Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, No. 276 by Various
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Various >> Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, No. 276
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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. X, NO. 276.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1827. [PRICE 2d.
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Bristol Cathedral.
[Illustration: Bristol Cathedral.]
There is given
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,
A spirit's feelings, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruin'd battlement
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.
BYRON.
The cathedral of Bristol is one of the most interesting relics of
monastic splendour which have been spared from the wrecks of desolation
and decay. It is dedicated to the holy and undivided Trinity, and is the
remains of an abbey or monastery of great magnificence, which was
dedicated to St. Augustine. The erection of this monastery was begun
in 1140, and was finished and dedicated in 1148, according to the
inscription on the tomb of the founder, Robert Fitzharding, the first
lord of Berkeley, who, together with others of that illustrious family,
are enshrined within these walls. It was also denominated the monastery
of the black regular canons of the order of Saint Victor, who are
mentioned by Leland as the black canons of St. Augustine within the city
walls. By some historians, Fitzharding is represented as an opulent
citizen of Bristol; but generally as a younger son or grandson of the
king of Denmark, and as the youthful companion of Henry II., who,
betaking himself from the sunshine of royal friendship, became a canon
of the monastery he himself had founded. In this congenial solitude he
died in 1170, aged 75. Such is the outline of the foundation of this
structure, and it is one of the most attractive episodes of the early
history of England; for the circumstance of a noble exchanging the
gilded finery of a court, and the gay companionship of his prince, for
the gloomy cloisters of an abbey, and the ascetic duties of monastic
life, bespeaks a degree of resolution and self-control which was more
probably the result of sincere conviction than of momentary caprice.
The present cathedral is represented to have been merely the church of
the monastery, which was entirely rebuilt in the commencement of the
fourteenth century. The style of architecture in the different parts of
this cathedral is accurately discriminated in the following account from
the pen of Bishop Littleton, F.S.A.:--"The lower parts of the chapter
house walls," says he, "together with the door-way and columns at the
entrance of the chapter-house, may be pronounced to be of the age of
Stephen, or rather prior to his reign, being fine Saxon architecture.
The inside walls of the chapter-house have round ornamental arches
intersecting each other. The cathedral appears to be of the same style
of building throughout, and in no part older than Edward the First's
time, though some writers suppose the present fabric was begun in king
Stephen's time; but not a single arch, pillar, or window agrees with
the mode which prevailed at that time. The great gateway leading into
the College Green is round-arched, with mouldings richly ornamented
in the Saxon taste." From this account it appears probable that the
chapter-house and gateway are all the present remains of the ancient
monastery. The mutilations which the cathedral of Bristol has undergone,
are not entirely to be referred to the era of the dissolution of the
monasteries, since this structure suffered very considerably during
the period of the civil wars. The ruthless soldiers discovered their
barbarism by violating the sacred tombs of the dead, and by offering
every indignity which they supposed would be considered a profanation of
the places which the piety of their ancestors consecrated to religion.
At such instances of the violence of civil factions, the sensitive mind
shudders with disgust.
The cathedral of Bristol is rich in monumental tributes to departed
worth. Among them is an elegant monument, by Bacon, to Mrs. Elizabeth
Draper, the _Eliza_ of Sterne; and the classical tomb of the
Hendersons. Here, too, rests Lady Hesketh, the friend of Cowper; Powell,
of Covent Garden Theatre; besides branches of the Berkeley family, and
various abbots.
The bishopric of Bristol is the least wealthy ecclesiastical promotion
which confers the dignity of a mitre. Its revenue is generally stated to
amount to no more than five or six hundred pounds per annum. In the list
of bishops are Fletcher, father of the celebrated dramatist, the
colleague of Beaumont; he attended Mary Queen of Scots on the Scaffold;
Lake, one of the seven bishops committed to the Tower in the time of
James I.; Trelawney, a familiar name in the events of 1688; Butler, who
materially improved the episcopal palace of Bristol; Conybeare and
Newton, names well known in literary history; with the erudite
Warburton, whose name occurs in the list of deans of Bristol.
* * * * *
DEBTOR AND CREDITOR.[1]
The time is out of joint.--_Hamlet._
A man of my profession never counterfeits, till he lays hold upon a
debtor and says he _rests_ him: for then he brings him to all
manner of unrest.--_The Bailiff, in 'Every Man in his Humour.'_
Run not into debt, either for wares sold or money borrowed; be content
to want things that are not of absolute necessity, rather than to run up
the score: such a man pays at the latter a third part more than the
principal comes to, and is in perpetual servitude to his creditors;
lives uncomfortably; is necessitated to increase his debts to stop his
creditors' mouths; and many times falls into desperate courses.
SIR M. HALE.
"The greatest of all distinctions in civil life," says Steele, "is that
of debtor and creditor;" although no kind of slavery is so easily
endured, as that of being in debt. Luxury and expensive habits, which
are commonly thought to enlarge our liberty by increasing our
enjoyments, are thus the means of its infringement; whilst, in nine
cases out of ten, the lessons taught by this rigid experience lead to
the bending and breaking of our spirits, and the unfitting of us for the
rational pleasures of life. All ranks of mankind seem to fall into this
fatal error, from the voluptuous Cleopatra to the needy philosopher, who
doles out a mealsworth of morality for his fellow-creatures, and who
would fain live according to his own precepts, had he not exhausted his
means in the acquisition of his experience.
I blush to confess, that I have often thought the _habit of debt_
to be our national inheritance--from that bugbear of out-of-place men,
the Sinking Fund, to the parish-clerk, who mortgages his fees at the
chandler's; and that my countrymen seem to have resolved to increase
their own enjoyments at the expense of posterity, with whose provision,
even Swift thinks we have no concern. Again; I have thought that we are
apt to over-rate our national advancement, by supposing the present race
to be wiser than the previous one, without once looking into our
individual contributions to this state of enlightenment. Proud as we are
of this distinction in the social scale, we can record few instances of
contemporary genius, and we are bound to confess that men are not a whit
the better in the present than in the previous generation. Thus we
hoodwink each other till social outrages become every-day occurrences,
and every thing but sheer violence is protected by its frequency; and in
this manner we consent to compromise our happiness, and then affect to
be astonished at its scarcity. In the later ages of the world, men have
learned to temporize with principles, and to sacrifice, at the shrine
of passing interest, as much real virtue as would bear them harmless
throughout life. Hence, of what more avail is the virtue of the Roman
fathers, or are the amiable friendships of Scipio and Lelius, than
as so many amusing fictions to exercise the imaginations of schoolmen
in drawing outlines of character, which experience does not finish.
Friends, like certain flowers, bloom around us in the sunshine of
success; but at night-fall or at the approach of storms, they shut up
their hearts; and thus, poor victims being rifled of their mind's
content, with their little string of enjoyments broken up for ever,
are abandoned to the pity or scorn of bystanders. It is impossible to
reflect for a moment on such a crisis, without dropping a tear for the
self-created infirmities of man: but there are considerations at which
he shudders, and which he would rather varnish over with the sophistry
of his refinement, and the fallacies of self-conceit.
I fear that I am breaking my rule in not confining myself to a few
shades of debt and conscience, with a view of determining how far they
are usually reconciled among us. The task may not prove altogether
fruitless; notwithstanding, to find honest men, would require the
lantern of Diogenes, and perhaps turn out like Gratiano's wheat.
In our youthful days, we all remember to have read a pithy string of
Maxims by Dr. Franklin; and we are accustomed to admire the pertinence
of their wit,--but here their influence too often terminates. Since
Franklin's time, the practice of getting into debt has become more and
more easy, notwithstanding men have become more wary. Goldsmith, too,
gives us a true picture of this habit in his scene with Mr. Padusoy, the
mercer, a mode which has been found to succeed so well since his time,
that, with the exception of a few short-cuts by sharpers and other
proscribed gentry, little amendment has been made. Profuseness on the
part of the debtor will generally be found to beget confidence on that
of the creditor; and, in like manner, diffidence will create mistrust,
and mistrust an entire overthrow of the scheme. An unblushing front, and
the gift of _non chalance_, are therefore the best qualifications
for a debtor to obtain credit, while poor modesty will be starved in her
own littleness. In vain has Juvenal protested--"_Fronti nulla
fides;_" and have the world been amused with anecdotes of paupers
dying with money sewed up in their clothes: appearance and assumed
habits are still the handmaids to confidence; and so long as this system
exists, the warfare of debtor and creditor will be continued.
Procrastination will be found to be another furtherance of the system,
inasmuch as it is too evident throughout life that men are more apt to
take pleasure "by the forelock," than to calculate its consequence. In
this manner, men of irregular habits anticipate and forestal every hour
of their lives, and pleasure and pain alternate, till pain, like debt,
accumulates, and sinks its patient below the level of the world. Economy
and forecast do not enter into the composition of such men, nor are such
lessons often felt or acknowledged, till custom has rendered the heart
unfit for the reception of their counsels. It is too frequently that the
neglect of these principles strikes at the root of social happiness, and
produces those lamentable wrecks of men--those shadows of sovereignty,
which people our prisons, poor-houses, and asylums. Genius, with all her
book-knowledge, is not exempt from this failing; but, on the contrary, a
sort of fatality seems to attend her sons and daughters, which tarnishes
their fame, and often exposes them to the brutish attacks of the
ignorant and vulgar. Wits, and even philosophers, are among this number;
and we are bound to acknowledge, that, beyond the raciness of their
writings, there is but little to admire or imitate in the lives of such
men as Steele, Foote, or Sheridan. It is, however, fit that principle
should be thus recognised and upheld, and that any dereliction from its
rules should be placed against the account of such as enjoy other
degrees of superiority, and allowed to form an item in the scale of
their merits.
(_To be concluded in our next._)
[1] From _"Cameleon Sketches_," by the author of "_The Promenade round
Dorking_." In the press.
* * * * *
AN ENGLISHMAN'S PRAYER
Grant, righteous Heaven, however cast my fate
On social duties or in toils of state,
Whether at home dispensing equal laws,
Or foremost struggling for the world's applause,
As neighbour, husband, brother, sire, or son,
In every work, accomplished or begun,
Grant that, by me, thy holy will be done.
When false ambition tempts my soul to rise,
Teach me her proffer'd honours to despise,
Though chains or poverty await the just,
Though villains lure me to betray my trust,
Unmoved by wealth, unawed by tyrant, might
Still let me steadily pursue the right,
Hold fast my plighted faith, nor stoop to give
For lengthen'd life, the only cause to live.
* * * * *
ITALY.
(_To the Editor of the Mirror_.)
SIR,--Is your correspondent (see the MIRROR of the 15th of September)
quite right in asserting that Italy has invariably retained the same
name from its first settlement? or would the fact be singular if true?
Virgil, in his first book of the _AEneid_, implies that it had at
least _two_ names before that of Italy. "_AEnotrii_ coluere viri;"
"_Hesperiam_ graii cognomine dicunt;" "Itali ducis de nomine." His
works are not at hand, so that I cannot specify the line; but the
passage is repeated three or four times in the course of the poem, and
the reference, therefore, to it is peculiarly easy.
In other places, as you may remember, he gives it the appellation of
"Ausonia."
Now as to the singularity of the circumstance, supposing it were
otherwise, to what does it amount but this: that when Italian power
extended over the countries of Europe, Italian names were given them;
that as this power declined, these names as naturally fell into disuse;
and the different nations, actuated severally by a spirit of
independence or of caprice, recurred to their own or foreign tongues for
the designation of their territory. While at Rome itself, which, though
often suffering from the calamities of war, still retained a
considerable share of influence, the inhabitants adhered to their native
dialect, and the same city which had been the birth-place and cradle of
the infant language was permitted to become its sanctuary at last.
Y.M.
* * * * *
SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.
* * * * *
ELISE.
(_By L.E.L._)
O Let me love her! she has past
Into my inmost heart--
A dweller on the hallowed ground
Of its least worldly part;
Where feelings and where memories dwell
Like hidden music in the shell.
She was so like the forms that float
On twilight's hour to me,
Making of cloud-born shapes and thoughts
A dear reality;
As much a thing of light and air
As ever poet's visions were.
I left smoke, vanities, and cares,
Just far enough behind,
To dream of fairies 'neath the moon,
Of voices on the wind,
And every fantasy of mine
Was truth in that sweet face of thine.
Her cheek was very, very pale,
Yet it was still more fair;
Lost were one half its loveliness,
Had the red rose been there:
But now that sad and touching grace
Made her's seem like an angel's face.
The spring, with all its breath and bloom,
Hath not so dear a flower,
As the white lily's languid head
Drooping beneath the shower;
And health hath ever waken'd less
Of deep and anxious tenderness.
And O thy destiny was love,
Written in those soft eyes;
A creature to be met with smiles.
And to be watch'd with sighs;
A sweet and fragile blossom, made
To be within the bosom laid.
And there are some beneath whose touch
The coldest hearts expand,
As erst the rocks gave forth their tears
Beneath the prophet's hand;
And colder than that rock must be
The heart that melted not for thee.
Thy voice--thy poet lover's song
Has not a softer tone;
Thy dark eyes--only stars at night
Such holy light have known;
And thy smile is thy heart's sweet sign,
So gentle and so feminine.
I feel, in gazing on thy face,
As I had known thee long;
Thy looks are like notes that recall
Some old remembered song
By all that touches and endears,
Lady, I must have loved thee years.
_Literary Gazette._
* * * * *
COLONEL GEORGE HANGER.
Dining on one occasion at Carlton-house, it is said that, after the
bottle had for some time circulated, his good-humoured volubility
suddenly ceased, and he seemed for a time to be wholly lost in thought.
While he "chewed the cud" in this ruminating state, his illustrious host
remarked his very unusual quiescency, and interrupted it by inquiring
the subject of his meditation. "I have been reflecting, Sir," replied
the colonel, "on the lofty independence of my present situation. I have
compromised with my creditors, paid my washerwoman, and have three
shillings and sixpence left for the pleasures and necessities of life,"
exhibiting at the same time current coin of the realm, in silver and
copper, to that amount, upon the splendid board at which he sat.
Having occasion to express his gratitude to his friend and patron for
his nomination to a situation under government (which, had he been
prudent, might have sufficed for genteel support), it is said that the
royal personage condescended to observe, on the colonel's expatiating
on the advantages of his office, that "now he was rich, he would so
far impose upon his hospitality as to dine with him;" at the same time
insisting on the repast being any thing but extravagant. "I shall give
your royal highness a leg of mutton, and nothing more, by G----," warmly
replied the gratified colonel, in his plain and homely phrase. The day
was nominated, and the colonel had sufficient time to recur to his
budget and bring his ways and means into action. Where is the
sanguineless being whose hopes have never led him wrong? if such there
be, the colonel was not one of those. Long destitute of credit and
resources, he looked upon his appointment as the incontestable source of
instant wealth, and he hesitated not to determine upon the forestalment
of its profits to entertain the "first gentleman in England." But, alas!
agents and brokers have flinty hearts. There were doubts (not of his
word, for with creditors that he had never kept), but of the accidents
of life, either naturally, or by one of those casualties he had depicted
in the front of his book. In short, the day approached--nay, actually
arrived, and his pockets could boast little more than the once vaunted
half-crown and a shilling. Here was a state sufficient to drive one of
less strength of mind to despair. As a friend, a subject, a man of
honour, and one who prided himself upon a tenacious adherence to his
word (when the aforesaid creditors were not concerned), he felt keenly
all the horrors of his situation.
The day arrived, and etiquette demanded that the proper officer should
examine and report upon the nature of the expected entertainment, a duty
that had been deferred until a late hour of the day. Well was it that
the confiding prince had not wholly dispensed with that form; for verily
the said officer found the colonel, with a dirty scullion for his aide
du camp, in active and zealous preparation for his royal visiter; his
shirt sleeves tucked up, while he ardently basted the identical and
solitary "leg of mutton" as it revolved upon the spit: potatoes were to
be seen delicately insinuated into the pan beneath to catch the rich
exudation of the joint; while several tankards of foaming ale, and what
the French term "bread a discretion," announced that, in quantity, if
not in quality, he had not been careless in providing for the
entertainment of his illustrious guest. Although the colonel's culinary
skill leaves no doubt that the leg of mutton would have sustained
(according to Mr. Hunt's elegant phraseology) critical discussion on its
intrinsic merits, or on its concoction; and although the dinner might
have been endured by royalty (of whose homely appetite the ample
gridiron at Alderman Combe's brewery then gave ample proof), yet his
royal highness's poodles would assuredly have perspired through every
pore at the very mention of what a certain nobleman used to term a
"jig-hot;" so the feast was dispensed with, and due acknowledgment made
for the evident proofs of hospitality which had been displayed.
After various vicissitudes of life and fortune, in Hanger's advanced
age, a coronet became his, and it came opportunely; for he had at length
learned experience, and knowing the value of the competence he had
obtained, he resolved to enjoy it. He had had enough of fashion; and had
proved all its allurements. So he took a small house in a part of
earth's remoter regions, no great way from Somers' Town, near which
stood a public-house he was fond of visiting, and there, as the price of
his sanction, and in acknowledgment of his rank, a large chair by the
fire-side was exclusively appropriated to the peer.--_New Monthly
Magazine._
* * * * *
ANECDOTES OF UGO FOSCOLO, THE ITALIAN POET.
Foscolo was in person about the middle height, and somewhat thin,
remarkably clean and neat in his dress,--although on ordinary occasions,
he wore a short jacket, trousers of coarse cloth, a straw hat, and thick
heavy shoes; the least speck of dirt on his own person, or on that of
any of his attendants, seemed to give him real agony. His countenance
was of a very expressive character, his eyes very penetrating, although
they occasionally betrayed a restlessness and suspicion, which his words
denied; his mouth was large and ugly, his nose drooping, in the way that
physiognomists dislike, but his forehead was splendid in the extreme;
large, smooth, and exemplifying all the power of thought and reasoning,
for which his mind was so remarkable. It was, indeed, precisely the same
as that we see given in the prints of Michael Angelo; he has often heard
the comparison made, and by a nod assented to it. In his living, Foscolo
was remarkably abstemious. He seldom drank more than two glasses of
wine, but he was fond of having all he eat and drank of the very best
kind, and laid out with great attention to order. He always took coffee
immediately after dinner. His house,--I speak of the one he built for
himself, near the Regent's Park,--was adorned with furniture of the most
costly description; at one time he had five magnificent carpets, one
under another, on his drawing-room, and no two chairs in his house
were alike. His tables were all of rare and curious woods. Some of
the best busts and statues (in plaster) were scattered through every
apartment,--and on those he doated with a fervour scarcely short of
adoration. I remember his once sending for me in great haste, and when
I entered his library, I found him kneeling, and exclaiming, "beautiful,
beautiful." He was gazing on the Venus de Medici, which he had
discovered looked most enchanting, when the light of his lamp was made
to shine upon it from a particular direction. On this occasion, he had
summoned his whole household into his library, to witness the discovery
which gave him so much rapture. In this state, continually exclaiming,
"beautiful, beautiful," and gazing on the figure, he remained for nearly
two hours.
He had the greatest dislike to be asked a question, which he did not
consider important, and used to say, "I have three miseries--smoke,
flies, and to be asked a foolish question."
His memory was one of the most remarkable. He has often requested me to
copy for him (from some library) a passage, which I should find in such
a page of such a book; and appeared as if he never forgot any thing with
which he was once acquainted.
His conversation was peculiarly eloquent and impressive, such as to
render it evident that he had not been over-rated as an orator, when in
the days of his glory, he was the admiration of his country. I remember
his once discoursing to me of language, and saying, "in every language,
there are three things to be noticed,--verbs, substantives, and the
particles; the verbs," holding out his hand, "are as the bones of these
fingers; the substantives, the flesh and blood; but the particles are
the sinews, without which the fingers could not move."
"There are," said he to me, once, "three kinds of writing--_diplomatic_,
in which you do not come to a point, but write artfully, and not to show
what you mean; _attorney_, in which you are brief; and _enlarged_,
in which you spread and stretch your thoughts."
I have said that his cottage, (built by himself,) near the Regent's
Park, was very beautiful. I remember his showing me a letter to a
friend, in which were the following passages:--After alluding to some
pecuniary difficulties, he says, "I can easily undergo all privations,
but my dwelling is always my workshop, and often my prison, and ought
not to distress me with the appearance of misery, and I confess, in this
respect, I cannot be acquitted of extravagance."