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

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

Various

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

DOMESTIC ANTIQUITIES

The first of these archæological rarities is a pair of Snuffers, found in Dorsetshire sixty-four years since, and engraved in Hutchins's history of that county. They were discovered, says the historian, "in the year 1768, in digging the foundation of a granary, at the foot of a hill adjoining to Corton mansion house (formerly the seat of the respectable family of the Mohuns), in the parish of St. Peter, Portisham. They are of brass, and weigh six ounces: the great difference between these and the modern utensils of the same nature and use is, that these are in shape like a heart fluted, and consequently terminate in a point. They consist of two equal lateral cavities, by the edges of which the snuff is cut off, and received into the cavities, from which it is not got out without particular application and trouble."

"There are two circumstances attending this little utensil which seem to bespeak it of considerable age: the roughness of the workmanship, which is in all respects as crude and course as can be well imagined, and the awkwardness of the form."

So little is known of the comparatively recent introduction of snuffers into this country, that the above illustration will be acceptable to the observer of domestic origins and antiquities. See also Mirror, vol. xi. p. 74.

The Key, annexed, was the property of Mr. Gough, the eminent topographer, and is supposed to have been used as a passport by some of the family of Stawel, whose arms it bears.

LINES ADDRESSED TO A PARTY OF YOUNG LADIES VISITING THE CATACOMBS AT PARIS

(From the French of M. Emanuel Dupaty.)

BY E. B. IMPEY, ESQ

While life is young and pleasure new,
Ah! why the shades of Death explore?
Better, ere May's sweet prime is o'er,
The primrose path of joy pursue:
The torch, the lamps' sepulchral fire,
Their paleness on your charms impress,
And glaring on your loveliness,
Death mocks what living eyes desire.
Approach! the music of your tread
No longer bids the cold heart beat:
For ruling Beauty boasts no seat
Of empire o'er the senseless dead!
Yet, if their lessons profit aught,
Ponder, or ere ye speed away,
Those feet o'er flowers were form'd to stray,
No death-wrought causeway, grimly wrought,
Of ghastly bones and mould'ring clay.
To gayer thoughts and scenes arise;
Nor ever veil those sun-bright eyes
From sight of bliss and light of day—
Save when in pity to mankind
Love's fillet o'er their lids ye bind.

HOLLAND

Holland derives its name from the German word Hohl, synonymous with the English term hollow, and denoting a concave, or very hollow, low country.

This country originally formed part of the territory of the Belgæ, conquered by the Romans, 47 years before Christ. A sovereignty, founded by Thierry, first Count of Holland, A.D. 868, continued till the year 1417, when it passed, by surrender, to the Duke of Burgundy. In 1534, being oppressed by the Bishop of Utrecht, the people ceded the country to Spain. The Spanish tyranny being insupportable, they revolted, and formed the republic called the United Provinces, by the Union of Utrecht, 1579. When they were expelled the Low Countries by the Duke of Alva, they retired to England; and having equipped a small fleet of forty sail, under the command of Count Lumay, they sailed towards this coast—being called, in derision, "gueux," or beggars of the sea. Upon the duke's complaining to Queen Elizabeth, that they were pirates, she compelled them to leave England; and accordingly they set sail for Enckhuysen; but the wind being unfavourable, they accidentally steered towards the isle of Voorn, attacked the town of Briel, took possession of it, and made it the first asylum of their liberty.

In 1585, a treaty was concluded between the States of Holland and Queen Elizabeth; and Briel was one of the cautionary towns delivered into her hands for securing the fulfilment of their engagements. It was garrisoned by the English during her reign, and part of the next, but restored to the States in 1616.

The office of Stadtholder, or Captain-General of the United Provinces, was made hereditary in the Prince of Orange's family, not excepting females, 1747. A revolt was formed, but prevented by the Prussians, 1787. The country was invaded by the French in 1793, who took possession of it January, 1795, and expelled the Stadtholder: it was erected into a kingdom by the commands of Buonaparte, and the title of king given to his brother Louis, June 5, 1806. Its changes since this period are familiar to the reader of contemporary history.

Lord Chesterfield, in his Letters to his Son, says—"Holland, where you are going, is by far the finest and richest of the Seven United Provinces, which, altogether, form the republic. The other provinces are Guelderland, Zealand, Friesland, Utrecht, Groningen, and Overyssel. These seven provinces form what is called the States-General of the United Provinces: this is a very powerful, and a very considerable republic. I must tell you that a republic is a free state, without any king. You will go first to the Hague, which is the most beautiful village in the world, for it is not a town. Amsterdam, reckoned the capital of the United Provinces, is a very fine, rich city. There are besides in Holland several considerable towns—such as Dort, Haerlem, Leyden, Delft, and Rotterdam. You will observe throughout Holland the greatest cleanliness: the very streets are cleaner than our houses are here. Holland carries on a very great trade, particularly to China, Japan, and all over the East Indies."

P.T.W

THE HAWTHORN WELL

[The following lines are associated with a singular species of popular superstition which may in some measure, explain the "pale cast of thought" that pervades them. They are written by a native of Northumberland. "The Hawthorn Well," was a Rag Well, and so called from persons formerly leaving rags there for the cure of certain diseases. Bishop Hall, in his Triumphs of Rome, ridicules a superstitious prayer of the Popish Church for the "blessing of clouts in the way of cure of diseases;" and Mr. Brand asks, "Can it have originated thence?" He further observes:—"this absurd custom is not extinct even at this day: I have formerly frequently observed shreds or bits of rag upon the bushes that overhang a well in the road to Benton, a village in the vicinity of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, which, from that circumstance, is now or was very lately called The Rag Well. This name is undoubtedly of long standing: probably it has been visited for some disease or other, and these rag-offerings are the relics of the then prevailing popular superstition."—Brand's Popular Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 270.]

"From hill, from dale, each charm is fled;
Groves, flocks, and fountains, please no more."

No joy, nor hope, no pleasure, nor its dream,
Now cheers my heart. The current of my life
Seems settled to a dull, unruffled lake,
Deep sunk 'midst gloomy rocks and barren hills;
Which tempests only stir and clouds obscure;
Unbrightened by the cheerful beam of day,
Unbreathed on by the gentle western breeze,
Which sweeps o'er pleasant meads and through the woods,
Stirring the leaves which seem to dance with joy.
No more the beauteous landscape in its pride
Of summer loveliness—when every tree
Is crowned with foliage, and each blooming flower
Speaks by its breath its presence though unseen—
For me has charms; although in early days,
Ere care and grief had dulled the sense of joy,
No eye more raptured gazed upon the scene
Of woody dell, green slope, or heath-clad hill;
Nor ear with more delight drank in the strains
Warbled by cheerful birds from every grove,
Or thrilled by larks up-springing to the sky.

From the hill side—where oft in tender youth
I strayed, when hope, the sunshine of the mind,
Lent to each lovely scene, a double charm
And tinged all objects with its golden hues—
There gushed a spring, whose waters found their way
Into a basin of rude stone below.
A thorn, the largest of its kind, still green
And flourishing, though old, the well o'erhung;
Receiving friendly nurture at its roots
From what its branches shaded; and around
The love-lorn primrose and wild violet grew,
With the faint bubbling of that limpid fount.