The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 325, August 2, 1828

In they rush'd—the maid and the sire.
And the child that could barely run—
Then he clos'd the barn, and set it on fire.
And burnt them every one!

And loud he laugh'd at each terrible shriek,
And cried to his archer-train,
"The merry mice!—how shrill they squeak!—
They are fond of the bishop's grain!"

But mark, what an awful judgment soon,
On the cruel bishop fell;
With so many mice his palace swarm'd,
That in it he could not dwell.

They gnaw'd the arras above and beneath,
They eat each savoury dish up;
And shortly their sacrilegious teeth
Began to nibble the bishop!

He flew to his castle of Ehrenfels,
By the side of the Rhine so fair;
But they found the road to his new abode,
And came in legions there.

He built him, in haste, a tower tall
In the tide, for his better assurance;
But they swam the river, and scal'd the wall,
And worried him past endurance.

One morning his skeleton there was seen,
By a load of flesh the lighter;
They had picked his bones uncommonly clean,
And eaten his very mitre!

Such was the end of the bishop of Mentz,
And oft at the midnight hour,
He comes in the shape of a fog so dense,
And sits on his old "Mouse-Tower."

    C.K.W.

PRUSSIC ACID

(For the Mirror.)

The circumstance of Montgomery's recent suicide in Newgate, has led me to send you the following remarks upon the nature and properties of that most violent poison, Prussic acid, with which the unfortunate man terminated his existence.

Were we to consider the constituent parts and properties of the most common things we are in the habit of daily using, and their poisonous and destructive natures, we should recoil at the deadly potion, and shrink from the loathsome draught we are about to take. That which we consider the most delicious and exhilarating portion of our common beverage, porter, contains carbonic acid gas, commonly known by the "spirit," and which the poor miners dread with the utmost horror, like the Arabian does the destructive blast of the simoon. Oxalic acid, so much the fear of those accustomed to the medicine—Epsom salts, is made from that useful article, sugar, by uniting with it a smaller portion, more than it has naturally, of oxygen gas. The air we breathe contains a most deadly poison, called by chemists azotic gas, which, by its being mixed with what is called vital air, (oxygen gas,) becomes necessary to our existence, as much as the one (vital air or oxygen gas) would be prejudicial without the other; and Prussic acid, the most violent of all poisons, is contained in the common bitter-almond. But these most destructive substances are always found combined with others, which render them often perfectly harmless, and can be separated only by the skill of the chemist.

The Prussic acid (by some called hydrocyanic acid) is a liquid, extracted from vegetables, and contains one part of cyanogen and one part of hydrogen. It is extracted from the bitter-almond, (as has been stated,) peach-blossom, and the leaves of the laurocerasus. It may also be obtained from animal substances, although a vegetable acid. If lime be added to water, distilled from these substances, a Prussiate of lime is formed; when, if an acid solution of iron be added to this mixture, common Prussian blue (or Prussiate of iron) is precipitated. The acid may be obtained from Prussiate of potash, by making a strong solution of this salt, and then adding as much tartaric acid as will precipitate the potash, when the acid will be left in solution, which must be decanted and distilled.

Its properties are a pungent odour, very much resembling that of bitter-almonds, with a hot but sweetish taste, and extremely volatile. It contains azote, with which no other vegetable acid is combined; it is largely used in the manufacture of Prussian blue. It is the most violent of all poisons, and destroys animals by being applied to the skin only. It is stated by an able chemist, that a single drop applied to the tongue of a mastiff dog caused death so instantaneously, that it appeared to have been destroyed by lightning. One drop to the human frame destroys life in two minutes.

But when chemically combined with other substances, its power is in a great measure neutralized, and it becomes a valuable article, both to the chemist as a test, and to the physician as a medicine. The Prussiate of potash and iron will enable the chemist to discover nearly the whole of the metals when in solution, by the colours its combination produces. Dr. Zollekoffer says, that in intermittent fevers the Prussiate of iron is in its effects superior to Cinchona bark, and says it never disagrees with the stomach, or creates nausea even in the most irritable state, while bark is not unfrequently rejected; a patient will recover from the influence of intermitting and remitting fevers, in the generality of cases, in much less time than is usual in those cases in which bark is employed. S.S.T.

THE ANECDOTE GALLERY.

VOLTAIRE

(Continued from page 64.)

A certain Hungarian traveller, a man of consequence in his country, but not particularly wise, had fruitlessly tried to be introduced, without finding any one at Geneva, willing to undertake the task, as they were all afraid Voltaire would be rude to him. A young man, who heard of this, engaged to procure the stranger an interview with Voltaire; and on the day appointed, contrived to have him conveyed out of town to a good-looking residence, where well-dressed servants received him at the door, and ushered him up stairs in due form. Here then at last he found himself, as he thought, téte-à-tete with Voltaire. The malade de Ferney, personated by our young friend, was lying down on a sofa, wrapped up in a damask robe-de-chambre, a night-cap of black velvet, with gold lace, on his head, or rather on the top of an immense periwig, a la Louis XIV., in the midst of which his little, sallow and deeply-wrinkled visage seemed buried; a table was near him, covered with papers, and the curtains being drawn, made the room rather dark. The philosopher apologized in a hollow voice, interrupted by occasional fits of coughing; he was ill bien malade, could not get up, begged the stranger to be seated, asked questions about the countries he had visited, made him tell his adventures, those of gallantry particularly, and was himself most facetious, and most profanely witty. The Hungarian delighted, and far more at ease than he had imagined possible, casting a glance on the papers, ventured to inquire what new work? "Ah, nothing!"—le faible Enfant de ma Vieillesse—a tragedy. "May I ask the subject?" "The subject is wholly Genevan," replied Voltaire, "the name, Empro-Giro, and the dramatis personæ Carin-Caro, Dupins-Simon, and Carcail Briffon, &c." He then began to repeat, with great animation, a number of passages, to which his visitor listened in perfect raptures, but drew, meanwhile, a snuff-box from his pocket, and began to look attentively on him and on a picture on the lid; thus confronted with a portrait of Voltaire, and compared face to face, was a trial for which our mimic was not prepared, and his courage nearly forsook him, yet he kept up appearances, only coughing more, and ranting on the high-sounding lines of his Empro-Giro. The Hungarian, not undeceived by this close examination, replaced the snuff-box in his pocket, declaring it to be the best likeness he had ever seen. He rose at last, thanked his friend Voltaire, kissed his hand respectfully, and went away, distributing to the servants he met on the stairs liberal tokens of his satisfaction. These servants were the intimate friends and companions of the chief actor, and one of them, his brother, unwilling to carry the joke to the length of pocketing the money of their dupe, they contrived to give him a dinner at a tavern, where he was made to tell the story of his visit to Voltaire, and express his admiration of the great man. The latter heard of this, was much amused, and desired to see his double, told him he would make a bargain with him—half his fame for half the tiresome visitors it procured him.

The poet lived like a prince, but kept his accounts like a citizen; knowing to a sous where his money went: a good deal of it was bestowed charitably, for he was munificent, and certainly much loved in his neighbourhood. One night, when Tancrede was acting, and the court of the chateau was full of carriages and servants, there arrived, as ill luck would have it, a cask of the best chambertin that ever came from Burgundy; his own people could not attend to it, and the cask remained at his cellar door; the servants contrived to get at it, and while their masters and mistresses were shedding tears at the tragedy, they sipped the poet's wine. There was generally a supper after the play, where more than once two hundred people sat down, and Voltaire had something to say to every one of his guests. As the gates of the town are shut at night, many of them usually remained in the château, poorly accommodated with beds. One night as M. de B–, was groping in the dark, for a place where he might lie down to sleep, he accidently put his finger into the mouth of M. de Florian, who bit it.

Voltaire kept company only with the aristocracy of Geneva; neither his liberality nor his wit secured him the good-will of the patriots placed out of the sphere of his influence; they only saw him a sham philosopher, without principles and solidity; a courtier, the slave of rank and fashion; the corrupter of their country, of which he made a jest. Quand je secoue ma perruque, he used to say, je poudre toute la republique!

Whatever might be Voltaire's antipathy to the visits of strangers at his château, he seems to have met with an equal specimen of that temper from an Englishman. When in London, he waited upon Congreve, the poet, and passed him some compliments as to the reputation and merit of his works. Congreve thanked him; but at the same, time told Voltaire he did not choose to be considered as an author, but only as a private gentleman, and in that light expected to be visited. Voltaire answered, that if he had never been any thing but a private gentleman, in all probability he had never been troubled with that visit. He also observes, in his own account of this affair, he was not a little disgusted with so unseasonable a piece of vanity.

The memory of Voltaire and Rousseau is still cherished by the French people with great fondness; their busts or figures in bronze or plaster are frequently met with, and remind one of Penates, or household gods.

PHILO.

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

WITCHCRAFT

(For the Mirror.)

—Why should the envious world
Throw all their scandalous malice upon me?
'Cause I am poor, deform'd, and ignorant;
And like a bow, buckled and bent together,
By some more strong in mischiefs than myself:
Must I for that be made a common sink
For all the filth and rubbish of men's tongues,
To fall and run into? some call me witch;
And, being ignorant of myself, they go
About to teach me how to be one; urging
That my bad tongue (by their bad usage made so)
Forespeaks their cattle, doth bewitch their corn,
Themselves, their servants, and their babes at nurse;
This they enforce upon me; and in part
Make me to credit it.

    Witch of Edmonton.
The belief in witchcraft may be considered as forming a prominent and important feature in the history of the human mind. It is certainly one link of the degrading chain of superstitions which have long enslaved mankind, but which are now quivering to their fall. The desire for power to pry into hidden things, and more especially events to come, is inherent in the human race, and has always been considered as of no ordinary importance, and rendered the supposed possessors objects of reverence and fear. The belief in astrology, or the power to read in the stars the knowledge of futurity, from time immemorial has been considered as the most difficult of attainment, and important in its results. And by the aid of a little supernatural machinery, both magicians and astrologers exercised the most unlimited influence over the understandings of their adherents. An astrologer, only two or three centuries since, was a regular appendage to the establishments of princes and nobles. Sir Walter Scott has drawn an interesting portrait of one in Kenilworth; and the eagerness with which the Earl of Leicester listened to his doctrines and predictions, affords a good specimen of the manners of those times. The movements of the heavenly bodies, (imperfectly as they were then understood,) seemed to afford the most plausible vehicle for these "oracles of human destiny;" and even now, while we are tracing these lines, the red and glaring appearance of the planet Mars, shining so beautifully in the south-east, is considered by the many as a forerunner and sign of long wars and much bloodshed:These dreams and terrors magical,

These miracles and witches,