Part 2

[4] We feel as if it were a species of treason to record the fact, that, within the wide range of the British islands, _there is only one observatory, and scarcely one, supported by the government_! We say scarcely one, because we believe that some of the instruments in the observatory of Greenwich were purchased out of the private funds of the Royal Society of London. The observatories of Oxford, Cambridge, Dublin, Edinburgh (except a grant of 2,000_l_.), Armagh, and Glasgow, are all private establishments, to the support of which government contributes nothing. The consequence of this is, that many of them are in a state of comparative inactivity; and none of them, but that of Dublin, have acquired any celebrity in the astronomical world. Such, indeed, was the state of practical astronomy in Scotland, that within these few years, a Danish vessel, which arrived at Leith, could not obtain, even in Edinburgh, the time of the day for the purpose of setting its chronometers.--_Q. Rev._

Of course, our correspondent does not impeach the talent of HERSCHEL; but it is lamentable to reflect that no attempt has been made to repeat or extend the labours of that indefatigable astronomer.--ED.

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THE KELPIE.

A SCOTTISH LEGEND.

(_For the Mirror_.)

"Kelpie's a river demon or a god," Thus say the lexicons; I'll not belie 'em, For though I mind not in the least the nod Of these same critics, still I'll not defy 'em; But that you may know more of this same god, (Though I can't sing as Homer sung of Priam,) I'll write a very pretty little poem, Of which this present stanza's but the proem.

But to begin, for though 'tis rather long, My poem I'll comprise into twelve stanzas, Or fourteen at the furthest, if my song Don't run to twenty--I'll offend no man, sirs, If I can help it. So now I'm along The road, and beg you'll notice these two lancers, Who, on the backs of horses full of mettle Hold a dispute, which we'll leave them to settle,

While you go with me, reader, kind and good, To a small tributary stream from Tweed, Which, if you don't know, as I'm in the mood, I'll do my best to teach you, if you'll read; I'll introduce you to the stream Glenrude-- This name will do--'twas in a glen--indeed, 'Twas not its proper name--'twill do quite well, Why I choose so to call it I shan't tell,

But still it was a very pretty river, Or rather stream, as ever could be seen-- If not so wide as the great Guadalquiver, Its banks were nearly always clothed in green, (Save when in winter the winds made you shiver,) While the waves, bickering so bright and sheen, Put you in mind of Avon, Rhine, or Hellespont, Or any other stream to admire you're wont.

And round about the stream there were huge hillocks, And firs and mountains, houses too and farms; A maid lay on the grass--her light and fair locks Were gently wound around her folded arms, While softly grazing near there stood a huge ox, And o'er her head an old oak threw its arms. She was asleep, when, lo! the sound of horses' Feet woke her, and, behold, she saw two corses.

At least she thought so--but at last thought better 'Twould be for her to get up and go home; She got up quickly, and would soon have made her Way home, but that the men who had just come Spurr'd past her, and alighted when they met her, While she with her surprise was almost dumb; But soon spoke she, and bade them both disclose Their names--to which one said, "I'm Richard Groze."

The next spoke not at first, but soon replied, "Pray wherefore are you so surprised, my dear? And wherefore, likewise, have you not complied With my request, which I have sent in near Some good score letters? which you did deride, When they were forwarded by this man here." He pointed then to Groze, and then he sighed, "My dear, dear Jeannie, will you be my bride?"

The which words when our Jeannie heard, she stared, And said, "What do you mean, John Fitzadree? You talk of letters, but of them the laird Has never brought a single one to me; But when I've seen him I have never cared How soon he went, for he told me that ye Were either dead or faithless--so he said I'd better wed the live, than mourn the dead.

"And then he promis'd I should have six horses, Besides a coach, if I would be his bride; But I refus'd--and he swore all his crosses Should soon be o'er, and something else beside And that's the reason why I thought ye corses, When o'er the green this way I saw ye ride. But now I see you've both served in the Lancers, Though on my word you look much more like dancers."

To which John answer'd, "Oh, the filthy fellow, I gave him letters to you, which he said He would deliver, were you ill or well. Oh! How I should like to knock him on the head, And would, but that would show I was quite mellow-- Besides, I see the coward has just fled, Has ta'en to horse, and got across the ford-- Hang him, that I should with him be so bored!"

But Jeannie said, "John, thou shall do no murder." To which he answer'd, "I will not do so;" Then bounded off as though he had not heard her, And reached a fording-place, but not so low As where Groze cross'd, and who had now got further Than John would have thought possible, although He'd a good-horse, and nearly half an hour In start--but now the clouds began to lower.

Now Fitzadree's good charger was all mettle, And soon won to the middle of the stream-- But then the sky grew black as a tea kettle; It rained, too, quite as fast as ever steam Rose. But the thing which did at last unsettle The balance of John's steed, was what you'll deem A being that was nearly supernatural-- But here the waves John's clothes began to spatter all.

A form rose up from out the waves' abyss-- A monstrous little man with a black hide, Scarce four feet high, yet he was not remiss, But dash'd the waves about--and then he cried, With a demoniac laugh, or rather hiss, "Die, mortal, die!" and John sank down and died, The which, when Jeannie saw, she only sigh'd, "I come, my John, I come, to be thy bride."

The figure was the Kelpie--that she knew, And madly she rush'd on towards the shore; The Kelpie roar'd, "Come, mortal, come thou too." Ere he'd done speaking, Jeannie was no more; She'd dash'd into the waves, and left no clue, More than a steamer leaves just left the Nore, By which you might discover where she lay, And drag her upwards to the realms of day.

But what befel the cause of all these woes? That's what I never heard, so cannot tell; But this I know, that this same Richard Groze Return'd no more to bonnie Scotland. Well, I only hope he may in bed repose, And that he may at last escape from hell. And this I know, that if you do not smother This poem, when I choose I'll write another. J.S.

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SUGAR AND WATER CRITICISM.

In one of the critiques on the last _Monthly Magazine_, some verses by Mrs. Hemans are said to be "elegant and lady-like."

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THE SKETCH BOOK

A DAY AT ST. CLOUD.

_September_ 24, 1826.

I walked up gravely to the window in my dusty black coat, and looking through the glass, saw all the world in yellow, blue, and green, running at the ring of pleasure.--STERNE.

St. Cloud is the Richmond of France; or rather, it is to Paris what Richmond, in the days of its regal splendour, was to London--the summer palace of the court. In this comparison, allowance must be made for the opposite building taste of each nation; especially as Richmond has an appearance of substantial comfort in its massive brick mansions and rusticated cottage groups. The French _Sheen_ is, on the contrary, gayer; the exterior of the residences being whitened, or what is still more artificial, coloured and decorated in tawdry French taste. Such, at least, is the character of the _auberges_, or inns, and _restaurateurs_, with which St. Cloud is even better supplied than our Richmond. In situation, however, they strongly assimilate; the former being placed on an acclivity overlooking the Seine, as the latter is on the banks of the Thames.

St. Cloud, as I have already said, is the usual summer residence of the French court; and with a royal liberality which might be less politic elsewhere, the park is granted for three fairs--September 7, and the three following Sundays, on the last of which I resolved to visit the fête of St. Cloud. It was a glowing September day. The sun shone with more than mellow warmth through the groves of the Tuilleries, and on the little southern terrace, which was unusually crowded with groups of rosy children, with here and there a valetudinarian, who seemed to have emerged from his chamber to enjoy the parting glories of the season. Crowds of elegantly-dressed company were promenading the mall, or principal walk, and some few were not incuriously lingering about the enclosed parterres of the garden, whose beauties would soon be transported to a milder atmosphere. There was a general stir in the neighbouring streets; it did not resemble the bustle of business, but had more of the gaiety of a holiday scene. The _Pont Royal_ was thronged with passengers, and just beneath it, were several hundreds, many of whom were embarking in the steam-boat for St. Cloud. But the Seine is at all times less inviting for such an excursion than our Thames; and in the summer months many insulated spots may be seen in the centre of the French river. At the next bridge (Louis XVI.) there was a general muster of carriages, each adapted for six or eight passengers, and drawn by one or two horses. Here was a loud clamour of "St. Cloud" and "Versailles" among the drivers, some of whom were even more officious than the Jehus of Greenwich, or the wights of Charing Cross or Piccadilly. I resisted all their importunities, and passed on through the _Champs Elysées_, or a dusty road through a grove, intersected with ill-formed paths, with a few gaudy cafés bearing pompous inscriptions--for Voltaire has made the French too fond of nomenclature to say with our Shakspeare, "what's in a name?" The road presented a strange specimen of the insubordination of French driving, notwithstanding police superintendants affected much concern in the matter. Diligences, fiacres, and carriages resembling large, covered cabriolets, might be seen loaded with gaily-dressed women and children, with a due proportion of young Parisians, all just in the hey-day of mirth, drawn by dust-provoking Flanders horses, their drivers slashing almost indiscriminately, and, with their clamour and confusion, far exceeding the Epsom road on a raceday.

At length, escaping from the dust and din of the French Elysium, I halted to enjoy the distant view of the city of Paris, from the gate of the barrier. It was indeed an interesting scene. Through the avenue, whose area presented a living stream of traffic, might be seen the terraces and groves of the Tuilleries, and the spacious and irregular palace, with its cupola tops; the tarnished dome of the Invalides; the cupola of St. Genevieve; the gray towers of Nôtre Dame; then the winding Seine, with its bridges, quays, and terraces, flanked with the long line of the Tuilleries, and the Luxembourg, and Louvre galleries, on the one side; and on the other by the noble façade of the Chamber of Deputies; the courtly mansions of St. Germain, and the blackened front and dome of the Institute. What a multitude of associations flitted across the memory, by a single glance at PARIS--the capital of that gay, light-hearted, and mercurial people--the French nation--the focus of European luxury, and the grand political arena of modern history, the very calendar of whose events, within the last half century, will form one of the most interesting episodes that ever glowed among the records of human character. In the chain might be traced the vain-glory of conquest linked with defeated ambition, and the sullied splendour of royalty just breaking through the clouds of discontent, and slowly dispelling the mists of disaffection and political prejudice. What an unenviable contrast to the man who has "no enemy but wind and rough weather." The same objects that prompted these discordant reflections gave rise to others of the most opposite character; and within the walls, where treaties, abdications, and warrants, by turns, settled and resettled, exiled and condemned--were the store-houses of art, with all her proud and peaceful labours of sculpture, painting, and architecture, through galleries and saloons, on whose contents the chisel and the pencil had lingered many a life, and reduced the compass of its fond designs to the cubits of a statue, the fame of a picture, or the glory of a pillar or ceiling--such are the frail elements of human art.

The road now began to exhibit the usual appearance of an approach to a country fête or fair. Scores of pedestrians, overcome with the heat and dust of the day, might be seen at the little boxes or shops of the _traiteurs_, or cooks, and at the houses of the _marchands de vin et de la biacre_; these by their anticipated anxiety caused the line from Paris to St. Cloud to resemble a road-side fair. Cheerfulness and vivacity were upper-most in the passengers; and the elastic pace of dozens of gaily-dressed _soubrettes_ not a little enhanced the interest of the scene. Neither were these charms impaired by that species of vulgarity which not unfrequently characterizes the road to our suburban fairs; and, what is still more creditable to humanity, there was no brutality towards jaded horses or hacks sinking beneath their loads.

Historians attach some antiquarian importance to the village of St. Cloud, it being historically confounded with the earliest times of the French monarchy; for, from the beginning of the first race, the kings of France had a country-seat here.[5]

[5] For an engraving and account of the Palace of St. Cloud, see MIRROR, vol. ii. page 225.

I now reached the bridge of St. Cloud, an elegant modern structure which crosses the Seine, near the entrance to the village. Here the river loses much of its importance; and in summer, the steam-boats are not unfrequently delayed in their _voyage_ (if it may be so designated) for lack of water. The prospect of the château, or palace, embosomed in trees, and the park variegated with natural and artificial beauties, with the adjoining village on a steep, shelving hill--is unusually picturesque. On the present occasion, however, the principal attraction was the fête, which reminded me more forcibly of John Bunyan's Vanity Fair, than any other exhibition I had ever witnessed.

The entrance to this motley scene was by the principal gate, where the carriages set down their company, and at a short distance along the bank of the river, the steam-boat in like manner contributed its visiters. On entering the park, I was first struck with a long row of boxes, (somewhat in the style of those at Vauxhall) but on a raised bank, and attached to a _restaurateur_. Here were tables for dinner, and as many others were laid in the open air--with the usual _carte_ of 2 or 300 articles, and the economical elegancies of silver, napkins, and china, and this, too, in style little inferior to Verey's in the Palais Royal. Promenaders of the better description appeared in the mall, or principal walk, and it being the last fête of the season, their attendance was very numerous. The stalls and exhibitions were chiefly on the left side of this walk; at the former was displayed an almost indescribable variety of wares, which were the adjudged prizes in a lottery; but, from the decisions which I witnessed, they resembled the _stationary_ capitals in an English scheme--the nominal Stock in trade of the office-keepers. Many of these little gambling shops were superintended by women, who proved themselves far from deficient in loquacious inducements for adventurers; and by their dexterous settlement of the chances, left little time for losers to reflect on their folly. Provisions of various descriptions were to be purchased at every turn, and among their _marchands_, it was not incurious, to see some humble professors of gastronomy over smoking viands, fritters, and goffers or indented wafers baked on cast-iron stoves _à la minute_--it must be owned, unseasonable luxuries for a September day. The _spectacles_, or shows, in noise and absurdity, exceeded the English trumpery of that order; and to judge from the gaping crowds which they attracted, we are not the only credulous nation in the world. Among the games was a machine resembling an English round-a-bout, with wooden horses for the players, each of whom was furnished with a foil, with which he strove to seize the greatest number of rings from the centre; this was, indeed, a chivalrous exhibition. Stilt-walkers, mountebank families, and jugglers, "chequered in bulk and brains," lent their aid to amuse the crowd; and, occasionally, two or three fellows contrived to enact scenes from plays, and with their vulgar wit to merit the applause of their audience. Portable clock-work exhibitions swarmed, and mummeries or mysteries, representing the Life and Death of our Saviour and the blessed Virgin, appeared to be ritual accompaniments of the day, and represented each stage of the holy lives. The bearers of the latter machinery enlivened their exhibitions with a grinding organ, which they accompanied with appropriate ditties or carols. Crosses and other religious emblems were hung about the theatrical boxes or shows, which, with their representations, could only be compared with the nursery toys of Noah's ark, with which most of us have been amused. Accordingly, here were models of Nazareth, Jerusalem, and Mount Calvary, in the characteristic accuracy of biblical topography, and from the zeal of the spectators, the ingenuity of the inventors was unsparingly rewarded.

I turned from these sights to the natural beauties of the park, which, aided by the happy inequalities of the ground, (which French artists imagined would be such an obstacle to its perfection,) possesses far more variety than is usually found in the pleasure-grounds of France. The original plantation of the park was the work of La Nôtre, who, it will be recollected, planned the garden of Versailles; but St. Cloud is considered his _chef-d'oeuvre_, and proves, that with the few natural advantages which it afforded him, he was enabled to effect more here than millions have accomplished at Versailles--where art is fairly overmatched with her own wasteful and ridiculous excess. This alone ought to make the French blush for that monument of royal folly.

The situation of the château is its greatest attraction. It possesses a fine view of Paris, which is indeed a splendid item in the prospect of the princely occupants; and the sight of the capital may, perhaps, be a pleasant relief to the natural seclusion of the palace.

One of the most remarkable objects in the park is a kind of square tower, surmounted with an exact copy, in _terra cotta_, of the lantern of Diogenes at Athens, ornamented with six Corinthian columns. It is used as an observatory, and, like its original, is associated with the name of the illustrious Grecian--it being also called the lantern of Diogenes. Its view of the subjacent plain overlooks the city of Paris by a distance of twenty miles.

The fountains and _jets d'eau_ are entitled to special notice, although in extent and variety they are far exceeded by those of Versailles. The arrangement of the principal cascade is well contrived, and I had the good fortune to be present at the moment the water commenced flowing, which continued but a short time. This struck me as a singular piece of mimicry, and compared with those truly-sublime spectacles--the cascades of Nature--the boasted works of St. Cloud seemed mere playthings, like the little falls which children contrive in running brooks; or at best resembling hydraulic exhibitions on an extensive scale. The playing commenced by a jet bursting from a point almost secluded by trees, which appeared on a level with the first story of the palace; the stream then fell into stone basins, and by turns threw itself aloft, or gushed from the mouths of numberless marine animals, and descended by glassy falls into a basin, whence it found its way into several vase-shaped forms, and again descended by magnificent cascades, discharging themselves into a large, circular tank or basin, with two strong jets throwing their limpid streams many feet high. In the sculptured forms there is some display of classic design; and the effect of many mouths and forms gushing forth almost instantaneously was altogether that of magic art, not unaided by the lines of trees on two sides being clipped or cut into semi-arched forms. The most powerful of the fountains is, however, a grand jet, characteristically named the _Geant_, or giant, for the incredible force with which it springs from its basin, and rises 125 feet high, being more than the elevation of Napoleon's triumphal column, in the Place Vendôme, at Paris. An uninterrupted view of these exhibitions may be enjoyed from the river, which runs parallel with the road adjoining the park. Crowds flocked from all directions to witness the first gush of the fountains; but their attention soon became directed to a royal party attended by footmen, from the palace, who came to witness the sights of the fair, and appeared especially amused with a family of vaulters and stilt-walkers. They were received with a slight buzz of curiosity, but without that enthusiasm with which the English are accustomed to recognise, and, not unfrequently, to annoy royalty; for here

No man cried, God save them.

I now began to make a more minute survey of the preparations for amusement, for the fête was not yet in its equinoctial splendour. The most prominent of these were plots of the raised bank on one side, and at the termination of the principal walk, which were enclosed with hurdles or frames, a platform being elevated and decorated with festooned curtains, &c. for an orchestra, and the whole hung round with illumination lamps. Towards evening, but long before dark, these enclosures were blazing with variegated splendour; the bands commenced playing several lively French airs, and the area was occupied with groups of waltzing and quadrilling votaries. As the evening darkened, lamps began to glisten in every direction, and the well-lighted cafés resembled so many Chinese lanterns; and these, aided by the discordant sounds of scores of instruments, gave the whole scene an air of enchantment, or rather a slight resemblance to one of its exorcisms. The effect was, however, improved by distance. Accordingly, I stole through a solitary shrubbery walk, which wound round the hill, and at length led me to a forest-like spot, or straggling wood, which flanked the whole of the carnival. Viewed from hence, it was, indeed, a fantastical illustration of French gaiety, and it momentarily reminded me of some of Shakspeare's scenes of sylvan romance, with all their fays and fairy population.