Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 360, March 14, 1829», страница 4
THE BATTLE OF GIBEON
VERSES ILLUSTRATIVE OF MARTIN S JOSHUA
"For every battle of the warrior is with confused noise and garments rolled in blood but this with burning and fuel of fire."—ISAIAH ix. 5.
From Gilgal's camp went forth, at dead of night,
The host of Israel: with the rising sun
They stood arrayed against the Amorite,
Beneath the regal heights of Gibeon,
Glorious in morning's splendour! Lebanon,
Dim in the distance, reared its lofty head;
Light clouds o'erbung the vale of Ajalon,
And the Five Armies, by their monarchs led,
Not to mere mortal fight, but conflict far more dread.
How beautiful, at matin's early prime,
Valley, and mountain, and that city fair!
Magnificent, yet fearfully sublime,
In few brief hours the scene depicted there!
Below the battle raged, and high in air
The gathering clouds, with tempest in their womb,
A supernatural darkness seem'd to wear;
As heralding, by their portentous gloom,
Victory to Israel's host, her foes' impending doom!
Upon a jutting crag, below the height
Where stands the royal city in its pride,
The ark is rested! in the people's sight
The priests and Joshua standing by its side;
Awhile the chief the sea of battle eyed,
Which heaved beneath:—in accents undismayed,
"Sun, stand thou still on Gibeon!" he cried,
"And thou, O Moon, o'er Ajalon be stayed!"
And holiest records tell the mandate was obeyed.
Look on the horrid conflict; mark the stream
Of lurid and unnatural light that falls,
Like some wild meteors bright terrific gleam,
On Gibeon's steep and battlemented walls;
Her royal palace, and her pillared halls,
Seeming more gorgeous in its vivid blaze!
While o'er proud Lebanon the storm appals,
In jagged lines the arrowy lightning plays,
Soften'd to Israel's sight by intervening haze.
But o'er the Amoritish camp the cloud
Bursts in its fury! on the race abhorred
The parting heavens, as from a pitchy shroud.
Their desolating hail-storm's wrath out-poured,
More vengeful in its ire than Israel's sword!
Thus was deliverance unto Gibeon shown;
And by the fearful battle of the Lord,
The army of the Amorites o'erthrown,
And the almighty power of Israel's God made known.
Made known by marvels awfully sublime!
Yet far more glorious in the Christian's sight
Than these stern terrors of the olden time,
The gentler splendours of that peaceful night,
When opening clouds display'd, in vision bright,
The heavenly host to Bethlehem's shepherd train,
Shedding around them more than cloudless light!
"Glory to God on high!" their opening strain,
Its chorus, "Peace on earth!" its theme Messiah's reign!
Bernard Barton's New Year's Eve, &c.
MAKING ACQUAINTANCE
What could be more natural than for Mr. Jackson to say to Dr. Smith, "I am going to call on Markham?" And what could be more natural than for Dr. Smith to say, "I will go with you, and you may introduce me?" So then Markham's friend, Jackson, leaves his card, and Jackson's friend, Dr. Smith, leaves his card too.—Rank and Talent.
GENTLEMEN'S FASHIONS
We read much of the luxurious effeminacy of the old Romans, their fantastically curled hair, their favourite robes, &c.; but what will posterity think of some of the modes of puppyism in our times, when they read in a chronicle of fashion, dated 1829, that gentlemen wore elegant drab cloth opera manteaux lined with scarlet velvet, and confined at the collar with a gold chain! In another dress, the waistcoat is directed to be made of "a very beautiful white embroidered velvet;" "some young men have appeared at balls with blue dress gloves embroidered with white;" "the system of the cravat is to form the organization of linen on the breast," the very "march" of foppery; "cloaks of the gentlemen lined with plush silk of celestial blue;" "at balls our young exquisites sport pocket-handkerchiefs of fine lawn, with a hem as broad as their thumbs; the corners only are embroidered:" "shoes tied with a small rosette;" "a young gentleman now suffers his hair to grow, has it curled, and parted on the left side of the forehead," &c. &c.—This out-herods Herod.
PICTURE OF LONDON
A new edition of this very useful and attractive volume has just appeared, re-edited by Mr. Britton, who, by his extensive architectural knowledge, as well as by his popular style of imparting that knowledge, is calculated to produce a better "Picture of London" than any other writer within our acquaintance. The introduction is, of course, the most novel part of this edition, and as it enables Mr. Britton to embody much authentic information on the public works now in progress, we have abridged a few of these details, which will be found in a Supplement published with the present Number. The Picture of London was, we believe, first printed in 1806; and the extensive patronage which it has enjoyed during twenty-two years has been well deserved by its progressive completeness.
THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS
RANK AND TALENT
By the Author of Penelope, or Love's Labour Lost
In our last volume we devoted nearly six of our columns to an outline of the predecessor of the present work, or the novel of Penelope. We there stated our opinion of the author's talents in a peculiar style of novel-writing—a sort of mixture of satire and fashion, without the starchness of the one, or the silly affectation of the other—abounding in well-drawn pictures of real life, free from caricature, and teeming with home-truths, in themselves of such plainness and ready application, as to make precept and example follow on with near approaches to probability and truth.
The author's forte unquestionably lies in this species of writing, and his "Rank and Talent" will, we think, bear us out in this opinion. The story or canvass of the novel is simple, and well prepared for his sketches and finished portraits of character. They belong to fashionable and middle life, and the conceits and eccentricities, as well as the straightforward integrity of their stations are illustrated with peculiar force. Sound moral and knowledge of the world are occasionally introduced with great tact, for the author is no stranger to the inmost workings and recesses of the human heart; and he adapts these lessons, and dovetails them with the narrative, in a clever and agreeable style.
The outline of the story may be briefly told. The Hon. Philip Martindale has an action brought against him, at the assizes, for the false imprisonment of one Richard Smith, as a poacher; although the object of the defendant was a beautiful girl residing with the defendant. Clara Rivolta is rudely cross-examined as a witness; whilst the plaintiff's case is conducted by Horatio Markham, an intelligent young barrister, whose parents reside in the town where the action is tried. The cousin of the defendant, Mr. John Martindale, an eccentric old gentleman who builds an abbey for his titled relative to occupy, whilst he himself lives in a cottage on the estate; seeks an acquaintance with Markham. These parties reside at Brigland, and Philip Martindale, a dissipated lover of the turf, who is dependent on his capricious cousin for his supplies; and Horatio Markham, the hero, are thus introduced. Then we have a country curate of the higher order, together with his loquacious half; which are excellent portraits.
John Martindale is one of those eccentric beings—half-aristocrat, and half-liberal, which are more rare in society than they were fifty years since; and upon this curious compound turns the narrative. Clara Rivolta and her mother, Signora Rivolta, the wife of Colonel R. quit their native Italy, and visit Brigland, where old Martindale, on the discovery, acknowledges the Signora as the fruit of an early imprudence on the continent, and finally leaves them a large fortune. Clara is married to Markham, and Philip Martindale, afterwards Earl of Trimmerstone, marries a gay, giddy girl, who elopes with a perfumed puppy of the first fragrance.
The round of the earl's dissipation is but a sorry picture of the prostitution of rank; but the connexion leads us into a succession of scenes of fashionable life, which are vividly drawn, as are two or three of their adjuncts,—a popular west-end preacher, an anti-nervous physician, the dandy already mentioned, a noble gambler, and a rich city knight and his aspiring family—all of which are to the life.
Our extracts must be detached from the narrative; but they may serve to illustrate the felicitous vein in which the characters are drawn.
The means by which Signora Rivolta is discovered by Martindale, is well managed. One morning after the old gentleman had been amusing his visiters with some Italian views, Mr. Denver, the curate, introduced to Mr. Martindale with great parade Colonel Rivolta, whom he described as having recently made his escape from the continent, where he was exposed to persecution, if not to death, on account of his political opinions. The reverend gentleman then proceeded to state, that the colonel had previously to his own arrival in England sent over his wife and daughter, whom he had committed to the care of Richard Smith; that with them he had also transmitted some property, which old Richard had invested for their use and benefit; that unfortunately the very first night of the colonel's arrival at Brigland, the cottage in which Richard Smith dwelt had been robbed by a gipsy; that in consequence of that event the poor old man had been so seriously alarmed, that he had been totally unable to attend to any thing, and that he had died, leaving this poor foreigner in a strange land not knowing how to proceed as to the recovery of his little property. After an interview, in which Martindale promises the colonel his assistance, the latter was rising to take leave, when his eye was arrested by a print which Mr. Martindale held in his hand, and which he had unrolled while he was talking. As soon as the colonel saw the picture, he recognised the scene which it represented, and uttered an ejaculation, indicative of surprise and pleasure. Mr. Martindale then, for the first time, observed the print, and noticed its subject; he also looked upon it with surprise, but not with pleasure; and then he asked the stranger if that scene were familiar to him, with very great emotion the colonel replied:—"That scene brings to my recollection the happiest day of my life."
For a few seconds the party were totally silent; for the clergyman and the foreigner were struck dumb with astonishment at the altered looks of the old gentleman, and were surprised to see him crushing the picture in both hands. He then, as if with an effort of great resolution, exclaimed:—"And it brings to my recollection the most miserable day of my life."
The agitation of the old gentleman abated, and he replied: "I thank you for your kindness, sir, but my sorrow arises from self-reproach. I have inflicted injuries which can never be redressed." He hesitated, as if wishing, but dreading to say more. Then changing the tone of his voice, as if he were about to speak on some totally different subject, he continued addressing himself to Colonel Rivolta:—"I presume, sir, you are a native of Genoa, or you are very familiar with that city." "I was born," replied the foreigner, "at Naples; but very early in life I was removed to Genoa, that I might be engaged in merchandize; for my patrimony was very small, and my relations would have despised me, had I endeavoured by any occupation to gain a livelihood in my native city." "Then you were not originally destined for the army?" "I was not; but after I had been some few years in Genoa, I began to grow weary of the pursuits of merchandize, and indeed to feel some of that pride of which I had accused my relations, and I thought that I should be satisfied with very little if I might be free from the occupation of the merchant; and while I was so thinking, I met by chance an old acquaintance who persuaded me to undertake the profession of arms, to which I was indeed not reluctant. And so I left my merchandise, and did not see Genoa again for nearly two years. It was then that I was so much interested in that scene which the picture portrays; for in a very small house which is in the same street, directly opposite to that palace, there lived an old woman, whose name was –"
The attention of the old gentleman had been powerfully arrested by the commencement of the Italian's narrative; and he listened very calmly till the narrator arrived at the point when he was about to mention the name of the old woman who lived opposite to the palace in question: then was Mr. Martindale again excited, and without waiting for the conclusion of the sentence, interrupted it by exclaiming: "Ah! what! do you know that old woman? Is she living? Where is she?—Stop—no—let me see—impossible!—Why I must be nearly seventy—yes—are you sure? Is not her name Bianchi?"
