The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 20,


Vol. 20, No. 563.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1832. [PRICE 2d

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[Illustration: (At Eyam.)]

[Illustration: (At Wheston.)]

[Illustration: (Beauchief Abbey.)]

Mr. Rhodes, the elegant topographer of _the Peak_, observes, "there
are but few individuals in this country, possessing the means and the
opportunities of travel, who have not, either from curiosity or some
other motive, visited the Peak of Derbyshire." This remark is correct;
and to it we may add, that the "few" who have not personally visited
the Peak, have become familiar with its wonders through the pencils
of artists, or the graphic pens of accomplished tourists. Yet their
attractions are not of that general character which delights an
untravelled eye: they belong rather to the wonderful than what is,
in common parlance, the beautiful. Mr. Rhodes says, "Travellers
accustomed to well-wooded and highly-cultivated scenes only, have
frequently expressed a feeling bordering on disgust, at the bleak and
barren appearance of the mountains in the Peak of Derbyshire; but to
the man whose taste is unsophisticated by a fondness for artificial
adornments, they possess superior interest, and impart more pleasing
sensations. Remotely seen, they are often beautiful; many of their
forms, even when near, are decidedly good; and in distance, the
features of rudeness, by which they are occasionally marked, are
softened down into general and sometimes harmonious masses. The
graceful and long-continued outline which they present, the breadth of
light and shadow that spreads over their extended surfaces, and the
delightful colouring with which they are often invested, never fail to
attract the attention of the picturesque traveller."

Our present road, however, lies through the dales rather than the
mountainous portion of this district. To enjoy the picturesque variety
of the former we must leave the cloud-capped peaks, and ramble with
the reader through "cultivated meadows, luxuriant foliage, steep
heathy hills, and craggy rocks, while the eye is enchanted with
brilliant streams." Such indeed is the character of the dales,
especially those through which the Derwent, the Dove, and the Wye
meander. Hitherto we have but adverted to the natural beauties of the
country; although they are checkered with many mouldering relics
of "hoar antiquity"--many crumbling memorials of ages long past,
reminding us of the nothingness of man's labours, yet harmonizing most
happily with the feelings inspired by the natural sublimities of the
scene. By such associations, the decaying glories of art lend even a
charm to ever flourishing nature!

The Cuts are but three vignettes from the architectural lore of the
district. They stand in sheltered valleys, though, as their ruinous
condition implies, their situation has not saved them from the
destroying hand of time. Indeed, one of them, Beauchief Abbey, gives
name to its locality, Abbey Dale, not far from the partition line that
separates Derbyshire from Yorkshire. In this road, the ruin in the Cut
is the first object that claims the attention of the tourist in his
progress to the Peak; being part of a once magnificent abbey, founded
by Robert Fitz-Ranulph, Lord of Alfreton; as an expiation for the part
he is said to have taken in the murder of Thomas a Becket. The
late Dr. Pegg, the antiquary, discountenances this tradition. His
arguments, however, which are chiefly founded on the circumstance of
the brother of Robert Fitz-Ranulph, being afterwards in great favour
with Henry the Second, do not appear conclusive, particularly when
opposed to the authority of Dugdale, Fuller, Bishop Tanner, and others
who have written on the subject.[1]

[1] Dugdale says, "Robert Fitz-Ranulph, Lord of Alfreton, Norton,
and Marnham, was one of the four knights who martyred the blessed
Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury; and afterwards founded
the Monastery of Beauchief, by way of expiating his crime; in the
reign of Henry the Second." Bishop Tanner writes, "Beauchief, an
Abbey of Promonstatentian, or White Canons, founded A.D. 1183, by
Robert Fitz-Ranulph, Lord of Alfreton, one of the executioners of
Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, to whom canonized, this
monastery was dedicated." These authorities are quoted by
Mr. Rhodes. Sir James Mackintosh names the four "knights of
distinguished rank," (apparently upon the authority of Hoveden,)
to have been "William de Tracy, Hugh de Moreville, Richard Britto,
and Reginald Fitz-Urse." We do not attempt to reconcile the
conflicting chroniclers; but we should add, from the subsequent
page, by Sir James, "the conspirators, despairing of pardon, found
a distant refuge in the Castle of Knaresborough, in the town of
Hugh de Moreville, and were, after some time, enjoined by the Pope
to do penance for their crime, by a pilgrimage to the Holy Land,
where _they died_, and were interred before the gate of the
Temple." Sir James describes the murder of Becket with minuteness:
"the assassins fell on him with many strokes; and though the
second brought him to the ground, they did not cease till _his
brains were scattered over the pavement_."--We know the Cathedral
guide at Canterbury shows you the stone in the place of that on
which Becket fell, and states the original stone to be preserved
in St. Peter's, at Rome; but the story is to us rather apocryphal.
At St. Alban's they show you the _dust_ of the good Duke Humphrey:
we once begged a pinch, which the guide granted freely; this
induced us to ask him how often he re-supplied the dust: the man
stared at our ungrateful incredulity.

The walls of Beauchief Abbey, with the exception of the west end,
represented in the Cut, have long since either been removed, or have
mouldered into dust. Parochial service is still performed in the
remains; but the whole of the original form of the once extensive pile
of building cannot now be traced.

The exterior architecture of the chapel is almost destitute of
ornament; if we except the reeded windows, and the double buttresses
at the angles of the tower, which is stated to be short of its
original height. On the east side, two angular lines mark the
connexion which the chapel had with the other buildings, and a part of
the ground plan may be traced by an adjoining wall, in which are the
remains of two circular arches, comparatively little impaired. Mr.
Rhodes observes "a wreath of ivy which falls from the top of the
tower, and nearly invests one side of it, breaks the dull monotony of
its outline, and produces a tolerably good effect: in other respects
it is not strikingly attractive as a picturesque object. The Abbey of
_Bello-Capite_ will ever be dear to the antiquary who will visit it
with veneration and delight; nor will the artist pass it by unnoticed.
The magnificent woods, and the beautiful hills that environ the Abbey
of Beauchief, amply compensate for any deficiency of grandeur in the
subordinate adornments of so rich a scene."

Beauchief Abbey, though once a considerable structure, was never
proportionally wealthy. At the time of its dissolution, (Henry VIII.)
the whole of its revenues were estimated but at 157_l_; and with the
materials furnished by its demolition was built Beauchief House upon
the same estate, granted by Henry VIII. to Sir William Shelly. The
mansion is still tenanted.


These emblematic relics stand in two of the villages in the Peak
district: viz. Eyam and Wheston. They are places of little importance;
though a touching interest is attached to Eyam, from it having been
visited by the Great Plague of the year 1666; its population, at this
time, was about 330; of whom 259 fell by the plague.[2] The history of
this calamitous visitation forms the subject of a meritorious poem
by W. and M. Howitt, entitled _the Desolation of Eyam_, in which
the piety of Mr. Mompesson, (who then held the living of Eyam,)
his pastoral consolations to his mourning people, and the amiable
character of his beautiful wife, who fell a victim to the plague,--are
narrated with true pathos. Yet, this afflicting episode in village

So sad, so tender and so true.

having been but recently related by our ingenious contemporary, Mr.
Hone,[3] we quote but two of the opening stanzas by the Messrs.

Among the verdant mountains of the Peak
There lies a quiet hamlet, where the slope
Of pleasant uplands wards the north-wind's bleak;
Below wild dells romantic pathways ope;
Around, above it, spreads a shadowy cope
Of forest trees: flower, foliage, and clear rill
Wave from the cliffs, or down ravines elope;
It seems a place charmed from the power of ill
By sainted words of old: so lovely, lone, and still.

And many are the pilgrim's feet which tread
Its rocky steps, which thither yearly go;
Yet, less by love of Nature's wonders led,
Than by the memory of a mighty woe,
Which smote, like blasting thunder, long ago,
The peopled hills. There stands a sacred tomb,
Where tears have rained, nor yet shall cease to flow;
Recording days of death's sublimest gloom;
Mompesson's power and pain,--his beauteous Catherine's doom.

[2] Dr. Mead, in his Narrative of the Great Plague in London,
particularly mentions its introduction into Eyam, through the
medium of a box of clothes, sent to a tailor who resided there.

[3] Table Book, 1827, p. 481.

The cross at Eyam stands near the entrance into the chancel of the
church. According to village tradition, this rare relic was found
on some of the neighbouring hills. It is curiously ornamented with
symbolic devices in bold relief. "It has suffered dilapidation from
the culpable neglect of those who should have felt an interest in its
preservation. About two feet of the top of the shaft is wanting, as
may be seen by reference to the engraved sketch, (_See the Cut_,)
which was taken in the year 1815." The sexton of the church, who was
then an old man, told Mr. Rhodes in 1818, that he well recollected the
missing part being thrown carelessly about the churchyard, as if of no
value, until it was broken up by some of the inhabitants, and knocked
to pieces for domestic purposes. The preservation of the Cross, to the
extent we have shown, is referable to the philanthropic Howard,
who, in a visit to Eyam, about the year 1788, or 44 years since,
particularly noticed the finest part of the relic lying in a corner
of the churchyard, and nearly overgrown with docks and thistles. "The
value this hitherto unregarded relic had in the estimation of Howard,"
says Mr. Rhodes, "made it dearer to the people of Eyam: they brought
the top part of the cross from its hiding-place, and set it on the
still dilapidated shaft, where it has ever since remained." Other
crosses, similar in appearance and workmanship, have been found on
the hills of Derbyshire, particularly one in the village of Bakewell,
which we have already figured in _The Mirror_.[4] It evidently
originated with the same people as that at Eyam, though it is much
more mutilated. These crosses have been generally regarded as Saxon or
Danish, though the probability is in favour of the Saxon origin, from
the high veneration of the Saxons for the sacred symbol of the cross.
Thus, stone crosses were not only parts of the decorations of every
church and altar, but set up as land-marks on the high roads as aids
to devotion, and in market-places as incentives to integrity and

[4] Vol. xi. p. 40.

Near the cross at Eyam, and in the distance of the Cut, is the tomb of
Mrs. Mompesson, on one end of which is an hour-glass with two expanded
wings; and underneath on an oblong tablet is inscribed CAVETE;
(beware,) and nearer the base, the words _Nescitis Horam_ (ye know not
the hour). On the other end of the tomb is a death's head resting on a
plain, projecting tablet; and below the words _Mihi lucrum_ (mine is
the gain).

The second hallowed relic is at Wheston a small and pleasant village,
which is situated on an eminence that forms one side of Monksdale,
and which at this place is known by the name of Peter-dale. A short
distance from hence is Tideswell, about four miles from Eyam.[5]
"Wheston," observes Mr. Rhodes, "though consisting of a few houses
only, is a picturesque little place: the trees which are mingled with
the cottages, are so abundant, and everywhere so finely foliaged, that
the place altogether, particularly when seen at a short distance,
appears more like a copse or wood than a village." The position of the
Wheston cross favours the conclusion already made as to the purposes
for which this kind of emblem was originally set up in England. It
stands in the village, _near the road-side_. The upper part of the
cross resembles in some of its ornaments the mullion-work of a Gothic
window: the shaft is unadorned, and more modern. One side represents
the infant Saviour in the arms of his mother: over their heads is a
faint indication of a star, emblematic of the ray that directed the
wise men of the East to the birthplace of Jesus. The reverse of the
cross exhibits the crucifixion of Christ, whose birth and death it
has apparently been the design of the sculptor to commemorate in the
erection of this symbol of his faith. Similar structures are by no
means uncommon by the road-sides throughout France, and to this day
the peasantry may be seen bending before them; while the drivers of
carriages on the most frequented roads are not unmindful of an act of
passing homage to the time-worn emblem.

[5] From King John, the Eyam estate descended to the Stafford
family, on whom it was bestowed in consideration of certain
military services, and on the express condition "that a lamp
should be kept perpetually burning before the altar of St. Helen,
in the parish-church of Eyam." The lamp has long since ceased
to burn, and the estate has passed into other hands: it now
constitutes a part of the immense property of his Grace the Duke
of Devonshire.

Several crosses have been found in this part of Derbyshire, but only
a few have escaped the dilapidations of age; the others have been, we
had almost said sacrilegiously, destroyed as objects of no value. Mr.
Rhodes tells us that "in one place the shaft of a cross, originally of
no mean workmanship, has been converted into a gate-post; at another,
one has been scooped and hollowed out, and made into a blacksmith's
trough. I have seen one, which is richly sculptured on the three
remaining sides, with figures and a variety of ornaments, all well
executed, that was long applied to this humble purpose." The Cut shows
that a portion of the cross at Wheston has been broken off; Mr. Rhodes
saw the fragment as a common piece of stone, built and cemented into
an adjoining wall; and he judiciously adds, "where so little interest
has been felt in the preservation of these relics, it is only
surprising that so many of them yet remain in different parts of the
kingdom." Among all acts of wanton license, the destruction of a cross
is to us the most unaccountable. We can readily refer the defacement
of imperial insignia and the spoliation of royal houses to political
turbulence engendered by acts of tyrannical misrule; but the
mutilation of _the cross_--the _universal_ Christian emblem--remains
to be explained, unless we attribute it to the brutal ignorance of the
spoilers. Its religious universality ought consistently to protect it
from intolerance.

We must not bring this paper to a close without explaining that the
preceding Engravings have been copied from the first of Mr. Rhodes's
excursions of seventeen miles, viz. from Sheffield to Tideswell.
The Abbey and the two Crosses therefore occur in that district. The
original plates are effectively engraved by W. and W.B. Cook, from
drawings by Mr. Chantrey, R.A., who presented to Mr. Rhodes a series
of drawings for his work, "as a token of his friendship, and a mark of
his attachment to his native country."

* * * * *




The late French premier, was the son of a rich merchant at Grenoble,
where he was born October 12, 1777. At an early age he entered the
army: he served in the Italian campaigns of 1799 and 1800, in the
staff of the Military Engineers. On the death of his father, however,
he quitted the service and devoted himself wholly to commercial
pursuits. In 1802, he opened a bank at Paris, and subsequently,
establishments for cotton-spinning and sugar-refining, and a steam
flour mill, all of which were eminently successful, and contributed
to the formation of his immense fortune. He first became known to the
public in 1816, by a pamphlet against the foreign loan system, which
was equally remarkable for its clearness of argument and profound
knowledge of finance. In 1817, he was elected one of the Deputies for
the Department of the Seine, and from that time until the revolution
of 1830, he continued the firm opponent of every ministerial
encroachment on the rights and privileges of the people. He
particularly distinguished himself by his hostility to the Villele
administration; himself supporting almost singly the whole burden of
the opposition to the famous budget of Villele, which he disputed,
item by item, with talent and perseverance worthy of entering the
lists with the distinguished financier to whom he was opposed. When
M. de Polignac became President of the Council, the opposition of M.
Perier assumed a more violent character, and he was pre-eminent
among the 221 deputies who voted the address which led to the fatal
ordonnances of July. When the revolution broke out, he at once avowed
himself the advocate of the popular cause, and opened his house as the
place of meeting of the deputies, who assembled to protest against the
illegality of the proceedings of the Crown. Firmly, however, attached
to the principles of constitutional opposition, and shrinking,
therefore, from the probable effects of a revolution, he was one of
the last to abandon the hope that his infatuated sovereign would open
his eyes to the gulf on the brink of which he was standing, and by a
timely revocation of the ordonnances, prevent the necessity of the
extreme measure of an appeal to arms, and a consequent change of
dynasty. When these became inevitable, M. Perier attached himself
firmly to the work of consolidating the new throne of Louis Philippe,
and reassembling those elements of order and stability which the
convulsion of July had scattered, but not annihilated. On the
dissolution of the ministry of M. Lafitte, M. Casimir Perier was
called to the head of the government, and immediately entered into the
system of conservative policy, which he continued until the close of
his career. The last time he took any important part in the debates
of the Chamber of Deputies was on the 20th of March, when he made an
ingenious defence of the conduct of government with respect to the
events of Grenoble. His last appearance in the Chamber was on the 29th
of March, when he merely brought in several private bills. On the
3rd of April he was attacked by the cholera, and, although the
indefatigable care bestowed on him by his medical attendants had more
than once apparently eradicated the disease, his frame, enfeebled by
a long standing internal complaint, as well as by his intense and
incessant application, was unable to resist the violence of the
disease, and, after several relapses, he at length sunk under his
sufferings, on the morning of the 16th of May, 1832.

As an orator M. Perier was energetic and impassioned: the natural
warmth of his temper, added to the irritability produced by illness,
frequently imparted a _brusque_ acerbity to his style, which injured
both the oratorical and moral effect of his eloquence; but his
reasoning was forcible, and his manner commanding and effective. "It
is not our province," says the editor of the Journal, whence these
particulars have been chiefly obtained, "to examine the merits or
demerits of his political system: recorders of, not actors in, the
great political struggle in which France is engaged, we have too
often had occasion to quote the enthusiastic eulogiums and unmeasured
invectives heaped upon him by different parties, to render it
necessary to repeat here, that he possessed the strongest proofs
against the reproach of mediocrity ever being applicable to him."


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[The elegantly embellished volumes by Mrs. Jamieson, with
the above attractive title, present the prettiest code of
ladye-philosophy we have ever witnessed on paper. They aim
at illustrating the characters of Intellect, Passion, and
Imagination, the Affections, and what are purely Historical
Characters, in the females of Shakspeare's Plays. Such is the
design: of its beautiful execution we can give the reader but a
faint idea by extracting from Passion and Imagination, part of the
_Character of Juliet_:--]

It is not without emotion, that I attempt to touch on the character of
Juliet. Such beautiful things have already been said of her--only
to be exceeded in beauty by the subject that inspired them!--it
is impossible to say any thing better; but it is possible to say
something more. Such in fact is the simplicity, the truth, and the
loveliness of Juliet's character, that we are not at first aware
of its complexity, its depth, and its variety. There is in it an
intensity of passion, a singleness of purpose, an entireness, a
completeness of effect, which we feel as a whole; and to attempt to
analyze the impression thus conveyed at once to soul and sense, is
as if while hanging-over a half-blown rose, and revelling in its
intoxicating perfume, we should pull it asunder, leaflet by leaflet,
the better to display its bloom and fragrance. Yet how otherwise
should we disclose the wonders of its formation, or do justice to the
skill of the divine hand that hath thus fashioned it in its beauty?

All Shakspeare's women, being essentially women, either love, or
have loved, or are capable of loving; but Juliet is love itself. The
passion is her state of being, and out of it she has no existence.
It is the soul within her soul; the pulse within her heart; the
life-blood along her veins, "blending with every atom of her frame."
The love that is so chaste and dignified in Portia--so airy-delicate,
and fearless in Miranda--so sweetly confiding in Perdita--so playfully
fond in Rosalind--so constant in Imogem--so devoted in Desdemona--so
fervent in Helen--so tender in Viola,--is each and all of these in
Juliet. All these remind us of her; but she reminds us of nothing but
her own sweet self: or if she does, it is of the Grismunda, or the
Lisetta, or the Fiamminetta of Boccaccio, to whom she is allied, not
in the character or circumstances, but in the truly Italian spirit,
the glowing, national complexion of the portrait.[6]

[6] Lord Byron has remarked of the Italian women, (and he could
speak _avec connaissance de fait_,) that they are the only women
in the world capable of impressions at once very sudden and very
durable; which, he adds, is to be found in no other nation. Mr.
Moore observes afterwards, how completely an Italian woman, either
from nature or her social position, is led to invert the usual
course of frailty among ourselves, and weak in resisting the
first impulses of passion, to reserve the whole strength
her character for a display of constancy and devotedness
afterwards.--Both these traits of national character are
exemplified in Juliet.--_Moore's Life of Byron_, vol. ii p. 303,
338, 4to edit.

There was an Italian painter who said that the secret of all effect
in colour consisted in white upon black, and black upon white. How
perfectly did Shakspeare understand this secret of effect! and how
beautifully he has exemplified it in Juliet!

So shews a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her follows shews!

Thus she and her lover are in contrast with all around them. They are
all love, surrounded with all hate; all harmony, surrounded with all
discord; all pure nature, in the midst of polished and artificial
life. Juliet, like Portia, is the foster-child of opulence and
splendour: she dwells in a fair city--she has been nurtured in a
palace--she clasps her robe with jewels--she braids her hair with
rainbow-tinted pearls; but in herself she has no more connexion with
the trappings around her, than the lovely exotic transplanted from
some Eden-like climate, has with the carved and gilded conservatory
which has reared and sheltered its luxuriant beauty.

But in this vivid impression of contrast, there is nothing abrupt or
harsh. A tissue of beautiful poetry weaves together the principal
figures and the subordinate personages. The consistent truth of the
costume, and the exquisite gradations of relief with which the most
opposite hues are approximated, blend all into harmony. Romeo and
Juliet are not poetical beings placed on a prosaic background; nor are
they, like Thekla and Max in the Wallenstein, two angels of light amid
the darkest and harshest, the most debased and revolting aspects of
humanity; but every circumstance, and every personage, and every shade
of character in each, tends to the developement of the sentiment which
is the subject of the drama. The poetry, too, the richest that can
possibly be conceived, is interfused through all the characters; the
splendid imagery lavished upon all with the careless prodigality of
genius, and all is lighted up into such a sunny brilliance of effect,
as though Shakspeare had really transported himself into Italy, and
had drunk to intoxication of her genial atmosphere. How truly it has
been said, that "although Romeo and Juliet are in love, they are not
love-sick!" What a false idea would any thing of the mere whining
amoroso, give us of Romeo, such as he is really in Shakspeare--the
noble, gallant, ardent, brave, and witty! And Juliet--with even less
truth could the phrase or idea apply to her! The picture in "Twelfth
Night" of the wan girl dying of love, "who pined in thought, and with
a green and yellow melancholy," would never surely occur to us, when
thinking on the enamoured and impassioned Juliet, in whose bosom love
keeps a fiery vigil, kindling tenderness into enthusiasm, enthusiasm
into passion, passion into heroism! No, the whole sentiment of the
play is of a far different cast. It is flushed with the genial spirit
of the south; it tastes of youth, and of the essence of youth; of
life, and of the very sap of life. We have indeed the struggle of love
against evil destinies and a thorny world; the pain, the grief,
the anguish, the terror, the despair:--the aching adieu; the pang
unutterable of parted affection; and rapture, truth, and tenderness
trampled into an early grave: but still an Elysian grace lingers round
the whole, and the blue sky of Italy bends over all!

Lord Byron's Haidee is a copy of Juliet in the Oriental costume, but
the development is epic, not dramatic.

I remember no dramatic character, conveying the same impression of
singleness of purpose, and devotion of heart and soul, except the
Thekla of Schiller's Wallenstein: she is the German Juliet; far
unequal, indeed, but conceived, nevertheless, in a kindred spirit. I
know not if critics have ever compared them, or whether Schiller is
supposed to have had the English, or rather the Italian, Juliet in his
fancy when he portrayed Thekla; but there are some striking points of
coincidence, while the national distinction in the character of the
passion leaves to Thekla a strong cast of originality.

With regard to the termination of the play, which has been a subject
of much critical argument, it is well-known that Shakspeare, following
the old English versions, has departed from the original story of Da
Porta;[7] and I am inclined to believe that Da Porta, in making Juliet
waken from her trance while Romeo yet lives, and in his terrible final
scene between the lovers, has departed from the old tradition, and as
a romance, has certainly improved it: but that which is effective in
a narrative is not always calculated for the drama; and I cannot but
agree with Schlegel, that Shakspeare has done well and wisely
in adhering to the old story.[8] Can we doubt for a moment that
Shakspeare, who has given us the catastrophe of Othello, and the
tempest scene in Lear, might also have adopted these additional
circumstances of horror in the fate of the lovers, and have so treated
them as to harrow up our very souls--had it been his object to do so?
But apparently it was _not_. The tale is one,

Such, as once heard, in gentle heart destroys
All pain but pity.

[7] The "Giulietta" of Luigi da Porta was written about 1520. In
a popular little book published in 1565, thirty years before
Shakspeare wrote his tragedy, the name of Juliet occurs as an
example of faithful love, and is thus explained by a note in the
margin. "Juliet, a noble maiden of the citie of Verona, which
loved Romeo, eldest son of the Lord Monteschi; and being privily
married together, he at last poisoned himself for love of her:
she, for sorrow of his death, slew herself with his dagger." This
note, which furnishes in brief, the whole argument of Shakspeare's
play, might possibly have made the first impression on his fancy.

[8] There is nothing so improbable in the story of Romeo and
Juliet as to make us doubt the tradition that it is a real fact.
"The Veronese," says Lord Byron, in one of his letters from
Verona, "are tenacious to a degree of the truth of Juliet's story,
insisting on the fact, giving the date 1303, and showing a tomb.
It is a plain, open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered
leaves in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden--once a
cemetery, now ruined, to the very graves! The situation struck me
as very appropriate to the legend, being blighted as their
love." He might have added, that when Verona itself, with its
amphitheatre and its Palladian structures, lies level with the
earth, the very spot on which it stood will still be consecrated
by the memory of Juliet. When in Italy, I met a gentleman, who
being then "_dans le genre romantique_," wore a fragment of
Juliet's tomb set in a ring.

It is in truth a tale of love and sorrow, not of anguish and terror.
We behold the catastrophe afar off with scarcely a wish to avert it.
Romeo and Juliet _must_ die: their destiny is fulfilled: they have
quaffed off the cup of life, with all its infinite of joys and
agonies, in one intoxicating draught. What have they to do more
upon this earth? Young, innocent, loving, and beloved, they descend
together into the tomb: but Shakspeare has made that tomb a shrine
of martyred and sainted affection consecrated for the worship of all
hearts,--not a dark charnel vault, haunted by spectres of pain, rage,
and desperation.

The poem, which opened with the enmity of the two families, closes
with their reconciliation over the breathless remains of their
children; and no violent, frightful, or discordant feeling, is
suffered to mingle with that soft impression of melancholy left within
the heart, and which Schlegel compares to one long, endless sigh.

"A youthful passion," says Goethe, (alluding to one of his own early
attachments), "which is conceived and cherished without any certain
object, may be compared to a shell thrown from a mortar by night: it
rises calmly in a brilliant track, and seems to mix, and even to dwell
for a moment, with the stars of heaven; but at length it falls--it
bursts--consuming and destroying all around even as itself expires."

* * * * *


At Aix-la-Chapelle, situated nearly in the centre of his vast
dominions, and in a salubrious climate, Charlemagne had fixed upon a
spot for building a palace, in the neighbourhood of some natural warm
baths,--a Roman luxury, in which the Frankish monarch particularly
delighted. All that the great conception of Charlemagne could devise,
and the art of the age could execute, was done, to render this
structure, and the church attached to it, worthy of their magnificent
founder. But no account can be given;[9] for nothing has come down to
the present age which can justify any thing like detailed description.
Nevertheless, a number of circumstances in regard to this building are
occasionally mentioned in the historians of the time, that convey an
idea of vastness and splendour, which probably might have been lost
had minute examination been possible. Immense halls[10]--magnificent
galleries--a college--a library--baths, where a hundred persons could
swim at large--a theatre and a cathedral--a profuse display of the
finest marble--gates and doors of wrought brass--columns from Rome,
and pavements from Ravenna,--such, we know, to have been some of the
many things which that great palace displayed.

[9] In all probability, the crypt of the church of
Aix-la-Chapelle, as it stands at present, is all that remains of
the original edifice.

[10] The baths of Aix-la-Chapelle, constructed by the emperor for
the enjoyment of this recreation, were of immense extent; and
while their splendour and their size showed the progress of
luxury, the manner in which they were used, evinces the curious
simplicity and condescension of the monarch. "Not only his sons,"
says Eginhard, "but also the great men of his court, his friends,
and the soldiers of his guard, were invited to partake of the
enjoyment which the monarch had provided for himself; so that
sometimes as many as a hundred persons were known to bathe there

Workmen were gathered together from every part of Europe; and, though
but small reliance can be placed upon the anecdotes related by the
Monk of St. Gall, it is evident, from every account, that the building
must have been the most magnificent architectural effort which Europe
had beheld since the days of the splendour of ancient Rome.

Besides the palace itself, we find, that an immense number of
buildings were constructed around it, for the accommodation of
every one in any way connected with the court, and adjoining, were
particular halls, open at all times, and in which all classes and
conditions might find a refuge from the cold of night, or from the
wintry storm.[11]

[11] Stoves were furnished also to warm those who might take
refuge in these general chambers; and the Monk of St. Gaul
asserts, that the apartments of Charlemagne were so constructed,
that he could see everything which took place in the building
round about,--an impossible folly, imagined by the small cunning
of a monk.

Within the walls, was that famous domestic college, on the
maintenance, extension, and direction of which Charlemagne, amidst all
the multiplicity of his occupations, found means to bestow so much of
his time and attention. But every trace of his actions tends to prove,
that his first and greatest, object--to which even conquest was
secondary, if not subservient--was to civilize his dominions, and to
raise mankind in general from that state of dark ignorance into which
barbarian invasion had cast the world.

During the first ten or fifteen years after its establishment, the
college of the palace had probably followed the court during its
frequent migrations, notwithstanding the number of members, and
the difficulty of transporting the library, which soon became
considerable. Many circumstances, however, seem to show, that after
the construction of the great palace at Aix-la-Chapelle, it became
fixed in that place. The library, we know, was there concentrated; and
several of the books thus collected, such as the Codex Carolinus, &c.
have come down through a long line of emperors to the present day.
Indeed, a great part of the most valuable literature of former ages,
was preserved alone by the efforts of the French monarch for the
revival of science; and the link of connexion between ancient and
modern civilization, owes its existence, as much to the endeavours of
Charlemagne, as even to the papal preservation of antique Rome.

* * * * *


In the reign of Charlemagne, in the year 796, the mode of writing
underwent a change. The rude characters employed under the Merovingian
race were disused, and the small Roman letters were introduced. As the
spirit of improvement proceeded, new alterations were sought; and some
years afterwards, to write in the large Roman capitals, became the
mode of the day, the initial letter of each paragraph being always
highly ornamented, and sometimes painted, many specimens of which have
come down to the present time. Though at an advanced[12] period of
life when this method of writing first began to prevail, Charlemagne
endeavoured to learn it, and even caused models of the letters to be
laid by his pillow, that during the waking moments of the night, he
might practise the art which he sought to acquire.

[12] I do not know whether it be worth while to attempt to refute
the opinion which has been founded on an erroneous passage in
Eginhard, that Charlemagne could not write. Eginhard understood,
as Gibbon says, the court and the world, and the Latin language,
it is true; but, nevertheless, we may much more rationally believe
that the secretary made use of a vague expression, than
suppose that he wished to imply, in one sentence, the manifest
contradiction of Charlemagne being in the habit of going through
all the abstruse calculations of astronomy, in an age when those
calculations were most complicated, without being able to write.
The whole of Charlemagne's life renders the supposition absurd.
He studied under Alcuin, whose first rule was to teach the most
correct orthography in writing. We know that he subscribed many
deeds, though his signature was abbreviated, to render it as rapid
as possible. Eginhard himself states, that the monarch wrote the
history of the ancient kings in verse: and Lambecius, one of the
highest antiquarian authorities, declares, that the imperial
library still contains a manuscript, corrected by the hand of
Charlemagne himself.

Nor did the monarch remain satisfied with leading the way himself on
the path of knowledge which he desired the whole nation to follow; nor
content himself with bestowing on his children a careful and judicious
education, both mental and corporeal; but by constantly proposing in
writing questions for solution, addressed to the various prelates and
teachers of his realm, he forced them to exercise their talents and
cultivate their minds, under the severe penalty of shame and ridicule.
On the other hand, literary merit was never without its reward,
for though, as far as we can discover, Charlemagne, wise in his
generosity, seldom if ever gave more than one profitable charge at
once to one man, yet those who distinguished themselves by talent
and exertion, were sure to meet with honour, distinction, and

* * * * *


* * * * *


[Two Illustrations]

The following very curious notice respecting the money (coin
and value) for which Judas Iscariot betrayed our Redeemer, (and
afterwards, with it, purchased "the Potter's Field, to bury strangers
in,") is extracted from _The Sovereign Order of Saint John of
Jerusalem_, by ANDREW FAVINE, 1620, and will no doubt prove acceptable
to the reader:--

"In this citty of Rhodes they did beate and stamp money of silver,
in bignesse somewhat neare to an half teston of France, but yet much
thicker, and the figures thereon more embossed than ours are. These
pieces of silver are like to the halfe sickle of the Jews, or the
diobrachma of the Romaines, but they be more worth. There is a
tradition, that the thirtie pence, for which the Saviour of the world
was sold and delivered to the Jews, by the traitor, Judas, were of
this kinde. And in very deede, in the Church of the Holy Crosse of
Jerusalem, at Rome, is to be seene one of those thirtie pence, which
is wholly like to that in the Church of the Temple, in the citty of
Paris. It is enchased in a shrine, and is to be seene but thorow a
christall glasse, and on the side which may be noated, appeareth
nothing but a head.

"The learned Gulielmus Budeus, the honour of our Citty of Paris, and
of all France, in the remarkable tract which he wrote, _De Asse_,
affirmeth that he had scene the pennie of silver, in the Temple at
Paris, and that on it was represented a head, as in truth there
is. But, concerning the other side, neither the learned Cardinall
Baronius, nor Budeus, doe speake anything else; then of the weight of
those silver pence, which the Evangelists tearme Argenteos. One of
those silver pence of Rhodes I have, and both the sides thereof, in
this manner I shew to you (_vide Engraving_).

"I have confronted and compared it with the sight of that pennie at
Rome, and the other in the Temple at Paris, and they are all three
alike, both in the visage and in the circumference. Mine is in weight
two groates, a halfe pennie less of silver, which commeth to twelve
sols and one liard. On the other (_one?_) side, it hath the visage of
the sunne, like to the fashion of a young man's face, without a beard,
with long locks of hayre, as here it is figured, and as poets have
feigned. On the other side is a blowne rose, higher and greater than
ours are;[13] which commeth somewhat neare in resemblance to the rose
which we tearme of Jericho, and which are brought from the Holy Land.
Upon this pennie the rose hath, on eache side, a button, (bud) the one
whereof beginneth to blome, but not the other. Above the rose, on
the ring of the piece, is formed in capitall Greeke letters, [Greek:
RODION], (Rhodian,) which signifieth, and would say (if it could)
_a rose_. At the foote whereof is this sillable, EY. (Favine then
mentions the arms of Rhodes, which, as well as we are able to
translate the old French, left untranslated, appears to be Field
_d'Argent_, a rose _proper_, with buds; _gules_, stalk, _de synople_.)
So," he continues, "that thirtie pence of this money amounteth not
but altogether to the summe of eighteen poundes seaven shillings and
sixe-pence of our money, and seemeth a very small summe for buying
a piece of ground, or land, which the Evangelists call Ackeldemach,
(Alcedaema), 'The Potter's Field,' so neere to Jerusalem peopled with
more than a million of men, solde for an offence, and with condition
that it should never be redeemed, in regard it was destined for the
Burial-place of Pilgrims, which came to Jerusalem at the solemn Feasts
there held; and every one well knoweth, that (amongst the Jews)
inheritances were sold, more or less, according as the conditions were
made, either neere, or further off, from the yeare of jubilee, which
they feasted from fifty yeares, to fifty yeares; a feast, so solemnly
observed among them, that the sellers did then re-enter into their
sold inheritances, which they possessed again freely, and without any
charge, or paying any arrerages, according as it was ordained by their
law, in the five-and-twentieth chapter of Leviticus. But it may be,
this Potter's Field was (in parte) bought with those thirtie pence,
and the other parte might be the almes and giftes of the proprietaries
or owners, both in the Temple of Jerusalem and publickly, for so good
a subject as the buriall of pilgrims, and poore strangers. For ever,
and beside the offerings and Tribute-money, which the Jews offered and
paid to the treasurers in the Temple, for maintaining the Tribe of
Levi, (the deserving ministers thereof) who, at the distribution and
division of the Land of Promise to the Jewish people, had not any lot
or partage (but were assigned to the Jews devotion,) inheritances
might be legacied to them, which falling into mortmaine, could not
be redeemed by any custome of kindred, whatsoever jubilee might
be alledged, or selling, or alienating, as it is written in the
seaven-and-twentieth of Leviticus. And such an inheritance was called
_Ager Anathematis_--a field wholly dedicated and consecrated to God;
and which from thenceforward, might fall no more into any secular, or
prophane hand."

[13] Amongst other interpretations of "_Under the Rose_," why may
we not conjecture that it may have something to do with _bribes to
silence?_ with _hush-money?_ the _Rose_, in many countries, being
not an unusual stamp on their coins.

After this erudite disquisition, which endeavours to account for the
_smallness_ of the sum for which our blessed Lord was betrayed, and
for which Alcedama was purchased, how would honest Andrew Favine
stare, could he learn that modern commentators have, _without
comment_, assigned something less than _one-fifth_ of 18_l_. 7_s_.
6_d_. as the "price of innocent blood." We transcribe in proof,
the annotation on Mat. 26 c. 15 v. from D'Oyly and Mant's
Bible:--"'_Thirty pieces of silver_.' Thirty shekels, about 3_l_.
10_s_. 8_d_. of our money. It appears from Exod. 21 c. 32 v., that
this was the price to be paid for a slave or servant, when killed by a
beast. So vilely was HE esteemed, who shed his precious blood for man;
and so true it is, that _Christ_ took upon him the form of a servant."
Now, the Jewish _shekel_ being valued at 2_s_. 4-1/4_d_. and the coin
of the _next_ superior denomination, (the _maneh_) being set down
in our Bible money-tables, at 7_l_. 1_s_. 5_d_. it is clear that
_several_ of _intermediate value_ must have existed, for exchange,
which might reconcile this difference. M.L.B.

* * * * *


* * * * *


[A series of characteristic sketches of Life in the Navy, has
appeared in the successive numbers of the _Metropolitan_, from the
pen of Captain Marryatt, author of the _King's Own_, and other
popular novels, with a high stamp of originality. The sketches
before us are entitled Peter Simple, and detail the early
adventures of a Middy with much of that delightful ease we are
wont to admire in the writings of Smollett, Fielding, and the
_character_ novelists of the latter half of the past century. The
style of Captain Marryatt is fresh, vigorous, and racy--"native
and to the manner born,"--abounding in lively anecdote, but never
straying into caricature--with just enough of the romance of life
to keep the incidents afloat from commonplace, and probability
above-board. This and the following are specimen sketches.]

We all had leave from the first lieutenant to go to Portdown fair, but
he would only allow the oldsters to sleep on shore. We anticipated so
much pleasure from our excursion, that some of us were up, and went
away in the boat sent for fresh beef. This was very foolish. There
were no carriages to take us to the fair, nor indeed any fair so early
in the morning: the shops were all shut, and the Blue Posts, where
we always rendezvoused was hardly open. We waited there in the
coffee-room, until we were driven out by the maid sweeping away the
dirt, and were forced to walk about until she had finished, and
lighted the fire, when we ordered our breakfast; but how much better
would it have been to have taken our breakfast comfortably on board,
and then to have come on shore, especially as we had no money to
spare. Next to being too late, being too soon is the worst plan in
the world. However, we had our breakfast, and paid the bill; then we
sallied forth, and went up George Street, where we found all sorts
of vehicles ready to take us to the fair. We got into one which they
called a dilly. I asked the man who drove us why it was so called, and
he replied because he only charged a shilling. O'Brien, who had joined
us after breakfasting on board, said that this answer reminded him of
one given to him by a man who attended the hackney-coach stands in
London. "Pray," said he, "why are you called Watermen?" "Watermen,"
replied the man, "vy, sir, 'cause ve opens the hackney-coach doors."
At last, with plenty of whipping, and plenty of swearing, and a great
deal of laughing, the old horse, whose back curved upwards like a bow,
from the difficulty of dragging so many, arrived at the bottom of
Portdown hill, where we got out, and walked up to the fair. It really
was a most beautiful sight. The bright blue sky, and the coloured
flags flapping about in all directions, the grass so green, and the
white tents and booths, the sun shining so bright, and the shining
gilt gingerbread, the variety of toys and variety of noise, the
quantity of people and the quantity of sweetmeats; little boys so
happy, and shop people so polite, the music at the booths, and the
bustle and eagerness of the people outside, made my heart quite jump.
There was Richardson, with a clown and harlequin, and such beautiful
women, dressed in clothes all over gold spangles, dancing reels and
waltzes, and looking so happy! There was Flint and Gyngell, with
fellows tumbling over head and heels, playing such tricks--eating
fire, and drawing yards of tape out of their mouths. Then there was
the Royal Circus, all the horses standing in a line, with men and
women standing on their backs, waving flags, while the trumpeters blew
their trumpets. And the largest giant in the world, and Mr. Paap,
the smallest dwarf in the world, and a female dwarf, who was smaller
still, and Miss Biffin, who did every thing without legs or arms.
There was also the learned pig, and the Herefordshire ox, and a
hundred other sights which I cannot now remember. We walked about for
an hour or two, seeing the outside of every thing: we determined to go
and see the inside. First we went into Richardson's, where we saw a
bloody tragedy, with a ghost and thunder, and afterwards a pantomime,
full of tricks, and tumbling over one another. Then we saw one or
two other things, I forget which, but this I know, that generally
speaking, the outside was better than the inside. After this, feeling
very hungry, we agreed to go into a booth and have something to eat.
The tables were ranged all around, and in the centre there was a
boarded platform for dancing. The ladies were there already dressed
for partners; and the music was so lively, that I felt very much
inclined to dance, but we had agreed to go and see the wild beasts fed
at Mr. Polito's menagerie, and as it was now almost eight o'clock, we
paid our bill and set off. It was a very curious sight, and better
worth seeing than any thing in the fair; I never had an idea that
there were so many strange animals in existence. They were all secured
in iron cages, and a large chandelier, with twenty lights, hung in the
centre of the booth, and lighted them up, while the keeper went round
and stirred them up with his long pole; at the same time he gave us
their histories, which were very interesting. I recollect a few of
them. There was the tapir, a great pig with a long nose, a variety of
the hiptostomass, which the keeper said was an amphibious animal, as
couldn't live on land, and _dies_ in the water--however, it seemed to
live very well in a cage. Then there was the kangaroo with its young
ones peeping out of it--a most astonishing animal. The keeper said
that it brought forth two young ones at a birth, and then took them
into its stomach again, until they arrived at years of discretion.
Then there was the pelican of the wilderness, (I shall not forget
him,) with a large bag under his throat, which the man put on his head
as a night-cap; this bird feeds its young with its own blood--when
fish are scarce. And there was the laughing hyaena, who cries in the
wood like a human being in distress, and devours those who come to his
assistance--a sad instance of the depravity of human nature, as the
keeper observed. There was a beautiful creature, the royal Bengal
tiger, only three years old, what growed ten inches every year, and
never arrived at its full growth. The one we saw measured, as the
keeper told us, sixteen feet from the snout to the tail, and seventeen
feet from the tail to the snout; but there must have been some mistake
there. There was a young elephant and three lions, and several other
animals, which I forget now, so I shall go on to describe the tragical
scene which occurred. The keeper had poked up all the animals, and had
commenced feeding them. The great lion was growling and snarling
over the shin bone of an ox, cracking it like a nut, when by some
mismanagement, one end of the pole upon which the chandelier was
suspended fell down, striking the door of the cage in which the
lioness was at supper, and bursting it open. It was all done in a
second; the chandelier fell, the cage opened, and the lioness sprung
out. I remember to this moment seeing the body of the lioness in the
air, and then all as dark as pitch. What a change! not a moment before
all of us staring with delight and curiosity, and then to be left in
darkness, horror and dismay! There was such screaming and shrieking,
such crying, and fighting, and pushing, and fainting, nobody knew
where to go, or how to find their way out. The people crowded first on
one side, and then on the other, as their fears instigated them. I was
very soon jammed up with my back against the bars of one of the cages,
and feeling some beast lay hold of me behind, made a desperate effort,
and succeeded in climbing up to the cage above, not however without
losing the seat of my trousers, which the laughing hyaena would not
let go. I hardly knew where I was when I climbed up; but I knew the
birds were mostly stationed above. However, that I might not have the
front of my trousers torn as well as the behind, as soon as I gained
my footing I turned round, with my back to the bars of the cage; but I
had not been there a minute, before I was attacked by something which
digged into me like a pickaxe, and as the hyaena had torn my clothes,
I had no defence against it. To turn round would have been worse
still; so after having received above a dozen stabs, I contrived by
degrees to shift my position, until I was opposite to another cage,
but not until the pelican, for it was that brute, had drawn as much
blood from me as would have fed his young for a week. I was surmising
what danger I should next encounter, when to my joy I discovered that
I had gained the open door from which the lioness had escaped. I
crawled in, and pulled the door too after me, thinking myself very
fortunate; and there I sat very quietly in a corner during the
remainder of the noise and confusion. I had not been there but a few
minutes, when the beef-eaters, as they were called, who played the
music outside, came in with torches and loaded muskets. The sight
which presented itself was truly shocking; twenty or thirty men,
women, and children, lay on the ground, and I thought at first the
lioness had killed them all, but they were only in fits, or had been
trampled down by the crowd. No one was seriously hurt. As for the
lioness, she was not to be found; and as soon as it was ascertained
that she had escaped, there was as much terror and scampering away
outside, as there had been in the menagerie. It appeared afterwards,
that the animal had been as much frightened as we had been, and had
secreted himself under one of the wagons. It was sometime before she
could be found. At last O'Brien who was a very brave fellow, went
a-head of the beef-eaters, and saw her eyes glaring. They borrowed a
net or two from the carts which had brought calves to the fair, and
threw them over her. When she was fairly entangled, they dragged her
by the tail into the menagerie. All this while I had remained very
quietly in the den, but when I perceived that its lawful owner had
come back again to retake possession, I thought it was time to come
out; so I called to my messmates, who with O'Brien were assisting the
beef-eaters. They had not discovered me, and laughed very much when
they saw where I was. One of the midshipmen shot the bolt of the door,
so that I could not jump out, and then stirred me up with a long pole.
At last I contrived to unbolt it again, and got out, when they laughed
still more, at the seat of my trousers being torn off. It was not
exactly a laughing matter to me, although I had to congratulate myself
upon a very lucky escape: and so did my messmates think, when I
narrated my adventures. The pelican was the worst part of the
business. O'Brien lent me a dark silk handkerchief, which I tied
round my waist, and let drop behind, so that my misfortunes might not
attract any notice, and then we quitted the menagerie; but I was so
stiff that I could scarcely walk.


We had a new messmate of the name of M'Foy. I was on the quarter-deck
when he came on board and presented a letter to the captain, inquiring
first if his name was "Captain Sauvage." He was a florid young man
nearly six feet high, with sandy hair, yet very good-looking. As his
career in the service was very short, I will tell at once what I did
not find out till some time afterwards. The captain had agreed to
receive him to oblige a brother officer, who had retired from the
service, and lived in the Highlands of Scotland. The first notice
which the captain had of the arrival of Mr. M'Foy, was from a letter
written to him by the young man's uncle. This amused him so much, that
he gave it to the first lieutenant to read. It ran as follows;--

Glasgow, April 25th, 1---.


"Our much esteemed and mutual friend, Captain M'Alpine, having
communicated by letter, dated the 14th inst., your kind intentions
relative to my nephew Sholto M'Foy, (for which you will be pleased to
accept my best thanks,) I write to acquaint you that he is now on
his way to join your ship the Diomede, and will arrive, God willing,
twenty-six hours after the receipt of this letter.

"As I have been given to understand by those who have some
acquaintance with the service of the King, that his equipment as an
officer will be somewhat expensive, I have considered it but fair
to ease your mind as to any responsibility on that score, and have
therefore enclosed the half of a Bank of England note for ten pounds
sterling, No. 3742, the other half of which will be duly forwarded in
a frank promised to me the day after tomorrow. I beg you will make the
necessary purchases, and apply the balance, should there be any,
to his mess account, or any other expenses which you may consider
warrantable or justifiable.

"It is at the same time proper to inform you, that Sholto had ten
shillings in his pocket at the time of his leaving Glasgow; the
satisfactory expenditure of which I have no doubt you will inquire
into, as it is a large sum to be placed at the discretion of a youth
only fourteen years and five months old. I mention his age, as Sholto
is so tall that you might be deceived by his appearance, and be
induced to trust to his prudence in affairs of this serious nature.
Should he at any time require further assistance beyond his pay, which
I am told is extremely handsome to all king's officers, I beg you to
consider that any draft of yours, at ten days' sight, to the amount
of five pounds sterling English, will be duly honoured by the firm of
Monteith, M'Killop, and Company, of Glasgow. Sir, with many thanks for
your kindness and consideration,

"I remain your most obedient,


The letter brought on board by M'Foy was to prove his identity. While
the captain read it, M'Foy stared about him like a wild stag. The
captain welcomed him to the ship, asked him one or two questions,
introduced him to the first lieutenant, and then went on shore. The
first lieutenant had asked me to dine in the gun-room; and when the
captain pulled on shore, he also invited Mr. M'Foy, when the following
conversation took place.

"Well, Mr. M'Foy, you have had a long journey; I presume it is the
first that you have ever made."

"Indeed is it, Sir," replied M'Foy; "and sorely I've been pestered.
Had I minded all they whispered in my lug as I came along, I had need
been made of money--sax-pence here, sax-pence there, sax-pence every
where. Sich extortion I ne'er dreamt of."

"How did you come from Glasgow?"

"By the wheel-boat, or steam-boat, as they ca'd it, to Lunnon: where
they charged me sax-pence for taking my baggage on shore--wee boxy nae
bigger than yon cocked-up hat. I would fain carry it mysel', but they
wadna let me."

"Well, where did you go to when you arrived in London?"

"I went to a place ca'd Chichester Rents, to the house of Storm and
Mainwaring, Warehousemen, and they must have anither sax-pence for
showing me the way. There I waited half-an-hour in the counting-house,
till they took me to a place ca'd Bull and Mouth, and put me into a
coach, paying my whole fare; nevertheless they must din me for money
the whole of the way down. There was first the guard, and then the
coachman, and another guard, and another coachman; but I wudna listen
to them, and so they growled and abused me."

"And when did you arrive?"

"I came here last night; and I only had a bed and a breakfast at the
twa Blue Pillars' house, for which they extortioned me three shillings
and sax-pence, as I sit here. And then there was the chambermaid hussy
and waiter loon axed me to remember them, and wanted more siller; but
I told them, as I told the guard and coachman, that I had none for

"How much of your ten shillings have you left?" inquired the first
lieutenant, smiling.

"Hoot! sir lieutenant, how came you for to ken that? Eh! it's my uncle
Monteith at Glasgow. Why, as I sit here, I've but three shillings and
a penny of it lift. But there's a smell here that's no canny; so I
just go up again into the fresh air."

When Mr. M'Foy quitted the gun-room, they all laughed very much. After
he had been a short time on deck, he went down into the midshipmen's
berth; but he made himself very unpleasant, quarrelling and wrangling
with every body. It did not, however, last very long; for he would not
obey any orders that were given to him. On the third day, he quitted
the ship without asking the permission of the first lieutenant; when
he returned on board the following day, the first lieutenant put him
under an arrest, and in charge of the sentry at the cabin door. During
the afternoon I was under the half-deck, and perceived that he was
sharpening a long clasp knife upon the after truck of the gun. I went
up to him, and asked him why he was doing so, and he replied, as his
eyes flashed fire, that it was to revenge the insult offered to the
bluid of M'Foy. His look told me that he was in earnest. "But what do
you mean?" inquired I. "I mean," said he, drawing the edge and feeling
the point of his weapon, "to put into the wheam of that man with the
gold podge on his shoulder, who has dared to place me here."

I was very much alarmed, and thought it my duty to state his murderous
intentions, or worse might happen; so I walked up on deck and told the
first lieutenant what M'Foy was intending to do, and how his life was
in danger. Mr. Falcon laughed, and shortly afterwards went down on the
main-deck. M'Foy's eyes glistened, and he walked forward to where the
first lieutenant was standing; but the sentry, who had been cautioned
by me, kept him back with his bayonet. The first lieutenant turned
round, and perceiving what was going on, desired the sentry to see if
Mr. M'Foy had a knife in his hand; and he had it sure enough, open,
and held behind his back. He was disarmed, and the first lieutenant,
perceiving that the lad meant mischief, reported his conduct to the
captain, on his arrival on board. The captain sent for M'Foy, who was
very obstinate, and when taxed with his intention would not deny it,
or even say that he would not again attempt it; so he was sent on
shore immediately, and returned to his friends in the Highlands. We
never saw any more of him; but I heard that he obtained a commission
in the army, and three months after he had joined his regiment, was
killed in a duel, resenting some fancied affront offered to the bluid
of M'Foy.--_Metropolitan_

* * * * *


* * * * *



Thurlow had travelled the ---- Circuit for some years with little
notice, and with no opportunity to put forth his abilities; when the
housekeeper of a Duke of N---- was prosecuted for stealing a great
deal of linen, with which she had been intrusted. An attorney of
little note and practice conducted the woman's case. He knew full well
that he could expect no hearty co-operation in employing any of the
leading counsel: it was a poor case, and a low case; and it could not
be supposed that they, "the foremost men of all the bar," would set
themselves, "_tooth and nail_," against the Duke, who in himself, his
agents, and his friends, made the greatest part of every high legal
and political assemblage in the country. The attorney looked round,
therefore, for some young barrister who had nothing to lose, and might
have something to win; and he fixed upon Thurlow. Thurlow read over
his brief with the highest glee, and had an interview with the
prisoner. As he entered the court, he jogged another briefless one
like himself, and said, in his favourite slang language--"Neck or
nothing, my boy, to-day! I'll soar or tumble!" The opening speech
of the eminent counsel for the Duke, and the evidence, completely
convicted the woman. The articles stolen were brought into court. When
Thurlow rose to cross-examine the leading witness, before he asked
a question, he merely, bending his black brows upon the man, turned
round, and desired to look at the things that were said to be stolen.
They were before him all the time, and were then presented to him;
and, without a word, he carelessly tossed them again upon the table
before him. He now closely questioned the witness, as to points of
honour and honesty; then, in a minute or two, again asked to see the
things. He was informed that he had already had them handed to
him, and that they were now before him. "I mean," said he, with
well-assumed ignorance, "the things that this unhappy woman is accused
of having stolen." The witness, with great sufficiency and knowledge,
as if to prove his own correctness, pointed them out upon the table
before him. "And what else?" said he. He was answered that they were
the whole. "And you, Mr. Witness," said he, with a sneer, "are the man
of great trust, of accredited honour and honesty; and, full of your
own consequence, and in high feather, you come here to follow up a
prosecution against a fellow-servant, and a confidential one (you
tell me), whom you have indicted as a felon, for taking these rags,"
exhibiting some cloth that happened to be torn; "and this is the sum
and substance of her offence! And all these witnesses," pointing to a
group, who had pushed themselves forward, "have been brought into this
honourable court, to affix the ownership of the high and mighty noble
Duke and Duchess to these cast-off, worn-out clothes! And here comes
this fine gentleman to swear to the robber of that," holding up the
garment, "which he himself would not accept as a gift! Shame, say I;
and I am certain every one of your hearts, Gentlemen of the Jury,
reechoes my indignant feeling! Shame, say I, on everyone of the
party," pausing to give one of his looks to each individual, "that
is concerned in such a business! Why, it is more like a conspiracy
against this poor destitute woman, against whom I lament to see my
very honourable and learned brethren," pointing to the other counsel,
"here arrayed--it is more like a conspiracy (not that my learned
friends have lot, or part, or feeling in the business)--more like a
conspiracy against this woman, than any, the least act of felony on
her part. These clothes! I pray you look at them, Gentlemen of the
Jury--these clothes!! Can you conceive, Gentlemen, that if you were
a Duke and Duchess of N----, you would have even offered to give a
housekeeper, a woman of credit and respectability--a fellow-servant of
this fine gentleman before you--such worn-out rags as these? Would you
have thought it worthy of consideration, if such a servant had thought
proper to appropriate to her own use a cart-load of this trumpery? If
the poor woman did remove out of sight such trash as this, all I say
is, that she seems to have had more respect for the credit and
honour of that noble house than any of the people whose ridiculous
pretensions to honesty have persecuted her and exhibited themselves
here. _Gentlemen and Ladies_, witnesses! I have done with you; you may
all leave the court!"

They were all glad to take him at the first word, and in a few minutes
not one of them was to be seen. "I have heard," he continued, "of the
pride of a noble house, and of its poverty, being nearly allied;
but here we have all the poverty and none of the pride!" Some one
unluckily said that the things were not all in that torn state.
"What," said he, with the utmost contempt, looking to the party, "is
there any one that wishes to exhibit his devoted baseness? Let him not
whisper here behind my back, but come forward and get into the box."
He paused, and had no further interruption. "To you, Gentlemen of the
Jury, I appeal. I ask you if you have seen enough of the rags of this
noble family?" and he pulled out the worst piece of the linen, and
held it at arm's length during the greater part of a taunting speech
of the same kind: then, throwing it contemptuously from him--"Away,
away, I say, with these rags of the noble family of N----!" (and some
one gathered up all together, and took them out of court)--"and God
grant that they may never rise up in judgment against them! Poor,
weak, foolish woman! she took them as her perquisite. Perquisite
indeed! her folly was her fault; for you have seen that they were not
worth the taking.

"Gentlemen of the Jury, I cannot believe that you will lend yourselves
to such a grovelling prosecution--_persecution_, as this. I pause not
to investigate where the evil spirit arose, in principles or agents,
against this injured and calumniated female. If the great ones of our
earth will disgrace themselves--if they will listen to the suggestions
of envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness, I trust that
you, more humble members of the community, will not be partakers of
these evil passions. Where the prosecutor has sustained no personal
fear and no personal loss, it is impossible that any offence can have
been committed. You are not twelve despots sitting upon a case of
high treason against the game-laws, and are to have your consciences
racked, to bring in a verdict of trespass, where no damage can be
proved; you are not required to strain right against justice and
honesty. What is the offence? How is our Lord the King or his subjects
aggrieved? Those rags!--I know not what the splendid household of the
Duke may require for matches and tinder; for this is all the value
that can be attached to them. Shall we call for them back again, lest
the Duke and the Duchess should lose their recovered treasure? I
am not disposed to dispute their right; for even if they were the
perquisite of the housekeeper, I am convinced that she would not get
a farthing emolument for those tattered remnants of nobility. Of one
thing I am well assured, that there is not a sufficiency of sound
linen in the whole to make lint enough to cover the wound that the
reputation of the noble Duke and Duchess has sustained in this
disgraceful prosecution. Gentlemen, I will trouble you no further--I
confidently expect your verdict." And the woman was acquitted: and
from that day the powers of Thurlow, in voice, sarcasm, gesture, and
all the superior intonations of browbeating, which raised him to the
most dangerous pinnacle of legal greatness, became known, and rapidly
advanced him to fame,[14] and the grandchildren of his father to be
enrolled among the established peers of our realm.

[14] "The foregoing anecdote was told to the writer by the late
James Burton, Esq., of Lockeridge House, a seat of the Marquess of
Aylesbury's, near Marlborough. Mr. Burton married a daughter of
the celebrated actress, Mrs. Cibber, by _General Sloper,_ a man of
the highest fashion of _his_ day, from whom, I believe, Mr.
Burton received the account; the particulars of which, as I have
narrated, no doubt, many persons of Mr. Burton's acquaintance
still remember."

* * * * *




Mr. Knight is convinced by the evidence of experiments, "that the
potato plant, under proper management, is capable of causing to be
brought to market a much greater weight of vegetable food, from any
given extent of ground, than any other plant which we possess." There
is no crop, he says, "so certain as that of potatoes; and it has the
advantage of being generally most abundant, when the crops of wheat
are defective; that is, in wet seasons." The following observations
are extremely interesting:--

"I think I shall be able to adduce some strong facts in support of
my opinion, that by a greatly extended culture of the potato for the
purpose of supplying the markets with vegetable food, a more abundant
and more wholesome supply of food for the use of the labouring classes
of society may be obtained, than wheat can ever afford, and, I
believe, of a more palatable kind to the greater number of persons.
I can just recollect the time when the potato was unknown to the
peasantry of Herefordshire, whose gardens were then almost exclusively
occupied by different varieties of the cabbage. Their food at that
period consisted of bread and cheese with the produce of their
gardens; and tea was unknown to them. About sixty-six years ago,
before the potato was introduced into their gardens, agues had been
so exceedingly prevalent, that the periods in which they, or their
families, had been afflicted with that disorder, were the eras to
which I usually heard them refer in speaking of past events; and I
recollect being cautioned by them frequently not to stand exposed
to the sun in May, lest I should get an ague. The potato was then
cultivated in small quantities in the gardens of gentlemen, but it was
not thought to afford wholesome nutriment, and was supposed by many to
possess deleterious qualities. The prejudice of all parties, however,
disappeared so rapidly, that within ten years the potato had almost
wholly driven the cabbage from the gardens of the cottagers. Within
the same period, ague, the previously prevalent disease of the
country, disappeared; and no other species of disease became
prevalent. I adduce this fact, as evidence only, that the introduction
of the potato was not injurious to the health of the peasantry at that
period; but whether its production was, or was not, instrumental in
causing the disappearance of ague, I will not venture to give an
opinion. I am, however, confident, that neither draining the soil
(for that was not done,) nor any change in the general habits of the
peasantry, had taken place, to which their improved health could be
attributed. Bread is well known to constitute the chief food of the
French peasantry. They are a very temperate race of men; and they
possess the advantages of a very fine and dry climate. Yet the
duration of life amongst them is very short, scarcely exceeding
two thirds of the average duration of life in England; and in some
districts much less. Dr. Hawkins, in his _Medical Statistics_, states,
upon the authority of M. Villerme that, in the department of Indre,
'one fourth of the children born die within the first year, and half
between fifteen and twenty; and that three fourths are dead within
the space of fifty years. Having inquired of a very eminent French
physiologist, M. Dutrochet, who is resident in the department of
Indre, the cause of this extraordinary mortality, he stated it to
he their food, which consisted chiefly of bread; and of which he
calculated every adult peasant to eat two pounds a day. And he added,
without having received any leading question from me, of in any degree
knowing my opinion upon the subject, that if the peasantry of his
country would substitute (which they could do) a small quantity of
animal food, with potatoes, instead of so much bread, they would live
much longer, and with much better health. I am inclined to pay much
deference to M. Dutrochet's opinion; for he combines the advantages
of a regular medical education with great acuteness of mind, and I
believe him to be as well acquainted with the general laws of organic
life as any person living: and I think his opinion deserves some
support, from the well known fact, that the duration of human life has
been much greater in England during the last sixty years, than in the
preceding period of the same duration. Bread made of wheat, when taken
in large quantities, has probably, more than any other article of
food in use in this country, the effect of overloading the alimentary
canal: and the general practice of the French physician points out the
prevalence of diseases thence arising amongst their patients. I do
not, however, think, or mean to say, that potatoes alone are proper
food for any human being: but I feel confident, that four ounces of
meat, with as large quantity of good potatoes as would wholly take
away the sensation of hunger, would afford, during twenty-four hours,
more efficient nutriment than could be derived from bread in any
quantity, and might be obtained at much less expense."--_Trans. Hort.
Soc. quoted in Gardeners' Mag._

* * * * *


* * * * *


The Caliph Haroun al Raschid is stated to have maintained an unbroken
friendship with his contemporary Charlemagne, throughout their mutual
reign. A variety of magnificent presents attested the esteem of the
caliph for his Christian friend. Among them were several objects,
which tend to show the advance which art had made, at this time in the
East. The first of these was a clock of gilded bronze, round which the
course of the twelve hours was displayed; while, at the end of each
hour, the number of brazen balls which were requisite to mark
the division of time, were thrown out from above, and falling
consecutively on a cymbal below, struck the hour required. In like
manner a number of horsemen issued forth from windows placed around
the dial; while a number of other clock-work miracles attested the
height which the mechanical arts had reached at the court of Haroun.

The carriage of such objects, as the above presents sent from Bagdad
to France, was, of course, attended with no small inconvenience;
and the neglected state of the science of navigation, rendered the
journeys of the ambassadors long and dangerous. Between three and
four years were generally consumed in a mission from one capital to
another; and, indeed, it happened more than once, that even after
arriving within the dominions of the Frankish monarchs, the envoys had
still to seek him over a tract nearly as extensive as that which they
had before crossed.

_Parliamentary Debates_.--Originally these debates were given in the
_Gentleman's Magazine_, under the fiction of "Debates in the Senate
of Liliput," and the speakers were disguised under feigned names.
Guthrie, for a time, composed these speeches from such hints as he
could bring away in his memory. Dr. Johnson first assisted in this
department, and then entirely filled it, and the public was highly
gratified with the eloquence displayed in these compositions. P.T.W.

_Steam Carriages_.--By the formation of rail-roads, a loss has
occurred in the revenue from stage coaches, to the amount of 8,384_l_.

_Electro-Magnetism_.--The largest electro-magnet is that constructed
by the American philosophers. It is of a horse-shoe form, and weighs
about 60 lbs.; around it are 26 coils of wire, the united lengths
of which are 800 feet. When excited by about five feet of galvanic
surface, it is said to have supported nearly two tons. We here see
that the exciting cause of magnetism is the action of the galvanic
battery; and a variety of other interesting experiments in
electro-magnetics, tend to the conclusion that the magnetic and
electric fluids are nearly allied.--_Imperial Magazine._

_Salary of the Chancellor, 700 years since_.--The salary of the
Chancellor, as fixed by Henry I., amounted to five shillings per diem,
and a livery of provisions.

_Dibdin_.--On the tombstone of Dibdin, the celebrated song composer,
in St. Martin's, by Pancras New Church, is the first verse of his _Tom

"His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft,
Faithful on earth he did his duty,
But now he's gone aloft."

_Studious Printer_.--Morel was an eminent French printer, who
sacrificed every thing to study. On being informed that his wife was
dying, he refused to quit his pen till he had finished what he was
about, and by that time news was brought him that she was dead; to
which he coolly replied, "I am sorry for it--she was a good woman." He
died in 1638, at the age of 78. P.T.W.

_A Painter's Retort, or Dangerous Re-touch_.--Antonio More, the
celebrated painter, was highly favoured by Philip of Spain, whose
familiarity with him placed his life in danger; for More ventured to
return a slap on the shoulder which the king in a playful moment gave
him, by rubbing some carmine on his majesty's hand. This behaviour was
accepted by the monarch as a jest, but it was hinted to More that
the holy tribunal might regard it as sacrilege, and he fled, to save
himself, into Flanders, where he was employed by the Duke of Alva.

_Steam Power_.--Mr. Alexander Gordon states, that in various
departments of the revenue, the saving of expenditure by the
substitution of inanimate for animate power, would, in the Post Office
alone, amount to upwards of half a million; whilst, from the cheapness
of food which the substitution would produce, the navy and army
estimates would be most essentially reduced.

Steam may now be said to maintain the power which can engrave a seal,
and crush a mass of obdurate metal like wax before it; draw out,
without breaking, a thread as fine as gossamer, and lift a ship of
war like a bauble in the air; to embroider muslin, forge anchors, cut
steel into ribands, and impel itself against the opposition of the
very tempest.

Charlemagne was buried on the day of his death in the great church
which he had constructed at Aix-la-Chapelle. The Monk of Angouleme
declares that he was inhumed in his imperial robes, and that the
pilgrim's wallet which he wore on his journeys to Rome was also
consigned with his body to the tomb.

_Indian Hail Storms_.--Captain Skinner says, during one in which a
heavy shower of hail fell, the thermometer sunk nine degrees in fewer
minutes--from 75 to 66; it rose again as rapidly. Although it was more
than four o'clock in the afternoon when the hail fell, it was still on
the ground the following morning; a proof of the coldness of the night

_Waterloo Child_.--A private of the 27th regiment, who was severely
wounded at the battle of Waterloo, was carried off the field by his
wife, then far advanced in pregnancy; she also was wounded by a shell,
and with her husband, remained a considerable time in one of the
hospitals at Antwerp, in a hopeless state. The man lost both his arms,
his wife was extremely lame, and here gave birth to a daughter, to
whom it is said the late Duke of York stood sponsor; her names being
Frederica M'Mullen Waterloo. A.H.K.--T.

_The Royal Academy_.--The receipts for admission to the Exhibition of
this year were L300. short of what they were last year. The sale of
pictures at the Gallery of the Society of British Artists has been
greater than in any preceding season.

* * * * *

Printed and published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset
House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, Leipsic;
G.G. BENNIS, 55, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris; and by all Newsmen
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