The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 557, July 14, 1832
TekstTHE PUBLIC JOURNALS
RHYMING RUMINATIONS ON OLD LONDON BRIDGE
Oh! ancient London Bridge,
And art thou done for?
To walk across thee were a privilege
That some unborn enthusiasts would run for.
I have crossed o'er thee many and many a time,
And hold my head the higher for having done it;
Considering it a prime
And rare adventure—worthy of a sonnet
Or little flight in rhyme,
A monody, an elegy, or ode,
Or whatsoever name may be bestowed
On this wild rhapsody of lawless chime—
When I have done it.
How many busy hands, and heads, and hearts—
What quantities of great and little people
As thick as shot;
Some of considerable pride and parts,
And high in their own eyes as any steeple,
Though now forgot!
How many dogs, and sheep, and pigs, and cattle,
How many trays of hot-cross buns and tarts,
How many soldiers ready armed for battle,
How many cabs, and coaches, drags, and carts,
Bearing the produce of a thousand marts,
How many monarchs poor, and beggars proud,
Bishops too humble to be contumacious;
How many a patriot—many a watchman loud—
Lawyers too honest, ay, and thieves too gracious:
In short, how great a number
Of busy men—
As well as thousand loads of human lumber
Have past, old fabric, o'er thee!
How can I then
But heartily deplore thee!
Milton himself thy path has walked along,
That noble, bold, and glorious politician,
That mighty prince of everlasting song!
That bard of heaven, earth, chaos, and perdition!
Poor hapless Spenser, too, that sweet musician
Of faery land,
Has crossed thee, mourning o'er his sad condition,
And leaning upon sorrow's outstretched hand.
Oft, haply, has great Newton o'er thee stalked
So much entranced,
He knew not haply if he ran or walked,
Hopped, waddled, leaped, or danced.
Along thee, too, Johnson has sideways staggered,
With the old wolf inside of him unfed;
And Savage roamed, with visage lean and haggard,
Longing for bread.
And next in note,
Dear worthy Goldsmith with his gaudy coat,
Unheeded by the undiscerning folks;
There Garrick too has sped,
And, light of heart, he cracked his playful jokes—
Yet though he walked, on Foote he cracked them not;
And Steele, and Fielding, Butler, Swift, and Pope—
Who filled the world with laughter, joy, and hope;
And thousands, that throw sunshine on our lot,
And, though they die, can never be forgot.
These comets of their day
Have passed away,
Their dust is now to kindred dust consigned;
Down at death's knees e'en they were forced to bow,
Yet each has left an honour'd name behind—
And so, old bridge, hast thou;
Thou hast outlasted many a generation;
And well nigh to the last looked well and hearty;
Thou hast seen much of civil perturbation,
And hast supported many a different party.
Yet think not I deride:
Many great characters of modern days,
(The worthy vicars of convenient Brays)
Have thought it no disgrace to change their side.
And yet now many a luckless boat,
How many a thoughtless, many a jovial crew,
How many a young apprentice of no note;
How many a maiden fair and lover true—
Have passed down thy Charybdis of a throat,
And gone, Oh! dreadful Davy Jones, to you!
The coroner for Southwark, or the City,
Calling a jury with due form and fuss,
To find a verdict, amidst signs of pity,
In phrase poetic—thus:—
"Found
Drown'd!"
Monthly Magazine.
TRUE STORIES OF MAGIC IN THE EAST
By Charles Macfarlane, Esq
When that enterprising, intelligent, and inquisitive traveller, Mr. R– was travelling in Egypt some few years ago, his curiosity was excited by the extraordinary stories current about magic and magicians, and by degrees, despite of a proper Christian education, he became enamoured of the secret sciences. He even made some advances in them, under proper masters, and would have made more, had he not met an Italian who was supposed to be a proficient in the learning of Egypt. But this worthy bade him look at his worn body, his haggard, harrowed countenance, and awfully warned him, as he valued quiet days, and slumbering nights, to shun the dangerous pursuits in which he had engaged. Mr. R– took his advice, and thought little more of the matter, until some time after when he was staying with his friend Mr. S– at the – consulate at Alexandria. Mr. S– almost as intelligent a gentleman as Mr. R–, had lost some silver spoons, and it was determined perhaps to frighten the servants of the house into confession, or perhaps, (and what is just as likely,) for a frolic and the indulgence of Mr. R–'s well known curiosity, to summon a conjuror, or wise man. There happened to be a famous magician, lately arrived from distant parts of Africa, then at hand, and he came at their call. This man asked for nothing but an innocent boy under ten years of age, a virgin, or a woman quick with child. The first of the three was the easiest to be procured, and a boy was brought in from a neighbouring house, who knew nothing at all of the robbery; in case his age should not be guarantee sufficient, a sort of charm was wrought, which proved to the professor's satisfaction that he was free from sin. The magician then recited divers incantations, drew a circle on the floor, and placed the boy, who was rather frightened, in the middle of the circle. Other incantations were then muttered. The next thing the magician did, was to pour a dark liquid, like ink, into the hollow of the boy's hand; he then burned something which produced a smoke like incense, but bluer and thicker, and then he desired the boy to look into the palm of his hand, and to tell him what he saw. The boy did as he was bid, but said he saw nothing. The magician bade him look again; this second time the boy started back in terror, and said he saw in the palm of his hand a man with a bundle. "Look again," said the magician, "and tell me what there is in the bundle."
"I cannot see," said the boy, renewing the investigation, "but stop," he added after a moment, "there's a hole in the handkerchief, and I see the ends of some silver spoons peeping out!"
"Look again—look again, and tell me what you see."
"He is running away between my fingers!" replied the boy.
"Before he goes describe his dress, person, and countenance."
The boy looked again into his hand.
"Ay, tell us how he is dressed," cried Mr. S–, who had become more than half serious, and anxious to know who had purloined his spoons.
The boy turned his head immediately and said,
"He is gone!"
"To be sure he is," said the necromancer angrily, "the Christian gentleman has destroyed the spell; tell us how he was dressed?"
"The man with a bundle had on a Frank coat and a Frank hat," said the boy unhesitatingly—and here his revelations ended.
Though much mollified at the interruption of which he had been the cause, Mr. S– had the satisfaction to learn that his plate had not been stolen by an unbelieving Egyptian or Arab, but by a Christian and a Frank, and, with his friend Mr. R– to enjoy the conviction, that in the singular scene they had witnessed there could be no collusion, as the innocent boy (they were certain) had never seen the necromancer until summoned to the – consulate to make a looking-glass of his hand.
Some recent French publication has trumped up a story about Bonaparte and the magicians, when that extraordinary man was in Egypt, and separated from the fair Josephine, who was then, though his wife, supposed to be the object of his amorous affections; and they make the conqueror—the victor of the battle of the Pyramids, turn pale, and then yellow with jealousy, at the revelations which were made to him by the wise men of Egypt. But besides the characters of Napoleon and of Josephine, I have other grounds (not necessary to explain here) for believing that the whole of this incident, is but a parody of the following well known story.
An honest Neapolitan trader who happened to be for some months on the coast of Africa, about Tunis, and in Egypt, became all at once anxious to know something of the proceedings of a buxom wife he had left behind him at the town of the Torre del Greco, not far from the city of Naples, and was persuaded one night to consult the magicians.
An innocent boy was procured, as usual, who, when the charm began to work, said he saw a woman in a blue jacket that had a great deal of gold lace upon it, in a bright yellow robe of very ample dimensions, with a necklace of coral round her neck, immense earrings to her ears, and a long silver thing, shaped like an arrow, thrust through her hair which was much bundled on the top of her head. In short he described most accurately the gala dress of the Neapolitan's cara sposa, and afterwards her features to the very turn of her nose. She was then kneeling by the side of a box, in which was seated a man in black, fast asleep. The Neapolitan knew this must be the confessional.
When told to look again, the scene was changed to a very large and curious house, such as the seer had never seen, all crowded with people, and dazzling to the eye from an immensity of gilding and wax-lights. This the Neapolitan knew must mean the theatre of San Carlo, the paradise of his countrymen, but he never could fancy his wife should be there in his absence. She was though, for presently the boy said, "And there I see the woman in the blue jacket, with a man in a red coat whispering into her ear." "The devil!" muttered the Neapolitan to himself.
"Look again! and tell me what you see now," said the magician.
"I can hardly see at all," replied the boy, looking into the palm of his hand very closely, "it is so dark; but now I see a long street, and a large building with iron gratings, and more than a dozen skulls stuck at one corner of it, and a little farther on I see a large wide gate, and beyond it a long road; and now I see the woman in the blue, and the man in the red jacket, turning down the second street to the left of the road, and now there is an old woman opening * * *"
"I will hear no more!" bawled the Neapolitan, who had heard but too correctly described the approach to the "stews" of Naples: and he struck the boy's hand with such violence against his face that it flattened his nose.
The charm was thus dissolved; but the correctness of the magician's revelation was tolerably well corroborated, when some time after the Neapolitan suddenly appeared at his home at the Torre del Greco, and learned that his wife had disappeared with a corporal of the guards.