Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 581, December 15, 1832», страница 3
THE PUBLIC JOURNALS
THE CITADEL OF ANTWERP
(From personal inspection, by a Contributor to the United Service Journal.)
This spot, on which the eye of all Europe is at present concentrated, lies at the southern extremity of Antwerp, and forms one continued line with its defences along the banks of the Scheldt. It is a regular pentagon in shape, protected by bastions ranging at progressive elevations, and connecting themselves with curtains of proportionate height. In advance of these defences are a further series of spacious bastions, immediately connected with the preceding, but of later construction. The one were erected by Paciotti and Cerbolini, two Italian engineers, by order of the tyrant Alba, 1568, and the others according to Vauban's principles in 1701. Every side of this citadel is equally formidable for its strength; that towards the town is furnished with a raveline; and this is also the case with the front which faces the river, and opens upon a paved line of road, from which all communication with Antwerp itself has latterly been cut off. Two of the sides of this fastness front towards the adjacent country, and are likewise supplied with ravelines; the centre bastion in this direction bears Paciotto's name, which has been denaturalized in that of Paniotto in the French elevations. The defences of the town terminate in the centre of the fifth side, which circumstance has left it unprovided with a raveline. On the summit (or capital) of the two bastions on the land side, two large lunettes have been thrown forward, one being called Fort Kiel, from the adjacent suburb, and the other, which stands more away from the town, Fort St. Laurent. Internally the citadel of Antwerp contains every provision for the safe housing of its defenders, and possesses more than the requisite accommodation under ground for its supplies. All the barracks, exposed to the enemy's fire, are so placed, that the strength of the garrison may be readily collected at the point endangered; the kind of defence to be brought into action is plain and obvious; and the matériel for standing a siege has been as liberally provided as the means of subsistence for preserving the morale of the besieged from being deteriorated. The garrison consists of picked troops, who place unlimited confidence in their commandant. The citadel is encompassed by a ditch, which has eighteen feet of water in every part of its circuit, and is protected by ramparts of adequate elevation, and strength in proportion. With such elements of defence as these its capture cannot be effected without a sacrifice of human lives, which none but the flint-hearted can contemplate or foresee without deprecation and horror.
In the year 1792, when it was carried by the revolutionary forces of France, they took the direction of the city walls as their line of attack, and mounted the bastion which bears Paciotto's name; this, at that time of day, formed indisputably the most advantageous point of assault; but its increased strength in this quarter would, at the present moment, render any attack an act of temerity. An esplanade of the average width of four hundred paces, which was laid out as a handsome promenade, before the bombardment in 1830, separates the citadel from the town: but the effect of that bombardment has been to throw a wide area of fifteen hundred paces open to the very marge of the Scheldt; and to disconnect the fortress still more completely from the inhabited portion of Antwerp. Lamentable as may be the prospect, Antwerp, the mistress of the finest naval station and commercial port in Europe, is doomed to destruction, if a single gun be directed against its citadel. It is not possible for its commandant, as a soldier and a subject, to avoid any and every means of annoying a besieger; and amongst these, none so ready and effectual, present themselves, as that of preventing the town from becoming the covert for an assailant. We have witnessed the deplorable havoc which a few mortars brought upon it in 1830; but how frightful will be the issue when rockets and red-hot shot come to be poured upon the devoted city. Nay, more,—by opening the dykes along the Scheldt, a large portion of the western provinces of Belgium is capable of being inundated; and if this fresh calamity ensue, as a second resource on the part of the besieged, from the adoption of which the recognised laws of warfare cannot absolve them, not only Antwerp will have ceased to exist, but her citadel will rear its head, a frowning islet, amidst a waste of waters. As to the blockade of the Scheldt, it will be impotent with regard to distressing the citadel; for the windings of that stream, as well as of the Maas, at their mouths, preclude the possibility of effectually staying the Dutch from communication with it.
THE PLAINT OF CERTAIN CORAL BEADS
Spoiler of forbidden wealth,
Guarded by the hoary waves!
When we mourn thy cruel stealth,
Sorrowing for our quiet caves.
Doth it calm our wistful pining
That the chains we hate are shining?
Boast we beauty's gauds to be?
Can the state such bondage shares,
Thoughtless liking, loveless cares,
Sudden angers, wilful airs,
Sooth us like the mighty sea?
Though, in hours when suitors press
Near the shrine of star-bright eyes,
Mysteries, some would die to guess,
Our familiar touch descries;
When a startled throb or tremble,
Woman's craft would fain dissemble,
Through our light embraces swells;—
Fruitless secrets—vainly taught,—
Bliss unheeded—trust unsought—
Can they quench the constant thought
Of our dreamy ocean-cells?
Though the glowing bands we form,
Oft by redder lips be pressed,
And a slumber, soft and warm,
Fold us on a dove-like breast,—
Not to love, but love's bestowing
Gentle care and kiss are owing:—
Is the passion changed or cloyed,
Doth the giver's light grow less?
Banished from the sweet recess,
Sportive pressure, fond caress,
See our mimic worth destroyed!
Then in close and narrow keep,
Pent, with scorned and faded toys,
Mourn we for the glassy deep,
Sigh we for our early joys!
What has earth like ocean's treasures?
More than craving avarice measures,
More than Fancy's dream enchants,
Deck the booming caves below,
Where green waters ever flow
Under groves of pearl, that grow
In the mermaid's glimmering haunts.
Under spar-enchased bowers,
Bending on their twisted stems,
Glow the myriad ocean-flowers,
Fadeless—rich as orient gems.
Hung with seaweed's tasselled fringes,
Dyed with all the rainbow's tinges,
Rise the Triton's palace walls.
Pallid silver's wandering veins
Stream, like frostwork, o'er the stains;
Pavements thick, with golden grains,
Twinkle through their crystal halls.
And a music wild and low
Ever, o'er the curved shells,
Wanders with a fitful flow
As the billow sinks or swells.
Now, to faintest whispers hushing,
Now, in louder cadence gushing,
Wakens from their pleasant sleep
All the tuneful Nereid-throng,
Till their notes of wreathed song
Float in magic streams along,
Chanting joyaunce through the deep.
Chance or change,—the clouds of time—
Sorrow,—winter storm, or blight,
Comes not near our peaceful clime;
Nor the strife of day with night.
Death, who walks the earth in riot,
Stirs not our primeval quiet:
Scarce his distant rage we know
From the dreary things of clay,
Slain, alas! in ocean's play,
Whom the sea-maids shroud and lay
In the silent caves below.
Fond! to deem we count it pride
Thus to deck the fair of earth!
We, whose beauty-peopled tide
Gave the foam-born goddess birth!
Her, whose glory's radiant fulness.
All too bright for mortal dulness,
Sparkles in a lovelier star!
Are not Ocean's shady places
Rich in kindred forms and faces,
Choral bands of sister-Graces
Circling Amphitrite's car?
Toiling o'er the shallow page,
Vainly pedants seek the lore
Taught us by that prophet sage,
Whom our azure Thetis bore.
Wiser Eld his solemn numbers,
Listening, stole from Ocean's slumbers,
Signs of coming doom to learn.
Poor were all your labours reap,
To the gifted seers that keep
Mysteries of the ancient deep,
Drawn from Nereus' sacred urn.
Let us find our old retreat,
Yield us to the kissing wave,
From the daylight's parching heat
In its cool profound to lave.
If ye needs must rob for beauty,
Earth's abysses teem with booty.
Gems, that love the blaze of day:—
We are tired of glittering shows,
And the strife of man's display;
Let us sink to sweet repose
Where the lulling water flows;
Give us to our native bay!
Tait's Edinburgh Magazine.
SHELLEY
[We find the clever and curious sketches of Shelley, in the New Monthly Magazine, concluded with the following interesting anecdote.]
That Shelley gave freely, when the needy scholar asked, or in silent, hopeless poverty seemed to ask, his aid, will he demonstrated most clearly by relating shortly one example of his generosity, where the applicant had no pretensions to literary renown, and no claim whatever, except perhaps honest penury. It is delightful to attempt to delineate from various points of view a creature of infinite moral beauty,—but one instance must suffice; an ample volume might be composed of such tales, but one may be selected, because it contains a large admixture of that ingredient which is essential to the conversion of alms-giving into the genuine virtue of charity—self-denial. On returning to town after the long vacation, at the end of October, I found Shelley at one of the hotels in Covent Garden. Having some business in hand he was passing a few days there alone. We had taken some mutton chops hastily at a dark place in one of the minute courts of the city, at an early hour, and we went forth to walk; for to walk at all times, and especially in the evening, was his supreme delight. The aspect of the fields to the north of Somers-Town, between that beggarly suburb and Kentish-Town, has been totally changed of late. Although this district could never be accounted pretty, nor deserving a high place even amongst suburban scenes, yet the air, or often the wind, seemed pure and fresh to captives emerging from the smoke of London; there were certain old elms, much very green grass, quiet cattle feeding, and groups of noisy children playing with something of the freedom of the village green. There was, oh, blessed thing! an entire absence of carriages and of blood-horses; of the dust and dress and affectation and fashion of the parks: there were, moreover, old and quaint edifices and objects which gave character to the scene. Whenever Shelley was imprisoned in London,—for to a poet a close and crowded city must be a dreary gaol,—his steps would take that direction, unless his residence was too remote, or he was accompanied by one who chose to guide his walk. On this occasion I was led thither, as indeed I had anticipated: the weather was fine, but the autumn was already advanced; we had not sauntered long in these fields when the dusky evening closed in, and the darkness gradually thickened. "How black those trees are," said Shelley, stopping short, and pointing to a row of elms; "it is so dark the trees might well be houses, and the turf, pavement,—the eye would sustain no loss; it is useless therefore to remain here, let us return." He proposed tea at his hotel, I assented; and hastily buttoning his coat, he seized my arm, and set off at his great pace, striding with bent knees over the fields and through the narrow streets. We were crossing the New Road, when he said shortly, "I must call for a moment, but it will not be out of the way at all," and then dragged me suddenly towards the left. I inquired whither we were bound, and, I believe, I suggested the postponement of the intended call till the morrow. He answered, it was not at all out of our way. I was hurried along rapidly towards the left; we soon fell into an animated discussion respecting the nature of the virtue of the Romans, which in some measure beguiled the weary way. Whilst he was talking with much vehemence and a total disregard of the people who thronged the streets, he suddenly wheeled about and pushed me through a narrow door; to my infinite surprise I found myself in a pawnbroker's shop! It was in the neighbourhood of Newgate Street; for he had no idea whatever in practice either of time or space, nor did he in any degree regard method in the conduct of business. There were several women in the shop in brown and grey cloaks with squalling children: some of them were attempting to persuade the children to be quiet, or at least, to scream with moderation; the others were enlarging upon and pointing out the beauties of certain coarse and dirty sheets that lay before them to a man on the other side of the counter. I bore this substitute for our proposed tea some minutes with tolerable patience, but as the call did not promise to terminate speedily, I said to Shelley, in a whisper, "Is not this almost as bad as the Roman virtue?" Upon this he approached the pawnbroker: it was long before he could obtain a hearing, and he did not find civility. The man was unwilling to part with a valuable pledge so soon, or perhaps he hoped to retain it eventually; or it might be, that the obliquity of his nature disqualified him for respectful behaviour. A pawnbroker is frequently an important witness in criminal proceedings: it has happened to me, therefore, afterwards to see many specimens of this kind of banker; they sometimes appeared not less respectable than other tradesmen, and sometimes I have been forcibly reminded of the first I ever met with, by an equally ill conditioned fellow. I was so little pleased with the introduction, that I stood aloof in the shop, and did not hear what passed between him and Shelley. On our way to Covent-Garden, I expressed my surprise and dissatisfaction at our strange visit, and I learned that when he came to London before, in the course of the summer, some old man had related to him a tale of distress,—of a calamity which could only be alleviated by the timely application of ten pounds; five of them he drew at once from his pocket, and to raise the other five he had pawned his beautiful solar microscope! He related this act of beneficence simply and briefly, as if it were a matter of course, and such indeed it was to him. I was ashamed of my impatience, and we strode along in silence.
It was past ten when we reached the hotel; some excellent tea and a liberal supply of hot muffins in the coffee-room, now quiet and solitary, were the more grateful after the wearisome delay and vast deviation. Shelley often turned his head, and cast eager glances towards the door; and whenever the waiter replenished our teapot, or approached our box, he was interrogated whether any one had yet called. At last the desired summons was brought: Shelley drew forth some bank notes, hurried to the bar, and returned as hastily, bearing in triumph under his arm a mahogany box, followed by the officious waiter, with whose assistance he placed it upon the bench by his side. He viewed it often with evident satisfaction, and sometimes patted it affectionately in the course of calm conversation. The solar microscope was always a favourite plaything or instrument of scientific inquiry; whenever he entered a house his first care was to choose some window of a southern aspect, and, if permission could be obtained by prayer or by purchase, strightway to cut a hole through the shutter to receive it. His regard for his solar microscope was as lasting as it was strong; for he retained it several years after this adventure, and long after he had parted with all the rest of his philosophical apparatus.
