The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 358, February 28, 1829

WITNESSES

The protracted proceedings of our criminal courts are productive of one serious evil, which we have never seen noticed. Domestic servants, and others who appear as witnesses, must frequently wait, day after day, in the court-yard and avenues, or in the adjacent public-houses, until the cases on which they have been subpoenaed are called for trial. During these intervals they converse and become acquainted with others in attendance, a large proportion of whom are generally friends or associates of the prisoners. It is thus that the most dangerous intimacies have been formed; and many instances have occurred where servants, who have been seen in the courts as witnesses for a prosecution, have soon afterwards appeared there as prisoners.

YOU'LL COME TO OUR BALL

"Comment! c'est lui?—que je le regarde encore!—c'est que vraiment il est bien changé; n'est pas, mon papa?"—Les premiers Amours.

You'll come to our Ball—since we parted,I've thought of you, more than I'll say;Indeed, I was half broken-hearted,For a week, when they took you away.Fond Fancy brought back to my slumbersOur walks on the Ness and the Den,And echoed the musical numbersWhich you used to sing to me then.I know the romance, since it's over,'Twere idle, or worse, to recall:—I know you're a terrible rover:But, Clarence,—you'll come to our Ball!It's only a year, since at CollegeYou put on your cap and your gown;But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge,And chang'd from the spur to the crown:The voice that was best when it falteredIs fuller and firmer in tone;And the smile that should never have altered,—Dear Clarence,—it is not your own:Your cravat was badly selected,Your coat don't become you at all;And why is your hair so neglected?You must have it curled for our Ball.I've often been out upon Haldon,To look for a covey with Pup:I've often been over to Shaldon,To see how your boat is laid up:In spite of the terrors of Aunty,I've ridden the filly you broke;And I've studied your sweet, little Dante,In the shade of your favourite oak:When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,I sat in your love of a shawl;And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence,Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.You'll find us all changed since you vanished:We've set up a National School,And waltzing is utterly banished—And Ellen has married a fool—The Major is going to travel—Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout—The walk is laid down with fresh gravel—Papa is laid up with the gout:And Jane has gone on with her easels,And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul;And Fanny is sick of the measles,—And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball.You'll meet all your Beauties;—the Lily,And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm,And Lucy, who made me so sillyAt Dawlish, by taking your arm—Miss Manners, who always abused you,For talking so much about Hock—And her sister who often amused you,By raving of rebels and Rock;And something which surely would answer,A heiress, quite fresh from Bengal—So, though you were seldom a dancer,You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball.But out on the world!—from the flowersIt shuts out the sunshine of truth;It blights the green leaves in the bowers,It makes an old age of our youth:And the flow of our feeling, once in it,Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,Grows harder by sullen degrees—Time treads o'er the grave of Affection;Sweet honey is turned into gall.Perhaps you have no recollectionThat ever you danced at our Ball.You once could be pleased with our ballads—To-day you have critical ears:You once could be charmed with our salads—Alas! you've been dining with Peers—You trifled and flirted with many–You've forgotten the when and the how—There was one you liked better than any—Perhaps you've forgotten her now.But of those you remember most newly,Of those who delight or enthrall,None love you a quarter so trulyAs some you will find at our Ball.They tell me you've many who flatter,Because of your wit and your song—They tell me (and what does it matter?)You like to be praised by the throng—They tell me you're shadowed with laurel,They tell me you're loved by a Blue—They tell me you're sadly immoral,Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!But to me you are still what I found youBefore you grew clever and tall—And you'll think of the spell that once bound you—And you'll come—won't you come?—to our Ball!London Magazine.

PARTY

Two dogs cannot worry one another in the streets without instantly forming each his party among the crowd; much more then does the principle apply to higher contests.

The Anecdote Gallery

MOLIERE

At the town of Pezénas they still show an elbow-chair of Molière's (as at Montpelier they show the gown of Rabelais,) in which the poet, it is said, ensconced in a corner of a barber's shop, would sit for the hour together, silently watching the air, gestures, and grimaces of the village politicians, who, in those days, before coffee-houses were introduced into France, used to congregate in this place of resort. The fruits of this study may be easily discerned in those original draughts of character from the middling and lower classes with which his pieces everywhere abound.

Molière's celebrated farce of Les Précieuses Ridicules; a piece in only one act, but which, by its inimitable satire, effected such a revolution in the literary taste of his countrymen, as has been accomplished by few works of a more imposing form—may be considered as the basis of the dramatic glory of Molière, and the dawn of good comedy in France. The satire aimed at a coterie of wits who set themselves up as arbiters of taste and fashion, and was welcomed with enthusiastic applause, most of them being present at the first exhibition, to behold the fine fabric, which they had been so painfully constructing, brought to the ground by a single blow. "And these follies," said Ménage to Chapelin, "which you and I see so finely criticised here, are what we have been so long admiring. We must go home and burn our idols." "Courage, Molière," cried an old man from the pit; "this is genuine comedy." The price of the seats was doubled from the time of the second representation. Nor were the effects of the satire merely transitory. It converted an epithet of praise into one of reproach; and a femme precieuse, a style precieux, a ton precieux, once so much admired, have ever since been used only to signify the most ridiculous affectation. There was, in truth, however, quite as much luck as merit, in this success of Molière; whose production exhibits no finer raillery, or better sustained dialogue, than are to be found in many of his subsequent pieces. It assured him, however, of his own strength, and disclosed to him the mode in which he should best hit the popular taste. "I have no occasion to study Plautus or Terence any longer," said he, "I must henceforth, study the world." The world accordingly was his study; and the exquisite models of character which it furnished him, will last as long as it shall endure.

Though an habitual valetudinarian, Molière relied almost wholly on the temperance of his diet for the reestablishment of his health. "What use do you make of your physician?" said the king to him one day. "We chat together, Sire," said the poet. "He gives me his prescriptions; I never follow them; and so I get well."

In Molière's time, the profession of a comedian was but lightly esteemed in France at this period. Molière experienced the inconveniences resulting from this circumstance, even after his splendid literary career had given him undoubted claims to consideration. Most of our readers no doubt, are acquainted with the anecdote of Belloc, an agreeable poet of the court, who, on hearing one of the servants in the royal household refuse to aid the author of the Tartuffe in making the king's bed, courteously requested "the poet to accept his services for that purpose." Madame Campan's anecdote of a similar courtesy, on the part of Louis the Fourteenth, is also well known; who, when several of these functionaries refused to sit at table with the comedian, kindly invited him to sit down with him, and, calling in some of his principal courtiers, remarked that "he had requested the pleasure of Molière's company at his own table, as it was not thought quite good enough for his officers." This rebuke had the desired effect.

Molière died in 1673, he had been long affected by a pulmonary complaint, and it was only by severe temperance that he was enabled to preserve even a moderate degree of health. At the commencement of the year, his malady sensibly increased. At this very season, he composed his Malade Imaginaire; the most whimsical, and perhaps the most amusing of the compositions, in which he has indulged his raillery against the faculty. On the 17th of February, being the day appointed for its fourth representation, his friends would have dissuaded him from appearing, in consequence of his increasing indisposition. But he persisted in his design, alleging "that more than fifty poor individuals depended for their daily bread on its performance." His life fell a sacrifice to his benevolence. The exertions which he was compelled to make in playing the principal part of Argan aggravated his distemper, and as he was repeating the word juro, in the concluding ceremony, he fell into a convulsion, which he vainly endeavoured to disguise from the spectators under a forced smile. He was immediately carried to his house, in the Rue de Richelieu, now No. 34. A violent fit of coughing, on his arrival, occasioned the rupture of a blood-vessel; and seeing his end approaching, he sent for two ecclesiastics of the parish of St. Eustace, to which he belonged, to administer to him the last offices of religion. But these worthy persons having refused their assistance, before a third, who had been sent for, could arrive, Molière, suffocated with the effusion of blood, had expired in the arms of his family.

Molière died soon after entering upon his fifty-second year. He is represented to have been somewhat above the middle stature, and well proportioned; his features large, his complexion dark, and his black, bushy eye-brows so flexible, as to admit of his giving an infinitely comic expression to his physiognomy. He was the best actor of his own generation, and by his counsels, formed the celebrated Baron, the best of the succeeding. He played all the range of his own characters, from Alceste to Sganarelle; though he seems to have been peculiarly fitted for broad comedy.

He produced all his pieces, amounting to thirty, in the short space of fifteen years. He was in the habit of reading these to an old female domestic, by the name of La Forêt; on whose unsophisticated judgment he greatly relied. On one occasion when he attempted to impose upon her the production of a brother author, she plainly told him that he had never written it. Sir Walter Scott may have had this habit of Molière's in his mind, when he introduced a similar expedient into his "Chronicles of the Canongate." For the same reason, our poet used to request the comedians to bring their children with them, when he recited to them a new play. The peculiar advantage of this humble criticism, in dramatic compositions, is obvious. Alfieri himself, as he informs us, did not disdain to resort to it.

Molière was naturally of a reserved and taciturn temper; insomuch that his friend Boileau used to call him the Contemplateur. Strangers who had expected to recognise in his conversation the sallies of wit which distinguished his dramas, went away disappointed. The same thing is related of La Fontaine. The truth is, that Molière went into society as a spectator, not as an actor; he found there the studies for the characters, which he was to transport upon the stage; and he occupied himself with observing them. The dreamer, La Fontaine, lived too in a world of his own creation. His friend, Madame de la Sablière, paid to him this untranslateable compliment; "En vérité, mon cher La Fontaine, vous seriez bien bête, si vous n'aviez pas tant d'esprit." These unseasonable reveries brought him, it may be imagined, into many whimsical adventures. The great Corneille, too, was distinguished by the same apathy. A gentleman dined at the same table with him for six months, without suspecting the author of the "Cid."

Molière enjoyed the closest intimacy with the great Condé, the most distinguished ornament of the court of Louis the Fourteenth; to such an extent indeed, that the latter directed, that the poet should never be refused admission to him, at whatever hour he might choose to pay his visit. His regard for his friend was testified by his remark, rather more candid than courteous, to an Abbé of his acquaintance, who had brought him an epitaph, of his own writing, upon the deceased poet. "Would to heaven," said the prince, "that he were in a condition to bring me yours."

DOMESTIC HABITS OF NAPOLEON

At nine o'clock the emperor came out of his sleeping apartments, dressed for the whole day. First the officers on duty were admitted, and received their orders for the day. Then the grandes entrees and the officers of the household not on duty were introduced; and if any one had any particular communication to make, he staid till the public audience was concluded. At half after nine o'clock Napoleon breakfasted, on a small mahogany table with one leg, and covered with a napkin. The prefect of the palace stood close by this table, with his hat under his arm. The breakfast rarely lasted beyond eight minutes. Sometimes, however, men of science or literature, or distinguished artists, were admitted at this time, with whom Napoleon is represented to have conversed in an easy and lively style. Amongst these were M. Monge, Costaz, Denon, Bertholet, Corvisart, David, Gerard, Isabey, Talma, and Fontaine. Dinner was served at six o'clock; the emperor and the empress dined alone on the common days of the week, but on Sunday all the imperial family attended, upon which occasion Napoleon, the empress, and Madame Mère had arm-chairs, and the rest chairs without arms. There was only one course. The emperor drank no wine but Chambertin, and that usually mixed with water. Dinner lasted in general from fifteen to twenty minutes. All this time the prefect of the palace had to superintend the affair en grand, and to answer any questions put to him. In the drawing-room a page presented to the emperor a waiter with a cup and a sugar-stand. Le chef d'office poured out the coffee; the empress took the cup from the emperor; the page and the chef d'office retired; the prefect waited till the empress had poured the coffee into the saucer and given it to Napoleon. After this the emperor went to his papers again, and the empress played at cards. Sometimes he would come and talk a little while with the people of the household in the apartments of the empress, but not often, and he never staid long. Upon his retiring, the officers on duty attended the audience du coucher, and received their orders for the morrow. This was the ordinary economy of the emperor's time, when not with the army.

Napoleon read the English newspapers every day in French, and M. de Bausset says the translation was rigorously exact. One day in January, 1811, the emperor gave some of these extracts to de B., and ordered him to read them aloud during dinner. The prefect got on pretty well, till he stumbled at some uncouth epithets, with which he was puzzled how to deal, especially in the presence of the empress, and a room full of domestics. He blew his nose, and skipped the words—"No!" said Napoleon, "read out! you will find many more." "I should be wanting—" "Read, I tell you," repeated the emperor, "read every thing!" At last de B. ran upon "tyrant or despot," which he commuted for "emperor." Napoleon caught the paper out of his hands, read the real phrase aloud, and then ordered M. de B. to continue. These translations used to be made by Maret, Duke of Bassano.

The Gatherer

"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."SHAKSPEARE.

RETENTIVE MEMORY

The historian, Fuller, in 1607, had a most retentive memory; he could repeat 500 strange, unconnected words, after twice hearing them; and a sermon verbatim, after reading it once. He undertook, after passing from Temple Bar to the farthest part of Cheapside and back again, to mention all the signs over the shops on both sides of the streets, repeated them backwards and forwards, and performed the task with great exactness.

J.T.S.

EVE'S TOMB

About two miles northward of Djidda is shown the tomb of Howa (Eve), the mother of mankind; it is, as I was informed, a rude structure of stone, about four feet in length, two or three feet in height, and as many in breadth; thus resembling the tomb of Noah, seen in the valley of Bekaa, in Syria—Burckhardt's Travels in Arabia.

ACROSTIC ON THE EYES

E nchanting features! how thy beauties charm;Y e magic orbs, in which for ever dwellE ach varying passion, from the bosom warm,S ilently ye express what language ne'er, can tell.C.J.T.

VOLTAIRE

When Voltaire was once ridiculing our immortal author of "Paradise Lost," in the presence of Dr. Young, it is said the latter delivered the following extempore:

"Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin,Thou seem'st a Milton, with his Death and Sin."R.Y.

VENTILATION

Garrick told Cibber, "that his pieces were the best ventilators to his theatre at Drury Lane; for as soon as any of them were played, the audience directly left the house."

ACROSTIC TO BRAHAM

B ear not away ye gales that sound!R apture be mute, nor breathe one sigh!A ttentive angels hover round—H eaven listens to his melody;A nd all the spheres' harmonious stringsM ove in celestial strains when Braham sings!G.J.T.

1

See No. 356 of the MIRROR, "Valentine's Day."

2

See MIRROR, No. 306, p 234.

3

WHITEHALL was originally erected in the year 1243, by Hubert de Burgh, Earl of Kent, who bequeathed it to the House of the Blackfriars, near "Oldborne," where he was buried. It was afterwards purchased by Walter Gray, Archbishop of York, who made it his town residence, and at his death, left it to that See, whence it acquired the name of York House. Cardinal Wolsey, on his preferment to the Archbishoprick of York, resided here, in great state; but on his premunire it was forfeited (or as some authors assert had been previously given by him,) to the king. Henry VIII. made it his principal residence, and greatly enlarged it, the ancient and royal palace of Westminster having fallen to decay; at the same time he enclosed the adjoining park of St. James's, which appertained to this palace as well as to that of St. James's, which that monarch had erected on the site of an ancient hospital, founded before the conquest for "leprous sisters." For some curious details of Wolsey's magnificence and ostentation during his residence at York Place, we refer the reader to the second volume of Mr. Brayley's Londiniana.

4

Hall's "Chronicle," p. 794. edit. 1809.

5

Holinshed says, "he married priuilie the Lady Anne Bullougne the same daie, being the 14th daie of Nouember, and the feast daie of Saint Erkenwald; which marriage was kept so secret, that verie few knew it till Easter next insuing, when it was perceiued that she was with child."—"Chronicles," vol. iii. p. 929. edit. 1587.

6

Hume and Henry place the marriage in November. Lingard and Sharon Turner in January.

7

Vide Stow's "Annals," by Howes, p. 562. edit. 1633. "King Henry priuily married the Lady Anne Boleigne on the fiue and twentieth of January, being St. Paul's daie: Mistresse Anne Sauage bore vp Queene Annes traine, and was herselfe shortly after marryed to the Lord Barkley. Doctor Rowland Lee, that marryed the King to Queene Anne, was made Bishop of Chester, then Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, and President of Wales."

8

Harleian MSS. No. 6148. This letter is quoted by Burnet in the first volume of his "History of the Reformation:" it may be found printed entire in the eighteenth volume of the "Archæologia:" and also in the second volume of Ellis's "Original Letters," first series, p. 33. The MS. consists of a rough copy-book of the Archbishop's letters, in his own hand writing.

9

Wyatt's Life of "Queen Anne Boleigne." Vide Appendix to Cavendish's "Life of Wolsey," by Singer, vol. ii. p. 200. This interesting memoir was written at the close of the sixteenth century, (with the view of subverting the calumnies of Sanders,) by George Wyatt, Esq, grandson of the poet of the same name, and sixth son and heir of Sir Thomas Wyatt, who was decapitated in the reign of Queen Mary, for his insurrection.

10

"Annales," p. 51. edit. 1616. "Ulterioris moræ perlæsus Rex, Boleniam suam iam tandem Januarij 25, duxit uxorem, sed clauculum, & paucissimis testibus adhibitis." Polydor Virgil makes no mention of the period of the marriage, he only says, "in matrimonium duxit Annam Bulleyne, quam paulò antè amare cæperat. ex quâ suscepit filiam nomine Elizabeth." p. 689. edit. 1570.

11

Hume's "History of England," vol. iv. p 3.

12

Lingard's "History of England," vol. iv. p. 190. 4to edit.

13

Vide Speed's "Annals," p. 1029.

14

"Life and Raigne of Henry the Eighth," p. 341. edit. 1649.

15

Harleian MSS. No. 787.

16

Queen Elizabeth was born at the ancient Palace of Greenwich, or as it was then called, "the Manner of Plesaunce," one of the favourite residences of Henry VIII.

17

Rutherglen, in Lanarkshire, has also long been celebrated for baking sour cakes—See vol. X. MIRROR, p 316.—I am of opinion these cakes are of precisely the same make and origin as those to which the writer alludes under the above name of "sour cakes," which I presume he must have forgotten the name of. I should have mentioned, that when these cakes (for they are frequently called avver cakes) are baked, the fire must be of wood; they never bake them over any other fire. These cakes are of a remarkably strong, sour taste. I should further note, that the girdle is attached to a "crane" affixed in the chimney.

18

Quasi Townsend.