The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 17, No. by Various
V >>
Various >> The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 17, No.
The experiments to which I have alluded above, consisted in forming a
standard infusion by macerating the powder of galls in five times its
weight in water, and comparing this with other infusions, which had
either been suffered to mould, from which the tan had been extracted
by gelatine, or which had been kept for some time at the boiling
temperature; and by adding to each of these respectively, both the
recent solution of the sulphate of iron, and a solution of it, which
had been exposed for some time to the atmosphere. The nature of the
black compound produced was examined by putting portions of it into
cylindrical jars, and observing the changes which they experienced
with respect either to the formation of mould, the deposition of their
contents, or any change of colour. The fluids were also compared by
dropping portions of them upon white tissue paper, in which way both
their colour and their consistence might be minutely ascertained. A
third method was, to add together the respective infusions, and the
solutions of the sulphate of iron, in a very diluted state, by which I
was enabled to form a more correct comparison of the quantity, and of
the state of the colouring matter, and of the degree of its solubility.
The practical conclusions that I think myself warranted in drawing
from these experiments, are as follow:--In order to procure an ink
which may be little disposed either to mould or to deposit its contents,
and which, at the same time, may possess a deep black colour, not liable
to fade, the galls should be macerated for some hours in hot water, and
the fluid be filtered; it should then be exposed for about fourteen days
to a warm atmosphere, when any mould which may have been produced must
be removed. A solution of sulphate of iron is to be employed, which
has also been exposed for some time to the atmosphere, and which,
consequently, contains a certain quantity of the red oxide of iron
diffused through it. I should recommend the infusion of galls to be
made of considerably greater strength than is generally directed; and
I believe that an ink, formed in this manner, will not necessarily
require the addition of any mucilaginous substance to render it of
a proper consistence.
I have only further to add, that one of the best substances for diluting
ink, if it be, in the first instance, too thick for use, or afterwards
become so by evaporation, is a strong decoction of coffee, which appears
in no respect to promote the decomposition of the ink, while it improves
its colour, and gives it an additional lustre.
[2] Chairman of the Committee of Chemistry, in the Society for
the encouragement of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce. This
valuable article is extracted from the 47th Vol. of its
Transactions.
* * * * *
THE SKETCH-BOOK.
* * * * *
FAIRY FAVOURS.--A VISION OF FAIRY LAND.
(_For the Mirror._)
Once--whether in a dream, a waking vision, a poetical hallucination, or
in sober reality, I know not--_once_ was I favoured with a distinct
and glorious vision of the Faries' Land! I found myself in a country
more enchantingly beautiful than the warm, romantic dream of the poet
has ever yet conceived:--therein bloomed trees, and plants, and flowers,
in beauty and luxuriance never to fade; therein was the soft air
strongly imbued with the ambrosial odour of the orient rose; but ever as
a gentle breeze enfolded me, it seemed on its refreshing wings to bear
the heavenly fragrance of unknown flowers. The sky was of an effulgent
azure, altogether indescribable--but under the influence of stealing
twilight, insensibly was it darkening, though the yet undimmed colours
of sunset were inexpressibly varied and vivid. Radiant and exquisitely
beautiful beings, fair miniatures of mortals, inhabited this
charming region, wherein was assembled all that had power to inebriate
the soul with pure and rapturous felicity, and imbue it with an
intense perception of its immortality and blessedness. Now stole the
faint, delicious sound of very distant bells--clear, silvery, and
sweet--upon mine ear, as the tones of a well-touched harp: sad were
they--luxuriously sad; and their unearthly melody infused into my bosom
a repose unknown to mortality. As I listened with awe and rapture to
that delicate minstrelsy, I seemed to become all soul; tears--far indeed
from tears of sorrow--suffused my wondering eyes, and my heart, in
the delirium of gratitude, raised itself in solemn thanksgivings to
its Creator.
"Favoured mortal!" sighed near me a voice soft as a zephyr-breath.
I turned, and beheld a constellation of the radiant inhabitants of
this ethereal country clustered about a portal, whose frame-work was
of shining stones, and whose firm, but slender bars, were of purest
gold.--"Favoured mortal!" (the speaker was beside me)--"favoured beyond
even thine own conception, know that thou art permitted to behold the
Elfin Paradise--the true, the _veritable_ Fairy Land. Pollute it
not by the tone of mortal speech; to us are thy thoughts not unknown,
and partially are we permitted to gratify thy desire for information.
Thinkest thou--so indeed hath _man_ taught thee--that this sweet
world is but a vain illusion? Know then, that _we_, the Elfin Band,
are, in the order of the universe, spirits inferior to the angels, but
superior to thee. _We_ are the creatures and servants of the Most
High! (be His glorious name by all His infinite creation reverenced
and adored!)--and _we_, in conjunction with the most exalted
hierarchies of Heaven, are spirits, ministrant to _man_! Amongst
us, alas! are evil and wretched Fays, whose terrible study it is to
subvert our beneficent labours, to prevent our entrance into this
ethereal region, and in their own desolate and accursed country to
insult the veritable Fairy Land by employing their small remnant of
celestial power in creating imitations of it, as paltry as absurd. Know
also, O mortal! that whilst with, and for, man, we abide upon earth, we
have no land, no home;--like himself, 'strangers and pilgrims' are we;
nor is it until the period when our ministry is accomplished (and of the
finale of that period are none of us informed) that we are wafted on the
gentle breezes of heaven to this celestial planet, which, lighted by the
same sun which blesseth your own, is too small to be visible to the eyes
of its inquisitive philosophers. Hark! this day was a Fairy emancipated
from earthly thraldom, and the bells of the Golden City are singing for
joy!"
The voice died away in the breeze; yet still I listened, in the hope of
hearing again those accents, as pure, distinct, and musical, as were the
small, sweet harps which, seated on the greensward at no great distance
from me, a group of Fays were tuning, whilst sundry light and rapid
flourishes seemed to prelude an intended song. The bells of the City
of the Fairies sunk one by one into silence; the scented breeze flowed
languidly as dropping into slumber; a hush of nature pervaded the
blessed region; and sad was my spirit to think that it could not dwell
in this Elfin Eden for ever! A stream of melody now broke the holy
quietness of the land, which resembled the aspirations of those who know
neither sorrow nor sin. The breathing instruments sighed, rather than
distinctly uttered, tones, according well with those fine and delicate
voices which, as they stole in gentle words upon my entranced senses,
were sweet and penetrating as the aroma of unfading flowers:--
THE ELFIN EVENING SONG.
Farewell! farewell! departing sun!
Thy disk is dim, thy course is run;
Long hast thou lit our land of flowers,--
Now, night must veil our hallow'd bowers.
Farewell bright sun! farewell sweet day!
We mourn not that ye glide away,
Since ev'ry fleeting hour doth bless
Where days and dreams are numberless.
Farewell bright sun! thou'lt wander forth
From hence, to east, and south, and north,
Till, weary of man's guilt and pain,
Thoul't turn thee to _our_ land again.
Farewell sweet day! our songs shall hail
Thine earliest dawn so pure, and pale,--
For shadowy night ere long must, cease
To veil the pleasant Land of Peace.
M.L.B.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.
* * * * *
MAJOR ANDRE.
(_Letter in "A Tour in North America," dated Hudson River._)
My dear B.--On my return to the Neptune all was in readiness to set
sail. The wind sprang up, and we were presently wafted into a broad
sheet of water, "the Sea of Tappan." The river here suddenly expands,
and for the distance of ten miles will average about four miles in
breadth; in many places the water is so shallow, that the helmsman,
his track being already marked out, steers by the direction of posts,
stationed here and there in the river, that he may keep his vessel
free from sand-banks. The shore on each side of us presented a level,
agreeably interrupted in places by the intervention of minor hills,
apparently fertile, and in fine cultivation. The villages of Tappan and
Nyack, a few framed houses and huts scattered irregularly on the western
side, and about one mile from the river, claim the attention of the
traveller. They are situated near the foot of a valley, and overlooked
by some stupendous and abrupt ridges, whose frowning and murky heads
throw a grand and solemn, but somewhat suitable, aspect upon the
landscape of this memorable place. Old Tappan, which consists of only
two or three small houses, and lies a short distance up this valley, was
the place selected for the execution of the once brave, noble-hearted,
patriotic, and accomplished Major Andre. I was anxious to make a
pilgrimage to the grave of my unfortunate countryman; and, as the
wind was scarcely sufficient to bear us up against a strong ebb-tide,
I easily prevailed on the captain to anchor his charge, and allow the
small boat to go on shore.
Major Andre, you may recollect, was taken prisoner by the Americans
during the revolution as a British spy. The house or hut in which he was
kept in confinement had only very lately gone into ruins. It was then
a tavern, and its landlord, now extremely old, still resides close by,
and recites the melancholy tale with much affection and feeling. He
witnessed the gentlemanly manners and equanimity of this heroic soldier,
while in his house, under the most trying circumstances, and from its
threshold to the fatal spot. In his room the prisoner could hear the
sound of the axe employed in erecting the scaffold; and on one occasion,
in the presence of a friend, when these sounds, terrible to all but
himself, were more than usually distinct, he is said to have observed,
with great composure, "that every sound he heard from that axe was
indeed an important lesson, it taught him how to live and how to die."
When conducted to the place of execution, and on coming near to the
scaffold, he made a sudden halt, and momentarily shrunk at the sight;
because he had, to the last, entertained hopes that his life would have
been taken by the musket, and not by the halter. This apparent want of
resolution quickly passed away, and the disappointment he felt told more
against the uncompromising spirit of the times than against himself.
Rejecting assistance, he approached and ascended the platform with a
steady pace and lofty demeanour, and submitted to his fate with the
pious resignation of a great and good man. A large concourse of
spectators, among whom were several well dressed females, had assembled
on this sorrowful occasion; and it is reported that scarcely a dry cheek
could be found throughout the whole multitude. Andre was then seen as
he always had been, and moved by that which had through life presided
over all his actions, resolved beyond presumption, and firm without
ostentation.
The person and appearance of Major Andre were prepossessing; he was
well proportioned, and above the common size of men; the lines of his
face were regular, well marked, and beautifully symmetrical, which gave
him an expression of countenance at once dignified and commanding. His
address was graceful and easy; in manners he was truly exemplary, and in
conversation affable and instructive. Polite to all ranks and classes of
people, he was universally respected; fond of discipline, and always
alive to the just claims and feelings of others, he was beloved in the
army, and generally appealed to as the common arbitrator and conciliator
of the contentions of those around him. In a word, he was a sincere
friend, a scholar, and accomplished gentleman, a patriot, a gallant
soldier, an able commander, and a Christian.
General Washington, when called upon to sign his death-warrant, which
he did not do without hesitation, it is said, dropped a tear upon the
paper, and spoke at the same time to the following effect:--"That were
it not infringing upon the duty and responsibility of his office, and
disregarding the high prerogative of those who would fill that office
after him, the tear, which now lay upon that paper, should annihilate
the confirmation of an act to which his name would for ever stand as
a sanction. He was summoned that day to do a deed at which his heart
revolted; but it was required of him by the justice of his country, the
desires and expectations of the people: he owed it to the cause in which
he was solemnly engaged, to the welfare of an infant confederacy, the
safety of a newly organized constitution which he had pledged his honour
to protect and defend, and a right given to him that was acknowledged
to be just by the ruling voice of all nations."
Andre, after he had heard his condemnation, addressed a letter to
Washington; it contained a feeling appeal to him as a man, a soldier,
and a general, on the mode of death he was to die. It was his wish to
be shot. This, however, could not be granted: he had been taken and
condemned as a spy, and the laws of nations had established the manner
of his death. But where were the humanity and feeling of the British on
this occasion? Why did they not give up the dastardly Arnold in exchange
for the brave Andre; as it was generously proposed by the United
States?[3] This they refused on a paltry plea, and suffered, in
consequence, the life of one of their finest officers to be
ignominiously lost.
On a green eminence, over which hangs the dark and funereal shade of the
willow, is the grave of this unfortunate soldier; it is a short distance
south and west of the village. "No urn nor animated bust," only a few
rough and unshapely stones, without a word of inscription, and
carelessly laid upon a mound of rudely piled earth, are shown to the
traveller as the spot where rest the remains of poor Andre.[4]
_Mag. Nat. Hist._
[3] Arnold was a General in the American service, and had
distinguished himself on former occasions like a brave soldier,
an experienced commander, and a sincere citizen; but, like
another Judas Iscariot, he afterwards thought fit to turn
traitor. He deserted to the English as soon as the news reached
him of the apprehension of Andre (because he knew then that his
name and the plans arranged previously between him and the
British General would be exposed and frustrated,) with the
expectation of receiving _a few pieces of silver_ for
betraying his country. Whatever was his recompense in this way
I know not, but I am certain he was despised as long as he lived,
and his memory will for ever be pointed at as contemptible and
degrading by the people of both nations.
[4] The remains of Major Andre were lately, by a special request
from the British government to the United States, brought to
England, and placed among the worthies of Westminster Abbey.
* * * * *
THE LETTER-BELL.
_By the late William Hazlitt._
Complaints are frequently made of the vanity and shortness of human
life, when, if we examine its smallest details, they present a world by
themselves. The most trifling objects, retraced with the eye of memory,
assume the vividness, the delicacy, and importance of insects seen
through a magnifying glass. There is no end of the brilliancy or the
variety. The habitual feeling of the love of life may be compared to
"one entire and perfect chrysolite," which, if analyzed, breaks into
a thousand shining fragments. Ask the sum-total of the value of human
life, and we are puzzled with the length of the account, and the
multiplicity of items in it: take any one of them apart, and it is
wonderful what matter for reflection will be found in it! As I write
this, the _Letter-Bell_ passes: it has a lively, pleasant sound
with it, and not only fills the street with its importunate clamour, but
rings clear through the length of many half-forgotten years. It strikes
upon the ear, it vibrates to the brain, it wakes me from the dream of
time, it flings me back upon my first entrance into life, the period
of my first coming up to town, when all around was strange, uncertain,
adverse--a hub-bub of confused noises, a chaos of shifting objects--and
when this sound alone, startling me with the recollection of a letter
I had to send to the friends I had lately left, brought me as it were
to myself, made me feel that I had links still connecting me with the
universe, and gave me hope and patience to persevere. At that loud
tinkling, interrupted sound (now and then,) the long line of blue hills
near the place where I was brought up waves in the horizon, a golden
sunset hovers over them, the dwarf-oaks rustle their red leaves in the
evening breeze, and the road from ---- to ----, by which I first set out
on my journey through life, stares me in the face as plain, but from
time and change not less visionary and mysterious, than the pictures in
the _Pilgrim's Progress_. I should notice, that at this time the
light of the French Revolution circled my head like a glory, though
dabbled with drops of crimson gore: I walked confident and cheerful
by its side--
"And by the vision splendid
Was on my way attended."
It rose then in the east: it has again risen in the west. Two suns in
one day, two triumphs of liberty in one age, is a miracle which I hope
the laureate will hail in appropriate verse. Or may not Mr. Wordsworth
give a different turn to the fine passage, beginning--
"What, though the radiance which was once so bright,
Be now for ever vanished from my sight;
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of glory in the grass, of splendour in the flower?"
For is it not brought back, "like morn risen on mid-_night_;" and
may he not yet greet the yellow light shining on the evening bank with
eyes of youth, of genius, and freedom, as of yore? No, never! But what
would not these persons give for the unbroken integrity of their early
opinions--for one unshackled, uncontaminated strain--one _Io paean_
to Liberty--one burst of indignation against tyrants and sycophants,
who subject other countries to slavery by force, and prepare their own
for it by servile sophistry, as we see the huge serpent lick over its
trembling, helpless victim with its slime and poison, before it devours
it! On every stanza so penned would be written the word RECREANT! Every
taunt, every reproach, every note of exultation at restored light and
freedom, would recall to them how their hearts failed them in the Valley
of the Shadow of Death. And what shall we say to _him_--the
sleep-walker, the dreamer, the sophist, the word-hunter, the craver
after sympathy, but still vulnerable to truth, accessible to opinion,
because not sordid or mechanical? The Bourbons being no longer tied
about his neck, he may perhaps recover his original liberty of
speculating; so that we may apply to him the lines about his own
_Ancient Mariner_--
"And from his neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea."
This is the reason I can write an article on the _Letter-Bell_, and
other such subjects; I have never given the lie to my own soul. If I
have felt any impression once, I feel it more strongly a second time;
and I have no wish to revile and discard my best thoughts. There is
at length a thorough _keeping_ in what I write--not a line that
betrays a principle or disguises a feeling. If my wealth is small, it
all goes to enrich the same heap; and trifles in this way accumulate to
a tolerable sum.--Or if the Letter-Bell does not lead me a dance into
the country, it fixes me in the thick of my town recollections, I know
not how long ago. It was a kind of alarm to break off from my work when
there happened to be company to dinner or when I was going to the play.
_That_ was going to the play, indeed, when I went twice a year, and
had not been more than half a dozen times in my life. Even the idea that
any one else in the house was going, was a sort of reflected enjoyment,
and conjured up a lively anticipation of the scene. I remember a Miss
D----, a maiden lady from Wales (who in her youth was to have been
married to an earl,) tantalized me greatly in this way, by talking all
day of going to see Mrs. Siddons' "airs and graces" at night in some
favourite part; and when the Letter-Bell announced that the time was
approaching, and its last receding sound lingered on the ear, or was
lost in silence, how anxious and uneasy I became, lest she and her
companion should not be in time to get good places--lest the curtain
should draw up before they arrived--and lest I should lose one line or
look in the intelligent report which I should hear the next morning! The
punctuating of time at that early period--every thing that gives it an
articulate voice--seems of the utmost consequence; for we do not know
what scenes in the _ideal_ world may run out of them: a world of
interest may hang upon every instant, and we can hardly sustain the
weight of future years which are contained in embryo in the most minute
and inconsiderable passing events. How often have I put off writing a
letter till it was too late! How often had to run after the postman with
it--now missing, now recovering, the sound of his bell--breathless,
angry with myself--then hearing the welcome sound come full round a
corner--and seeing the scarlet costume which set all my fears and
self-reproaches at rest! I do not recollect having ever repented giving
a letter to the postman, or wishing to retrieve it after he had once
deposited it in his bag. What I have once set my hand to, I take the
consequences of, and have been always pretty much of the same humour in
this respect. I am not like the person who, having sent off a letter to
his mistress, who resided a hundred and twenty miles in the country, and
disapproving, on second thoughts, of some expressions contained in it,
took a post-chaise and four to follow and intercept it the next morning.
At other times, I have sat and watched the decaying embers in a little
_back_ painting-room (just as the wintry day declined,) and brooded
over the half-finished copy of a Rembrandt, or a landscape by Vangoyen,
placing it where it might catch a dim gleam of light from the fire;
while the Letter-Bell was the only sound that drew my thoughts to the
world without, and reminded me that I had a task to perform in it. As to
that landscape, methinks I see it now--
"The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale,
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail."
There was a windmill, too, with a poor low clay-built cottage beside
it:--how delighted I was when I had made the tremulous, undulating
reflection in the water, and saw the dull canvass become a lucid mirror
of the commonest features of nature! Certainly, painting gives one a
strong interest in nature and humanity (it is not the _dandy-school_
of morals or sentiment)--
"While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things."
Perhaps there is no part of a painter's life (if we must tell "the
secrets of the prison-house") in which he has more enjoyment of himself
and his art, than that in which after his work is over, and with furtive
sidelong glances at what he has done, he is employed in washing his
brushes and cleaning his pallet for the day. Afterwards, when he gets
a servant in livery to do this for him, he may have other and more
ostensible sources of satisfaction--greater splendour, wealth, or fame;
but he will not be so wholly in his art, nor will his art have such a
hold on him as when he was too poor to transfer its meanest drudgery to
others--too humble to despise aught that had to do with the object of
his glory and his pride, with that on which all his projects of ambition
or pleasure were founded. "Entire affection scorneth nicer hands." When
the professor is above this mechanical part of his business, it may have
become a _stalking-horse_ to other worldly schemes, but is no longer
his _hobby-horse_ and the delight of his inmost thoughts--