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

"When the body was put into a coffin at Whitehall," says Rushworth, "there were many sighs and weeping eyes at the scene; and divers strove to dip their handkerchiefs in the King's blood." A general gloom and consternation pervaded London on the day of this atrocious perpetration; many of the chief inhabitants either shut themselves up in their houses, or absented themselves from the city. On that day none of the courts of justice sat; and on the next, Whitelocke, one of the commissioners of the Great Seal, says, "The commissioners met, but did not think fit to do any business, or seal any writs, because of the King's death." Whitelocke says, "I went not to the House, but stayed all day at home in my study, and at my prayers, that this day's work might not so displease God as to bring prejudice to this poor afflicted nation."8 Evelyn, in his Diary, writes, "I kept the day of this martyrdom as a fast, and would not be present at that execrable wickedness, receiving the sad account of it from my brother George and Mr. Owen, who came to visit me this afternoon, and recounted all the circumstances." Archbishop Usher came out to witness the scene from his house at Whitehall; but he fainted when the King was led out on the scaffold.

The Journals of the Commons show, either that nothing was done, or that it was thought fit to enter nothing on these eventful days. On the day of the execution there is only the following remarkable entry:—

"Ordered, That the common post be stayed until to-morrow morning 10 o'clock."

On the 31st, Commissary-general Ireton reports a paper of divers particulars touching the King's body, his George, his diamond, and two seals. The question being put, that the diamond be sent to Charles Stuart, son of the late King, commonly called Prince of Wales, it passed with the negative. The same question was then put, separately, as to the garter, the George, and the seals: as to each, it passed in the negative.

When the news of the decapitation of the King reached Scotland, that loyal people were moved with horror and indignation.

Most of the gentry put on mourning; the chair of state in the parliament house, the uppermost seats in the kirks, and almost all the pulpits, were clothed in black.

The body of the King being embalmed, under the orders of Herbert and bishop Juxon, was removed to St. James's. The usurpers of the government refused permission to bury it in Henry the VII.'s Chapel, from a dread of the indignation of the crowds who would assemble on so solemn and interesting an occasion; but, at last, after some deliberation, the council allowed it to be privately interred in St. George's Chapel at Windsor, provided the expenses of the funeral should not exceed five hundred pounds. The last duties of love and respect were (according to Charles's express desire) paid to their sovereign's corpse by the Duke of Richmond, the Marquess of Hertford, Lord Southampton, Lord Lindsey, the Bishop of London, Herbert, and Mildmay, who, on producing a vote of the Commons, were admitted by Whichcote, the Governor of Windsor Castle, to the chapel. When the body was carried out of St. George's Hall, the sky was serene and clear; but presently a storm of snow fell so fast, that before it reached the chapel the pall and the mourners were entirely whitened. When the bishop proposed to read the burial service according to the rites of the Church of England, this fanatical governor roughly refused, saying, "that that Common Prayer Book was put down, and he would not suffer it to be used in that garrison where he commanded." Clarendon thus describes, with graphic simplicity, the sad scene to its close:—

"But when they entered into it (the chapel), which they had been so well acquainted with, they found it so altered and transformed, all inscriptions and those landmarks pulled down, by which all men knew every particular place in that church, and such a dismal mutation over the whole that they knew not where they where; nor was there one old officer that had belonged to it, or knew where our Princes had used to be interred. At last there was a fellow of the town who undertook to tell them the place where, he said, 'there was a vault in which King Harry the Eighth and Queen Jane Seymour were interred.' As near that place as could conveniently be they caused the grave to be made. There the King's body was laid, without any words, or other ceremonies, than the tears and sighs of the few beholders. Upon the coffin was a plate of silver fixed, with these words only, 'King Charles, 1648.' When the coffin was put in, the black velvet pall that had covered it was thrown over it, and then the earth thrown in; which the governor staid to see perfectly done, and then took the keys of the church.

"Owing to the privacy of this interment, doubts were at the time current as to its having actually taken place. It was asserted that the King's body was buried in the sand at Whitehall; and Aubrey states a report, that the coffin carried to Windsor was filled with rubbish and brick-bats. These doubts were entirely removed by the opening of the coffin (which was found where Clarendon described it,) in the presence of George the Fourth, then Prince Regent, in April, 1813—of which Sir Henry Halford has published an interesting narrative. On removing the black pall which Herbert described, a plain leaden coffin was found, with the inscription 'King Charles, 1648.' Within this was a wooden coffin, much decayed, and the body carefully wrapped in cerecloth, into the folds of which an unctuous matter mixed with resin had been melted, to exclude the external air. The skin was dark and discoloured—the pointed beard perfect—the shape of the face was a long oval—many of the teeth remained—the hair was thick at the back of the head, and in appearance nearly black—that of the beard was of a redder brown. The head was severed from the body. The fourth cervical vertebra was found to be cut through transversely, leaving the surfaces of the divided portions perfectly smooth and even;—'an appearance,' says Sir H. Halford, 'which could have been produced only by a heavy blow inflicted with a very sharp instrument, and which furnished the last proof wanting to identify King Charles I.'"

(The volume is embellished with a Portrait of the King, and Outline Prints of the Trial and Execution.)

NOTES OF A READER

ATLAS OF THE BIBLE

The Biblical Series of the Family Cabinet Atlas has just been completed with the Sixth Part, containing the Title-page, Contents, Preface, Plans of Jerusalem, the Temple, and Maps of Palestine, according to Josephus and the Apocrypha. These occupy seven plates, all exquisitely engraved on steel. There is, moreover, a letter-press Index of reference to the places in the Maps, printed on fine plate paper, and occupying 120 pages. Or, this portion rather deserves the distinctive title adopted by the editors, viz. "A New General Index, exhibiting, at one view, all that is geographically and historically interesting in the Holy Scriptures." It presents such a digest as we rarely witness, and to give the reader some idea of its laborious preparation, we select a specimen, the matter being arranged in a tabular or columnar form, thus:

Scriptural Name—JEZREAL, Valley, or Plain.

Classic Name—Esdraelon.

Tribe—Issachar.

Country—Canaan.

Scriptural Reference—Judges, vi. 33.

No. of Map.—ix.

Modern Name—Merdj—Ibn Aamer.

Distance and bearing from Jerusalem—40 N.b.E.

Lat. North—32.27.

Long. East—35.25.

Quarter—Asia.

Country—Palestine.

Province—Akka.

Remarks—Here the spirit of the Lord descended upon Gideon, and here the Lord gave him the sign he required by causing the fleece to be wet or dry at his bidding.

The projector and artist is Mr. Thomas Starling, and its execution, whether graphic or literary, is calculated to give the public a very high opinion of his taste, talent, and application.

GEOGRAPHY

Mr. Dowling, of Woodstock Boarding-School, has put Goldsmith's Grammar of Geography into question and answer for junior pupils, or, rather, he has seized on the simplest part of the information contained in the above work, and added a chapter on latitude and longitude. We hope the attention of teachers will be directed to his Compendium, as it appears to leave nothing to be desired in facilitating the progress of the learner.

OUTLINES OF KNOWLEDGE

Mr. Ince, whose Outline of English History we noticed a few weeks since, has been stimulated to the production of an Outline of General Knowledge. His present Compendium is satisfactory as a little book of Facts, and may serve as well for a whet to the memory of adults as for the tuition of children.

CURIOSITIES OF PHRENOLOGY

The Third Edition of a Catechism of Phrenology, published at Glasgow, induces us to pick out a few of the author's facts, and we accordingly select the developements of the Feelings and Faculties. Thus, of Amativeness, the organs are very large in the casts of Mitchell, Dean, and Raphael. In Dr. Hette, very small.

Philoprogenitiveness, or love of children—the Hindoos, Negroes, and Charibs.

Combativeness—The Charibs, King Robert Bruce, General Wurmser, David Haggart, and generally in those who have murdered from the impulse of the moment.

Destructiveness—In the heads of Dean, Thurtell, King Robert Bruce, Bellingham, in cool and deliberate murderers, and in persons who delight in cruelty, where the organ is large; and, in general, in the Hindoos, small.

Combinativeness—In Raphael, Michael Angelo, Brunel, Haydon, and Herschel, where it is very fully developed; the New Hollanders, have it small. Being indispensable to the talent for works of art of every description, it is found large in all those painters, sculptors, mechanicians, and architects, who have distinguished themselves in their particular departments.

Love of Approbation—In King Robert Bruce, Dr. Hette, Clara Fisher, and the American Indians, where it is large. Such likewise is uniformly the case in bashful individuals; this disposition arises in a great measure from a fear of incurring disapprobation.

Cautiousness—In the Hindoos, large; in Bellingham, moderate. Robert Bruce and Hannibal were remarkable for valour, while they at the same time, possessed cautiousness in a high degree.

Benevolence—In Henri Quatre, where it is large. In Bellingham, Griffiths, and the Charibs, very small. In King Robert Bruce, moderate.

Veneration—An individual may have this organ very large, without possessing a high degree of religious feeling. Voltaire, in whom the organ was extraordinarily large, affords a striking example of this. He embraced every opportunity of turning religion into ridicule; but still, in him, we find the strong manifestation of the faculty, in the high and almost servile degree of deference which he paid to superiors in rank and authority. In Raphael, Bruce, and the Negroes, this organ is large. In Dr. Hette, small.

Firmness—In King Robert Bruce and the American Indians, large.

Hope—In Raphael, large; in Dr. Hette, small.

Ideality—In Milton, Shakspeare, Raphael, Wordsworth, Haydon, and Byron, large. In Mr. Hume and Bellingham, small.

Wit—According to Dr. Spurzheim, the formation of this faculty is to give rise to the feeling of the ludicrous, creating, when strong, an almost irresistible disposition to view every object in that light, while Dr. Gall defines it to be the predominant intellectual feature in Rabelais, Cervantes, Boileau, Swift, Sterne, and Voltaire. In Sterne, Voltaire, and Henri Quatre, this organ is large. In Sir J.E. Smith, Mr. Hume, and the Hindoos, small.

Imitation—In Raphael, Clara Fisher, and uniformly in those artists and players who have distinguished themselves for their imitative powers, large.

Individuality—In the French, generally large; moderate in the English, and in the Scotch, small.

Form—To judge of form in general. The function of this faculty is essential to those engaged in the imitative arts: it enables the painter to distinguish the different casts of features and countenances in general; and upon the same principle, is of the most essential service to the mineralogist. The organ is found large in King George III., and in the Chinese sculls.

Weight or resistance, essential to a genius for mechanics, enabling the individual to judge of momentum and resistance in that branch of science. The organ is large in Brunel and Sir Isaac Newton.

Colouring—remarkably developed in the portraits of Reubens, Rembrandt, Titian, Salvator Rosa, and Claude Lorraine, where its large size is indicated by the arched appearance of the eyebrow in its situation; and in the masks of the late Sir Henry Raeburn, Wilkie, and Haydon, by the projection forwards of the eyebrow at that part.

Locality—or the power of remembering localities, in Kepler, Galileo, Newton, Tycho, Descartes, Sir Walter Scott, and Captain Cook, is large.

Number, or a talent for calculation—in the portraits of Euler, Kepler, Laplace, Gassendi, &c., and in George Bidder, Humboldt, and Colburn, large.

Tune—In Gluck, where it has a pyramidal form. In Mozart, Viotti, Turnsteg, Dussek, and Crescenti, where it is distinguished by a fullness and roundness of the lateral parts of the forehead.

Language—in Sir J.E. Smith, Humboldt, and Voltaire, large.

Comparison—in Pitt, Roscoe, Raphael, Burke, John Bunyan, and Mr. Hume.

Casualty, or the connexion between cause and effect—remarkable in the portraits and busts of Bacon, Kant, Locke, Voltaire, Dr. Thomas Brown; and in the masks of Haydon, Brunel, Burke, Franklin, and Wilkie, where it is largely developed. In Pitt, and Sir J.E. Smith, it is moderate, and in the Charibs and New Hollanders, very deficient.

SONGS BY BARRY CORNWALL

PAST TIMESOld Acquaintance, shall the nightsYou and I once talked together,Be forgot like common things,—Like some dreary night that bringsNaught save foul weather?We were young, when you and ITalked of golden things together,—Of love and rhyme, of books and men:Ah! our hearts were buoyant thenAs the wild-goose feather!Twenty years have fled, we know,Bringing care and changing weather;But hath th' heart no backward flights,That we again may see those nights,And laugh together?Jove's eagle, soaring to the sun,Renews the past year's mouldering feather:Ah, why not you and I, then, soarFrom age to youth,—and dream once moreLong nights together.THE STRANGERA stranger came to a rich man's door.And smiled on his mighty feast;And away his brightest child he bore,And laid her toward the East.He came next spring, with a smile as gay,(At the time the East wind blows,)And another bright creature he led away,With a cheek like a burning rose.And he came once more, when the spring was blue,And whispered the last to rest,And bore her away,—yet nobody knewThe name of the fearful guest!Next year, there was none but the rich man left,—Left alone in his pride and pain,Who called on the stranger, like one bereft,And sought through the land,—in vain!He came not: he never was heard nor seenAgain; (so the story saith;)But, wherever his terrible smile had been,Men shuddered, and talked of—Death!THE QUADROONSay they that all beauty liesIn the paler maiden's hue?Say they that all softness flies,Save from the eyes of April blue?Arise then, like a night in June,Beautiful Quadroon!Come,—all dark and bright, as skiesWith the tender starlight hung!Loose the love from out thine eyes!Loose the angel from thy tongue!Let them hear heaven's own sweet tune,Beautiful Quadroon!Tell them—Beauty (born above)From no shade nor hue doth fly:All she asks is mind, is love:And both upon thine aspect lie,—Like the light upon the moon,Beautiful Quadroon.THE PASTThis common field, this little brook—What is there hidden in these two,That I so often on them look,Oftener than on the heavens blue?No beauty lies upon the field;Small music doth the river yield;And yet I look and look again,With something of a pleasant pain.'Tis thirty—can't be thirty years,Since last I stood upon this plank.Which o'er the brook its figure rears,And watch'd the pebbles as they sank?How white the stream! I still rememberIts margin glassed by hoar December,And how the sun fell on the snow:Ah! can it be so long ago?It cometh back;—so blithe, so bright,It hurries to my eager ken.As though but one short winter's nightHad darkened o'er the world since then.It is the same clear dazzling scene;—Perhaps the grass is scarce as green;Perhaps the river's troubled voiceDoth not so plainly say—"Rejoice."Yet Nature surely never ranges,Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown;—But, ever joyful, merely changesThe primrose for the thistle-down.'Tis we alone who, waxing old,Look on her with an aspect cold,Dissolve her in our burning tears,Or clothe her with the mists of years!Then, why should not the grass be green?And why should not the river's songBe merry,—as they both have beenWhen I was here an urchin strong?Ah, true—too true! I see the sunThrough thirty winter years hath run.For grave eyes, mirrored in the brook,Usurp the urchin's laughing look!So be it! I have lost,—and won!For, once, the past was poor to me,—The future dim: and though the sunShed life and strength, and I was free,I felt not—knew no grateful pleasure:All seemed but as the common measure:But NOW—the experienced spirit oldTurns all the leaden past to gold.

FRENCH MANNERS

(The Duchess of Abrantes, in her recently published Memoirs, gives a striking picture of the difference in the fashions and habits of living which has resulted from the old French Revolution.)

Transported from Corsica to Paris at the close of the reign of Louis XV., my mother had imbibed a second nature in the midst of the luxuries and excellencies of that period. We flatter ourselves that we have gained much by our changes in that particular; but we are quite wrong. Forty thousand livres a-year fifty years ago, would have commanded more luxury than two hundred thousand now. The elegancies that at that period surrounded a woman of fashion cannot be numbered; a profusion of luxuries were in common use, of which even the name is now forgotten. The furniture of her sleeping apartment—the bath in daily use—the ample folds of silk and velvet which covered the windows—the perfumes which filled the room—the rich laces and dresses which adorned the wardrobe, were widely different from the ephemeral and insufficient articles by which they have been replaced. My opinion is daily receiving confirmation, for every thing belonging to the last age is daily coming again into fashion, and I hope soon to see totally expelled all those fashions of Greece and Rome, which did admirably well under the climate of Rome or Messina, but are ill adapted for our vent du bize and cloudy atmosphere. A piece of muslin suspended on a gilt rod, is really of no other use but to let a spectator see that he is behind the curtain. It is the same with the imitation tapestry—the walls six inches thick, which neither keep out the heat in summer, nor the cold in winter. All the other parts of modern dress and furniture are comprised in my anathema, and will always continue to be so.

It is said that every thing is simplified and brought down to the reach of the most moderate fortunes. That is true in one sense; that is to say, our confectioner has muslin curtains and gilt rods at his windows, and his wife has a silk cloak as well as ourselves, because it is become so thin that it is indeed accessible to every one, but it keeps no one warm. It is the same with all the other stuffs. We must not deceive ourselves; we have gained nothing by all these changes. Do not say, "So much the better, this is equality." By no means; equality is not to be found here, any more than it is in England, or America, or anywhere, since it cannot exist. The consequence of attempting it is, that you will have bad silks, bad satins, bad velvets, and that is all.

The throne of fashion has encountered during the Revolution another throne, and it has been shattered in consequence. The French people, amidst their dreams of equality, have lost their own hands. The large and soft arm-chairs, the full and ample draperies, the cushions of eider down, all the other delicacies which we alone understood of all the European family, led only to the imprisonment of their possessors; and if you had the misfortune to inhabit a spacious hotel, within a court, to avoid the odious noise and smells of the street, you had your throat cut. That mode of treating elegant manners put them out of fashion; they were speedily abandoned, and the barbarity of their successors still so lingers amongst us, that every day you see put into the lumber-room an elegant Grecian chair which has broken your arm, and canopies which smell of the stable, because they are stuffed with hay.

At that time, (1801,) the habits of good company were not yet extinct in Paris; of the old company of France, and not of what is now termed good company, and which prevailed 30 years ago only among postilions and stable-boys. At that period, men of good birth did not smoke in the apartments of their wives, because they felt it to be a dirty and disgusting practice; they generally washed their hands; when they went out to dine, or to pass the evening in a house of their acquaintance, they bowed to the lady at its head in entering and retiring, and did not appear so abstracted in their thoughts as to behave as they would have done in an hotel. They were then careful not to turn their back on those with whom they conversed, so as to show only an ear or the point of a nose to those whom they addressed. They spoke of something else, besides those eternal politics on which no two can ever agree, and which give occasion only to the interchange of bitter expressions. There has sprung from these endless disputes, disunion in families, the dissolution of the oldest friendships, and the growth of hatred which will continue till the grave. Experience proves that in these contests no one is ever convinced, and that each goes away more than ever persuaded of the truth of his own opinions.

The customs of the world now give me nothing but pain. From the bosom of the retirement where I have been secluded for these 15 years, I can judge, without prepossession, of the extraordinary revolution in manners which has lately taken place. Old impressions are replaced, it is said, by new ones; that is all. Are, then, the new ones superior? I cannot believe it. Morality itself is rapidly undergoing dissolution—every character is contaminated, and no one knows from whence the poison is inhaled. Young men now lounge away their evenings in the box of a theatre, or the Boulevards, or carry on elegant conversation with a fair seller of gloves and perfumery, make compliments on her lily and vermilion cheeks, and present her with a cheap ring, accompanied with a gross and indelicate compliment. Society is so disunited, that it is daily becoming more vulgar, in the literal sense of the word. Whence any improvement is to arise, God only knows.

THE GATHERER

CURRAN AND THE MASTIFF.

Curran told me, with infinite humour of an adventure between him and a mastiff when he was a boy. He had heard somebody say that any person throwing the skirts of his coat over his head, stooping low, holding out his arms and creeping along backward, might frighten the fiercest dog and put him to flight. He accordingly made the attempt on a miller's animal in the neighbourhood, who would never let the boys rob the orchard; but found to his sorrow that he had a dog to deal with who did not care which end of a boy went foremost, so as he could get a good bite out of it. "I pursued the instructions," said Curran; "and, as I had no eyes save those in front, fancied the mastiff was in full retreat: but I was confoundedly mistaken; for at the very moment I thought myself victorious, the enemy attacked my rear, and having got a reasonably good mouthful out of it, was fully prepared to take another before I was rescued. Egad, I thought for a time the beast had devoured my entire centre of gravity, and that I never should go on a steady perpendicular again." "Upon my word, Curran," said I, "the mastiff may have left you your centre, but he could not have left much gravity behind him, among the bystanders."—Sir Jonah Barrington.