Part 116
Where did these events occur? Among the savage tribes of interior Africa, or the rude barbarians of northern Europe? No: but in Rome--imperial Rome--in her “high and palmy state,” when she was mistress of the world, and held within her dominion all the science and literature of which the earth could boast. Surely we may with reason doubt, whether the moral improvement of mankind invariably keeps pace with their intellectual advancement.
O. Z.
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ILL-FATED ROYAL FAMILIES.
THE LINE OF CHARLEMAGNE.
The successors of Charlemagne in his French dominions, were examples of a melancholy destiny.
His son, Louis le Debonnaire, died for want of food, in consequence of a superstitious panic.
His successor, Charles the Bald, was poisoned by his physician.
The son of Charles, Louis the Stutterer, fell also by poison.
Charles, king of Aquitaine, brother to Louis, was fatally wounded in the head by a lord, named Albuin, whom he was endeavouring, by way of frolic, to terrify, in disguise.
Louis III., successor to Louis the Stutterer, riding through the streets of Tours, pursued the handsome daughter of a citizen named Germond, till the terrified girl took refuge in a house; and the king, thinking more of her charms than of the size of the gateway, attempting to force his horse after her, broke his back, and died.
His successor, Carloman, fell by an ill-directed spear, thrown, by his own servant, at a wild boar.
Charles the Fat perished of want, grief, and poison, all together.
His successor, Charles the Simple, died in prison of penury and despair.
Louis the Stranger, who succeeded him, was bruised to death as he was hunting.
Lotharius and Louis V., the two last kings of the race of Charlemagne, were both poisoned by their wives.
After a revolution of two hundred and thirty years, there remained of the whole line of Charlemagne, only Charles, duke of Lorrain; and he, after ineffectually struggling in defence of his rights against Hugh Capet, sunk beneath the fortune of his antagonist, and ended his life and race in solitary confinement.
The French historians observe, that the epithets given to the princes of the line of Charlemagne, were, almost all, expressive of the contemptuous light in which that family was held by the people over whom it reigned.
THE STUARTS.
The royal line of Stuart was as steadily unfortunate as any ever recorded in history. Their misfortunes continued with unabated succession, during three hundred and ninety years.
Robert III. broke his heart, because his eldest son Robert was starved to death, and his youngest, James, was made a captive.
James I., after having beheaded three of his nearest kindred, was assassinated by his own uncle, who was tortured to death for it.
James II. was slain by the bursting of a piece of ordnance.
James III., when flying from the field of battle, was thrown from his horse, and murdered in a cottage, into which he had been carried for assistance.
James IV. fell in Flodden field.
James V. died of grief for the wilful ruin of his army at Solway Moss.
Henry Stuart, lord Darnley, was assassinated, and then blown up in his palace.
Mary Stuart was beheaded in England.
James I. (and VI. of Scotland) died, not without suspicion of being poisoned by lord Buckingham.
Charles I. was beheaded at Whitehall.
Charles II. was exiled for many years; and when he ascended the throne became a slave to his pleasures: he lived a sensualist, and died miserably.
James II. abdicated the crown, and died in banishment.
Anne, after a reign, which though glorious, was rendered unhappy by party disputes, died of a broken heart, occasioned by the quarrels of her favoured servants.
The posterity of James II. remain proscribed and exiled.
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~Original Poetry.~
_For the Table Book._
TALES OF TINMOUTHE PRIORIE.
No. I.
THE MAIDEN OF THE SEA.
“Al maner Mynstralcye, “That any man kan specifye,
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“And many unkouth notys new, “Offe swiche folke als lovid trewe.”
JOHN LIDGATE.
O loud howls the wind o’er the blue, blue deep, And loud on the shore the dashing waves sweep, And merk is the night by land and by sea, And woe to the stranger that’s out on the lea.
Closed fast is the gate of the priory hall,[360] Unscathed stand the towers of the castle[361] so tall, High flare the flames on the hearth-stane so wide, But woe to the stranger that crosses the tide.
Hark! hark! at the portal who’s voice is so bold-- It cannot be open’d for silver or gold-- The foeman is near with his harrying brand, And brent are the homes of Northumberland.
I’m no foeman, no Scot, in sooth now to say, But a minstral who weareth the peaceful lay; Wynken de Mowbray the Prior doth know, Then open the gate, for the north winds blow.
Who hath not heard De Mowbray’s song? The softest harp in the minstrel throng; O many a true love tale can he sing, And touch the heart with his melting string.
Now while the welkin with tempest raves, And the angry ocean maddens his waves, Around the hearth-stane we’ll listen to thee, And beguile the long night with minstralcye.
O sweet and wild is the harper’s strain, As its magic steals o’er the raptur’d brain, And hush’d is the crowd of hearers all, As thronged they sit in the priory hall.
“O what is sweeter and softer than thou “Heather-bell on the mountain brow? “And what is more pure than the sparkling dew “That kisses that heather-bell so blue? “Yes! far far sweeter and purer is she, “The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.
“What is more sweet in the leafy grove “Than the nightingale’s plaintive song of love? “And what is more gay than the lark of spring, “As he carrols lightly on heaven-bent wing? “O yes, more sweet and more gay is she, “The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.
“Her raven-tresses in ringlets flow, “Her step is more light than the forest doe, “Her dark eyes shine ’neath their silken lash, “Like the bright but lambent light’ning flash “Of a summer eve, as noiseless it plays “’Midst a million stars of yet softer rays.
“The beauteous Eltha’s evening song “Is wafted o’er the swelling wave, “And it catches the ear, as it steals along, “Of wondering seamen, while billows lave “In gentle murmurs his vessel’s prow, “As he voyages to where the cedars grow.
“A shallop is riding upon the sea, “With her broad sail furl’d to the mast; “A pennon brave floats fair and free “On the breeze, as it whispers past:
“And who is that stranger of lofty mien “Who is rock’d on the salt, salt tide? “-----He is from a foreign land I ween, “A stranger of meikle pride.
“He has heard the beauteous Eltha’s notes “Borne far on the eventide breeze, “Like the eastern perfume that distant floats “O’er the silver surfac’d seas.
“The stranger hath seen dark Eltha’s eye, “As it glanc’d o’er the wave so green; “And mark’d her tresses of raven-dye, “(More beauteous than golden sheen,) “Interwoven with sea-flowers of whiten’d hue, “Such flowers as never in garden grew, “But pluck’d from the caverns of ocean deep “By the last stormy waves’ fast rushing sweep, “And left on the strand as a tribute to thee, “Thou dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.
“The stranger lov’d dark Eltha’s lay, “And he lov’d her bright, bright eye; “And he sued for the love of that maiden gay, “As she wander’d the ocean nigh.
“He gain’d her love, for his form had grace, “And stately was his stride; “His gentlesse show’d him of noble race, “Tho’ roaming on billows wide:-- “But fair skims the breeze o’er the placid sea, “And the stranger must hie to a far countrie.
“Dark Eltha still sings but her song is slow, “And the west wind catches its mournful “The mariners wonder the changed lay, “As their slothful barks calm lingering stay: “The songstress’ cheek is wan and pale, “And her tresses neglected float on the gale; “The sea flower is thrown on its rocky bed, “The once gay Eltha’s peace is fled, “The eye of the Maiden is dark and bright, “But it rivals no more the diamond’s light.
“Now many a day thou hast gaz’d o’er the sea “For the bark of thy lover in vain, “And many a storm thou hast shudder’d to see “Spread its wings o’er the anger’d main: “--Is he faithless the stranger?--forgetful of thee? “Thou beauteous Maiden of the Sea.
“On many a whiten’d sail hast thou gaz’d, “Till the lazy breeze bore it on, “But they pass, and thy weary eyes are glaz’d, “As they trace the bark just gone: “None have the pennon, so free and fair, “As the stranger ship which once tarried there.
“On yon tall cliff to whose broken base “Loud surging waves for ever race, “A form is bent o’er the fearful height, “So eager, that a feather’s weight “Would cast its poised balance o’er, “And leave a mangled corse on the shore.
“-----’Tis Eltha’s form, that with eager glance, “Scans the wide world of waves, as they dance, “Uprais’d by the sigh of the east wind chill, “Which wafts to the ear the scream so shrill “Of the whirling sea mews, as landward they fly, “--To seamen a mark that the storm is nigh.
“And what is yon distant speck on the sea, “That seems but a floating beam, “Save that a pennon fair and free “Waves in the sun’s bright gleam?
“A bark is driven with rapid sail, “Its pennon far spread on the moaning gale, “A foamy track at its angry keel, “And the billows around it maddening reel; “The white fring’d surges dash over its prow “As its masts to the pressing canvass bow--
“But O with rapid, fiend-like, haste, “The breeze rolls o’er the watery waste, “And louder is heard the deaf’ning roar “Of the waves dashing fierce on the trembling shore, “Ten thousand eddying billows recede, “And return again with an arrow’s speed, “Till the flaky foam on the wind is spread, “Far, far above their ocean bed, “And boom o’er the cliff where Eltha’s form “Is seen to await the deadly storm.
“Keep to the wind with a taughten’d sheet,[362] “Thou bark from a stranger land, “No daring northern pilot would meet “A storm like this near the strand; “No kindly haven of shelter is here, “Then whilst thou may,--to seaward steer; “But thou com’st, with a wide and flowing sail, “To a rock bound coast in an eastern gale, “Thou wilt see the danger around thee at last, “When the hour of safety for ever is past;
“----And O it is past, thou art now embay’d, “And around thee gathers the evening shade, “Thy last sun has set in a red, red sky, “Thy last Vesper hymn is the fearful cry “Of the ominous sea bird shrieking on high. “The night and the storm have hidden from view “The fated ship and her gallant crew, “And the last sight seen on the foamy sea “Was a pennon broad streaming fair and free.
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“The morrow is come and the storm is o’er, “And the billows more slowly dash, “But shatter’d timbers are spread on the shore “Beyond the ebb-waves’ wash: “Still are the hearts of the gallant band “Which erst did beat so true; “They’ll never more see their fatherland, “Where their playful childhood grew.
“And on a shelving rock is seen, “Enwrapp’d in a shroud of sea-weed green, “A noble corse, whose marble brow “Is cluster’d with locks of auburn hue; “And even in death, his manly form “Seems to mock the rage of the northern storm. “In his hand is clasp’d a jewel rare “Enshrining a lock of black, black hair: “And on his cold breast, near his heart, is display’d “A golden gift of the dark-ey’d maid.
“The lovely Eltha’s smiles are fled, “And she wildly looks o’er the ocean-bed “With sunken glance and a pale, pale cheek, “And her once bounding step is slow and weak; “On the wave she launches the blue sea-shell “Which swims for a moment then sinks in the swell “And wilder’d she bends o’er the chrystal billow “As it eddying whirls to its coral pillow: “She fancys a faëry bark is sped “To bring her cold love from the land of the dead; “But no tears on her sunken eye-lids quiver, “Her reason is fled for ever!--for ever!--”
De Mowbray’s soft harp ceas’d the mournful strain But awaken’d the broken notes once again, like the throb of the heart strings when dying they sever, They stop--thrill--stop--and are silent for ever.
ALPHA.
_September, 1827._
[360, 361] Tynemouth castle and priory, which stand together on a bleak promontory.
[362] _Keep to the wind_, &c. This line is a technical description of the sails of a vessel when contending against the wind.--αλφα.
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_For the Table Book._
MY POCKET-BOOK.
I crave good Mr. Du B----’s pardon for my “flat burglary” with regard to the title of the present little paper. It is very far from my intention to endeavour in any way to place myself in competition with that great satirical genius, of whose very superior talents and brilliant wit I am pleased to be thus afforded an opportunity of avowing myself an ardent admirer: but as this title suits my purpose, I must entreat his permission to appropriate it, and merely remind him of the poet Puff’s excuse on a somewhat similar occasion--“All that can be said is--that two people happened to hit upon the same thought, (title,) and Shakspeare (Du B----) made use of it first, that is all.”
Pocket-books (as implied by their name) were originally intended as _portable_ receptacles for our different memoranda, remarks and communications. But now it is no longer honoured by an immediate attendance on our person; its station at present is confined to the bureau, desk, or private drawer. What man who can boast of being _d’un assez bon air_ would consent to injure his exquisite _adonisation_ of coat, by wearing a pocket-book in _his_ side-breast pocket, and thus ungratefully frustrate all poor Mr. Stultz’s efforts at an exact and perfect _fit_. The ladies, for some reason, concerning which I do not so much as venture even a surmise, (for Heaven forefend that I should attempt to dive into these sacred mysteries, or, as “Uncle Selby” would call them, _femalities_,) have entirely given up the use of pockets, therefore I would advise that memorandum-books destined for the use of the fair sex should in future be styled--_reticule_-books.
Old pocket-books are like some old ladies’ chests of drawers--delightful things to rummage and recur to. Looking over an old pocket-book is like revisiting scenes of past happiness after a lapse of years. Recollections and associations of both a painful and pleasurable nature are vividly recalled, or forcibly present themselves to our mind. Treasured letters, private remarks, favourite quotations, dates of days spent in peculiar enjoyment, all these meet our eye, and rise up like the shadows of those past realities connected with them, whose memory they are intended to perpetuate to us.
----Pocket-books are indexes to their owner’s mind--were it an allowable action to inspect another’s pocket-book, we might form a tolerably shrewd guess at the character and disposition of its possessor. On picking up a lost pocket-book by chance in the streets, one can be at no loss to divine the quality of its former proprietor. A large rusty black leather pocket-book, looking more like a portmanteau than a memorandum book, stuffed with papers half printed, half written, blank stamp receipts, churchwarden’s orders and directions, long lists of parishioners, with a small ink-horn in one corner--denotes the property of a tax-gatherer. The servant-maid’s is an old greasy red morocco one--in the blank leaf is written in straggling characters reaching from the top of one side to the bottom of the other--
Sarah Price her book, God give her grace therein to look.
In the part designated “cash account” are various items, for the most part concerning tea, sugar, and ribbon. Among the memoranda are the following:--“Spent last Easter Monday was a twel’month with Tom Hadley, at Greenwich--in great hopes I shall get leave to go again this year. My next wages comes due 4th August, 18--. Jane Thompson says she pays only 4s. for the best _sowtchong_ tea; and I pay 4s. 6d.--to speak to Mr. Ilford the grocer about it.”--The pockets are crammed full of songs and ballads, of which her favourites are “Black eyed Susan,” “Auld Robin Gray,” and “Lord William and Fair Margaret.” Perhaps a letter from Tom Hadley, an old silver coin, his gift, and a lucky penny with a hole in it.--The young lady’s is elegantly bound in red and gilt. In the blank leaf is written in a little niminy piminy hand-writing--“To my sweet friend Ellen Woodmere, from her affectionate Maria Tillotson.” Quotations from Pope, Young, Thomson, Lord Byron, and Tom Moore, occupy the blank pages--“Memoranda. June 16th saw Mrs. Siddons riding in her chariot in Hyde Park. Mem. Wonder why pa’ won’t let me read dear lord Byron’s new work the ‘Don Juan’--there must be something odd in it. Mem. To remember and ask Maria what she paid a yard for that beautiful lace round her collar. Mem. What a horrid wretch that Robespierre must have been! I’m glad he was killed himself at last. Mem. To tell pa’ that it is quite impossible for me to go to the ball next Tuesday without a new lutstring dress. Mem. How I wish I had been Joan of Arc!--But I would not have put on the men’s clothes again in prison--I wonder why she did so--How silly!”--In the pockets are some of her dear Maria’s letters--a loose leaf torn out of sir Charles Grandison describing Miss Harriet Byron’s dress at the masquerade--and several copies of verses and sonnets, the productions of some of her former schoolfellows.
The old bachelor’s pocket-book is of russia leather, glossy with use, yet still retaining its grateful and long-enduring odour. The memoranda chiefly consist of the dates of those days on which he had seen or spoken to remarkable or celebrated people. Opposite the prognostics concerning weather, which he has since found incorrect, are to be seen the words: “No such thing”--“Pshaw, the fellow talks about what he does not understand”--“Absurd folly,” &c.--In the pockets are sundry square scraps of paper cut out at different periods from old newspapers--a copy of “The Means to be used for the recovery of persons _apparently_ drowned”--a watch-paper cut out for him by his little grand-niece--and, (wrapped up in several folds of silver paper,) a long ringlet of auburn hair with its wavy drop, and springy relapse as you hold it at full-length between your finger and thumb. Among the leaves is a small sprig of jasmin which _she_ had worn in _her_ bosom a whole evening at a party, and which he had gently possessed himself of, on taking leave of her for the night.----
M. H.
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WOMEN.
That venerable people--who were the ancients to those whom we call the ancients--the wise Egyptians, in the disposition which they allotted to the genders of their nouns, paid a singular and delicate compliment to the fair sex. In the four elements, beginning with water, they appointed the ocean, as a rough boisterous existence, to the male sex; but streams and fountains they left to the more gentle females. As to earth, they made rocks and stones male; but arable and meadow lands female. Air they divided thus: to the masculine gender, rough winds and hurricanes of every kind; to the female, the sky and the zephyrs. Fire, when of a consuming nature, they made male, but artificial and harmless flames they rendered feminine.
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~Discoveries~
OF THE
ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.
No. IX.
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~To the Reader.~
In the present volume has been commenced, and will be concluded, a series of Articles under this title, which to some readers may not have been sufficiently attractive. It is therefore now re-stated, that they present very curious particulars concerning the extent to which the ancients were acquainted with several popular systems and theories, usually supposed to have originated in modern times.
Sir Isaac Newton’s Theory of Colours appears, by the succeeding paper, to have been imagined above two thousand years ago. The History of Ancient Philosophy is pregnant with similar instances of discrimination. It is hoped that this may justify the present attempt to familiarize the reader with the knowledge of the Ancients in various branches of Natural Philosophy, and the Elements of the Human Mind. Succeeding papers will be found to relate to their acquaintance with the Motion of the Earth--the Antipodes--Planetary Revolutions--Comets--the Moon--Air--Air-guns--Thunder--Earthquakes--the Magnet--the Tides--the Circulation of the Blood--Chirurgery--Chemistry--Malleability of Glass--Painting on Glass--Gunpowder--the Sexes of Plants--the Pendulum--Light--Perspective--the Quadrature of the Circle--Burning Glasses--the Precession of the Equinoxes--Mechanics--Architecture--Sculpture--Painting--Music, &c.
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SIR ISAAC NEWTON’S THEORY OF COLOURS INDICATED BY PYTHAGORAS AND PLATO.
That wonderful theory, whereby is investigated and distinguished from one another the variety of colours that constitute the uniform appearance, called light, establishes the glory of sir Isaac Newton, and is an eternal monument of his extraordinary sagacity. Its discovery was reserved for an age when philosophy had arrived at its fullest maturity; and yet it is to be found in the writings of some of the most eminent men of ancient times.
Pythagoras, and his disciples after him, entertained sufficiently just conceptions of the formation of colours. They taught that “they resulted solely from the different modification of reflected light;” or, as a modern author, in explaining the sentiments of the Pythagoreans, expresses it, “light reflecting itself with more or less vivacity, forms by that means our different sensations of colour.” The same philosophers, “in assigning the reason of the difference of colours, ascribe it to a mixture of the elements of light; and divesting the atoms, or small particles of light, of all manner of colour, impute every sensation of that kind to the motions excited in our organs of sight.”
The disciples of Plato contributed not a little to the advancement of optics, by the important discovery they made, that light emits itself in straight lines, and that the angle of incidence is always equal to the angle of reflection.