The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 338, November 1, 1828

Among the more serious pieces, we notice a beautiful lament of childhood by Mrs. Hemans, and a hymn by Mrs. Opie.

The engravings, twelve in number, with several little wood-cut tail-pieces, are beautifully executed; and altogether, the New Year's Gift deserves a place on the cheffonier shelf of every nursery in the kingdom.

We have received several other "Annuals," which we shall notice in an early Supplementary Number.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

ALBUMS

North. ALBUMS! James—these compendiums of wit and wisdom have become the greatest nuisances of all civilized society–

Shepherd. Tuts, man—what ails ye at Allbums?

North. They have broken that confidence between man and woman, which, in our young day, used to form the delight of an acquaintance with an amiable and accomplished female. In those happy times, how often have we sat in a bright circle of the fair and young, and talked, and laughed, in the gaiety of our careless hearts, without fear or apprehension! But now we are afraid, in the presence of ladies, to give utterance to any thing beyond a remark upon the weather. It is long since we have drilled ourselves to attribute smiles and whispers, and even squeezes of the hand, to their true source. We see an album lurking in every dimple of a young maiden's cheek, and a large folio common-place book, reposing its alexandrine length, in every curve of a dowager's double chin.

Shepherd. Tuts, man! What ails ye at Allbums?

North. No age is free from the infection. We go to a house in the country where there are three unmarried daughters, two aunts, and a grandmother. Complain not of a lack of employment on a rainy morning, in such a domicile and establishment as this. You may depend upon it, that the first patter of rain upon the window is the signal for all the vellum and morocco bound scrap-books to make a simultaneous rush upon the table. Forth comes the grandmother, and pushes an old dingy-coloured volume into your hands, and pointing out a spare leaf, between a recipe for curing corns, and a mixture for the hooping-cough, she begs you to fill it up—with any thing you please.

Shepherd. Weel, weel, man—why canna you oblege the auld body?

North. What right has an old woman, with silver spectacles on her long, thin nose, to enlist any man among the awkward squad which compose her muster roll? Who can derive inspiration from the boney hand, which is coaxingly laid on your shoulder, and trembles, not from agitation or love, but merely from the last attack of the rheumatism?

Shepherd. But young leddies hae their Allbums, too, as weel's auld anes.

North. And even the young ladies, James, presume too much upon their power. Is there no way of getting into their books, but by writing in their albums? Are we to pay for smiles at the rate of so many lines a dimple? If the fair creatures are anxious to shew they can read, let them discover it by the tenor of their conversation, and not by large folios of quotations from books which every body knows; or if they are anxious to shew that they can write, we can tell them they are very wrong in having any such wish. I will put it to any man—are not the pleasantest women of his acquaintance, those to whose handwriting he is the greatest stranger? Did they not think their adored enslaver, who at one time was considered, when they were musing on her charms, beneath some giant tree, within the forest shade, "too fair to worship, too divine to love,"—did they not think her a little less divine, without being a bit more loveable, when they pored over, in her autograph, a long and foolish extract from some dunderhead's poems, with the points all wrong placed, and many of the words misspelt?

Shepherd. Neither points nor spellin's o' the smallest consequence in a copy o' verses.

North. Think of the famous lovers of antiquity, James. Do you think Thisbe kept a scrap-book, or that Pyramus slipped "Lines on Thisbe's Cat" through the celebrated hole-in-the-wall? No such thing. If he had, there would have been as little poetry in his love as in his verses. No man could have had the insolence, not even a Cockney poetaster, to kill himself for love, after having scribbled namby-pambys in a pale-blue, gilt-edged album.

Shepherd. Faith—that's rather a lauchable idea.

North. In every point of view, scrap-books are the death of love. Many a very sensible man can "whisper soft nonsense in a lady's ear," when all the circumstances of the scene are congenial. We ourselves have frequently descended to make ourselves merely the most agreeable man in the world, till we unfortunately discovered that the blockheads who could not comprehend us when we were serious, were still farther from understanding the ineffable beauty of our nonsense; so that in both cases we were the sufferers. They took our elegant badinage for our sober and settled opinions, and laughed in the most accommodating manner when we delivered our real and most matured sentiments.

Blackwood's Magazine

Notes of a Reader

LORD BYRON'S FIRST LOVE.—NEWSTEAD

Sir Richard Phillips who has been for some months on a Tour of Inquiry and Observation through the United Kingdom, has just published his First Part, containing Bedfordshire, Northamptonshire, Leicestershire, and part of Nottinghamshire. Sir Richard visited Newstead, and was hospitably entertained by Colonel Wildman. In his "Notes," on this interesting spot, he says,—"While in this vicinity, I heard many particulars of BYRON'S first love, a passion which tinged the whole of his future life. Near Newstead stands Annesley Hall, a house as considerable and venerable as Newstead itself; and the daughter of the owner, Mr. Chaworth, was an heiress of immense fortune, interesting, and amiable, but about four years older than Byron. He fell in love with her, but she had formed an early attachment for Capt. Musters, of the Nottingham militia, whom she married. After she had some children, she fell into a low state of mind, and separation was the consequence; but, on recovering, she was reunited to her husband, and has since borne him several children. She still lives, but has long been in very infirm health. The affair forms the subject of Lord Byron's justly celebrated Dream, printed with the 'Prisoner of Chillon.'

"From the eastern windows of the southern front of Newstead, all the scenery of the poem is visible, except Annesley Hall, which lies over the cape of which he speaks; but there still are trees, and the high point at which he describes the impassioned interview. I read the poem with the objects before me, and was overpowered by the sympathies and recollections which must be familiar to all men, for most men have felt as Byron felt, though few ever portrayed their feelings with such energy of thought and language.

"Night overtaking me at Newstead, the splendid hospitality of Colonel Wildman was kindly exerted, and he indulged a sentimental traveller by allowing me to sleep in Byron's room and Byron's bed. Those who admire Byron, (and for those who do not, I care but little) will participate in the luxury of such a night. The bed is elegantly surmounted with baronial coronets, but it was Byron's and I cared nothing for the coronets, though all the conveniences of the apartment were delightful.

"I will add to these details a fact which will interest many; that the dog which Lord Byron reared in Greece, and the grandson of Boatswain, having been brought home with his body, is still alive at Newstead, cherished for the sake of his master, and respected for his own good qualities."

We shall return to Sir Richard's "Tour" in our next number; for it possesses extraordinary attractions for all classes of readers.

THE ANNUALS.—THE LITERARY SOUVENIR

One hundred guineas is stated to be the lowest cost of either of the engravings in "the Literary Souvenir for 1829;" some of them, indeed, cost from 150 to 170 guineas each. A circulation of less than from 8 to 9,000 copies, would entail a loss upon the proprietors; so that the expense of "getting up" this superb "Annual" probably exceeds 3,500l.; and taking this sum for the average of six others published at the same price, and with a proportionate advance for two more published at one guinea each, the outlay of capital in these works is from 35 to 40,000l. ⁴ This sum would purchase Five Million numbers of THE MIRROR, or 80 million printed pages, with 10 million impressions of woodcuts!

TRUE CONSOLATION

A citizen of Geneva having lost his wife, he, according to the custom of the country, attended the funeral to the cemetery, which is out of the city. Somebody meeting him on his return from this painful ceremony, assumed a sorrowful countenance, and in the tenderest manner possible, asked him how he did. "Oh," replied the widower, "I am very well at present; this little walk has set me up; there is nothing like country air."

HARD RAIN

Mr. Rae Wilson tells us, that he saw some huge stones of granite on his road to Mecklenburgh, which he says actually seem to have been rained there; in which belief he is strengthened by a story in a Philadelphia newspaper, of "a spitting of stones, which ended in a regular shower at Nashville, in May, 1825!"—There is seldom a good story without its match.

FRENCH PRISON

A recent letter from Paris gives the following account of the Debtors' Prison, compared with which, it seems, our Fleet is a perfect Arcadia:—Each room contains four beds, small, dirty, and damp; so that the eyes of the unfortunate inmates become red and inflamed; not even a window can be shut to keep out a current of air. If a creditor visits a debtor who wishes to be revenged, the latter has only to cry au loup, when all parties assail the unlucky creditor, and perhaps murder him! Gambling is the great resource of the ignorant, so that frequently those who have only a few pence per day to exist on, are obliged to fast entirely, having anticipated their allowance; many even pawn their coats, and walk about en chemise!

NOLLEKENS

When Nollekens, the sculptor, was at Rome, in 1760, he was recognised by Garrick with the familiar exclamation of "What! let me look at you, are you the little fellow to whom we gave the prizes at the Society of Arts?" "Yes, Sir," being the answer, Garrick invited him to breakfast the next morning, and sat to him for his bust, for which he paid Nollekens £12. 12s. in gold; this was the first bust he ever modelled. Sterne sat to him when at Rome, and that bust brought him into great notice.

INDIAN TRADITION

Among the various Indian traditions of the Creation and fall of man is the following:—In the beginning, a few men rose out of the ground, but there was no woman among them. One of them found out a road to heaven, where he met a woman; they offended the Great Spirit, upon which they were both thrust out. They fell on the back of the tortoise; the woman was delivered of male twins; in process of time, one of these twins slew the other.—Dr. Walsh.

THE AGE OF THIRTY

I always looked to about thirty, as the barrier of any real or fierce delight in the passions, and determined to work them out in the younger ore and better veins of the mine; and, I flatter myself, that perhaps, I have pretty well done so, and now the dross is coming, and I love lucre; for we must love something; at least, if I have not quite worked out the others, it is not for want of labouring hard to do so.—Lord Byron, in 1823.

COVENT GARDEN

 
Where holy friars told their beads,
And nuns confess'd their evil deeds.
But, O sad change! O shame to tell,
How soon a prey to vice it fell!
How—since its justest appellation
Is Grand Seraglio to the Nation.
 

Satire, 1756

CROSS TIMES

When everybody was in suspense in consequence of the vacillating conduct of the French government, a gentleman with a determined squint, one day approached Talleyrand, and said to him, "Well, prince, how do affairs go on?" "As you see," replied Talleyrand.

CHANGING HATS

Barry, the painter, was with Nollekens, at Rome, in 1760, and they were extremely intimate. Barry took the liberty one night when they were about to leave the English coffee-house, to exchange hats with him; Barry's was edged with lace, and Nollekens' was a very shabby plain one. Upon his returning the hat the next morning, he was requested by Nollekens to let him know why he left him his gold-laced hat. "Why, to tell you the truth, my dear Joey," answered Barry, "I fully expected assassination last night; and I was to have been known by my laced hat." Nollekens often used to relate the story, adding, "It's what the Old Bailey people would call a true bill against Jem."—Nollekens's Life and Times.

Napoleon's Roman bed at Malmaison was without curtains, and his arms were hung on the walls of the chamber.

LINES WRITTEN ON A JOURNEY OVER THE BROCKEN

BY S.T. COLERIDGE

 
—– I moved on
With low and languid thought, for I had found
That grandest scenes have but imperfect charms
Where the eye vainly wanders, nor beholds