The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 375, June 13, 1829

ROAD-BOOK OF FRANCE

People who are bound for the Continent should provide themselves with the new edition of Mr. Leigh's descriptive Road Book of France—even before they get their passports at the French ambassador's, or if they only intend to visit Calais, Boulogne, or Dieppe—and the chances are that they will be induced to travel beyond these places, which, in truth, give an Englishman no more idea of France than Dovor would afford a foreigner of England. A few years since, comparatively speaking, people only knew their way from York to London, much less the objects on the road—now, by the economy of guide books they may know every good inn in France, and carry the ichnography of the kingdom in their coat pocket. In the present edition of the "Road Book of France," attention has been paid to the description of the delightful South, especially of Bordeaux, the mineral springs and bathing-places of the Pyrenees, the navigation of the Rhone from Lyons to Avignon, as well as of Marseilles, Toulouse, &c., and some of the principal towns have been illustrated with plans. Dipping into the Itinerary from Calais to Paris, we were reminded of a curious coincidence: Julius Caesar is supposed to have sailed from Boulogne on his expedition against the Britons; and in later times, Napoleon Bonaparte there prepared to carry into execution the invasion of Great Britain. But how different have been the results!

JOURNEY FROM THE BANK TO BARNES

A lively volume with many shreds of wit and humour, and occasional patches of "righte merrie conceite," has just fallen into our hands, and has afforded us some very pleasant reading. There is fun in the very title, "Personal Narrative of a Journey overland from the Bank to Barnes, &c. with some account of the Regions east of Kensington. By an Inside Passenger. With a Model for a Magazine, being the product of the Author's sojourn at the village of Barnes, during five rainy days." The author is a shrewd, clever fellow, who loves a little raillery on the follies of the day, and joins with our friend, Popanilla in deploring the present artificial state of society; therefore, suppose we give a few flying extracts from his tour, premising that the good people of the little villages through which he passed, are not aware of what good things he has said of them; for his little book would suit every parlour window from Hyde Park Corner to Barnes.

Brentford

The ancient and nearly deserted barony of Brentford still contains, in its monuments and antiquities, vestiges of former splendour. The horse-trough opposite the "Bell and Feathers" is to the antiquarian a most particularly interesting morceau; the verdure of age has defaced it in part, but enough still remains to prove that our ancestors had made no mean proficiency in the rustic style of architecture. The reservoir, which contains the sparkling element so grateful to that noble animal, is modelled from the celebrated sarcophagus in the British Museum; and the posts which support it are evidently Doric. On the outside of it are several nearly obliterated specimens of carving, as well as drawings in chalk.

Nearly parallel with the horse-trough, as you go down "Maud's Rents," is that useful, and indeed indispensible, triumph of hydraulics, the pump. The taste and science displayed in its execution do credit to the engineer; and the soil in which it is imbedded, being argillaceous, partially encrusted with strontian, reflects equal honour on his geological attainments. This pump, which you approach by three steps, is perpendicular, and of an elegant appearance; and forms the chief ornament of the "Rents." The handle is of wrought iron, highly polished; the snout copper, studded with hobnails. It is neatly coated with white paint, and bears on its front the following inscription, which I have copied for the gratification of the curious in antiquarian research.

This Pump was erected,

and Well sunk,

A.D. 1824,

from the proceeds of a Charity Sermon,

preached

in the Parish Church

of this Parish,

by his Grace the Bishop

of Bath and Wells.

Peter Broddupp,

Overseer,

Slingsby Stygle, and John Moles,

Churchwardens.

N.B. Whoever washes Fish at this Pump

will be prosecuted.

I cannot take leave of this interesting town without noticing the church. It is surmounted by a neat steeple, cut in wood, in the pointed style of architecture; on the top of which is a goodly key, to indicate the wind,—which, the inhabitants remark, has blown due south for the last ten years. The porch, which is a curious specimen of the Maeso-Gothic, is rather hurt by the simplicity of the scrapers, which, being merely segments of iron hoops, do not harmonize with the otherwise elaborate approach.

Tossbury

The demesne of Tossbury (by Camden written Tossbery) was anciently a grant in feoffment to the College of Physicians by King John. On the spot now occupied by the burial grounds formerly stood their college; and here they flourished until the population, originally abundant, diminished so alarmingly, as to induce them to remove to Warwick Lane.

Mr. P. (the landlord of the inn,) ever ready to shew his guests what at that village are esteemed great curiosities, was indefatigable in explaining the various instances in which he has made science subservient to utility. The staircase, as far as the great dining-room, he has, at considerable expense, macadamized; which, provided it is kept well watered, and scrapers attached to the chamber-doors, our worthy host assured us, was infinitely preferable to marble. He begged us to be under no apprehension as to the dampness of our beds, as they were warmed by a steam-apparatus of his own contrivance. He always keeps a Leyden jar, about the size of a boiler, ready charged, wherewith he kills geese, turkeys, and even lamb; which, he affirms, is a much less shocking method of neutralizing the vital spark than the vulgar butchery of twisting and sticking. He has lost three of his fingers, through incautiously handling a self-acting rat-trap of his own construction; and had his left eye blown out, while investigating the exact interval between combustion and explosion.

I found a difference of about half an hour between the dial of Putney Church and my watch, which a young gentleman "intended for one of the universities" accounted for from difference of latitude. He likewise explained a phenomenon, which rather startled us, near Kew. We saw about half-a-dozen cows galloping furiously towards the river's brink; flirting their tails, and, indeed, conducting themselves with a vivacity perfectly inconsistent with the acknowledged sobriety of that useful animal. He calmed our apprehensions, by informing us they were intended for the East Indies. Every other day they are fed with best rock-salt, instead of green-meat; which, by chemical agency, renders them fat and fit to be killed, and sent on ship-board at a moment's notice; the trouble and delay of salting down being totally unnecessary. These cows, he assured us, had just finished their thirst-inducing meal.

Near Hill's boat-shed is the patent Philanthropical Hay-tosser, a stupendous machine, invented expressly to prevent the degradation and slavery to which thousands of our fellow men are subjected during hay-harvest. It must gratify every friend to the amelioration of his species to learn, that the humane intention of the inventer is likely to be realized, as there are already three thousand Irishmen out of employ.

Here we must halt with our tourist. The result of his lucubrations at Barnes—a Model for a Magazine will be found very serviceable to all prospectus writers, and furnish skeleton articles for a whole volume. We have been amused with the pleasantries of the author, and in return we thank him, and recommend his little book to our readers.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

CLASSICAL CORRECTIONS

 
In a neat little cottage, some five miles from town,
Lived a pretty young maiden, by name Daphne Brown,
Like a butterfly, pretty and airy:
In a village hard by lived a medical prig,
With a rubicund nose, and a full-bottomed wig,
Apollo, the apothecary.
 
 
He, being crop sick of his bachelor life,
Resolved, in his old days, to look for a wife—
(Nota bene—Thank Heaven, I'm not married):
He envied his neighbours their curly-poled brats,
(All swarming, as if in a village of Pats,)
And sighed that so long he had tarried.
 
 
Having heard of fair Daphne, the village coquette,
As women to splendour were never blind yet,
He resolved with his grandeur to strike her;
So he bought a new buggy, where, girt in a wreath,
Were his arms, pills, and pestle—this motto beneath—
"Ego opifer per orbem dicor."
 
 
To the village he drove, sought young Daphne's old sire,
Counted gold by rouleaus, and bank notes by the quire,
And promised the old buck a share in't,
If his daughter he'd give—for the amorous fool
Thought of young ladies' hearts and affections the rule
Apparently rests with a parent.
 
 
Alas! his old mouth may long water in vain,
Who tries by this method a mistress to gain—
A miss is the sure termination:
For a maiden's delight is to plague the old boy,
And to think sixty-five not the period for joy;
Alas! all the sex are vexation.
 
 
Daphne Brown had two eyes with the tenderest glances!
Her brain had been tickled by reading romances,
And those compounds of nonsense called novels,
Where Augustus and Ellen, or fair Isabel,
With Romeo, in sweet little cottages dwell:
Sed meo periclo, read hovels.
 
 
She had toiled through Clarissa; Camilla could quote;
Knew the raptures of Werter and Charlotte by rote;
Thought Smith and Sir Walter ecstatic;
And as for the novels of Miss Lefanu,
She dog's-eared them till the whole twenty looked blue;
And studied 'The Monk' in the attic.
 
 
When her sire introduced our Apollo, he found
The maiden in torrents of sympathy drowned—
"Floods of tears" is too trite and too common:
Her eyes were quite swelled—her lips pouting and pale;
For she just had been reading that heartbreaking tale,
"Annabelle, or the Sufferings of Woman."
 
 
Apollo, I'll swear, had more courage than I,
To accost a young maid with a drop in her eye;
I'd as soon catch a snake or a viper:
She, while wiping her tears, gives Apollo some wipes;
And when a young lady has set up her pipes,
Her lover will soon pay the piper.
 
 
Papa locked her up—but the very next night,
With a cornet of horse, the young lady took flight;
To Apollo she left this apology—
"That, were she to spend with an old man her life,
She would gain, by the penance she'd bear as a wife,
A place in the next martyrology."
 
 
Apollo gave chase, but was destined to fail;
The female had safely been lodged in the mail,
Now flying full speed to the borders;
So the doctor, compelled his sad fate to endure,
Came back to his shop, commissioned to cure
All disorders but Cupid's disorders.
 

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