Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, No. 475 written by Various
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Various >> Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, No. 475
THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. XVII, NO. 475.] SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1831. [PRICE 2d.
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[Illustration: THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH'S COTTAGE, WINDSOR.]
THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH'S COTTAGE, WINDSOR.
They who draw their notions of royal enjoyment from the tinsel of its
external trappings, will scarcely believe the above cottage to have been
the residence of an English princess. Yet such was the rank of its
occupant but a few years since, distant as may be the contrast of courts
and cottages, and the natural enjoyment of rural life from the
artificial luxury--the painted pomp and idle glitter of regal state.
The above cottage stands in the grounds of Grove House, adjoining the
churchyard of Old Windsor. It was built under the superintendent taste
of the Princess Elizabeth,[1] second sister of the present King, and now
known as the Landgravine of Hesse Homburg. To the decoration of this
cottage the Princess paid much attention: it is quite in the
_ornee_ style; and its situation is so beautiful as to baffle all
embellishment.
Grove House, the seat of Lady Dowager Onslow, of whom the Princess
purchased the whole property, was built by Mr. Bateman, uncle to the
eccentric Lord Bateman. This gentleman made it a point in his travels
to notice everything that pleased him in the monasteries abroad; and,
on his return to England, he built this house; the bedchamber being
contrived, like the cells of monks, with a refectory, and every other
appendage of a monastery; even to a cemetery, and a coffin, inscribed
with the name of a supposititious ancient bishop. Some curious Gothic
chairs, bought at a sale of the curiosities in this house, are now at
Strawberry Hill.
Old Windsor gives rise to many more interesting reminiscences; and few
who "suck melancholy from a song" would exchange its sombre churchyard
for the gayest field of fancy. We may be there anon.
[1] Born May 22, 1770; married April 7, 1818, to Frederick Joseph
Lewis, Landgrave of Hesse Homburg, who died April 2, 1829 aged 61.
* * * * *
ENGLISH SUPERSTITION.
(_For the Mirror._)
Sir Walter Scott, in his history of _Demonology and Witchcraft_,
has omitted a tradition which is still popular in Cheshire, and which
from its close resemblance to one of the Scottish legends related by
that writer, gives rise to many interesting conjectures respecting the
probable causes of such a superstition being believed in countries with
apparently so little connexion or intercourse, as Cheshire and Scotland.
The facts of Sir Walter's narration are as follow: vide _Demonology
and Witchcraft_, p. 133.
"A daring horse jockey having sold a horse to a man of venerable and
antique appearance, had a remarkable hillock on the Eildon Hills, called
Lucken Hare, appointed as the place where, at twelve o'clock at night,
he should receive the price. He came, the money was paid in an ancient
coin, and he was invited by the purchaser to view his residence. The
trader followed his guide through several long ranges of stalls, in each
of which a horse stood motionless, while an armed warrior lay equally
still at his charger's feet. 'All these men,' said the wizard in a
whisper, 'will awaken at the battle of Sheriffmoor.' A horn and a sword
hung suspended together at one extremity of the chamber. The former the
jockey seized, and having sounded it, the horses stamped, the men arose
and clashed their armour; while a voice like that of a giant pronounced
these words:--
"Woe to the coward that ever he was born,
Who did not draw the sword before he blew the horn."
Subsequent to this, Sir Walter proceeds to the relation of another
kindred tradition, the incidents of which do not materially differ from
those of the preceding. The scene of the Cheshire legend is placed in
the neighbourhood of Macclesfield, in that county, and the sign of a
public-house on Monk's Heath may have arrested the attention of many
travellers from London to Liverpool. This village hostel is known by the
designation of the Iron Gates. The sign represents a pair of ponderous
gates of that metal, opening at the bidding of a figure, enveloped in
a cowl; before whom kneels another, more resembling a modern yeoman
than one of the 12th or 13th century, to which period this legend is
attributed. Behind this person is a white horse rearing, and in the back
ground a view of Alderley Edge. The story is thus told of the tradition
to which the sign relates:
_The Iron Gates, or the Cheshire Enchanter._
A farmer from Mobberley was riding on a white horse over the heath,
which skirts Alderley Edge. Of the good qualities of his steed he was
justly proud; and while stooping down to adjust its mane, previously to
his offering it for sale at Macclesfield, he was surprised by the sudden
starting of the animal. On looking up he perceived a figure of more than
common height, enveloped in a cowl, and extending a staff of black wood
across his path. The figure addressed him in a commanding voice; told
him that he would seek in vain to dispose of his steed, for whom a
nobler destiny was in store, and bade him meet him when the sun had set,
with his horse, at the same place. He then disappeared. The farmer
resolving to put the truth of this prediction to the test, hastened on
to Macclesfield Fair, but no purchaser could be obtained for his horse.
In vain he reduced his price to half; many admired, but no one was
willing to be the possessor of so promising a steed. Summoning,
therefore, all his courage, he determined to brave the worst, and at
sunset reached the appointed place. The monk was punctual to his
appointment. Follow me, said he, and led the way by the _Golden
Stone_, _Stormy Point_, to _Saddle Bole_.[2] On their arrival at this
last named spot, the neigh of horses seemed to arise from beneath their
feet. The stranger waved his wand, the earth opened and disclosed a pair
of ponderous iron gates. Terrified at this, the horse plunged and threw
his rider, who kneeling at the feet of his fearful companion, prayed
earnestly for mercy. The monk bade him fear nothing, but enter the
cavern, and see what no mortal eye ever yet beheld. On passing the gates
he found himself in a spacious cavern, on each side of which were horses,
resembling his own, in size and colour. Near these lay soldiers accoutred
in ancient armour, and in the chasms of the rock were arms, and piles of
gold and silver. From one of these the enchanter took the price of the
horse in ancient coin, and on the farmer asking the meaning of these
subterranean armies, exclaimed, "These are caverned warriors preserved
by the good genius of England, until that eventful day, when distracted
by intestine broils, England shall be thrice won and lost between sunrise
and sunset. Then we awakening from our sleep, shall rise to turn the fate
of Britain. This shall be when George, the son of George, shall reign.
When the Forests of Delamere shall wave their arms over the slaughtered
sons of Albion. Then shall the eagle drink the blood of princes from the
headless _cross_ (query corse.) Now haste thee home, for it is not
in thy time these things shall be. A Cestrian shall speak it, and be
believed." The farmer left the cavern, the iron gates closed, and though
often sought for, the place has never again been found.
The latter part of the monk's prophecy has been fulfilled. Nixon, the
well-known Cheshire seer foretold the same events in nearly the same
words; but the belief in his dreams of futurity, has been much
diminished by the decease of our late monarch. Recourse has been had, as
in other works of greater moment, to various readings, and the probable
mistakes of early transcribers, and many emendations have been proposed
to supply the place of the name of George, but _adhuc sub judice lis
est_. The Cestrian rustics of the neighbouring villages, still
believe that at midnight the neighing of horses is audible under
Alderley Edge.
H.
[2] All places in the neighbourhood of Alderley Edge and Mobberley.
* * * * *
ANTIQUARIAN SCRAPS.
(_To the Editor._)
I went the other day over the ruins of St. Dunstan's, and whilst gaping
about, saw over one of the portals (inside) an old harp, with an
inscription, which, as far as I could make it out, ran thus:--
St. Dunstan's harp against a wall,
Upon a pin did hang'a,
The harp itself, with ly' and all,
Untouched by hand did twang'a.
The harp was supposed to play by itself on St. Dunstan's Day: ly' means
lyre.
Can any of your intelligent correspondents inform me why there is an
elder tree in all the Palace Gardens?
There is at the back of Old London Bridge, on this side, a street called
"Labour in Vain Hill:" not from the height, but from a stone, on which
are engraved two figures washing a blackamoor.
GEO. ST. CLAIR.
_Dean-street, Soho._
* * * * *
I do not know where your indefatigable correspondent _Zanga_
discovered his curious "Historical Fact," detailed in No. 471 of _The
Mirror_: it is highly amusing, but unfortunately void of truth. The
wife of the first Earl of Clarendon was Frances, daughter of Sir Thomas
Aylesbury, Bart. (now extinct) one of the Masters of Request; by whom he
had issue four sons--viz. Henry, his successor; Lawrence, created Earl
of Rochester; Edward, who died unmarried; and James, who was drowned
while going to Scotland in the Gloucester frigate: also two
daughters--viz. Ann, wife of James, Duke of York, afterwards James II.,
and Frances, married to Thomas Knightly, created a Knight of the Bath.
HENRY CARR.
* * * * *
SELECT BIOGRAPHY.
* * * * *
MEMOIR OF TAM O'SHANTER.
(_For the Mirror._)
Thomas Reid, so celebrated as Tam O'Shanter by Burns, was born in the
Kyle of Ayrshire. His first entrance into active life was in the
capacity of ploughboy to William Burns, the father of the poet, whom
Thomas described as a man of great capacity, as being very fond of an
argument, of rigid morals, and a strict disciplinarian--so much so, that
when the labours of the day were over, the whole family sat down by the
blazing "ha' ingle," and upon no pretence whatever could any of the
inmates leave the house after night. This was a circumstance that was
not altogether to Thomas's liking. He had heard other ploughboys with
rapture recount scenes of rustic jollity, which had fallen in their way,
while out on nocturnal visits to the fair daughters or servant girls of
the neighbouring farmers--scenes of which he was practically ignorant.
And more--he had become acquainted with a young woman he had met at
Maybole Fair; and having promised to call upon her at her father's
house, owing to his master's regularity of housekeeping, he had found it
totally impracticable.
To have one night's sport was his nightly and daily study for a long
time. It so happened that his mistress about this time was brought to
bed. Thomas hailed the bustle of that happy period as a fit time to
compass his long meditated visit. Mrs. Burns lay in the _spence_.
The gossips were met around the kitchen fire, listening to the howling
of the storm which raged without, and thundered down the chimney: it was
a January blast. Thomas kept his eye upon his master, who, with clasped
"hands and uplifted eyes, sat in the muckle chair in the ingle neuk," as
if engaged in supplication at the Throne of Grace for the safety of his
wife and child. Thomas drew his chair nearer the door, and upon some
little bustle in the kitchen, he reached the hallen, and was just
emerging into darkness, when the hoarse voice of the angry Burns rung
in the ears of the almost petrified ploughboy, "Where awa', Tam?"
"The auld doure whalp," muttered Tam, as he shut the door and resumed
his stocking; "I was gaun to the door to see if the win' was tirring the
thack aff the riggin."
"Thou needs na gang to look the night," cried the rigid overseer of
Doonholm, "when it is sae mirk, thou coudna' see thy finger afore thee."
It was indeed "a waefu' nicht." Such a night as this might give rise to
these admirable lines of that bard, about to be ushered into the world--
"That night a child might understand
The deil had business on his hand."
It was a little before the now pensive and thoughtful Burns was given to
understand that a son was born unto him, as
"The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last,
that a horrid crash was heard; a shriek rose from the affrighted women,
as they drew their chairs nearer the fire. "The ghaists and howlets that
nightly cry about the ruins o' Alloway's auld haunted kirk" rose on
every imagination. The gudeman rose from his chair, lighted a lantern,
commanded Thomas to follow him, and left the house. The case was
this--the gable of the byre had been blown down, which, as it was of his
own building, was not of the most durable nature.
In due time the joyful father had his first-born son laid in his arms:
his joy knew no bounds. The _bicker_ was now sent round with
increasing rapidity; and Thomas, then in his fourteenth year, was
carried to his bed, to use his own words, "between the late and the
early, in a gude way, for the first time."--Such was the birth-night
of the poet.
How long Thomas Reid remained in the service of William Burns does not
appear. It is certain, however, that he was with him when Robert first
went to plough, as Thomas has repeatedly told, as an instance of Burns's
early addiction to reading, that he has seen him go to, and return from
plough, with a book in his hand, and at meal-times "_supping his
parritch_" with one hand and holding the book in the other.
It would appear that he had, in process of time, got better acquainted
with his sweetheart at Maybole Fair, for he married her. It was on this
occasion that he rented the Shanter farm, which, with the assistance of
his father-in-law, he stocked and furnished. But fortune went against
him:
"His cattle died, and blighted was his corn;"
and an unfortunate friend, for whom he had become security for
150_l._, failed. Under such a load of ill, he, like many others,
sought for consolation in the "yill cups;" and any errand which served
as a pretext to visit the town of Ayr, renewed his worship to the
"inspiring, bold John Barleycorn;" and he usually returned, like the
Laird of Snotterston,
"O'er a' the ills o' life victorious."
But Thomas had many a domestic squabble. His wife, naturally not of the
sweetest temper, was doubly soured by the misfortunes of the world, and
the dissipation of her helpmate; and often when Tam
"Was gettin' fu' and unco happy,"
she sat at home,
"Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm."
She, like too many in that district at that time, was very
superstitious. Thomas took her by the weak side, and usually arrested
her "light-horse gallop of clish ma-claver" by some specious story of
ghost or hobgoblin adventures, with which he had been detained.
He had now got into such a continued state of dissipation and
irregularity, that he was obliged to leave the farm to the mercy of his
creditors, and opened a small public-house, at the end of the old bridge
on the water of Doon. It was while he was here that Tam O'Shanter made
its appearance. A manuscript copy was sent to Thomas, by post, with this
motto--
Change the name, and the
Story may be told of yourself.
The celebrity of the poem brought numbers to his house, and he sold a
great deal. But his spirit could not brook the brutal taunts and jeers
which every day he was obliged to bear from his customers. He left off
business, and commenced labourer, at which he continued till he got an
offer of a situation as overseer of hedges, on the large estate of
Castle Semple, at that time belonging to William M'Dowall, Esq., M.P.
for Renfrewshire, which he accepted. With short intervals, he remained
there till the day of his death. He was of such a character, that he
considered no man, or class of men, his superior, and no man his
inferior.
Feeling the infirmities of old age approach, Mr. Harvey placed him at
his west gate, as gate-keeper, where he fell into a lingering disease,
which soon put a period to his mortal career. As he had no friends nor
relations (his wife having died about two years before) Thomas had never
cared for to-morrow: he was destitute of the means to support himself
during his illness. The night before he died, he called for a
half-mutchkin of whisky; and (as an acquaintance of his sat by his
bed-side, and who personally informed me) he, taking a glass of it in
his hand, held it between him and the light, and eyed it for some time
with a peculiarly exhilarated expression of countenance, even at such a
crisis;--then, while pleasure sparkled in his eyes, he took his friend
by the hand, and pressing it warmly, exclaimed, "This is the last whisky
I, in all probability, will ever drink, and many and often is the times
I have felt its power. Here's to thee, Jamie, and may thou never want a
drap when thou art dry!" He died the next morning, about eight o'clock.
J.R.S.
* * * * *
THE SKETCH-BOOK.
* * * * *
RECOLLECTIONS OF A WANDERER. NO. V.
_Dawlish's Hole:--An Incident._
The eye looked out upon the watery world--
With fearful glance looked east and west, but all
Was wild and solitary, and the surge
Dashed on the groaning cliff, and foaming rose
And roared, as 'twere triumphing.
N.T. CARRINGTON.
The coast scene near Landwithiel[3] was of so varied and interesting
a character that I was irresistibly led on to examine it very fully
in detail. My sojourn therefore at Mr. Habbakuk Sheepshanks', of the
"Ship-Aground'; (whom I have formerly introduced to the reader) was
prolonged to an extent which sometimes surprised myself, and the various
local stories and traditions of times past, with which mine host,
especially when under the exciting influence of an extra glass of grog,
almost nightly entertained me, essentially contributed to while away
the time. The spot too was so secluded--comparatively unknown: there
is something inseparable from a temperament like mine in so deep a
retirement. To its inhabitants the world and its busy haunts are but as
a tale; yet man in all his varieties is essentially the same. Many a day
have I wandered along the sea-beaten coast--dining perhaps on a headland
stretching far into the sea--or in some secluded little bay, by the side
of a gushing spring; the ocean spread out before me--what object is so
boundlessly or beautifully inspiring? It may be mighty fine philosophy
for those who have passed through the current of life in one untroubled
and unvaried stream, and who have no perception or idea of the deeper
(if I may so express it) feelings of our nature, to call all this
romance; but those who have tasted bitterly of the ills of this world,
and who look back upon times past as doth the traveller in the desert on
viewing from afar the oasis he has left--upon their transitory existence
as a troubled dream--these can feel how deeply solitude amidst the
sublimities of Nature will heal the troubled mind. Is there not a
responsive chord in the hearts of such of my readers? Early one morning,
soon after my arrival at Landwithiel, I proceeded over land to a distant
part of the parish, to visit a ruin situated in a wild and remote spot,
which possessed some degree of historical interest. In the evening I
decided on returning by the coast in order to vary my route. The day
had been clear and sultry, and though the wind blew fresh from the
southward, yet its refreshing influence seemed exhausted by the intense
heat of the sun. In my progress along shore, though it was getting late,
and I was somewhat fatigued, I could not resist the opportunity of
exploring a sort of natural opening or cove in a part of the coast where
the cliffs were unusually precipitous; affording the geologist the
highest gratification; you were reminded indeed of the flat surface of a
stone wall in many parts, which effect the regular stratification of the
rocks contributed to produce; and it required no great stretch of fancy
to imagine it one vast fortification, with loop-holes at regular
intervals--at a short distance from seaward certainly it would be
difficult to divest a stranger of the idea that it was something
artificial. Two high points of rock contracting at their extremities in
a circular direction so as almost to meet, ran into the sandy beach, and
you found on advancing beyond the narrow entrance, a considerable space,
which gradually extended to something like an oblong square, with a
sandy bottom everywhere, surrounded by the same lofty cliffs which
composed the adjacent coast. I was much surprised that I had never heard
of this place before; it had apparently been more the effect of some
natural convulsion than of the encroachment of the sea, and at the
further end was a high mass of shingles, seaweed, and fragments of rock
packed closely together by the tide. On examination I discovered, about
the centre of the shingles, a large stone cross, carved out of a
projecting part near the base of the cliff. It bore simply the initials
W.D. and though the surrounding rocks were thickly covered with seaweed
and barnacles, yet the cross itself was perfectly clean, and bore marks
of recent care. Some singular event had evidently occurred in this
retired and desolate place. I loitered a considerable time in musing and
examining the spot, regardless of the whining and uneasiness of my
Newfoundland dog, Retriever, when I was suddenly and fully aroused by
the sharp echo and plashing of the tide against the rock, within the
entrance of the cove. I now recollected with alarm that it was a spring
flood, and that I had heard the tide sets in on this part of the coast
with extraordinary velocity. I ran hastily forward, expecting to escape
with a mere wetting, along the base of the rocks to an opening which
I had passed about half a mile to the westward. I had just grounds of
alarm. The mouth of the cove as I have already stated, extended some way
abruptly into the beach. On wading to its extremity I found the tide
already breaking in impetuous surf towards the foot of the cliffs, and
it was now so far advanced as to preclude any hope of escape from that
quarter; for the sands shelved in for some way on each side of the
projecting entrance, and if I gained the foot of the cliffs I feared
that I must inevitably be dashed to pieces before reaching the opening.
In the calmest weather on the coast, exposed to all the fury of the
Atlantic, the spring tides come in with a heavy swell; on this occasion
they were aided by the wind, and I had to retreat with precipitation
before an angry and threatening mass of waves, which broke many feet
over the spot I occupied the moment before, with a noise like a
discharge of artillery.
The night was gathering in, and the report of each successive wave,
fraught as it were with my death warrant, struck on my heart like a
funeral knell. Was there no hope of escape in the cove itself? no
difficult path to the rocks aloft? were the questions I rapidly put to
myself. An examination made as well as the darkness of the place
permitted, convinced me that my hopes were vain and transitory. I now
gave way to a sort of momentary despair; every instant was abridging my
chance of life, and the sudden and frightful feeling that you are to be
called on unprepared, to die, rushed on my mind with a choking
sensation. I listened for some time at the entrance of one of the
caverns, which the violence of the sea had excavated in picturesque
confusion round the foot of the cliffs, to the sullen moaning and
dashing of the tide, when my attention was rivetted by the sweet music
of a female voice on the heights above, singing in a wild and elevated
strain. It came over me with a sense so deep and clear, that I listened
for a few minutes as if my life were in every note. At this instant a
fishing boat passed under sail near the mouth of the cove. I shouted
with despair, but my voice was lost in the echo of the rocks; it passed
fleeting by, and with it my last chance of life. The shout had aroused
the strange singer; she arose, advanced to the very extremity of the
precipice, where one quiver would have been certain death, and flinging
her arms towards the ocean, called out as I imagined from her gestures,
to some imagined form. What could this fair apparition mean? I
distinctly saw her tall white figure and hair on the sky line (for the
moon was near rising) fluttering in the wind. She must either be mad or
a spirit, I exclaimed, shouting again and again to her for help; but
either my words were lost in the distance, or she regarded them not, for
she seated herself, and began to sing in the same wild style as before.
This was most extraordinary: a momentary tinge of superstition passed
across my mind, but it was speedily dissipated by the exclusive feelings
of my situation. Slowly did I see the waves dashing forward to their
destined goal, hemming in every chance of escape. I retreated step by
step till I reached the shingles, as if greedy of the space which
measured out to me my last race of life. My existence was in a span.
Great God! I exclaimed, am I then to perish thus--"without a grave,
unkennelled, uncoffined, and unknown"--my once sunny home--those faces
dearer than heart's blood--the days of my childhood passed over my
spirit--my mind was crowded with the images of by-gone days; half an
hour more and this breathing form would be clay. Yet how dreadful a
death! my poor dog howled and looked up in my face as a violent rush of
tide burst against the base of the rocks. Already I imagined the sea
around me, lessening my moments of life inch by inch--the tide bubbling
about my throat as I clung to the rock for help: I fancied I could have
borne any death rather than this lingering misery.