The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 404, December 12, 1829

Abad, wrapt in wonder, cast his eyes on the earth, to view the terrific instrument with which he had performed so wonderful an exploit; but, to add more to his astonishment, the hammer and shield had vanished!

Curiosity, and the hope of meeting his betrothed, now led him to explore the winding recesses of the mystic cavern, which consisted of numerous archways—some artificial, others, the natural formation of subterranean rocks, leading to a large apartment, in which were deposited the spoils which a century of plunder had contributed to accumulate. Whilst feasting his eyes on the rich piles of jewellery, and reviewing the bags of gold which everywhere presented themselves, his eyes met the features of a female. He could not be mistaken—he looked again as she advanced nearer the light—it was the beauteous Ada, still young and lovely! Bagdad did not possess such a maiden, nor did poet ever paint a fairer form! Abad thought her nothing inferior to the Houris of Paradise. She fulfilled every expectation through a long and virtuous life, during which time they enjoyed the ill-gotten wealth of the ranger band; and, although the splendour of their living was exceeded only by that of the Caliph's, they were bountiful to their dependents: they built an asylum for the destitute—were universally beloved and respected—and their magnificence was only surpassed by their benevolence!

CYMBELINE.

OLD POETS

SHAME

Shame sticks ever close to the ribs of honour,Great men are never found after it:It leaves some ache or other in their names still,Which their posterity feels at ev'ry weather.MIDDLETON.

PARENTS

From damned deeds abstain,From lawless riots and from pleasure's vain;If not regarding of thy own degree,Yet in behalf of thy posterity.For we are docible to imitate.Depraved pleasures though degenerate.Be careful therefore least thy son admitBy ear or eye things filthy or unfit.LODGE.

SIN

Shame follows sin, disgrace is daily given,Impiety will out, never so closely done,No walls can hide us from the eye of heaven,For shame must end what wickedness begun,Forth breaks reproach when we least think thereon.DANIELL.

WISDOM

A wise man poorIs like a sacred book that's never read,T' himself he lives, and to all else seems dead.This age thinks better of a gilded fool,Than of thread-bare saint in Wisdom's schoolDEKKAR.

CHARITY

She was a woman in the freshest age,Of wondrous beauty, and of bounty rare,With goodly grace, and comely personage.That was on earth not easy to compare,Full of great love; but Cupid's wanton snareAs hell she hated, chaste in work and will,Her neck and breast were ever open bare,That aye thereof her babes might suck their fill,The rest was all in yellow robes arrayed still,A multitude of babes about her hung,Playing their sports that joyed her to behold,Whom still she fed, while they were weak and young,But thrust them forth still as they waxed old,And on her head she wore a tire of gold;Adorn'd with gems and ouches fair,Whose passing price unneath was to be told,And by her side there sat a gentle pairOf turtle-doves, she sitting in an ivory chair.SPENSER.It is a work of Charity God knows,The reconcilement of two mortal foes.MIDDLETON.

COURAGE

When the air is calm and still, as dead and deafAnd under heaven quakes not an aspen leaf:When seas are calm and thousand vessels fleetUpon the sleeping seas with passage sweet;And when the variant wind is still and loneThe cunning pilot never can be known:But when the cruel storm doth threat the barkTo drown in deeps of pits infernal dark,While tossing tears both rudder, mast, and sail,While mounting, seems the azure skies to scale,While drives perforce upon some deadly shore,There is the pilot known, and not before.T. HUDSON.

ENVY

The knotty oak and wainscot old,Within doth eat the silly worm:Even so a mind in envy cold,Always within itself doth burn.FITZ JEFFRY.

OPINION

Opinion is as various as light change,Now speaking courtlike, friendly, straight as strange,She's any humour's perfect parasite,Displeas'd with her, and pleas'd with her delight.She is the echo of inconstancy,Soothing her no with nay, her ay with yea.GUILPIN.

SLANDER

Happy is he that lives in such a sortThat need not fear the tongues of false report.EARL OF SURREY.

SLEEP

By care lay heavy Sleep the cousin of Death,Flat on the ground, and still as any stone;A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath,Small keep took he whom Fortune frown'd on,Or whom she lifted up into a throneOf high renown; but as a living deathSo dead alive, of life he drew the breath.SACKVILLE.

WAR

War the mistress of enormity,Mother of mischief, monster of deformity,Laws, manners, arts, she breaks, she mars, she chases,Blood, tears, bowers, towers, she spills, smites, burns, and rases,Her brazen teeth shake all the earth asunder;Her mouth a fire brand, her voice is thunder;Her looks are lightning, every glance a flash,Her fingers guns, that all to powder plash,Fear and despair, flight and disorder, coastWith hasty march before her murderous host,As burning, rape, waste, wrong, impiety,Rage, ruin, discord, horror, cruelty,Sack, sacrilege, impunity, pride.Are still stern consorts by her barbarous side;And poverty, sorrow, and desolation,Follow her army's bloody transmigration.SYLVESTER.

EXCELLENCE

Of all chaste birds the phoenix doth excel,Of all strong beasts the lion bears the bell,Of all sweet flowers the rose doth sweetest smell.Of all pure metals gold is only purest,Of all the trees the pine hath highest crest.Of all proud birds the eagle pleaseth Jove,Of pretty fowls kind Venus likes the dove,Of trees Minerva doth the olive move.LODGE.

THE NATURALIST

COCHINEAL INSECT AND PLANT

The frequent mention of the Cochineal Insect and Plant in our pages will, probably, render the annexed cut of more than ordinary interest to our readers.3

The plant on which the Cochineal Insect is found, is called the Nopal, a species of Opuntia, or Prickly Pear, which abounds on all the coasts of the Mediterranean; and is thus described by Mr. Thompson, in his work entitled, Official Visit to Guatemala; "The nopal is a plant consisting of little stems, but expanding itself into wide, thick leaves, more or less prickly according to its different kind: one or two of these leaves being set as one plant, at the distance of two or three feet square from each other, are inoculated with the cochineal, which, I scarcely need say, is an insect; it is the same as if you would take the blight off an apple or other common tree, and rub a small portion of it on another tree free from the contagion, when the consequence would be, that the tree so inoculated would become covered with the blight; a small quantity of the insects in question is sufficient for each plant, which in proportion as it increases its leaves, is sure to be covered with this costly parasite. When the plant is perfectly saturated, the cochineal is scraped off with great care. The plants are not very valuable for the first year, but they may be estimated as yielding after the second year, from a dollar and a half profit on each plant."

The insect is famous for the fine scarlet dye which it communicates to wool and silk. The females yield the best colour, and are in number to the males as three hundred to one. Cochineal was at first supposed to be a grain, which name it retains by way of eminence among dyers, but naturalists soon discovered it to be an insect. Its present importance in dyeing is an excellent illustration of chemistry applied to the arts; for long after its introduction, it gave but a dull kind of crimson, till a chemist named Kuster, who settled at Bow, near London, about the middle of the sixteenth century, discovered the use of the solution of tin, and the means of preparing with it and cochineal, a durable and beautiful scarlet.

Fine cochineal, which has been well dried and properly kept, ought to be of a grey colour inclining to purple. The grey is owing to a powder which covers it naturally, a part of which it still retains; the purple tinge proceeds from the colour extracted by the water in which it has been killed. Cochineal will keep a long time in a dry place. Hellot says, that he tried some one hundred and thirty years old, and found it produce the same effect as new.

LARGE CHESTNUT-TREE

There is now in the neigbourhood of Dovercourt, in Essex, upon the estate of Sir T. Gaisford, a chestnut-tree fifty-six feet in circumference, which flourishes well, and has had a very good crop of chestnuts for many years.

J.T.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

I'D BE AN ALDERMAN

I'd be an Alderman, born in the City,Where haunches of venison and green turtles meetSeeking in Leadenliall, reckless of pity,Birds, beast, and fish, that the knowing ones eatI'd never languish for want of a luncheon.I'd never grieve for the want of a treat;I'd be an Alderman, constantly munching,Where haunches of venison and green turtles meet.Oh! could I wheedle the votes at the vestry,I'd have a share of those good sav'ry things;Enchained by turkey, in love with the pastry.And floating in Champagne, while Bow bells ring.Those who are cautious are skinny and fretful,Hunger, alas! naught but ill-humour brings;I'd be an Alderman, rich with a net full,Rolling in Guildhall, whilst old Bow bells ring.What though you tell me that prompt apoplexyGrins o'er the glories of Lord Mayor's Day,'Tis better, my boy, than blue devils to vex ye,Or ling'ring consumption to gnaw you away.Some in their folly take black-draught and blue-pill,And ask ABERNETHY their fate to delay;I'd he an Alderman, WAITHMAN'S apt pupil,Failing when dinner things are clearing away.

Monthly Magazine.

A PROVINCIAL REPUTATION

I once resided in a country town; I will not specify whether that town was Devizes or Doncaster, Beverley or Brighton: I think it highly reprehensible in a writer to be personal, and scarcely more venial do I consider the fault of him who presumes to be local. I will, however, state, that my residence lay among the manufacturing districts; but lest any of my readers should be misled by that avowal, I must inform them, that in my estimation all country towns, from the elegant Bath, down to the laborious Bristol, are (whatever their respective polite or mercantile inhabitants may say to the contrary), positively, comparatively, and superlatively, manufacturing towns!

Club-rooms, ball-rooms, card-tables, and confectioners' shops, are the factories; and gossips, both male and female, are the labouring classes. Norwich boasts of the durability of her stuffs; the manufacturers I allude to weave a web more flimsy. The stuff of tomorrow will seldom be the same that is publicly worn to-day; and were it not for the zeal and assiduity of the labourers, we should want novelties to replace the stuff that is worn out hour by hour.

No man or woman who ever ventures to deviate from the beaten track should ever live in a country town. The gossips all turn from the task of nibbling one another, and the character of the lusus naturae becomes public property. I am the mother of a family, and I am known to have written romances. My husband, in an evil hour, took a fancy to a house at a watering-place, which, by way of distinction, I shall designate by the appellation of Pumpington Wells: there we established ourselves in the year 1800.

The manufacturers received us with a great show of civility, exhibiting to us the most recent stuff, and discussing the merits of the newest fabrications. We, however, were not used to trouble ourselves about matters that did not concern us, and we soon offended them.

We turned a deaf ear to all evil communications. If we were told that Mr. A., "though fond of show, starved his servants," we replied, we did not wish to listen to the tale. If we heard that Mr. B. though uxorious in public, was known to beat his wife in private, we cared not for the matrimonial anecdote. When maiden ladies assured us that Mrs. C. cheated at cards, we smiled, for we had no dealings with her; and when we were told that Mrs. D. never paid her bills, we repeated not the account to the next person we met; for as we were not her creditors, her accounts concerned us not.

We settled ourselves, much to our satisfaction, in our provincial abode: it was a watering-place, which my husband, as a bachelor, had frequented during its annual season.

As a watering-place he knew it well. Such places are vastly entertaining to visiters, having no "local habitation," and no "name"—caring not for the politics of the place, and where, if any thing displeases them, they may pay for their lodgings, order post-horses, and never suffer their names to appear in the arrival book again.

But with those who live at watering-places, it is quite another affair. For the first six months we were deemed a great acquisition. There were two or three sets in Pumpington Wells—the good, the bad, and the indifferent. The bad left their cards, and asked us to dances, the week we arrived; the indifferent knocked at our door in the first month; and even before the end of the second, we were on the visiting lists of the good. We knew enough of society to be aware that it is impolitic to rush into the embraces of all the arms that are extended to receive strangers; but feeling no wish to affront any one in return for an intended civility, we gave card for card; and the doors of good, bad, and indifferent, received our names.

All seemed to infer, that the amicable gauntlet, which had been thrown down, having been courteously taken up, the ungloved hands were forthwith to be grasped in token of good fellowship; we had left our names for them, and by the invitations that poured in upon us, they seemed to say with Juliet—

"And for thy name, which is no part of thee,Take all myself."

No man, not even a provincial, can visit every body; and it seems but fair, that if a selection is to be made, all should interchange the hospitalities of life with those persons in whose society they feel the greatest enjoyment.

Many a dinner, therefore, did we decline—many a route did we reject; my husband's popularity tottered, and the inviters, though they no longer dinned their dinners in our ears, and teazed us with their "teas," vowed secret vengeance, and muttered "curses, not loud, but deep."

I have hinted that we had no scandalous capabilities; and though slander flashed around us, we seldom admitted morning visiters, and our street-door was a non-conductor.

But our next door neighbours were maiden ladies, who had been younger, and, to use a common term of commiseration, had seen better days—by which, I mean the days of bloom, natural hair, partners, and the probability of husbands.

Their vicinity to us was an infinite comfort to the town, for those who were unable to gain admittance at our door to disturb our business and desires,

"For every man has business and desire,Such as they are,"

were certain of better success at our neighbours', where they at least could gain some information about us "from eye-witnesses who resided on the spot."

My sins were numbered, so were my new bonnets; and for a time my husband was pitied, because "he had an extravagant wife;" but when it was ascertained that his plate was handsome, his dinner satisfactory in its removes, and comme il faut in its courses, those whose feet had never been within our door, saw clearly "how it must all end, and really felt for our trades-people."

I have acknowledged that I had written romances; the occupation was to me a source of amusement; and as I had been successful, my husband saw no reason why he should discourage me. A scribbling fool, in or out of petticoats, should be forbidden the use of pen, ink, and paper; but my husband had too much sense to heed the vulgar cry of "blue stocking." After a busy month passed in London, we saw my new novel sent forth to the public, and then returned to our mansion at Pumpington Wells.

As we drove up to our door, our virgin neighbours gazed on us, if possible, with more than their former interest. They wiped their spectacles; with glances of commiseration they saw us alight, and with unwearied scrutiny they witnessed the removal of our luggage from the carriage. We went out—every body stared at us—the people we did know touched the hands we extended, and hastened on as if fearful of infection; the people we did not know whispered as they passed us, and looked back afterwards; the men servants seemed full of mysterious flurry when we left our cards at the doors of acquaintances, and the maid-servants peeped at us up the areas; the shopkeepers came from their counters to watch us down the streets—and all was whispering and wonder.

I could not make it out; was it to see the authoress? No; I had been an authoress when they last saw me. Was it the brilliant success of my new work? It could be nothing else.

My husband met a maiden lady, and bowed to her; she passed on without deigning to notice him. I spoke to an insipid man who had always bored me with his unprofitable intimacy, and he looked another way! The next lady we noticed tossed her head, as if she longed to toss it at us; and the next man we met opened his eyes astonishingly wide, and said—

"Are you here! Dear me! I was told you could not show your—I mean, did not mean to return!"

There was evidently some mystery, and we determined to wait patiently for its developement. "If," said I, "it bodes us good, time will unravel it." "And if," said my husband, "it bodes us evil, some d—d good-natured friend will tell us all about it."

We had friends at Pumpington Wells, and good ones too, but no friend enlightened us; that task devolved upon an acquaintance, a little slim elderly man, so frivolous and so garrulous, that he only wanted a turban, some rouge, and a red satin gown, to become the most perfect of old women.

He shook his head simultaneously as he shook our hands, and his little grey eyes twinkled with delight, while he professed to feel for us both the deepest commiseration.

"You are cut," said he; "its all up with you in Pumpington Wells."

"Pray be explicit," said I faintly, and dreading some cruel calumny, or plot against my peace.

"You've done the most impolitic thing! the most hazardous"—

"Sir!" said my husband, grasping his cane.

"I lament it," said the little man, turning to me; "your book has done it for you."

I thought of the reviews, and trembled.

"How could you," continued our tormentor, "how could you put the Pumpington Wells people in your novel?"

"The Pumpington Wells people!—Nonsense; there are good and bad people in my novel, and there are good and bad people in Pumpington Wells; but you flatter the good, if you think that when I dipped my pen in praise, I limited my sketches to the virtuous of this place; and what is worse, you libel the bad if you assert that my sketches of vice were meant personally to apply to the vicious who reside here."

"I libel—I assert!" said the old lady-like little man; "not I!—every body says so!"

"You may laugh," replied my mentor and tormentor combined, "but personality can be proved against you; and all the friends and relations of Mr. Flaw declare you meant the bad man of your book for him."

"His friends and relations are too kind to him."

"Then you have an irregular character in your book, and Mrs. Blemish's extensive circle of intimates assert that nothing can be more pointed than your allusion to her conduct and her character."

"And pray what do these persons say about it themselves?"

"They are outrageous, and go about the town absolutely wild."

"Fitting the caps on themselves?"

The little scarecrow shook his head once more; and declaring that we should see he had spoken too true, departed, and then lamented so fluently to every body the certainty of our being cut, that every body began to believe him.

I have hinted that my bonnets and my husband's plate occasioned heartburnings: no—that is not a correct term, the heart has nothing to do with such exhalations—bile collects elsewhere.

Those who had conspired to pull my husband from the throne of his popularity, because their parties excited in us no party spirit, and we abstained from hopping at their hops, found, to their consternation, that when the novelty of my novel misdemeanour was at an end, we went on as if nothing had occurred. However, they still possessed heaven's best gift, the use of their tongues, they said of us everything bad which they knew to be false, and which they wished to see realized.

Their forlorn hope was our "extravagance." "Never mind," said one, "Christmas must come round, and then we shall see."

When once the match of insinuation is applied to the train of rumoured difficulties, the suspicion that has been smouldering for awhile bounces at once into a report, and very shortly its echo is bounced in every parlour in a provincial town.

Long bills, that had been accustomed to wait for payment until Christmas, now lay on my table at midsummer; and tradesmen, who drove dennetts to cottages once every evening, sent short civil notes, regretting their utter inability to make up a sum of money by Saturday night, unless I favoured them, by the bearer, with the sum of ten pounds, "the amount of my little account."

Dennett-driving drapers actually threatened to fail for the want of ten pounds!—pastry-cooks, who took their families regularly "to summer at the sea," assisted the counter-plot, and prematurely dunned my husband!

It is not always convenient to pay sums at midsummer, which we had been in the habit of paying at Christmas; if, however, a single applicant was refused, a new rumour of inability was started and hunted through the town before night. People walked by our house, looking up wistfully at the windows; others peeped down the area, to see what we had for dinner. One gentleman went to our butcher, to inquire how much we owed him; and one lady narrowly escaped a legal action, because when she saw a few pipkins lying on the counter of a crockery-ware man, directed to me, she incautiously said, in the hearing of one of my servants, "Are you paid for your pipkins?—ah, it's well if you ever get your money!"

Christmas came at last; bills were paid, and my husband did not owe a shilling in Pumpington Wells. Like the old ladies in the besieged city, the gossips looked at us, wondering when the havoc would begin.

Ho who mounts the ladder of life, treading step by step upon the identical footings marked out, may live in a provincial town. When we want to drink spa waters, or vary the scene, we now visit watering-places; but rather than force me to live at one again, "stick me up," as Andrew Fairservice says, in Rob Roy, "as a regimental target for ball-practice." We have long ceased to live in Pumpington.

Fleeting are the tints of the rainbow—perishable the leaf of the rose—variable the love of woman—uncertain the sunbeam of April; but naught on earth can be fleeting; so perishable, so variable, or so uncertain, as the popularity of a provincial reputation.

Monthly Magazine.

LONDON LYRICS

JACK JONES, THE RECRUIT.—A HINT FROM OVID

Jack Jones was a toper: they say that some howHe'd a foot always ready to kick up a row;And, when half-seas over, a quarrel he pick'd,To keep up the row he had previously kick'd.He spent all, then borrow'd at twenty per cent.His mistress fought shy when his money was spent,So he went for a soldier; he could not do less,And scorn'd his fair Fanny for hugging brown Bess."Halt—Wheel into line!" and "Attention—Eyes right!"Put Bacchus, and Venus, and Momus to flightBut who can depict half the sorrows he feltWhen he dyed his mustachios and pipe-clay'd his belt?When Sergeant Rattan, at Aurora's red peep,Awaken'd his tyros by bawling—"Two deep!"Jack Jones would retort, with a half-suppress'd sigh,"Ay! too deep by half for such ninnies as I."Quoth Jones—"'Twas delightful the bushes to beatWith a gun in my hand and a dog at my feet,But the game at the Horse-Guards is different, good lack!Tis a gun in my hand and a cat at my back."To Bacchus, his saint, our dejected recruit.One morn, about drill time, thus proffer'd his suit—"Oh make me a sparrow, a wasp, or an ape—All's one, so I get at the juice of the grape."The God was propitious—he instantly foundHis ten toes distend and take root in the ground;His back was a stem, and his belly was bark,And his hair in green leaves overshadow'd the Park.Grapes clustering hung o'er his grenadier cap,His blood became juice, and his marrow was sap:Till nothing was left of the muscles and bonesThat form'd the identical toper, Jack Jones.Transform'd to a vine, he is still seen on guard,At his former emporium in Great Scotland-yard;And still, though a vine, like his fellow-recruits,He is train'd, after listing, his ten-drills, and shoots.

New Monthly Magazine.