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Read Ebook: The Mirror of Literature Amusement and Instruction. Volume 17 No. 471 January 15 1831 by Various
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Ebook has 132 lines and 15980 words, and 3 pages
There was no time for the performance of any thing like a comfortable toilet. I resolved therefore to defer it altogether till the coach should stop to breakfast.
"Now, zur; 'ee'll be too late, zur!"
"Now, zur, coach be going."
The most unpleasant part of the ceremony of hanging must be the hourly notice given to the culprit, of the exact length of time he has yet to live. Could any circumstance have added much to the miseries of my situation, most assuredly it would have been those unfeeling reminders. "I'm coming," groaned I; "I have only to pull on my boots." They were both left-footed! Then must I open the rascally portmanteau again.
"What in the name of the--do you want now."
"Coach be gone, please zur."
"Gone! Is there a chance of my overtaking it?"
"Bless 'ee, noa, zur; not as Jem Robbins do droive. He be vive mile off be now."
"You are certain of that?"
"I warrant 'ee, zur."
At this assurance I felt a throb of joy, which was almost a compensation for all my sufferings past. "Boots," said I, "you are a kind-hearted creature, and I will give you an additional half-crown. Let the house be kept perfectly quiet, and desire the chambermaid to call me--"
"At what o'clock, zur?"
"This day three months, at the earliest."
P--.
"There are not two bricks in your accursed town," said the tragedian, "but are cemented with the blood of an African."
THE PENITENT'S RETURN.
Can guilt or misery ever enter here? All! no, the spirit of domestic peace, Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, Guards, powerful as the sword of Cherubim, The hallow'd Porch. She hath a heavenly smile, That sinks into the sullen soul of vice, And wins him o'er to virtue.
WILSON.
My father's house once more, In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around, Something, amidst the dewy calm profound, Broods, never mark'd before.
Is it the brooding night? Is it the shivery creeping on the air, That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair, O'erwhelming to my sight?
All solemnized it seems, And still'd and darken'd in each time-worn hue, Since the rich clustering roses met my view, As now, by starry gleams.
And this high elm, where last I stood and linger'd--where my sisters made Our mother's bower--I deem'd not that it cast So far and dark a shade.
How spirit-like a tone Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was was there At evening-hours, while soft winds waved his hair: Now those grey locks are gone.
My soul grows faint with fear,-- Even as if angel-steps had mark'd the sod. I tremble where I move--the voice of God Is in the foliage here.
Is it indeed the night That makes my home so awful? Faithless hearted! 'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed The in-born gladdening light.
No outward thing is changed; Only the joy of purity is fled, And, long from Nature's melodies estranged, Thou hear'st their tones with dread.
The night-flowers round that door Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air; Thou, thou alone, art worthy now no more To pass, and rest thee there.
And must I turn away? Hark, hark!--it is my mother's voice I hear, Sadder than once it seem'd--yet soft and clear-- Doth she not seem to pray?
My name!--I caught the sound! Oh! blessed tone of love--the deep, the mild-- Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child, Take back the Lost and Found!
AUBERGE ON THE GRIMSEL.
This auberge has been built on the Grimsel of late years for the accommodation of travellers across the mountain passes; and it forms a convenient night's resting place in a two day's journey on foot or horseback between the valley of Meyringen and that of Urseren. It may be useful briefly to notice this route, in which the traveller will be charmed with a succession of scenery on Nature's grandest scale. After leaving Meyringen and its beautiful valley, called the Vale of Hasli, he looks down from the top of a mountain pass upon a small compact, oval-shaped valley, named, we believe Hasligrund, into which he descends, and then climbs the mountains on the opposite side. Proceeding onward, he reaches a small place, Handek, formed of a few wood chalets, and giving its name to one of the finest waterfalls in Switzerland. The accessories of the sublimest scenery give additional interest to the beauty of the fall, at which our traveller will feel inclined to linger; he should endeavour to be there about noon, when the sun irradiates the spray like dancing rainbows. The rest of the day's route is, in general, ascending, and partly across splendid sweeps of bare granite, until his eyes are gladdened with the sight of the auberge.
On the second morning he crosses the remaining summit of the mountain, and rises to cross the Furca, passing beside the Glacier of the Rhone; perhaps the finest in all the Alps, which looks like a vast torrent suddenly frozen in its course while tossing its waves into the most fantastic forms. The traveller afterwards descends into the Valley of Urseren, which extends straight before him for the distance of perhaps twelve miles, with the Reuss winding through it, and the neat town of Andermatt shining out from the opposite extremity. He passes through the singular village of Realp, where he may refresh himself with a draught of delicious Italian red wine, and afterwards arrives at the little bleak town of Hospital, situated at the foot of the St. Gothard, over which a new carriage-road into Italy has lately been made, with galleries winding up the mountain as far as the eye can reach. He may either take up his quarters for the night at Hospital, or proceed about a mile farther to Andermatt, where the road turns off at right angles, and where he may hire a car, if he wishes to go on the same evening across the romantic Devil's Bridge to Amstag, a pretty village in the bend of the splendid valley of the Reuss, whence the road leads on to Altorf and Fluellen, on the bank of the lake of the Four Cantons, the scene of the heroic exploits of William Tell.
We have thus pointed attention to a journey of four days, comprising the chief points in the Oberland, or Highlands, through this region of romantic wonders.
W.G.
THE EMPEROR'S ROUT.
There are four Engravings: 1.--The Invitation, with the Emperor and the Empress, and the Buff-tip Moth writing the Cards.--2. The Dance, with the Sphinx Hippopha?s, the Pease Blossom, the Mouse, the Seraph, Satellite, Magpie, Gold Spangle, Foresters, Cleap Wings, &c.--3. The Alarm.--4. The Death's Head Moth. These are beautifully lithographed by Gauci. Their colouring, after Nature, is delightfully executed: the finish, too, of the gold-spangle is good, and the winged brilliancy of the company are exquisite pieces of pains-taking--sparkling as they are beneath a trellis-work rotunda, garlanded with roses, and lit with a pine-pattern lustre of perfumed wax. What a close simile could we draw of life from these dozen dancing creatures in their rainbow hues--their holiday and every-day robes--flitting through life's summer, and then forgotten. Yet how fares it with us in the stream of life!
SATAN IN SEARCH OF A WIFE
Is a little Poem, with much of the grotesque in its half-dozen Embellishments, and some tripping work in its lines. "The End," with "Who danced at the Wedding?" and the tail-piece--a devil-bantling, rocked by imps, and the cradle lit by torches--is droll enough.
Here is an invitation that promises a warm reception:
Merrily, merrily, ring the bells From each Pandemonian steeple; For the Devil hath gotten his beautiful bride, And a Wedding Dinner he will provide, To feast all kinds of people.
THE FAMILY CABINET ATLAS
Has reached its Ninth part, and unlike some of its periodical contemporaries, without any falling-off in its progress. The Nine Parts contain thirty-six Maps, all beautifully perspicuous. The colouring of one series is delicately executed.
Bologna, June 7th, 1819.
"He told me that he had himself planted all the cypresses in the cemetery; that he had the greatest attachment to them and to his dead people; that since 1801 they had buried fifty-three thousand persons. In showing some older monuments, there was that of a Roman girl of twenty, with a bust by Bernini. She was a princess Barlorini, dead two centuries ago: he said that, on opening her grave, they had found her hair complete, and 'as yellow as gold.' Some of the epitaphs at Ferrar pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for instance--
'Martini Lugi Implora pace! 'Lucrezia Picini Implora eterna quiete.'
"So, as Shakspeare says of Mowbray, the banished Duke of Norfolk, who died at Venice, that he, after fighting
"Before I left Venice, I had returned to you your late, and Mr. Hobhouse's, sheets of Juan. Don't wait for further answers from me, but address yours to Venice, as usual. I know nothing of my own movements; I may return there in a few days, or not for some time. All this depends on circumstances. I left Mr. Hoppner very well. My daughter Allegra was well too, and is growing pretty; her hair is growing darker, and her eyes are blue. Her temper and her ways, Mr. Hoppner says, are like mine, as well as her features; she will make, in that case, a manageable young lady.
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story. The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
Oh, Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear One discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
You have asked for a verse,--the request In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny, But my Hippocrene was but my breast, And my feelings are dry.
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