The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 544, April 28, 1832

"Cordial were the congratulations from all parties except Oscar, who, filled with mortification and jealous hatred, slunk away before the others; and during the march to Canterbury, which was commenced immediately after their descent from the Druid's Chair, kept himself aloof, equally incensed against Gryffhod, Hengist, and Guinessa, and meditating dark schemes of vengeance."

Oscar attempts to assassinate his successful rival at Canterbury; he escapes, but in crossing the sea for Gaul, is taken by the piratical Picts, carried to Scotland, and condemned to a rigorous and lifelong slavery. Leoline and Guinessa are married, and Hengist becoming paramount in Kent, assigns to them a castle with ample domains in the Isle of Thanet; and in sailing along the coast they often pointed to "the dizzy summit of the Druid's Chair," which Leoline often proudly declared to be far more precious to him than any other object in existence, since it had given him that which alone made existence valuable—his Guinessa!

In one of the Tales—of the Council of Nice, in the fourth century, Mr. Smith indulges his usual felicitous vein of humour, in a burlesque which he puts into the mouth of a slave of the Bishop of Ethiopia,—"a little, corpulent, bald-headed, merry-eyed man of fifty, whose name was Mark; whose duty it was to take charge of the oil, trim the lamps, and perform other menial offices in the church of Alexandria." The profane wight deserved, for his wit, a better place.

THE JUST DYING SPEECH AND CONFESSION OF THE PAGAN IMMORTALS

Alack and alas! it hath now come to pass,That the Gods of Olympus, those cheats of the world,Who bamboozled each clime from the birthday of Time,Are at length from their mountebank eminence hurl'd.On their cold altar-stone are no offerings thrown,And their worshipless worships no passenger greets,Though they still may have praise for amending our ways,If their statues are broken for paving the streets.The Deus Opt. Max. of these idols and quacksIs now thrust in a corner for children to flout,And the red thunder-brand he still grasps in his hand.Lights not Jupiter Tonans to grope his way out.Their Magnus Apollo no longer we follow,He's routed and flouted and laid on the shelf,And no poet's address will now reach him unlessHe can play his own lyre and flatter himself.As for Bacchus the sot, he has drain'd his last pot,And must lay in the grave his intoxicate head,For although by his aid he his votaries madeFull often dead drunk, they have now drunk him dead.O Mars, battle's Lord! canst thou not draw a sword,As forth from its temple thy statue we toss?We want not thy lance, since our legions advanceBeneath the bless'd banner of Constantine's cross.Juno, Venus, and Pallas, to shame were so callous,And have always so widely from decency swerved,That it well might be urged, if their statues were scourgedAnd then thrown in the kennel, their doom was deserved.The pontiffs and priests, who have lost all their feasts,And the oracles shorn of their hecatomb herds,Having nothing to carve, if they don't wish to starve,Must feed upon falsehoods and eat their own words.O'er these mountebanks dead, be this epitaph read,"The Gods, Priests and Oracles buried beneath,Who were ever at strife which should lie most in life,Here lie all alike in corruption and death."

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

SHELLEY AT OXFORD

A delightful paper, entitled, Percy Bysshe Shelley at Oxford is now in course of appearance in the New Monthly Magazine, from the pen of a fellow collegian and an early admirer of the genius of the youthful poet. It is in part conversational. Thus, Shelley loquitur:—

"I regret only that the period of our residence is limited to four years; I wish they would revive, for our sake, the old term of six or seven years. If we consider how much there is for us to learn," here he paused and sighed deeply through that despondency which sometimes comes over the unwearied and zealous student; "we shall allow that the longer period would still be far too short!" I assented, and we discoursed concerning the abridgement of the ancient term of residence, and the diminution of the academical year by frequent, protracted and most inconvenient vacations. "To quit Oxford," he said, "would be still more unpleasant to you than to myself, for you aim at objects that I do not seek to compass, and you cannot fail since you are resolved to place your success beyond the reach of chance." He enumerated with extreme rapidity, and in his enthusiastic strain, some of the benefits and comforts of a college life. "Then the oak is such a blessing," he exclaimed with peculiar fervour, clasping his hands, and repeating often—"the oak is such a blessing!" slowly and in a solemn tone. "The oak alone goes far towards making this place a paradise. In what other spot in the world, surely in none that I have hitherto visited, can you say confidently, it is perfectly impossible, physically impossible, that I should be disturbed? Whether a man desire solitary study, or to enjoy the society of a friend or two, he is secure against interruption. It is not so in a house, not by any means; there is not the same protection in a house, even in the best-contrived house. The servant is bound to answer the door; he must appear and give some excuse: he may betray, by hesitation and confusion, that he utters a falsehood; he must expose himself to be questioned; he must open the door and violate your privacy in some degree; besides there are other doors, there are windows at least, through which a prying eye can detect some indication that betrays the mystery. How different is it here! The bore arrives; the outer door is shut; it is black and solid, and perfectly impenetrable, as is your secret; the doors are all alike; he can distinguish mine from yours by the geographical position only. He may knock; he may call; he may kick if he will; he may inquire of a neighbour, but he can inform him of nothing; he can only say, the door is shut, and this he knows already. He may leave his card, that you may rejoice over it and at your escape; he may write upon it the hour when he proposes to call again, to put you upon your guard, and that he may be quite sure of seeing the back of your door once more. When the bore meets you and says, I called at your house at such a time, you are required to explain your absence, to prove an alibi in short, and perhaps to undergo a rigid cross-examination; but if he tells you, 'I called at your rooms yesterday at three and the door was shut,' you have only to say, 'Did you? was it?' and there the matter ends.

"Were you not charmed with your oak? did it not instantly captivate you!"

"My introduction to it was somewhat unpleasant and unpropitious. The morning after my arrival I was sitting at breakfast: my scout, the Arimaspian, apprehending that the singleness of his eye may impeach his character for officiousness, in order to escape the reproach of seeing half as much only as other men, is always striving to prove that he sees at least twice as far as the most sharpsighted: after many demonstrations of superabundant activity, he inquired if I wanted anything more; I answered in the negative. He had already opened the door: 'Shall I sport, Sir?' he asked briskly as he stood upon the threshold. He seemed so unlike a sporting character, that I was curious to learn in what sport he proposed to indulge. I answered—'Yes, by all means,' and anxiously watched him, but to my surprise and disappointment he instantly vanished. As soon as I had finished my breakfast, I sallied forth to survey Oxford; I opened one door quickly, and not suspecting that there was a second, I struck my head against it with some violence. The blow taught me to observe that every set of rooms has two doors, and I soon learned that the outer door, which is thick and solid, is called the oak, and to shut it is termed to sport. I derived so much benefit from my oak, that I soon pardoned this slight inconvenience: it is surely the tree of knowledge."

"Who invented the oak?"

"The inventers of the science of living in rooms, or chambers—the monks."

"Ah! they were sly fellows; none but men who were reputed to devote themselves for many hours to prayers, to religious meditations, and holy abstractions, would ever have been permitted quietly to place at pleasure such a barrier between themselves and the world. We now reap the advantage of their reputation for sanctity; I shall revere my oak more than ever, since its origin is so sacred."

THE NATURALIST

GLEANINGS IN NATURAL HISTORY

(Concluded from page 247.)

What a lesson may art learn from contemplating scenes of nature.

The Thrush.

"Thrushes feed very much on snails, looking for them in mossy banks. Having frequently observed some broken snail-shells near two projecting pebbles on a gravel walk, which had a hollow between them, I endeavoured to discover the occasion of their being brought to that situation. At last I saw a thrush fly to the spot with a snail-shell in his mouth, which he placed between the two stones, and hammered at it with his beak till he had broken it, and was then able to feed on its contents. The bird must have discovered that he could not apply his beak with sufficient force to break the shell while it was rolling about, and he therefore found out and made use of a spot which would keep the shell in one position. I do not know whether Mr. M'Adam has ever observed the same circumstance, but his ingenious contrivance (if it is his) of confining stones in a sort of hoop while they are being broken, is somewhat similar to that of the thrush."

The Pike it seems, is a formidable foe to tackle.

"The boldness of a pike is very extraordinary. I have seen one follow a bait within a foot of the spot where I have been standing; and the head keeper of Richmond Park assured me that he was once washing his hand at the side of a boat in the great pond in that Park, when a pike made a dart at it, and he had but just time to withdraw it. A gentleman now residing at Weybridge, in Surrey, informed me that, walking one day by the side of the river Wey, near that town, he saw a large pike in a shallow creek. He immediately pulled off his coat, tucked up his shirt sleeves, and went into the water to intercept the return of the fish to the river, and to endeavour to throw it upon the bank by getting his hands under it. During this attempt, the pike, finding he could not make his escape, seized one of the arms of the gentleman, and lacerated it so much that the wound is still very visible.

"A friend of mine caught a pike a few minutes after breaking his tackle, and found it in the pike, a part of the gimp hanging out of his mouth. He also caught another, in high condition, with a piece of strong twisted wire projecting from its side. On opening it a double eel-hook was found at the end of the wire, much corroded. This may account for so few pike being found dead after they have broken away with a gorge-hook in them. An account will be found, in 'Salmonia,' of a pike taking a bait, with a set of hooks in his mouth, which he had just before broken from a line."

Affection of Animals.

"Animals are so capable of showing gratitude and affection to those who have been kind to them, that I never see them subjected to ill treatment without feeling the utmost abhorrence of those who are inflicting it. I know many persons who, like myself, take a pleasure in seeing all the animals about them appear happy and contented. Cows will show their pleasure at seeing those who have been kind to them, by moving their ears gently, and putting out their wet noses. My old horse rests his head on the gate with great complacency when he sees me coming, expecting to receive an apple or a piece of bread. I should even be sorry to see my poultry and pigs get out of my way with any symptoms of fear."

The Moor-hen.

One of Mr. Haydon's new pictures is the first start in life—a mother teaching her infant to walk—it is a clever sketch, but, bearing in mind the beautiful comparison of Solomon and the lily of the valley, here is a counterpart.

"Fishing the other day in Hampton Court Park, I disturbed a moor-hen who had just hatched, and watched her anxiety and manoeuvres to draw away her young. She would go a short distance, utter a cry, return, and seemed to lead the way for her brood to follow. Having driven her away, that I might have a better opportunity of watching her young ones, she never ceased calling to them, and they made towards her, skulking amongst the rushes, till they got to the other side of the pond. They had only just left the shell, and had probably never heard the cry of their mother before."

There is true benevolence in these remarks. How much is conveyed in the homely expression, that such a man "would not tread upon a worm:" we should learn to covet such men as friends.

The Cardinal Spider.

"There is a large breed of spiders which are found very generally in the palace of Hampton-Court. They are called there 'cardinals,' having I suppose been first seen in Cardinal Wolsey's hall. They are full an inch in length, and many of them of the thickness of a finger. Their legs are about two inches long, and their body covered with a thick hair. They feed chiefly on moths as appears from the wings of that insect being found in great abundance under and amongst their webs. In running across the carpet in an evening, with the shade cast from their large bodies by the light of the lamp or candle, they have been mistaken for mice, and have occasioned no little alarm to some of the more nervous inhabitants of the palace. A doubt has even been raised whether the name of cardinal has not been given to this creature from an ancient supposition that the ghost of Wolsey haunts the place of his former glory under this shape. Be this as it may, the spider is considered as a curiosity, and Hampton-Court is the only place in which I have met with it."

Did Wolsey, arrayed in all his glory, ever regard a spider, or think that his proud name would be coupled with so minute a member of the creation?

Rook-shooting.

"Rooks are not easily induced to forsake the trees on which they have been bred, and which they frequently revisit after the breeding season is over. This is shown in Hampton-Court Park, where there is an extensive rookery amongst the fine lime-trees, and where a barbarous and unnecessary custom prevails of shooting the young rooks. As many as a hundred dozen of them have been killed in one season, and yet the rooks build in the avenue, though there is a corresponding avenue close by, in Bushy Park, which they never frequent, notwithstanding the trees are equally high and equally secure. I never hear the guns go off during this annual slaughter without execrating the practice, and pitying the poor rooks, whose melancholy cries may be heard to a great distance, and some of whom may be seen, exhausted by their fruitless exertions, sitting melancholy on a solitary tree waiting till the sport is over, that they may return and see whether any of the offspring which they have reared with so much care and anxiety are left to them; or, what is more probable, the call for assistance of their young having ceased, they are aware of their fate, and are sitting in mournful contemplation of their loss. This may appear romantic, but it is nevertheless true."

Who can read the above without a shudder at the brutal taste of the lords of the lower world.

The Emu.

"The only instance I have met with in which the hen bird has not the chief care in hatching and bringing up the young is in the case of the emus at the farm belonging to the Zoological Society near Kingston. A pair of these birds have now five young ones: the female at different times dropped nine eggs in various places in the pen in which she was confined. These were collected in one place by the male, who rolled them gently and carefully along with his beak. He then sat upon them himself, and continued to do so with the utmost assiduity for nine weeks, during which time the female never took his place, nor was he ever observed to leave the nest. When the young were hatched,4 he alone took charge of them, and has continued to do so ever since, the female not appearing to notice them in any way. On reading this anecdote, many persons would suppose that the female emu was not possessed of that natural affection for its young which other birds have. In order to rescue it from this supposition, I will mention that a female emu belonging to the Duke of Devonshire at Cheswick lately laid some eggs; and as there was no male bird, she collected them together herself and sat upon them."

The Toad.

"It is a curious fact that toads are so numerous in the island of Jersey, that they have become a term of reproach for its inhabitants, the word 'Crapaud' being frequently applied to them; while in the neighbouring island of Guernsey not a toad is to be found, though they have frequently been imported. Indeed, certain other islands have always been privileged in this respect. Ireland is free from venomous animals, of course by the aid of St. Patrick. The same was affirmed of Crete in olden times, being the birthplace of Jupiter. The Isle of Man is said also to be free from venomous creatures. The Mauritius, and I believe one of the Balearic islands, enjoys the same immunity."

The following anecdote is as pretty as the writer conceives it to be:

"His present Majesty, when residing in Bushy Park, had a part of the foremast of the Victory, against which Lord Nelson was standing when he received his fatal wound, deposited in a small temple in the grounds of Bushy House, from which it was afterwards removed, and placed at the upper end of the dining-room, with a bust of Lord Nelson upon it. A large shot had passed completely through this part of the mast, and while it was in the temple a pair of robins had built their nest in the shot-hole, and reared a brood of young ones. It was impossible to witness this little occurrence without reflecting on the scene of blood, and strife of war, which had occurred to produce so snug and peaceable a retreat for a nest of harmless robins. If that delightful poet of the lakes, Mr. Wordsworth, should ever condescend to read this little anecdote, it might supply him with no bad subject for one of his charming sonnets."

A few entertaining particulars of

The Royal Parks.

"There are two elm trees, or rather the remains of two, in Hampton Court Park, known by the name of the 'Giants,' which must have been of an enormous size, the trunk of one of them measuring twenty-eight feet in circumference.

"Cork trees flourish in Hampton Court Park, where there are two large ones. There are also some ilexes, or evergreen oaks, in Bushy Park, of a very large size, and apparently as hardy as any other tree there. The avenues in that park are perhaps the finest in Europe. There are nine of them altogether, the centre one, formed by two rows of horse-chestnut trees, being the widest. The side avenues, of which there are four on each side of the main avenue, are of lime trees, and the whole length, including the circuit round the Diana water, is one mile and forty yards.

"Near the Queen's house in this park is a very fine Spanish chestnut tree, said to have been planted by Charles II., and to have been the first which was seen in this country.

"The trees which at present form so much of the beauty of Greenwich Park were planted by Evelyn, and if he could now see them he would call them 'goodly trees,' at least some of them. The chestnuts, however, though they produce some fine fruit, have not thriven in the same proportion with the elms. In noticing this park I should not forget to mention that the only remaining part of the palace of Henry VIII. is preserved in the front of Lord Auckland's house looking into the park. It is a circular delft window of beautiful workmanship, and in a fine state of preservation. There are also a great number of small tumuli in the upper part of the park, all of which appear to have been opened."

"In addition to the herd of fallow deer, amounting to about one thousand six hundred, which are kept in Richmond Park, there is generally a stock of from forty to fifty red deer. One fine stag was so powerful, and offered so much resistance, that two of his legs were broken in endeavouring to secure him, and he was obliged to be killed. One who had shown good sport in the royal hunt, was named 'Sir Edmund,' by his late Majesty, in consequence of Sir Edmund Nagle having been in at the 'take' after a long chase. This stag lived some years afterwards in the park; and its a curious fact that he died the very same day on which Sir Edmund Nagle died."

The volume contains some interesting antiquarian inquiries respecting Caesar's ford at Kingston, and Maxims for an Angler, by a Bungler.

THE SKETCH BOOK

THE ABBOT OF TEWKESBURY

(For the Mirror.)"After life's fitful fever be sleeps well."Shakspeare.

(In opening the tomb of the founder of the Abbey at Tewkesbury, the body of the Abbot was found clothed in full canonicals. The crosier was as perfect as when, perhaps, first put in the coffin, while the body showed scarcely any symptom of decay, though it had been entombed considerably above six hundred years. On exposure to the air, the boots alone of the Abbot were seen to sink, when the tomb was ordered to be sealed up, and his holiness again committed in his darkness. On the above circumstance this sketch is founded.)

Is this to be dead? Am I not clad in all pontifical splendour? Do I not feel the crosier on my breast? The holy brethren of the Abbey surround me. That which distinguished the Abbot when alive, is even here in collected magnificence. I feel the priestly consequence of the Abbot. Is this then the Chamber of the Dead? The pious monks are weeping. The tears which have flowed before the marble shrine are recalled to weep for a departed brother. The incense is full fragrant. I enjoy the perception of its odour. It dilates in my stiffened nostrils, but it supplies me not the breath of life. I hear the loud Hosanna chanted for a soul which dies in the Lord. I will repeat the strain. No. My voice refuses to fall back upon the ear. Where is my heart that it beats not swelling to the anthem's measure? Cold! cold! cold! Nay; I will rise. I will respond unto the funeral dirge. I will shout. Oh! my trunk is hardened, and my tongue is glued. Silence! they pause. Say, do they hear me? No. Silence, horrible and awful. Hark! they mourn with lamentation on my fate. O, Heaven! must I endure all this? Must the living weep for the dead, and the conscious dead be doomed to dismal silence. Horror! horror! horror! IS THIS TO BE DEAD?

A convocation! Yes. The holy brothers in assembled synod to elect a brother holier than themselves. Nay, I do forbid. I, the Abbot who have loved ye all, refuse permission to your meeting. Disperse, disperse. Do ye not hear? Is there no charity alive? Who dares usurp my chair, and I not yet entombed? What! is justice driven out where heavenly men should dwell? I see it. I mark it. The leaven of pride is kneaded in the brotherhood. Intriguing hypocrites usurp the House of God. What! brother John, the fat, the corpulent, the lazy! of whom I know ten thousand heinous sins; the least sufficient to condemn a soul. An Abbot, chosen by the holy, is the elect of God. But he—no, no, no. It shall not be. God will forbid it. They put the crosier in his hand. For shame! for shame! Let not the vicious living sit in the chair of virtue that is departed. Why see! he kneels. He kneels before the shrine, where, until now, he never bent to pray. He grasps the crosier with loving firmness. It shall not be. Is there no interposing Deity to slay the sinner in his wickedness? I, I will seize the crosier from his filthy hand. No. My arm lays idly at my side. Is THIS TO BE DEAD?

They chant the funeral dirge. The mighty torches flash their blazing light upon the frozen features of the dead. Mine eyes are sealed. I strain to open them. No. Light gleams in upon me as through a clear veil. Ah! monster of hateful mien! demon deceitful in religious robes! avaunt! Thou shalt not touch my corpse. No. Thank God! It is a foretaste of thy love to come. He passes on. He dares not lay polluted hands upon the dead, whose becalmed face is looking up to thee. The dead, the sacred dead. The living are for the world, the dead are Thine. Incense, and prayer, and psalms for the departed. It is respectful, but what heed I? Man comes into the world only to go out thereof. What then? The grave! Horror. I have preached thereof. I have shocked others with the enormities of life until they clung unto the grave. Now, I who have bidden the virtuous look to the hopes beyond it, myself would cry to live. But no! they bear me on. He, the foul monster, grins as he looks upon my outstretched limbs. Wolf, I'll pray for thee. Breathe, breathe hardly, ye distended nostrils; it is your last pulsation with the air of earth. No. Sealed as the marble figures by which they bear me. Is this my Tomb. Is this the narrow house appointed for the living? Is this the Abbot's palace after death? Nay, I pray thee, brethren, close me not up in yon receptacle. Where the cold air might shiver on my flesh I may be happy. Yon tomb is dark and dismal, shut from the eye of day. Louder and louder grows your chant, I know its terminating cadence. It falls upon mine ear. Take off this stony lid. Nay, I will knock, knock, knock. My arms are still unraised. They hear me not. Brethren! men! christians! no, monks, monks, monks, cold as the stone ye place upon my breast! Have ye no ears? no hearts? Do I not shout? Do I not pray? Ah! my tongue is one of marble. It is cold and fixed. They will not hear me. Listen! their parting and receding steps. Nay, hasten not away. Silence. No. One step is lingering behind. Thank God! I shout. Brother! what, ho! He hears. Brother! He pauses. What ho! He goes. Brother! Silence is around, hushed as my own attempts to burst a voice. Hark! a noise. No. Silence. Is THIS TO BE DEAD?