Chapter 3

Dr. George Horne was a man of unaffected piety, cheerful temper, great learning, and, notwithstanding his propensity to jesting, dignified manners. He was much beloved in Magdalen College, of which he was president; the chief complaint against him being, that he did not reside the whole of the time in every year that the statutes required. He resigned his headship on being promoted from the Deanery of Canterbury to the See of Norwich; the alleged reason was, the incompatibility of the duties; though other heads of houses, when made bishops, have retained their academical situations. He never manifested the least ill-humour himself, and repressed it, but with gentleness, in others. Having engaged in a party at whist, merely because he was wanted to make up the number, and playing indifferently ill, as he forewarned his partner would be the case, he replied to the angry question, "What reason could you possibly have, Mr. President, for playing that card?" "None upon earth, I assure you." On the morning when news was received in college of the death of one of the fellows, a good companion, a _bon vivant_, Horne met with another fellow, an especial friend of the defunct, and began to condole with him: "We have lost poor L----." "Ah! Mr. President, I may well say I could have better spared a better man." "Meaning _me_, I suppose?" said Horne, with an air that, by its pleasantry, put to flight the other's grief. I was talking with Henry James Pye, late poet-laureate, when he happened to mention the name of Mr. P., a gentleman of Berkshire, and M.P. I think, for Reading; "That is the man," said I, "who damned the king's wig in the very presence of his majesty; with great credit, however, to his own loyalty, and very much to the amusement of the king." "I do not well see how that could be." "You shall hear a story which our president (Pye had been a gentleman commoner of Magdalen College) told at his own table. The king was out a hunting; P---- was _in_, and _of_, the field; the king's horse fell; the king was thrown from the saddle, and his hat and wig were thrown to a little distance from him: he got on his feet again immediately, and began to look about for the hat and wig, which he did not readily see, being, as we all know, short-sighted. P----, very much alarmed by the accident, rides up in great haste and arrives at the moment when the king is peering about and saying to the attendants, 'Where's my wig? where's my wig?' P---- cries out, 'D--n your wig! is _your majesty safe_?'"

* * * * *

CURIOUS CONCEITS.

While the late Edmund Burke was making preparation for the indictment before the House of Lords, of Warren Hastings, Governor-general of India, he was told that a person who had long resided in the East Indies, but who was then an inmate of Bedlam, could supply him with much useful information. Burke went accordingly to Bedlam, was taken to the cell of the maniac, and received from him, in a long, rational, and well-conducted conversation, the results of much and various knowledge and experience in Indian affairs, and much instruction for the process then intended. On leaving the cell, Burke told the keeper who attended him, that the poor man whom he had just visited, was most iniquitously practised upon; for that he was as much in his senses as man could be. The keeper assured him that there was sufficient warranty and very good cause for his confinement. Burke, with what a man in office once called "Irish impetuosity," known to be one of Burke's characteristics, insisted that it was an infamous affair, threatened to make the matter public, or even bring it before parliament. The keeper then said, "Sir, I should be sorry for you to leave this house under a false impression: before you do so, be pleased to step back to the poor gentleman's cell, and ask him what he had for breakfast." Burke could not refuse compliance with a request so reasonable and easily performed. "Pray, Sir," says he to his Indian counsellor, "be so obliging as to tell me what you had for breakfast." The other, immediately putting on the wild stare of the maniac, cried out, "Hobnails, Sir! It is shameful to think how they treat us! They give us nothing but hobnails!" and went on with a "descant wild" on the horrors of the cookery of Bethlehem Hospital. Burke staid no longer than that his departure might not seem abrupt; and, on the advantage of the first pause in the talk, was glad to make his escape. I was present when Paley was much interested and amused by an account given by one of the company, of a widow lady, who was of entirely sound mind, except that she believed herself made of glass. Given the vitrification, her conduct and discourse were consequent and rational, according to the particulars which Paley drew forth by numerous questions. Canes and parasols were deposited at the door of her drawing-room as at the Louvre or Florentine Gallery, and for the same reason. "You may be hurt by a blow," said she, to one of flesh and blood; "but I should be broken to pieces: and how could I be mended?"--_Best's Mems._

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

THE FOREIGN REVIEW, NO. IX.

More than one acknowledgment is due from us to this excellent work, although the publishers may doubt our sincerity by our selecting the following interesting Ballad, from the German of Christian Count Stolberg; which, observes the reviewer, "is by some considered the poet's best effort, and a translation is therefore here attempted:"--

ELIZA VON MANSFIELD.

A BALLAD OF THE TENTH CENTURY.

"Still night! how many long for thee! Now while I wake to weep, O thou to them hast comfort brought, Repose and gentle sleep.

Wished too, thou comest to me; now I Am lonely, and am free, And with my many sighs profound May ease my misery.

Alas! what evil have I done They treat me so severely? My father always called me his _Good_ child whom he loved dearly.

My dying mother on my head Poured her best blessings forth: It may in heaven be fulfill'd, But surely not on earth!

Change not this blessing to a curse For those who me offend. O God! forgive them what they do, And cause them to amend.

Ah, I with patience might bear all, If, Love, thou wouldst not be, Thou who consumest my troubled heart With hopeless agony!

If now, while one sweet hope remains, I cannot this endure; Thou breakest then, poor heart. So, 'till Thou breakest, hold it sure."

Meanwhile, sweeps on a knightly man, Upon his gallant steed, And reaches, guided by the path, The castle bridge, with speed.

There deeply sank into his heart, The plaint of the ladye, He deems she pleads to him for help, And will her saviour be.

Full of impatience and desire, His glowing eyes ranged round, Till high, within the window, they The lovely lady found.

"Ah! lady, speak, why mournest thou? Confide thy grief to me, And to thy cause this sword, this arm, This life, devoted be!"

"Ah! noble knight, nor sword, nor arm I need, right well I wot, But comfort for my sorrowing heart. And, ah, that thou hast not!"

"Let me partake thy saddening woe. That will divide thy grief. My tear of pity will bestow Both comfort and relief."

"Thou good kind youth, then hear my tale; An orphan I, sir knight, And with my parents did expire My peace and my delight

An uncle and an aunt are now To me in parents' stead, Who wound my heart, (God pardon it!) As if they wished me dead.

My father was a wealthy Count: The inheritance now mine-- Would I were poor! this wretched wealth 'Tis makes me to repine.

My uncle thirsteth, day and night, For my possessions rare, And therefore shuts me in this tower. Hard-hearted and severe.

Here shall I bide, he threatens, choose I not, in three days, whether I wed his son, or leave the world. For a cloister, altogether.

How quickly might the choice be made. And I the veil assume, Ah, had my youthful heart not loved A youth in beauty's bloom.

The youngest at the tournament, I saw him, and I loved, So free, so noble, and so bold-- No one like him approved!"

"Be, noble lady, of good cheer. No cloister shalt thou see, Far less of that bad cruel man The daughter ever be.

I can, I will deliver thee, I have resolved it too, To yield thee to thy youngling's arms. As I am a Stolberg true!"

"Thou? Stolberg? O my grief is gone! Mine angel led thee, sure; Thou art the dear, dear youth for whom These sorrows I endure.

Now say I free and openly, What then my looks confest, When I, my love, thy earliest lance With oaken garland drest."

"O God! thou? my beloved child, Eliza Mansfield Dove, I loved thee, too, with the first look, As none did ever love.

See on my lance the garland yet, It ever carries there; O could'st thou see thy image too, Imprinted deeply here!

And now, why loiter we? Ere shine The sun, I'll bring thee home, And nothing more shall our chaste loves Divide, whatever come."

"With all my soul I love thee, youth, Yet still my virgin shame Struggles against thy rash design, And trembles for my fame."

* * * * *

"We'll seek my sister first, and there Our wedding shall precede. And then into my castle I My noble bride will lead.--

Eliza' let us hasten, come-- It is the mid of night, The moon will soon conclude her course, That shineth now so bright."

Now softly by a secret way The lady lightly trod. Till she beneath the window--pale As deadly marble, stood.

Yet soon she felt her heart again, And sprung unto her knight, Who press'd her speechless to his heart That throbb'd with chaste delight.

Then lifts her gladly on his steed, And her before sits he; She winds about him her white arms, Forth go they, valiantly.

Now, wakened by the prancing steed. And that true griffin's neigh, The damsel from the window spied Her lady borne away.

She wildly shrieks, and plains to all Of her calamity: The old man foams, and cursing, swears His niece in shame shall die.

He summon'd all his people up, And ere the day began, They left the castle ready armed, Led by that wicked man.

Meanwhile, cheered by the friendly moon, Through common, field, and mead, Far over hill, and vale, and wood, That knightly pair proceed.

What torrent now with dashing foam Roars loud before them so "Fear not, my love," the Stolberg said, "This stream full well I know."

The gallant roan makes head, his feet Approve the flood with care, Then dashes, neighing, through, as if A tiny brook it were.

Now come they to the castle wet, Yet wrapt in heavenly bliss; Let them describe who such have felt, The intensity of this.

Now, sate they at the early meal; The cup careered about ... But entering soon--"Up noble Count! The Mansfield!" cried a scout.

The bride and sister fearfully Their hair in sorrow tore; The Count already had to horse, And his full armour wore.

Forth went he out to meet the strife. And called to Mansfield loud, "In vain your anger is, for she My wife is, wed and vow'd.

And am I not of noble stem, Whose fame is bruited wide, Who princes to our nation gave, E'en in the heathen tide?"

With lance in rest, upon him springs That uncle bad and old, His people follow--but the knight Awaits him calm and bold.

And draws his sword. As Mansfield nears, His fury stoppage found-- He lays about, and cleaves his scull, And smites him to the ground.

The rest disperse, and Stolberg hastes Into the house again, And him throughout the long sweet night Her gentle arms enchain.

* * * * *

A FEARFUL PROSPECT.

(_From the "Noctes" of Blackwood._)

_Shepherd_.--I look to the mountains, Mr. North, and stern they staun' in a glorious gloom, for the sun is strugglin' wi' a thunder-cloud, and facing him a faint but fast-brightenin' rainbow. The ancient spirit o' Scotland comes on me frae the sky; and the sowl within me reswears in silence the oath o' the Covenant. There they are--the Covenanters a' gather'd thegither, no in fear and tremblin', but wi' Bibles in their bosoms, and swords by their sides, in a glen deep as the sea, and still as death, but for the soun' o' a stream and the cry o' an eagle. "Let us sing, to the praise and glory o' God, the hundred psalm," quoth a loud clear voice, though it be the voice o' an auld man; and up to Heaven hands he his strang wither'd hauns, and in the gracious wunds o' heaven are flying abroad his gray hairs', or say rather, white as the silver or the snaw.

_North_.--Oh, for Wilkie!

_Shepherd_.--The eagle and the stream are silent, and the heavens and the earth are brocht close thegither by that triumphin' psalm. Ay, the clouds cease their sailing and lie still; the mountains bow their heads; and the crags, do they not seem to listen, as in that remote place the hour o' the delighted day is filled with a holy hymn to the Lord God o' Israel!

_North_.--My dear Shepherd!

_Shepherd_.--Oh! if there should be sittin' there--even in that congregation on which, like God's own eye, looketh down the meridian sun, now shinin' in the blue region--an Apostate!

_North_.--The thought is terrible.

_Shepherd_.--But na, na, na! See that bonny blue-e'ed, rosy-cheek'd, gowden-haired lassie,--only a thought paler than usual, sweet lily that she is,--half sittin' half lyin' on the greensward, as she leans on the knee o' her stalwart grand-father--for the sermon's begun, and all eyes are fastened on the preacher--look at her till your heart melts, as if she were your ain, and God had given you that beautifu' wee image o' her sainted mother, and tell me if you think that a' the tortures that cruelty could devise to inflict, would ever ring frae thae sweet innocent lips ae word o' abjuration o' the faith in which the flower is growing up amang the dew-draps o' her native hills?

_North_.--Never--never--never!

_Shepherd_.--She proved it, sir, in death. Tied to a stake on the sea-sands she stood; and first she heard, and then she saw, the white roarin' o' the tide. But the smile forsook not her face; it brichten'd in her een when the water reach'd her knee; calmer and calmer was her voice of prayer, as it beat again' her bonny breast; nae shriek when a wave closed her lips for ever; and methinks, sir,--for ages on ages hae lapsed awa' sin' that martyrdom, and therefore Imagination may withouten blame dally wi' grief--methinks, sir, that as her golden head disappear'd, 'twas like a star sinkin' in the sea!

_North_.--God bless you, my dearest James! shake hands.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY

* * * * *

POPULAR PHILOSOPHY.

_Dr. Arnott's Elements of Physics._

Vol. ii. Part I.

We are warm friends to the diffusion of knowledge, and accordingly receive the present portion of Dr. Arnott's work with much satisfaction. We believe the sale of the first volume to have been almost unprecedentedly rapid, (a _fourth_ edition being called for within two years) in comparison with the usual slow sale of _scientific_ works. This success may easily be traced. The title of the work is not extraordinarily inviting, illustration, not embellishment, is attempted in a few outline diagrams, and the only external inducement to read, is a plain, legible type, to suit all sights. Looking further, we find the great cause in the manner as well as the matter of the volume, which is throughout a text-book of _plain-spoken philosophy_, or as the author says in his title-page, "independently of technical mathematics." Again, in his introductory chapter on "Imponderable Substances," he says, "To understand the subjects as far as men yet usefully understand them, and sufficiently for a vast number of most useful purposes, it is only necessary to classify important phenomena, so that their nature and resemblances may be clearly perceived." The main error of most people who write on philosophical subjects, or the stumbling-block of all students, has been that of the writer presuming too much upon the cultivated understanding of his reader. Thus, in the midst of very familiar explanations we have often seen technicalities which must operate as a wet blanket on the enthusiasm of the reader; and break up the charm which the subject had hitherto created. Upon this principle, treatise upon treatise has been published without effecting the primary object. The matter of Dr. Arnott's work, however, appears to us to be in strict accordance with its title--elementary; but it is accompanied with a variety of explanations of familiar facts on philosophical principles, which possess attractions of a most amusive character.

The present portion of Dr. Arnott's work comprehends the subjects of _Light_ and _Heat_, which admit of more familiar illustration than any other branches of Natural Philosophy. Of this advantage the author has fully availed himself in a variety of familiar exemplars, which, to speak seriously are brought home to our very firesides. A few of these facts will form a recreative page or two for another MIRROR: in the meantime we quote a few illustrative observations on the most interesting exhibitions of the day:--

"Common paintings and prints may be considered as parts of a panoramic representation, showing as much of that general field of view which always surrounds a spectator, as can be seen by the eye turned in one direction, and looking through a window or other opening. The pleasure from contemplating these is much increased by using a lens. There is such a lens fitted up in the shops, with the title of _optical pillar machine_, or _diagonal mirror_, and the print to be viewed is laid upon a table beyond the stand of the lens, and its reflection in a mirror supported diagonally over it, is viewed through the lens. The illusion is rendered more complete in such a case by having a box to receive the painting on its bottom, and where the lens and mirror, fixed in a smaller box above, are made to slide up and down in their place to allow of readily adjusting the focal distance. This box used in a reverse way becomes a perfect camera obscura. The common show-stalls seen in the streets are boxes made somewhat on this principle, but without the mirror; and although the drawings or prints in them are generally very coarse, they are not uninteresting. To children whose eyes are not yet very critical, some of these show boxes afford an exceeding great treat."

_Cosmoramas and Dioramas._

"A still more perfect contrivance of the same kind has been exhibited for some time in London and Paris under the title of _Cosmorama_ (from Greek words signifying _views_ of the _world_, because of the great variety of views.) Pictures of moderate size are placed beyond what have the appearance of common windows, but of which the panes are really large convex lenses fitted to correct the errors of appearance which the nearness of the pictures would else produce. Then by farther using various subordinate contrivances, calculated to aid and heighten the effects, even shrewd judges have been led to suppose the small pictures behind the glasses to be very large pictures, while all others have let their eyes dwell upon them with admiration, as magical realizations of the natural scenes and objects. Because this contrivance is cheap and simple, many persons affect to despise it; but they do not thereby show their wisdom; for to have made so perfect a representation of objects, is one of the most sublime triumphs of art, whether we regard the pictures drawn in such true perspective and colouring, or the lenses which assist the eye in examining them.

"It has already been stated, that the effect of such glasses in looking at near pictures, is obtainable in a considerable degree without a glass, by making the pictures very large and placing them at a corresponding distance. The rule of proportion in such a case is, that a picture of one foot square at one foot distance from the eye, appears as large as a picture of sixty feet square at sixty feet distance. The exhibition called the Diorama is merely a large painting prepared in accordance with the principle now explained. In principle it has no advantage over the cosmorama or the show box, to compensate for the great expense incurred, but that many persons may stand before it at a time, all very near the true point of sight, and deriving the pleasure of sympathy in their admiration of it, while no slight motion of the spectator can make the eye lose its point of view."

_The Colosseum._

"A round building of prodigious magnitude has lately been erected in the Regent's Park, in London, on the walls of which is painted a representation of London and the country around, as seen from the cross on the top of St. Paul's Cathedral. The scene taken altogether is unquestionably one of the most extraordinary which the whole world affords, and this representation combines the advantages of the circular view of the panorama, the size and distance of the great diorama, and of the details being so minutely painted, that distant objects may be examined by a telescope or opera-glass.

"From what has now been said, it may be understood, that for the purpose of representing still-nature, or mere momentary states of objects in motion, a picture truly drawn, truly coloured, and which is either very large to correct the divergence of light and convergence of visual axes, or if small, as viewed through a glass, would affect the retina exactly as the realities. But the desideratum still remained of being able to paint motion. Now this too has been recently accomplished, and in many cases with singular felicity, by making the picture transparent, and throwing lights and shadows upon it from behind. In the exhibitions of the diorama and cosmorama there have been represented with admirable truth and beauty such phenomena as--the sun-beams occasionally interrupted by passing clouds, and occasionally darting through the windows of a cathedral and illuminating the objects in its venerable interior--the rising and disappearing of mist over a beautiful landscape, runningwater, as for instance the cascades among the sublime precipices of Mount St. Gothard in Switzerland;--and most surprising of all, a fire or conflagration. In the cosmorama of Regent-street, the great fire of Edinburgh was admirably represented:--first that fine city was seen sleeping in darkness while the fire began, then the conflagration grew and lighted up the sky, and soon at short intervals, as the wind increased, or as roofs fell in, there were bursts of flame towering to heaven, and vividly reflected from every wall or spire which caught the direct light--then the clouds of smoke were seen rising in rapid succession and sailing northward upon the wind, until they disappeared in the womb of distant darkness. No one can have viewed that appalling scene with indifference, and the impression left by the representation, on those who knew the city, can scarcely have been weaker than that left on those who saw the reality. The mechanism for producing such effects is very simple; but spectators, that they may fully enjoy them, need not particularly inquire about it."

Even for the present we cannot omit mention of the delight with which we have read several of the more playful portions of the present work; we allude to such passages as the Influence of Heat on Animated Beings, in which Dr. Arnott has really blended the pencil of the artist with the pen of the philosopher, and thus produced many sketches of extreme picturesque beauty.

* * * * *

THE GATHERER