Read Ebook: The Mirror of Literature Amusement and Instruction. Volume 13 No. 357 February 21 1829 by Various

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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

WARWICK CASTLE.

The history of a fabric, so intimately connected with some of the most important events recorded in the chronicles of our country, as that of Warwick Castle, cannot fail to be alike interesting to the antiquary, the historian, and the man of letters. This noble edifice is also rendered the more attractive, as being one of the very few that have escaped the ravages of war, or have defied the mouldering hand of time; it having been inhabited from its first foundation up to the present time, a period of nearly one thousand years. Before, however, noticing the castle, it will be necessary to make a few remarks on the antiquity of the town of which it is the chief ornament.

"Warwickshire," p. 298, edit. 1661.

Vide Camden's "Britannia," by Bishop Gibson, vol. i. p. 603, edit. 1722.

The appearance of this town in the time of Leland is thus described by that celebrated writer:--"The town of Warwick hath been right strongly defended and waullid, having a compace of a good mile within the waul. The dike is most manifestly perceived from the castelle to the west gate, and there is a great crest of yearth that the waul stood on. Within the precincts of the toune is but one paroche chirche, dedicated to St. Mary, standing in the middle of the toune, faire and large. The toune standeth on a main rokki hill, rising from est to west. The beauty and glory of it is yn two streetes, whereof the hye street goes from est to west, having a righte goodely crosse in the middle of it, making a quadrivium, and goeth from north to south." Its present name is derived, according to Matthew Paris, from Warmund, the father of Offa, king of the Mercians, who rebuilt it, and called it after his own name, Warwick.

Few persons have made a greater figure in history than the earls of Warwick, from the renowned

L.L.

Hardynge's "Chronicle," p, 211, edit. 1812.

ODE TO THE LONDON STONE.

Mound of antiquity's dark hidden ways, Though long thou'st slumber'd in thy holy niche, Now, the first time, a modern bard essays To crave thy primal use, the what and which! Speak! break my sorry ignorance asunder! City stone-henge, of aldermanic wonder.

Wert them a fragment of a Druid pile, Some glorious throne of early British art? Some trophy worthy of our rising isle, Soon from its dull obscurity to start. Wert thou an altar for a world's respect? Now the sole remnant of thy fame and sect.

Wert thou a churchyard ornament, to braid The charnel of putridity, and part The spot where what was mortal had been laid, With all thy native coldness in his heart? Thou sure wert not the stone--let critics cavil!-- Of quack M.D. who lectur'd on the gravel.

Did e'er fat Falstaff, wreathing 'neath his cup Of glorious sack, unable to reel home, Sit on thy breast, and give his fancy up, The all that wine had given pow'r to roam, And left the mind in gay, but dreamy talk, Wakeful in wit when legs denied to walk?

Did e'er wise Shakspeare brood upon thy mass, And whimsey thee to any wondrous use Of sage forefathers, in his verse to class That which a worse bard had despis'd to choose, Unconscious how the meanest objects grow, Giants of notice in the poet's show?

Wert thou--'tis pleasant to imagine it, Howe'er absurd such notions may be thought-- When the wide heavens, wild with thunder fit, Huge hailstones to distress the nation wrought, A mass congeal'd of heaven's artill'ry wain, A "hailstone chorus" of a Mary's reign?

Or, wert thou part of monumental shrine Rais'd to a genius, who, for daily bread, While living, the base world had left to pine, Only to find his value out when dead? Say, wert thou any such memento lone, Of bard who wrote for bread, and got a stone?

How many nations slumber on their deeds. The all that's left them of their mighty race? How may heroes' bosoms, wars, and creeds Have sought in stilly death a resting place, Since thou first gave thy presence to the air, Thou, who art looking scarce the worse for wear!

Oft may each wave have travell'd to the shore, That ends the vasty ocean's unknown sway, Since thou wert first from earth's remotest pore, Rais'd as an emblem of man's craft to lay; Yet those same waves shall dwindle into earth, Ere, lost in time, we learn thy primal worth.

But thou! O, thou hast nothing to repeat! Lump of mysteriousness, the hand of Time No early pleasures from thy breast could cheat, Or witness in decay thine early prime! Yes, thou didst e'er in stony slumbers lay, Defying each M'Adam of his day.

P.T.

"Now is Mortimer lord of the city."--Vide Shakspeare.

In the reign of Mary, hailstones, which measured fifteen inches in circumference, fell upon and destroyed two small towns near Nottingham.--Cooper's Hist. England.

THE NECK.

A SWEDISH TRADITION.

His cheek was blanch'd, but beautiful and soft, each curling tress Wav'd round the harp, o'er which he bent with zephyrine caress; And as that lyrist sat all lorn, upon the silv'ry stream, The music of his harp was as the music of a dream, Most mournfully delicious, like those tones that wound the heart, Yet soothe it, when it cherishes the griefs that ne'er depart.

"The Neck, a water-spirit, answering, in Sweden, &c. to the Scottish kelpie, as to its place of abode; but we believe its character is not so mischievous. The northern idea, that all fairies, demons, &c. who resided in this world, were spirits out of the pale of salvation, is very ancient. Mr. Keightley assures us, that the legend of which these stanzas attempt a versification, is extremely popular in Sweden."--Vide "Fairy Mythology."

PLAN FOR SNUFF TAKERS TO PAY OFF THE NATIONAL DEBT.

Lord Stanhope says, "Every professed, inveterate, and incurable snuff-taker, at a moderate computation, takes one pinch in ten minutes. Every pinch, with the agreeable ceremony of blowing and wiping the nose, and other incidental circumstances, consumes a minute and a half. One minute and a half out of every ten, allowing sixteen hours and a half to a snuff-taking day, amounts to two hours and twenty-four minutes out of every natural day, or one day out of every ten. One day out of every ten amounts to thirty-six days and a half in a-year. Hence, if we suppose the practice to be persisted in forty years, two entire years of the snuff-taker's life will be dedicated to tickling his nose, and two more to blowing it. The expense of snuff, snuff-boxes, and handkerchiefs, will be the subject of a second essay, in which it will appear, that this luxury encroaches as much on the income of the snuff-taker as it does on his time; and that by a proper application of the time and money thus lost to the public, a fund might be constituted for the discharge of the national debt."

P.T.W.

THE DIVIDED HOUSEHOLD.

Our hearth--we hear its music now--to us a bower and home; When will its lustre in our souls with Spring's young freshness come? Sweet faces beam'd around it then, and cherub lips did weave Their clear Hosannas in the glow that ting'd the skies at eve!

Oh, lonely is our forest stream, and bare the woodland tree, And whose sunny wreath of leaves the cuckoo carolled free; The pilgrim passeth by our cot--no hand shall greet him there-- The household is divided now, and mute the evening pray'r!

Amid green walks and fringed slopes, still gleams the village pond. And see, a hoar and sacred pile, the old church peers beyond; And there we deem'd it bliss to gaze upon the Sabbath skies,-- Gold as our sister's clustering hair, and blue as her meek eyes.

Our home--when will these eyes, now dimm'd with frequent weeping, see The infant's pure and rosy ark, the stripling's sanctuary? When will these throbbing hearts grow calm around its lighted hearth?-- Quench'd is the fire within its walls, and hush'd the voice of mirth!

The haunts--they are forsaken now--where our companions play'd; We see their silken ringlets glow amid the moonlight glade; We hear their voices floating up like paean songs divine; Their path is o'er the violet-beds beneath the springing vine!

Restore, sweet spirit of our home! our native hearth restore-- Why are our bosoms desolate, our summer rambles o'er? Let thy mild light on us be pour'd--our raptures kindle up, And with a portion of thy bliss illume the household cup.

Yet mourn not, wanderers--onto you a thrilling hope is given, A tabernacle unconfin'd, an endless home in heaven! And though ye are divided now, ye shall be made as one In Eden, beauteous as the skies that o'er your childhood shone!

REGINALD AUGUSTINE.

BY A PROFESSOR OF THE ART.

There is no national custom so universally and so justly honoured with esteem and respect, "winning golden opinions from all sorts of people," as kissing. Generally speaking, we discover that a usage which finds favour in the eyes of the vulgar, is despised and detested by the educated, the refined, and the proud; but this elegant practice forms a brilliant exception to a rule otherwise tolerably absolute. Kissing possesses infinite claims to our love, claims which no other custom in the wide world can even pretend to advance. Kissing is an endearing, affectionate, ancient, rational, and national mode of displaying the thousand glowing emotions of the soul;--it is traced back by some as far as the termination of the siege of Troy, for say they, "Upon the return of the Grecian warriors, their wives met them, and joined their lips together with joy." There are some, however, who give the honour of having invented kissing to Rouix, or Rowena, the daughter of Hengist, the Saxon; a Dutch historian tells us, she, "pressed the beaker with her lipkens and saluted the amorous Vortigern with a husgin " and this latter authority we ourselves feel most inclined to rely on; deeply anxious to secure to our fair countrywomen the honour of having invented this delightful art.

Numberless are the authors who have written and spoken with rapture on English kissing.

"The women of England," says Polydore Virgil, "not only salute their relations with a kiss, but all persons promiscuously; and this ceremony they repeat, gently touching them with their lips, not only with grace, but without the least immodesty. Such, however, as are of the blood-royal do not kiss their inferiors, but offer the back of the hand, as men do, by way of saluting each other."

Erasmus too--the grave, the phlegmatic Erasmus, melts into love and playful thoughts, when he thinks of kisses--"Did you but know, my Faustus," he writes to one of his friends, "the pleasures which England affords, you would fly here on winged feet, and if your gout would not allow you, you would wish yourself a Daedalus. To mention to you one among many things, here are nymphs of the loveliest looks, good humoured, and whom you would prefer even to your favourite Muses. Here also prevails a custom never enough to be commended, that wherever you come, every one receives you with a kiss, and when you take your leave, every one gives you a kiss; when you return, kisses again meet you. If any one leaves you they give you a kiss; if you meet any one, the first salutation is a kiss; in short, wherever you go, kisses every where abound; which, my Faustus, did you once taste how very sweet and how very fragrant they are, you would not, like Solon, wish for ten years exile in England, but would desire to spend there the whole of your life."

Oh what miracles have been wrought by a kiss! Philosophers, stoics, hermits, and misers have become men of the world, of taste, and of generosity; idiots have become wise; and, truth to tell, wise men idiots--warriors have turned cowards and cowards brave--statesmen have become poets, and political economists sensible men. Oh, wonderful art, which can produce such strange effects! to thee, the magic powers of steam seem commonplace and tedious; the wizard may break his rod in despair, and the king his sceptre, for thou canst effect in a moment what they may vainly labour years to accomplish. Well may the poet celebrate thy praises in words that breathe and thoughts that burn; well may the minstrel fire with sudden inspiration and strike the lute with rapture when he thinks of thee; well might the knight of bygone times brave every danger when thou wert his bright reward; well might Vortigern resign his kingdom, or Mark Antony the world, when it was thee that tempted. Long, long, may England be praised for her prevalence of this divine custom! Long may British women be as celebrated for the fragrance of their kisses, as they ever were, and ever will be for their virtue and their beauty.

CHILDE WILFUL.

NOTES OF A READER.

"COMPANION TO THE THEATRES."

An inveterate play-goer announces a little manual under this title, for publication in a few days. Such a work, if well executed, will be very acceptable to the amateur and visitor, as well as attractive to the general reader. The outline or plan looks well, and next week we may probably give our readers some idea of its execution.

VOYAGE TO INDIA.

EDUCATION IN DENMARK.

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