The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 382, July 25, 1829
TekstNOTES OF A READER
THE QUARTERLY REVIEW
No. 81, of this truly excellent work had not reached us in time for the close reading which it demands, and our "Notes" from it at present are consequently few. The first in the number is a powerful paper on Dr. Southey's Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society—"a beautiful book," says the reviewer, "full of wisdom and devotion—of poetry and feeling; conceived altogether in the spirit of other times, such as the wise men of our own day may scoff at, but such as Evelyn, or Isaak Walton, or Herbert would have delighted to honour." The work is in general too polemical and political for our pages; but we may hereafter be tempted to carve out a few pastoral pictures of the delightful country round Keswick, where Dr. Southey resides. The present Review contains but few extracts to our purpose, and is rather a paper on the spirit of the Colloquies, than analytical of their merits. We take, for example, the following admirable passage on the progress of religious indifference; in which we break off somewhat hastily, premising that the reader will be induced to turn to the Review itself for the remainder of the article:—
There was a time, since the worship of images, (and happy would it have been if the religious habits of the country had thenceforth stood fixed,) when appropriate texts adorned the walls of the dwelling-rooms, and children received at night a father's blessing;—and "let us worship God" was said with solemn air, by the head of the household; and churches were resorted to daily; and "the parson in journey" gave notice for prayers in the hall of the inn—"for prayers and provender," quoth he, "hinder no man;" and the cheerful angler, as he sat under the willow-tree, watching his quill, trolled out a Christian catch. "Here we may sit and pray, before death stops our breath;" and the merchant (like the excellent Sutton, of the Charter House) thought how he could make his merchandize subservient to the good of his fellow-citizens and the glory of his God, and accordingly endowed some charitable, and learned, and religious foundation, worthy of the munificence of a crowned head; and the grave historian (Lord Clarendon himself does so) chose a text in his Bible as a motto for his chapter on politics; and religion, in short, reached unto every place, and, like Elisha stretched on the dead child, (to use one of Jeremy Taylor's characteristic illustrations), gave life and animation to every part of the body politic. But years rolled on; and the original impulse given at the Reformation, and augmented at the Rebellion, to undervalue all outward forms, has silently continued to prevail, till, with the form of godliness, (much of it, up doubt, objectionable, but much of it wholesome), the power in a considerable degree expired too.
Accordingly, our churches are now closed in the week-days, for we are too busy to repair to them; our politicians crying out, with Pharaoh, "Ye are idle, ye are idle; therefore would ye go and do sacrifice to the Lord." Our cathedrals, it is true, are still open; but where are the worshippers? Instead of entering in, the citizen avails himself of the excellent clock which is usually attached to them, sets his watch, and hastens upon 'Change, where the congregation is numerous and punctual, and where the theological speculations are apt to run in Shylock's vein pretty exclusively. If a church will answer, then, indeed, a joint-stock company springs up; and a church is raised with as much alacrity, and upon the same principles, as a play-house. The day when the people brought their gifts is gone by. The "solid temples," that heretofore were built as if not to be dissolved till doomsday, have been succeeded by thin emaciated structures, bloated out by coats of flatulent plaster, and supported upon cast-metal pegs, which the courtesy of the times calls pillars of the church. The painted windows, that admitted a dim religious light, have given place to the cheap house-pane and dapper green curtain. The front, with its florid reliefs and capacious crater, has dwindled into a miserable basin.
AN ARTIST'S FAME
Painter. Let none call happy one whose art's deep source
They know not—or what thorny paths he trode
To reach its dazzling goal!
Marquis. What dost thou mean?
Painter. I'll seek a simile—Some gorgeous cloud
Oft towers in wondrous majesty before ye—
It bathes its bosom in pure ether's flood,
Evening twines crowns of roses for its head,
And for its mantle weaves a fringe of gold;
Ye gaze on it admiring and enchanted—
Yet know not whence its airy structure rose!
If it breathe incense from some holy altar,
Or earth-born vapours from the teeming soil,
When rain from Heav'n descends—if fiery breath
Of battle, or the darkly rolling smoke
Of conflagration, thus its giant towers
Pile on the sky—ye care not, but enjoy
Its form and glory,—Thus it is with art!
Whether 'twere born amid the sunny depths
Of a glad heart entranced in mutual love—
Or, likelier far, alas! the sorrowing child
Of restless anguish, and baptized in tears—
Or wrung from Genius even amid the throes
Of worse than death—Ye gaze and ye admire,
Nor pause to ask what it hath cost the heart
That gave it being!
Blackwood's Magazine.
Romance is ever readier
To make unbidden sacrifice, than rear
The sober edifice of mutual bliss!
Ibid.
TRUE PATRIOTISM
Promote religion—protect public morals—repress vice and infidelity—keep the different classes of the community in strict subordination to each other—and cherish the principles, feelings, and habits, which give stability, beauty, and happiness to society.
Descend from the clouds of political economy, and travel in safety on your mother earth; cast away the blinding spectacles of the philosophers, and use the eyes you have received from nature. Practise the vulgar principles, that it is erroneous to ruin immense good markets, to gain petty bad ones—that you cannot carry on losing trade—that you cannot live without profit—and that you cannot eat without income. And pule no more about individual economy, but eat, and drink, and enjoy yourselves, like your fathers. What! in these days of free trade, to tell the hypochondriacal Englishman that the foaming tankard, the honest bottle of port, and the savoury sirloin, must be prohibited articles! You surely wish us to hang and drown ourselves by wholesale.—Ibid.
THE FORGET-ME-NOT
The following account of the origin of the name "Forget-me-not," is extracted from Mill's History of Chivalry, and was communicated to that work by Dr. A.T. Thomson:—"Two lovers were loitering on the margin of a lake on a fine summer's evening, when the maiden espied some of the flowers of Myosòtis growing on the water, close to the bank of an island, at some distance from the shore. She expressed a desire to possess them, when the knight, in the true spirit of chivalry, plunged into the water, and swimming to the spot, cropped the wished for plant, but his strength was unable to fulfill the object of his achievement, and feeling that he could not regain the shore, although very near it, he threw the flowers upon the bank, and casting a last affectionate look upon his lady-love, he cried 'Forget me not!' and was buried in the waters."—Gardener's Magazine.
HOME
Leonhard. See here what spacious halls: how all around
Us breathes magnificence!
Spinarosa. A princely pile!
But ah! how nobler far its daring site!
It rears its tow'rs amid these rocks and glaciers,
As if proud man were in his might resolved
To add his rock to those that spurn the vale.
Leon. All here is beautiful! but 'tis not home!
'Tis true I was a child scarce eight years old
When led by Pietro into Italy—
Yet are my home's green lineaments as fresh
As when first painted on my infant soul;
This castle bears them not.—My home lay hid
In the deep bosom of gigantic oaks,
That o'er its roof their guardian shadows flung.
Nor towers, nor gates, nor pinnacles, were there;
With lowly thatch and humble wicket graced,
Smiling, yet solitary, did it stand.
Blackwood's Magazine.
IRISH SONGS
It is impossible to conceive any trash more despicable than the slang songs which are current amongst the common people in Ireland; and this is the more to be lamented, as the extreme susceptibility of the people makes them liable to be easily moved to either good or evil by their songs. Even the native Irish songs, as we are informed in Miss Brooke's Reliques of Irish Poetry, are sadly interpolated with nonsensical passages, which have been introduced to supply the place of lost or forgotten lines; and of humorous lyrical poetry, she says there was none in the language worth translating. Moore has given to the beautiful airs of Ireland beautiful words; but Moore is a poet for ladies and gentlemen, not for mankind. It may be, that there are not materials in Ireland, for a kindred spirit to that of Burns to work upon; but the fact is but too true, that the poor Irishman has no song of even decent ability, to cheer his hours of merriment, or soothe the period of his sadness. Honour and undying praise be upon the memory of Burns, who has left to us those songs which, like the breath of nature, from whose fresh inspiration they were caught, are alike refreshing to the monarch and the clown!—Ibid.