The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 577, July 7, 1827

 
Of all save those which touch upon the round
Of the day's palpable doings, the vain man,
And oftener still the volatile woman vain,
Is busiest at heart with restless cares,
Poor pains and paltry joys, that make within
Petty yet turbulent vicissitude."
 

NEW BOOKS

LEGENDS OF THE LIBRARY AT LILIES. BY THE LORD AND LADY THERE

[These are two volumes of tales and sketches from the pens of Lord and Lady Nugent, whose literary recreations have not unfrequently graced the fair pages of our Annuals. They are ushered in by a few pleasant words "by way of advertisement," describing in four pages the delights of his Lordship's rural retirement at Lilies, in Buckinghamshire; and this portion of the work is so inviting that we quote it.]

If you would place yourself just midway between the three seas which form the boundaries of southern England, you shall find yourself on a small knoll, covered with antique elm, walnut, and sycamore trees, which rises out of a vale famous in all time for the natural fertility of its soil, and the moral virtues of its people. On this knoll, fitly called by our ancestors "the Heart of South Britain," stood, distant about half a mile from each other, two monasteries, known by the flowery appellatives of Lilies and Roses; not unaptly setting forth a promise of all that can recommend itself as fair and sweet unto the gentler senses. These edifices have, for many centuries, been no more; but, on the site of the first mentioned of the two, standeth a small mansion, of Tudor architecture, bearing still its ancient name. Of the monastery little memorial, beyond the name, remains; save only that under a small enclosed space, erewhile its cemetery, now a wilderness of flowers, the bones of the monks repose. Two lines of artificial slope to the westward mark the boundaries of the pleasaunce, where they took their recreation, and cultivated their lentils and fruits; and a range of thickly-walled cellar still retains the same destination and office as when it furnished to those holy men their more generous materials of refection.

What more shall be said of the mansion, or of the domain, full seventy statute acres, which surrounds it?—of the herds and flocks content to thrive in silence on the richness of its fields, and thrive they do in wondrous measure of prosperity? Nothing.—Nor much of that more gamesome troop of idle steeds, though pleasant to their master's eve, who, on its green expanse, frisk and gambol out a sportive colthood, or graze and hobble through a tranquil old age, with the active and laborious honours of a public life past, but not forgotten. Little shall be said of that smooth and narrow pool, scarce visible among the rising shrubs which belt in and shroud the grounds from the incurious wayfarer; or of such carp and tench as, having escaped the treacherous toils of the nightly plunderer, gasp and tumble on its surface, delighting to display their golden pride in the mid-day sun, before the gaze of lawful possession. Nor shall the casual reader be led carelessly and wearily to note the many sweet memorials of private friendship, records of the living and the dead, which, standing forth from amid the lightsome glades and leafy shadows around, make the place sacred to many a strong affection. Romantic the scenery without is not, and for spacious halls and gorgeous canopies the eye may search in vain within. But for the warm cheer of the little oak library,—for the quaint carvings, the tracery of other times, which abound therein,—for the awful note of the blood-hound, baying upon his midnight chain,—and the pleasing melancholy of the hooting owl from his hereditary chamber in the roof,—and for the tunefulness of the cooing wood-quests, and the morning rooks which bustle and caw, and of the high winds that pipe and roar, daily and nightly, through the boughs,—and for the deep glossy verdure of the pastures stretching forth to the brave distant hills which fence the vale,—to those, who in such things take delight, Lilies hath still its charms.

From the fireside of the afore-mentioned little oak library the following legends proceed.

[Few of the pieces fall under the denomination of "Legends," if we except "the Feast of alle Deuiles, an ancient ballad;" "the Costly Dague;" "the Ladye's Counselloure;" and "the Dole of Tichborne;" which are in the quaint olden style. Throughout the other papers there is a pleasant spice of dry humour and knowledge of character, intermixed with a few touches of pathos, and a nice perception of the finest affections: now, with these various characteristics, the legends must prove attractive and amusing. We have only space to quote briefly from one of the most desultory of the papers—an ingenious one, on "Solecisms in Language."]

"Is it your pleasure," now and then asks a dentist, "is it your pleasure to have your tooth out to-day?"

"I do not care a pin," is a very ordinary figure of speech, but of doubtful propriety; for one's indifference, it appears to me, must very much depend on the position of the pin. In the cushion of one's chair, for instance, it is absolutely disagreeable, and what one should care very much about.

The word "poor" is an epithet in very common misuse. It is often brought into play, especially in its plaintive sense, in situations, where, poor thing, it scarcely knows itself, and where there is not the slightest provocation to account for the use of it. It is degraded to the condition of a mere expletive; and, where there is a real good call for it, how often is it thrust upon the wrong person, the one who, were he consulted, would disclaim all compassion.

"Poor Mr. –, only think of him, poor fellow! How very odd! I believe he was not in joke. He told me a distant connection of his, of another name, whom he never knew till after he heard that the thing happened, who had been transported to New South Wales a matter of sixteen years ago, is to be hanged to-morrow, by way of a secondary punishment, for coming back from transportation."

The audience were profuse in their repetition of the epithet—generous to excess in the free gift of it to Mr. –. They did not happen to consider it applicable to him who, for an unlawful love of native country, was to undergo a violent and disgraceful death.

This, to be sure, might be attributed to the feeling that so many good regular people have, that it is highly blameable to pity any man who suffers capitally for a breach of the law; that it would be, in some sort, to question the justice of the laws themselves. And the ten or a dozen honest souls that formed the company were probably so good themselves as to be justly scandalized at the notion of holding so much communion with guilt, as to sympathize with it in its sufferings. But I believe, after all, it was rather a flow of idiom than an effort of principle.

Mr. Small, a farmer, well to do in –shire, fell ill of an acute and dangerous disorder. (By the by, every one was anxious to know if "poor" Mrs. Small's husband was better.) He died,—Mrs. Small was, of course, in decent affliction. But the word of pity was always transferred from the principal sufferer to her, till he was beyond suffering. Then first it was bestowed on the "poor" corpse, which every one came to visit, and flattered as looking "pleasant."

Mrs. Small herself, in the first letter of her widowhood, addressed to an intimate female friend, did not make a more judicious application of the favourite epithet. To this friend it was her habit to write once a quarter. We insert three passages; one extracted from each of these quarterly epistles, which followed in due succession after her sad bereavement:—

"Dear Nelly,—My brother-in-law has given the direction of the funeral to a good economical undertaker, by name Peebles. I have not seen him, and am not like; for he is in too large a way to attend himself, and he sends his man for orders, and to see all done handsome, but cheap.

"Poor Mr. Peebles's man came here last night, and the funeral will be to-morrow. I am in much trouble, as might be expected. My poor new black bonnet is not come home, and keeps me fretting; but poor Peebles's man says I shan't be disappointed, even if he has to go for it himself. Poor Peebles's man! he is up early and down late, to see all right. He was in my room this morning before I was out of bed, that all might be decent, &c. &c. &c. Yours to command, dear Nelly, Mary Small."

"Dear Nelly,—It is now three months and better since that poor coffin was put under ground, and I declare I feel quite queer and lonesome without it. But business goes on quite well and brisk. Poor kind Peebles's man! he is off and on; almost always about the house, doing some kind job or other. He is a very decent body; but, I don't know how it is, I'm not to say comfortable. There's a sad noise with my sister's family. You know I never could bear children. My late husband, that's gone, was the only one of the family that could. I am sure I don't know what I could do without poor dear Peebles's man. Yours to command, dear Nelly, Mary Small.

"Dear Nelly,—Poor dear kind Peebles's man has never left here; he's my right hand, and he is a very decent body indeed. It is now six good months since that poor funeral took place. I find I am not fit to live alone: I was married this morning to poor Peebles's man. Your sincere friend, dear Nelly, Mary Merrimate.

"P.S. Excuse my change of name."