Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 340, Supplementary Number (1828)», страница 6

 
The human life I take;
And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake.
 
 
"And still no peace for the restless clay
Will wave or mould allow;
The horrid thing pursues my soul,—
It stands before me now!"
The fearful boy looked up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow!
 
 
That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-fac'd men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
 

Mr. Planché's versification of the homely proverb—Poverty parts good company—will create many good-natured smiles, and run counter with Mr. Kenney's To-morrow. Some of the minor pieces are very pleasing, especially two by Hartley Coleridge, Esq.

We confess we do not admire the taste which dictated Mr. C. Lamb's Widow; it is in every respect unworthy of the plate, and the feelings created by the two are very discordant. We love a joke, but to call a widow's sables a perpetual "black joke," disgusts rather than pleases us. The Funeral of General Crawford, by the author of The Subaltern is an affecting incident; and Nina St. Morin, by the author of May You Like It, is of the same character. Catching a Tartar, by Mansie Wauch, and the Station, an Irish Story, are full of humour; and May Day, by the editor, abounds with oddities. Thus, "the golden age is not to be regilt; pastoral is gone out, and Pan extinct—pans will not last for ever;" "horticultural hose, pruned so often at top to graft at bottom, that from long stockings they had dwindled into short socks;" "the contrast of a large marquee in canvass with the long lawn;" "Pan's sister, Patty, the wags called Patty Pan," &c. One of the finest stories in the Gem is the Rival Dreamers, by Mr. Banim; and curious enough, this is the third Annual in which we have met with the same legend. The present version is, however, the best narrative, which such of our readers as know the O'Hara Family will readily believe. We could abridge it for our present space; but it would be injustice to the author to pare down his beautiful descriptions; and we will endeavour to give place to the tale in a future Number. The Last Embarkation of the Doge of Venice is interesting; almost every incident connected with that huge pleasure-house is attractive, but one of the present, the Marriage of the Sea, is well told. The Shearmen's Miracle Play smacks pleasantly of "the good old times" of merry England. Miss Mitford has contributed two of her inimitable sketches—Harry Lewington and his Dog, and Tom Hopkins—the latter an excellent portrait of "the loudest, if not the greatest man" in the little town of Cranley. We must give the village lion, in little:—

TOM HOPKINS

At the time of which I speak, Tom Hopkins was of an age somewhat equivocal; public fame called him fifty, whilst he himself stuck obstinately at thirty-five; of a stout active figure, rather manly than gentlemanly, and a bold, jovial visage, in excellent keeping with his person, distinguished by round, bright, stupid black eyes, an aquiline nose, a knowing smile, and a general comely vulgarity of aspect. His voice was hoarse and deep, his manner bluff and blunt, and his conversation loud and boisterous. With all these natural impediments to good company, the lowness of his origin, recent in their memories, and the flagrant fact of his residence in a country town, staring them in the face, Mr. Tom Hopkins made his way into almost every family of consideration in the neighbourhood. Sportsmanship, sheer sportsmanship, the qualification that, more than any other, commands the respect of your great English landholder, surmounted every obstacle.

With the ladies, he made his way by different qualities; in the first place he was a character, an oddity, and the audacity of his vulgarity was tolerated, where a man only half as boisterous would have been scouted; then he was gallant in his way, affected, perhaps felt, a great devotion to the sex, and they were half amused, half pleased, with the rough flattery which seemed, and probably was, so sincere.

His house was an ugly brick dwelling of his own erection, situate in the principal street of Cranley, and adorned with a green door and a brass knocker, giving entrance into a stone passage, which, there being no other way to the stable, served both for himself, and that very dear part of himself, his horses, whose dwelling was certainly by far more commodious than their master's. His accommodations were simple enough. The dining-parlour, which might pass for his only sitting-room,—for the little dark den which he called his drawing-room was not entered three times a year; the dining-room was a small square room, coloured pea-green with a gold moulding, adorned with a series of four prints on shooting, and four on hunting, together with two or three portraits of eminent racers, riders, hunters, and grooms. Guns and fishing-rods were suspended over the mantelpiece; powder-horns, shot-belts, and game-bags scattered about; a choice collection of flies for angling lay in one corner, whips and bridles in another, and a pile of books and papers,—Colonel Thornton's Tour, Daniel's Rural Sports, and a heap of Racing Calendars, occupied a third; Ponto and Carlo lay basking on the hearth-rug, and a famous little cocking spaniel, Flora by name, a conscious favourite, was generally stretched in state on an arm-chair.

Here, except when the owner was absent on a sporting expedition, which, between fishing, shooting, hunting, and racing, did, it must be confessed, happen pretty often; here his friends were sure to find a hearty welcome, a good beef-steak,—his old housekeeper was famous for cookery!—and as much excellent Port and super-excellent Madeira—Tom, like most of his school, eschewed claret and other thin potations—as their host could prevail on them to swallow. Many a good fellow hath heard the chimes at midnight in this little room.

In the present sheet we are only able to include Notices of four of the nine Annuals, exclusive of the Juvenile Presents, which we reserve for a "select party." Our notice of the Winter's Wreath is in type, but must stand over for the present, as well as those of the Keepsake, Anniversary, Bijou, and Friendship's Offering, which will freight another Supplementary Sheet, to follow very shortly. We prefer this method to passing over the merits of these works with mere commendatory generalities. It does not require a microscopic or a critical eye to distinguish their beauties; but we hope the means we have adopted for the present gratification of our readers will be such as to induce them to look for the appearance of our SECOND SUPPLEMENT, as well as to prove ourselves worthy of the encore. Like some comic singers, we will endeavour to keep up the entertainment by "variations."

Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143. Strand, (near Somerset House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, Leipsic; and by all Newsmen and Booksellers.