The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 368, May 2, 1829

Various

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction / Volume 13, No. 368, May 2, 1829

CLARENDON HOUSE, PICCADILLY

The virtuous and uncompromising chancellor, the Earl of Clarendon, had a splendid mansion facing the upper end of St. James's-street, on the site of the present Grafton-street. Of this princely pile, the above is an accurate engraving. It was built by Clarendon with the stone intended for the rebuilding of St. Paul's. "He purchased the materials," says Pennant, "but a nation soured with an unsuccessful war, with fire, and with pestilence, imputed everything as a crime to this great and envied character; his enemies called it Dunkirk House, calumniating him with having built it with the money arising from the sale of that town, which had just before been given up to the French, for a large sum, by his Master."

It is true that Clarendon built this mansion in a season of discontent; but so sensible was he of his vanity and imprudence in building so large a house, and of the envy it drew upon him, that he afterwards apologized for the act; which he declares, so far exceeded the proposed expense, as to add greatly to the embarrassment of his affairs.

This mansion cost £50,000. and 300 men were employed in the building. It was purchased from his lordship by George Monk, Duke of Albemarle, and afterwards by another nobleman, inferior indeed in abilities, but not inferior in virtues. In 1670, James, Duke of Ormond, resided at Clarendon House; and on his way thither, he was one day dragged out of his coach by the infamous Blood and his associates, who intended to hang his Grace at Tyburn, in revenge for justice done, under his administration in Ireland, on some of their companions. "This refinement in revenge," says Pennant, "saved the duke's life; he had leisure to disengage himself from the villain on horseback, to whom he was tied; by which time he was discovered by his servants, and rescued from death."

The original of our Engraving was copied from a rare print, which, in the year 1790, was in the collection of Thomas Allen, Esq. Appended to the former is a section, showing the relative situation of Clarendon House, which was taken from a map of London (supposed to be unique) in an illustrated Clarendon's History, in the possession of John Charles Crowle, Esq. By the section, the entrance-gate to the court-yard of the house appears to have been in Piccadilly, in a direct line with St. James's Street, and the grounds to have extended to Bruton Street at the back, where there was likewise a communication. The site of the front gate is now, therefore, the commencement of Albemarle Street, named after one of the distinguished occupants of Clarendon House.

Notwithstanding the revolutions of time and fashion in this quarter, the illustrious name of the founder of Clarendon House is still preserved in the "Clarendon Hotel," which occupies a portion of the original ground already described. One of the changes is, that instead of the Chancellor meditating upon his dismissal from office, which his very virtues and stately dignity, and a weak king, and a more wicked and envious faction had brought about,—we have well-living twos and fours hob-nobbing over Chateau-Margaux, or yielding to the delightful inspirations of Ay Champagne. Not a few more of the good things of this great town are assembled near the same spot. Albemarle Street has many first-rate hotels, and two handsome club-houses; while on the Bond Street side of the quadrangle are two or three extensive libraries, an immense porcelain repository, and a score of fashionable artistes. What idle delights are all these compared with the wisdom and virtue which once dwelt on the same spot. But had Clarendon lived to see Crockford's splendid subscription-house rise after a golden shower, in St. James's Street, (and this he might have done from the front-windows of Clarendon House) he would, perhaps, have given us an extra volume of Essays. We would that he had so lived, if only that his sublime truths might thus nave been multiplied for the good of mankind, if not for the weak heads of St. James's Street.

THE GLANCIN' E'E

Oh lassie tell me can'st thou lo'e,I hae gaz'd upon thy glancin' e'e;It soars aboon, it rolls below,But, ah, it never rests on me.Oh lassie I hae socht the hourWhen pity wak'nin' lo'e might be,Tell my sair heart a gauldin' flowerHas droopit in thy glancin' e'e.Oh lassie, turn not sae awa'Disdainfu', gie na death to me;Does pity mark the tears that fa'?Exhale them wi' thy glancin' e'e.C.C

WESTMINSTER ABBEY

(For the Mirror.)

"There is a voice from the grave sweeter than song."—Washington Irving.

Illustrious dead! one tributary sigh,In that great temple where the mighty lie,I breath'd for you—a magic charm was thereWhere rest the great and good, the wise and fair;Their glittering day of fame has had its closeAnd beauty, genius, grandeur, there repose.Immortal names! kings, queens, and statesmen riseIn marble forms before the gazer's eyes.Cold, pale, and silent, down each lessening aisleThey clustering stand, and mimic life awhile.The warrior chief, in sculptur'd beauty dies,And in Fame's clasping arms for ever lies."Each in his place of state," the rivals stand,The senators, who saved a sinking land;Majestic, graceful,—each with "lips apart"Whose eloquence subdued and won the heart.Pitt! round thy name how bright a halo burns,When memory to thy day of glory turns;And views thee in life's bright meridian lie,And victim to thy patriot spirit die!Round Fox's tomb, what forms angelic weep,And ever watch that chill and marble sleep!Silence, how eloquent! how deep—profound—She holds her reign above the hallow'd ground.Here sceptred monarchs in death's slumbers lie,Tudors, Plantagenets—they too could die!Beneath a 'scutcheon'd arch, with banners spread,Unhappy, murdered, Richard rests his head.While Pomfret's walls in "ruin greenly tell,"How fought the brave and how the noble fell!Pale rose of York! thy sanguine rival rearsFull many a tomb, and many a trophy bears.But who lies here? in marble lovely still,Here let me pause, and fancy take her fill.Poor ill-starr'd Mary; Melancholy gloomAnd fond regrets are waking o'er thy tomb.Bright was thy morn of promise, dark the day,That clos'd thy fate in murderous Fotheringay!How near thee lies that "bright star of the west,"Elizabeth, of queens the wisest, best;Her "lion port," and her imperial brow,The dark grey stone essays in vain to show.Ye royal rivals of a former day,How has your love and hatred pass'd away!To future times how faint the voice of fame,For greatness here but "stalks an empty name."Around, above, how sorrow builds her throne,To snatch from death's embrace each treasure gone.See, how the horrid phantom bends his bow,And points his dart to lay that victim low!1She sinks, she falls, and her fond husband's breastIs the cold pillow to that marble rest!But softly tread upon the sacred ground,Where Britain's bards lie sepulchred round.Sons of the muse, who woke the magic spell,From the deep windings of "Apollo's shell!"Mute is each lyre, their silent strings are boundWith willow, yew, and cypress wreath'd around.Their hopes, joys, sorrows, rest within the graveAdmiring nations to their relics gave.Hail, mighty shades! bright spirits of the past;Here may your ashes sleep while time shall last.Let kindred genius shed the pensive tear,And grace with votive elegy each bier.While far beyond this melancholy vale,When faded sorrow tells her mournful tale,"O'er this dim spot of earth," in regions fairYour spirits dwell, and joys eternal share.

Kirton Lindsey.

ANNIE R

THE COSMOPOLITE

THE TIMES NEWSPAPER

We are not about to write an advertisement for this advertised of all advertisers—nor to talk of its square feet—its crowded broadside—or the myriads of letters that make it resemble a sea of animalculae. We are content to leave all the pride of its machinery to Messrs. Applegath and Cowper, and the clang of its engine to the peaceful purlieus of Printing-house Square. Yet these are interesting items in the advancement of science, and in the history of mankind; for whether taken mechanically or morally, the Times is, without exception, the newspaper of all newspapers, "the observed of all observers" and altogether, the most extraordinary production of this or any other age.

But we are more anxious to reach what may be called the philosophy of a newspaper—that broad volume of human life, in which "the follies, vices, and consequent miseries of multitudes are displayed." To prove this, only let the reader glance over the twenty-four columns of a Times newspaper, and attempt a calculation of the many thousand events that spring from and are connected with their contents. Yet this sheet is but as it were a day in the life of man—a mere thread of the mingled yarn of his existence—and 313 such sheets, or 1,252 such folios make but a year of his history. The subject is too vast and comprehensive for continued contemplation, for it is like all other wheels of vicissitude; we become giddy by looking too steadfastly on its twinings.

Let us take one side of any recent Times newspaper—say that of Thursday last—and attempt something like an abstract of its memorabilia. This may appear for us a toilsome task, but if the reader be not fatigued also, our time will not be misspent. Begin "at the beginning" with the old English title, broken by the royal arms—like a blocking-course; and the No. and date in a sort of typographical entablature. The first side is filled by 188 advertisements, for the most part, classed according to their objects.

Thus, we start, and not unappropriately, with notices of vessels to sail for India and the new settlement on Swan River. What temptations for adventure and avarice—what associations of industry and indolence—luxury and squalid misery—do these announcements create in the reflective mind. The nabob in his chintz—the speculator with his last hundred—and the half-starved agriculturist—are but sorry portraits beside the class to whom the next notice is addressed.—Packets to Calais, Dieppe, and Margate—necessity on her last leg, and luxury on the fantastic toe—the wasted mind and famished visage beside hoyden mirth and bloated luxury. Then the South American Mining Association Deed "lies for signature:"—what a relief in this sheet of chiaro-scuro—a kind of tinsel to set off its grave parts, with gold dust enough to blind half its readers. To this little flash of golden light succeeds shade—Chancery and creditors' notices—proving debts and consciences—followed by civil contracts for Bridewell and building a Lunatic Asylum in Kent. The association is too obvious, and verily, the maker-up of the Times newspaper is a Hogarth in his way; for what Hogarth did with pencil and brush, he does with metallic types. Next is a Saw Mill to be sold cheap, constructed for the express purpose of being sent to the Swan River settlement—how fortunate—for surely any idle wight would make his way with such assistance, especially as the machine is "on improved principles." Luxury again—paper-hangings, French lamps, and French roses—necessity again—Money on mortgage, and bills discounted: how obvious the connexion—the very cause and effect—the lamps will not burn without oil, and the roses will not bloom without money—at least they will only waste their fragrance in the desert air of the nursery-ground.

The second column begins with a solicitor's inquiry for a person long unheard of, who, if alive, "may hear of somewhat very considerably to his advantage"—any person proving his death, shall be rewarded. Next is a notice from the City Chamber Court of Stralsund, of a man who has been missing twenty years, and unless he informs the court of his existence on or before Lady-day, 1830, he will be declared dead—poor fellow—yet how many would rejoice at such an opportunity of escaping from their worldly cares. Next comes a little string of Anniversaries of Charities—followed by Exhibitions of the Fine Arts—had their position been reversed, the effect would have been better; for fine painting prepares the heart for acts of benevolence, and kindleth all its best feelings. Portraits of the Rev. Matthew Wilks and Pope Pius VII. (the latter a splendid mezzotinto from Sir T. Lawrence's picture) are followed by a "Speaking French Grammar," a very good companion for any Englishman about to visit the continent; for with many, their stock of French does not last out their cash. Next is fourteen years of the Morning Post to be sold—a bargain for a fashionable novelist, and in fact, a complete stock-in-trade for any court or town Adonis; a perfect vocabulary of fashion, detailing the rise and progress of all the fashionable arts since the peace—the gazette appointments and disappointments—and elopements and faux pas, sufficient for all the comedy-writers of the present century—the respective claims of Spanish Refugees and Spitalfields Weavers—charitable concerts and opera benefits—and all the lumber and light artillery of the grand monde.

The third column is almost entirely occupied by "Wanted" advertisements and we had resolved to pass over all their "Wants;" had not some of them occurred to us as rather singular, even in these times of general distress. The first of these is for a respectable middle-aged woman, as lady's maid—"to understand dress-making, millinery, hair-dressing, getting-up fine linen, and to be useful and obliging." All this is reasonable enough; but mark the inducement: "a clever person fond of the country, and who can bear confinement, will find this a comfortable situation!" "This is too much." Another is for a butler and a valet, to "undertake the care and responsibility of a numerous family:" another is a young man for "a situation in any shop or warehouse, not particular what:" another of "a nurse, who can cut and make children's dresses, and instruct them in reading and spelling;" a school-assistant "to fill the second desk," &c. Next come a few characteristics of a scientific age—as patent trouser-straps, to "prevent the dirt getting between the strap and the boot, &c.;" and patent springs for waistcoat backs—to cause the clothes to fit well to the shape, &c.—and, above all, a legitimate, scientific Diaphane parasol.

The "Wants" are resumed in the fourth column. One is a young man to be able to walk well; "it is immaterial what he has been accustomed to."

In the fourth column we find "a family grave to be sold, unused for nearly 50 years at that period, but partly occupied. To save trouble, price 25l." Another advertisement—"to small capitalists" is a perfect puzzle; for the advertiser will not describe the "ready-money concern" to be disposed of, but says, "the principal article of sale is what is consumed, either in a greater or less degree, by almost every individual." Next is a tallowchandler's business in a situation which "will command an extensive trade immediately the new Fleet Market is erected"—rather anticipatory, to be sure. Another, "worthy of notice," offers for 260 guineas, seven houses, which cost 800 in building—a tolerable speculation.

The last column commences with a fine brown gelding, (like most friends) parted with for no fault, free from vice, although, "a trial will be granted." Another announces for sale, several "bays, greys, roans, creams, and duns:" a chaise "parted with for no other fault than the present owner having purchased a four-wheeled one;" and "a house near the church, commanding extensive and pleasing prospects."

The fourth folio, or side of the paper, is nearly filled with advertisements of sales by auction, a single glance at which would convince us of the instability of human affairs, even if we did not read in one corner, of a theatrical wardrobe, containing five splendid new court dresses, trimmed with gold and silver (except the pockets,) and 52 very fine wigs.

The inner, or second and third folios of the paper, present still finer studies for our reflection. The eye almost instinctively lights on the "Foreign Papers," detailing the progress of war and the balance of power—Francfort Fair, and English manufactures. Below is the well-known graphic relief—a clock, and two opened and one closed book, with "The Times"—past and future, decorated with oak and laurel. Then come the theatrical announcements teeming with novelty and attraction, which stand like the sauces, savoury dishes, and sweetmeats of the day's repast.

(To be concluded in our next.)

OLD POETS

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

The following song is said to be the most ancient in the English language, and to have been written so early as the year 1250, almost a century before Geoffrey Chaucer, (who is styled the father of English poetry,) produced his Court of Love, which was written at the early age of eighteen.

CHAS. COLE

THE CUCCU

Summer is icumen in;Lhude sing cuccu:Groweth sed and bloweth med,And springeth the wde nuSing cuccu.Awe bleteth after lomb;Lhouth after calve cu:Bulluc sterteth,Buck verteth,Murie sing cuccu,Cuccu, cuccu,Wel singes this cuccu;Ne swik thu naver.

Glossary—Sumer, summer—icumen, a coming—lhude, loud—sed, seed—med, mead—wde, wood—nu, new—awe, ewe—lomb, lamb—lhouth, loweth—cu, cow—murie, merry—singes, sing'st—thu, thou—Ne swik thu naver, May'st thou never cease.

MANNERS & CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS

MAY DAY

It would seem that among our Pagan ancestors, before the introduction of Christianity, the first day of May was the great festival in honour of the sun, and that fires were then kindled and rejoicings made, in honour of that great luminary. The first day of May is still called Beltan, or Baal-tein, "the fire of Baal." In some parts of the country the shepherds still make festivals of milk and eggs on that day, but the custom is rapidly declining. In the Highlands the festival is still continued with singular ceremonies. On Beltan day all the boys in a township or hamlet meet in the moors; they cut a table in the green sod, of a round figure, by casting a trench in the ground of such circumference as to hold the whole company; they kindle a fire, and dress a meal of eggs and milk of the consistence of a custard; and then knead a cake of oatmeal, which is toasted at the embers against a stone. After the custard is eaten up, they divide the cake into as many portions, similar in size and shape, as there are persons in the company. They then daub over one of these portions with charcoal until it is perfectly black; they put all the bits of the cake into a bonnet; when each of the company, blindfolded, draws out a portion. He who holds the bonnet is entitled to the last bit. Whoever draws the black piece is the devoted person to be sacrificed to Baal, whose favour they mean to implore in rendering the season productive. There is little doubt but that such inhuman sacrifices were once offered in this country as well as in the east; although the act of sacrifice is now dispensed with, the devoted person being only compelled to leap three times through the flames, with which the ceremony of the festival is closed.

That the Caledonians paid a superstitious respect to the sun, as was the practice among many other nations, is evident, not only from the sacrifice of Beltan, but from many other circumstances. When a Highlander goes to bathe, or to drink water out of a consecrated fountain, he must always approach by going round the place from east to west on the south side, in imitation of the apparent diurnal motion of the sun. When the dead are laid in the earth, the grave is approached by going round in the same manner. The bride is conducted to her future spouse in the presence of the minister; and the glass goes round in company in the course of the sun. This is called in Gaelic, going round in the right or lucky way; the opposite course is the wrong or unlucky way.

FHAOLAIN

ABORIGINES OF VAN DIEMAN'S LAND

So little is known of these children of nature, and still less has been done to gain any knowledge of them, that not much can be offered as to their present numbers or condition. From what I have seen and read, the natives of Van Dieman's Land are unlike any other Indians, either in features, their mode of living, hunting, &c. There are many hundreds of people who have lived for years in the colony, and yet have never seen a native. … The features of these people are any thing but pleasing: a large flat nose, with immense nostrils; lips particularly thick; a wide mouth, with a tolerably good set of teeth; the hair long and woolly, which, as if to confer additional beauty, is besmeared with red clay (similar to our red ochre) and grease. Their limbs are badly proportioned; the women appear to be generally better formed than the men. Their only covering is a few kangaroo skins, rudely stitched, and thrown over the shoulders; but more frequently they appear in a state of nudity; indeed, so little knowledge have they of decency or comfort, that they never avail themselves of the purposes for which apparel is given to them. Lieut. Collins, in his account of the natives of New South Wales, describes their marriage ceremonies as being most barbarous and brutal; and I have also heard from individuals who have visited New South Wales, that it is not uncommon to see a poor woman almost beaten to death by her lover, previous to his marrying her. From the shyness of the natives of Van Dieman's Land, and the constant warfare that has been carried on between them and the remote stock-keepers, (which is not likely to render them more familiar,) I have never been able to ascertain whether there is any trace of religion among them, or if they have the slightest idea of a Supreme Being. I believe, and it is generally supposed, they have not. It is but fair to remark, however, that nothing has been done for them; the few that can speak a little English, only curse and swear, and this they catch up very readily from the different convicts they meet with.

There are but few instances of any native having entirely forsaken his tribe, however young he may have been taken away; they appear to dislike any thing in the shape of labour, although, if they take to cattle, they are, beyond any thing, quick in tracing and finding those lost. So acute is their power of discrimination, that they have been known to trace the footsteps of bush-rangers over mountains and rocks; and, although the individual they have been in pursuit of has walked into the sides of the river as if to cross it, to elude the vigilance of his pursuers, and has swam some distance down and crossed when convenient, yet nothing can deceive them. Indeed, so remarkable is their discernment, that if but the slightest piece of moss on a rock has been disturbed by footsteps, they will instantly detect it. The aborigines of this island have no appointed place or situation to live in; they roam about at will, followed by a pack of dogs, of different sorts and sizes, but which are used principally for hunting the kangaroo, oppossum, bandicoot, &c. They are passionately fond of their dogs; so much so, that the females are frequently known to suckle a favourite puppy instead of the child. They rarely ever move at night, but encircle themselves round a large fire, and sleep in a sitting posture, with their heads between their knees. So careless are they of their children, that it is not uncommon to see boys grown up with feet exhibiting the loss of a toe or two, having, when infants, been dropped into the fire by the mother. The children are generally carried (by the women) astride across the shoulders, in a careless manner. They live entirely by hunting, and do not fish so much, or use the canoe, as in New South Wales, although the women are tolerably expert divers; the craw-fish and oyster, if immediately on the coast, are their principal food. Oppossums and kangaroos may be said to be their chief support; the latter is as delicious a treat to an epicure, as the former is the reverse. The manner of cooking their victuals is by throwing it on the fire, merely to singe off the hair; they eat voraciously, and are very little removed from the brute creation as to choice of food; entrails, &c. sharing the same chance as the choicest parts. They are extremely expert in climbing, and can reach the top of the largest forest-trees without the aid of branches; they effect this by means of a small sharp flint, which they clasp tightly in the ball of their four fingers, and having cut a notch out of the bark, they easily ascend, with the large toe of each foot in one notch, and their curiously manufactured hatchet in the other. Their weapons of defence are the spear and waddie; the former is about twelve feet long, and as thick as the little finger of a man; the tea-tree supplies them with this matchless weapon; they harden one end, which is very sharply pointed, by burning and filing it with a flint prepared for the purpose. In throwing the spear they are very expert; indeed, of late, their audacious atrocities have been lamentably great, although, at the same time, I have little hesitation in saying, they have arisen from the cruel treatment experienced by some of their women from the hands of the distant stock-keepers. Indeed, these poor mortals, I know, have been shot at merely to gratify a most barbarous cruelty....