Part 2

I was gazetted, tried on my uniform before the mirror, entirely approved of my appearance, and wrote my last letter to my last flirt. The Portsmouth mail was to start at eight. I had an hour to spare, and sallied into the street. I met an honest-faced old acquaintance as much at a loss as myself to slay the hour. We were driven by a shower into shelter. The rattle of dice was heard within a green-baize-covered door. We could not stay for ever shivering on the outside. Fortune favoured me; in half an hour I was master of a thousand pounds; it would have been obvious folly and ingratitude to check the torrent of success for the paltry prospects of an ensigncy. I played on, and won on. The clock struck eight. I will own that I trembled as the first sound caught my ear. But whether nervous or not, from that instant the torrent was checked. The loss and gain became alternate. Wine was brought in; I played in furious scorn of consequences. I saw the board covered with gold. I swept it into my stake; I soon saw my stake reduced to nothing. My eyes were dazzled, my hand shook, my brain was on fire, I sang, danced, roared with exultation or despair. How the night closed, I know not; but I found myself at last in a narrow room, surrounded with squalidness, its only light from a high-barred window, and its only furniture the wooden tressel on which I lay, fierce, weary, and feverish, as if I lay on the rack. From this couch of the desperate, I was carried into the presence of a magistrate, to hear that in the _mélée_ of the night before, I had in my rage charged my honest-faced acquaintance with palpable cheating; and having made good my charge by shewing the loaded dice in his hand, had knocked him down with a violence that made his recovery more than doubtful. He had seen my name in the Gazette, and had watched me for the express purpose of final plunder. The wretch died. I was brought to trial, found guilty of manslaughter, and sentenced to seven years' expatriation. Fortunate sentence! On my arrival in New South Wales, as I was found a perfect gentleman, and fit for nothing, there was no resource but to make me try the labour of my hands. Fortunate labour! From six at morning till six at night, I had the spade or the plough in my hands. I dragged carts, I delved rocks, I hewed trees; I had not a moment to spare. The appetite that once grew languid over venison, now felt the exquisite delight of junk beef. The thirst that scorned champagne was now enraptured with spring water. The sleep that had left me many a night tossing within-side the curtains of a hundred-and-fifty-guinea Parisian bed, now came on the roughest piece of turf, and made the planks of my cabin softer than down. I can now run as fast as one of my Newmarket stud, pull down a buffalo, and catch a kangaroo by the tail in fair field. Health, vigour, appetite, and activity, are my superabundance now. I have every thing but time. My banishment expires to-morrow; but I shall never recross the sea. This is my country. Since I set my foot upon its shore I have never had a moment to yawn. In this land of real and substantial life, the spectre that haunted my joyless days dares not be seen--the "hour too many" is no more.

_The Forget-Me-Not_.

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MANNERS & CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS.

(_For the Mirror_.)

SELLING MEAT AMONG THE ANCIENT ROMANS, &c.

It was the custom for the buyer to shut his eyes, and the seller to hold up some of his fingers; if the buyer guessed aright, how many it was the other held up, he was to fix the price; if he mistook, the seller was to fix it. These classic _blind-bargains_ would not suit the Londonbutchers. This custom was abolished by Apronius, the prefect of Rome; who in lieu thereof, introduced the method of selling by weight. Among the ancient Romans there were three kinds of established butchers, viz. two colleges or companies, composed each of a certain number of citizens, whose office was to furnish the city with the necessary cattle, and to take care of preparing and vending their flesh. One of these communities was at first confined to the providing of hogs, whence they were called _suarii_; and the other two were charged with cattle, especially oxen, whence they were called _pecuarii_, or _boarii_. Under each of these was a subordinate class, whose office was to kill, prepare, &c. called _lanii_, and sometimes _carnifices_.

Two English poets (Swift and Gay) have been rather severe towards the London butchers, the former says,--

"Hence he learnt the _Butcher's_ guile, How to cut your throat, and smile; Like a _butcher_ doom'd for life, In his mouth to wear his knife."

The latter,--

----"resign the way, To shun the surly _butcher's_ greasy tray: _Butchers_, whose hands are died with blood's foul stain, And always foremost in the hangman's train."

The butchers' company was not incorporated until the 3rd year of King James I. when they were made a _Corporation_, by the name of master, wardens and commonalty of the art and mystery of butchers; yet the fraternity is ancient.

Stowe says, "In the 3rd of Richard II. motion was made that no butcher should kill any flesh within London, but at Knightsbridge, or such like distant place from the walls of the citie."

P.T.W.

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STUMBLING AT THE THRESHOLD.

The phrase, "to stumble at the threshold," originated in the circumstance, that the old thresholds, or steps under the door, were like the hearths, raised a little, so that a person might stumble over them, unless proper care were taken. A very whimsical reason for this practice is given in a curious little tract by Sir Balthazar Gerbier, entitled, "Council and Advice to all Builders," 1663, in these words:--"A good surveyor shuns also the ordering of doores with stumbling thresholds, though our forefathers affected them, perchance to perpetuate the antient custome of bridegroomes, when formerly at their return from church they did use to lift up their bride, and to knock her head against that of the doore, for a remembrance that she was not to pass the threshold of her house without leave."

W.G.C.

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CHINESE PHYSICIANS.

The charitable dispensation of medicines by the Chinese, is well deserving notice. They have a stone which is ten cubits high, erected in the public squares of their cities; whereon is engraved the name of all sorts of medicines, with the price of each, and when the poor stand in need of relief from physic, they go to the treasury to receive the price each medicine is rated at.

The physicians of China have only to feel the arm of their patient in three places, and to observe the rate of the pulse, to form an opinion on the cause, nature, danger, and duration of the malady. Without the patient speaking at all, they can tell infallibly what part is attacked with disease, whether the brain, the heart, the liver, the lungs, the intestines, the stomach, the flesh, the bones, and so on. As they are both physicians and apothecaries, and prepare their own medicines, they are paid only when they effect a cure. If the same rule were introduced with us, I fear we should have fewer physicians.

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THE TOPOGRAPHER

BOX HILL.

(_For the Mirror_.)

This celebrated eminence is situated in the north range of chalk hills, beginning near Farnham, in Surrey, and extending from thence to Folkstone, in Kent. Camden calls it _White Hill_, from its chalky soil; but Box Hill is its true and ancient name. The box-tree is, in all probability, the natural produce of the soil; but a generally received story is, that the box was planted there by Thomas, Earl of Arundel, between two and three centuries ago. There is, however, authentic evidence of its being here long before his time, for Henry de Buxeto (i.e. Henry of Box Hill) and Adam de Buxeto were witnesses to deeds in the reign of King John.

John Evelyn, who wrote about the middle of the seventeenth century, says, "Box-trees rise naturally at Kent in Bexley; and in Surrey, giving name to Box Hill. He that in winter should behold some of our highest hills in Surrey, clad with whole woods of them, might easily fancy himself transported into some new or enchanted country."

In Aubrey's posthumous work on Surrey, published in 1718, the northern part of the hill is described as thickly covered with yew-trees, and the southern part with "thick boscages of box-trees," which "yielded a convenient privacy for lovers, who frequently meet here, so that it is an English Daphne." He also tells us that the gentry often resorted here from Ebbesham (_Epsom_), then in high fashion. Philip Luckombe, in his "England's Gazetteer," says, on Box Hill "there is a large warren, but no houses; only arbours cut out in the box-wood on the top of the hill, where are sold refreshments of all sorts, for the ladies and gentlemen who come hither to divert themselves in its labyrinths; for which reason a certain author has thought fit to call it the Palace of Venus, and the Temple of Nature; there being an enchanting prospect from it of a fine country, which is scarce to be equalled for affording so surprising and magnificent an idea both of earth and sky."

But these delightful retreats, like Arcadia of old, have long since vanished. The _yews_ were cut down in the year 1780; and their successors fall very short of the luxuriant descriptions of old topographers. The _box_ has also at various times produced the proprietors of the estate great profit. In 1608, the receipt for box-trees cut down upon the sheepwalk on the hill was 50_l_.; in an account taken in 1712, it is supposed that as much had been cut down, within a few years before, as amounted to 3,000_l_.; and in 1759, a Mr. Miller lamented that "the trees on Box Hill had been pretty much destroyed; though many remained of considerable bigness."

An immense quantity of box is annually consumed in this country, in the revived art of engraving on wood. The English is esteemed inferior to that which comes from the Levant; and the American box is said to be preferable to ours. But the ships from the Levant brought such quantities of it in ballast, that the wood on Box Hill could not find a purchaser, and not having been cut for sixty-five years, was growing cankered. The war diminished the influx from the Mediterranean; several purchasers offered; and in 1795 it was put up to auction at 12,000_l_. The depredations made on Box Hill, in consequence of this sale, did not injure its picturesque beauty, as twelve years were allowed for cutting, which gave each portion a reasonable time to renew. In 1802, forty tons were cut, but the market being overstocked, it fell in value more than fifty per cent.; and the foreign wood is now universally preferred for engravings. The trees on Box Hill are, however, again flourishing, although their value is rather problematical.

For the information of the home tourist, perhaps, I ought to mention that Box Hill stands about 22 miles on the left of the road from London to Worthing, Brighton, and Bognor, and about 2 miles N.E. of the town of Dorking. The road from Leatherhead hence is a constant succession of hill and dale, richly clothed with wood, interspersed with elegant villas in all tastes--from the pillared and plastered mansion, to the borrowed charm of the _cottage orne_. The whole of this district is called the Vale of _Norbury_, from the romantic domain of that name, which extends over a great portion of the hills on the right of the road. Shortly before you reach Box Hill, stands _Mickleham_, a little village with an ivy-mantled church, rich in Saxon architecture and other antiquities. You then descend into a valley, passing some delightful meadow scenery, and the showy mansion of Sir Lucas Pepys, which rises from a flourishing plantation on the left. In the valley stands Juniper Hall, late the seat of Mr. Thomas Broadwood, the piano-forte manufacturer. In the park are some of the finest cedars in England. On again ascending, you catch a fine view of Box Hill, and the amphitheatrical range of opposite hills, with one of the most magnificent _parterres_ in nature. This is called, by old writers, the _Garden of Surrey_.

You pass some flint-built cottages, and quitting the road here, the ascent to Box Hill is gradual and untiring, across a field of little slopes, studded with a few yew-trees, relics of by-gone days. The ascent further down the road almost amounts to a feat, assisted by the foot-worn paces in the chalky steep. Here this portion of the hill resembles an immense wall of _viretum_, down whose side has been poured liquid mortar. The path winds along the verge of the hill, whilst on the left is a valley or little ravine, whose sides are clothed with thick dwarfish box, intermingled with the wild and trackless luxuriance of forest scenery. Hence the road stretches away to Ashurst, the neat residence of Mr. Strahan, the King's printer.

Returning to the verge of the hill, you soon reach the _apex_, or highest point, being 445 feet from the level of the Mole.[1] Here you enjoy what the French call a _coup d'oeil_, or I would rather say, _a bird's-eye view_, of unparalleled beauty. Taking the town of Dorking for a resting point, the long belt is about twelve miles in extent. The outline or boundary commences from the eminence on which I am supposed to be standing--with Brockham Hill, whose steep was planted by the late duke of Norfolk, and whence the chain extends away towards the great Brighton road. Next in the curve are Betchworth Castle and Park, with majestic avenues of limes and elms, and fine old chestnut-trees. Adjoining, is the Deepdene, the classical seat of the author of "Anastasius," a place, says Salmon, "well calculated for the religious rites of the Celts," and consecrated by the philosophical pursuits of the Hon. Charles Howard, who built an oratory and laboratory, and died here in 1714. Next are several fir-crowned ridges, which shelter Bury Hill, the mansion of Mr. Barclay, the opulent brewer; whence you ascend the opposite line of hills, till you reach Denbies, nearly facing the most prominent point of Box Hill. This elegant seat is the abode of Mr. Denison, one of the county members, and brother of the Marchioness of Conyngham. The second range or ledge, beneath Denbies, is the celebrated Dorking lime-works. The transition to the Norbury Hills, already mentioned, is now very short, which completes the outline of the view. It should, however, be remarked that the scenery within this range can be distinctly enjoyed without the aid of art; whilst beyond it the prospect extends, and fades away in the South Downs on one hand, and beyond the metropolis on the other.

The little _parterre_ to be described, includes the sheltered town of Dorking, environed with rich lawny slopes, variegated with villas in the last taste; and little heights, from whose clustering foliage peeps the cottage roof of humble life. But the Paradise immediately at the foot of Box Hill is the gem of the whole scene, and is one of the most perfect pictures of rural beauty which pen or pencil can attempt. It appears like an assemblage of every rural charm in a few acres, in whose disposal nature has done much, and art but little. Park, lawn, woody walk, slope, wilderness and dell are among its varieties; and its quiet is only broken by the sluggish stream of the Mole. Adjoining is a little inn, more like one of the picturesque _auberges_ of the continent than an English house of cheer. The grounds are ornamented with rustic alcoves, boscages, and a bowery walk, all in good taste. Here hundreds of tourists pass a portion of "the season," as in a "loop-hole of retreat." In the front of the inn, however, the stream of life glides fast; and a little past it, the road crosses the Mole by Burford Bridge, and winds with geometrical accuracy through the whole of this hasty sketch.

PHILO.

[1] Here is a stump of wood which denotes the grave of Major Labelliere, a deranged officer of the Marines, who, by his own request was buried on this spot, with his head downwards; it being a constant assertion with him, "that the world was turned topsy-turvy, and, therefore, at the end he should be right."

From this point may be seen _Leith Hill_, with an old prospect tower, within which are interred the remains of another eccentric gentleman who died in the neighbourhood. In the road from Dorking thence is _Wotton_, the family seat of the Evelyns.

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NOTES OF A READER

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER AND OTHER POEMS.

We usually leave criticism to the _grey-beards_, or such as have passed the _viginti annorum lucubrationes_ of reviewing. It kindles so many little heart-burnings and jealousies, that we rejoice it is not part of our duty. To be sure, we sometimes take up a book in real earnest, read it through, and have _our say_ upon its merits; but this is only a gratuitous and occasional freak, just to keep up our oracular consequence. In the present case, we do not feel disposed to exercise this privilege, further than in a very few words--merely to say that Mr. Robert Montgomery has published a volume of Poems under the above title--that the poems are of unequal merit, and that like Virgil, his excellence lies in describing scenes of darkness.

The "Universal Prayer" is a devotional outpouring of a truly poetical soul, with as much new imagery as the subject would admit; and if _scriptural_ poems be estimated in the ratio of _scriptural_ sermons, the merit of the former is of the first order.[2]

From the other poems we have detached the following beautiful specimens:--

CONSUMPTION.

With step as noiseless as the summer air, Who comes in beautiful decay?--her eyes Dissolving with a feverish glow of light, Her nostrils delicately closed, and on Her cheek a rosy tint, as if the tip Of Beauty's finger faintly press'd it there,-- Alas! Consumption is her name. Thou loved and loving one! From the dark languish of thy liquid eye, So exquisitely rounded, darts a ray Of truth, prophetic of thine early doom; And on thy placid cheek there is a print Of death,--the beauty of consumption there. Few note that fatal bloom; for bless'd by all, Thou movest through thy noiseless sphere, the life, Of one,--the darling of a thousand hearts. Yet in the chamber, o'er some graceful task When delicately bending, oft unseen, Thy mother marks then with that musing glance That looks through cunning time, and sees thee stretch'd A shade of being, shrouded for the tomb. The Day is come, led gently on by Death; With pillow'd head all gracefully reclined, And grape-like curls in languid clusters wreath'd, Within a cottage room she sits to die; Where from the window, in a western view, Majestic ocean rolls.--A summer eve Shines o'er the earth, and all the glowing air Stirs faintly, like a pulse; against the shore The waves unrol them with luxurious joy, While o'er the midway deep she looks, where like A sea god glares the everlasting Sun O'er troops of billows marching in his beam!-- From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, her eyes Are lifted, bright with wonder and with awe, Till through each vein reanimation rolls! 'Tis past; and now her filmy glance is fix'd Upon the heavens, as though her spirit gazed On that immortal world, to which 'tis bound: The sun hath sunk.--her soul hath fled without A pang, and left her lovely in her death, And beautiful as an embodied dream.

MORTALITY.

All that we love and feel on Nature's face, Bear dim relations to our common doom. The clouds that blush, and die a beamy death, Or weep themselves away in rain,--the streams That flow along in dying music,--leaves That fade, and drop into the frosty arms Of Winter, there to mingle with dead flowers,-- Are all prophetic of our own decay.

BEAUTY

How oft, as unregarded on a throng Of lovely creatures, in whose liquid eyes The heart-warm feelings bathe, I've look'd With all a Poet's passion, and have wish'd That years might never pluck their graceful smiles-- How often Death, as with a viewless wand, Has touch'd the scene, and witch'd it to a tomb! Where Beauty dwindled to a ghastly wreck, And spirits of the Future seem'd to cry,-- Thus will it be when Time has wreak'd revenge.

MELANCHOLY.

When mantled with the melancholy glow Of eve, she wander'd oft: and when the wind, Like a stray infant down autumnal dales Roam'd wailingly, she loved to mourn and muse: To commune with the lonely orphan flowers, And through sweet Nature's ruin trace her own.

VISION OF HEAVEN.

An empyrean infinitely vast And irridescent, roof'd with rainbows, whose Transparent gleams like water-shadows shone, Before me lay: Beneath this dazzling vault-- I felt, but cannot paint the splendour there! Glory, beyond the wonder of the heart To dream, around interminably blazed. A spread of fields more beautiful than skies Flush'd with the flowery radiance of the west; Valleys in greenest glory, deck'd with trees That trembled music to the ambrosial airs That chanted round them,--vein'd with glossy streams, That gush'd, like feelings from a raptured soul: Such was the scenery;--with garden walks, Delight of angels and the blest, where flowers Perennial bloom, and leaping fountains breathe, Like melted gems, a gleaming mist around! Here fruits for ever ripe, on radiant boughs, Droop temptingly; here all that eye and heart Enrapts, in pure perfection is enjoy'd; And here o'er flowing paths with agate paved, Immortal Shapes meander and commune. While with permissive gaze I glanced the scene, A whelming tide of rich-toned music roll'd, Waking delicious echoes, as it wound From Melody's divinest fount! All heaven Glow'd bright, as, like a viewless river, swell'd The deepening music!--Silence came again! And where I gazed, a shrine of cloudy fire Flamed redly awful; round it Thunder walk'd, And from it Lightning look'd out most sublime! Here throned in unimaginable bliss And glory, sits The One Eternal Power, Creator, Lord, and Life of All: Again, Stillness ethereal reign'd, and forth appear'd Elysian creatures robed in fleecy light, Together flocking from celestial haunts, And mansions of purpureal mould; the Host Of heaven assembled to adore with harp And hymn, the First and Last, the Living God; They knelt,--a universal choir, and glow'd More beauteous while they breathed the chant divine, And Hallelujah! Hallelujah! peal'd, And thrill'd the concave with harmonious joy.

VISION OF HELL.

Apart, upon a throne of living fire The Fiend was seated; in his eye there shone The look that dared Omnipotence; the light Of sateless vengeance, and sublime despair.-- He sat amid a burning world, and saw Tormented myriads, whose blaspheming shrieks Were mingled with the howl of hidden floods, And Acherontine groans; of all the host, The only dauntless he. As o'er the wild He glanced, the pride of agony endured Awoke, and writhed through all his giant frame, That redden'd, and dilated, like a sun! Till moved by some remember'd bliss, or joy Of paradisal hours, or to supply The cravings of infernal wrath,--he bade The roar of Hell be hush'd,--and silence was! He called the cursed,--and they flash'd from cave And wild--from dungeon and from den they came, And stood an unimaginable mass Of spirits, agonized with burning pangs: In silence stood they, while the Demon gazed On all, and communed with departed Time, From whence his vengeance such a harvest reap'd.

BEAUTIFUL INFLUENCES.