Part 3

Gambling, the besetting sin of the indolent in many countries, is ruinously general throughout South America. In England, and other European states, it is pretty much limited to the unemployed of the upper classes, who furnish a never-ending supply of dupes to knavery. In South America the passion taints all ages, both sexes, and every rank. The dregs of society yield to the fascination as blindly as the high-born and wealthy of the old or of the new world. It speaks much in favour of the revolution, that this vice is sensibly diminishing in Peru, and to the unfortunate Monteagudo belongs the honour of having been the first to attempt its eradication. A noted gambler was once as much an object of admiration in South America as a six-bottle man was in England fifty years ago. The houses of the great were converted into nightly hells, where the priesthood were amongst the most regular and adventurous attendants. Those places are now more innocently enlivened by music and dancing. Buena Vista, a seat of the late Marquess of Montemira, six leagues from Lima, was the Sunday rendezvous of every fashionable of the capital who had a few doubloons to risk on the turn of a card. On one occasion, a fortunate player, the celebrated Baquijano, was under the necessity of sending for a bullock car to convey his winnings, amounting to above thirty thousand dollars: a mule thus laden with specie was a common occurrence. Chorillos, a fishing town, three leagues south of Lima, is a fashionable watering place for a limited season. Here immense sums are won and lost; but political and literary coteries, formerly unknown, daily lessen the numbers of the votaries of fortune.

So strong was this ruling passion, that when the patriot army has been closely pursued by the royalists, and pay has been issued to lighten the military chest, the officers, upon halting, would spread their ponchos on the ground, and play until it was time to resume the march; and this was frequently done even on the eve of a battle. Soldiers on piquet often gambled within sight of an enemy's advanced post.

_Memoirs of Gen. Miller._

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THE NATURALIST.

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VOLCANIC ISLAND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER.

This island is entirely composed of volcanic matter, in some places alternating with submarine productions. The principal mountain is situated at the western end of the island; it is an exhausted volcano, called in books of navigation, charts, &c., Mount Misery. The summit of this mountain is 3,711 feet above the sea; it appears to consist of large masses of volcanic rocks, roasted stones, cinders, pumice, and iron-clay. The whole extent of land, to the sea-shore on either side, may be considered as the base of this mountain, as it rises with a pretty steep ascent towards it; but from the part which is generally considered the foot of the mountain, it takes a sudden rise of an average angle of about 50 degrees. To the east, another chain of mountains runs, of a similar formation, though of inferior height. On the summits of these there are no remains that indicate their having ever possessed a crater: so that whether any of them have originally been volcanoes, or whether they have been formed by an accumulation of matter thrown out of Mount Misery, it is difficult to decide. That the low lands have been thrown from the mouth of the volcano is evident, from the regular strata of volcanic substances of which they consist; these too are interspersed with masses of volcanic rock, and other stones, some of the lesser ones entirely roasted through, and some of the larger ones to certain depths from their surfaces. Masses, also, of iron-clay, enclosing various pebbles, which have been burnt into a kind of red brick, are abundantly found in many places. There is scarcely any thing that can be called a path, or even a track, to the mouth of the crater of Mount Misery; indeed, there are but few whose curiosity is sufficiently strong to induce them to undertake this expedition. The common course for those who do, is to take a negro man as a guide, with a cutlass, or large knife, to clear away the underwood, and form a kind of path as he goes on. The ascent is very irregular, in some places being gentle, in others almost perpendicular; in which case the hands are obliged to assist the operations of the feet. In wet weather, the ascent of this mountain is extremely laborious, as a great part of it consists of clay, which then becomes so slippery as to render the getting up almost impracticable. About half-way up on the south side, and in a very pretty, romantic situation, there is a natural spring of remarkably cool water. On the north side, at about the same height, there is a waterfall, which, though small and insignificant in itself, has a pleasing appearance, as it rushes over the rocks, and through the trees and shrubs. This mountain is thickly clothed with wood, which in many places not only excludes the rays of the sun, but produces a sombre, gloomy appearance; this, with the occasional plaintive coo of the mountain dove, (the only sound heard at this height,) creates in the mind sensations of pleasing melancholy. In some parts an open space suddenly appears, from whence the whole country below bursts unexpectedly upon the view, which has, as may be supposed, an extremely fine effect. The thermometer, on the top of the mountain when the writer visited it, stood at 65, being a difference of 15 degrees from the low lands, where it stood at 80 degrees. The descent into the crater on the north and east sides is perfectly perpendicular; on the south and west sides, it slopes at an average angle of not more than 18 or 20 degrees from the perpendicular; consequently, persons descending are often obliged to let themselves down by clinging to projecting corners of rocks, or the branches and roots of shrubs, which grow all the way down; nor is this mode of travelling particularly safe, for should any of these give way, the consequence would probably be highly dangerous. The bottom of the crater, which, as nearly as could be estimated, is about 2,500 feet below the summit of the mountain, and contains about forty-five or fifty acres, may be said to be divided into three parts: the lowest side (to the south) consists of a large pond or lake, formed entirely by the rain-water collected from the sides of the crater--accordingly its extent is greater or less, as the season is wet or dry; the centre part is covered with small ferns, palms, and shrubs, and some curious species of moss; the upper part, to the north, is that which is called the Soufriere. The ground here consists of large beds of pipe-clay, in some places perfectly white, in others of a bluish or black colour, from the presence of iron pyrites. These are intermixed with masses and irregular beds of gray cinders and score, pumice, various kinds of lava, lithomarge, and fuller's earth. Amidst these beds of clay there are several hot springs, small, but boiling with much violence, and emitting large quantities of steam. A rumbling noise is heard under the whole of this part of the crater. The hot springs are not stationary, but suddenly disappear, and burst up in another place. The ground in many parts is too hot to be walked upon: a great quantity of sulphuretted hydrogen gas is likewise emitted, which is exceedingly disagreeable to the smell; and occasionally such a volume of it arises, as is almost suffocating, and resembles much the smell of rotten eggs. The watches of the writer and his companion during his visit, and every article of gold or silver about their persons, were in a few moments turned perfectly black, from the effect of this gas.

_Brande's Journal._

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MANNERS & CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS.

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ROYAL LIFE IN PERSIA.

The religious duties of the king of Persia require him to rise early. As he sleeps in the interior apartments, which no male is allowed to approach, his attendants are either females or eunuchs. After he is dressed with their aid, he sits for an hour or two in the hall of the haram, where his levees are conducted with the same ceremony as in his outer apartments. Female officers arrange the crowd of his wives and slaves with the strictest attention to the order of precedency. After hearing the reports of the persons intrusted with the internal government of the haram, and consulting with his principal wives, who are generally seated, the monarch leaves the interior apartments. The moment he comes out, he is met by officers in waiting, and proceeds to one of his private halls, where he is immediately joined by some of his principal favourites, and enters into familiar conversation with them: all the young princes of the blood attend this morning levee, to pay their respects. After this is over, he calls for breakfast. The preparing his meals is superintended by the nauzir, or chief steward of the household. The viands are put into dishes of fine china, with silver covers, and placed in a close tray, which is locked and sealed by the steward. This tray is covered with a rich shawl, and carried to the king, when the steward breaks the seal, and places the dishes before him. Some of the infant princes are generally present, and partake in this repast. The chief physician is invariably in attendance at every meal. His presence is deemed necessary, the courtiers say, that he may prescribe an instant remedy, if any thing should disagree with the monarch; but this precaution, no doubt, owes its origin to that suspicion which is continually haunting the minds of such as exercise despotic power. When his public duties are performed, he usually retires to the haram, where he sometimes indulges in a short repose. Some time before sunset he always makes his appearance in the outer apartments, and either again attends to public business or takes a ride. His dinner is brought between eight and nine, with the same precautions and ceremonies as at breakfast. He eats, like his subjects, seated upon a carpet, and the dishes are placed on a rich embroidered cloth, spread for the occasion. Some of the former kings used to indulge openly in drinking wine; but none of the reigning family have yet outraged the religious feelings of their subjects by so flagrant a violation of the laws of Mahomed. Bowls filled with sherbet, made of every species of fruit, furnish the beverage of the royal meals; and there are few countries where more pains are bestowed to gratify the palate with the most delicate viands. After dinner, the king retires to the interior apartments, where it is said that he is often amused till a late hour by the singers and dancers of his haram. It is impossible, however, to speak of his occupations after he passes the threshold of his inner palace. He is there surrounded by a scene calculated, beyond all others, to debase and degrade the human character.

The harams are governed by the strictest discipline; and this must be necessary to preserve the peace of a community, where the arrogance of power, the pride of birth, the ties of kindred, the intrigues of art, and the pretensions of beauty, are in constant collision. The usual routine of the king's life is often interrupted by urgent public affairs, and sometimes by amusement. The reigning family has hitherto disdained those enervating and luxurious habits which led the last Seffavean monarchs to confine themselves to their harams. They not only attend personally to public business, but are continually practising manly exercises, and engage in field sports with all the ardour of a race who cherish the habits of their Tartar ancestors. The present king is an expert marksman and an excellent horseman; few weeks pass without his partaking in the pleasures of the chase. The king has always a historiographer and a chief poet. The one writes the annals of his reign; the other, who has a high rank at court, composes odes in his praise, and, with grateful ardour, celebrates the munificence of his patron. A giant and a dwarf were at one period of the present reign part of the royal establishment; and it is never without a jester, who enjoys an extraordinary latitude of speech, and, both in his dress and manner, assumes the habit and appearance of folly. It is usual to laugh at the witticisms of these jesters, even when they are the most severe; and the sovereign himself respects their privilege. The tribe to which Kerreem Khan belonged, speak a language which, from its rudeness, is denominated "the barbarous dialect." As this prince was one day sitting in public, he commanded his jester to go and bring him word what a dog, that was barking very loud, wanted. The courtiers smiled at this sally of their monarch. The jester went, and, after appearing to listen for some time with profound attention, returned, and said, with a grave air, "Your majesty must send one of the chief officers of your own family to report what that gentleman says: he speaks no language except "the barbarous dialect," with which they are familiar, but of which I do not understand one word." The good-humoured monarch laughed heartily at this jest, and gave the wit a present. This anecdote, to which many similar might be added, shows that there is little difference between the office of jester at the modern court of Persia, and that which some centuries ago existed at every court in Europe. A resemblance even in trifling forms merits attention, as it may lead to conclusions on the progress of knowledge and the condition of society; and from the character of their amusements, we may perhaps judge as correctly as from their more serious occupations, of the degree of civilization which a people has attained. In the court there is always a person who bears the name of "story-teller to his majesty;" and the duties of his office require a man of no mean acquirements. Though passionately fond of public exhibitions, the Persians have none that deserve the name of theatrical entertainments; but though strangers to the regular drama, their stories are often dramatic; and those whose occupation is to tell them, sometimes display so extraordinary a skill, and such varied powers, that we can hardly believe, while we look on their altered countenances and listen to their changed tones, that it is the same person, who at one moment tells a plain narrative in his natural voice, then speaks in the hoarse and angry tone of offended authority, and next subdues the passions he has excited by the softest sounds of feminine tenderness. The art of relating stories is attended both with profit and reputation. Great numbers attempt it, but few succeed.

The person whose office it is to amuse his majesty with these stories is always in attendance. It is equally his duty to beguile the fatigue of a long march, and to soothe the mind when disturbed by the toils of public affairs; and his tales are artfully made to suit the disposition and momentary humour of the monarch. Sometimes he recites a story of the genii; at others he speaks of the warlike deeds of former sovereigns, or of the love of some wandering prince. Often the story is of coarser materials, and the king is entertained with low and obscene adventures. In no court is more rigid attention paid to ceremony. Looks, words, the motions of the body, are all regulated by the strictest forms. When the king is seated in public, his sons, ministers, and courtiers, stand erect, with their hands crossed, and in the exact place belonging to their rank. They watch his looks, and a glance is a command. If he speaks to them, you hear a voice reply, and see the lips move, but not a motion or gesture betrays that there is animation in any other part of the frame. The monarch often speaks in the third person: "The king is pleased," "The king commands." His ministers usually style him "The object of the world's regard." They are as particular in forms of speech as in other ceremonies; and superiority and inferiority of rank, in all their gradations, are implied by the terms used in the commonest conversations.

_Sir J. Malcolm's History of Persia._

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THE COSMOPOLITE.

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We love an occasional stroll into the environs of London--_on foot_--and _alone_. On foot, because we hate the machinery of a coach--and alone, because we have only our own leisure to consult, and there is no time lost in "making up minds." On such occasions we have no set object in view, but we determine to make "good in every thing." A book, great or small, is then to us a great evil; and putting a map into one's pocket is about as absurd as Peter Fin's taking Cook's Voyages on his journey to Brighton. We read the other day of a reviewer who started from Charing Cross with a blue bag filled with books for his criticship: he read at Camberwell, and he read at Dulwich--he wrote in the sanded and smoke-dried parlour of the Lion, the Lamb, or the Fox--and he wrote whilst his steak was grilling at the _auberge_ at Dulwich--and he went home in a hackney-coach: "Lord how he went out--Lord how he came in." Another brother talks of rambling in a secluded village field with Gilbert White's "Natural History of Selborne," or the "Journal of a Naturalist," in his hand. All this is very pleasant and mighty pretty; but it is not true; and we stake our critical character that neither Gilbert White nor our "Naturalist" did such things, or if they did, that they were not essential to their writings. Making notes and comparing them with others, after a long walk, is another matter; but to walk out into the country to read a book on natural philosophy is not indicative of a susceptible mind. For our own part, we want no book but the broad volume of Nature--but to derive profit as well as pleasure, we must go out with some of the philosophy of Nature in our hearts--for walking is like travelling, (which is only a long walk,)--"a man must carry knowledge with him, if he would bring home knowledge." We think Mr. Hazlitt talks of lying a whole day on Salisbury Plain as one of his greatest enjoyments, and he is doubtless sincere. When we set out on such a walk as we are about to take, with the reader's consent, we quote Thomson for our exordium:--

To me be Nature's volume broad display'd; And to peruse its all instructive page,

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My sole delight; as through the falling glooms Pensive I stray, or with the rising dawn On Fancy's eagle wing excursive soar;

--and starting from our metropolis, we love to watch the ebbing of population, the dwindling from groves of chimneys and worlds of bricks and mortar to tricksy cottages marshalled with the plumb-line, or sprinkled over "farmy fields" facing Macadamized roads, and collecting more dust in one month than would have ransomed all the captive kings of history, sacred or profane. There we love to trace the ramifications of art from the steam and gas chimneys of the metropolis to the quiet dell, in whose seclusion you might imagine yourself a hundred miles from town, were it not for the hum of the great tun that is fretting and working at a distance. On the road you enjoy scenes that are to be found in no printed book. Nay, every sign-board is a study. Those near the town would do honour to the President's pencil; as you advance, they retrograde--and as Art declines, Nature smiles still sweeter and softer in never-ending successions of woods and groves, hills and dales, glassy lakes and pebbly streams, with all the variegated charms of rustic life.

But we are getting too _rural_; for our "Suburban Stroll" extended but to Dulwich and back, about four miles south of London. Twenty years since, we remember, the parish of Camberwell (which includes Peckham and Dulwich) was a pleasant village, with several mansions inhabited by citizens of property, who retired hither for air and recreation; now the whole district is crowded with lath and plaster cottages, and sugar-bakers' boxes, which appear well adapted for twelfth-cake kings and queens.[7] Twenty years ago, we enjoyed the embowered walk of Camberwell Grove, and above all, _Grove Hill_, the retreat of Dr. John Coakley Lettsom, till his benevolence overmuch obliged him to part with this delightful residence. Well do we remember the picturesque effect of Grove Hill, the unostentatious, casino-like villa, ornamented with classic figures of Liberality, Plenty, and Flora--and the sheet of water whose surface was broken by a stream from a dank and moss-crusted fountain in its centre. Then, the high, overarching grove, and its summit, traditionally said to be the spot where George Barnwell murdered his uncle, the incident that gave rise to Lillo's pathetic tragedy. But the march of improvement has extended hither--the walk can scarcely be traced: still there is abundance of timber, for the grove has disappeared, and scores of new houses have sprung up with almost magical effect--and the whole scene reminds us of one of the change-scenes of a pantomime. The builder's _share_ has turned over nearly every inch of the ground, and fresh gravel and loose loam remind the philosophical pedestrian that all is change beneath as well as on the surface. Of the mock villas that have been "put up" in this quarter, we must speak with forbearance. Their little bits of Gothic plastered here and there; their puny machicolations, square and pointed arches, and stained glass "cut out into little stars"--are but sorry specimens of taste, and but poor indications of comfort. They seem to totter like card-houses, and all their spick-and-span finery vanishes beside a wing of the picturesque--a cottage in true rustic taste, with rudely-arched virandahs, formed of limbs and trunks of trees, intermixed with evergreens, and reminding us of the "gnarled oaks and soft myrtles" of the poet's fancy; and with trimmed arches of thatch over little casements, with flowers

"Blinding the lower panes."

Now is the little hatch-gate slammed with the wind, contrasting its rude sound with the rusty creak of the "invisible" iron fence just set up, but already

So loose that it but wants another push To leap from off its hinges;

--the milk-white window-sill, or painted flower-pots ranged on bars of cast-iron, like so many toys of Nature. Such was the contrast when we last visited the "Grove;" the picturesque cottage was then as we have described it, and its new-born neighbours were rising fast on every side, and we would not insure its existence for a week longer; for the slicing, cutting, and carving of this once beautiful spot, exceeds all credibility. With all these changes, however, the fine panoramic view of two hundred miles may still be enjoyed from this spot, and overlooking the meaner glories of the GREAT CITY at your feet, the eye rests on the "sister hills," Harrow spire, and where

Majestic Windsor lifts his princely brow;

Shooter's Hill and Greenwich, with tower, dome, and turret; Sydenham and Norwood on the south; and Chelsea and the _unbridged_ winding Thames on the west. Art has not yet thrown up her screens, so as to fence in this world of beauties from our enjoyment. Here we sit down and rest our recreant limbs, leaving the reader to enjoy the innumerable reflections which our poor mention has called up. Another fine day, and we may proceed in our stroll.

PHILO.

[7] In the neighbourhood of Dulwich, we remember the mansion of a retired confectioner, which wags styled _Lollipop Hall_.

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THE GATHERER.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.

SHAKSPEARE.

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EPIGRAM.

_The Division of Justice._