Part 3

This planet, called also Uranus, was discovered by Herschel on the 13th of March, 1781. It is the most distant orb in our system yet known. From certain inequalities on the motion of Jupiter and Saturn, the existence of a planet of considerable size beyond the orbit of either had been before suspected; its apparent magnitude, as seen from the earth, is about 3-1/2 sec., or of the size of a star of the sixth magnitude, and as from its distance from the sun, it shines but with a pale light, it cannot often be distinguished with the naked eye. Its diameter is about 4-1/2 times that of the earth, and completes its revolution in something less than 83-1/2 years. The want of light in this planet, on account of its great distance from the sun, is supplied by six moons, which revolve round their primary in different periods. There is a remarkable peculiarity attached to their orbits, which are nearly perpendicular to the plane of the ecliptic, and they revolve in them in a direction contrary to the order of the signs.

"Moore," in an old almanack, speaking on the difference of light and heat enjoyed by the inhabitants of _Saturn_, and the _earth_, says,--

"From hence how large, how strong the sun's bright ball, But seen from thence, how languid and how small, When the keen north with all its fury blows, Congeals the floods and forms the fleecy snows: 'Tis heat intense, to what can there be known, Warmer our poles than in its burning (!) zone; One moment's cold like their's would pierce the bone, Freeze the heart's blood, and turn us all to stone."

Were Saturn thus situated, what would the inhabitants of Herschel feel, whose distance is still further?--pursuing this train of reasoning, the heat in the planet Mercury would be seven times greater than on our globe, and were the earth in the same position, all the water on its surface would boil, and soon be turned into vapour, but as the degree of sensible heat in any planet _does not_ depend altogether on its nearness to the sun, the temperature of these planets may be as mild as that of the most genial climate of our globe.

The theory of the sun being a body of fire having been long since exploded, and heat being found to be generated by the union of the sun's rays with the atmosphere of the earth, so the caloric contained in the atmosphere on the surfaces of the planets may be distributed in different quantities, according to the situation they occupy with regard to the sun, and which is put into action by the influence of the solar rays, so as to produce that degree of sensible heat requisite for each respective planet. We have only to suppose that a small quantity of caloric exists in Mercury, and a greater quantity in Herschel, which is fifty times farther from the sun than the other, and there is no reason to believe that those planets nearest the sun suffer under the action of excessive heat, or that the more distant are exposed to the rigours of insufferable cold, which, in either case, might render them unfit for the abodes of intellectual beings. PASCHE.

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THE SKETCH BOOK

NO. XLI.

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THE AUTHOR AND HIS COAT.

(_For the Mirror._)

My master, at first sight of me, expressed great admiration. He had given his architect of garments orders to make him a blue coat in his best style; in consequence of which I was ushered into the world. The gentleman who introduced me into company was at the time in very high spirits, being engaged in a new literary undertaking, of the success of which he indulged very sanguine hopes. On this occasion we, that is, to use similar language to Cardinal Wolsey, in a well-known instance, I and my master paid a great number of visits to his particular friends, and others whom he thought likely to encourage and promote his project The reception _we_ generally met with was highly satisfactory; smiles and promises of support were bestowed in abundance upon _us_. I use the plural number, with justice, as it will appear in the sequel, although my master scarcely ever dreamt that I had anything to do with it. As I had, however, the special privilege of being _behind his back_, I had the advantage which that situation peculiarly confers, of arriving at a knowledge of the truth. He never dreamt that the expressions, "How well you are looking,"--"I am glad to see you," &c. so common in his ears, would scarcely ever have been used had it not been for my influence. To be sure I have overheard him say, as we have been walking along, "There goes an old acquaintance of mine; but, bless me, how altered he is! he looks poor and meanly dressed, but I'm determined I'll speak to him, for fear he should think me so shabby as to shy him." Thus giving an instance in himself, certainly, of respect for the _man_ and not the _coat_. My short history goes rather to prove that the reverse is almost every day's experience. Matters went on pretty well with us until my master was seized with a severe fit of illness, in consequence of which his literary scheme was completely defeated, and his condition in life materially injured; of course, the glad tones of encouragement which I had been accustomed to hear were changed into expressions of condolence, and sometimes assurances of unabated friendship; but then it must be remembered that I, the handsomest blue coat, was _still in good condition_, and it will perhaps appear, that if I were not my master's _warmest_ friend, I was, at all events, the only one that _stuck to him to the last_. Eternal respect to both of us continued much the same for some time longer, but by degrees we both, _at the same time_, observed, that an alteration began to take place. My master attributed this to his altered fortunes, and I placed it to the score of my decayed appearance--the threadbare cloth and tarnished button came in, I was sure, for their full share of neglect, and he at last fell into the same opinion. To describe all the variety of treatment that we experienced would be a tedious and unpleasant task,--but I was the more convinced that I had at least as much to do with it as my master, from observing that all the gradations in manner, from coolness to shyness, and from shyness to neglect, kept pace, remarkably, with the changes in my appearance. My master was, at length, the only individual who paid any respect or attention to me, after most of his old acquaintances had ceased to notice him. I have heard him exclaim, "Oh, that mankind would treat me with as much constancy as my old true blue! Thou hast faithfully served me throughout the vicissitudes of fortune, and art faithful still, now both of us are left to wither in adversity."

I could make a long story of it, were I to detail all my adventures; they may, however, be easily imagined from what has been stated, and from which it is evident, that in too many instances, the world pays more respect to _the coat_, than to _the man_, and therefore that a man would often derive more consequence and benefit if he had the advantage of having for his patron--_a tailor_ instead of _a man of rank_. J. B.

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THE NOVELIST.

NO. CIV.

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THE COTTER'S DAUGHTER.

It was a cold stormy night in December, and the green logs as they blazed and crackled on the Cotter's hearth, were rendered more delightful, more truly comfortable, by the contrast with the icy showers of snow and sleet which swept against the frail casement, making all without cheerless and miserable.

The Cotter was a handsome, intelligent old man, and afforded me much information upon glebes, and flocks, and rural economy; while his spouse, a venerable matron, was humming to herself some long since forgotten ballad; and industriously twisting and twirling about her long knitting needles, that promised soon to produce a pair of formidable winter hose. Their son, a stout, healthy young peasant of three-and-twenty, was sitting in the spacious chimney corner, sharing his frugal supper of bread and cheese with a large, shaggy sheep dog, who sat on his haunches wistfully watching every mouthful, and snap, snap, snapping, and dextrously catching every morsel that was cast to him.

We were all suddenly startled, however, by his loud bark; when, jumping up, he rushed, or rather flew towards the door.

"Whew! whew!" whistled the youth--"Whoy--what the dickens ails thee, Rover?" said he, rising and following him to the door to learn the cause of his alarm. "What! be they gone again, ey?" for the dog was silent. "What do thee sniffle at, boy? On'y look at 'un feyther; how the beast whines and waggles his stump o' tail!--It's some 'un he knows for sartain. I'd lay a wager it wur Bill Miles com'd about the harrow, feyther."

"Did thee hear any knock, lad?" said the father.

"Noa!" replied the youth; "but mayhap Bill peep'd thro' the hoal in the shutter, and is a bit dash'd like at seeing a gentleman here. Bill! is't thee, Master Miles?" continued he, bawling. "Lord! the wind whistles so a' can't hear me. Shall I unlatch the door, feyther?"

"Ay, lad, do, an thou wilt," replied the old man; "Rover's wiser nor we be--a dog 'll scent a friend, when a man would'nt know un."

Rover still continued his low importunate whine, and began to scratch against the door. The lad threw it open--the dog brushed past him in an instant, and his quick, short, continuous yelping, expressed his immoderate joy and recognition.

"Hollo! where be'st thee, Bill?" said the young peasant, stepping over the threshold. "Come, none of thee tricks upon travellers, Master Bill; I zee thee beside the rick yon!" and quitting the door for half a minute, he again hastily entered the cot. The rich colour of robust health had fled from his cheeks--his lips quivered--and he looked like one bereft of his senses, or under the influence of some frightful apparition.

The dame rose up--her work fell from trembling hands--

"What's the matter?" said she.

"What's frighted thee, lad?" asked the old man, rising.

"Oh! feyther!--oh! mother!"--exclaimed he, drawing them hastily on one side and whispering something in a low, and almost inaudible voice.

The old woman raised her hands in supplication and tottered to her chair while the Cotter, bursting out into a paroxysm of violent rage, clutched his son's arm, and exclaimed in a loud voice:

"Make fast the door, boy, an thou'lt not have my curse on thee!--I tell 'ee, she shan't come hither!--No--never--never;--there's poison in her breath--a' will spurn her from me!--A pest on her!--What; wilt not do my bidding?"

"O! feyther, feyther!" cried the young peasant, whose heart seemed overcharged with grief, "It be a cold, raw night--ye wou'dna kick a cur from the door to perish in the storm! Doant 'ee be hot and hasty, feyther, thou art not uncharitable--On me knees!"--

"Psha!" exclaimed the enraged father, only exasperated by his remonstrances. "Whoy talk 'ee to me, son--I am deaf--deaf!--Mine own hand shall bar the door agen her!"--adding with bitterness--"let her die!"--and stepping past his prostrate son, was about to execute his purpose--when, a young girl, whose once gay and flimsy raiment was drenched and stained, and torn by the violence of the storm, appeared at the door. The old man recoiled with a shudder--she was as pale as death--and her trembling limbs seemed scarcely able to support her--a profusion of light brown hair hung dishevelled and in disorder about her neck and shoulders, and added to her forlorn appearance. She stretched forth her arms and pronounced the name of "Father!" but further utterance was prevented by the convulsive sobs that heaved her bosom.

"Mary--woman!" cried the old man, trembling--"Call me not feyther--thou art none of mine--thou hast no feyther now--nor I a daughter--thou art a serpent that hath stung the bosom that cherished thee! Go to the fawning villain--the black-hearted sycophant that dragged thee from our arms--from our happy home to misery and pollution--go, and bless him for breaking thy poor old feyther's heart!"

Overcome by these heart-rending reproaches, the distressed girl fainted; but the strong arm of the young Cotter supported her--for her tender-hearted youth, moved by his fallen sister's sorrows, had ventured again to intercede.

"Hah! touch not her defiled and loathsome body," cried the old man--"thrust her from the door, and let her find a grave where she may. Boy! wilt thou dare disobey me?" and he raised his clenched hand, while anger flashed from his eye.

"Strike! feyther--strike me!" said the poor lad, bursting into tears--"fell me to the 'arth! Kill me, an thou wilt--I care not--I will never turn my heart agen poor Mary!--Bean't she my sister? Did thee not teach me to love her?--Poor lass!--she do want it all now, feyther--for she be downcast and broken-hearted!--Nay, thee art kind and good, feyther--know thee art--I zee thine eyes be full o' tears--and thee--thee woant cast her away from thee, I know thee woant. Mother, speak to 'un; speak to sister Mary too--it be our own Mary! Doant 'ee kill her wi' unkindness!"

The old man, moved by his affectionate entreaties, no longer offered any opposition to his son's wishes, but hiding his face in his hands, he fled from the affecting scene to an adjoining room.

Her venerable mother having recovered from the shock of her lost daughter's sudden appearance, now rose to the assistance of the unfortunate, and by the aid of restoratives brought poor Mary to the full sense of her wretchedness. She was speedily conveyed to the same humble pallet, to which, in the days of her innocence and peace, she had always retired so light-hearted and joyously, but where she now found a lasting sleep--an eternal repose!--Yes, poor Mary died!--and having won the forgiveness and blessing of her offended parents, death was welcome to her.--_Absurdities: in Prose and Verse_.

* * * * *

ORIGINS AND INVENTIONS.

No. XXVII.

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VAUXHALL GARDENS.

_(For the Mirror.)_

"Here waving groves a checkered scene display, And part admit, and part exclude the day."

POPE.

Of the origin of these enchanting gardens, Mr. Aubrey, in his "Antiquities of Surrey," gives us the following account;--"At Vauxhall, Sir Samuel Morland built a fine room, anno 1667, the inside all of looking-glass, and fountains very pleasant to behold, which is much visited by strangers: it stands in the middle of the garden, covered with Cornish slate, on the point of which he placed a punchinello, very well carved, which held a dial, but the winds have demolished it." And Sir John Hawkins, in his "History of Music," has the following account of it:--"The house seems to have been rebuilt since the time that Sir Samuel Morland dwelt in it. About the year 1730, Mr. Jonathan Tyers became the occupier of it, and, there being a large garden belonging to it, planted with a great number of stately trees, and laid out in shady walks, it obtained the name of Spring Gardens; and the house being converted into a tavern, or place of entertainment, was much frequented by the votaries of pleasure. Mr. Tyers opened it with an advertisement of a _Ridotto al Fresco_, a term which the people of this country had till that time been strangers to. These entertainments were repeated in the course of the summer, and numbers resorted to partake of them. This encouraged the proprietor to make his garden a place of musical entertainment, for every evening during the summer season. To this end he was at great expense in decorating the gardens with paintings; he engaged a band of excellent musicians; he issued silver tickets at one guinea each for admission, and receiving great encouragement, he set up an organ in the orchestra, and, in a conspicuous part of the garden, erected a fine statue of Mr. Handel." These gardens are said to be the first of the kind in England; but they are not so old as the Mulberry Gardens, (on the spot now called Spring Gardens, near St. James's Park,) where king Charles II. went to regale himself the night after his restoration, and formed an immediate connexion with Mrs. Palmer, afterwards Duchess of Cleveland. The trees, however, are more than a century old, and, according to tradition, were planted for a public garden. This property was formerly held by Jane Fauxe, or Vaux, widow, in 1615; and it is highly probable (says Nichols) that she was the relict of the infamous Guy. In the "Spectator," No. 383, Mr. Addison introduces a voyage from the Temple Stairs to Vauxhall, in which he is accompanied by his friend, Sir Roger de Coverley. In the "Connoisseur," No. 68, we find a very humourous description of the behaviour of an old penurious citizen, who had treated his family here with a handsome supper. The magnificence of these gardens calls to recollection the magic representations in the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments," where

"The blazing glories, with a cheerful ray, Supply the sun, and counterfeit the day."

Grosely, in his "Tour to London,"[4] says, (relating to Ranelagh and Vauxhall,) "These entertainments, which begin in the month of May, are continued every night. They bring together persons of all ranks and conditions; and amongst these, a considerable number of females, whose charms want only that cheerful air, which is the flower and quintessence of beauty. These places serve equally as a rendezvous either for business or intrigue. They form, as it were, private coteries; there you see fathers and mothers, with their children, enjoying domestic happiness in the midst of public diversions. The English assert, that such entertainments as these can never subsist in France, on account of the levity of the people. Certain it is, that those of Vauxhall and Ranelagh, which are guarded only by outward decency, are conducted without tumult and disorder, which often disturb the public diversions of France. I do not know whether the English are gainers thereby; the joy which they seem in search of at those places does not beam through their countenances; they look as grave at Vauxhall and Ranelagh as at the Bank, at church, or a private club. All persons there seem to say, what a young English nobleman said to his governor, _Am I as joyous as I should be?_"

P. T. W.

[4] 1765, translated from the French by Thomas Nugent, LL.D.

* * * * *

FINE ARTS.

* * * * *

THE CHIEF CAUSES OF THE SUCCESS OF PAINTING AND SCULPTURE IN GREECE AND ROME.

(_For the Mirror._)

A cursory glance at the principal occasion of the amazing success obtained by the Greeks and Romans, in painting and sculpture, during the early ages, may perhaps prove interesting to the lovers of the arts in this country.

The elevation to which the arts in Greece arrived was owing to the concurrence of various circumstances. The imitative arts, we are told, in that classic country formed a part of the administration, and were inseparably connected with the heathen worship. The temples were magnificently erected, and adorned with numerous statues of pagan deities, before which, in reverential awe, the people prostrated themselves. Every man of any substance had an idol in his own habitation, executed by a reputed sculptor. In all public situations the patriotic actions of certain citizens were represented, that beholders might be induced to emulate their virtues. On contemplating these masterpieces of art, which were so truly exquisite that the very coldest spectator was unable to resist their _almost magical_ influence, the vicious were reclaimed, and the ignorant stood abashed. Indeed, it has often been asserted, that the statues by Phidias and Praxiteles were so inimitably executed, that the people of Paros adored them as living gods. Those artists who performed such extraordinary wonders as these were held in an esteemed light, of which we cannot form the least idea. We are certain they were paid most enormous prices for their productions, and consequently could afford to adorn them with every beauty of art, and to bestow more time on them than can ever be expected from any modern artist.

As soon as the arts had arrived at their highest pitch of excellency in Greece, the country was laid waste by the invading power of the Romans. All the Greek cities which contained the greatest treasures were demolished, and all the pictures[5] and statues fell into the hands of the victorious general, who had them carefully preserved and conveyed from the land where they had been adored. Of the estimation in which these great works were held by the Romans, we may form some idea by the general assuring a soldier, to whose charge he gave a statue by Praxiteles, that if he broke it, he should get another as well made in its place. War is a very destructive enemy to painting and sculpture; the intestine quarrels which ensued after the Romans had conquered the country, rendered the exercise of the art impracticable.

The arts were neglected in Rome until the introduction of the popish religion. At that eventful era, statues and pictures were eagerly sought for; the admirable Grecian works were appropriated to purposes quite contrary to their pagan origin, for in many cases heathen deities were converted into apostles. The labours of Phidias, Myron, Praxiteles, Lysippus, and Scopas,[6] were highly valued by the Romans, who became the correct imitators, and in time the rivals, of those celebrated sculptors. G.W.N.

[5] The pictures alluded to were the works of Apelles, Apollodorus, and Protogenes.

[6] These sculptors, according to Pliny, were the most reputed among the ancients.

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SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

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LOVE'S VICTIM.[7]

She left her own warm home To tempt the frozen waste, What time the traveller fear'd to roam, And hunter shunn'd the blast, Love pour'd his strength into her soul-- Could peril e'er his power controul!

She left her own warm home. When stone, and herb, and tree, And all beneath heaven's lurid dome By wintry majesty, In his stern age, were clad with snow, And human hearts beat chill and slow.

It was a fearful hour For one so young and fair: The woods had not one sheltering bower, The earth was trackless there, The very boughs in silver slept, As the sea-foam had o'er them swept.

Snow after snow came down, The sky look'd fix'd in ice; She deem'd amid the season's power, Her love would all suffice To keep the source of being warm, And mock the terrors of the storm.

Love was her world of life. She thought but of her heart, And knowing that the winter's strife Could not its hope dispart, She dream'd not that its home of clay Might yield before the tempest's sway--

Or judged that passion's power-- Passion so strong and pure. Might mock the snow-flake's wildering shower, Proud that it could endure, As woman oft in times before Had peril borne as much or more.

She went--dawn past o'er dawn, None saw her face again, The eyes she should have gazed upon, Look'd for her face in vain-- The ear to which her voice was song, Her voice had sought--how vainly long!

There is in Saco's vale A gently swelling hill, Shadows have wrapt it like a veil From trees that mark it still, Around, the mountains towering blue Look on that spot of saddest hue.

'Twas by that little hill, At the dark noon of night, Close by a frozen snow-hid rill, Where branches close unite Even in winter's leafless time, The skeletons of summer's prime.