The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 337, October 25, 1828

(For the Mirror.)SELLING MEAT AMONG THE ANCIENT ROMANS, &c

It was the custom for the buyer to shut his eyes, and the seller to hold up some of his fingers; if the buyer guessed aright, how many it was the other held up, he was to fix the price; if he mistook, the seller was to fix it. These classic blind-bargains would not suit the Londonbutchers. This custom was abolished by Apronius, the prefect of Rome; who in lieu thereof, introduced the method of selling by weight. Among the ancient Romans there were three kinds of established butchers, viz. two colleges or companies, composed each of a certain number of citizens, whose office was to furnish the city with the necessary cattle, and to take care of preparing and vending their flesh. One of these communities was at first confined to the providing of hogs, whence they were called suarii; and the other two were charged with cattle, especially oxen, whence they were called pecuarii, or boarii. Under each of these was a subordinate class, whose office was to kill, prepare, &c. called lanii, and sometimes carnifices.

Two English poets (Swift and Gay) have been rather severe towards the London butchers, the former says,—

"Hence he learnt the Butcher's guile,How to cut your throat, and smile;Like a butcher doom'd for life,In his mouth to wear his knife."

The latter,—

——"resign the way,To shun the surly butcher's greasy tray:Butchers, whose hands are died with blood's foul stain,And always foremost in the hangman's train."

The butchers' company was not incorporated until the 3rd year of King James I. when they were made a Corporation, by the name of master, wardens and commonalty of the art and mystery of butchers; yet the fraternity is ancient.

Stowe says, "In the 3rd of Richard II. motion was made that no butcher should kill any flesh within London, but at Knightsbridge, or such like distant place from the walls of the citie."

P.T.WSTUMBLING AT THE THRESHOLD

The phrase, "to stumble at the threshold," originated in the circumstance, that the old thresholds, or steps under the door, were like the hearths, raised a little, so that a person might stumble over them, unless proper care were taken. A very whimsical reason for this practice is given in a curious little tract by Sir Balthazar Gerbier, entitled, "Council and Advice to all Builders," 1663, in these words:—"A good surveyor shuns also the ordering of doores with stumbling thresholds, though our forefathers affected them, perchance to perpetuate the antient custome of bridegroomes, when formerly at their return from church they did use to lift up their bride, and to knock her head against that of the doore, for a remembrance that she was not to pass the threshold of her house without leave."

W.G.CCHINESE PHYSICIANS

The charitable dispensation of medicines by the Chinese, is well deserving notice. They have a stone which is ten cubits high, erected in the public squares of their cities; whereon is engraved the name of all sorts of medicines, with the price of each, and when the poor stand in need of relief from physic, they go to the treasury to receive the price each medicine is rated at.

The physicians of China have only to feel the arm of their patient in three places, and to observe the rate of the pulse, to form an opinion on the cause, nature, danger, and duration of the malady. Without the patient speaking at all, they can tell infallibly what part is attacked with disease, whether the brain, the heart, the liver, the lungs, the intestines, the stomach, the flesh, the bones, and so on. As they are both physicians and apothecaries, and prepare their own medicines, they are paid only when they effect a cure. If the same rule were introduced with us, I fear we should have fewer physicians.

THE TOPOGRAPHER

BOX HILL(For the Mirror.)

This celebrated eminence is situated in the north range of chalk hills, beginning near Farnham, in Surrey, and extending from thence to Folkstone, in Kent. Camden calls it White Hill, from its chalky soil; but Box Hill is its true and ancient name. The box-tree is, in all probability, the natural produce of the soil; but a generally received story is, that the box was planted there by Thomas, Earl of Arundel, between two and three centuries ago. There is, however, authentic evidence of its being here long before his time, for Henry de Buxeto (i.e. Henry of Box Hill) and Adam de Buxeto were witnesses to deeds in the reign of King John.

John Evelyn, who wrote about the middle of the seventeenth century, says, "Box-trees rise naturally at Kent in Bexley; and in Surrey, giving name to Box Hill. He that in winter should behold some of our highest hills in Surrey, clad with whole woods of them, might easily fancy himself transported into some new or enchanted country."

In Aubrey's posthumous work on Surrey, published in 1718, the northern part of the hill is described as thickly covered with yew-trees, and the southern part with "thick boscages of box-trees," which "yielded a convenient privacy for lovers, who frequently meet here, so that it is an English Daphne." He also tells us that the gentry often resorted here from Ebbesham (Epsom), then in high fashion. Philip Luckombe, in his "England's Gazetteer," says, on Box Hill "there is a large warren, but no houses; only arbours cut out in the box-wood on the top of the hill, where are sold refreshments of all sorts, for the ladies and gentlemen who come hither to divert themselves in its labyrinths; for which reason a certain author has thought fit to call it the Palace of Venus, and the Temple of Nature; there being an enchanting prospect from it of a fine country, which is scarce to be equalled for affording so surprising and magnificent an idea both of earth and sky."

But these delightful retreats, like Arcadia of old, have long since vanished. The yews were cut down in the year 1780; and their successors fall very short of the luxuriant descriptions of old topographers. The box has also at various times produced the proprietors of the estate great profit. In 1608, the receipt for box-trees cut down upon the sheepwalk on the hill was 50l.; in an account taken in 1712, it is supposed that as much had been cut down, within a few years before, as amounted to 3,000l.; and in 1759, a Mr. Miller lamented that "the trees on Box Hill had been pretty much destroyed; though many remained of considerable bigness."

An immense quantity of box is annually consumed in this country, in the revived art of engraving on wood. The English is esteemed inferior to that which comes from the Levant; and the American box is said to be preferable to ours. But the ships from the Levant brought such quantities of it in ballast, that the wood on Box Hill could not find a purchaser, and not having been cut for sixty-five years, was growing cankered. The war diminished the influx from the Mediterranean; several purchasers offered; and in 1795 it was put up to auction at 12,000l. The depredations made on Box Hill, in consequence of this sale, did not injure its picturesque beauty, as twelve years were allowed for cutting, which gave each portion a reasonable time to renew. In 1802, forty tons were cut, but the market being overstocked, it fell in value more than fifty per cent.; and the foreign wood is now universally preferred for engravings. The trees on Box Hill are, however, again flourishing, although their value is rather problematical.

For the information of the home tourist, perhaps, I ought to mention that Box Hill stands about 22 miles on the left of the road from London to Worthing, Brighton, and Bognor, and about 2 miles N.E. of the town of Dorking. The road from Leatherhead hence is a constant succession of hill and dale, richly clothed with wood, interspersed with elegant villas in all tastes—from the pillared and plastered mansion, to the borrowed charm of the cottage orne. The whole of this district is called the Vale of Norbury, from the romantic domain of that name, which extends over a great portion of the hills on the right of the road. Shortly before you reach Box Hill, stands Mickleham, a little village with an ivy-mantled church, rich in Saxon architecture and other antiquities. You then descend into a valley, passing some delightful meadow scenery, and the showy mansion of Sir Lucas Pepys, which rises from a flourishing plantation on the left. In the valley stands Juniper Hall, late the seat of Mr. Thomas Broadwood, the piano-forte manufacturer. In the park are some of the finest cedars in England. On again ascending, you catch a fine view of Box Hill, and the amphitheatrical range of opposite hills, with one of the most magnificent parterres in nature. This is called, by old writers, the Garden of Surrey.

You pass some flint-built cottages, and quitting the road here, the ascent to Box Hill is gradual and untiring, across a field of little slopes, studded with a few yew-trees, relics of by-gone days. The ascent further down the road almost amounts to a feat, assisted by the foot-worn paces in the chalky steep. Here this portion of the hill resembles an immense wall of viretum, down whose side has been poured liquid mortar. The path winds along the verge of the hill, whilst on the left is a valley or little ravine, whose sides are clothed with thick dwarfish box, intermingled with the wild and trackless luxuriance of forest scenery. Hence the road stretches away to Ashurst, the neat residence of Mr. Strahan, the King's printer.

Returning to the verge of the hill, you soon reach the apex, or highest point, being 445 feet from the level of the Mole.1 Here you enjoy what the French call a coup d'oeil, or I would rather say, a bird's-eye view, of unparalleled beauty. Taking the town of Dorking for a resting point, the long belt is about twelve miles in extent. The outline or boundary commences from the eminence on which I am supposed to be standing—with Brockham Hill, whose steep was planted by the late duke of Norfolk, and whence the chain extends away towards the great Brighton road. Next in the curve are Betchworth Castle and Park, with majestic avenues of limes and elms, and fine old chestnut-trees. Adjoining, is the Deepdene, the classical seat of the author of "Anastasius," a place, says Salmon, "well calculated for the religious rites of the Celts," and consecrated by the philosophical pursuits of the Hon. Charles Howard, who built an oratory and laboratory, and died here in 1714. Next are several fir-crowned ridges, which shelter Bury Hill, the mansion of Mr. Barclay, the opulent brewer; whence you ascend the opposite line of hills, till you reach Denbies, nearly facing the most prominent point of Box Hill. This elegant seat is the abode of Mr. Denison, one of the county members, and brother of the Marchioness of Conyngham. The second range or ledge, beneath Denbies, is the celebrated Dorking lime-works. The transition to the Norbury Hills, already mentioned, is now very short, which completes the outline of the view. It should, however, be remarked that the scenery within this range can be distinctly enjoyed without the aid of art; whilst beyond it the prospect extends, and fades away in the South Downs on one hand, and beyond the metropolis on the other.

The little parterre to be described, includes the sheltered town of Dorking, environed with rich lawny slopes, variegated with villas in the last taste; and little heights, from whose clustering foliage peeps the cottage roof of humble life. But the Paradise immediately at the foot of Box Hill is the gem of the whole scene, and is one of the most perfect pictures of rural beauty which pen or pencil can attempt. It appears like an assemblage of every rural charm in a few acres, in whose disposal nature has done much, and art but little. Park, lawn, woody walk, slope, wilderness and dell are among its varieties; and its quiet is only broken by the sluggish stream of the Mole. Adjoining is a little inn, more like one of the picturesque auberges of the continent than an English house of cheer. The grounds are ornamented with rustic alcoves, boscages, and a bowery walk, all in good taste. Here hundreds of tourists pass a portion of "the season," as in a "loop-hole of retreat." In the front of the inn, however, the stream of life glides fast; and a little past it, the road crosses the Mole by Burford Bridge, and winds with geometrical accuracy through the whole of this hasty sketch.

PHILO

NOTES OF A READER

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER AND OTHER POEMS

We usually leave criticism to the grey-beards, or such as have passed the viginti annorum lucubrationes of reviewing. It kindles so many little heart-burnings and jealousies, that we rejoice it is not part of our duty. To be sure, we sometimes take up a book in real earnest, read it through, and have our say upon its merits; but this is only a gratuitous and occasional freak, just to keep up our oracular consequence. In the present case, we do not feel disposed to exercise this privilege, further than in a very few words—merely to say that Mr. Robert Montgomery has published a volume of Poems under the above title—that the poems are of unequal merit, and that like Virgil, his excellence lies in describing scenes of darkness.

The "Universal Prayer" is a devotional outpouring of a truly poetical soul, with as much new imagery as the subject would admit; and if scriptural poems be estimated in the ratio of scriptural sermons, the merit of the former is of the first order.2

From the other poems we have detached the following beautiful specimens:—

CONSUMPTION.

With step as noiseless as the summer air,Who comes in beautiful decay?—her eyesDissolving with a feverish glow of light,Her nostrils delicately closed, and onHer cheek a rosy tint, as if the tipOf Beauty's finger faintly press'd it there,—Alas! Consumption is her name.Thou loved and loving one!From the dark languish of thy liquid eye,So exquisitely rounded, darts a rayOf truth, prophetic of thine early doom;And on thy placid cheek there is a printOf death,—the beauty of consumption there.Few note that fatal bloom; for bless'd by all,Thou movest through thy noiseless sphere, the life,Of one,—the darling of a thousand hearts.Yet in the chamber, o'er some graceful taskWhen delicately bending, oft unseen,Thy mother marks then with that musing glanceThat looks through cunning time, and sees thee stretch'dA shade of being, shrouded for the tomb.The Day is come, led gently on by Death;With pillow'd head all gracefully reclined,And grape-like curls in languid clusters wreath'd,Within a cottage room she sits to die;Where from the window, in a western view,Majestic ocean rolls.—A summer eveShines o'er the earth, and all the glowing airStirs faintly, like a pulse; against the shoreThe waves unrol them with luxurious joy,While o'er the midway deep she looks, where likeA sea god glares the everlasting SunO'er troops of billows marching in his beam!—From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, her eyesAre lifted, bright with wonder and with awe,Till through each vein reanimation rolls!'Tis past; and now her filmy glance is fix'dUpon the heavens, as though her spirit gazedOn that immortal world, to which 'tis bound:The sun hath sunk.—her soul hath fled withoutA pang, and left her lovely in her death,And beautiful as an embodied dream.

MORTALITY.

All that we love and feel on Nature's face,Bear dim relations to our common doom.The clouds that blush, and die a beamy death,Or weep themselves away in rain,—the streamsThat flow along in dying music,—leavesThat fade, and drop into the frosty armsOf Winter, there to mingle with dead flowers,—Are all prophetic of our own decay.

BEAUTY

How oft, as unregarded on a throngOf lovely creatures, in whose liquid eyesThe heart-warm feelings bathe, I've look'dWith all a Poet's passion, and have wish'dThat years might never pluck their graceful smiles—How often Death, as with a viewless wand,Has touch'd the scene, and witch'd it to a tomb!Where Beauty dwindled to a ghastly wreck,And spirits of the Future seem'd to cry,—Thus will it be when Time has wreak'd revenge.

MELANCHOLY.

When mantled with the melancholy glowOf eve, she wander'd oft: and when the wind,Like a stray infant down autumnal dalesRoam'd wailingly, she loved to mourn and muse:To commune with the lonely orphan flowers,And through sweet Nature's ruin trace her own.

VISION OF HEAVEN.

An empyrean infinitely vastAnd irridescent, roof'd with rainbows, whoseTransparent gleams like water-shadows shone,Before me lay: Beneath this dazzling vault—I felt, but cannot paint the splendour there!Glory, beyond the wonder of the heartTo dream, around interminably blazed.A spread of fields more beautiful than skiesFlush'd with the flowery radiance of the west;Valleys in greenest glory, deck'd with treesThat trembled music to the ambrosial airsThat chanted round them,—vein'd with glossy streams,That gush'd, like feelings from a raptured soul:Such was the scenery;—with garden walks,Delight of angels and the blest, where flowersPerennial bloom, and leaping fountains breathe,Like melted gems, a gleaming mist around!Here fruits for ever ripe, on radiant boughs,Droop temptingly; here all that eye and heartEnrapts, in pure perfection is enjoy'd;And here o'er flowing paths with agate paved,Immortal Shapes meander and commune.While with permissive gaze I glanced the scene,A whelming tide of rich-toned music roll'd,Waking delicious echoes, as it woundFrom Melody's divinest fount! All heavenGlow'd bright, as, like a viewless river, swell'dThe deepening music!—Silence came again!And where I gazed, a shrine of cloudy fireFlamed redly awful; round it Thunder walk'd,And from it Lightning look'd out most sublime!Here throned in unimaginable blissAnd glory, sits The One Eternal Power,Creator, Lord, and Life of All: Again,Stillness ethereal reign'd, and forth appear'dElysian creatures robed in fleecy light,Together flocking from celestial haunts,And mansions of purpureal mould; the HostOf heaven assembled to adore with harpAnd hymn, the First and Last, the Living God;They knelt,—a universal choir, and glow'dMore beauteous while they breathed the chant divine,And Hallelujah! Hallelujah! peal'd,And thrill'd the concave with harmonious joy.

VISION OF HELL.

Apart, upon a throne of living fireThe Fiend was seated; in his eye there shoneThe look that dared Omnipotence; the lightOf sateless vengeance, and sublime despair.—He sat amid a burning world, and sawTormented myriads, whose blaspheming shrieksWere mingled with the howl of hidden floods,And Acherontine groans; of all the host,The only dauntless he. As o'er the wildHe glanced, the pride of agony enduredAwoke, and writhed through all his giant frame,That redden'd, and dilated, like a sun!Till moved by some remember'd bliss, or joyOf paradisal hours, or to supplyThe cravings of infernal wrath,—he badeThe roar of Hell be hush'd,—and silence was!He called the cursed,—and they flash'd from caveAnd wild—from dungeon and from den they came,And stood an unimaginable massOf spirits, agonized with burning pangs:In silence stood they, while the Demon gazedOn all, and communed with departed Time,From whence his vengeance such a harvest reap'd.

BEAUTIFUL INFLUENCES.

Who hath not felt the magic of a voice,—Its spirit haunt him in romantic hours?Who hath not heard from Melody's own lipsSounds that become a music to his mind?—Music is heaven! and in the festive dome,When throbs the lyre, as if instinct with life,And some sweet mouth is full of song,—how soonA rapture flows from eye to eye, from heartTo heart—while floating from the past, the formsWe love are recreated, and the smileThat lights the cheek is mirror'd on the heart!So beautiful the influence of sound,There is a sweetness in the homely chimeOf village bells: I love to hear them rollUpon the breeze; like voices from the dead,They seem to hail us from a viewless world.PERSECUTION OF THE JEWS

We know it to be a fact, that a Jew, an artist of reputation, who had conceived a great confidence in a Christian engaged in the promotion of the conversion of the Israelites, revealed to him, that both he and his brother had been Christians from their childhood from having been bred up amongst Christians, but were too indignant at the treatment which they and their brethren met with at Christian hands, to profess Christianity; and he earnestly pleaded, as essential to their being induced to receive the gospel, that those who participate in the attempt should approach them with a language of decided affection for Israel.—Q. Rev.

ABSENTEES

Soon become detached from all habitual employments and duties; the salutary feeling of home is lost; early friendships are dissevered, and life becomes a vague and restless state, freed, it may seem, from many ties, but yet more destitute of the better and purer pleasures of existence.

ITINERANT OPERAS

The first performance of the opera seria at Rome, in 1606, consisted of scenes in recitative and airs, exhibited in a cart during the carnival.

THE GAMUT

Guido D'Arezzo, a monk of the 13th century, in the solitude of his convent, made the grand discovery of counterpoint, or the science of harmony, as distinguished from melody; he also invented the present system of notation, and gave those names to the sounds of the diatonic scale still in use:—ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si; these being the first syllables of the first six lines of a hymn to St. John the Baptist, written in monkish Latin; and they seem to have been adopted without any special reason, from the caprice of the musician.—Foreign Rev.

It is said that the first church was erected at Glastonbury; and this tradition may seem to deserve credit, because it was not contradicted in those ages when other churches would have found it profitable to advance a similar pretension. The building is described as a rude structure of wicker-work, like the dwellings of the people in those days, and differing from them only in its dimensions, which were threescore feet in length, and twenty-six in breadth. An abbey was afterwards erected there, one of the finest of those edifices, and one of the most remarkable for the many interesting circumstances connected with it. The destruction of this beautiful and venerable fabric is one of the crimes by which our reformation was sullied.—Southey.

GHOST STORY, BY M.G. LEWIS

A gentleman journeying towards the house of a friend, who lived on the skirts of an extensive forest, in the east of Germany, lost his way. He wandered for some time among the trees, when he saw a light at a distance. On approaching it he was surprised to observe that it proceeded from the interior of a ruined monastery. Before he knocked at the gate he thought it proper to look through the window. He saw a number of cats assembled round a small grave, four of whom were at that moment letting down a coffin with a crown upon it. The gentleman startled at this unusual sight, and, imagining that he had arrived at the retreats of fiends or witches, mounted his horse and rode away with the utmost precipitation. He arrived at his friend's house at a late hour, who sat up waiting for him. On his arrival his friend questioned him as to the cause of the traces of agitation visible in his face. He began to recount his adventures after much hesitation, knowing that it was scarcely possible that his friend should give faith to his relation. No sooner had he mentioned the coffin with the crown upon it, than his friend's cat, who seemed to have been lying asleep before the fire, leaped up, crying out, "Then I am king of the cats;" and then scrambled up the chimney, and was never seen more.

RIDICULOUS MISTAKE

A quantity of Worcestershire china being sent to the Nawaab at Lucknow, in India, from England, he was as impatient to open it as a child would be with a new plaything; and immediately gave orders for invitations to be sent to the whole settlement for a breakfast, à la fourchette, next morning. Tables were accordingly spread for upwards of a hundred persons, including his ministers and officers of state. Nothing could be more splendid than the general appearance of this entertainment; but the dismay may be more easily imagined than described, on discovering that the servants had mistaken certain utensils for milk-bowls, and had actually placed about twenty of them, filled with that beverage, along the centre of the table. The consequence was, the English part of the company declined taking any; upon which the Nawaab innocently remarked, "I thought that the English were fond of milk." Some of them had much difficulty to keep their countenances.