The Mirror Of Literature, Amusement, And Instruction by Various
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Various >> The Mirror Of Literature, Amusement, And Instruction
The moon had now fully risen. Hans who had been flagging for some time,
fell suddenly lame. From this fresh misfortune the Baron was aroused by
the well known baying of his gallant stag-hounds. "Aiglette and Caspar
are not baying after nothing," thought he. He was not long in suspense.
To his extreme amazement, the identical boar which had caused all his
trouble and fatigue, appeared closely followed by both the dogs.
"Donner et blitzen," exclaimed the Baron, using the first oath that came
uppermost, "but this exceeds belief." The boar no sooner perceived
him than he turned upon him with the utmost fury. The Baron hastily
dismounted under the aged tree, though he was stiff and fatigued, for
Hans was now utterly incapable of exertion. His sword quickly glanced in
the moonshine--"Time was" said he, "when this had been the very pastime
I desired." The murderous animal attacked him with such impetuosity that
his well-tried skill failed him, and he was the next moment thrown under
its feet. The struggle now became desperate, for the animal had no
common foe to contend with. Before it could wound him with its tusks,
which seemed of unusual size, it required not an instant's thought in
Rudolf to draw his dagger from his belt, and the next instant it was
buried to its hilt in the throat of his adversary. At the same moment
the tusks of the boar entered his side. Rudolf breathed a few words of
an almost forgotten prayer, when the animal, uttering a dreadful yell,
gave a convulsive spring into the air, and fell lifeless, half
smothering the Baron with its gore.
Life was now fast ebbing from the side of Rudolf, when he was aroused by
the sound of a voice, whose tones even at this dreadful moment thrilled
through his soul with horror. Enveloped in a thick fog which had been
gradually spreading around the scene of the combat, he could discern the
fiend Heidelberger and his charmed circle; with an air of triumph they
chanted the following lines:--
Mortal vain, thy course is run,
Thou hast seen thy setting sun--
Told I not true when I saw thee last,
That 'ere the circling year had passed,
Under the greenwood thou should'st be dying,
On the bloody greensward lying!
Deceived once, I tell thee never
Shall my victim from me sever--
Thou hast dared to brave our hate,
Rashly run upon thy fate!
Thou art on the greensward dying,
Underneath the greenwood lying!
The hounds bayed. The moon entered a dark cloud; and, when it emerged,
its pale beams fell upon the green amphitheatre and the aged tree; but
there was no one under its shade.
The following tradition is still related amongst the surrounding
peasantry:--The Baron Rudolf, it is said, was enticed to sign over the
bodies and souls of his future offspring to the fiend, Heidelberger, on
condition that the latter would enable him to gain the person and
possessions of the Lady Agatha. The contract, however, was obliged to be
renewed at the birth of each child. Should he violate this convocation
(which he signed with his own blood,) he granted similar power over
himself; and the legend goes on to relate, that the whole of the members
of the charmed circle were persons similarly enticed, who were doomed to
a sort of perpetual labour, being compelled to chisel out their coffins
in stone, which as soon as finished, were broken in pieces, when they
were obliged to begin afresh.
The consequence of the Baron's non-fulfilment of his convocation have
already been seen; his son is related to have died childless, and the
property to have been dispersed into the hands of others, having never
remained since his death more than two generations in one family;
apparently blighting all its possessors. And the peasantry aver that the
noise made by the continual labour of its victims, may still be heard by
the adventurous at the close of day.
VYVYAN.
* * * * *
SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.
* * * * *
_On Planting Poor Light Land_.
Besides paring and burning, and trenching the soil previous to making
the plantation, Mr. Withers, (who received the large silver medal from
the Society for the Encouragement of Arts, &c. London, for experiments
conducted on the subject in Norfolk,) spreads on it marl and farmyard
dung, as for a common agricultural crop, and at the same time keeps the
surface perfectly free from weeds by hoeing till the young trees have
completely covered the ground. The progress that they make under this
treatment is so extremely rapid, as apparently to justify, in _an
economical point of view_, the extraordinary expenses that attend it. In
three years, even oaks and other usually slow growing forest trees have
covered the land, making shoots by three feet in a season, and throwing
out roots well qualified, by their number and length, to derive from the
subsoil abundant nourishment, in proportion as the surface becomes
exhausted.--_Trans. Soc. Arts_.
_The Air Plant_.
Prince Leopold has succeeded in bringing to perfection that
extraordinary exotic, the air plant. It is suspended from the ceiling,
and derives its nourishment entirely from the atmosphere.
_Potato Flour_.
The farina, or meal, obtained from potatoes is now regularly sold in the
markets of Scotland. It is _stated_ to be quite equal to genuine arrow
root; but this is quite a mistake, unless the nutritious properties of
arrow root have been overrated. Sir John Sinclair has devoted much of
his time to the preparation of the flour; but as we gave his process
many weeks since, it is not necessary to repeat it here.
* * * * *
Kynaston's Cave.
[Illustration]
We are indebted to the portfolio of an interesting lady correspondent
for the original of the above engraving. The ingenious draughtswoman
states the drawing to have been taken during a recent tour; and our
readers will allow it to be _fair sketch_. By way of rendering it
unique, we append the following description from the same fair hand:--
From Shrewsbury to the Ness Cliff, (on the road to Ceriogg Bridge,)
there is in the scenery little worthy of remark, until we approach
the latter place, when the cliff on the right hand, and the Brathyn
mountains (Montgomeryshire) on the left of the traveller, produce a
very picturesque effect; and the post-house of Ness Cliff commands an
extensive and lovely view of mountainous and champagne country. At this
place we were invited to see a curious cave cut in the rock, which was,
in the sixteenth century, the residence of one Humphrey Kynaston, a
notorious bandit. This, however, was not his own work, since Ness Cliff,
having been worked as a quarry, the cave, either by accident or design,
was wrought by the labourers, and used by them as _salle a manger_,
dormitory, or tool-house, according to circumstances. We proceeded to it
by a broad rising walk of red sand, delightfully wooded, and presenting
an enchanting view of the Brathyn and Wrekin, as well as the country for
some miles round. At the end of this walk is a gate, which opens into a
small grove; proceeding a little into which, we saw the cave in the high
red cliff immediately before us. We ascended by a considerable flight of
narrow and rugged steps cut from the solid rock: the interior of this
curious place is as black as a coal-mine, and a partition, more than
half the way across, divides the part where Kynaston used to reside
by day from that in which he slept and _kept his horse_, for he had
actually the ingenuity to make the animal ascend and descend the stairs
above-mentioned. The robber's initials, and the date of the year in
which we may suppose he cut them, appear on the partition just opposite
the entrance. The romance of the place was not a little augmented by the
appearance of its inhabitant, (a blacksmith,) whose tall, thin figure,
and whose pale, wild, and haggard countenance, well accorded with the
singularity of his abode. He read for our amusement and _instruction_,
I conceive, a few choice passages from a well-thumbed penny pamphlet,
purporting to contain the veritable history of the adventurous Kynaston;
from whence it appeared that Master Humphrey was a gentleman, like "that
prince of thieves," Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the
poor, avenging the innocent, and chivalrous where ladies, or the lure of
plunder, called forth his prowess; that his depredations were numerous,
even in the face of day, and in the teeth of his enemies; and yet that
those who admired and sided with him were for a considerable period the
terror of the whole legal force who were on the alert to seize him. This
interesting memoir was recited by the son of Vulcan, with an enthusiasm
and delectable pronunciation, that could only be appreciated by hearing
it, and was altogether inimitable. Strange! thought I, that this cave,
once the residence of a robber, should now have become that of a
_forger_.
M.L.B.
* * * * *
The Selector;
and
Literary Notices of
_New Works_.
* * * * *
RIENZI.
In No. 335, we gave the outline of the story of Rienzi, principally from
Gibbon, but interspersed from other authorities. Miss Mitford's tragedy
has since been represented with considerable success, and published.
In the preface, we are told, that in addition to the splendid narrative
of Gibbon, recourse has been had to "the still more graphical and
interesting account of Rienzi's eventful career," contained in _L'Abbe
de Sade's_ Memoirs of Petrarque; and that, "as far as the female
characters are concerned," the materials are entirely from invention.
All this may appear well enough for the construction of the drama,
and the female characters are drawn with peculiar grace and feeling;
but we do not see why the character of Rienzi should be so essentially
altered from history as it has been; neither do we think that any
desirable effect has been gained by this change. In history, Rienzi is a
master-spirit of reckless and atrocious daring, but in the drama, he is
softened down to a fickle liberty brawler, and the sternest of his vices
are glossed over with an almost inconsistent show of affection and
tenderness. As he there stands, he is rather like an injured man, than
one who so liberally dealt oppression and injustice around him.
Miss Mitford's tragedy will, however, be read with considerable interest
in the closet, and fully to appreciate its beauties, every one who has
witnessed it, ought to read it; for many of its "delicate touches" must
be lost in the immense area of Drury Lane Theatre.[2] The plot is
simple, and is effectively told; but as the newspapers, daily and
weekly, have already detailed it, we shall confine ourselves to a few
passages, which, in our reading, appeared to us among the many beauties
of the drama.
[2] Indisposition has as yet prevented our witnessing the representation
of _Rienzi_; but we have been told by our play-going friends that every
scene is listened to with marked attention, and that many passages are
judiciously applauded. We are glad to hear this, because it is strong
encouragement for other dramatists, and leads us to hope that
tragedy-writing may still be revived among us, and that with greater
success than has attended many recent efforts.
PROGRESS OF RIENZI'S DISAFFECTION.
_Claudia_. He is changed,
Grievously changed; still good and kind, and full
Of fond relentings--crossed by sudden gusts
Of wild and stormy passion. Then, he's so silent--
He once so eloquent. Of old, each show,
Bridal, or joust, or pious pilgrimage,
Lived in his vivid speech. Oh! 'twas my joy,
In that bright glow of rapid words, to see
Clear pictures, as the slow procession coiled
Its glittering length, or stately tournament
Grew statelier, in his voice. Now he sits mute--
His serious eyes bent on the ground--each sense
Turned inward.
_Rienzi_. Claudia, in these bad days,
When man must tread perforce the flinty path
Of duty, hard and rugged, fail not thou
Duly at night and morning to give thanks
To the all-gracious power that smoothed the way
For woman's tenderer feet.
_Colonna_. He hath turned
A bitter knave of late, and lost his mirth,
And mutters riddling warnings and wild tales
Of the great days of heathen Rome; and prates
Of peace, and liberty, and equal law,
And mild philosophy, to us the knights
And warriors of this warlike age, who rule
By the bright law of arms. The fool's grown wise--
A grievous change.
* * * * *
Hatred--
And danger--the two hands that tightest grasp
Each other--the two cords that soonest knit
A fast and stubborn tie: your true love-knot
Is nothing to it. Faugh! the supple touch
Of pliant interest, or the dust of time,
Or the pin-point of temper, loose, or not,
Or snap love's silken band. Fear and old hate,
They are sure weavers--they work for the storm,
The whirlwind, and the rocking surge; their knot
Endures till death.
RIENZI'S TRIUMPH.
Hark--the bell, the bell!
The knell of tyranny--the mighty voice,
That, to the city and the plain--to earth,
And listening heaven, proclaims the glorious tale
Of Rome reborn, and Freedom. See, the clouds
Are swept away, and the moon's boat of light
Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars
Look out on us, and smile.
[_The gate of the Capitol opens, and Alberti and Soldiers join the
People, and lay the keys at Rienzi's feet_.]
Hark! that great voice
Hath broke our bondage. Look, without a stroke
The Capitol is won--the gates unfold--
The keys are at our feet. Alberti, friend,
How shall I pay thy service? Citizens!
First to possess the palace citadel--
The famous strength of Rome; then to sweep on,
Triumphant, through her streets.
[_As Rienzi and the People are entering the Capitol, he pauses_.]
Oh, glorious wreck
Of gods and Caesars! thou shalt reign again,
Queen of the world; and I--come on, come on,
My people!
_Citizens_. Live Rienzi--live our Tribune!
CLAUDIA'S LAMENT FOR HER HUMBLE HOME.
Mine own dear home!
Father, I love not this new state; these halls,
Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids,
Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home!
My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle
Woven round the casement; and the cedar by,
Shading the sun; my garden overgrown
With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields;
My pretty snow-white doves: my kindest nurse;
And old Camillo!--Oh! mine own dear home!
AMBITION.
Alas! alas!
I tremble at the height, Whene'er I think
Of the hot barons, of the fickle people,
And the inconstancy of power, I tremble
For thee, dear father.
RIENZI'S WRONGS.
_One of the Ursini is condemned to death--his brother intercedes_.
_Rie_. And darest talk thou to me of brothers? Thou,
Whose groom--wouldst have me break my own just laws,
To save thy brother? thine! Hast thou forgotten
When that most beautiful and blameless boy,
The prettiest piece of innocence that ever
Breath'd in this sinful world, lay at thy feet,
Slain by thy pampered minion, and I knelt
Before thee for redress, whilst thou--didst never
Hear talk of retribution? This is justice,
Pure justice, not revenge!--Mark well, my lords,
Pure, equal justice. Martin Ursini
Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned,
And he shall die!
_Colonna_. Yet listen to us--
_Rie_. Lords,
If ye could range before me all the peers,
Prelates, and potentates of Christendom,--
The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee,
And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue
For this great robber, still I should be blind
As justice. But this very day a wife,
One infant hanging at her breast, and two,
Scarce bigger, first-born twins of misery,
Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid
Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein
To beg her husband's life; condemned to die
For some vile, petty theft, some paltry scudi:
And, whilst the fiery war-horse chaf'd and sear'd,
Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free,
There, midst the dangerous coil, unmov'd, she stood,
Pleading in piercing words, the very cry
Of nature! And, when I at last said no--
For I said no to her--she flung herself
And those poor innocent babes between the stones
And my hot Arab's hoofs. We sav'd them all--
Thank heaven, we sav'd them all! but I said no
To that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare not
Ask me for mercy now.
THE USURPER.
He bears him like a prince, save that he lacks
The port serene of majesty. His mood
Is fitful; stately now, and sad; anon,
Full of a hurried mirth; courteous awhile,
And mild; then bursting, on a sudden, forth,
Into sharp, biting taunts.
* * * * *
New power
Mounts to the brain like wine. For such disease,
Your skilful leech lets blood.
RIENZI ON HIS DAUGHTER'S MARRIAGE.
A bridal
Is but a gilt and painted funeral
To the fond father who hath yielded up
His one sweet child. Claudia, thy love, thy duty,
Thy very name, is gone. Thou are another's;
Thou hast a master now; and I have thrown
My precious pearl away. Yet men who give
A living daughter to the fickle will
Of a capricious bridegroom, laugh--the madmen!
Laugh at the jocund bridal feast, and weep
When the fair corse is laid in blessed rest,
Deep, deep in mother earth. Oh, happier far,
So to have lost my child!
FICKLE GREATNESS.
Thou art as one
Perched on some lofty steeple's dizzy height,
Dazzled by the sun, inebriate by long draughts
Of thinner air; too giddy to look down
Where all his safety lies; too proud to dare
The long descent to the low depths from whence
The desperate climber rose.
RIENZI'S ORIGIN.
There's the sting,--
That I, an insect of to-day, outsoar
The reverend worm, nobility! Wouldst shame me
With my poor parentage!--Sir, I'm the son
Of him who kept a sordid hostelry
In the Jews' quarter--my good mother cleansed
Linen for honest hire.--Canst thou say worse?
_Ang_. Can worse be said?
_Rie_. Add, that my boasted schoolcraft
Was gained from such base toil, gained with such pain,
That the nice nurture of the mind was oft
Stolen at the body's cost. I have gone dinnerless
And supperless, the scoff of our poor street,
For tattered vestments and lean, hungry looks,
To pay the pedagogue.--Add what thou wilt
Of injury. Say that, grown into man,
I've known the pittance of the hospital,
And, more degrading still, the patronage
Of the Colonna. Of the tallest trees
The roots delve deepest. Yes, I've trod thy halls,
Scorned and derided midst their ribald crew,
A licensed jester, save the cap and bells,
I have borne this--and I have borne the death,
The unavenged death, of a dear brother.
I seemed, I was, a base, ignoble slave.
What am I?--Peace, I say!--What am I now?
Head of this great republic, chief of Rome--
In all but name, her sovereign--last of all,
Thy father.
CIVIL WAR.
The city's full
Of camp-like noises--tramp of steeds, and clash
Of mail, and trumpet-blast, and ringing clang
Of busy armourers--the grim ban-dog bays--
The champing war horse in his stall neighs loud--
The vulture shrieks aloft.
FEAR.
Terror, not love,
Strikes anchor in ignoble souls.
THE CAPITOL BELL.[3]
[3] The passage between commas is omitted in the representation, but we
know not why.
It is the bell that thou so oft hast heard
Summoning the band of liberty--"the bell
That pealed its loud, triumphant note, and raised
Its mighty voice with such a mastery
Of glorious power, as if the spirit of sound
That dwells in the viewless wind, and walks the waves
Of the chafed sea, and rules the thunder-cloud
That shrouded him in that small orb, to spread
Tidings of freedom to the nations."
RIENZI'S FALL.
And for such I left
The assured condition of my lowliness,--
The laughing days, the peaceful nights, the joys
Of a small, quiet home--for such I risked
Thy peace, my daughter. Abject, crouching slaves!
False, fickle, treacherous, perjured slaves!
* * * * *
Oh, had I laid
All earthly passion, pride, and pomp, and power,
And high ambition, and hot lust of rule,
Like sacrificial fruits, upon the altar
Of Liberty, divinest Liberty!
Then--but the dream that filled my soul was vast
As his whose mad ambition thinned the ranks
Of the Seraphim, and peopled hell. These slaves!
These crawling reptiles! May the curse of chains
Cling to them for ever.
LIBERTY.
For liberty! Go seek
Earth's loftiest heights, and ocean's deepest caves;
Go where the sea-snake and the eagle dwell,
'Midst mighty elements,--where nature is.
And man is not, and ye may see afar,
Impalpable as a rainbow on the clouds.
The glorious vision! Liberty! I dream'd
Of such a goddess once--dream'd that yon slaves
Were Romans, such as rul'd the world, and I
Their tribune--vain and idle dream! Take back
The symbol and the power.
We can well imagine the effect which Mr. Young gives to some of these
eloquent passages. They are full of poetical and dramatic fire. Indeed,
we know of no professor of the histrionic art who could give so accurate
an embodiment of Rienzi--as Mr. Young, the most chaste and discreet, if
not the most impassioned, actor on the British stage. Again, we can
conceive the force of these lines in the manly tones of Mr. Cooper:
I know no father, save the valiant dead
Who lives behind a rampart of his slain
In warlike rest. I bend before no king,
Save the dread Majesty of heaven, Thy foe,
Thy mortal foe, Rienzi.
In reprinting _Rienzi_, we suggest a larger size; we fear people in
a second row of either circle of boxes, will find the type of the
present edition too small; besides, they do not want to be checking
the performers, or to be puzzled with "stage directions."
* * * * *
THE BOY'S OWN BOOK.
The sight of this little book, as thick as, and somewhat broader than,
a Valpy's Virgil, will make scores of little Lord Lingers think of
"bygone mirth, that after no repenting draws." It is all over a holiday
book, stuck as full of wood-cuts as a cake is of currants, and not like
the widely-thrown fruit of school plum puddings.
To begin with the exterior, which is one of the most ingenious specimens
of block-printing we have yet seen. The medallion frontispiece contains
the Publishers' Dedication to "the young of Great Britain," in return
for which their healths should be drunk at the next breaking-up of every
school in the empire.
As it professes to be a complete encyclopaedia of the sports and
pastimes of youth, it contains, 1. Minor Sports, as marbles, tops,
balls, &c. 2. Athletic Sports. 3. Aquatic Recreations. 4. Birds,
and other boy fancies. 5. Scientific Recreations. 6. Games of Skill.
7. The Conjuror; and 8. Miscellaneous Recreations. All these occupy
460 pages, which, like every sheet of the MIRROR, are as full as an
egg. The vignettes and tail-pieces are the prettiest things we have
ever seen, and some are very picturesque.
In our school-days there was no such book as this _Justinian of the
play-ground_, if we except a thin volume of games published by Tabart.
Boys then quarrelled upon nice points of play, parties ran high, and
civil war, birch, and the 119th psalm were the consequences. A disputed
marble, or a questioned run at cricket, has thus broken up the harmony
of many a holiday; but we hope that such feuds will now cease; for the
"Boy's Own Book," will settle all differences as effectually as a police
magistrate, a grand jury, or the house of lords. Boys will no longer
sputter and fume like an over-toasted apple; but, even the cares of
childhood will be smoothed into peace; by which means good humour may
not be so rare a quality among men. But to complete this philanthropic
scheme, the publishers of the "_Boy's_ Own Book," intend producing a
similar volume for _Girls_. This is as it should be, for the _Misses_
ought to have an equal chance with the _Masters_--at least so say
we,--_plaudite_, clap your little hands, and _valete_, good bye!
* * * * *
THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT AND JUVENILE SOUVENIR.
The editor, or _editress_, (for we doubt whether the former is epicene,)
of this elegant little volume is the lady of Mr. Alaric A. Watts, the
editor of the _Literary Souvenir_. It is expressly designed for the
perusal of children from six to twelve years old, and is, we think, both
by its embellishments and literary contents, calculated to attract
hundreds of juvenile admirers. Indeed, we are surprised that the
children have been so long without _their_ "Annuals," whilst those of
"a larger growth" have been supplied in abundance; but, as Sir Walter
Scott has set the example of writing for masters and misses, we hope
that our nursery literature will rise in character, and it will not
henceforth be the business of after-years to correct erroneous ideas
imbibed from silly books during our childhood. In this task much time
has been lost. Mrs. Watts is of the same opinion; and with this view,
"the extravagances of those apocryphal personages--giants, ghosts, and
fairies--have been entirely banished from her pages, as tending not only
to enervate the infant mind, and unfit it for the reception of more
wholesome nutriment, but also to increase the superstitious terrors of
childhood,--the editor has not less scrupulously excluded those novel-like
stories of exaggerated sentiment, which may now almost be said
to form the staple commodity of our nursery literature."--(_Preface_.)
Accordingly, we have in the _New Year's Gift_ three historical pieces
and engravings, illustrating the murder of the young princes in the
Tower; Arthur imploring Hubert not to put out his eyes; and another.
There are from thirty to forty tales, sketches, and poems, among which
are a pretty story, by Mrs. Hofland; a Cricketing Story, by Miss Mitford,
&c. There are two or three little pieces enjoining humanity to animals,
and some pleasing anecdotes of monkeys and tame robins, and a few lines
on the Reed-Sparrow's Nest:--