The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 538, March 17, 1832

THE GIPSEY FORTUNE-TELLER

(For the Mirror.)

Augur only happy days,

Gipsey, when thy glancing eye,

Fain would dart its piercing rays,

Through her future destiny.

Life is yet without a shade,

She has gathered flowers alone;

Tell her not, that roses fade,

When the ardent summer's gone.

Sully not her early dream,

With reality's cold hue,

Let her morning brighter seem,

Glittering with the early dew.

Tell her not, that clouds o'ershading,

Rainbows bright will darkly cover;

Tell her not, that quickly fading,

"All that's bright!" ere noon is over.

Tell her not of memory's tear,

And affection's broken chain;

Tell her not, that every year,

Brings but sorrow, care, and pain!

Soon the mist will roll away,

And the soft enchantment fly:

Gipsey, hasten on thy way,

Ne'er unrol her destiny!

Tell her, if thou wilt, that never,

'Neath the skies may be her home,

And if thou that

hope

 hadst ever,

Tell her of a world to come!

Kirton, Lindsey.

ANNE R.

FINE ARTS

THE BRITISH INSTITUTION

(From a Correspondent/)

The admirers of modern painting invariably anticipate much delight prior to the opening of the Exhibition at this institution, and their hopes in the present instance have not been disappointed, as there certainly is a fine display of talent in almost every department of the art. There are nearly six hundred works.

No. 1. Portsmouth, from the King's Bastion; painted by command of his Majesty, by Clarkson Stanfield.

5. The Falconer; a brilliant little picture by A. Fraser.

6. Sabrina, from Milton's Comus; Mr. Etty delineates the female form with peculiar accuracy and delicacy, and in the subject before us he has displayed his usual ability.

28. A Lady of Rank of the fifteenth century taking the Veil; a work of considerable promise by a young artist—S. A. Hart.

30. The Rick Side; beautifully executed by T. Woodward.

47. A Man saved from Shipwreck; this is an interesting subject by Charles Hancock.

Apropos

, this gentleman paints much in the fascinating manner of Mr. Landseer.

61. Entrance to a Village; painted from nature in a pleasing style by C.R. Stanley.

75. Interior of a Highlander's House; E. Landseer, R.A.

248. Distant View of Goderich Church; Copley Fielding.

337. The Recruit; by H. Liversege. The principal group in this picture is treated in the following way: around a table are seated four persons, among whom are two soldiers—being the recruiting sergeant with one of his party. The recruit, a rustic looking youth, has a good deal of expression in his countenance; he seems extremely doubtful concerning the step he has taken, while an interesting young woman, apparently his sister, is fondly endeavouring to dissuade him from it. The sergeant complacently smokes his pipe, and smiles at her solicitude. This is, perhaps, the most unaffected picture in the whole collection, being a remarkably modest representation of nature. The composition is good, and the freedom and delicacy of the execution stands unrivalled.

386. Hunt the Slipper; A.E. Chalon, R.A. In this picture several figures are introduced

seriatim

, engaged at this old English, but now rather unfashionable, game. A little too much vulgarity is displayed, though in other respects the performance is highly praiseworthy.

413. Love the best Physician; painted at Paris by Monsieur Destouches. Although we disapprove of the colouring and some parts of the execution of this work, the subject is very interesting. A young man of fortune, who had fallen in love with a beautiful young girl, becomes sick in consequence of his hopeless passion. The physicians appear to have rendered him no service, and as a last alternative, his friends prevail on the girl to visit him, accompanied by her parents. The deep blushes with which her face is suffused, and her downcast eyes, indicate the violent agitation of her frame; while the sick man, having raised himself in bed, stretches out his arms, and eagerly feasts his eyes on the charming object of his love.—G.W.N.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

SCIENCE OF BURIAL

(From a piquant, rambling paper in Fraser's Magazine.)

We arrived at Otaheite just in time to witness the funeral ceremonies of the pious chief Omaree. He was lying in state at his house above the harbour where we landed, and we were invited to assist at the obsequies. His

viscera

 were removed, and his

remains

, properly speaking, were laid on an elegant palanquin or hanging bier, highly perfumed; around which, and through the apartment, odorous oils were burning. Several of his old friends came to see him, and complimented him highly on the state of his looks and his good condition in various respects. They presented him with numerous and tasteful gifts, which they assured him were sincere tokens of their esteem, and hoped he would accept them as such. Omaree replied by the mouth of an old priest who acted as master of the ceremonies—assuring the good company, in return, that he was "as well as could be expected," felt particularly flattered by the kind attentions of his friends and visiters, and hoped they would make themselves quite at home. "By the hand of my body," exclaimed the captain, sitting down to a bowl of fresh Palmetto wine, and lighting a pipe at the foot-lights, "this is the

dacentest

 wake I ever came across out of Ireland! Noble sir, your good health and snug lying to you!"

After a conversation with Omaree on various interesting topics, his friends and family proposed taking him to see his property in another part of the island: he gratefully assented to the proposition, and requested the good company to avoid fatiguing themselves by travelling too rapidly, as he was in no hurry to leave them. He was then borne in state for some miles, preceded by dancers, singers, knuckle-drummers, strewers of flowers and leaves, &., to a pretty spot by the sea-side, where he had lately made a tobacco-plantation, and which, he remarked, "would be scarce worth the plucking, as he had not been able to attend to it of late;—however, he hoped his venerable and disinterested friend and spiritual comforter, the priest, would accept the crop, such as it was, as a slight testimony of his eternal gratitude." Hereupon the crowd clapped their hands with delight, the singers shouted, the drummers thumped, and the dancers vaulted their admiration of the piety and generosity of Omaree.

Here he was placed in an easy sitting posture, in a commodious arm-chair that commanded a view of the plantation and the Pacific; where, sheltered from the meridian sun by a lofty arbour of the climbing

cobea

 and wild vine tastefully trained through a cluster of cocoa-palms, he was invited to witness a dramatic representation containing incidents which they knew his memory reverted to with pride and pleasure. This drama, in which a great company of performers took part, was carried on with much taste and spirit. The old priest undertook to translate the most interesting passages for my edification (still acting as the mouthpiece of his deceased friend), with the exception of a few "love-passages," as Queen Elizabeth would have called them, the import of which was sufficiently perspicuous without verbal comment.

Whilst remaining at Hayti, I took an excursion, on foot and alone, through the mountains one day, to visit this interesting spot. The ascent to the cavern was steep and toilsome. I was obliged frequently to change my course, and pursue a more lengthened route than what my eye had anticipated; but at length I reached the place, and, pausing a few minutes to rest after my weary journey, struck a light, and, with lantern in hand, entered the awful cave. A large stone had been so placed within the entrance that it might have served for a stopper occasionally. Even in its withdrawn position I passed it with difficulty. "Now," I exclaimed, "I shall behold with my own eyes the aboriginal style of burial in these sacred and almost inaccessible recesses, which that unsatisfactory historian, Ferdinand Colon, was too lazy to inspect with his own eyes, and which his father had never seen in all his hunting-matches. Indeed, I don't think his blood-hounds could climb the ascent to this cave." As I entered, I felt myself treading on bones! I looked around the narrow chamber of death, and every where bones—human bones covered the rocky floor; but no sign of art or trace of religious obsequies rewarded my scrutiny. "Bless me!" said I, "what a journey I have had for nothing! This is merely the ordinary HOTTENTOT-HOLE style, with a stone instead of a thorn-bush to exclude wild beasts!" So I hastened forth, blaming the easy credulity that drank in traditionary tales of aboriginal tombs. At the entrance I found a negro standing, leaning on his musket; a brace of pistols were stuck in his girdle, and a sword hung by his side. I was rather startled, for the man possessed a fierce and threatening aspect, and I was perfectly defenceless. Nevertheless there was are air of manly dignity about him which assured me that he was not likely to be unnecessarily savage.

"Qui vive?"

 demanded he, sternly. I explained my views in coming to this secluded spot. He unbent his dark brow on hearing that I was an Englishman.

"Behold that noble expanse!" said he, changing his tone and language together. "The guileless race whose bones whiten this rocky den once ranged over that lovely landscape in peace and freedom. The white savages came, and were received as brethren. They threw off the mask, and repaid friendship and love with bonds and tortures. The red man was too innocent, and too ignorant, and too feeble, to co-exist under the same sky with the cunning and ferocious white demon—and he retired to his caves to die! His race is extinct, for

he knew not the use of arms

!" He clasped his musket to his breast with emotion, and remained silent. "Who are you that feel so much for the exterminated Haytians?" I inquired. "Their avenger!" he replied, "and the champion of a darker race whose wrongs can never have vengeance enough. Christophe!"

"You shall see the '

Dead men's feast

,'" said Logan. I followed him in silence, till we reached the southern bank of the Ohio, not far from his own residence. The tribe was seated in a beautiful and secluded

prairie

, that just afforded a vista of the river through the cypress swamp between. A number of men and women seemed busily engaged in the decoration of others with belts, beads, and brilliant-coloured garments; and these latter seemed passive or asleep. Logan laid down the load he carried in his blanket, and unwrapped the burden that had so long attracted my attention. "'Tis my grandsire!" said he: "he has only been two years buried:—I have brought him far. Aid me to cleanse the brave old limbs and skull from these worms, that his spirit may rejoice over the feast with his red children. Haste! my father yonder is painted and dressed already."

Before I quitted Kentucky, I made a point of visiting the celebrated and