The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 341, November 15, 1828

But to detail all the absurdities and indecencies of these revered artists, whether limners, or carvers in wood, were endless. Their anachronisms, however, have been of considerable service to the antiquary. Sculpture has its monstrosities, architecture its incongruities, though not so palpable as those of painting, because the art is less generally understood by the common observer, or rather pictorial errors are in general easily detected by the eye alone, and sometimes by the most commonly informed mind; but architectural defects are only recognisable by those who have studied the principles of this fine art. Poetry, I am sorry to say, is not exempt from bulls and blunders, of various kinds and degrees of enormity; many of which have been, from time to time, exposed in a very amusing manner. I shall therefore, in conclusion, crave the liberty of producing one which has lately come under my own cognizance. A modern poet, whose compositions are fraught with beauty and genius, sings:—

"Then swooped the winds, that hurl the giant oakFrom Snowdon's altitude."

And another, in stanzas of extreme strength and eloquent description, describes a storm at night "among the mountains of Snowdon," with these expressions:—

——"The bird of nightScreams from her straw-built nest, as from the wombOf infant death, and wheels her drowsy flightAmid the pine-clad rocks, with wonder and afright."——"The night-breeze diesFaint, on the mountain-ash leaves that surroundSnowdon's dark peaks."

Now, a painful pilgrimage of eleven hours, up Snowdon and back again, enables me to declare that had oaks, pines, and service-trees adorned that appalling and volcanic chaos, five or six years since, some storm sufficient to have shattered the universe, must have swept them all away, ere I looked upon that dreary assemblage of rocks which seems like the ruins of a world. I ascended from the Capel Cerig side of the mountain, and therefore venture not to say what may be the aspect of the Llanberries; but the only verdure I beheld, was that of short, brown heathy grass, a few stunted furze-bushes, and patches of that vividly green moss, which is spongy and full of water. The only living inhabitants of these wilds were a few ruffian-like miners, two or three black slugs, and a scanty flock of straggling half-starved mountain sheep, with their brown, ropy coats. The guide told me, that even eagles, had for three centuries abandoned the desolate crags of Snowdon; and as for its being a haunt for owls, neither bird nor mouse could reside there to supply such with subsistence. Snowdon appeared to me too swampy to be drained for cultivation in many parts, and in most others its marble, granite and shingles, forbade the idea of spontaneous vegetation. I am sorry for the poets, having a sincere regard for the fraternity, but Snowdon is not adorned with pines, firs, larches, and service-trees, like parts of the Alps; it is not wooded like the romantic Pyrenees, nor luxuriantly fertile in fruits, flowers, and grain, like the terrible, but sylvan Etna.

M.L.B.

OLD POETS

DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN

["A Lover of Old English Poetry," has, in the last London Magazine, a short paper on DRUMMOND of HAWTHORNDEN, a name dear to every poetical mind, and every lover of early song. His intention, he says, is "rather to excite than satiate" the taste of his readers for the poetry of Drummond,—an object in which we cordially agree, and would contribute our offering, had not the task, in the present instance, been already so ably performed. We cannot, therefore, do better than introduce to our readers a few of his judicious selections. They are exquisite specimens of the evergreen freshness of old poetry, and by their contrast with contemporary effusions will contribute to the mosaic of our sheet. By the way, we hear of a sprinkling of the antique world of letters in some of the "Annuals"—an introduction which reflects high credit on the taste of the editors, and serves to prove that sicklied sentimentalities, like all other sweets, when enjoyed to excess, will cloy the fancy, but not so as entirely to unfit the mind for a higher species of intellectual enjoyment. We would have old and new alternate in the literary wreath, lest, by losing the comparison, the "bright lights" of other times should be treated with irreverence and neglect.]

FROM THE "HYMN ON THE FAIREST FAIR."

I feel my bosom glow with wonted fires:Raised from the vulgar press, my mind aspires,Wing'd with high thoughts, unto His praise to climbFrom deep Eternity who call'd forth time:—That ESSENCE, which, not mov'd, makes each thing move,—Uncreate beauty—all-creating love…Ineffable, all-powerful GOD, all free,—Thou only liv'st, and all things live by thee…Perfection's sum—prime cause of every cause,Midst and beginning, where all good doth pause…Incomprehensible, by reachless height;And unperceived, by excessive light.O King! whose greatness none can comprehend,Whose boundless goodness does to all extend,—Light of all beauty, ocean without ground,That standing, flowest—giving, dost abound…Great Architect—Lord of this universe,—That sight is blinded would thy greatness pierce.

Then follows this noble simile, nobly sustained, and with a flow and harmony of verse not common in the poets of his period:—

Ah! as a pilgrim who the Alps doth pass,Or Atlas' temples crown'd with winter glass,—The airy Caucasus, the Apennine,Pyrenees' cliffs, where sun doth never shine;—When he some craggy hills hath overwent,Begins to think on rest, his journey spent,Till mounting some tall mountain he do findMore heights before him than he left behind,—With halting pace so while I would me raiseTo the unbounded limits of Thy praise,Some part of way I thought to have o'errun;But now I see how scarce I have begun—With wonders new my spirits range possest,And, wandering wayless, in a maze them rest.Oh! that the cause which doth consume our joyWould the remembrance of it too destroy!

LIFE

Woods cut again do grow:Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done,But we, once dead, do no more see the sun!What fair is wroughtFalls in the prime, and passeth like a thought.

SONNET.—SPRING

Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train,—Thy head with flame, thy mantle bright with flowers:The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,—The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers;—Sweet Spring, thou com'st—but ah! my pleasant hours,And happy days, with thee come not again!The sad memorials only of my painDo with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.Thou art the same which still thou wert before,Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair,But she whose breath embalmed thy wholesome airIs gone—nor gold, nor gems can her restore,Neglected virtue—seasons, go and come,When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.

SONNET

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,Of winters past, or coming, void of care,Well pleased with delights which present are,—Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers,To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowersThou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,—A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not drivenQuite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raiseTo airs of spheres—yes, and to angels lays!

SLEEP

Now while the Night her sable veil hath spread,And silently her resty coach doth roll,Rousing with her, from Thetis' azure bed,Those starry nymphs which dance about the pole;While Cynthia, in purest cypress clad.The Latmian shepherd in a trance descries,And, looking pale from height of all the skies,She dyes her beauties in a blushing red;While Sleep, in triumph, closed hath all eyes,And birds and beasts a silence sweet do keep,And Proteus' monstrous people in the deep,—The winds and waves, hush'd up, to rest entice,—I wake, I turn, I weep, oppress'd with pain,Perplex'd in the meanders of my brain.Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd—Lo! by thy charming rod, all breathing thingsLie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd,And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wingsThou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest.Since I am thine, O come,—but with that faceTo inward light, which thou art wont to shew—With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeathI long to kiss the image of my death!
Hark, happy lovers, hark!This first and last of joys,This sweetener of annoys,This nectar of the gods,You call a kiss, is with itself at odds:And half so sweet is not,In equal measure gotAt light of sun as it is in the dark:Hark, happy lovers, hark!

NOTES OF A READER

INDIAN FEAST OF SOULS

Every three or four years, by a general agreement, the Indians disinter the bodies of such as have died within that time; finding the soft parts mouldered away, they carefully clean the bones, and each family wrap up the remains of their departed friends in new fur. They are then laid together in one mound or barrow, and the ceremony concludes with a feast, with dances, songs, speeches, games, and mock combats.

PALEY

We think it next to impossible for a candid unbeliever to read the Evidences of Paley, in their proper order, unshaken. His Natural Theology will open the heart, that it may understand, or at least receive the Scriptures, if any thing can. It is philosophy in its highest and noblest sense; scientific, without the jargon of science; profound, but so clear that its depth is disguised. There is nothing of the "budge Doctor" here; speculations which will convince, if aught will, that "in the beginning God created the heaven and the earth," are made familiar as household words. They are brought home to the experience of every man, the most ordinary observer on the facts of nature with which he is daily conversant. A thicker clothing, for instance, is provided in winter for that tribe of animals which are covered with fur. Now, in these days, such an assertion would be backed by an appeal to some learned Rabbi of a Zoological Society, who had written a deep pamphlet, upon what he would probably call the Theory of Hair. But to whom does Paley refer us? To any dealer in rabbit skins. The curious contrivance in the bones of birds, to unite strength with lightness, is noticed. The bore is larger, in proportion to the weight of the bone, than in other animals; it is empty; the substance of the bone itself is of a closer texture. For these facts, any "operative" would quote Sir Everard Home, or Professor Cuvier, by way of giving a sort of philosophical éclat to the affair, and throwing a little learned dust in the eyes of the public. Paley, however, advises you to make your own observations when you happen to be engaged in the scientific operation of picking the leg or wing of a chicken. The very singular correspondence between the two sides of any animal, the right hand answering to the left, and so on, is touched upon, as a proof of a contriving Creator, and a very striking one it is. Well! we have a long and abstruse problem in chances worked out to show that it was so many millions, and so many odd thousands to one, that accident could not have produced the phenomenon; not a bit of it. Paley, who was probably scratching his head at the moment, offers no other confirmation of his assertion, than that it is the most difficult thing in the world to get a wig made even, seldom as it is that the face is made awry. The circulation of the blood, and the provision for its getting from the heart to the extremities, and back again, affords a singular demonstration of the Maker of the body being an admirable Master both of mechanics and hydrostatics. But what is the language in which Paley talks of this process?—technical?—that mystical nomenclature of Diaforius, which frightens country patients out of their wits, thinking, as they very naturally do, that a disease must be very horrid which involves such very horrid names? Hear our anatomist from Giggleswick.

"The aorta of a whale is larger in the bore than the main-pipe of the water-works at London Bridge; and the roaring in the passage through that pipe is inferior, in impetus and velocity, to the blood gushing from the whale's heart."

He cares not whence he fetches his illustrations, provided they are to the purpose. The laminae of the feathers of birds are kept together by teeth that hook into one another, "as a latch enters into the catch, and fastens a door." The eyes of the mole are protected by being very small, and buried deep in a cushion of skin, so that the apertures leading to them are like pin-holes in a piece of velvet, scarcely pervious to loose particles of earth. The snail without wings, feet, or thread, adheres to a stalk by a provision of sticking-plaster. The lobster, as he grows, is furnished with a way of uncasing himself of his buckler, and drawing his legs out of his boots when they become too small for him.

In this unambitious manner does Paley prosecute his high theme, drawing, as it were, philosophy from the clouds. But it is not merely the fund of entertaining knowledge which the Natural Theology contains, or the admirable address displayed in the adaption of it, which fits it for working conviction; the "sunshine of the breast," the cheerful spirit with which its benevolent author goes on his way (κυδει γαιων [Greek: kudei gaion],) this it is that carries the coldest reader captive, and constrains him to confess within himself, and even in spite of himself, "it is good for me to be here."

…We mourn over the leaves of our peaches and plum-trees, as they wither under a blight. What does Paley see in this? A legion of animated beings (for such is a blight) claiming their portion of the bounty of Nature, and made happy by our comparatively trifling privation, We are tortured by bodily pain,—Paley himself was so, even at the moment that he was thus nobly vindicating God's wisdom and ways. What of that? Pain is not the object of contrivance—no anatomist ever dreamt of explaining any organ of the body on the principle of the thumb screw; it is itself productive of good; it is seldom both violent, and long continued; and then its pauses and intermissions become positive pleasures. "It has the power of shedding a satisfaction over intervals of ease, which I believe," says this true philosopher, "few enjoyments exceed." The returns of an hospital in his neighbourhood lie before him. Does he conjure up the images of Milton's lazar-house, and sicken at the spectacle of human suffering? No—he finds the admitted 6,420—the dead, 234—the cured, 5,476; his eye settles upon the last, and he is content.

There is nothing in the world which has not more handles than one; and it is of the greatest consequence to get a habit of taking hold by the best. The bells speak as we make them; "how many a tale their music tells!" Hogarth's industrious apprentice might hear in them that he should be "Lord Mayor of London"—the idle apprentice that he should be hanged at Tyburn. The landscape looks as we see it; if we go to meet a friend, every distant object assumes his shape—

"In great and small, and round and square,'Tis Johnny, Johnny, every where."

Crabbe's lover passed over the very same heath to his mistress and from her; yet as he went, all was beauty—as he returned all was blank. The world does not more surely provide different kinds of food for different animals, than it furnishes doubts to the sceptic and hopes to the believer, as he takes it. The one, in an honest and good heart, pours out the box of ointment on a Saviour's head—the other, in the pride of his philosophy, only searches into it for a dead fly.—Q. Rev.

"ALL FOR THE BEST."

When Bernard Gilpin was summoned up to London to give an account of himself and his creed before Bonner, he chanced to break his leg on the way; and, on some persons retorting upon him a favourite saying of his own, "that nothing happens to us but what is intended for our good," and asking him whether it was for his good that he had broken his leg, he answered, "that he made no question but it was." And so it turned out, for before he was able to travel again, Queen Mary died, and he was set at liberty.

Men keep their word simply because it is right to do so. They feel it is right, and ask no further questions. Conscience carries along with it its own authority—its own credentials. The depraved appetites may rebel against it, but they are aware that it is rebellion.—Q. Rev.

ARAB HOSPITALITY

M. Pacho, the African traveller, lately arrived at Marmorica, when the rains had commenced, and the ground was preparing for the seed, and was admitted to all the rites of Arab hospitality. Invited to a great feast, he was regaled with the usual dainty of a sheep roasted whole, and eaten with the fingers; while girls, dressed as Caryatides, presented a large vase of milk, which was passed round to the company. All that was expected in return was to cover bits of paper with writing, and thus convert them into amulets; for, in his capacity of sorcerer, the Christian is supposed to possess supernatural powers.—Edinburgh Rev.

IMPROMPTU ON WASTE

By the late Edward Knight, Esq. of Drury-Lane TheatreOh! waste thou not the smallest thingCreated by Divinity;For grains of sand the mountains make,And atomics infinity.Waste thou not, then, the smallest time—'Tis imbecile infirmity;For well thou know'st, if aught thou know'st,That seconds form eternity. Forget Me Not—1829.

AN ELECTION

G.A. Steevens says an election is "madman's holiday;" but in the last Quarterly Review we find the following ludicrous supplemental illustration.

Let a stranger be introduced, for the first time, to an election, let him be shown a multitude of men reeling about the streets of a borough-town, fighting within an inch of their lives, smashing windows at the Black Bear, or where

"High in the street, o'erlooking all the place,The Rampant Lion shows his kingly face;"

and yelling like those animals in Exeter 'Change at supper time; and then let him be told that these worthies are choosing the senate of England—persons to make the laws that are to bind them and their children, property, limb, and life, and he would certainly think the process unpropitious. Yet, in spite of it all, a number of individuals are thus collected, who transact the business of the nation, and represent its various interests tolerably well. The machinery is hideous but it produces not a bad article.

SPANISH COMFORTS

In Spain, there are few or no schools in the villages and small towns, that would have the effect of releasing the minds of the natives from monkish tyranny, which at present influences their principles, and biasses their choice, with regard to political, and indeed almost all other pursuits. Nor is any attention paid to trade. The peasantry simply exist, like cattle, without any other signs of exertion, than such as the necessity of food requires. They have no idea of rising in the world; and where there is no interest there is no activity.

It appears, that in the North of Spain, so little encouragement is given to the arts, that even physicians are not able to obtain support; that prints are unsaleable, and no new publications appear but newspapers; that the tradesmen neglect their persons, very seldom shaving, and having frequently a cigar in their mouths; that the breath of the ladies smells of garlick; that the gentlemen smoke cigars in bed; that there is hardly a single manufactory in the kingdom belonging to a native in a flourishing state; that, from recent political events, the flocks have been neglected, and the wool deteriorated; that cleanliness is neglected, and rats and mice unmolested; that the porters of the most respectable houses are cobblers, who work at their trades at their doors; that women are employed in loading and unloading ships; and that they, as well as the servants in houses, carry every thing on their heads, even lighted candles, without the least fear of their being extinguished; that oxen are tied to carts by their horns; that in the inns, generally, no one can read or write but the landlords; that the constitutional soldiers, for their fare, generally took a leathern bag, (barracho,) and got it filled with red wine as sour as vinegar; not appearing to wish for meat, bread and cheese, with boiled soup, onions, and garlick, forming the substance of their frugal repasts; that no memorial is erected on the spot where the battle of Vittoria was fought in 1813; and that, in fact, there is no national feeling in the country.

THE EQUIVOCAL GENTLEMAN

Must always keep his dignity, for his dignity will not keep him. We have no objection to meet him at a dress party, or at the quarter sessions, nor to read his articles in the Edinburgh, the Quarterly, or the British Critic; but we request not his contributions for Maga, nor will Mr. North send him a general invitation to the Noctes.—Blackwood's Mag.

INTENSE COLD

The lowest temperature witnessed by Capt. Franklin in North America was on the 7th of February, of the second winter passed on the shores of Bear Lake. At eight in the morning, the mercury in the thermometer descended to 58° below zero; it had stood at -57.5°, and -57.3° in the course of that and the preceding day; between the 5th and the 8th, its general state was from -48° to -52°, though it occasionally rose to -43°. At the temperature of -52.2°, Mr. Kendall froze some mercury in the mould of a pistol-bullet, and fired it against a door at the distance of six paces. A small portion of the mercury penetrated to the depth of one-eighth of an inch, but the remainder only just lodged in the wood. The extreme height of the mercury in the tube was from 71° at noon to 73° at three o'clock.—Quarterly Rev.

PARR'S PUNNING

Of all the species of wit, punning was one which Dr. Parr disliked, and in which he seldom indulged; and yet some instances of it have been related. Reaching a book from a high shelf in his library, two other books came tumbling down; of which one, a critical work of Lambert Bos, fell upon the other, which was a volume of Hume. "See!" said he, "what has happened—procumbit humi bos." On another occasion, sitting in his room, suffering under the effects of a slight cold, when too strong a current was let in upon him, he cried out, "Stop, stop, that is too much. I am at present only par levibus ventis." At another time, a gentleman having asked him to subscribe to Dr. Busby's translation of Lucretius, he declined to do so, saying it would cost too much money; it would indeed be "Lucretius carus."—Field's Memoirs.

HOUBRAKEN'S HEADS

Houbraken, as the late Lord Orford justly observes, "was ignorant of our history, uninquisitive into the authenticity of the drawings which were transmitted to him, and engraved whatever was sent;" adducing two instances, namely, Carr, Earl of Somerset, and Secretary Thurloe, as not only spurious, but not having the least resemblance to the persons they pretend to represent. An anonymous but evidently well informed writer (in the Gentleman's Magazine) further states, that "Thurloe's, and about thirty of the others, are copied from heads painted for no one knows whom."—Lodge's Illustrated Biography.

VIRGIL'S GEORGICS

Every reader of taste knows that "glance from earth to heaven" which pervades the Georgics throughout, and that poetical almanack which the poet has made use of for pointing out the various seasons for the different operations of husbandry. Will it be believed that his Spanish translator has actually taken the trouble to convert these indications into days of the month, and inserted the result of his labours in the text?