Read Ebook: The Mirror of Literature Amusement and Instruction. Volume 20 No. 561 August 11 1832 by Various

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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

Burnham is a village of some consideration, in Buckinghamshire, and gives name to a deanery and hundred. Its prosperity has been also augmented by the privilege of holding three fairs annually. It is situate in the picturesque vicinity of Windsor, about five miles from that town, and three miles N.E. of Maidenhead. It was anciently a place of much importance. One of the few relics of its greatness is the ivy-mantled ruin represented in the above Engraving. So late as the fourteenth century, Burnham could also boast of a royal palace within its boundary: but, alas! the wand of Prospero has long since touched its gorgeousness, so as to "leave not a rack behind."

The ruin stands about one mile south of the village, and is part of an Augustine nunnery, built in the year 1228, by Richard, Earl of Cornwall, and brother of Henry the Third. He was a vexatious thorn in the crown of Henry, whose long and confused reign, "were it not that for the first time it exhibits the elements of the English constitution in a state of disorderly fermentation, would scarcely deserve the consideration of the philosopher and the politician." One of Richard's fraternal acts was placing himself at the head of a formidable confederacy, to which Henry was obliged to yield. The papal power was at this time at its greatest height; Richard had been elected King of the Romans, and from the spoil obtained by the monstrous exactions of his court, he may be presumed to have erected the above nunnery. Of this system of pious plunder we have many proud architectural memorials; though to rob with one hand, and found religious houses with the other, reminds one of the trade of a waterman--to look one way and row the other.

Sir James Mackintosh.

The nunnery was richly endowed with several of the neighbouring manors; the remains are now used as the out-offices of an adjoining farm. Little can be traced of the "studious cloister," the "storied window," or the "high embowed roof;" but the ivy climbs with parasitic fondness over its gable, or thrusts its rootlets as holdfasts into its crumbling wall. The dates of these ruins claim the attention of the speculative antiquary. The chimney, though of great age, did not of course belong to the original building; the earliest introduction of chimneys into this country being stated, to be in the year 1300. The upper window, and the arched doorway are in the early English style prevalent at the date of the foundation; the former has the elegant lancet-shape of the earliest specimens.

A DREAM OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

"Another scene where happiness is sought! A festive chamber with its golden hues, Its dream-like sounds, and languishing delights."

R. MONTGOMERY.

I stood in the light of the festive hall, Gorgeously wrought was its pictured wall; And the strings of the lute replied in song, To the heart-breathed lays of the vocal throng.

Oh! rich were the odours that floated there, O'er the swan-like neck and the bosom fair; And roses were mingled with sparkling pearls, On the marble brow, and the cluster'd curls.

I stood in that hall, and my lips were mute, And my spirit entranced with the elfin lute; And the eyes that look'd on me seem'd fraught with love, As the stars that make Night more divine above.

A sorrowful thought o'er my spirit came, Like thunder-clouds kindling with gloom and flame; For I knew that those forms in the dust would lie, And no passionate lips to their songs reply.

But the music recalled me, the hall glow'd with light, And burst like a vision of heaven on my sight; "Oh! thus," I exclaimed, "will dark feelings depart, When the sunshine of beauty descends on the heart!"

G.R. CARTER.

TRAGEDY AND COMEDY.

It has been observed by an able and popular writer of the present day, that the following proposition, though very generally received, is far from being a true one: "Tragedy improves and exalts the nature of man, while Comedy has a tendency to lower it." Now I profess also to believe rather in the converse of this proposition, and shall endeavour in this essay to establish that belief in the minds of my readers, by the same line of argument that originally induced me to adopt it. With the generality of persons, who are not in the habit of reasoning upon subjects of this nature, this question would perhaps be decided, and the preference awarded to either species of the drama, according to the peculiar organization of each person: I mean, that those who are naturally grave, would be more gratified by being affected, and by having an appeal made to their feelings; while on the other hand, those who are of a freer temperament, and never dream of brooding over misfortune, would doubtless prefer being amused. If this remark carries any weight with it, egotism will be so far necessary to my argument, that I may be excused for saying thus much:--I suspect myself to be classed, by nature, under the first of these divisions, and am the more entitled to a fair hearing, because I argue against feeling and natural inclination.

Lord John Russell.

Perhaps I shall be able to lay more clearly before the reader, my reasoning on this interesting as well as important subject, by considering Tragedy and Comedy respectively, under three distinct heads:--1st. with respect to the particular sphere or province of each; 2ndly, their plot and characters; and 3rdly, the end or design in view.

We will now turn to Comedy, which, in order to compare more satisfactorily with Tragedy, we will consider under the same view. First, then, the province of Comedy is with the follies and foibles or our nature; it is generally, and it ought always to be, a speaking picture of national faults, and should satirize the people of the country where it is represented, by which means a much greater scope is afforded for the improvement of the spectator. It is not so confined in its sphere as Tragedy is, for it may affect as well as amuse; there should be a proper mixture of gravity with mirth, and that succession of ridiculous and pathetic events with which the life of man is variegated. But the main superiority of Comedy consists in its having what Tragedy wants, a moral. It is true that the enlightened portion of the audience do not require this moral; no farther interested in the scene they witness than as being spectators of it, they sit by in silence, void of all passion, and learn in silence a lesson that speaks for itself, and will have its certain effect on their future lives; but the greater part of the audience, not being capable either of accurate reasoning or deep reflection, require to be told what is right, and to have its distinction from wrong pointed out to them; as in a fable, its point would be useless to most men without its concomitant moral. Secondly, the plot of Comedy is for the most part fictitious, and refers to national manners, the advantages of both which peculiarities I have already had occasion to refer to; the characters also being selected from private as well as public life, from low as well as polite company, afford Comedy a far wider field to range in than Tragedy can boast. Comedy introduces us to the cottage as well as the palace, and displays the economy of one as well as the splendour of the other; and it can amuse us with the intrigues of a citizen's wife, as well as interest us with the passion of a princess. We see also in Comedy, as well as in the world itself, the despicable character of the rake, and the disgusting vanity of the coquette; we learn to distinguish between the different traits of character, and we soon find that those whose language is that of men of honour, often act like knaves. It is all this diversity that makes Comedy so pleasing as well as so instructive. Thirdly, the end that Comedy has in view, is to bring about improvement by exciting contempt and ridicule: by thus mixing ridicule with vice, we feel a positive enjoyment in seeing it exposed, and it is by this powerful engine that the manners of a people may be insensibly improved. A satirical exhibition will at all times explode vice better than serious argument; and it was from a conviction of this that the Lacedemonians intoxicated their unhappy slaves in order that the children of the state, by seeing the despicable state to which drunkenness reduced a man, might learn a lesson that wanted no explanation. In short, I think a theatrical representation may cure our faults, but it can hardly subdue our more powerful vices; it may give a check to our follies, but it will never succeed in curbing our passions. When a man is under the sway of any particular passion, it is too firmly rooted in his disposition to be eradicated by sitting a few hours in the pit of a theatre; but with our petty foibles it is very different; ridicule can, and often does, cure them, when it can be brought into play against them; which, however, is not very often in real life, for a man is more inclined to resent an attack upon his faults than his vices, and would rather be thought the slave of his passions than be known to have given way to a single weakness.

There is another great difference between Tragedy and Comedy, and that is, with regard to diction: the language made use of by Comedy is natural and proper, while that of Tragedy is laboured and elevated; we meet not unfrequently with long declamation and sentences highly polished, whereas passion never speculates in this manner; the feelings of nature dictate the simplest language, and generally find a vent in broken sentences, as we find them in the Greek tragedians.

Before I close these observations, let me add, that in looking at this question, we must consent to throw off our national prejudices; and in drawing the comparison, not to regard English plays, whether tragic or comic, as the standards of perfection. English Comedy is not only considered inferior to that of most nations, but it is in many respects bad in its tendency, and may almost be looked upon as a school for vanity. To conclude, instead of regarding the drama as it is, I have rather endeavoured to consider it as it should be.

THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

His person and his government have had the same fate. He had the art of making both appear grand and august, in spite of the clearest evidence that both were below the ordinary standard. Death and time have exposed both the deceptions. The body of the great King has been measured more justly than it was measured by the courtiers who were afraid to look above his shoe-tie. His public character has been scrutinized by men free from the hopes and fears of Boileau and Moli?re. In the grave, the most majestic of princes is only five feet eight. In history, the hero and the politician dwindles into a vain and feeble tyrant.--the slave of priests and women,--little in war, little in government,--little in every thing but the art of simulating greatness.

THE GRAND SECRET OF SUCCESS IN LIFE.

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.--THE LATE DUKE OF NORFOLK.

MADAME DE STA?L.

"Qui de son sexe n'a pas l'esprit, De son sexe a tout le malheur."

THE TOPOGRAPHER.

REMARKABLE CAVES AT CRAVEN, IN YORKSHIRE.

The village of Malham is situated in a deep and verdant bottom, defective only in wood, at the union of two narrow valleys, respectively terminated at the distance of a mile by the Cove and Gordale. The first of these is an immense crag of limestone, 286 feet high, stretched in the shape of the segment of a large circle, across the whole valley, and forming a termination at once so august and tremendous, that the imagination can scarcely figure any form or scale of rock within the bounds of probability that shall go beyond it. The approach to this place, before the invention of machinery, was solitary and characteristic. It is now polluted by one of those manufactories, of which it would he trifling to complain as nuisances only in the eye of taste. Yet there are streams sufficiently copious, and valleys sufficiently deep, which man can neither mend nor spoil. These might be abandoned to such deformed monsters without regret; but who that has either taste or eyes can endure them, when combined with such scenery as the environs of Malham, or the Banks of the Wharf.

Coarse complexions And cheeks of every grain will serve to ply The sampler, and to teaze the housewife's wool; What need a vermeil, tinctured lip for that, Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn?

The approach to Gordale on the east side of the village, happily remains what nature left it, a stony and desolate valley, without a single object to divert the eye from the scene before it. This is a solid mass of limestone, of perhaps equal height with the Cove, cleft asunder by some great convulsion of nature, and opening its "ponderous and marble jaws" on the right and left. The sensation of horror on approaching it is increased by the projection of either side from its base, so that the two connivant rocks, though considerably distant at the bottom, admit only a narrow line of daylight from above. At the very entrance you turn a little to the right, and are struck by a yawning mouth in the face of the opposite crag, whence the torrent pent up beyond, suddenly forced a passage, within the memory of man, which at every swell continues to spout out one of the boldest and most beautiful cataracts that can be conceived.

Wherever a cleft in the rock, or a lodgment of earth appears, the yew-tree, indigenous in such situations, contrasts its deep and glossy green with the pale grey of the limestone; but the goat, the old adventurous inhabitant of situations, inaccessible to every other quadruped, has been lately banished from the sides of Gordale. But the wonders of this place are not confined to its surface. In mining for lapis calaminaris, two caverns have been discovered near the Tarn, which though of no easy access, will reward the enterprising visitant, not by the amplitude of their dimensions, in which they are exceeded by several in Craven, but by that rich and elaborate finishing which in the works of nature, as well as of art, is always required to give an interest to diminutive objects. The first of these resembles a small rotunda, not more than six yards in diameter, and five or six in height, but clothed with fleecy incrustations, from which depend stalactites of various depth, and tinged with various hue, from the faintest yellow to saffron. The lapidescent drops distilling from these through a long course of ages, have gradually raised the floor of the cavern, so as to render it difficult to pass between the edges of the new surface and the circumference of the cavern.

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY

M. Chaptal

M. Chaptal, the celebrated chemist, born at Montpellier in 1755, died a few days since at Paris, in his 77th year. He studied medicine and natural philosophy when very young, and under promising patronage. Before the Revolution he published some valuable works, and formed two or three chemical establishments, and for his successful labours the King had given him the order of St Michael. When the Revolution began, M. Chaptal headed the insurgents at Montpellier, who took possession of the citadel in 1791.

The reputation of Chaptal as a chemist being well established, he was called to Paris in 1793, by the committee of public safety, to be consulted relative to the making of gunpowder and the production of saltpetre. It must be in the memory of all those who recollect the history of the first years of the French Revolution, that the want of saltpetre, the principal ingredient in gunpowder, had nearly put an end to the war; and as France had shut the ports of all nations against herself, no other resource remained but to produce the saltpetre at home. Before Chaptal was sent for, a manufactory, for this purpose, had been established at Grenelles, near Paris; but it was insufficient for the immense demand. Chaptal soon, by his skill and activity, so improved this establishment, that it supplied all that was wanted, and this at a time when France had about 1,400,000 soldiers.

Chaptal returned to Montpellier in 1794, and soon obtained a place in the administration of the department of Herault, and a professorship of chemistry in the university of Montpellier, which the Directory created expressly as a reward for his services. In 1798, Chaptal revisited Paris, and aided the Revolution by which, in 1799, Buonaparte became First Consul. In the following year Chaptal was made Minister of the Interior, in which important office he imparted new energy to all the manufacturing establishments of France, as well as founded many public schools upon improved systems of education. In 1804 he was dismissed from the Ministry for his refusing to sanction a report stating sugar from beet-root to be superior to that from the cane.

This was twenty-eight years since. A writer in an English journal observed three years since, "it is difficult to conceive that one half of the sugar consumed in Great Britain, or in all Europe, will not, in a few years, be home-made beet-root sugar." In France the manufacture of sugar from beet-root, like that of saltpetre, was dictated by necessity, the former through the capture of the French colonies by Great Britain, during the late war. It is now an important manufacture in that country, as well as a branch of domestic economy, the sugar being made by housewives, and requiring not more skill or trouble than cheese-making or brewing.

Chaptal now retired from political life, and established a chemical manufactory in the neighbourhood of Paris; but he was soon after chosen a member of the Conservative Senate, and made grand officer of the Legion of Honour. In 1806, he was present at the placing of the trophied column in the Place Vendome, to commemorate the battle of Austerlitz. Chaptal was soon after made a Count, and received the grand cross of the Legion of Honour.

In 1813, when the Allies began to approach the French frontiers, Chaptal was dispatched to support the falling power of Napoleon; he failed to do so; and when the Austrians approached the capital, he retired to Clermont, but after the taking of Paris he hastened to the city. He was made a member of the Academy of Sciences upon its re-organization.

Upon the return of Napoleon from Elba, he named Chaptal director-general of manufactures and commerce, and immediately after minister of state, in which latter capacity he pronounced, in the name of all the ministers, a very flattering address to Napoleon. At the restoration of the Bourbons, Chaptal again retired into private life, and continued to enjoy the society of a large circle of literary and scientific friends till his death.

GOETHE

Goethe's father was a man of easy circumstances, and of some literary merit: he had a great love for the fine arts, and had made a small collection of objects of virt? in his travels through Italy. All this worked on the young poet, and at eight or nine years old he wrote a short description of twelve pictures, portraying the history of Joseph. At fifteen years of age he went to the university of Leipsic, where he studied law; he took the degree of doctor at Strasbourg. In 1768 he left Leipsic, and after a short tour settled for some time in Alsace, where the beautiful Gretchen won his heart, and obtained for herself in Faust and Egmont, a more lasting monument than brass. On leaving Alsace, he returned home; but soon left it again to practise in the Imperial Chamber at Wezlar. Here he witnessed the tragical event that gave rise to his romance of the Sorrows of Werter. In 1775, he went to Weimar, on an invitation from the Grand Duke, and remained there till the end of his life, loaded with all the honours a German sovereign could bestow, ennobled, a privy councillor, and for many years of his life prime minister; "a treatment of genius hitherto unknown in the annals of literature, or of Mecaenaship; and a splendid exception to the indifference with which rulers generally regard intellectual excellence."

As Goethe wrote every sort of poem, from the simple ballad to the epic, and from a proverb to a tragedy, a mere list of his works would occupy some columns. His first appearance in print was in the annuals and literary journals. But his Gotz of the Iron Hand, published with his name in 1773, and his Werther, in the year after, called at once the attention of his country to the young master-mind. The influence of these two works on the literature of Germany was electric. Hosts of imitators sprung up among the fruitful fry of small authors, and flourished until Goethe himself, by his wit, his irony, and his eloquence, put an end to the sickly sentimentalism, which he had first called into action. Gotz and Werther alone survive the creations of which they formed the nucleii. Such a production as the first, indeed, at the age of twenty-three, at once placed Goethe at the head of his country's literature, a place which he preserved undisputed to the hour of his death.

We have referred to the multitudinous nature of the works of Goethe. Their variety was proportionate to their number. It has been well observed that "his mind never seems to have grown old, but to have presented a new phasis at each stage of his existence." Not satisfied by taking his rank amongst the first poets of his time, his ardent genius led him to study all the different branches of literature, physical science, natural history, and the fine arts. He alike delighted in the imaginative beauty of poetry, and the abstrusest problems in science--the romantic and the real--the creative fancy and unwearied research of a truly great mind. It is, however, a matter of regret that Goethe was no politician. The character of his mind would not lead the observer to expect this feature. "A chilling scepticism, as to the progressive improvement of man, runs through all his writings, and, of course, prevented all attempts to make human institutions more productive of human happiness." Nevertheless, it may be urged, that social amelioration may he effected by other means than by direct problems of political economy, unfashionable as the doctrine may sound. Chateaubriand has eloquently written "there is nothing beautiful, sweet, or grand in life, but in its mysteries." Goethe probably entertained a kindred sentiment. Thus, the calculator may reckon him "behind the age," or his favourite views of human improvement.

Goethe remained single till his fifty-eighth year, when he married his housekeeper, by whom he had a family. His affection for his son, who died about two years since, was unbounded. After his death, Goethe was but the shadow of that which he once had been. To his daughter-in-law he was indebted for that tenderness and assiduity which soothed his declining years. When upwards of eighty years of age, he meditated literary projects with the vigour and enthusiasm of youthful genius. Indeed, his constitution was unimpaired, and seemed to promise some years of life: his death therefore excited at Weimar, a feeling of surprise as well as sorrow.

The last moments of Goethe were those of an unbroken mind--a bright light waning and glimmering out. He had not the slightest presentiment of his death. About a week before, he caught cold, which brought on a catarrh. It was thought that his powerful constitution was unattacked. He conversed with great serenity, particularly upon his theory of colours, which so powerfully occupied his mind to the last moment of his existence. On the evening of March 21, he explained to his daughter the conditions of the peace of Basle; desired that the children should be taken to the theatre; and said that he was much better; he requested that Salvandy's Sixteen Months might be handed to him, although his physician had forbidden him all laborious occupation; but the doctor having gone out for a few moments, he ordered lights to be brought, and attempted to read. Not being able to do so, he held the book for some moments before him, and then said, "Well, let us do at least as the Mandarins do:" he fell asleep, and his slumbers appeared light and refreshing. Next day he conversed cheerfully with his daughter, his grandchildren, and some friends. "At seven o'clock he desired his daughter to bring him a portfolio, to enable him to illustrate some phenomena of colouring, and he began with his right hand to trace some characters in the air. Towards ten o'clock he ceased almost entirely to speak, held firmly between his own the hand of his daughter who was by his side, and turned his eyes, already half-closed, towards her with an expression of tenderness: with her other hand she supported his head on a pillow until he breathed his last, without convulsion or suffering." His daughter closed the fine eyes of the poet, and summoning her children to behold their grandfather for the last time, she rushed from the chamber of death, and gave vent to a flood of grief. Another account states that Goethe growing weaker and weaker, his hand dropped on his knee, where it still moved as if in the act of writing, till the angel of death summoned him.

Monthly Magazine, July.

The remains of the poet, after lying in state in the hall of his mansion for five hours, were deposited, on March 26, in the grand ducal family vault at Weimar near to those of Schiller. On the same day, the theatre which had been closed from respect to his memory, was opened with the representation of his Tasso. An epilogue was composed for the occasion by Chancellor Muller, the intimate friend of Goethe. Its last stanza produced a profound impression upon the audience:--"The spot where great men have exercised their genius remains for ever sacred. The waves of time silently efface the hours of life; but not the great works which they have seen produced. What the power of genius has created, is rarified like the air of the Heavens,--its apparition is fugitive,--its works are eternal."

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