The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 386, August 22, 1829

"These shal be to advertise yor lordship of the Quenes estate. Yesterdaie afternonne she had an naturall laxe, by reason whereof she beganne sumwhat to lyghten, and (as it appeared,) to amende; and so contynued till towards night. All this night she hath bene very syck, and doth rather appaire than amend. Her Confessor hath bene with her grace this morning, and hath done [all] that to his office apperteyneth, and even now is preparing to minister to her grace the sacrament of unction. At Hampton Court, this Wednesday mornyng, at viii of the clock." [17 - Cotton. MSS. Nero, C. x.]

As a further and additional proof of the date of her decease, we shall refer our readers to a manuscript, preserved in the Herald's College, the preamble of which runs as follows:—"An ordre taken and made for the interrement of the most high, most excellent, and most Chrysten Pryncess, Jane, Quene of England, and of France, Lady of Ireland, and mother of the most noble and puyssant Prynce Edward; which deceasyd at Hampton Courte, the xxixth yere of the reigne of our most dread Soveraigne Lord Kyng Henry the eight, her most dearest husband, the xxiiiith day of Octobre, beyng Wedynsday, at nyght, xii of the clock; which departyng was the twelf day after the byrthe of the said Prynce her Grace beying in childbed." By this document it is fixed on the second Wednesday after the birth of the prince, on the morning of which day, the abovementioned letter of her physicians was undoubtedly written, as the ministering of the holy unction would show that her death was fast approaching.

The remains of Jane Seymour were conveyed with great solemnity to Windsor, and interred in the choir of St. George's Chapel, on the 12th of November. The following epitaph was inscribed to her memory:—

Phoenix Jana iacet, nato Phoenice dolendum,
Secala Phoenices nulla tulisse duas.

Of which Fuller gives this quaint translation—

Soon as her Phoenix Bud was blown,
Root-Phoenix Jane did wither,
Sad, that no age a brace had shown
Of Phoenixes together.

The funeral rites were solemnized according to the forms of the Catholic faith. The original letter [18 - Cotton. MSS. Nero, C. 10.] from Richard Gresham to the Lord Privy Seal, dated "Thurssdaye the viiith day of Novbr." is still preserved, proposing that a solemn dirge, and masses should be said for the soul of the late Queen Jane, in St. Paul's, in presence of the Mayor, Alderman, and Commoners, which were accordingly performed, as appears from the following passage in Holinshed:—"There was a solemne hearse made for her in Paule's Church, and funerall exequies celebrated, as well as in all other churches within the Citie of London." [19 - "Chronicle," v. ii. p. 944.]

S.I.B.

THE NOVELIST

THE HEARTHSTONE.—A GERMAN TRADITIONAL TALE

(For the Mirror.)

Frantz did not at all like his new benefice; his parishioners were evidently idle, ill-disposed people, doing no credit to the ministry of the deceased incumbent; and looking with eyes any thing but respectful and affectionate upon their new pastor. In short, he foresaw a host of troubles; although he had not taken possession of his living for more than two days. Neither did he admire the lonely situation of his house, which, gloomy and old fashioned, needed (at least so thought the polished Frantz, just emerged from the puny restraints and unlimited licenses of college) nothing less than a total rebuilding to render it inhabitable. His own sleeping apartment he liked less than all; but what could be done? It was decidedly the only decent dormitory in the house—had been that of the late pastor—and there was no help for it—could not but be his own. The young minister was wretched—lamented without ceasing the enjoyments of Leipzig—missed the society of his fellow students, and actually began to meditate taking a wife. But upon whom should his election fall? He caused all his female acquaintances to pass in mental review before him; some were fair—some wealthy—some altogether angelic; but Frantz was not Grand Seignior, and he allowed himself to be puzzled in a matter where every sentiment of love and honour ought to have, without hesitation, determined his choice; for in his rainbow visions of bright beauty and ethereal perfection, appeared the lonely and lovely Adelinda. Adelinda, the poor, the fond, the devoted, and, but for him, the innocent. No; beautiful and loving as she was, connected with her were the brooding shadows of guilt, and the lurid clouds of fiery vengeance; and Frantz had rather not think of Adelinda.

On the morning of the third day of his residence at Steingart, he happened to awake very early; being summertime it was broad daylight, and a bright sun was endeavouring to beam upon his countenance through the small lozenges of almost opaque glass which filled the high, narrow, and many paned window. Not feeling inclined to sleep, nor for the present to rise, Frantz laid for some time in deep reverie, with his eyes fixed, as some would have deemed, upon the door; and as others, more justly, would have thought upon vacancy. As he gazed, however, he was suddenly conscious that the door slowly and sullenly swung open, and admitted three strangers; a man of tall and graceful figure, and of a comely but melancholy aspect, arrayed in a long, loose and dark morning gown; he led two young and lovely children, whose burnished golden hair, pale, clear, tranquil countenances and snow-white garments gave them the appearance of celestial intelligences. Frantz, terrified and confounded, followed with his eyes those whom he could but fancy to be apparitions, as with noiseless steps they walked, or rather glided, towards a table which stood near the fireplace; upon this laid the parish register, coming in front of which, the man opened it with a solemn air, and turning over a few pages, pointed with his finger to some record, upon which the fair children seemed to gaze with interest and attention. The trio smiled mournfully at each other, then moving so that they stood upon the hearth immediately opposite the foot of Frantz's bed, and facing the affrighted young minister, he had full leisure to contemplate his strange visiters. That they were of a superhuman nature, he was warranted in concluding from their appearance in so solitary a place as Steingart—from their unceremonious entrée at that unusual hour into his dormitory, and from their movements, actions, and awful silence. Frantz endeavoured to recollect the form of adjuration, and also that of exorcism, commonly employed to tranquillize the turbulent departed, but vainly; his brain was giddy; his thoughts distracted; his heart throbbed to agony with terror, and his tongue refused its office. With a violent effort he sprang up in his bed, and in his address to the speechless trio, had proceeded as far as—"In the name of—" when the children sank down into the very hearthstone upon which they stood, and the man—Frantz saw not whither he went—perhaps up the chimney—but go he certainly did.

The terrified young man leapt in a state of desperation from his bed, and searched the apartment narrowly, as people commonly, but foolishly, are wont to do in similar cases. His search, as might have been expected, was useless; but not liking at present to alarm his domestics with a report of the house being haunted, he resolved to await further evidences of the supernatural visitation. Next morning at about the same hour, the apparitions again entered his apartment; and acting as they had previously done, gazed earnestly at him for some seconds ere they vanished. On the morning of the third day the trio appeared again, when the gentleman of the long robe, looking most earnestly at Frantz, pointed to the register, the children, and the hearthstone; and then, as usual, disappeared under the same circumstances as before.

Frantz was much distressed; he could not exactly comprehend the meaning of this dumb show; and yet felt that some dire mystery was connected with these phantoms, which he was called upon to unravel. After breakfast he wandered out, and lost in the maze of thought, sauntered, ere he was aware of it, into the churchyard. Shortly afterwards the church-door was opened by the sexton, who kept his pickaxe and mattock in a corner of the belfry, and Frantz remembering that as yet he had not entered the church, followed him in, and was struck with the appearance of many portraits which hung round the walls.

"What are these?" said he.

"The pictures, sir, of all your predecessors; know you not, that in some of our country churches it is the custom to hang up the likenesses of all the gentlemen who ever held the living?"

Frantz, in a tone of indifference, replied, that he fancied he had heard of such a thing.

"'Tis, sir," continued the man, "a custom with which you must comply at any rate. Why, bad as was our last pastor Herr Von Weetzer, he honoured us so far, that there hangs his picture."

Frantz advanced to view a newly painted portrait, which hung last in the line of his predecessors; and then the young man started back, changed colour, and the deadly faintness of terror seized his relaxing frame; for in it he recognised, exact in costume and features, the perfect likeness of his adult spectral visiter!

"Good God!" cried Frantz, "how very extraordinary!"

"A nice looking man, sir," said the sexton, not noticing his emotion; "pity 'tis that he was so wicked."

"Wicked!" exclaimed Frantz, almost unconscious of what he said; "how wicked?"

"Oh, sir, I can't exactly say how wicked; but a bad gentleman was Mr. Von Weetzer, that's certain."

"Wicked! well—was he married?" asked Frantz, with apparent unconcern.

"Why, no, sir;" replied the sexton, with a significant look; "people do say he was not; but if all tales be true that are rife about him, 'tis a sure thing he ought to have been."

"Hah! hum!" muttered Frantz, and a slight blush tinged his fine countenance. "His children you say—"

"Lord, sir! I said nothing about them—who told you? Few folks at Steingart, I guess, knew he had any but myself. 'Tis thought the poor things did not come fairly by their ends; and for certain, I never buried them!"

Frantz stood for some minutes absorbed in thought; at length he said— "were they baptized? I have a reason for asking."

"Perhaps sir, it is, that you are thinking if the poor, little, innocent creatures were not christened, they'd no right to be laid in consecrated ground."

"No matter what I think; I believe I have the register."

"You have, sir; please then to look at page 197, line 19, and I fancy you'll find the names of Gertrude and Erhard Dow, ('twas their poor misfortunate mother's sirname,) down as baptized."

"I have," interrupted Frantz, with an air of extreme solemnity, "seen, as I believe, those children and their father!"

"Mein Gott!" cried the sexton in excessive alarm—"seen them?—Seen Herr Von Weetzer! They do say he walks—dear, dear!—and after the shocking unchristian death that he died too! Where, sir? Where and when?"

"No matter, I also have my suspicions."

"He murdered them himself, sir—the wicked man! 'Twasn't their mother, my poor niece, God rest her soul! She died as easy as a lamb. Indeed, indeed, it wasn't her."

"Bring your tools," said Frantz, "and come with me."

He led the sexton to his chamber—desired him to raise the mysterious hearthstone, and dig up the ground beneath it. This was accordingly done, and in a few minutes, with sentiments of unspeakable pity and horror, Frantz beheld the fleshless remains of two children, who apparently from the size of the bones must have been about the age and figure, when deposited there, of the little phantoms. He found also upon turning to the register, that it laid open at the very page named by the sexton; and on the very spot which the apparition of the wretched Von Weetzer had indicated by his finger, was duly entered the baptism of the murdered children; and the sexton readily turned to the entries of their birth in other parts of the volume. Frantz interred the remains of these unfortunate beings in consecrated ground—immediately quitted Steingart— resigned a preferment which had (from the singularly terrible incident thus connected with his possession of it) equally alarmed and disgusted him—married Adelinda upon his return to Leipzig—and gradually became an exemplary member of Society.

M.L.B.

Censure is the tax a man pays to the public for being eminent.—Swift.

THE NATURALIST

NEST OF THE TAYLOR BIRD

This is one of the most interesting objects in the whole compass of Natural History. The little architect is called the Taylor Bird, Taylor Wren, or Taylor Warbler, from the art with which it makes its nest, sewing some dry leaves to a green one at the extremity of a twig, and thus forming a hollow cone, which it afterwards lines. The general construction of the nest, as well as a description of a specimen in Dr. Latham's collection, will be found at page 180, of vol. xiii. of the MIRROR.

The Taylor Bird is only about three and a half inches in length, and weighs, it is said, three-sixteenths of an ounce; the plumage above is pale olive yellow; chin and throat yellow; breast and belly dusky white. It inhabits India, and particularly the Islands of Ceylon. The eggs are white, and not much larger than what are called ant's eggs. [20 - Notes to Jennings's Ornithologia, p. 324.]

In constructing the nest, the beak performs the office of drilling in the leaves the necessary holes, and passing the fibres through them with the dexterity of a tailor. Even such parts in the rear as are not sufficiently firm are sewed in like manner.

IVY

Mr. Gilbert Burnett thus beautifully illustrates the transitorial metamorphosis of ivy:—

"The ivy, in its infant or very young state, has stalks trailing upon the ground, and protruding rootlets throughout their whole extent; its leaves are spear-shaped, and it bears neither flower nor fruit; this is termed ivy creeping on the ground. The same plant, when more advanced, quits the ground, and climbs on walls and trees, its rootlets becoming holdfasts only; its leaves are generally three or five lobed, and it is still barren; this is the greater barren ivy. In its next, or more mature state, it disdains all props, and rising by its own strength above the walls on which it grew, occasionally puts on the appearance of a tree; in this the flower of its age, the branches are smooth, devoid of radicles and holdfasts; and it is loaded with blossoms and with fruit; the lobulations of the leaves are likewise less; this is the war-poet's ivy. But when old, the ivy again becomes barren, again the suckers appear upon the stem, and the leaves are no longer lobed, but egg-shaped; this is the Bacchanalian ivy."