Part 1

Produced by Jonathan Ingram and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders

Transcriber's note: In "A Churchyard Scene" the word "iugrate" occurs in the original text. This was probably a typographical error, and the correct word was likely "ingrate."

THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. 10, No. 266.] SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1827. [PRICE 2d.

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CROYDON PALACE.

The palace of Croydon is a building of great antiquity, and was for several centuries the magnificent abode of the haughty dignitaries of Canterbury. At the period of the Conquest, Lanfranc resided here, and most of the decrees and audits of his successors were issued from, and held at, this palace. It was here that Archbishop Parker entertained his queen, Elizabeth and her august court, with great splendour and festivity; as also did the celebrated Whitgift, who refused to accept of the high office of lord chancellor. Courtney received his pall here with great solemnity and pomp in the presence of the chief nobility of the realm; and Chichley, Stafford, Laud, Juxon, Wake, and Herring, made it their frequent residence, and were liberal contributors to its architectural beauties. The remains of this interesting fabric are, with the exception of the hall, composed entirely of brick, occupying a considerable space on the south-west side of Croydon church, and are in some points peculiarly striking in local appearance; but on account of their unconnected state, with the intervening screens of garden walls, &c. the view is confined and partial.

The grand hall is a lofty imposing structure, and at a casual computation appears to contain an area of eight hundred square yards; between which and the cornice, at the height of about fifteen feet, a moulding or frieze is carried over the surface of each wall, from whence, resting their bases on angels bearing, shields variously blazoned, issue in the alternate spaces of twelve feet, five ligneous pillars, supporting immense beams traversing the intervening distances of the confronting sides. The roof is formed of large solid pieces of timber, running diagonally to a point; the upper compartment of which (springing from perpendicular posts), is ribbed so as to make it have the appearance of a polygonal ellipsis.

On the right of the southern entrance an escutcheon, surmounted by a canopy, is fixed at a considerable height from the pavement, and must have had formerly a splendid appearance, as faint traces even now of its original pomp are discernible in the faint glittering of the gilding, and the exquisite symmetry of its execution. The bearings appeared to me as--party per pall,--dexter division.--Sapphire a cross gules ensigned with fleur de lis between six martlets topaz.--Sinister--quarterly sapphire and ruby, first and third, three fleur de lis; topaz, second and fourth, three lions passant gardant of the same, supported by two angels, and surmounted by a coronet; the whole resting on an angel bearing a scroll with a motto in old English text, but illegible.[1]

[1] I should feel highly obliged if any of your valuable correspondents would favour me, through the medium of the MIRROR, with the name of the noble to whom the above arms appertained.

This hall is now occupied by a carpenter, and is almost filled with old furniture and timber; other parts of the building are appropriated for charity-schools, and the trade of bleaching is practised in its precincts.

SAGITTARIUS.

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FINE ARTS

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ENGLISH ACADEMIES FOR PAINTING ANTERIOR TO THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY IN LONDON.

The first attempt to form an academy for the encouragement of the fine arts in this country was made in Great Queen-street, in the year 1697. The laudable design was undertaken by Sir Godfrey Kneller, and by the most respectable artists of the day, who endeavoured to imitate the French Academy founded by Lewis XIV. Their undertaking, however, was wholly without success; jealousies arose among the members, and they were ultimately compelled to relinquish the project as fruitless. Sir James Thornhill, a few years afterwards, commenced an academy in a room he had built for the purpose at the back of his own residence, near Covent-garden theatre; but his attempt, likewise, proved abortive. Notwithstanding these failures, Mr. Vanderbank, a Dutchman, headed a body of artists, and converted an old Presbyterian meeting-house into an academy. Besides plaster figures, Mr. Vanderbank and his associates procured a living female figure for study, which circumstance tended to gain a few subscribers; but, in a very short space of time, for want of money sufficient to defray the necessary expenses, all the effects belonging to the establishment were seized for rent, and the members, in disgust, accordingly separated.

On the demise of Sir James Thornhill, in 1734, the celebrated William Hogarth became possessed of part of his property.[2] Although much averse to the principles on which academies were generally founded, Mr. Hogarth considered that one conducted wisely would probably be of great advantage to the public, as well as to the artists in general. He, therefore, proposed, that a body of artists should enter into a subscription for the purchase of a house sufficiently large and capacious to admit thirty or forty persons to draw from a naked figure. This proposition being unanimously agreed to, a place was forthwith taken in St. Martin's-lane; and Hogarth, to forward the undertaking as far as he could, lent them the furniture, &c. formerly belonging to Sir James Thornhill's academy.

[2] The remaining part was left to Lady Thornhill, who lived several years with her son-in-law after the death of Sir James.

The failure of all preceding attempts to form an academy was attributed by Mr. Hogarth to the principal members assuming too much authority over their brother artists; he, therefore, proposed, that every member should contribute an equal sum of money to the establishment, and should have an equal right to vote on every question relative to the society. He considered electing presidents, directors, and professors, to be a ridiculous imitation of the forms of the French Academy, and liable to create jealousies.[3] Under Hogarth's guidance, the Academy continued for thirty years, with little alteration, to the high satisfaction of its several members, and the public in general.

[3] Our Royal Academy is _now_ governed precisely on the same principles as is the French Academy. What would Hogarth have said, had he lived at the present day?

On ascending the British throne, George III. evinced so much interest for the arts, that most of the members of the academy (though contrary to the wishes of their leader, who possessed a most independent spirit,) solicited the royal patronage to a plan they had in view of establishing an academy for _painting, sculpture_, and _architecture_. The success of this appeal is too well known to English readers to need much comment. His majesty was pleased to appropriate those very splendid apartments in Somerset-house for the use of artists, who shortly formed a _new_ society, over which, by his majesty's special command, the great Sir Joshua Reynolds presided.

G.W.N.

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VOLCANOES.

(_For the Mirror_.)

To describe the awful grandeur and terrific phenomena of volcanic eruptions in an adequate manner, is perhaps beyond the power of language. The number of volcanoes now known is about four hundred; nearly all of them are situated a small distance from the sea, and many appear to have been burning from time immemorial.

A certain mixture of sulphur, steel-filings and water, buried a short depth from the ground, will exhibit a kind of miniature volcano; and hence some philosophers have concluded, that in the bowels of burning mountains there are various sorts of bodies which probably ferment by moisture, and being thus expanded, at last produce eruptions and explosions. The mouth or chimney of a burning mountain is, in many instances, upwards of a mile across! from which, in an eruption, are emitted torrents of smoke and flame, rivers of lava, (consisting chiefly of bitumen and melted metal,) and clouds of cinders, stones, &c. to an immense distance. The wonderful quantity of these materials thrown out from the orifice almost exceeds belief; the lava rushes like a fiery torrent at a very rapid pace,--ravages the labours of agriculture, overthrows houses, and in a few seconds utterly destroys the hopes of hundreds of families--the toils of hundreds of years. Nothing impedes its awful course; when interrupted by stone walls, or even rocks, it collects in a few moments to the height of eight or ten feet; its immense heat and violent pressure quickly batter down the obstacle, which is literally made rotten by the fire, and the whole mass seems to melt together into the lava, which again continues its progress until exhausted by the distance of its destructive march.

An English traveller, who was at Naples during the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, on the 10th of September, 1810, thus describes the scene:--

"Curious to witness the volcano as near as possible, I set out for Portici, where I arrived at eight in the evening; from thence to the summit of the mountain the road is long and difficult; having procured a guide about the middle of the distance, we had to climb a mountain of cinders, every step nearly knee-deep; this made it near midnight when we reached the crater, which we approached as near as the heat would permit. The fire of the mountain served us for a beacon, and we set light to our sticks in the lava, which slowly ran through the hollows of the crater. The surface of the inflamed matter nearly resembles metal in a state of fusion, but as it flows it carries a kind of scum, which gradually hardens into scoria and rolls like fire-balls to the bottom of the mountain. We thought ourselves pretty secure in this spot, and had no wish to retire; but shortly a most terrific explosion which launched to an inconceivable height in the air, immense fragments of burning rocks, &c. reminded us of our dangerous situation. We lost not a moment in retreating, and driven on by fear almost with miraculous speed, cleared in about five minutes, a space we had taken two hours to climb; we had hardly gained this spot when a second explosion more terrible, if possible, than the former was heard. The volcano in all its fury vomited forth some thousands of cart-loads of stones and burning lava. As the projection was nearly vertical, the greater part fell back again into the mouth of the mountain and this was again vomited forth as before. On the 11th and 12th, the fury somewhat abated, but on the 13th a fresh eruption commenced, and burning matter flowed down all the sides of the volcano;--all Vesuvius itself seemed on fire,--not a vestige of property for miles could be discovered, and thousands of families were ruined."

JACOBUS.

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A CHURCHYARD SCENE.

How sweet and solemn, all alone, With reverend steps, from stone to stone, In a small village churchyard lying, O'er intervening flowers to move! And as we read the names unknown Of young and old to judgment gone, And hear in the calm air above Time onwards softly flying, To meditate, in Christian love, Upon the dead and dying! Across the silence seem to go With dream-like motion, wavery, slow, And shrouded in their folds of snow, The friends we loved long, long ago! Gliding across the sad retreat, How beautiful their phantom feet! What tenderness is in their eyes, Turned where the poor survivor lies 'Mid monitory sanctities! What years of vanished joy are fanned From one uplifting of that hand In its white stillness! when the shade Doth glimmeringly in sunshine fade From our embrace, how dim appears This world's life through a mist of tears! Vain hopes! blind sorrows! needless fears!

Such is the scene around me now: A little churchyard on the brow Of a green pastoral hill; Its sylvan village sleeps below, And faintly here is heard the flow Of Woodburn's summer rill; A place where all things mournful meet, And yet the sweetest of the sweet, The stillest of the still! With what a pensive beauty fall Across the mossy, mouldering wall That rose-tree's clustered arches! See The robin-redbreast warily, Bright through the blossoms, leaves his nest: Sweet iugrate! through the winter blest At the firesides of men--but shy Through all the sunny summer-hours, He hides himself among the flowers In his own wild festivity. What lulling sound, and shadow cool Hangs half the darkened churchyard o'er, From thy green depths so beautiful Thou gorgeous sycamore! Oft hath the holy wine and bread Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent, Where many a bright and hoary head Bowed at that awful sacrament. Now all beneath the turf are laid On which they sat, and sang, and prayed. Above that consecrated tree Ascends the tapering spire, that seems To lift the soul up silently To heaven with all its dreams, While in the belfry, deep and low, From his heaved bosom's purple gleams The dove's continuous murmurs flow, A dirge-like song, half bliss, half woe, The voice so lonely seems!

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ANECDOTES AND RECOLLECTIONS

Notings, selections, Anecdote and joke: Our recollections; With gravities for graver folk.

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SHERIDAN.

It was at the strongly contested election for Westminster, when Sheridan was opposed by Sir Francis Burdett and Lord Cochrane, that the latter, in allusion to the orator's desire of ameliorating his situation on the poll by endeavouring to blend his cause with that of the baronet, characteristically observed, "that the right honourable gentleman sought to have his _little skiff_ taken _in tow_ by the _line of battle ship_ of Sir Francis." Sheridan, in whom the metaphor had awakened the remembrance of the remarkable and successful influence of his speech in the House of Commons on the occasion of the mutiny at the Nore, in calming the irritation of the rebels and reducing them to obedience, in reply to his lordship, bade him "to recollect that it was that _little skiff_ which once brought the whole navy of England safely into port."

The election drew towards its termination, but all the efforts of his friends had proved unavailing to secure Sheridan's return, although his minority was any thing but formidable. The interest that attended the contest had, at its close, become intense; and every spot, whence the candidates might be seen or heard, was crowded in the extreme. A sailor, anxious to acquire a view of the scene of action, after all his exertion to push his way through the crowd had proved fruitless, resorted to the nautical expedient of climbing one of the poles which supported a booth directly in front of the hustings, from the very top of which Jack was enabled to contemplate all that occurred below. As the orator commenced his speech, his eye fell on the elevated mariner, whom he had no sooner observed than he rendered his situation applicable to his own, by stating that "had he but other five hundred voters as _upright_ as the _perpendicular_ gentleman before him, they would yet place him where _he_ was--_at the head of the pole_."

Often were his addresses to his constituents interrupted by the tumult that arose from the anxiety of the public to get within hearing of him. A person, mounted on horseback, had penetrated to the very centre of the crowd, with more regard for himself than consideration towards others, as the animal he rode, affrighted by the noise, became equally annoying and dangerous to those by whom he was surrounded. The outcry was excessive, and, while some strove to appease the clamour, others urged Sheridan to proceed. "Gentlemen," replied he to the latter, "when the _chorus of the horse and his rider_ is finished, I shall commence."

His good humour was at no time disturbed during the election, although the observations of his noble Caledonian opponent manifested no amicable disposition towards the orator. As it terminated, a mutual friend of the rival candidates expressed a hope that, with the contest, all animosity should cease; and that the gallant officer should drown the memory of differences in a friendly bottle. "With all my heart," said Sheridan, "and will thank his lordship to make it _a Scotch pint_."

His treatment of Coleridge, the poet, who had submitted a tragedy to his managerial decision, was wholly unmerited by the author, the success of whose piece subsequently so well justified the better claims it had on Sheridan's attention. In the cavern scene, where the silence of the place is presumed to be only broken by the slow dropping of the water from its vault, Sheridan, in reading it to his friends, repeated the words of one of the characters, in a solemn tone, "Drip! drip! drip!" adding, "Why, here's nothing but _dripping_:" but the story is told by Coleridge himself, in the preface to his tragedy, with that good humour and frankness becoming one sensible of his powers, and conscious that the witty use of an unfortunate expression (were it such) could but little affect the real and numerous beauties of the production.

An author, whose comedies, when returned upon his hands, were generally reduced, by the critical amputation of managers, from the fair proportion of five acts to two, or even one, with the ordinary suggestion of "_necessary alteration_," &c. complained in wrath and bitterness to Sheridan, who, it is said, attempted to console him, by saying, "Why, my good fellow, what I would advise you is, to present a comedy of a _score_ of acts, and the devil will be in it if _five_ be not saved."

I have heard it said, that, at the first performance of _The Critic_, Sheridan had adopted, as the representative of Lord Burleigh, an actor whose "looks profound" accorded with his "ignorance;" but who, until then, had only aspired to the livery of the theatre--the placing of chairs, or the presentation of a letter; yet who, in this humble display of histrionic art, generally contrived to commit some egregious blunder. He was remonstrated with, on his choice, by one of the performers, who demonstrated the excessive dulness of apprehension of _the would-be Minister of State_; and, like other and recent instances in that capacity, his singular aptitude to error, however simple the part he had to enact, or clear and concise the instructions with which it might be accompanied. As Sheridan had planned the character, the face was every thing, and the lengthened, dull, and inexpressive visage of the subject was too _strictly ministerial_ to be lost; and the author would, as he said, "defy him to go wrong," Still his friend was sceptical; nor were his doubts removed by Sheridan's assuring him that the representative of Lord Burleigh "would have only to look wise, shake his head, and hold his tongue;" and he so far persisted as to lay a bet with the author that some capital blunder would nevertheless occur. The wager was accepted, and, in the fulness of his confidence, Sheridan insisted that the actor should not even rehearse the part, and yet that he should get through with it satisfactorily to the public and himself on the night of the first performance. It came. The arbiter of hopes and fears appeared in all the "bearded majesty" of the age of Elizabeth; and, flattered by the preference of the great author, had carefully conned over the following instructions:--"Mr. ----, as Lord Burleigh, will advance from the prompter's side;--proceed to the front of the stage;--fall back to where Mr. G---- stands as Sir Christopher Hatton,--shake his head and exit." The important moment came. With "stately step and slow," Lord Burleigh advanced in face of the audience. "Capital!" exclaimed the gratified author;--with equal correctness he retreated to the side of Sir Christopher, without _literally falling back_, which Sheridan had for a moment doubted might be the case. "Good! a lucky escape though." half faltered the anxious poet. "Now! now!" he continued, with eager delight at having got so far so well; but, what was his horror, when his unlucky pupil, instead of shaking his _own_ blundering head, in strict but unfortunate interpretation of his orders, took _that_ of Sir Christopher within his hands, shook it long and manfully, and then walked off with a look of exultation at having so exactly complied with his lesson.--_New Monthly Magazine_.

WONDERFUL PECULIARITY IN THE ENGLISH CHARACTER!

The French, however wretched may be their condition, are attached to life, while the English frequently detest life in the midst of affluence and splendour. English criminals are not dragged, but run to the place of execution, where they laugh, sing, cut jokes, insult the spectators; _and if no hangman happens to be present, frequently hang themselves_.--_Memoirs of Lewis Holberg_.

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STANZAS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "FIELD FLOWERS," &C.

(_For the Mirror_.)

I smiled, for not a cloud was seen o'er the blue heaven's expanse, As summer's myriad insect tribe led on the winged dance; The gaudy butterfly was there ranging from flower to flower, And by its side the wild bee humm'd amid the woodbine bower.

I sighed, for when I looked again the sky was overcast, The summer insect's winged dance was o'er, yet on I past, The gaudy butterfly was gone, the bee away had fled, While on each fairest, brightest flower the wasteful locust fed.

Yet e'en this simple scene to youth a moral shall convey, Since thus full oft misfortune's clouds obscure life's summer ray; To-day we smile, for beauty smiles in all her spring-tide bloom-- To-morrow sigh, for beauty's bower has now become her tomb!

H. B.

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SELECT BIOGRAPHY.

No. LVI.

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GILBERT BURNS.

Gilbert Burns was born about the year 1760. He was eighteen months younger than his brother Robert, Scotland's most gifted bard. With him he was early inured to toil, and rendered familiar with the hardships of the peasant's lot; like him, too, he was much subject to occasional depression of spirits, and from whatever cause, he had contracted a similar bend or stoop in the shoulders; his frame, like that of Robert, was cast in a manly and symmetrical mould. The profile of his countenance resembled that of his brother, and their phrenological developments are said to have been not dissimilar; the principal disparity lay in the form and expression of the eye, which in Gilbert was fixed, sagacious, and steady--in Robert, almost "in a fine frenzy rolling."

Gibert Burns was the archetype of his father, a very remarkable man; his piety was equally warm and sincere; and, in all the private relations of life, as an elder of the church, a husband, a father, a master, and a friend, he was preeminent. His writings want that variety, originality, and ease, which shine so conspicuously even in the prose works of the poet; but they have many redeeming points about them. His taste was as pure as his judgment was masculine. He has been heard to say, that the two most pleasurable moments of his life were--first, when he read Mackenzie's story of La Roche, and secondly, when Robert took him apart, at the breakfast or dinner hour, during harvest, and read to him, while seated on a barley sheaf, his MS. copy of the far-famed Cotter's "Saturday Night."