Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 367, April 25, 1829», страница 4
"In one of the defiles of the Trosachs, two or three of the natives met a band of Cromwell's soldiers coming to plunder them, and shot one of the party dead, whose grave marks the scene of action, and gives name to the pass. In revenge for this, the soldiers resolved to attack an island in the lake, on which the wives and children of the men had taken refuge. They could not come at it, however, without a boat; one of the most daring of the party undertook to swim to the island and bring away the boat; when, just as he was catching hold of a rock to get ashore, a heroine, called Helen Stuart, met him and cut off his head with a sword; upon which the party, seeing the fate of their comrade, thought proper to withdraw."
Loch Katrine is about ten miles long, and one broad. Its depth in some parts is nearly 500 feet. Its temperature, at the surface, is 62°, and at the bottom 40°. The lake never freezes, and in winter is much resorted to by swans.
PORTRAIT-PAINTING
Painters of history make the dead live, and do not live themselves till they are dead, I paint the living, and they make me live.—Sir Godfrey Kneller.
THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS
PRACTICE OF COOKERY,
Adapted to the Business of every day Life. By Mrs. Dalgairns
We like the title of this book—there is promise in it, for practice is better than profession in any thing but the law of arrest. We are gross enough too, in our hearts, not to like the name of a professed cook—thank our stars, now nearly forgotten. There is so much science implied in the name, so much theory, than which alone in cookery, at least, nothing is less inviting. We should conceive the intention of this book to bring cookery home to the business of every man's mouth—his breakfast, luncheon, dinner, and supper practice, and heartily do we wish that all mankind were in a condition to avail themselves of these four quotidian opportunities of testing Mrs. Dalgairns's book.
"A perfectly original book of Cookery," says Mrs. D. "would neither meet with, nor deserve, much attention; because, what is wanted in this matter, is not receipts for new dishes, but clear instructions how to make those already established in public favour." This reasoning is very just, for none but the most thankless of gourmands, or the gourmet who wished to affect the sorrows of the great man of antiquity,—would sit down and weep for new worlds of luxury. Good cookery is too rarely understood and practised to justify any such wishes; and to prove this, let the sceptic go through Mrs. Dalgairns's 1,434 receipts, and then "tire and begin again." Our respected editress assures us that "every receipt has either been actually tried by the author, or by persons whose accuracy in the various manipulations3 could be safely relied on."
From a table of contents we learn that among them there are the following methods:—
—what more can mortal man desire, "nay, or women either." Appended to them is much valuable information concerning the poultry-yard, dairy, brewery, kitchen-garden, bees, pigs, &c. so as to render this Practice of Cookery a truly useful and treasurable system of domestic management, and a book of matters-of-fact and experience. The subject is too melting—too tempting for us to resist paying this tribute to Mrs. Dalgairns's volume.
"CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE."
An appropriate April book, too controversial for extensive quotation in our pages, as the enumeration of its contents will prove. They are half-a-dozen gracefully written sketches, viz. the Gipsy Girl, Religious Offices, Enthusiasm, Romanism, Rashness, and De Lawrence. Half of these papers, as will readily be guessed from their titles, bear upon "the question," and are consequently, as the publishers say, "not in our way." We are, nevertheless, proud to aver that the sentiments of these chapters are highly honourable to the heart of the writer as they are creditable to his good taste and ability. He is, to judge from his book, a good man, one who is not so willing as the majority of us, to let his philanthropy remain
"Like unscour'd armour, hung by the wall;"
and we hope the forcible positions of the truths he has here inculcated, will bestir others from their laxity. The most attractive sketches in the series are the Gipsy Girl and De Lawrence. In the latter there are scenes of considerable energy and polish. The hero, a profligate, after abusing all the advantages of fortune, commits a forgery, and is executed. The sympathies of an affectionate wife, in his misery and degradation, tend to heighten the interest, and point the moral of the story; his last interview with the partner of his woe is admirably drawn, as are some caustic observations on that most disgusting of all scenes—a public execution and its repulsive orgies. We give a portion of the interview, which appears to us to contain some fine touches of deep remorse:—
"Accompanied by her parents and her infant, she alighted at the tavern which adjoined the prison-house. Her father went immediately to arrange for the interview; which, as the time of execution drew nigh, must take place instantly or not at all. Habited in deep black, which, from the contrast, made the pale primrose of her cheek still paler, entered his drooping wife; bearing on her bosom, "cradled on her arm," their child, happily unconscious alike of its father's ignominy—its mother's sorrows. With uncertain steps she tottered towards him. He advanced to her embrace, at first, with coolness and deliberation; but when her altered look, on which care had engraven an accusation that smote with the chill of death his guilty heart—her lack-lustre eye—her form almost reduced to a shadow—met his glance, his resolution dissolved before them: the better feelings of his nature, long lulled by habitual vice, and fixed in inertion by the flattering commendations of his spiritual guide, burst forth afresh like a stream long pent up, and overwhelmed him with their gush. He sank upon one knee, and received his wife and child falling into his embrace. His haughty spirit was humbled, was softened. He could have borne her curses with indifference, he could have returned a formal adieu with equal formality—he had expected to encounter a scene, and was made up accordingly: but to look upon her thus—her days gone like a shadow—to witness her sunken eye filled with beamings in which he alone was enshrined—to see her meek and forgiving, whose light heart had been turned to sorrow, whose gay morning dreams had been turned to sad realities, whose confidence had been abused and happiness wrecked,—all, all by his baseness and treachery:—to behold his forsaken wife, superior to all this, clinging to him for his last farewell, as if she and not himself were the offender, was beyond his expectation. He knew he had merited curses and hate, and he met with affection and tenderness; his heart yearned—a sensation of admiration for her virtues and constancy came over him, and, ere it had possessed him entirely, it humbled his proud spirit—it undeceived his false expectations. "My God, I have not deserved this!" burst from his swelling heart. A tear, such as he had not shed since he left the paths of innocence, stole down his cheek. Fervently, truly, affectionately, he blessed his wife and child."
"They are gone. Was it a vision that had visited his waking dreams? The spell is dissolved; he is still on earth, and earthly thoughts and worldly crimes return and weigh down his soul."
"The fetters of vice are not broken in a moment; they may yield sometimes like wax, but they close again, and the link is adamant. His foster-mother came to say her last farewell. He shuddered as she entered. He felt the presence of his evil genius, and wished she had spared him this. This, too, was transient; her influence, though disarranged by the vision of the last few moments, was not broken. He was again enslaved. The summons for execution was answered by her hysteric sobs and wild ravings, and her loud shrieks rang through the cell as De Lawrence impressed his last kiss."
The incidents of the previous sketch contain little, if any, extravagance or affectation, and it would be better for men, if we could charge the author of "Clouds and Sunshine" with overcolouring the sufferings which await the spendthrift. It is painful to own that such cases are but too common in society. Think of an extravagant man married to an extravagant woman—the mean and contemptible conduct to which they are driven—the insolence and cruelty with which they are baited through large towns, hunted down into an obscure cottage in the country, or chased into exile. Think of the hateful reflections which, sooner or later, must overtake such sufferers—either in their moody solitude in the country, or amidst the forced delights of a crowded city on the continent. In the one all nature is free, whilst the debauchee frowns on her laughing landscapes; in the other, conscience and her busy devils are at work—yet thousands thus embitter life's cup, and then repine at their uncheery lot. With such men, all must be Clouds—a winter of discontent—for who will envy their Sunshine.
