Read Ebook: The Mirror of Literature Amusement and Instruction. Volume 12 No. 329 August 30 1828 by Various

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SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.

IMPROVED SAFETY LAMP.

The experiments of Libri, showing that flame is inflected by metallic rods, and that "when two flames are made to approach each other, there is a mutual repulsion, although their proximity increases the temperature of each, instead of diminishing it," support Mr. Dillon's theory--the inflection being occasioned by the rarefaction of the air between the rod and the flame, the latter seeking for oxygen to support it in a denser medium, the two flames repelling each other for the same reason, and not from any mysterious and "repulsive effect of the wires of the gauze tissue." Mr. Dillon increases the heat of the lamp, and places on it a shield of talc to protect it from a current, and, upon his theory, the shafts or workings of iron and coal mines may be lighted with gas with perfect safety, protecting the flame with wire gauze and a circular shield of talc.

EPITAPH ON A FRENCH SCOLD.

Ci git ma femme; ah! qu'il est bien Pour son repos et pour le mien.

PENELOPE, OR LOVE'S LABOUR LOST.

In the early part of the narrative, Dr. Greendale dies, and Penelope is removed from Smatterton to London, where she is to be brought out as a singer, under the patronage of the Countess of Smatterton, and Spoonbill is first struck with her charms, and resolves to frustrate his absent rival.

The roguery of a postboy named Nick Muggins, who is employed by the noble suitor to intercept letters, and the aid of Crop, who acts as a sort of go-between, are put in requisition for this purpose; but the villany of the latter is finely defeated in his mistaking a silly, forward girl, Miss Glossop, for Penelope, and accordingly prevailing on her to elope with him to Lord Spoonbill's villa, where the blunder is soon discovered by his lordship, who in return is horsewhipped by the father of Miss Glossop; and Darnley and Penelope are eventually married.

There are two or three adjuncts, as Peter Kipperson, a "march of intellect" man, Erpingham, one of Spoonbill's companions in debauchery, Ellen Fitzpatrick, one of his victims, Dr. Greendale's successor, Charles Pringle; and Zephaniah Pringle, a literary coxcomb of the first order.

The character of Lord Spoonbill is struck out with singular felicity and spirit:--

Lord Spoonbill was not one of those careless young men who lose at the university what they have gained at school; one reason was, that he had little or nothing to lose; nor was his lordship one of those foolish people who go to a university and study hard to acquire languages which they never use, and sciences which they never apply in after-life. His lordship had sense enough to conclude that, as the nobility do not talk Greek, he had no occasion to learn it; and as hereditary legislators have nothing to do with the exact sciences, it would be a piece of idle impertinence in him to study mathematics. But his lordship had heard that hereditary legislators did occasionally indulge in other pursuits, and for those pursuits he took especial care to qualify himself. In his lordship's cranium, the organ of exclusiveness was strongly developed. We do not mean that his head was so constructed internally, as to exclude all useful furniture, but that he had a strong sense of the grandeur of nobility and the inseparable dignity which attaches itself to the privileged orders. The only instances in which he condescended to persons in inferior rank, were when he was engaged at the race-course at Newmarket, or when he found that condescension might enable him to fleece some play-loving plebeian, or when affairs of gallantry were concerned. In these matters no one could be more condescending than Lord Spoonbill. We should leave but an imperfect impression on the minds of our readers if we should omit to speak of his lordship's outward and visible form. This was an essential part of himself which he never neglected or forgot; and it should not be neglected or forgotten by his historian. He was tall and slender, his face was long, pale and thin, his forehead was narrow, his eyes large and dull, his nose aquiline, his mouth wide, his teeth beautifully white and well formed, and displayed far more liberally than many exhibitions in the metropolis which are only "open from ten till dusk." His lips were thin, but his whiskers were tremendously thick. Of his person he was naturally and justly proud. Who ever possessed such a person and was not proud of it?

Sir George professed Whig politics; these were hereditary in his family, but by no means constitutional in him as an individual. Therefore he passed for a very moderate Whig; for one who would not clog the wheels of government. In short, he was no more a Whig than a game preserver ought to be; and that, as our readers know, is not much. He took especial pains to keep the parish clear of vagrants and paupers; and by his great activity he kept down the poor-rates to a moderate sum. Sir George, though a professed Whig, was not very partial to the education of the lower orders, and he always expressed himself well pleased when he met with a country booby who could neither read nor write. For this reason Nick Muggins, the postboy, was a great favourite with him. Our worthy baronet could not see the use of reading, and he thought it a great piece of affectation for country gentlemen to have libraries. His own books, for he had a few, were huddled together in a light closet, where he kept his guns and sporting tackle. There was a Lady Aimwell, wife to Sir George; but this lady was a piece of still life, of whom the neighbours knew nothing, and for whom her husband cared nothing.

Everybody in the neighbourhood remembers the impressive admonition which Sir George gave to an old man who was convicted at the quarter sessions of having a bit of string in his pocket, and therefore strongly suspected of a design of a malicious nature against the game.

"John Carter," said the worthy baronet, "let me address to you a few words on the sin of poaching. Poaching, John Carter--is--is a sin of which too many are guilty, owing to the lenity of our most excellent laws. I think that if everybody thought, as I think, of the moral heinousness of this offence, nobody would be guilty of it. Poaching is not yet made felony; but there is no saying how soon it may be made so, if the crime be persisted in. It is a moral offence of the greatest enormity, and is one of those crying, national sins, which may one day or other bring down the vengeance of heaven on our guilty country. Now, John Carter, if you go to gaol for six months, I hope the tread-mill and the chaplain will work a thorough reformation in your morals."

Now Peter was a very literary man, who thought there was nothing worth living for but science and literature; and having somewhere read that it was impossible to take shelter in a shower of rain with such a man as Burke, without discovering him to be a man of genius, Peter was desirous of continually showing off, and was instant in season and out of season. Therefore when sitting at the table of the worthy baronet, he assailed the magistrate with various scientific subjects, but all to no purpose; there was no response from his worthy host. Endeavouring to adapt himself to the moderate talents and circumscribed reading of the baronet, he next started the subject of novels and novel reading, taking care to insinuate that, though Sir George might not read the trash of circulating libraries, he might be acquainted with some of our best novels. To this at last the baronet replied--"Oh, yes; I remember many years ago reading a novel called Tom Jones, written by a Bow Street officer. I recollect something about it--it was very low stuff--I forget the particulars, but it was written in the manner of servants."

Hereupon Mr. Peter Kipperson set it down as an indisputable fact that baronets and magistrates were the most ignorant creatures on the face of the earth, and he congratulated himself that neither he nor Sir Isaac Newton were baronets.

A scene between Lord Spoonbill and one of his victims, whom he meets in his father's park, has some fine touches of remorse:--

Agitated by distracting thoughts, he stood at the park gate, gazing alternately in different directions; and by the intensity of his feelings was at last rivetted in an almost unconscious state of mind to the spot on which he was standing. Suddenly his pulse beat quicker, and his heart seemed to swell within him, when at a little distance he saw the dreaded one approaching him. Had he seen her anywhere else his first impulse would have been to avoid her; but here his truest and best policy was to submit to an interview, however painful. Shall he meet her with kindness?-- Shall he meet her with reproaches?--Shall he meet her with coldness? These were inquiries rapidly passing through his mind as she drew nearer and nearer. It was difficult for him to decide between cruelty and hypocrisy; but the last was the most natural to him, so far as custom is a second nature.

The afflicted one moved slowly with her eyes fixed on the ground, and she saw not her enemy till so near to him, that on lifting up her face and recognising his well-known features, the sudden shock produced a slight hysteric shriek.

Lord Spoonbill was not so lost to all feeling of humanity as to be insensible to the anguish of mind which she now suffered, who had once regarded him as a friend, and had loved him, "not wisely, but too well." He held out his hand to her with an unpremeditated look of kindness and affection; and which, being unpremeditated, bore the aspect of sincerity. The stranger at first hesitated, and seemed not disposed to accept the offered hand; but she looked up in his face, and the blood mounted to her cheeks and the tears stood in her eyes, and she gave him her hand, and covered her face and wept bitterly.

There are moments in which shameless profligates look foolish and feel that they are contemptible. This was such a moment to Lord Spoonbill. He was moved, and he was mortified that he was moved; and there was a general feeling of confusion and perplexity in his mind. What could he say? or how could he act? He began to stammer out something like gentleness, and something like reproof. But she who stood before him was as an accusing spirit, to whom apology was mockery, and repentance too late.

DIALOGUES ON FLY FISHING.

We continue our extracts from this "philosophical angler's" delightful little book. The present will serve such as are unacquainted with the mysteries of fly-fishing, and interest all who are fond of inquiries in natural history.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

PAROCHIAL HISTORIES.

We wonder why clergymen do not oftener write accounts of their parishes; not mere statistical accounts, though these are most valuable, as witness the contributions of the Scottish Clergy to the truly patriotic Sir John Sinclair's work; but accounts comprehending every thing interesting to all human beings, whatever be their political or religious creed. A description of a church that has principally ceased to exist, is in general very, very, very dry; inscriptions on tombstones, without comment, or moral, are hard reading; an old pan dug up among rubbish proves a sore affliction in the hands of the antiquary, and twenty pages quarto, with plates, about a rusty spur without a rowel, is, in our humble opinion, an abuse of the art of printing. But how easy--how pleasant, to mix up together all sorts of information in due proportions into one whole, in the shape of an octavo--epitomizing every kind of history belonging to the parish, from peer's palace to peasant's hut! What are clergymen perpetually about? Not always preaching and praying; or marrying, christening, and burying people. They ought to tell us all about it; to moralize, to poetize, to philosophize; to paint the manners living as they rise, or dead as they fall; to take Time by the forelock, and measure the marks of his footsteps; to show us the smoke curling up from embowered chimneys; or, since woods must go down, to record the conquests of the biting axe; to celebrate the raising of every considerable roof-tree, to lament all dilapidations and crumbling away of ivied walls; to inform us how many fathoms deep is the lake with its abbeyed island--why the pool below the aged bridge gets shallower and shallower every year, so that it can no more shelter a salmon--what are the sports, and games, and pastimes of the parishioners--what books they read, if any--if the punishment of the stocks be obsolete--or the stang--or the jougs--if the bowels of the people yearn after strange doctrine--if the parish has produced any good or great murderer, incendiary, or other criminal. In short, why might not the history of each of the twenty or thirty thousand parishes of Great Britain--we speak at random--be each a history of human nature, at once entertaining and instructive? How infinitely better such books than pamphlets on political economy, for example, now encumbering the whole land! Nay, even than single sermons, or bundles of sermons, all like so many sticks--strong when tied all together, but when taken separately, weak and frush. We have no great opinion of county histories in general, though we believe there are some goodish ones, from which we purpose, ere long, to construct some superior articles. A county history, to be worth much, should run from sixty to six hundred volumes. No library could well stand that for many years. But a judicious selection might be made from the thirty thousand parish histories--that would afford charming reading to the largest family during the longest nights--in the intervals between the Scotch Novels. Form the circle round the fire--when winter crimps and freezes--or round the open bow-window, now that summer roasts and broils, and get her whose voice is like a silver bell to read it up, right on from beginning to end, only skipping a few lists of names now and then, and we pledge our credit on the prediction, that you will be delighted as on a summer ramble, now in sunlight and now in moonlight, over hill and dale, adorned with towers, turrets, pinnacles of halls and churches, and the low roofs,--blue or brown, slated or strawed.--

"Of huts where poor men lie!"

THE GATHERER.

"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles." SHAKSPEARE.

IAMBICS.

BISHOP AND NEGUS.

POLITE EVIDENCE.

At the Wells assizes, the other day, a butcher's wife, in giving her evidence, repeatedly turned towards the prisoner at the bar, and designated him as "that gentleman!" The judge at last lost all patience, and exclaimed, "Old woman, you are become quite offensive." This exemplifies Steele's speaking of "sin as a fine gentleman."

Baron Garrow lately observed at Monmouth, that a respected friend of his, in the city of London, would sign his name on the outside of letters, in such a way as to defy the skill of every man in the court, even if assisted by the greater sagacity of the other sex, in finding out what his signature could possibly be meant for. The post-offices indeed, knew that a certain number of straight strokes, up and down, meant W. Curtis; but probably that was not because they could read the signature, but because nothing else at all like it ever came there.

BELL ROCK LIGHT-HOUSE.

Far in the bosom of the deep, O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep; A ruddy gem of changeful light, Bound on the dusky brow of night; The seaman bids my lustre hail, And scorns to strike his timorous sail.

WALTER SCOTT.

NEWSPAPER WONDERS.

IMPROMPTU ON RELIEVING A BEGGAR.

Take this, old man, thy looks bespeak thy need, And pity never questions want and woe; A bright-hair'd angel registers the deed In heaven--the meed of charity below!

H.M.L.

Rosamond's Labyrinth--We shall feel obliged by a call from the gentleman who favoured us with the original of this engraving; or, if more convenient, by a note enclosing his address.

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