath to scare His victim pure and mild; And stole upon him quietly As slumber o'er a child.

Weep, for the word is spoken-- Mourn, for the knell hath knoll'd-- The master chord is broken, And the master's hand is cold! The master chord is broken, And the master's hand is cold!

PLANCHE.

YOUNG NAPOLEON.

VYVYAN.

TO THE PORTRAIT OF MY SON.

Delightful image of my much loved boy! Behold his eyes, his looks, his cherub smile! No more, alas! will he enkindle joy, Nor on some kindlier shore my woes beguile.

My son! my darling son! wert thou but here, My bosom should receive thy lovely form: Thou'dst soothe my gloomy hours with converse dear: Serenely mild behold the lowering storm.

I'd be the partner of thy infant cares, And pour instruction o'er thy expanding mind; Whilst in thy heart, in my declining years, My wearied soul should an asylum find.

My wrongs--my cares--should be forgot with thee, My power--imperial dignities--renown-- This rock itself would be a heaven to me; Thine arms more cherished than the victor's crown.

O! in thine arms, my son! I could forget that fame Shall give me, through all time, a never dying name.

NAPOLEON.

Another version is subjoined of lines, "To the Portrait of My Son."

O! Cherished image of my infant heir! Thy surface does his lineaments impart:-- But ah! thou liv'st not. On this rock so bare His living form shall never glad my heart.

My second-self! how would'st thy presence cheer The settled sadness of thy hapless sire! Thine infancy with tenderness I'd rear, And thou should'st warm my age with youthful fire.

In thee, a truly glorious crown I'd find; With thee, upon this rock a heaven should own: Thy kiss would chase past conquests from my mind, Which raised me demi-god on Gallia's throne.

NAPOLEON.

THE COLOUR--BLUE.

EXTRAORDINARY CRIMINALS.

G. W. N.

It is remarkable also, that Harding came to life again, and was carried to Bridewell, and the next day to Newgate, where several people visited him and gave him money, who were very inquisitive whether he remembered the manner of his execution; to which he replied, he could only remember his having been at the gallows, and knew nothing of Venham being with him.

G. K.

LOVE AND JOY.

AN ALLEGORY.

In the happy period of the golden age when all the celestial inhabitants descended upon the earth and conversed familiarly with mortals, among the most cherished of the heavenly powers were twins, the offspring of Jupiter, Love, and Joy. Wherever they appeared, flowers sprung up beneath their feet, the sun shone with a brighter radiance, and all nature seemed embellished by their presence; they were inseparable companions, and their growing attachment was favoured by Jupiter, who had decreed that a lasting union should be solemnized between them as soon as they arrived at mature years. But in the meantime, the sons of men deviated from their native innocence; vice and ruin over-ran the earth with giant strides; and Astrea with her train of celestial visitants, forsook their polluted abode; Love alone remained, having been stolen away by Hope, who was his nurse, and conveyed by her to the forest of Arcadia, where he was brought up amongst the shepherds. But Jupiter assigned him a different partner, and commanded him to espouse Sorrow, the daughter of At?. He complied with reluctance, for her features were harsh, her eyes sunken, her forehead contracted into perpetual wrinkles, and her temples encircled with a wreath of cypress and wormwood. From this union sprung a virgin, in whom might be traced a strong resemblance to both her parents; but the sullen and unamiable features of her mother were so blended with the sweetness of the father, that her countenance, though mournful, was highly pleasing. The maids and shepherds gathered round and called her Pity. A red-breast was observed to build in the cabin where she was born; and while she was yet an infant, a dove, pursued by a hawk, flew for refuge into her bosom. She had a dejected appearance, but so soft and gentle a mien, that she was beloved to enthusiasm. Her voice was low and plaintive, but inexpressibly sweet; and she loved to lie for hours on the banks of some wild and melancholy stream singing to her lute. She taught men to weep, for she took a strange delight in tears; and often when the virgins of the hamlet were assembled at their evening sports, she would steal in among them and captivate their hearts by her tales of charming sadness. She wore on her head a garland, composed of her father's myrtles twisted with her mother's cypress. One day as she sat musing by the waters of Helicon, her tears by chance fell into the spring; and ever since, the muses' spring has tasted of the infusion. Pity was commanded by Jupiter to follow the steps of her mother through the world, dropping balm into the wounds she made, and binding up the hearts she had broken. She follows with her hair loose, her bosom bare and throbbing, her garments torn by the briars, and her feet bleeding with the roughness of the path. The nymph is mortal, for so is her mother; and when she has finished her destined course upon earth, they shall both expire together, and Love be again united to Joy, his immortal and long-betrothed bride.

THE CONTEMPORARY TRAVELLER.

ACCOUNT OF THE VOLCANIC FORMATIONS NEAR THE RHINE.

"Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. And robes the mountain in its azure hue."

I was now in a rude and barren country, presenting a strong contrast to the soft scenery I had left, and consisting of an elevated mountain plateau, or table land of slate of the Greywacke sort, the heights on the eastern side of the Rhine being of the same level, and the channel of the river appearing as a narrow valley, which the eye overlooks entirely. This table land is studded with isolated hills of volcanic formation, and of a conical form, some of them having central funnels or craters, from which the ancient eruptions have issued. The most complete are the Hirschenberg, near Burgbrohl, the Bousenberg, between that village and Olburg, the Poter, Pellenberg, and the Camillenberg, which last rises about one thousand feet above the level of the surrounding surface. There are many others extending for some distance in the Eiffel chain and in the vicinity, but those I have mentioned are sufficient to guide the footsteps of the inquirer. The basin of the Lake of Laach is nearly circular and crateriform; it is a mile and a half long, and about a mile and a quarter in breadth. Its average depth is two hundred feet, but it is full of holes, the measure of which is very uncertain. Its water is blueish, very cold, and of a nasty brackish taste. It has been examined by several geologists, British and foreign, among whom is the famous Humboldt, and there is no doubt that this great reservoir is the crater of an extinct volcano. The fragments and minerals thrown up on the banks are analogous to those found in other volcanic countries; and on one side is a regular rock of continued lava, which is supposed to have flowed from the crater during the last eruption. Mr. Scrope, whose opinion is entitled to great weight, thinks it not improbable that this may have been the eruption recorded by Tacitus, as having ravaged the country of the Initones, near Cologne, in the reign of Nero. I should not forget to mention that there is a cavern within the basin of the lake, the air of which is so stifling and noxious, that animals die if forced to remain in it, and lights are extinguished by the gas--phenomena precisely similar to those of the well-known Grotto del Cane, near Naples.

While I am on the subject of volcanic phenomena, I may as well add a word on the origin of the trass or tufa, which is so thickly spread over this country. It is similar to that found near Naples, at Mont d'Or, Carbal, and other parts of Italy; and, indeed, all the products of the latter district are pretty nearly the same as these, allowing for the difference of a slate surface in the one case, and a sandy and alluvial soil in the other. The idea of the trass having any connexion with a deluge, is, I believe, now exploded; and geologists have agreed that it is the actual substance ejected by the volcano, subsided into a firm paste. The rain has always been observed to fall heavily after eruptions, and the water running down the sides of the hills, has formed this crust, which makes the bottom and sides of the Laach. The same causes are in action now; and if ever the lake should rise so high as to burst its banks, it would overflow the whole country, and carry terrible destruction with it. Such an event was actually foreseen by the sagacious monks who formerly inhabited the abbey, for they cut a canal nearly a mile long, to give the water vent; and the discharge by it continues to this day. The abbey is now untenanted, and is in a deplorable state of ruin; it was once celebrated for its hospitality and a fine gallery of pictures; all, however, have vanished, and the ruins are now the property of M. Delius, a magistrate of Treves. The situation is so beautiful, surrounded as it is with fine timber, that one would suppose it worth his while to repair the place, particularly as stone is so plentiful in the neighbourhood. It forms, however, as it is, a picturesque addition to the interest of the excursion to the lake, I returned by the mineral spring of Heilbrunn, well satisfied with my inspection of the country. The distance from Brohl to the abbey is little more than five miles, and it is one which I would advise all tourists on the Rhine to make if they have time, whether they be geologists or non-geologists. I fancied I had a clearer conception of. Aetna and Vesuvius, and the living fires, from having witnessed the funnels of the extinct ones. At all events, though little is known as to the causes of volcanic phenomena, enough is ascertained to convince us that subterranean fire exists under the whole of Europe, there not being one country or district exempt from occasional earthquakes, or some such signs of terror.

THE SKETCH-BOOK

GARDEN OF BREMHILL PARSONAGE.

The garden contains upwards of two acres, with a gravel-walk under the windows. A Gothic porch has been added, the bow-windows being surmounted with the same kind of parapet as the house, somewhat more ornamental. It lies to the morning sun; the road to the house, on the north, enters through a large arch. The garden is on a slope, commanding views of the surrounding country, with the tower of Calne in front, the woods of Bowood on the right, and the mansion and woods of Walter Heneage, Esq. Towards the south. The view to the south-east is terminated by the last chalky cliffs of the Marlborough downs, extending to within a few miles of Swindon. In the garden, a winding path from the gravel-walk, in front of the house, leads to a small piece of water, originally a square pond.

This walk, as it approaches the water, leads into a darker shade, and descending some steps, placed to give a picturesque appearance to the bank, you enter a kind of cave, with a dripping rill, which falls into the water below, whose bank is broken by thorns, and hazels, and poplars, among darker shrubs. Here an urn appears with the following inscription:--"M.S. Henrici Bowles, qui ad Calpen, febre ibi exitiali grassante, public? missus, ipse miserrim? periit--1804. Fratri posuit."--Passing round the water, you come to an arched walk of hazels, which leads to the green in front of the house, where, dipping a small slope, the path passes near an old and ivied elm. As this seat looks on the magnificent line of Bowood park and plantations, the obvious thought could not be well avoided:

"When in thy sight another's vast domain Spreads its dark sweep of woods, dost thou complain? Nay! rather thank the God who placed thy state Above the lowly, but beneath the great; And still his name with gratitude revere, Who bless'd the sabbath of thy leisure here."

The walk leads round a plantation of shrubs, to the bottom of the lawn, from whence is seen a fountain, between a laurel arch; and through a dark passage a gray sun-dial appears among beds of flowers, opposite the fountain.

"To count the brief and unreturning hours, This Sun-Dial was placed among the flowers, Which came forth in their beauty--smiled and died, Blooming and withering round its ancient side. Mortal, thy day is passing--see that flower, And think upon the Shadow and the Hour!"

The whole of the small green slope is here dotted with beds of flowers; a step, into some rock-work, leads to a kind of hermit's oratory, with crucifix and stained glass, built to receive the shattered fragments, as their last asylum, of the pillars of Stanly Abbey.

The dripping water passes through the rock-work into a large shell, the gift of a valued friend, the author of "The Pleasures of Memory;" and I add, with less hesitation, the inscription, because it was furnished by the author of "The Pains of Memory," a poem, in its kind, of the most exquisite harmony and fancy, though the author has long left the bowers of the muses, and the harp of music, for the severe professional duties of the bar. I have some pride in mentioning the name of Peregrine Bingham, being a near relation, as well as rising in character and fame at the bar. The verses will speak for themselves, and are not unworthy his muse whose poem suggested the comparisons. The inscription is placed over the large Indian shell:--

"Snatch'd from an Indian ocean's roar, I drink the whelming tide no more; But in this rock, remote and still, Now serve to pour the murmuring rill. Listen! Do thoughts awake, which long have slept-- Oh! like his song, who placed me here, The sweetest song to Memory dear, When life's tumultuous storms are past, May we, to such sweet music, close at last The eyelids that have wept!"

Leaving the small oratory, a terrace of flowers leads to a Gothic stone-seat at the end, and, returning to the flower-garden, we wind up a narrow path from the more verdant scene, to a small dark path, with fantastic roots shooting from the bank, where a grave-stone appears, on which an hour-glass is carved.

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