Imágenes de páginas

them, were ushered in by the exhilarating tones of a cracked trumpet, and the various personages were explained, in a loud voice, and with a jargon peculiar to the profession, by the principal hierophant, amid the raptures of the assembled spectators, whose exultation was complete, when the exhibition concluded with the merry, moving, panoramic, pantomimical, fantocinical procession of Tally-ho the Grinder. But alas ! for modern improvements, the peep-show has now risen into the Attic Cosmorama; and its gorgeous pageants, and truly English scenery, " are vanished into thin air,” while the juvenile groupes that still crowd to behold its wonders, are transported, without the aid of steam yacht or balloon, to the landscapes of Italy, and regaled with the architectural chef-d'«uvres of Michael Agmiolo (Angelo) Buornarotti; while we are informed by the proprietor (a title now very generally assumed) in a mongrel diction, wholly unintelligible, of the names of the several objects as they pass under review. But oh! “misfortune on misfortune, grief on grief!” the laughter-moving grinder and his tally-ho, with its rattling machinery of wheels and pinions, is no more; he has Aled with the scenery of his native land; and in the final scene

That ends this foreign strange anomaly," behold a sumptuous square, filled with characters of every form and feature, with “ Gorgons, Hydras, and Chimeras dire,” which we are told is the “ Cannibal at Venice, where we may see all the Lords and the Dukes, and the Princes and the Princesses, all in Marmalade, and the houses, all luminated, and the bonfires, and the fireworks, and all because of the Cannibal.”

The dissected puzzles, likewise, those fruitful sources of youthful amusement in the long winter evenings, are supplied by the Parisian Myriorama, where endless variety is produced; while it must be confessed, that invention will be abundantly exercised, and a taste for design promoted.

But, to “ leave the sports of children for the toils of men,” what revolutions has not scientific nomenclature suffered within the last seven years. Even in our nurseries of juvenile education, the designation of school and even seminary is obsolete. We now hear of nothing but establishments, many of which I hear possess little claim to the title, as they seldom become established at all. But such is the rage for Greek designations, particularly where education is concerned, that passing the New Road some days since, I saw, written up in large characters, at the corner of one of the streets, the words POLYGLOT ACADEMY. My invention was for some time exercised to account for the propriety of a term, which I had never before seen applied but to a certain edition of the Bible ; and after some cogitation I concluded that this learned inscription imported, that the establishment to which it was affixed, was a Classical Academy, at which many tongues or languages were taught.

In the minutiæ of public amusements the change has not been less extraordinary. That scene of enchantment Vauxhall, now closes with a magnificent Pyrotechnic exhibition; while two seasons since, we were regaled in the saloon, with a kind of stage, filled with revolving pillars, fountains, cascades, palm-trees, &c. with a back ground of looking-glass. This singular mechanical deception was denominated “ The Heptaplasiesoptcron." Long and unwearied were my researches to ascertain the etymology of this term, when, after many fruitless inquiries and investi

gations, I discovered, through the kind assistance of a learned Grecian, to whom I have been on many

occasions much indebted, that it meant an image seven times reflected.”

Our most common tradesmen, seized with the nomenclatural mania, have adopted such professional designations, as render a pocket Johnson, an indispensable appendage to the Peripatetic. Should a luckless author, be ambitious of seeing his lucubrations appear before the public in a neat 8vo. price 10s. 6d. boards: he must apply first to a typographer, and next to a bibliographer, ere his ambitious views can be satisfied; in the plain English of ten years back, he must employ a printer and a publisher.

Should a forlorn and solitary pedestrian, after travelling through crowded streets during the whole morning, seek to refresh exhausted nature; if his way lie through the Haymarket, in vain will he inquire for an eating-house, but will be informed that he is within a few doors of halfa-dozen

excellent Restaurateurs. Should he subsequently wish to have his hair dressed in preparation for a visit to the Opera, he will be told that the Peruquier will be found on the opposite side of the street.

Much might be added to this imperfect sketch, but as the subject is of a most extensive nature, its full discussion in its several ramifications and collateral bearings, will be probably resumed in a future number.


HEIR OF SKY. In the house of the Laird of Sky is kept an ox’s horn, which holds about two quarts, which formerly the heir of the Laird was expected to swallow at one draught, as a test of his manhood, before he was permitted to bear arms, or take his seat amongst the men.


Receive, dear maid, the warmest sigh,

That ever burst from lover's heart;
And let the beaming tearful eye,

What lips dare not reveal, impart.
And oh! return one look of love,

One sigh of soft impassioned bliss;
Say, but the impulse you approve,

And seal the contract with a kiss.

“My cause,” you say, “concerns not theft or treason;
I sue my neighbour for this only reason,
That late three sheep of mine to pound he drove:”
This is the point the court would bave you prove.
Concerning Magna Charta you run on,
And all the perjuries of old King John;
Then of the Edwards, and Black Prince you rant,
And talk of John o'Stiles and John of Gaunt;
With voice and hand a mighty pother keep:
-Now pray, dear Sir, one word about the Sheep.


• The short and simple annals of the poor.”—Gray.

Need we, to foreign climes go bence to seek
For tales of sorrow to bedew the cheek?
Or need we in the realms of fancy soar
And glean unreal woes, to languish o'er?
To draw the tear from pitying nature's eye;
Or from the breast of virtue raise a sigh?
Ah no!-such foreign aid is needed not,
For every hour still furnishes the plot
Of some sad tale, in life's substantial scene,
Where woes of deep reality we glean ;-
A Miction reigns in no far realms alone;
She claims no spot exclusively her own.
If you would seek “soft pity to infuse,”
Or find a subject for your weeping muse,
Look round the spot where centres thy desire,
Whatever clime or country claims thy lyre,
The smallest circle will inscribe more woe,
Than thou hast tears to weep for ; words to show.
It creeps in every spot, where'er we roam,
And but too often in our very home!
Now to my tale ; and though no art shall dress,
Or deck the weeping form of pale distress,
Tho' no deep plot shall exercise the mind,
Nor language studied, polish'd or refin'd
Shall guide my story, thou wilt not deny,
I trust, th' ingenuous plaudit of a sigh ;
From humble life my narrative I drew,
Tis plain, 'tis meek, 'tis simple, but—'tis true!
One morn I stray'd, with Fancy deep in talk,
Beyond the limit of my morning's walk,
When the dim tolling of some village bell,
In distant echo on the silence fell.
My thought, which had been busied in the dreams
Of idle Fancy's visionary schemes,
Rous'd by the knell, now seem'd with anxious glow,
To turn to life-though it should turn to woe.
My pace I quicken'd, eager to obtain,
A knowledge which I fear'd might end in pain;
And long before I reach'd the destin'd place
(So much does fear outrun our swiftest pace!)
A thousand scenes of sorrow and of care,
Had cross'd my brain and—“vanish'd into air."-
Jast as I gain'd the village church-yard stile,
The coffin rested in the solemn aisle.
On the sad train the sacred portals close,
And now they kneel, and pray for death's repose.
I entered not, but wearied and distress'd,
I looked around me for a place of rest;

I mark’d the villagers who pass'd me by ;
Affliction's tear seem'd full in ev'ry eye.
They onward pass’d-their steps direction gave,
And soon I found the dead-awaiting grave;
I saw the boards, the cords, the new turn'd ground,
Wbile many a maid, and matron gather'd round ;
Down the deep grave they cast their wistful eyes,
Then dry with aprons wbite, the tears that rise.

Prompted by sympathy the cause to know,
That seem'd to spread around such deepen'd woc,
1 rose, and walk'd with dilatory pace,
Close to the grave,-and there, in ev'ry face,
I read a grief ;-not sympathy alone ;-
For ev'ry eye acknowledged it, its own.
On me they gazęd; and said, to my belief,
Why come you thus to interrupt our grief?”
While others, in whose eye the tear stood deep,
Appeared to wonder that I did not weep.

“ 'Twas a fine lad,”-an aged matron said,

I knew him well-I scarce can think he's dead : “ 'Tis but the t'other day he crossed our farm, “ With poor young Jennie underneath his arm,“I ask'd, says I, — Well William, how dost do? "O, charming dame,' said he, “And Jennie too ?' “O she be always charming !-dame d’ye know, “We're going to marry;--Jennie an't it so ?. “ The damsel blush'd—they took a mug of ale, “ And bade good bye-ah! 'tis a woful tale!"

I felt her simple eloquence; it seem'd,
That nature all the wants of art redeem'd:
A painful interest her words impart,
That softly steals upon the feeling heart.
I listen'd close to gather ev'ry word,
Whilst they seem'd half reluctant to be heard.

Cried one, “The will of God we none can search,
“ 'Twas but last Sunday in this very church,
“I heard our parson ask if any knew,

Why Will and Jane should not be married too.. “ That very night it was, he took bis bed; "And now, poor Jennie, 'stead of being wed, “ Follows her William's body to the grave;“ I saw her as she passed—a sigh she gave, As she saw me, then turn'd away her head, “ But I could see the flood of tears she shed. “God bless the poor young creature, comfort give ! “Or else I'm sure she has'nt long to live. “That cheek, whose rosy hue so well we know, Looks now as white, and seems as cold as snow. “How old was Will?" asked one with accents mild ;

Why let me see, I knew him from a child ; “ Altho''tis-twenty years come Lammas day, Ah lawk! how quick the years do pass away; “Since Farmer Long, the father of poor Will,

Brought him to see me, yonder at the mill. “I well remember his dear little charms, “For he was then, a lovely babe in arms.'

Not willd to bear her long detail rehearsed, I loitered near to where two more conversed. “Yes; and d’ye know,” says one“ that till he died, “ She never once removed from his bed-side ; “She waited on him night and day; and he “ Would take his med'cine from none else but she. “ I never shall forget the awful night, “ On which he died-Ah! 'twas a dismal sight. “ Here was poor Jennie sobbing loud ; and there, “His poor old mother kneeling, deep in pray’r. “ We all, save Jennie, thought his time drew nigh, “(Which she, poor girl, still weeping would deny ;) “ When sudden he sprang up, and loudly callid, “ While his convulsive features look'd appallid, “ « Jennie-where's Jennie! fetch her from the plain, «•0, let me see my. Jennie once again !--“ Here William,- I am here,'—she faltering cried, “ He grasp'd-he kiss'd her hand-fell back-and died." Touched to the quick, I need not blush to say, That tears, in spite of me, would force their way; Pride struggled hard, compassion to o’erthrow, And bade me scorn to weep for common woe; But conscience, reason, virtue's stronger call, Proved that one nature, equal reigns in all ! Now through the church-yard came the mournful train; And here description, all thy art is vain! What pen can trace, what eloquence can paint, What tongue can utter, but in language faint, A scene at which the sternest heart might melt; So simple-yet, so powerfully felt? The village curate first, in snow-white vest, Whose pious looks his sacred words imprest, Led to the grave;—while slowly in the rear, Was borne the coffin, bath'd with many a tear; Next came the mourners; and of these the first, Poor Jennie, whose full heart seem'd well nigh burst. At every step her sobs were heard around, And these, in every heart, an echo found; I long'd to see the maid of whom I'd heard, From the poor villagers' unpolish'd word, So much of love and constancy combined; So much of sorrow and of virtue joined ;Yet feeling bade the idle wish refrain, Lest my intrusive glance should cause fresh pain. And, O! what wretch, a world of joy would buy, Should it but cost the maid one needless sigh? She prayed for fortitude her grief to hide, But grief's abstraction fortitude supplied ; Firmly she stood, while they the coffin low'r, And the solemnities of death are o'er ;Low in the earth her William now is laid, Where ev'ry budding joy is doom'd to fade;Summoned to closer range around the grave, They overhang the brow of sorrow's cave; Down the deep pit they drop the last warm tear, For love, for friendship, every tie that's dear;Heave their last sigh, o'er carly blighted worth And look their last farewell, at least on carth.

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