The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 282, November 10, 1827

AN UNINSURABLE RISK

 
A bookseller opened a shop on the coast,
(I'd rather not mention the spot,)
Where gentlemen lounged o'er the Herald and Post,
And ladies read Byron and Scott.
 
 
Much personal memoir, too, shone on the shelves,
Which boasted a whimsical olio;
Decorum sang small, in octavoes and twelves,
And scandal in quarto and folio.
 
 
The bookseller, prudently aiming to set
Th' ignipotent god at defiance,
To open a policy vainly essay'd
At the Albion, the Hope, and Alliance.
 
 
"My friend, your abortive attempt prithee stop,"
Quoth Jekyll, intent on a joke,
"How can you expect to insure, while your shop
Is rolling out volumes of smoke?"
 

Ibid.

LONDON NEWSPAPERS

On few subjects are the public under more misapprehension than on the absolute and relative circulation of several portions of the London daily press. The greater part of the people would startle were they told that The Times circulates probably under 7,000 a day on an average; the paper is seen, as one may say, in every pot-house in London, and all over the country; and yet this is all its number.

The property of a paper is a matter of which most people have a very vague and imperfect knowledge. I believe I am very near the truth when I state the gross proceeds of The Times at 45,000l., a year. The present proprietor of The Morning Chronicle gave for it, I believe, 40,000l. The absolute property of The Courier, according to the current rate of its shares, is between 90,000l. and 100,000l. Estimating the value of The Globe on the same scale, the absolute property of it is probably somewhere about 35,000l. The profits of a paper arise almost entirely out of its advertisements, and hence the difference in value between the two last, notwithstanding their circulation is so nearly equal. A newspaper gets its advertisements by degrees, and, as it is supposed by the public, its numbers increase; but it retains them long after the cause by which they were acquired has vanished. It is thus that The Courier, which got its advertisements when it basked in all the sunshine of ministerial patronage, retains these when its numbers are reduced by one-half, and the countenance of government is no longer held out to it.

These, however, it must be admitted, are the prizes in the lottery of newspaper speculation: and in this, as in every other lottery, there are more blanks than prizes. Mr. Murray, after having expended upwards of 10,000l. on his Representative, sold it to the proprietors of The New Times for about 600l.: and The British Press, after having ruined I know not how many capitalists, was sold to the same concern for, I believe, a considerably smaller sum.—London Magazine.

MADEMOISELLE CUVIER

Mademoiselle Cuvier, daughter of the celebrated naturalist, died a short time since at Paris. There has seldom been any instance where the strongest benevolence was so closely united to the charms of intellect. She possessed a rare mixture of elevation of mind and firmness of character—of strength and equanimity—sweetness and simplicity. It was truly gratifying to witness her worship, or rather superstition, for truth, and to watch the avidity with which she used to seize and illustrate whatever she thought likely to remove ignorance, or promote the cause of virtue and freedom. The circumstances which attended the death of this amiable creature, have, if possible, greatly augmented the grief of her family and friends. The day of her nuptials was fixed, and she was to be united to a man of her own choice, and everything was prepared for the ceremony. Being suddenly afflicted by rapid symptoms of consumption, all hopes of her recovery soon vanished. Notwithstanding, the ball dresses, veils, and shawls, continued to be sent home to the unhappy parents, who dared not refuse them, lest they should themselves be accused of giving way to despair. This mixture of preparations for rejoicing, and the certainty of death, formed a picture the most melancholy and pathetic. When the fatal moment arrived, her family and many friends surrounded the dying couch in mournful silence. The funeral was attended by all that is distinguished for rank and fortune at Paris; a clergyman of the Protestant church read the service for the dead, and a funeral sermon. A number of young females whom she had formed for succouring the poor, were ranged round the bier, dressed in white, and followed to the Cemetery of Père la Chaise, where M. Salvandy, one of her friends, undertook to deliver the final eulogy, which it is usual in France to pronounce on departed worth.—Monthly Magazine.—Letter from Paris.

HOW TO LOSE TIME

Few men need complain of the want of time, if they are not conscious of a want of power, or of desire to ennoble and enjoy it. Perhaps you are a man of genius yourself, gentle reader, and though not absolutely, like Sir Walter, a witch, warlock, or wizard, still a poet—a maker—a creator. Think, then, how many hours on hours you have lost, lying asleep so profoundly,

 
"That the cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more could rouse you from your lazy bed."
 

How many more have you, not absolutely lost, but to a certain extent abused, at breakfast—sip, sipping away at unnecessary cups of sirupy tea, or gob, gobbling away at jam-buttered rolls, for which nature never called—or "to party giving up what was meant for mankind"—forgetting the loss of Time in the Times, and, after a long, blank, brown, and blue study, leaving behind you a most miserable chronicle indeed! Then think—O think—on all your aimless forenoon saunterings—round and round about the premises—up and down the avenue—then into the garden on tiptoe—in and out among the neat squares of onion-beds—now humming a tune by the brink of abysses of mould, like trenches dug for the slain in the field of battle, where the tender celery is laid—now down to the river-side to try a little angling, though you well know there is nothing to be had but Pars—now into a field of turnips, without your double-barreled Joe Manton, (at Mr. Wilkinson's to be repaired,) to see Ponto point a place where once a partridge had pruned himself—now home again, at the waving of John's red sleeve, to receive a coach-full of country cousins, come in the capacity of forenoon callers—endless talkers all—sharp and blunt noses alike—and grinning voraciously in hopes of a lunch—now away to dress for dinner, which will not be for two long, long hours to come—now dozing, or daized on the drawing-room sofa, wondering if the bell is ever to be rung—now grimly gazing on a bit of bloody beef which your impatience has forced the blaspheming cook to draw from the spit ere the outer folds of fat were well melted at the fire—now, after a disappointed dinner, discovering that the old port is corked, and the filberts all pluffing with bitter snuff, except such as enclose a worm—now an unwholesome sleep of interrupted snores, your bobbing head ever and anon smiting your breast-bone—now burnt-beans palmed off on the family for Turkish coffee—now a game at cards, with a dead partner, and the ace of spades missing—now no supper—you have no appetite for supper—and now into bed tumbles the son of Genius, complaining to the moon of the shortness of human life, and the fleetness of time!

Blackwood's Magazine.

SLEEPING AFTER DINNER

Mr. Fox at St. Ann's Hill was, for the last years of his life, in the habit (never interfered with by his friends) of dosing for a few minutes after dinner; and it was on this occasion, unconsciously yielding to the influence of custom, I perceived that Mr. Garrow, who was the chief talker (Parr was in his smoking orgasm,) began to feel embarrassed at Mr. Fox's non-attention; and I, therefore, made signs to Mr. Fox, by wiping my fingers to my eyes, and looking expressively at Garrow. Mr. Fox, the most truly polite man in the world, immediately endeavoured to rouse himself—but in vain; Nature would have her way. Garrow soon saw the struggle, and adroitly feigned sleep himself. Mr. Fox was regenerated in ten minutes—apologized—and made the evening delightful—Senatorial Reminiscenses.—The Inspector.

THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS

CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE

The Two Drovers.

(Concluded from page 289.)

[Our readers must have missed, and probably with some regret, the conclusion of the above story, as promised for insertion in our last Number; and unaccustomed as we are to an intentional discrepancy of this sort, (for such was the above,) we shall consider ourselves justified in briefly stating some of the circumstances which led to the irregularity. We are not disposed to enter into the tilts of rival journalists, some of whom, in taking time by the forelock, may have perhaps been rather more enterprising than the subject warranted.¹⁷ Nevertheless, in the attempt to please the public, as in other races, the youngest are often the fleetest. In the present case, the appetite of the public had been whetted with "reiterated advertisement:" and one of our contemporaries, with more playfulness than truth, had compared his priority to that of Fine-ear in the fairy tale. But his talisman failed, and a young rival outstripped him; and from this quarter we were induced to copy the first portion of the tale of The Two Drovers, upon the editor's assurance of his own honesty in obtaining the precedence, and which assurance We are still unwilling to question: although, were we to do so, ours would not he a solitary specimen of such ingratitude.¹⁸ On the day of our publishing the first portion, we received a notice to desist from its continuance,—full of the causticity of our friends on the other side of the Tweed, and with whom, for the credit of the south, we hope the measure originated. We next resolved to suspend the conclusion; since the brutum fulmen became louder and louder still, in an advertisement actively inserted in the London newspapers. To make short of what is and ought to be but a trifling affair, we have abridged the whole story, and accordingly now present the conclusion to our readers, though certainly not in the promised state; how far we have exculpated ourselves, is for our patrons to determine.—A few words at parting, on the policy of the above conduct. We need not enlarge upon the advantages which publishers (and, to some extent, authors) derive from portions of their works appearing in periodical journals. The benefit is not reciprocal, but largely on their side, if they consider how many columns of advertisement duty they thereby avoid. It is well known that the first edition of any work by such a master-spirit as Sir Walter Scott is consumed in a few days by the circulating libraries and reading societies of the kingdom; but how many thousands would neither have seen nor heard of his most successful works, had not the gusto been previously created by the caducei of these literary Mercuries. Again, sift any one of them, with higher pretensions to originality than our economical sheet will admit of, and you shall find it, in quantity, at least, to resemble Gratiano's three grains. But we are not inclined to quarrel with the scheme, for with Johnson we say, "Quotation, sir (Walter), is a good thing," in the hope of hearing our readers reply, "This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons peas."—ED.]

 

Some words passed after the departure, of Robin Oig, between the bailiff, and Harry Wakefield, who was now not indisposed to defend Robin Oig's reputation. But Dame Heskett prevented this second quarrel by her peremptory interference. The conversation turned on the expected markets, and the prices from different parts of Scotland and England, and Harry Wakefield found a chap for a part of his drove, and at a considerable profit; an event more than sufficient to blot out all remembrances of the past scuffle. But there remained one from whose mind that recollection could not have been wiped by possession of every head of cattle betwixt Esk and Eden.

This was Robin Oig M'Combich.—"That I should have had no weapon," he said, "and for the first time in my life!—Blighted be the tongue that bids the Highlander part with the dirk—the dirk—ha! the English blood!—My muhme's word—when did her word fall to the ground?"

Robin now turned the light foot of his country towards the wilds, through which, by Mr. Ireby's report, Morrison was advancing. His mind was wholly engrossed by the sense of injury the treasured ideas of self-importance and self-opinion—of ideal birth and quality, had become more precious to him, (like the hoard to the miser,) because he could only enjoy them in secret. But insulted, abused, and beaten, he was no longer worthy, in his own opinion, of the name he bore, or the lineage which he belonged to—nothing was left to him—but revenge.

When Robin Oig left the door of the ale-house, seven or eight English miles at least lay betwixt him and Morrison, whose advance was limited by the sluggish pace of his cattle. And now the distant lowing of Morrison's cattle is heard; and now he meets them—passes them, and stops their conductor.