The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 374, June 6, 1829

OLD CHARING CROSS

This is one of the celebrated memorials of the affection of Edward I. for his beloved Elinor, being the cross erected on the last spot on which the body rested in the way to Westminster Abbey, the place of sepulture. This and all the other crosses were built after the designs of Cavilini; and all of them were destroyed by the zeal of the Reformers.

Our illustration is from an engraving copied from a print found in a mutilated genealogy published in 1602, relative to the Stuart family, in which were portraits of James I. and family, and a print of Old St. Paul's. Pennant, speaking of Old Charing Cross, says "from a drawing communicated to me by Dr. Combe, it was octagonal, and in the upper stage had eight figures; but the Gothic parts were not rich." The above print differs from this drawing, yet it was evidently intended to represent the same subject, "Charing Cross" being engraved at the bottom.

The site of the cross is now occupied by the Equestrian Statue of Charles I. in which the figure and symmetry of the horse are beautifully displayed. Indeed, it is said to be the most finished piece of workmanship of the kind ever produced: that of Marcus Aurelius, or the two horses on the Monte Cavallo, or Quirino at Rome not excepted.

NOTES OF A READER

ODD MISTAKE

Judge Hall says, "I once travelled through Illinois when the waters were high; and when I was told that Little Mary would stop me, and that to get by Big Mary was impossible, I supposed them to be attractive damsels, who, like beauteous Circe of old, amused themselves with playing tricks upon travellers. But, lo! instead of blushing, blooming, and melodious maids, I found torrents cold as ice, and boisterous as furies. Mary is too sweet a name to be thus profaned."

FIGHT IN A CHURCH

Among the ecclesiastical anecdotes of the age of the Commonwealth, is a tradition still current at Bishop's Middleham, concerning their intrusive vicar, John Brabant. He was a soldier in Cromwell's army; but preferring the drum ecclesiastic to the drum military, he came with a file of troops to Middleham, to eject the old vicar. The parishioners made a good fight on the occasion, and succeeded in winning the pulpit, which was the key of the position, for their proper minister; but Brabant made a soldierly retreat into the chancel, mounted the altar, and there preached, standing, with a brace of horse-pistols at his side. Right, however, had little chance when Might ruled; and the old vicar, who had held the living forty years, was ejected.

SPANISH AND ITALIAN REFUGEES

A pretty little "Garland of Miscellaneous Poems" has just been published by one of our occasional correspondents,² for the Benefit of the Spanish and Italian Refugees. These poems are gracefully written, independent of the interest they ought to awaken from the profits of the sale being appropriated to a benevolent purpose. We subjoin an extract—

THE FIELD OF BANNOCKBURN

 
A fearful form from Stirling's tower
Was dimly seen to bend;
He look'd as though, 'mid fate's far hour,
Some mighty woe he kenn'd.
White was his hair, and thin with age,
One hand was raised on high,
The other ope'd the mystic page
Of human destiny.
And oft, ere shone the moon's pale ray,
His eyes were seen to turn
Where, in the gloomy distance, lay
The plain of Bannockburn.
 
 
And fair uprose the queen of night,
Shining o'er mount and main;
Ben Lomond own'd her silvery light,
Forth sparkled bright again.
Fair, too, o'er loyal Scoone she shone,
For there the Bruce had kneel'd,
And, half forgetful, look'd she down
On Falkirk's fatal field.
For ere to-morrow's sun shall set,
Stern Edward's self shall learn
A lesson pride may ne'er forget,
Where murmurs Bannockburn.
 
 
A voice is heard from Stirling's tower,
'Tis of that aged seer,
The lover leaves his lady's bower,
Yet chides her timid tear.
The infant wakes 'mid wild alarms,
Prayers are in vain outpour'd;
The bridegroom quits his bride's fond charms,
And half unsheaths his sword.
Yet who may fate's dark power withstand,
Or who its mandate spurn?
And still the seer uplifts his hand
And points to Bannockburn.
 
 
"There waves a standard o'er the brae,
There gleams a highland sword;
Is not yon form the Stewart, say,—
Yon, Scotland's Martial Lord?
Douglas, with Arran's stranger chief,
And Moray's earl, are there;
Whilst drops of blood, for tears of grief,
The coming strife declare.
Oh! red th' autumnal heath-bells blow
Within thy vale, Strathearne;
But redder far, ere long, shall glow
The flowers of Bannockburn!
 
 
"Alas! for Edward's warrior pride,
For England's warrior fame;
Alas! that e'er from Thames' fair side
Her gallant lances came!
Lo! where De Bohun smiles in scorn,—
The Bruce, the Bruce is near!
Rash earl, no more thy hunter horn
Shall Malvern's blue hills hear!
Back, Argentine, and thou, De Clare,
To Severn's banks return
Health smiles in rural beauty there,—
Death lours o'er Bannockburn!
 
 
"Up, up, De Valence, dream no more
Of Mothven's victor fight—
Thy bark is on a stormier shore,
No star is thine to-night.
And thou, De Burgh, from Erin's isle,
Whom Eth O'Connor leads,
Love's tear shall soon usurp his smile
In Ulster's emerald meads.
But oh! what tears will Cambria shed
When she the tale shall learn—
For Forth's full tide shall flow blood red,
Ere long, from Bannockburn!
 
 
"But not alone shall Southron vale
Lament that day of woe—
Grief's sigh shall soothe each ruder gale
Where Scotia's waters flow.
From Corra Linn, where roars the Clyde,
To Dornoch's ocean bay—
From Tweed, that rolls a neutral tide,
To lonely Colinsay:—
But see, the stars wax faint and few,
Death's frown is dark and stern—
But darker soon shall rise to view
Yon field of Bannockburn!"
 

RIVER MELODIES

Between Pittsburgh and Shawneetown, whilst "gliding merrily down the Ohio" in a keel-boat, "navigated by eight or ten of those half-horse and half-alligator gentry commonly called Ohio boatmen," Judge Hall was lulled to sweet sleep, as the rowers were "tugging at the oar," timing their strokes to the cadence:—

 
"Some rows up, but we rows down,
All the way to Shawnee town:
Pull away—pull away."
 

REAL DISCONTENT

The following anecdote is related of Robert de Insula, or Halieland, a man of low birth, and one of the bishops of Durham:—Having given his mother an establishment suitable to his own rank, and asking her once, when he went to see her, how she fared, she answered, "Never worse!"—"What troubles thee?" said the bishop; "hast thou not men and women enough to attend thee?"—"Yea," quoth the old woman, "and more than enough! I say to one—go, and he runs; to another—come hither, fellow! and the varlet falls down on his knees;—and, in short, all things go on so abominably smooth, that my heart is bursting for something to spite me, and pick a quarrel withal!" The ducking-stool may have been a very needful piece of public furniture in those days, when it was deemed one characteristic of a notable housewife to be a good scold, and when women of a certain description sought, in the use of vituperation, that sort of excitement which they now obtain from a bottle and a glass.

The magnificent bishop of Durham, Antony Beke, once gave forty shillings for as many fresh herrings; and hearing someone say, "This cloth is so dear that even bishop Antony would not venture to pay for it," immediately ordered it to be brought and cut up into horse-cloths.

SOLIMAN "THE GREAT."

Here is a specimen of the magnificence with which this historical butcher treated his fellow-creatures:—

Among the many distinctions of Soliman's reign must be noticed the increased diplomatic intercourse with European nations. Three years after the capture of Rhodes, appeared the first French ambassador at the Ottoman Porte; he received a robe of honour, a present of two hundred ducats, and, what was more to his purpose, a promise of a campaign in Hungary, which should engage on that side the arms of Charles and his brother, Ferdinand. Soliman kept his promise. At the head of 100,000 men and 300 pieces of artillery, he commenced this memorable campaign. On the fatal field of Mohacs the fate of Hungary was decided in an unequal fight. King Lewis, as he fled from the Turkish sabres, was drowned in a morass. The next day the sultan received in state the compliments of his officers. The heads of 2,000 of the slain, including those of seven bishops and many of the nobility, were piled up as a trophy before his tent. Seven days after the battle, a tumultuous cry arose in the camp to massacre the prisoners and peasants—and in consequence 4,000 men were put to the sword. The keys of Buda were sent to the conqueror, who celebrated the Feast of Bairam in the castle of the Hungarian kings. Fourteen days afterwards he began to retire—bloodshed and devastation marking the course of his army. To Moroth, belonging to the Bishop of Gran, many thousands of the people had retired with their property, relying on the strength of the castle; the Turkish artillery, however, soon levelled it, and the wretched fugitives were indiscriminately butchered. No less than 25,000 fell here; and the whole number of the Hungarians destroyed in the barbarous warfare of this single campaign amounted to at least 200,000 souls.—Foreign Quarterly Review.