THE MIRROR
OF
LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

BIRTHPLACE OF LOCKE.

At the village of Wrington, in Somersetshire, in a cottage by the churchyard, was born JOHN LOCKE. What a simple, unostentatious record is this of him whom the biographers call “one of the most eminent philosophers and valuable writers of his age and country.” Yet the cottage is not preserved with any special care;—there is nothing about it to denote that within its walls the man of whom every Englishman is proud—first drew breath. The house is now divided into tenements; and, fortuitously, one of its rooms is used as a school for young children. It is grateful to know this, even were it only for associating the appropriation of this apartment with the master-mind of Locke, as developed in his “Thoughts on Education,” and his perspicuous “Essay on the Human Understanding.”

Locke was born August 29, 1632: his father, Mr. J. Locke, who was descended from the Lockes of Charton Court, in Dorsetshire, possessed a moderate landed property at Pensfold and Belluton, where he lived. He was a captain in the Parliamentary army during the civil wars, and his fortune suffered so considerably in those times, that he left a smaller estate to his son than he himself had inherited. It is not our intention to follow the biographers of Locke further than by quoting from the last published Life of the Philosopher[¹] a brief example of his filial affection:—

John Locke, says the biographer, was the eldest of two sons, and was educated with great care by his father, of whom he always spoke with the greatest respect and affection. In the early part of his life, his father exacted the utmost respect from his son, but gradually treated him with less and less reserve, and, when grown up, lived with him on terms of the most entire friendship; so much so, that Locke mentioned the fact of his father having expressed his regret for giving way to his anger, and striking him once in his childhood, when he did not deserve it. In a letter to a friend, written in the latter part of his life, Locke thus expresses himself on the conduct of a father towards his son:—“That which I have often blamed as an indiscreet and dangerous practice in many fathers, viz. to be very indulgent to their children whilst they are little, and as they come to ripe years to lay great restraint upon them, and live with greater reserve towards them, which usually produces an ill understanding between father and son, which cannot but be of bad consequences; and I think fathers would generally do better, as their sons grow up, to take them into a nearer familiarity, and live with them with as much freedom and friendship as their age and temper will allow.” The following letter from Locke to his father, which is without a date, but must have been written before 1660, shows the feeling of tenderness and affection which subsisted between them. It was probably found by Locke amongst his father’s papers, and thus came again into his possession:—

“December 20.

“Most dear and ever-loving Father,

“I did not doubt but that the noise of a very dangerous sickness here would reach you, but I am alarmed with a more dangerous disease from Pensford, and were I as secure of your health as (I thank God) I am of my own, I should not think myself in danger; but I cannot be safe so long as I hear of your weakness, and that increase of your malady upon you, which I beg that you would, by the timely application of remedies, endeavour to remove. Dr. Meary has more than once put a stop to its encroachment;—the same skill, the same means, the same God to bless you, is left still. Do not, I beseech you, by that care you ought to have of yourself, by that tenderness I am sure you have of us, neglect your own and our safety too; do not, by a too pressing care for your children, endanger the only comfort they have left. I cannot distrust that Providence which hath conducted us thus far, and if either your disappointments or necessities shall reduce us to narrower conditions than you could wish, content shall enlarge it; therefore, let not these thoughts distress you. There is nothing that I have which can be so well employed as to his use, from whom I first received it; and if your convenience can leave me nothing else, I shall have a head, and hands, and industry still left me, which alone have been able to raise sufficient fortunes. Pray, sir, therefore, make your life as comfortable and lasting as you can; let not any consideration of us cast you into the least despondency. If I have any reflections on, or desires of free and competent subsistence, it is more in reference to another (whom you may guess) to whom I am very much obliged, than for myself: but no thoughts, how important soever, shall make me forget my duty; and a father is more than all other relations; and the greatest satisfaction I can propose to myself in the world, is my hopes that you may yet live to receive the return of some comfort, for all that care and indulgence you have placed in,

“Sir, your most obedient son,

“J.L.”

Locke, it appears, originally applied himself to the study of physic; and he became essentially serviceable in his medical capacity to Lord Ashley, afterwards the celebrated Earl of Shaftesbury, to whom he was introduced in 1666, and who was led to form so high an opinion of Locke’s general powers, that he prevailed upon Locke to take up his residence at his house, and urged him to apply his studies to politics and philosophy. This proved the stepping-stone to his subsequent greatness; and it is gratifying to learn that his career, literary and political, was closed as honourably as it had been commenced. His last publications were in a controversy with the celebrated Bishop Stillingfleet, who had censured some passages in Locke’s immortal “Essay.” The prelate yielded to the more powerful reasoning of the philosopher, yet Locke’s writing was uniformly distinguished by mildness and urbanity. At this time he held the post of commissioner of trade and plantations. An asthmatic complaint, with which he had long been afflicted, now began to increase, and, with the rectitude which distinguished the whole of his conduct, he resigned: the sovereign, (William) was very unwilling to receive Locke’s resignation; but the philosopher, who made his precepts his own rule of life, pressed the point, observing that he could not in conscience hold a situation to which a considerable salary was attached without performing the duties of it. Would that such political philosophy were more common in our days! From this time, Locke lived wholly in retirement, where he applied himself to the study of the Scriptures, till, in 1704, after nearly two years’ declining health, he fell asleep. He was buried at Oates, where there is a neat monument erected to his memory, with a modest Latin inscription indited by himself.

THE KNIGHT OF TOGGENBURG.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

(For the Mirror.)

“Knight, a sister’s truest love,

This mine heart devotes to thee—

Ask no other love to prove;

Marriage! no, that ne’er can be.

Still unmov’d to all appearing,

Calmly can I see thee fly—

Still break the chain no sorrow fearing,

Save a tear from lover’s eye.”

This he heard without replying,

Silent woes his bosom wrung;

In his arms he clasp’d her sighing—

On his courser’s back he sprung.

Thro’ the Switzer’s rugged land

Vassals, at their lord’s behest,

Sought Judea’s sainted strand—

Each the red-cross on his breast.

Mighty deeds all dangers braving

Wrought the Christian hero’s arm;

Oft his helmet plumes were waving

High above the Paynim swarm.[²]

But tho’ Moslem hosts were quaking

At the Toggenburger’s name,

Still his breast, with anguish breaking,

Felt its sorrow yet the same:

Felt it till a year departed—

Felt it of all hope bereft;

Restless, joyless, broken-hearted,

Then the warring bands he left;—

Bade on Joppa’s sandy shore

Seamen hoist the swelling sail;

Swift the bark to Europe bore

O’er the tide the fav’ring gale.

When the pilgrim, sorrow laden,

Sought the gates he lov’d so well;

From the portals of his maiden

Words of thunder[³] rang his knell:

“She ye seek has ta’en the veil,

To God alone her thoughts are given;

Yestere’en the cloisters pale

Saw the bride betroth’d to heaven.”

From the castle of his sires,

Mad with grief, the hero flew;

War no more his bosom fires,

Arms he spurns, and courser true.

Far from Toggenburg alone

Wends he on his secret way,

To friend and foe alike unknown,

Clad in peasant’s mean array.

On a mountain’s lonesome glade,

’Neath a hut he sought repose—

Near where ’mid the lime-tree’s shade,

The convent pinnacles arose;

There, from morning’s dawn first bright’ning

Till the ev’ning stars began,

Secret hopes his anguish light’ning,

Sate the solitary man.

On the cloister fixed his eye,

Thro’ the hours’ weary round,

To his maiden’s lattice nigh,

Till he heard that lattice sound—

Till that dearest form was seen—

Till she on her lover smil’d—

And the turret-grates between

Look’d devout and angel-mild.[⁴]

There he sate thro’ many a day,

Thro’ many a year’s revolving round—

Alike to hope and grief a prey,

Till he heard the lattice sound.

Years were fleeting; when one morning

Saw a corse the cloister nigh—

To the long-watch’d turret turning

Still its cold and glassy eye.

H.

CORFE CASTLE—EDWARD II.

(To the Editor.)

I should be glad to be informed by your correspondent, James Silvester, Sen., on what authority he grounds his assertion (contained in No. 484.) that it was in the fortress of Corfe Castle that the unfortunate Edward II. was so inhumanly murdered. I have always, considered it an undisputed fact that the scene of this atrocity was at Berkeley Castle, in Gloucestershire. Hume states, that while in the custody of Lord Berkeley, the murderers, Mautravers and Gournay, “taking advantage of Berkeley’s sickness, in whose custody he then was, came to Berkeley Castle, threw him on a bed,” &c. &c. giving the particulars of the cruel deed. An abridged history, the only other authority I have at hand to refer to, says, “After these transactions, he was treated with the greatest indignities, and at last inhumanly murdered in Berkeley Castle, and his body buried in a private manner in the Abbey Church, at Gloucester.” The lines of Gray, in his celebrated poem of “The Bard,” are familiar to most school-boys, where he alludes to the cries of the suffering monarch

“Through Berkeley’s roofs that ring Shrieks of an agonized king!”

Yet as your correspondent, J.S. seems of the intelligent kind, he may be in possession of some authority to which he can refer, and thereby prove it is not merely an assertion inadvertently given, to increase the interest of his Visit to Corfe Castle. Knowing your wish that the pages of your entertaining Mirror should reflect the truth, the insertion of this will oblige your Constant Reader,

W.

LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD.

(For the Mirror.)

Why am I here?—Thou hast not need of me,

Home of the rotting and the rotten dead—

For thou art cumber’d to satiety,

And wilt be cumber’d—ay, when I am fled!

Why stand I here, the living among tombs?

Answer, all ye who own a grassy bed,

Answer your dooms.

Thou, massy stone! over whose heart art thou?

The lord who govern’d yonder giant place,

And ruled a thousand vassals at his bow.

Alack! how narrow and how small a space

Of what was human vanity and show

Serves for the maggot, when ’tis his to chase

The greatest and the latest of his race.

One of Earth’s dear ones, of a noble birth,

Slumbers e’en here; of such supernal charms,

That but to smile was to awaken mirth,

And for that smile set loving fools in arms.

The grave ill balances such living worth,

For here the worm his richest pasture farms,

Unconscious of his harms.

Yon grassy sod, that scarcely seems a grave,

Deck’d with the daisy, and each lowly flower,

Time leaves no stone, recording of the knave,

Whether of humble, or of lordly power:

Fame says he was a bard—Fame did not save

His name beyond the living of his hour—

A luckless dower.

’Tis strange to see how equally we die,

Though equal honour be unknown to light,

The lord, the lady of distinction high,

And he, the bard, who sang their noble might,

Sink into death alike and peacefully;

Though some may want the marble’s honour’d site,

Yet earth holds all that earthliness did slight.

P.T.

ANCIENT BOROUGH OF WENDOVER.

(For the Mirror.)

This borough sent members to parliament in the 28th of Edward I. and again in the 1st and 2nd of Edward II.; after which the privilege was discontinued for above three hundred years. “The intermission, (says Britton,) was attended by the very remarkable circumstance of all recollection of the right of the borough having been lost, till about the period of the 21st of James I. when Mr. Hakeville, of Lincoln’s Inn, discovered by a search among the ancient parliament writs in the Tower, that the boroughs of Amersham, Wendover, and Great Marlow, had all sent members in former times, and petitions were then preferred in the names of those places, that their ancient liberty or franchise might be restored. When the King[⁵] was informed of these petitions, he directed his solicitor, Sir Robert Heath, to oppose them with all might, declaring, that he was troubled with too great a number of burgesses already,” The sovereign’s opposition proved ineffectual, and the Commons decided in favour of the restoration of the privilege. Some particulars of this singular case may be found in Willis’s Notitia Parliamentaria.

The celebrated John Hampden represented this borough in five parliaments.

P.T.W.

MANNERS & CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS.

HIPPODROME GAMES.

(For the Mirror.)

The Olympian Hippodrome, or horse-course, was a space of ground of six hundred paces long, surrounded with a wall, near the city of Elis, and on the banks of the river Alpheus. It was uneven, and in some degree irregular, on account of the situation;—in one part was a hill of moderate height; and the circuit was adorned with temples, altars, and other embellishments. There was a very famous hippodrome at Constantinople, which was begun by Alexander Severus, and finished by Constantine. This circus, called by the Turks atmeican, is four hundred paces long, and above one hundred paces wide. At the entrance of the hippodrome there is a pyramidical obelisk of granite, in one piece, about fifty feet high, terminating in a point, and charged with hieroglyphics. The Greek and Latin inscriptions on its base show that it was erected by Theodosius. The machines that were employed to raise it are represented upon it in basso-relievo. We have some vestiges in England of the hippodromus, in which the ancient inhabitants of this country performed their races. The most remarkable is that near Stonehenge, which is a long tract of ground, about three hundred and fifty feet, or two hundred Druid cubits wide, and more than a mile and three quarters, or six thousand Druid cubits in length, enclosed quite round with a bank of earth, extending directly east and west. The goal and career are at the east end. The goal is a high bank of earth, raised with a slope inwards, on which the judges are supposed to have sat. The metæ are two tumuli, or small barrows, at the west end of the course. These hippodromes were called, in the language of the country, rhedagua; the racer, rhedagwr; and the carriage, rheda—from the British word rhedeg, to run.

One of these hippodromes, about half a mile to the southward of Leicester, retains evident traces of the old name, rhedagua in the corrupted one of Rawdikes. “There is another of these,” says Dr. Stukely, “near Dorchester; and another on the banks of the river Lowther, near Penrith, in Cumberland; and another in the valley just without the town of Royston.”

WALTER E.C.

Pratt-street, Lambeth.

THE SKETCH-BOOK.

THE BEGGAR WOMAN OF LOCARNO.

At the foot of the Alps, near Locarno, was an old castle, belonging to a marquess, the ruins of which are still visible to the traveller, as he comes from St. Gothard—a castle with lofty and roomy apartments, high towers, and narrow windows. In one of these rooms, an old sick woman was deposited upon some straw, which had been shaken down for her by the housekeeper of the marquess, who had found her begging before the gate. The marquess, who was accustomed to go into this room on his return from hunting, to lay aside his gun, ordered the poor wretch to get up immediately out of her corner, and begone.

The creature arose, but slipping with her crutch upon the smooth floor, she fell, and injured her back so much, that it was with great difficulty she got up, and, moving across the room as she had been desired, groaning and crying sadly, sank down behind the chimney. Several years afterwards, when the circumstances of the marquess had been much reduced by war and the failure of his crops, a Florentine gentleman visited the castle, with the intention of purchasing it, in consequence of the beauty of the situation. The marquess, who was very anxious to have the bargain concluded, gave his wife directions to lodge the stranger in the same upper room in which the old woman had died, it having, in the meantime, been very handsomely fitted up; but, to their consternation, in the middle of the night, the stranger entered their room, pale and agitated, protesting loudly that the chamber was haunted by some invisible being; for that he had heard something rise up in the corner, as if it had been lying among straw, move over the chamber with slow and tottering steps, and sink down, groaning and crying, near the chimney.

The marquess, terrified, though he scarcely knew why, endeavoured to put a fair face upon the matter, and to laugh off the fears of his visiter, telling him he would rise himself, and spend the rest of the night with him in his room; but the stranger begged that he would rather allow him to occupy a couch in the adjoining room; and as soon as morning broke, he saddled his horse, took his leave, and departed. This occurrence, which occasioned much notice, made so unpleasant an impression upon intending purchasers, that not another inquiry was made; and at last, even the servants in the house becoming possessed with the notion that there was something dreadful in the room, the marquess, with the view of setting the report to rest, determined to investigate the matter himself next night. Accordingly, in the twilight, he caused his bed to be brought to the apartment, and waited, without sleeping, the approach of midnight. But what was his consternation, when, on the stroke of midnight, he actually heard some inconceivable noise in the apartment, as if some person had risen up from among straw, which rustled beneath them, walked slowly over the floor, and sank, sighing and groaning, behind the chimney. When he came down the next morning, the marchesa asked him how the investigation had gone on; and he, after gazing about him with wondering glances, and bolting the door, told her the story of the chamber’s being haunted was true. She was terrified out of her senses; but begged him, before making any public disclosure, once more to make the experiment coolly in her company. Accompanied by a trusty servant, they accordingly repeated their visit next night, and again heard, as the marquess had done before, the same ghostly and inconceivable noise; and nothing but the anxious wish to get rid of the castle, cost what it would, enabled them to suppress their terrors in presence of the servant, and to ascribe the sound to some accidental cause. On the evening of the third day, when both, determined to probe the matter to the bottom, were ascending with beating hearts the stair leading to the stranger’s apartment, it chanced that the house dog, who had been let loose from the chain, was lying directly before the door of the room; and, willing perhaps to have the company of any other living thing in the mysterious apartment, they took the dog into the room along with them. The husband and wife seated themselves on the couch—the marquess with his sword and pistols beside him; and while they endeavoured, the best way they could, to amuse themselves with conversation, the dog, cowering down on the floor at their feet, fell asleep. Again, with the stroke of midnight, the noise was renewed;—something, though what they could not discover, raised itself us if with crutches in the corner; the straw rustled as before. At the sound of the first foot-fall, the dog awoke, roused itself, pricked up its ears, and growling and barking as if some person were advancing towards him, retreated in the direction of the chimney. At this sight, the marchioness rushed out of the room, her hair standing on end; and while the marquess seized his sword, exclaimed “Who is there?” and receiving no answer, thrust like a madman in all directions, she hastily packed up a few articles of dress, and made the best of her way towards the town. Scarcely, however, had she proceeded a few steps, when she discovered that the castle was on fire. The marquess had, in his distraction, overturned the tapers, and the room was instantly in flames. Every effort was made to save the unhappy nobleman, but in vain: he perished in the utmost tortures, and his bones, as the traveller may be aware, still lie where they were collected by the neighbouring peasants—in the corner of the apartment from which he had expelled the beggar woman of Locarno.—Edinburgh Literary Journal and Gazette.

SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.

HYDROSTATICS AND PNEUMATICS.

(Cabinet Cyclopædia, vol. xvii.)

This volume is in every respect worthy of standing beside the luminous Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy, by Mr. Herschel. It is just in the method that we wish to see all branches of science treated, and it is the only means of rendering such knowledge familiar; and this has only to be known to become popular. We understood this to be the aim of the Cabinet Cyclopædia at its outset, and the scientific volumes already published are an earnest of the Editor’s zeal and success. The best method of illustrating this recommendation, is to seize from the volume a few familiar effects whose causes are imperfectly understood, and thus to show how closely the spread of science is identified with civilization and the common comforts of social life:—

Deceptive appearance of Waves

If we observe the waves continually approaching the shore, we must be convinced that this apparent motion is not one in which the water has any share: for were it so, the waters of the sea would soon be heaped upon the shores, and would inundate the adjacent country; but so far from the waters partaking of the apparent motion of the waves in approaching the shore, this motion of the waves continues, even when the waters are retiring. If we observe a flat strand when the tide is ebbing, we shall still find the waves moving towards the shore.

Ornamental Fountain Clocks.

It is the same cause (that which produces the deceptive appearance of a progressive motion in the waves of the sea) which makes a revolving cork-screw, held in a fixed position, seem to be advancing in that direction in which it would actually advance if the worm were passing through a cork. That point which is nearest to the eye, and which corresponds to the crest of the wave in the former example, continually occupies a different point of the worm, and continually advances towards its extremity.—This property has lately been prettily applied in ornamental clocks. A piece of glass, twisted so that its surface acquires a ridge in the form of a screw, is inserted in the mouth of some figure designed to represent a fountain. One end of the glass is attached to the axle of a wheel, which the clock-work keeps in a state of constant rotation, and the other end is concealed in a vessel, designed to represent a reservoir or basin. The continual rotation of the twisted glass produces the appearance of a progressive motion, as already explained, and a stream of water continually appears to flow from the fountain into the basin.

Facility of Swimming.

The lighter the body is in relation to its magnitude, the more easily will it float, and a greater proportion of the head will remain above the surface. As the weight of the human body does not always bear the same proportion to its bulk, the skill of the swimmer is not always to be estimated by his success; some of the constituent parts of the human body are heavier, while others are lighter, bulk for bulk, than water. Those persons in whom the quantity of the latter bear a greater proportion to the former, will swim with a proportionate facility.

Common Mistake in Cooling Wine.

When ice is used to cool wine, it will be ineffectual if it be applied, as is frequently the case, only to the bottom of the bottle; in that case, the only part of the wine which will be cooled is that part nearest the bottom. As the application of ice to the top of the bottle establishes two currents, upwards and downwards, the liquid will undergo an effect in some degree similar to that which would be produced by shaking the bottle. If there be any deposit in the bottom whose weight, bulk for bulk, nearly equals that of the wine, such deposit will be mixed through the liquid as effectually as if it had been shaken. In such cases, therefore, the wine should be transferred into a clean bottle before it is cooled.

Why Cream collects on the surface of Milk.

There are numerous familiar effects which are manifestations of the principle now explained. When a vessel of milk is allowed to remain a certain time at rest, it is observed that a stratum of fluid will collect at the surface, differing in many qualities from that upon which it rests. This is called cream; and the property by which it ascends to the surface is its relative levity; it is composed of the lightest particles of the milk, which are in the first instance mixed generally in the fluid; but which, when the liquid is allowed to rest, gradually arise through it, and settle at the surface.

Directions engraved upon the Common Weather Glasses absurd.

The barometer has been called a weather glass. Rules are attempted to be established, by which, from the height of the mercury, the coming state of the weather may be predicted, and we accordingly find the words “Rain,” “Fair,” “Changeable,” “Frost,” &c., engraved on the scale attached to common domestic barometers, as if, when the mercury stands at the height marked by these words, the weather is always subject to the vicissitudes expressed by them. These marks are, however, entitled to no attention; and it is only surprising to find their use continued in the present times, when knowledge is so widely diffused. They are, in fact, to be ranked scarcely above the vox stellarum, or astrological almanac.

Two barometers, one near the level of the River Thames, and the other on the heights of Hampstead, will differ by half an inch; the latter being always half an inch lower than the former. If the words, therefore, engraved upon the plates are to be relied on, similar changes of weather could never happen at these two situations. But what is even more absurd, such a scale would inform us that the weather at the foot of a high building, such as St. Paul’s, must always be different from the weather at the top of it.

It is observed that the changes of weather are indicated, not by the actual height of the mercury, but by its change of height. One of the most general, though not absolutely invariable, rules is, that when the mercury is very low, and therefore the atmosphere very light, high winds and storms may be expected.

The following rules may generally be relied upon, at least to a certain extent:

1. Generally the rising of the mercury indicates the approach of fair weather; the falling of it shows the approach of foul weather.
2. In sultry weather the fall of the mercury indicates coming thunder. In winter, the rise of the mercury indicates frost. In frost, its fall indicates thaw; and its rise indicates snow.
3. Whatever change of weather suddenly follows a change in the barometer, may be expected to last but a short time. Thus, if fair weather follow immediately the rise of the mercury, there will be very little of it; and, in the same way if foul weather follow the fall of the mercury, it will last but a short time.
4. If fair weather continue for several days, during which the mercury continually falls, a long continuance of foul weather will probably ensue; and again, if foul weather continue for several days, while the mercury continually rises, it long succession of fair weather will probably succeed.
5. A fluctuating and unsettled state in the mercurial column indicates changeable weather.

The domestic barometer would become a much more useful instrument, if, instead of the words usually engraved on the plate, a short list of the best established rules, such as the above, accompanied it, which might be either engraved on the plate, or printed on a card. It would be right, however, to express the rules only with that degree of probability which observation of past phenomena has justified. There is no rule respecting these effects which will hold good with perfect certainty in every case.

This volume, we should add, is by Dr. Lardner, the editor of the Cyclopædia, and is a good model for his collaborateurs.

REFLECTION.

It is better to reflect ourselves, than to suffer others to reflect for us. A philosopher has a system; he views things according to his theory; he is unavoidably partial; and, like Lucian’s painter, he paints his one-eyed princes in profile.

STATUE OF PETER THE GREAT.

This superb work of modern art stands in one of the finest squares of St. Petersburgh, and of Europe, according to Sir Robert Ker Porter. It was erected by command of the Empress Catherine, and, like all her projects, bears the stamp of greatness. The name of the artist is Falconet: “he was a Frenchman; but,” adds Sir R.K.P. “this statue, for genius and exquisite execution, would have done honour to the best sculptors of any nation. A most sublime conception is displayed in the design. The allegory is finely imagined; and had he not sacrificed the result of the whole to the prominence of his group, the grand and united effect of the statue and its pedestal striking at once upon the eye, would have been unequalled in the works of man. A mass of granite, of a size at present most immense, but formerly most astonishing, is the pedestal. A steep acclivity, like that of a rugged mountain, carries the eye to its summit, which looks down on the opposite side to a descent nearly perpendicular. The figure of the hero is on horseback, supposed to have attained the object of his ambition, by surmounting all the apparent impossibilities which so arduous an enterprise presented. The victorious animal is proudly rearing on the highest point of the rock, whilst his imperial master stretches forth his mighty arm, as the father and protector of his country. A serpent, in attempting to impede his course, is trampled on by the feet of the horse, and writhing in all the agonies of expiring nature. The Emperor is seated on the skin of a bear; and habited in a tunic, or sort of toga which forms the drapery behind. His left hand guides the reins; his right is advanced straight forward on the same side of the horse’s neck. The head of the statue is crowned with a laurel wreath.” It was formed from a bust of Peter, modelled by a young French damsel. The contour of the face expresses the most powerful command, and exalted, boundless, expansion of thought. “The horse, says Sir Robert, is not to be surpassed. To all the beauties of the ancient form, it unites the easy grace of nature with a fire which pervades every line; and gives such a life to the statue, that as you gaze you expect to see it leap from the pinnacle into the air. The difficulty of keeping so great a mass of weighty metal in so volant an attitude, has been admirably overcome by the artist. The sweep of the tail, with the hinder parts of the horse, are interwoven with the curvatures of the expiring snake; and together compose a sufficient counterpoise to the figure and forepart of the animal.”[⁶]

Our representation of this masterpiece of art is copied from a Russian medallion presented to our ingenious artist, Mr. W.H. Brooke, by M. Francia.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

FAMILY POETRY.

—Modo sumptâ veste virili!—HOR.

Zooks! I must woo the Muse to-day,

Though line before I’d never wrote!

“On what occasion?” do you say?

OUR DICK HAS GOT A LONG-TAIL’D COAT!

Not a coatee, which soldiers wear

Button’d up high about the throat,

But easy, flowing, debonair—

In short a civil long-tail’d Coat.

A smarter you’ll not find in town

Cut by Nugee, that Snip of note;

A very quiet olive-brown

’s the colour of Dick’s long-tail’d Coat.

Gay jackets clothe the stately Pole,

The proud Hungarian, and the Croat,

Yet Esterhazy, on the whole,

Looks best when in a long-tail’d Coat.

Lord Byron most admired, we know,

The Albanian dress, or Suliote;

But then he died some years ago,

And never saw Dick’s long-tail’d Coat.

Or, past all doubt, the Poet’s theme

Had never been the “White Capote,”

Had he once view’d, in Fancy’s dream,

The glories of Dick’s long-tail’d Coat.

We also know on Highland kilt

Poor dear Glengary used to dote,

And had esteem’d it actual guilt

I’ “the Gael” to wear a long-tail’d Coat,

No wonder ’twould his eyes annoy,

Monkbarns himself would never quote

“Sir Robert Sibbald,” “Gordon,” “Roy,”

Or “Stukely” for a long-tail’d Coat.

Jackets may do to ride a race,

Or row in, when one’s in a boat;

But, in the Boudoir, sure, for grace

There’s nothing like Dick’s long-tail’d Coat.

Of course, in climbing up a tree,

On terra firma, or afloat.

To mount the giddy top-mast, he

Would doff awhile his long-tail’d Coat.

What makes you simper, then, and sneer?

From out your own eye pull the mote;

A pretty thing for you to jeer!

Haven’t you, too, got a long-tail’d Coat?

Oh! “Dick’s scarce old enough,” you mean?

Why, though too young to give a vote,

Or make a will, yet, sure, Fifteen

’s a ripe age for a long-tail’d Coat.

What! would you have him sport a chin

Like Colonel Stanhope, or that goat

O’Gorman Mahon, ere begin

To figure in a long-tail’d Coat?

Suppose he goes to France—can he

Sit down at any table d’hôte,

With any sort of decency,

Unless he’s got a long-tail’d Coat?

Why Louis Philippe, Royal Cit,

There soon may be a sans culotte;

And Nugents self must then admit

The advantage of a long-tail’d Coat.

Things are not now as when, of yore,

In Tower encircled by a moat,

The lion-hearted chieftain wore

A corselet for a long-tail’d Coat.

Then ample mail his form embraced,

Not, like a weazel, or a stoat,

“Cribb’d and confined” about the waist,

And pinch’d in, like Dick’s long-tail’d Coat;—

With beamy spear, orbiting axe,

To right and left he thrust and smote—

Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacks

Fall from a modern long tail’d Coat.

For stalwart knights, a puny race

In stays, with locks en papillote,

While cuirass, cuisses, greaves give place

To silk-net Tights, and long-tail’d Coat.

Worse changes still! now, well-a-day!

A few cant phrases learnt by rote

Each beardless booby spouts away,

A Solon, in a long-tail’d Coat.

Prates of “The march of intellect”—

—“The schoolmaster” a Patriote

So noble, who could ere suspect

Had just put on a long-tail’d Coat?

Alack! Alack! that every thick-

skull’d lad must find an antidote

For England’s woes, because, like Dick.

He has put on a long-tail’d Coat.

But lo! my rhymes begin to fail,

Nor can I longer time devote;

Thus rhyme and time cut short the tale,

The long tale of Dick’s long-tail’d Coat.

SIR JOHN HAWKINS’S HISTORY OF MUSIC.

The fate of this work was decided like that of many more important things, by a trifle, a word, a pun. A ballad, chanted by a fille-de-chambre, undermined the colossal power of Alberoni; a single line of Frederic the Second, reflecting not on the politics but the poetry of a French minister, plunged France into the seven years’ war; and a pun condemned Sir John Hawkins’s sixteen years’ labour to long obscurity and oblivion. Some wag wrote the following catch, which Dr. Callcott set to music:—

“Have you read Sir John Hawkins’s History? Some folks think it quite a mystery; Both I have, and I aver That Burney’s History I prefer.”

Burn his History was straightway in every one’s mouth; and the bookseller, if he did not follow the advice à pied de la lettre, actually wasted, as the term is, or sold for waste paper, some hundred copies, and buried the rest of the impression in the profoundest depth of a damp cellar, as an article never likely to be called for, so that now hardly a copy can be procured undamaged by damp and mildew. It has been for some time, however, rising,—is rising,—and the more it is read and known, the more it ought to rise in public estimation and demand.—Harmonicon.