Read Ebook: The Mirror of Literature Amusement and Instruction. Volume 10 No. 269 August 18 1827 by Various

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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

The lamented death of the Right Hon. George Canning has naturally excited the curiosity of our readers to the villa in which that eminent statesman breathed his last; and we have therefore obtained from our artist an original drawing, which has been taken since the melancholy event occurred, and from which we are now enabled to give the above correct and picturesque engraving.

Chiswick House is the seat of the Duke of Devonshire, built by the last Earl of Burlington, whose taste and skill as an architect have been frequently recorded. The ascent to the house is by a noble double flight of steps, on one side of which is a statue of Palladio, and on the other that of Inigo Jones. The portico is supported by six fluter Corinthian pillars, with a pediment; and a dome at the top enlightens a beautiful octagonal saloon. "This house," says Mr. Walpole, "the idea of which is borrowed from a well-known villa of Palladio, and is a model of taste, though not without faults, some of which are occasioned by too strict adherence to rules and symmetry. Such are too many corresponding doors in spaces so contracted; chimneys between windows, and, which is worse, windows between chimneys; and vestibules however beautiful, yet little secured from the damps of this climate. The trusses that support the ceiling of the corner drawing-room are beyond measure massive, and the ground apartment is rather a diminutive catacomb than a library in a northern latitude. Yet these blemishes, and Lord Hervey's wit, who said 'the house was too small to inhabit, and too large to hang to one's watch,' cannot depreciate the taste that reigns throughout the whole. The larger court, dignified by picturesque cedars, and the classic scenery of the small court, that unites the old and new house, are more worth seeing than many fragments of ancient grandeur which our travellers visit under all the dangers attendant on long voyages. The garden is in the Italian taste, but divested of conceits, and far preferable to every style that reigned till our late improvements. The buildings are heavy, and not equal to the purity of the house. The lavish quantity of urns and sculpture behind the garden front should be retrenched." Such were the sentiments of Mr. Walpole on this celebrated villa, before the noble proprietor began the capital improvements which have since been completed. Two wings have been added to the house, from the designs of Mr. Wyattville. These remove the objections that have been made to the house, are more fanciful and beautiful than convenient and habitable; the gardens have also been considerably improved, and now display all the beauties of modern planting.

It is a remarkable coincidence that at this secluded and beautiful villa Charles James Fox terminated his glorious career, in the same month, and having arrived at the same age as Mr. Canning.

As many of our readers may be induced to visit this quiet and picturesque spot, we would recommend them to pass down the private carriage-way which leads from Turnham-green to the porter's lodge, and having reached the door that opens to a rural lane which runs in front of the villa, to turn into the field, the gate of which is situated near a small bridge, and from thence a delightful view may be obtained of this celebrated villa. It was on this spot the above view was sketched. In returning through the lane which we have just alluded to, the first turning on the right conducts to the church, which interestingly-ancient edifice demands a remark in this place.

Chiswick church is situated near the water side. The present structure originally consisted only of a nave and chancel, and was built about the beginning of the fifteenth century, at which time the tower was erected at the charge of William Bordal, vicar of Chiswick, who died in 1435. It is built of stone and flint, as is the north wall of the church and chancel; the latter has been repaired with brick: a transverse aisle, at the east end of the nave, was added on the south side in the middle of the last, and a corresponding aisle on the south side, towards the beginning of the last century. The former was enlarged in the year 1772, by subscription, and carried on to the west end of the nave: both the aisles are of brick.

In the churchyard is a monument to the memory of William Hogarth. On this monument, which is ornamented with a mask, a laurel wreath, a palette, pencils, and a book, inscribed, "Analysis of Beauty," are the following lines, by his friend and contemporary, the late David Garrick:--

"Farewell, great painter of mankind, Who reached the noblest point of art, Whose pictur'd morals charm the mind, And through the eye correct the heart! If genius fire thee, reader, stay; If nature move thee, drop a tear; If neither touch thee, turn away, For Hogarth's honour'd dust lies here."

Near this is the tomb of Dr. Rose, many years distinguished as a critic in a respectable periodical publication.

In the church, in the Earl of Burlington's vault, is interred the celebrated Kent, a painter, architect, and father of modern gardening. "In the first character," says Mr. Walpole, "he was below mediocrity; in the second, he was the restorer of the science; in the last, an original, and the inventor of an art that realizes painting and improves nature. Mahomet imagined an Elysium, but Kent created many." He frequently declared, it is said, that he caught his taste in gardening from reading the picturesque descriptions of Spencer. Mason, noticing his mediocrity as a painter, pays this fine tribute to his excellence in the decoration of rural scenery:--

I revelled in the melancholy pleasure of these recollections, yielding my whole soul to that witchery of sensibility which magnifies the perception of being, till one of the bells was overset, when, the peal stopping, I had leisure to think on the rapid advance of the day, and on the consequent necessity of quickening my speed.

THE SKETCH-BOOK.

THE BLUE BOTTLE

He rudely and unceremoniously bumps away all sober reflection,-- then his whimsical vagaries effectually defy repose; now settling with his tickling bandy legs upon your nose, and industriously insinuating his sharp proboscis, and anon abruptly buzzing in your ear--no secret--off he shoots again to his own music.

LAW AND LAWYERS.

TRIAL AND EXECUTION.

F.R.Y.

MY COMMON-PLACE BOOK,

NOVEL WRITERS AND NOVEL READERS.

Auto-biography of men, who held no distinguished rank in the political world, is often very pleasant reading; especially where the writer has a strong tincture of vanity, and is obviously blind to his own character; for, if he does not know it himself, he is sure to let his readers know it; if he does not see the dark spots, he will not endeavour to conceal them; and, if he thinks them bright ones, he will blazon them. But novel-writing, when well done, is, after all, the best species of writing; for, if what all the world says, is true; what all the world reads, must be good. A novel writer, of any talents, will draw his portraits from the life--will catch at every striking feature, and generally paint man as he is; and there is this difference between actual histories and works of imagination, that the former are for the most part true in letter, but false in spirit; and the latter, false in letter, and true in spirit; the one is correct in names, dates, and places, but out of truth in everything else: the other is not correct in names, dates, and places, but perfectly true in every other point.

When the hero is made the vehicle of one moral lesson, as Vivian, in Miss Edgeworth's "Tales of Fashionable Life," then there is no need of artificial ornament; and when there is no intention of presenting an unmixed character of evil, nothing remains but to draw from life, and the work is perfect. One of Miss Edgeworth's failings is of great service to her, in this kind of painting: she wants what some persons call feeling, that is to say, she does not believe in the omnipotence of love, and therefore would never have written such a book as the "Sorrows of Werter;" and if she had possessed the same materials, she would have produced a very different work--not so full of genius, perhaps, but an interesting and instructive tale.

Novels are productions more easily criticised than any others: every one may judge for himself of the truth or probability of the events, and the accuracy of the features of character. It is impossible almost to deceive a reader--to palm upon him fiction for truth; for the truth is felt, if it be there, and the falsehood is palpable and revolting. There is also an extensive light of information in them. They do not merely give one scene, or character, or class of characters; but their principles are generally applicable to a very wide extent--they exercise the mind to a habit of observation, and so far from giving false views of life, they more frequently direct us to its true estimate. To be sure, there is sometimes a degree of improbability in some of the incidents, which is mostly forgiven, if the whole mass be, in the main, true and accurate. There are certain standard incidents, which are common property--such as the discovery of relationships--the change of children--and liberal aunts, who make nothing of presenting a young married couple with twenty or thirty thousand pounds on their wedding day; but, if any young lady or gentleman is silly enough to marry, without the means of support, because they have read such things in novels, and have also read of rich uncles all of a sudden returning from the East or West Indies, to shower gold and pearls on all their relations, all that must be said for them is, that they have not sufficient sense to read "Aesop's Fables," and they might as easily be misled into the imagination that brutes could talk. It is a very weak charge against novels, that they present false views of life; for, when they do, none but silly people read them; and they are just as wise after, as they were before.

If there be any evil in novels at all, it is when they take people from their business--when they occupy a mother's time to the neglect of her children--when they lead idle boys to neglect their lessons, and when they lead idle gentlefolks to fancy themselves employed, when they are only killing time. W.P.S.

CARRIER PIGEONS.

P. T. W.

MISCELLANIES.

NAMES OF SHEEP.

ANCIENT POWDER FLASK.

I remain, yours,

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

CHARACTER OF THE SEPOYS.

A sepoy of the Bengal native infantry was accused by one of his comrades of having stolen a rupee and a pair of trousers. The sergeant-major before whom, in the first instance, the charge was brought, was both unable and unwilling to give it credence. Besides the unusual circumstance of a native soldier being guilty of so base an act, the accused sepoy had always been remarkably conspicuous for his brave and upright conduct. His breast was literally covered with medals, and he had long been accustomed to the voice of praise. Still, however, justice demanded that the charge should not be dismissed without an impartial investigation. The whole affair was brought to the notice of the commanding officer, who desired that the sepoy's residence should be immediately and thoroughly examined. On opening his knapsack, to the utter astonishment and regret of the whole regiment, the stolen property was discovered. None, however, looked more thunderstruck than the sepoy himself. He clenched his teeth in bitter agony, but spoke not a single word. The colonel told him, that though circumstances were fearfully against him, he would not yet pronounce him guilty, as it was not impossible he might be the victim of some malignant design. He therefore dismissed him from his presence until the result of further inquiries should produce a full conviction of his guilt or innocence. In a few hours the sepoy was observed to leave his little hut, and walk with hurried steps to a neighbouring field. He was soon concealed from sight by a thick cluster of bamboos, beneath which he had often sheltered himself from the noontide sun. Suspecting the purpose of his present visit to so retired a spot, a comrade followed him, but was unfortunately too late to arrest the hand of the determined suicide. The poor fellow lay stretched on the ground, with his head hanging back, and the blood gushing from his open throat. He had effected his purpose with a sharp knife, which he still grasped, as if with the intention of inflicting another wound. He was carried to the hospital, and carefully attended, but the surgeon immediately pronounced his recovery impossible. A pen and ink were brought to him, and he wrote with some difficulty on a slip of paper, that he firmly hoped he had not failed in his attempt to destroy himself, for life was of no value without honour. He stated, too, that though it might now be almost useless to affirm his innocence, he hoped that a time might come when his memory should be freed from its present stain. He lingered no less than fifteen days in this dreadful state, and died, at last, apparently of mere starvation. It was my painful duty, as "officer of the day," to visit the hospital very frequently, and he invariably made signs of a desire for food. This it was, of course, impossible to give him, and any nourishment would merely have prolonged his misery. Two days before he died, it was discovered that a Bengallee servant of low caste, who had taken offence on some trivial occasion, had placed the stolen goods in the sepoy's bundle, and then urged the owner to accuse him of the theft. The disclosure of this circumstance appeared to give infinite satisfaction to the dying soldier.

HOUSE LAUNCHING.

GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON.

Thus runs the world away.--HAMLET.

Good-night to the Season! 'tis over! Gay dwellings no longer are gay; The courtier, the gambler, the lover, Are scatter'd, like swallows, away: There's nobody left to invite one, Except my good uncle and spouse; My mistress is bathing at Brighton, My patron is sailing at Cowes: For want of a better employment, Till Ponto and Don can get out, I'll cultivate rural enjoyment, And angle immensely for trout.

Good-night to the Season!--the buildings Enough to make Inigo sick; The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings, Of stucco, and marble, and brick; The orders deliciously blended, From love of effect, into one; The club-houses only intended, The palaces only begun; The hell where the fiend, in his glory, Sits staring at putty and stones, And scrambles from story to story, To rattle at midnight his bones.

Good-night to the Season!--the dances, The fillings of hot little rooms, The glancings of rapturous glances, The fancyings of fancy costumes; The pleasures which Fashion makes duties, The praisings of fiddles and flutes, The luxury of looking at beauties, The tedium of talking to mutes; The female diplomatists, planners Of matches for Laura and Jane, The ice of her Ladyship's manners, The ice of his Lordship's champagne.

Good-night to the Season!--the rages Led off by the chiefs of the throng, The Lady Matilda's new pages, The Lady Eliza's new song; Miss Fennel's Macaw, which at Boodle's Is held to have something to say; Mrs. Splenetic's musical Poodles, Which bark "Batti, batti!" all day: The pony Sir Araby sported, As hot and as black as a coal, And the Lion his mother imported, In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.

Good-night to the Season!--the Toso, So very majestic and tall; Miss Ayton, whose singing was so so, And Pasta, divinest of all; The labour in vain of the Ballet, So sadly deficient in stars; The foreigners thronging the Alley, Exhaling the breath of cigars; The "loge," where some heiress, how killing, Environ'd with Exquisites sits, The lovely one out of her drilling, The silly ones out of their wits.

Good-night to the Season!--the splendour That beam'd in the Spanish Bazaar, Where I purchased--my heart was so tender-- A card-case,--a pasteboard guitar,-- A bottle of perfume,--a girdle,-- A lithograph'd Riego full-grown, Whom Bigotry drew on a hurdle, That artists might draw him on stone,-- A small panorama of Seville,-- A trap for demolishing flies,-- A caricature of the Devil, And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes.

Good-night to the Season!--the flowers Of the grand horticultural f?te, When boudoirs were quitted for bowers, And the fashion was not to be late; When all who had money and leisure, Grow rural o'er ices and wines, All pleasantly toiling for pleasure, All hungrily pining for pines, And making of beautiful speeches, And marring of beautiful shows, And feeding on delicate peaches, And treading on delicate toes.

Good night to the Season!--another Will come with its trifles and toys, And hurry away, like its brother, In sunshine, and odour, and noise. Will it come with a rose or a briar? Will it come with a blessing or curse? Will its bonnets be lower or higher? Will its morals be better or worse? Will it find me grown thinner or fatter, Or fonder of wrong or of right. Or married, or buried?--no matter, Good-night to the season, Good-night!

TIGER TAMING.

RUNNING A MUCK.

THE SELECTOR, AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

THE JEW'S HARP.

The memoirs of Madame de Genlis first made known the astonishing powers of a poor German soldier on the Jew's harp. This musician was in the service of Frederick the Great, and finding himself one night on duty under the windows of the King, playing the Jew's harp with so much skill, that Frederick, who was a great amateur of music, thought he heard a distinct orchestra. Surprised on learning that such an effect could be produced by a single man with two Jew's harps, he ordered him into his presence; the soldier refused, alleging, that he could only be relieved by his colonel; and that if he obeyed, the king would punish him the next day, for having failed to do his duty. Being presented the following morning to Frederick, he was heard with admiration, and received his discharge and fifty dollars. This artist, whose name Madame de Genlis does not mention, is called Koch; he has not any knowledge of music, but owes his success entirely to a natural taste. He has made his fortune by travelling about, and performing in public and private, and is now living retired at Vienna, at the advanced age of more than eighty years. He used two Jew's harps at once, in the same manner as the peasants of the Tyrol, and produced, without doubt, the harmony of two notes struck at the same moment, which was considered by the musically-curious as somewhat extraordinary, when the limited powers of the instrument were remembered. It was Koch's custom to require that all the lights should be extinguished, in order that the illusion produced by his playing might be increased.

FORM OF ANCIENT BOOKS, THEIR ILLUMINATIONS, &c.

The mode of compacting the sheets of their books remained the same among the Greeks during a long course of time. The sheets were folded three or four together, and separately stitched: these parcels were then connected nearly in the same mode as is at present practised. Books were covered with linen, silk, or leather.

The page was sometimes undivided; sometimes it contained two, and in a few instances of very ancient MSS., three columns. A peculiarity which attracts the eye in many Greek manuscripts, consists in the occurrence of capitals on the margin, some way in advance of the line to which they belong; and this capital sometimes happens to be the middle letter of a word. For when a sentence finishes in the middle of a line, the initial of the next is not distinguished, that honour being conferred upon the incipient letter of the next line; thus--

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