The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 558, July 21, 1832

Dov. The superstitions about bees are numberless.

Von Os. And yet this poor fellow believes himself inspired with "grace abounding;" and readily undertakes to "spound," as he calls it, any verse read to him, however remotely insulated from the context.

Dov. But what would you think of a gentleman I have the pleasure of visiting in the higher ranks, and whose conversation is really a happiness to me, who talks of little young bees?—and really believes that they grow! He smiled at me compassionately when I told him that insects never grew when in the perfect state; but, like Minerva from the brain of Jove, issue full-armed with sharpest weapons, and corslets of burnished green, purple, and gold, in panoply complete: yet is this gentleman a man of genius, wit, and very extensive knowledge.

Von Os. Not in bees.

Dov. He was not aware of the numerous species of British bees; and that several, of a small intrepid sort, will enter the hives, and prey on the treasures of their more industrious congeners.

Von Os. Reasoning from analogy does not do in natural history.

Dov. No; for who, without observation, or the information of others, ever by analogical reasoning could reconcile the enormous difference of size and colour, in the sexes of some of the humble bees?—or ever discover that in some species there are even females of two sizes?

Von Os. But these never grow.

Dov. Certainly not. Bees, however, hatched in very old cells, will be somewhat smaller: as each maggot leaves a skin behind which, though thinner than the finest silk, layer after layer, contracts the cells, and somewhat compresses the future bee.

Von Os. No ignorance is so contemptible as that of what is hourly before our eyes. I do not so much wonder at the fellow who inquired if America was a very large town, as at him who, finding the froth of the Cicada spumaria L. on almost every blade in his garden, wondered where were all the cuckoos that produced it.

Dov. They call it cuckoo-spit, from its plentiful appearance about the arrival of that bird.

Von Os. That is reasoning from analogy.

Dov. And yet I see not why the bird should be given to spitting; unless, indeed, he came from America.

Von Os. The vulgar, too, not only delight in wonders inexplicable, but have a rabid propensity to pry into futurity.

Dov. I believe that propensity is far from being confined to the vulgar.

Von Os. True; but not in so ridiculous a way: as they prophesy the future price of wheat from the number of lenticular knobs (containing the sporules) in the bottom of a cup of the fungus Nidularia.

Dov. The weather may be foretold with considerable certainty, for a short time, from many hygrometric plants, and the atmospheric influence on animals.

Von Os. And from Cloudology, by the changing of primary clouds into compound; and these resolving themselves into nimbi, for rain; or gathering into cumuli, for fair weather. This is like to become a very useful and pleasing science.

Dov. It is wonders of this kind, and forewarnings of this nature, that natural history offers to the contemplative mind: in the place of superstitious follies, and unavailing predictions, such as the foretelling of luck from the number or chattering of magpies; and the wonder how red clover changes itself into grass, as many a farmer at this moment believes.

Von Os. Linnaeus himself was a bit of a prophet; as, indeed, thus well he might; for experience and observation amount almost to the power of vatacination. In his Academic Aménities he says, "Deus, O.M. et Natura nihil frustra creaverit. Posteros tamen tot inventuros fore utilitates ex muscis arguor, quot ex reliquis vegetabilibus."

Dov. English it, Von Osdat; thou'rt a scholar.

Von Os. "God and Nature have made nothing in vain. Posterity may discover as much in mosses, as of utility in other herbs."

Dov. And, truly, so they may: one lichen is already used as a blessed medicine in asthma; and another to thicken milk, as a nutritive posset. And who, enjoying the rich productions of our present state of horticulture, can recur without wonder to the tables of our ancestors? They knew absolutely nothing of vegetables in a culinary sense; and as for their application in medicine, they had no power unless gathered under planetary influence, "sliver'd in the moon's eclipse."

Von Os. When Mercury was culminating, or Mars and Venus had got into the ninth house.

Dov. 'Tis curious to reflect, that at the vast baronial feasts, in the days of the Plantagenets and Tudors, where we read of such onslaught of beeves, muttons, hogs, fowl and fish, the courtly knights and beauteous dames had no other vegetable save bread—not even a potato!

Von Os.

"They carved at the meal with their gloves of steel,And drank the red wine through the helmet barr'd."

Dov. And when the cloth was drawn—

Von Os. Cloth!—

Dov. They had scarce an apple to give zest to their wine.

Von Os. We read of roasted crabs; and mayhap they had baked acorns and pignuts.

Dov. Ha! ha! ha!—Caliban's dainties. Now we have wholesome vegetables almost for nothing, and pine-apples for a trifle. Thanks to Mr. Knight—push the bottle—here's to his health in a bumper.

Von Os. Who, walking on Chester walls in those days, and seeing the Brassica oleracea, where it grows in abundance, would have supposed that from it would spring cabbages as big as drums, and cauliflowers as florid as a bishop's wig?

Dov. Or cautiously chaumbering an acrid sloe, imagine it to be the parent of a green gage?

Von Os. This is the Education of Vegetables.

Dov. The March of Increment!

THE TULIP TREE

This tree is now in bloom. It is a native of North America, where it is vulgarly called the poplar. The first which produced blossoms in this country, is said to have been at the Earl of Peterborough's, at Parson's Green, near Fulham. In 1688 this tree was cultivated by Bishop Compton at Fulham, who introduced a great number of new plants from North America. At Waltham Abbey, is a tulip tree, supposed to be the largest in England. The leaves of the tulip tree are very curious, and appear as if cut off with scissors. The flowers, though not glaring, are singularly beautiful, resembling a small tulip, variegated with green, yellow and orange, standing solitary at the ends of the branches. I saw one of these curious trees in full bloom a few days since between Edmonton and Enfield.

P.T.W.

CHANGES DURING THE MATURATION OF FRUIT

The sap is changed into a viscid fluid, which circulates under the bark: this is called cambium. When it is too abundant it is effused, part of its water evaporates, and it becomes gum. If the vital circle is not interrupted, the fluid traverses the branches, and the peduncle arrives in the ovary, and constitutes the pericarp. In this passage it is partly modified: it appropriates to itself the oxygen of its water of composition; hence the malic, citric, and tartaric acids. As the fruit becomes developed, the pellicle thins, becomes transparent, and allows both light and heat to exercise a more marked influence. It is during this period that maturation commences. The acids react on the cambium, which flows into the fruit, and, aided by the increased temperature, convert it into saccharine matter; at the same time they disappear, being saturated with gelatine, when maturation is complete.—London Medical and Surgical Journal.

We may here observe that in a recent paper, by Mr. J. Williams, in the Transactions of the Horticultural Society, the cause of apples becoming russet is attributed to the alternating temperature, light, shade, dryness, and moisture, which occur many times in the course of a day, when July or August is showery. Continued rain, preceded and followed by a cloudy sky, does not seem to produce the same effect, but the sudden, intense light which commonly succeeds a shower at the time the fruit is wet, injures the skin, and occasions small cracks, like the network upon a melon.

MIGRATION OF BIRDS

Whatever theory of instinct may be finally fixed upon as the most correct and philosophical, (to account for the migratory movements of birds,) it is obvious that we cut rather than untie the gordian knot when we talk of the foresight of the brute creation. We might as well talk of the foresight of a barometer. There can be little doubt that birds, prior to their migratory movements, are influenced by atmospherical changes, or other physical causes, which, however beyond the sphere of our perceptions, are sufficient for their guidance. That they are not possessed of the power of divination may be exemplified by the following instance. The winter of 1822 was so remarkably mild throughout Europe, that primroses came generally into flower by the end of December,—rye was in ear by the middle of March, and vines, in sheltered situations, blossomed about the end of that month,—so that an assured and unchecked spring was established at least four or five weeks earlier than usual;—yet neither the cuckoo nor the swallow arrived a single day before their accustomed periods. They are indeed, beautifully and wisely directed,—"Yea, the stork in the heavens knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle, and the crane, and the swallow, observe the time of their coming."—(From a delightful paper upon American Ornithology, in the Quarterly Review, just published.)

FINE ARTS

STATUE OF MR. PITT

This splendid tribute to the memory of the darling minister, has been placed at the south side of Hanover Square. It is of bronze, and stands on a granite pedestal, of size disproportionate to the height and bulk of the figure. The artist is Mr. Chantrey: the work being at the cost of the nobility of the land, and a few ardent admirers of "the system" introduced by Mr. Pitt into the government of this country. We have long had festal celebrations and joyous commemorations of the natal day and deeds of the minister—"the darling of fame"—but the above is the most lasting memorial. Its bronze will in all probability outlast the mettle of party. The resemblance is considered striking, and the effect of the statue is bold and dignified. Biographers tell us that "in person, Pitt was tall, slender, well-proportioned, and active. He had blue eyes, rather a fair complexion, prominent features, and a high, capacious forehead. His aspect was severe and forbidding; his voice clear and powerful; his action dignified, but neither graceful nor engaging; his tone and manners, although urbane and complacent in society, were lofty, and even arrogant, in the senate. On entering the house, it was his custom to stalk sternly to his place, without honouring even his most favoured adherents with a word, a nod, or even a glance of recognition."

THE DIORAMA, REGENT'S PARK

Has reopened with two new views—Paris from Montmartre, (by no means a new, but, perhaps, the best, point of view of the city,)—and the famed Campo Santo of Pisa. The execution of both scenes is calculated to maintain the unique reputation of the establishment. They have the fine effects, the finishing touches, of master-hands.

NEW BOOKS

THE TRIALS OF CHARLES I

(With those of some of the Regicides have been prepared for the 31st volume of the Family Library. We suspect the editor to be M. D'Israeli, who has been poring over the records and fingering the dust of the Royal "martyr" for many years past. Our honourable friend, Clavering, of the Metropolitan, in his recollections of the British Museum, long since, says, "there sat D'Israeli, daily extracting from the voluminous M.S. letters of James I. and Charles I." Whoever the compiler of this volume may be, it must be allowed that, in the form of notes and biographies, he has brought into less than 350 pages a greater collection of interesting incidents connected with his main subject than many writers would have cared to assemble; and he has accordingly produced a work, in every respect, fitted for popular reading. We quote passages from the Execution to the Interment of Charles, but we have not room for the Editor's very pertinent "Remarks on the Trial.")

On the morning of his death, Charles, according to the relation of his faithful attendant, Sir Thos. Herbert, awoke about two hours before daybreak, after a sound sleep of four hours. He called to Herbert, who lay on a pallet, by his bedside, and bade him rise; "for," said the King, "I will get up, I have a great work to do this day." He then gave orders what clothes he would wear, and said to his attendant, "Let me have a shirt on more than ordinary, by reason the season is so sharp4 as probably may make me shake, which some observers will imagine proceeds from fear. I would have no such imputation. I fear not death—death is not terrible to me. I bless God, I am prepared." Soon after the King was dressed, Bishop Juxon came to him, according to his appointment the night before. He remained an hour in private with him, when Herbert was called in, and the Bishop prayed with the King, using the prayers of the church, and then read the 27th chapter of St. Matthew, which so beautifully describes the passion of our Saviour. The King thanked the Bishop for his choice of the lesson; but he was surprised and gratified to learn that it was the lesson for the day according to the calendar.

About ten o'clock Colonel Hacker knocked at the King's chamber door, and, being admitted by Herbert, came in trembling, and announced to the King that it was time to go to Whitehall, where he might have further time to rest; and soon afterwards the King, taking the Bishop by the hand proposed to go. Charles then walked out through the garden of the palace into the Park, where several companies of foot waited as his guard; and, attended by the Bishop on one side, and Colonel Tomlinson on the other, both bare-headed, he walked fast down the Park, sometimes cheerfully calling on the guard to "march apace." As he went along, he said, "he now went to strive for an heavenly crown, with less solicitude than he had often encouraged his soldiers to fight for an earthly diadem."

At the end of the Park, the King5 went up the stairs leading to the long gallery, and so into the Cabinet Chamber of the Palace of Whitehall. Being delayed here in consequence of the scaffold not being ready, he offered up several prayers, and entered into religious discourse with the Bishop. About twelve he ate some bread, and drank a glass of claret, declining to dine after he had received the sacrament.

When Charles arrived at Whitehall, the Colonels Hacker, Huncks, and Phayer produced to Tomlinson the warrant for his execution; and in the Horn Chamber the King was delivered by Tomlinson into the custody of those officers; Charles requested Tomlinson, however, to remain with him to the last, and acknowledged his kind and respectful conduct by presenting to him a gold toothpicker and case which he carried in his pocket. Tomlinson also introduced to him Mr. Seymour, who brought a letter from the Prince to his father, with whom the King conversed, and charged him with various messages for the Prince.

In the mean time a different scene was passing in Ireton's chamber, a small room in another part of the palace. Ireton and Harrison were here in bed; and Cromwell, Axtell, Huncks, Hacker, and Phayer were present. Cromwell commanded Huncks to draw up an order to the executioner pursuant to the warrant for the King's execution. Huncks refused; whereupon Cromwell was highly incensed, and called him a peevish, froward fellow; and Axtell exclaimed, "Colonel Huncks, I am ashamed of you:—the ship is now coming into the harbour, and will you strike sail before we come to anchor?" Cromwell then went to a table, and, as it would appear, wrote the order to the executioner, and then gave the pen to Hacker, who, as one of the officers charged with the execution of the warrant, signed it.6 Cromwell, and the rest of the officers, then went out of the chamber, and, in a few minutes, Hacker came and knocked at the door of the chamber where the King was, with Tomlinson, the Bishop, Herbert, and some of his guards. Herbert and the Bishop were deeply affected at this signal for their final separation from their sovereign and master. The King stretched out his hand to them, which they kissed, falling on their knees and weeping, the King helping the aged bishop to rise. He then bade Hacker to open the door and he would follow; and he was conducted by Hacker, Tomlinson, and other officers and soldiers, through the banquetting house by a passage broken through the wall, where the centre window now is. The street now called Parliament Street was at that time crossed by two ranges of buildings belonging to the palace of Whitehall, with wide arched gateways crossing the street, and forming the public thoroughfare. One gateway was opposite to Privy Gardens; and there was a way over it from these gardens belonging to the palace, to pass into St. James's Park. The other building traversing the street was the sumptuous gallery of Whitehall, built by Henry VIII., the scene of so many adventures and events of various descriptions in the reigns of Elizabeth, James, and the two Charles's. Connected with this gallery was "a beautiful gatehouse," over a noble archway. Lord Leicester says, in his Journal (p. 60.),—"The scaffold was erected between Whitehall gate and the gallery leading to St. James's." Lilly asserts, that it was just at the spot where the blood of a citizen had been shed at the commencement of the rebellion, when a mob were vociferating "No Bishop" under the windows of the palace, and some cavaliers sallied out to disperse them, and one was killed. A strong guard of several regiments of horse and foot being posted about the scaffold, so that the people could not approach near enough to hear any discourse from the King, he addressed his last sentences chiefly to the Bishop, Colonel Tomlinson, and the other officers who stood near him.

"The Bishop. Though your Majesty's affections may be very well known as to religion; yet it may be expected that you should say something thereof for the world's satisfaction."

"The King. I thank you heartily, my Lord, for that I had almost forgotten it. In troth, Sirs, my conscience in religion, I think, is very well known to all the world; and therefore I declare before you all that I die a Christian, according to the profession of the Church of England, as I found it left me by my father; and this honest man, I think, will witness it."

Then to Colonel Hacker he said, "Take care that they do not put me to pain: and, Sir, this and it please you—"

But a gentleman coming near the axe, the King said, "Take heed of the axe, pray take heed of the axe."

Then speaking unto the executioner, he said, "I shall say but very short prayers, and when I thrust out my hands—"

Then turning to the Bishop, he said, "I have a good cause, and a gracious God on my side."

"The Bishop. There is but one stage more, this stage is turbulent and troublesome, it is a short one; but you may consider it will soon carry you a very great way, it will carry you from earth to heaven; and there you will find a great deal of cordial joy and comfort."

"The King. I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown, where no disturbance can be, no disturbance in the world."

"The Bishop. You are exchanged from a temporary to an eternal crown; a good exchange."

Then the King said to the executioner, "Is my hair well?" and took off his cloak and his George, giving his George to the Bishop, saying, "Remember." Then he put off his doublet, and being in his waistcoat, he put on his cloak again; then looking upon the block, he said to the executioner, "You must set it fast."

"Executioner. It is fast, Sir."

"The King. When I put out my hands this way (stretching them out), then—" After that, having said two or three words to himself, as he stood with his hands and eyes lift up, immediately stooping down, he laid his neck upon the block.7 And then the executioner again putting his hair under his cap, the King, thinking he was going to strike, said, "Stay for the sign."

"Executioner. Yes, I will, and please your Majesty."—After a little pause, the King stretching forth his hands, the executioner at one blow severed his head from his body, and held it up and showed it to the people, saying, "Behold the head of a traitor!" At the instant when the blow was given, a dismal universal groan was uttered by the people (as if by one consent) such as was never before heard; and as soon as the execution was over, one troop of horse marched rapidly from Charing Cross to King Street, and another from King Street to Charing Cross, to disperse and scatter the multitude.

Though Joyce and Hugh Peters have been suspected of inflicting the murderous blow on Charles, and though another claimant for this infamous distinction is put forward in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1767, there seems little doubt that Richard Brandon, the common hangman, assisted by his man, Ralph Jones, a ragman in Rosemary Lane, in fact perpetrated the deed. Among the tracts relative to the Civil War presented to the British Museum by George III., in 1762, are three on this subject, which are fully noticed in a note to Mr. Ellis's Letters on English History, vol. iii. (second series.) It appears, by the register of Whitechapel Church, that Richard Brandon was buried there on the 24th of June, 1649; and a marginal note (not in the hand of the Registrar, but bearing the mark of antiquity), states, "This R. Brandon is supposed to have cut off the head of Charles I."—One of the tracts, entitled "The Confession of Richard Brandon, the Hangman, upon his Death-bed, concerning the Beheading of his late Majesty," printed in 1649, states, "During the time of his sickness, his conscience was much troubled, and exceedingly perplexed in mind; and on Sunday last, a young man of his acquaintance going to visit him, fell into discourse, asked him how he did, and whether he was not troubled in conscience for cutting off the King's head. He replied yes, by reason that (upon the time of his tryall) he had taken a vow and protestation, wishing God to punish him, body and soul, if ever he appeared on the scaffold to do the act, or lift up his hand against him. He likewise confessed that he had 30l. for his pains, all paid him in half-crowns within an hour after the blow was given; and he had an orange stuck full with cloves, and a handkircher out of the King's pocket, so soon as he was carried off the scaffold; for which orange he was proffered twenty shillings by a gentleman in Whitechapel, but refused the same, and afterwards sold it for ten shillings in Rosemary Lane. About eight o'clock at night he returned home to his wife, living in Rosemary Lane, and gave her the money, saying, it was the dearest money, he earned in his life, for it would cost him his life. About three days before he died, he lay speechless, uttering many a sigh and heavy groan, and so in a desperate state departed from his bed of sorrow. For the burial whereof great store of wines were sent in by the sheriff of the city of London, and a great multitude of people stood wayting to see his corpse carried to the churchyard, some crying out, 'Hang him, rogue!'—'Bury him in the dunghill.'—Others pressing upon him, saying they would quarter him for executing the King, insomuch that the churchwardens and masters of the parish were fain to come for the suppressing of them: and with great difficulty he was at last carried to Whitechapel churchyard, having (as it is said) a branch of rosemary at each end of the coffin, on the top thereof, with a rope crosse from one end to the other, a merry conceited cook, living at the sign of the Crown, having a black fan (worth the value of 30s.), took a resolution to rent the same in pieces: and to every feather tied a piece of packthread, dyed in black ink, and gave them to divers persons, who, in derision, for a while wore them in their hats."—See Ellis, ubi supra. The second tract states, that the first victim Brandon beheaded was the Earl of Stratford.