The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 19, No. by Various
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Various >> The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 19, No.
But now the clouds are lowering; they divide into strata, end,
gradually getting heavier, denser, and darker, at last veil the horizon
in a blueish grey mist. Towards the zenith they tower up in bright
broad-spreading masses, and assume the appearance of gigantic mountains
in the air. All at once the sky is completely overcast, excepting that a
few spots of deep blue still appear through the clouds. The sun is hid,
but the heat of the atmosphere is more oppressive. The noontide is past;
a cheerless melancholy gloom hangs heavily over nature. Fast sink the
spirits; for painful is the change to those who have witnessed the
joyous animation of the morning. The more active animals roam wildly
about, seeking to allay the cravings of hunger and thirst; only the
quiet and slothful, who have taken refuge in the forest, seem to have
no apprehension of the dreadful crisis. But it comes! it rushes on with
rapid strides, and we shall certainly have it here. The temperature is
already lowered; the fierce and clashing gales tear up trees by the
roots. Dark and foaming billows swell the surface of the deeply agitated
sea. The roar of the river is surpassed by the sound of the wind, and
the waters seem to flow silently into the ocean. There the storm rages.
Twice, thrice, flashes of pale blue lightning traverse the clouds in
rapid succession: as often does the thunder roll in loud and prolonged
claps through the firmament. Drops of rain fall. The plants begin to
recover their natural freshness; it thunders again, and the thunder
is followed, not by rain, but by torrents, which pour down from the
convulsed sky. The forest groans; the whizzing rustle of the waving
leaves becomes a hollow murmuring sound, which at length resembles
the distant roll of muffled drums. Flowers are scatterd to and fro,
leaves are stripped from the boughs, branches are torn from the stems,
and massy trees are overthrown; the terrible hurricane ravishes all
the remaining virgin charms of the levelled and devastated plants.
But wherefore regret their fate? Have they not lived and bloomed?
Has not the _Inga_ twisted together its already emptied stamens?
Have not the golden petals fallen from the fractified blossoms of the
Baniser_ia_, and has not the fruit-loaded _A_rum yielded its
faded spathe to the storm? The terrors of this eventful hour fall
heavily even on the animal world. The feathered inhabitants of the woods
are struck dumb, and flutter about in dismay on the ground; myriads of
insects seek shelter under leaves and trunks of trees. The wild Mammalia
are tamed, and suspend their work of war and carnage; the cold-blooded
Amphibia alone rejoice in the overwhelming deluge, and millions of
snakes and frogs, which swarm in the flooded meadows, raise a chorus of
hissing and croaking. Streams of muddy water flow through the narrow
paths of the forests into the river, or pour into the cracks and chasms
of the soil. The temperature continues to descend, and the clouds
gradually empty themselves.
But at length a change takes place, and the storm which lately raged so
furiously is over. The sun shines forth with renovated splendour through
long extended masses of clouds, which gradually disperse towards the
horizon on the north and south, assuming, as in the morning, light,
vapoury forms, and hemming the azure basis of the firmament. A smiling
deep blue sky now gladdens the earth, and the horrors of the past
are speedily forgotten. In an hour no trace of the storm is visible;
the plants, dried by the warm sunbeams, rear their heaps with renewed
freshness, and the different kinds of animals obey, as before, their
respective instincts and propensities.
Evening approaches, and new clouds appear between the white flaky
fringes of the horizon. They diffuse over the landscape tints of violet
and pale yellow, which harmoniously blends the lofty forests in the
back-ground with the river and the sea. The setting sun, surrounded by
hues of variegated beauty, now retires through the western portals of
the firmament, leaving all nature to love and repose. The soft twilight
of evening awakens new sensations in animals and plants, and buzzing
sounds prove that the gloomy recesses of the woods are full of life and
motion. Love-sighs are breathed through the fragrant perfumes of newly
collapsed flowers, and all animated nature feels the influence of this
moment of voluptuous tranquillity. Scattered gleams of light, reflected
splendours of the departed sun, still float upon the woodland ridges;
while, amidst a refreshing coolness, the mild moon arises in calm and
silent grandeur, and diffusing her silver light over the dark forest,
imparts to every object a new and softened aspect. Night comes;--nature
sleeps, and the etheral canopy of heaven, arched out in awful immensity
over the earth, sparkling with innumerable witnesses of far distant
glories, infuses into the heart of man humility and confidence,--a
divine gift after such a day of wonder and delight!--_Mag. Nat.
Hist_. No. 24.
* * * * *
NOTES OF A READER.
* * * * *
THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
We are happy to learn that the celebrated Arundel MSS., which had been
held for some time by the Royal Society, have recently been transferred
to the British Museum; as well as a valuable addition of coins.
In accordance with the suggestions made during the last Session of
Parliament, the library of the Museum will henceforth be open to the
public every day in the week, except Sundays.
During the past year 38,000 individuals visited the Museum, and very
nearly 100,000, namely, 99,852 persons, from all parts of the kingdom,
visited the Library for the purposes of study.
By the way, a livery-servant complained, in _The Times_ of the 1st
instant, that he had been refused admission to the Museum on an open and
public day, in consequence of his wearing a livery, notwithstanding he
saw "soldiers and sailors go in without the least objection." _The
Times_ remarks, "We believe livery-servants are not excluded from the
sight at Windsor on an open day. We suspect that the regulation is not
so much owing to any aristocratical notions on the part of the Directors
of the Museum, as to that fastidious feeling which prevails in this
country more than any other, and most of all among the lower ranks of
the middle classes." The cause is reasonable enough; but we believe that
livery-servants are not admitted at Windsor: the exclusion seems to be a
caprice of Royalty, for servants are excluded from our palace-gardens,
as Kensington. Surely this is unjust. If servants consent to wear
liveries to gratify the vanity of their wealthy employers, it is hard to
shut them out from common enjoyments on that account. This is in the
true spirit of vassalage, of which the liveries are comparatively a
harmless relic. In Paris we remember seeing a round-frocked peasant,
apparently just from the plough, pacing the polished floor of the Louvre
gallery with rough nailed shoes, and then resting on the velvet topped
settees; and he was admitted _gratis_. Would such a person,
tendering his shilling, be admitted to the Exhibition at Somerset House?
* * * * *
DOMESTIC CHEMISTRY.
_Elements of Chemistry familiarly explained and practically
illustrated_.
This is an excellent little work by Mr. Brande: it is not avowedly so,
although everyone familiar with his valuable Manual of Chemistry will
soon identify the authorship. The present is only the first Part of this
petite system, containing Attraction, Heat, Light, and Electricity.
It is, as the author intended it to be, "less learned and elaborate
than the usual systematic works, and at the same time more detailed,
connected, and explicit than the 'Conversations' or 'Catechisms.'"
It avoids "all prolixity of language and the use of less intelligible
terms;" and, to speak plainly, the illustrative applications throughout
the work are familiar as household words. Witness the following extract
from the effects of Heat:
_Ventilation--Heating Rooms_.
"In consequence of the _lightness_ of heated air, it always rises
to the upper parts of rooms and buildings, when it either escapes, or,
becoming cooled and _heavier_, again descends. If, in cold weather,
we sit under a skylight in a warm room, a current of cold air is felt
descending upon the head, whilst warmer currents, rising from our bodies
and coming into contact with the cold glass, impart to it their excess
of heat. Being thus contracted in bulk, and rendered specifically
heavier, they in their turn descend, and thus a perpetual motion is kept
up in the mass of air. This effect is attended with much inconvenience
to those who inhabit the room, and is in great measure prevented by the
use of double windows, which prevent the rapid cooling and production of
troublesome currents in the air of the apartment.
"We generally observe, when the door of a room is opened, that there are
two distinct currents in the aperture; which may be rendered evident
by holding in it the flame of a candle. At the upper part it is blown
outwards, but inwards at the lower part; in the middle, scarcely any
draught of air, one way or other, is perceptible.
"The art of ventilating rooms and buildings is in a great measure
dependent upon the currents which we are enabled to produce in air by
changes of temperature, and is a subject of considerable importance.
As the heated air and effluvia of crowded rooms pass upwards, it is
common to leave apertures in or near the ceiling for their escape. Were
it not, indeed, for such contrivances, the upper parts of theatres and
some other buildings would scarcely be endurable; but a mere aperture,
though it allows the foul air to escape, in consequence of its specific
lightness, is also apt to admit a counter-current of denser and cold
air, which pours down into the room, and produces great inconvenience.
This effect is prevented by heating, in any convenient way, the tube or
flue through which the foul air escapes. A constantly ascending current
is then established; and whenever cold air attempts to descend, the
heat of the flue rarefies and drives it upwards. Thus the different
ventilators may terminate in tubes connected with a chimney; or they
may unite into a common trunk, which may pass over a furnace purposely
for heating it.
"In some of our theatres, the gas chandelier is made a very effectual
ventilator. It is suspended under a large funnel, which terminates
in a cowl outside the roof; and the number of burners heat the air
considerably, and cause its very rapid and constant ascent through the
funnel, connected with which there may be other apertures in the ceiling
of the building. But in these and most other cases, we may observe that
the vents are not sufficiently capacious; and the foul air from the
house, and from the gas-burners themselves, not being able readily to
escape, diffuses itself over the upper part of the building, and renders
the galleries hot and suffocating--all which is very easily prevented by
the judicious adjustment of the size of the ventilating channels to the
quantity of air which it is requisite should freely pass through them.
"The small tin ventilators, consisting of a rotating wheel, which we
sometimes see in window-panes, are perfectly useless, though it is often
imagined, in consequence of their apparent activity, that they must be
very effectual; but the fact is, that a very trifling current of air
suffices to put them in motion, and the apertures for its escape are so
small as to produce no effectual change in the air of the apartment:
they are also as often in motion by the ingress as by the egress of air.
"From what has been said, it will be obvious that our common fires
and chimneys are most powerful ventilators, though their good services
in this respect are often overlooked. As soon as the fire is lighted,
a rapid ascending current of air is established in the chimney, and
consequently there must be a constant ingress of fresh air to supply
this demand, which generally enters the room through the crevices of the
doors and windows. When these are too tight, the chimney smokes or the
fire will not draw; and in such cases it is sometimes necessary to make
a concealed aperture in some convenient part of the room for the
requisite admission of air, or to submit to sitting with a window or
door partly open. Any imperfect action of the chimney, or descending
current, is announced by the escape of smoke into the room, and is
frequently caused by the flue being too large, or not sufficiently
perpendicular and regular in its construction. When there is no fire,
the chimneys also generally act as ventilators; and in summer there is
often a very powerful current up them, in consequence of the roof and
chimney-pots being heated by the sun, and thus accelerating the ascent
of the air. In a well-constructed house there should be sufficient
apertures for the admission of the requisite quantity of air into the
respective rooms, without having occasion to trust to its accidental
ingress through every crack and crevice that will allow it to pass.
These openings may either be concealed, or made ornamental, and by
proper management may be subservient to the admission of warm air
in winter."
* * * * *
HENRI III. OF FRANCE.
We quote the following scene from one of the Tales recently published
in three volumes with the general cognomen of _Chantilly_. It is from
the longest and most successful of the stories called "D'Espignac,"
in the time of Henri III., and, as our extract shows, the scenes and
sketches exhibit considerable talent, and a certain graphic minuteness
which has become very popular in modern novels. The tale itself is not
to our purpose, but we promise the reader a _petit souper_ of horrors
from its perusal, especially to those who woo terror to delight them.
The pen is young and feminine, and of high promise. The occasion of the
following scene is an interview of one of the characters with Henri.
"It was a small dark apartment, hung round with tapestry, the ceiling
richly decorated with massive ornaments of carved oak, and the floor
covered with a dark-coloured carpet of Turkey manufacture, so thick and
soft that the footsteps fell unheard as they advanced over it. It was
here that the monarch usually spent his leisure hours, and various were
the objects indicative of his tastes and habits scattered around, in a
confusion which completely put to flight all ideas of study or devotion
in the mind of the visiter. On a small table near the door were strewn
divers preparations for the toilette, and cosmetics for improving the
complexion, of which the King used quantities almost incredible, all
prepared by his own hand; and the mixing and arranging of these formed
his greatest delight and amusement. In the recesses on each side the
window stood two highly-polished ebony cases, which Catherine de Medicis
his mother had brought from Italy, for containing books and holy relics;
but for this they were totally useless to the present royal owner, who
applied them to a far different purpose. On the lower shelf next the
ground, were arranged small ornamented baskets, in each of which, on
satin cushions, reposed in regal luxury a litter of spaniel puppies,
which, together with their pampered mother, did not fail to salute with
deafening noise any stranger who entered. The messes, medicines, and
food of these little favourites completely filled the upper shelves, or
only disputed ground with the chains and collars of their predecessors,
a few of whom, rescued from oblivion, stood on the top, seemingly ready
as in life to fly out with inhospitable fury on the approach of
intruders.
"The upper compartments of the window were of painted glass, and cast a
dismal light through the apartment, while the lower panes were darkened
by the hawk-mews raised on the terrace, that the King might enjoy the
daily satisfaction of seeing the birds fed before his eyes. On a table
near the window stood an inkstand, with various implements for writing,
but from the sorry condition in which they appeared, and the confusion
prevailing around, it was evident they were but seldom used. Small was
the space, however, allotted to such unimportant objects. His Majesty
had been deeply engaged during the morning tending a sick puppy, which
having washed in sweet water, and combed with a gilt comb, he had
adorned with ribbons, and placed in a basket by his side; mixing a
scented paste for whitening the hands, preparing a wash for the skin,
binding the broken leg of a wounded merlin, and finally seeking
relief from such engrossing pursuits in the favourite recreation of
disburdening a precious missal of its exquisite illuminations, in order
to ornament the walls and enliven the chamber! It was at this table
that Henri himself was seated, with his head resting on his hands, and
apparently buried in thought. The noisy greeting of the spaniels as
La Vallee entered caused him to start, and he turned towards the door
an anxious unquiet look, bespeaking distrust and apprehension, which,
however, quickly changed to one of pleasure as he heard the name and
recognised the features of his visiter.
"The King was at that time in the very flower of his age, and yet
he appeared no longer young. The cares of royalty, the murder of the
Guises, had planted many a deep and lasting furrow on his brow, which
time would have otherwise withheld for many years. His pallid cheek
and sunken eye told of a mind but ill at ease. No art, no charm could
restore the bloom and freshness which remorse for the past and fear for
the future had long ago dispelled, never to return. And yet, with that
sweet self-deception which all are so disposed to practise, he sought
to banish reflection and beguile alarm in the pursuit of all kinds of
frivolous amusements unworthy of his rank or station, and fancied he
had succeeded in chasing care if for a moment he ceased to think.
"His costume even now was foppish and _recherche_. Much time had
evidently been spent in adjusting the drooping leathers of his jewelled
toque, and no pains had been spared in properly disposing the plaits
of his _fraise_ and ruffles, or in arranging the folds of his
broidered mantle. The snow-white slippers, with the sky-blue roses, the
silken hose and braided doublet, seemed better fitted for the parade of
the courtly saloon than the privacy of the closet. The hand he extended
to the Count was like that of a youthful beauty, rather than of one who
had once wielded sword with the bravest. Every finger was adorned with
a costly jewel, which flashed and sparkled in the light as he waved his
hand in token of welcome, and, pointing to a chair, bade his visiter be
seated."
* * * * *
SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.
* * * * *
THE LAW OF ARREST. A TALE FROM FACTS.
Once upon a time there lived at Hamburgh a certain merchant of the name
of Meyer--he was a good little man; charitable to the poor, hospitable
to his friends, and so rich that he was extremely respected, in spite
of his good nature. Among that part of his property which was vested
in other people's hands, and called debts, was the sum of five hundred
pounds owed to him by the Captain of an English vessel. This debt had
been so long contracted that the worthy Meyer began to wish for a new
investment of his capital. He accordingly resolved to take a trip to
Portsmouth, in which town Captain Jones was then residing, and take that
liberty which in my opinion should in a free country never be permitted,
viz. the liberty of applying for his money.
Our worthy merchant one bright morning found himself at Portsmouth; he
was a stranger to that town, but not unacquainted altogether with the
English language. He lost no time in calling on Captain Jones.
"And vat?" said he to a man whom he asked to show him to the Captain's
house, "vat is dat fine veshell yondare?"
"She be the Royal Sally," replied the man, "bound for Calcutta--sails
to-morrow; but here's Captain Jones's house, Sir, and he'll tell you
all about it."
The merchant bowed, and knocked at the door of a red brick house--door
green--brass knocker. Captain Gregory Jones was a tall man; he wore a
blue coat without skirts; he had high cheek bones, small eyes, and his
whole appearance was eloquent of what is generally termed the bluff
honesty of the seaman. Captain Gregory seemed somewhat disconcerted at
seeing his friend--he begged for a little further time. The merchant
looked grave--three years had already elapsed. The Captain demurred--the
merchant pressed--the Captain blustered--and the merchant, growing
angry, began to threaten. All of a sudden Captain Jones's manner
changed--he seemed to recollect himself, begged pardon, said he could
easily procure the money, desired the merchant to go back to his inn,
and promised to call on him in the course of the day. Mynheer Meyer went
home, and ordered an excellent dinner. Time passed--his friend came not.
Meyer grew impatient. He had just put on his hat and was walking out,
when the waiter threw open the door, and announced two gentlemen.
"Ah, dere comes de monish," thought Mynheer Meyer. The gentlemen
approached--the taller one whipped out what seemed to Meyer a receipt.
"Ah, ver well, I vill sign, ver well!"
"Signing, Sir, is useless; you will be kind enough to accompany us. This
is a warrant for debt, Sir; my house is extremely comfortable--gentlemen
of the first fashion go there--quite moderate, too, only a guinea
a-day--find your own wine."
"I do--no--understand, Sare," said the merchant, smiling amiably,
"I am ver vell off here--thank you--"
"Come, come," said the other gentleman, speaking for the first time,
"no parlavoo Monsoo, you are our prisoner--this is a warrant for the
sum of 10,000l. due to Captain Gregory Jones."
The merchant stared--the merchant frowned--but so it was. Captain
Gregory Jones, who owed Mynheer Meyer 500l., had arrested Mynheer Meyer
for 10,000l.; for, as every one knows, any man may arrest us who has
conscience enough to swear that we owe him money. Where was Mynheer
Meyer in a strange town to get bail? Mynheer Meyer went to prison.
"Dis be a strange vay of paying a man his monish!" said Mynheer Meyer.
In order to wile away time, our merchant, who was wonderfully social,
scraped acquaintance with some of his fellow-prisoners. "Vat be you in
prishon for?" said he to a stout respectable-looking man who seemed in
a violent passion--"for vhat crime?"
"I, Sir, crime!" quoth the prisoner; "Sir, I was going to Liverpool
to vote at the election, when a friend of the opposite candidate had
me suddenly arrested for 2,000l. Before I get bail the election will
be over!"
"Vat's that you tell me? arrest you to prevent your giving an honesht
vote? is that justice?"
"Justice, no!" cried our friend, it's the Law of Arrest."
"And vat be you in prishon for?" said the merchant pityingly to a thin
cadaverous-looking object, who ever and anon applied a handkerchief to
eyes that were worn with weeping.
"An attorney offered a friend of mine to discount a bill, if he could
obtain a few names to indorse it--_I_, Sir, indorsed it. The bill
became due, the next day the attorney arrested all whose names were
on the bill; there were eight of us, the law allows him to charge two
guineas for each; there are sixteen guineas, Sir, for the lawyer--but
I, Sir--alas my family will starve before _I_ shall be released.
Sir, there are a set of men called discounting attorneys, who live upon
the profits of entrapping and arresting us poor folk."
"Mine Gott! but is dat justice?"
"Alas! No, Sir, it is the law of arrest."
"But," said the merchant, turning round to a lawyer, whom the Devil had
deserted, and who was now with the victims of his profession; "dey tell
me, dat in Englant a man be called innoshent till he be proved guilty;
but here am I, who, because von carrion of a shailor, who owesh me five
hundred pounts, takes an oath that _I_ owe him ten thousand--here am
I, on that schoundrel's single oath, clapped up in a prishon. Is this
a man's being innoshent till he is proved guilty, Sare?"
"Sir," said the lawyer primly, "you are thinking of criminal cases;
but if a man be unfortunate enough to get into debt, that is quite a
different thing:--we are harder to poverty than we are to crime!"
"But, mine Gott! is that justice?"
"Justice! pooh! it's the law of arrest," said the lawyer, turning on
his heel.
Our merchant was liberated; no one appeared to prove the debt. He flew
to a magistrate; he told his case; he implored justice against Captain
Jones.
"Captain Jones!" said the magistrate, taking snuff; "Captain Gregory
Jones, you mean!"
"Ay, mine goot Sare--yesh!"
"He set sail for Calcutta yesterday. He commands the Royal Sally.
He must evidently have sworn this debt against you for the purpose of
getting rid of your claim, and silencing your mouth till you could
catch him no longer. He's a clever fellow is Gregory Jones!"