The Gatherer.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
SHAKSPEARE.

A GERMAN having been shown Mount Edgcumbe, and magnificently entertained with sea-fish, exclaimed-"For my part, I like flat countries, and freshwater fish."

POETICAL SCRAP.

Inscription over a chimney-sweeper's door, at the entrance to Hastings, from the London Road :—

W. FREELOVE liveth here,

Is willing to serve both far and near: He'll sweep your chimneys cheap and clean,

And hopes your custom to obtain; And, if your chimney should catch fire, He'll put it out at your desire.

THE following article appeared, some years since, in a Valenciennes journal :Six merchants crossing the Coast of Guinea, with seventy-five large monkeys, were attacked by upwards of a hundred negroes. Being at a loss how to defend themselves against such odds, one of the merchants proposed arming the prisoners accordingly, swords, poniards, and pistols, were distributed amongst them, and, by imitating their masters, these grotesque auxiliaries succeeded in putting their aggressors to flight.

W. G. C.

SWIFT'S EPIGRAM,

FOR A WATCH-CASE.

LIFE's but a transient span:

Bononcini and Handel.

BONONCINI swears that Handel
Cannot to him hold a candle;
And Handel swears that Bononcini,
Compared to him is a mere ninny.
"Tis strange there should such diffe-

rence be

'Twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee!

LORD CHESTERFIELD.

"AT what time does a lady lose all susceptibility of the tender passion?" said his lordship to the Duchess of C

then close upon a century of years." The reply was brisk and animated"Your lordship must apply to some one older than me, for I am incapable of answering the question."

BOW-STREET WIT.

OVER the fire-place at the public office, Bow-street is a likeness of the celebrated Sir John Fielding Knight, who was at * Ninety.

Wind up the days, and set 'em right, Vain mortal man!

POLITE FORBEARANCE.

A NOBLEMAN being seated with a party shion came in booted and spurred. At of ladies in a stage-box, a sprig of fathe end of the act, the peer rose, and making the young man a low bow, said, "I beg leave, Sir, in the name of these ladies, and for myself, to offer you our thanks for your forbearance." don't understand you; what do you mean?" said the stranger. "I mean,' repeated the other, "as you have come with your boots and spurs, to thank you that you have not brought your horse."

"I

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and on the other sheltered by a superincumbent rock. An aged ilex, spreading from the sides of the rock, and bending over the edifice, covers the roof with its ever verdant foliage. Numberless shrubs spring around, and interwoven with ivy clothe the walls and hang in festoons over the precipice. The edifice before us was an ancient tombthe tomb of VIRGIL! We entered; a vaulted cell and two modern windows alone presented themselves to view: the poet's name is the only ornament of the place. No sarcophagus, no urn, and even no inscription to feed the devotion of the classical pilgrim. The epitaph which though not genuine is yet ancient, was inscribed by the order of the Duke of Pescolangiano, then proprietor of the place, on a marble slab placed in the side of the rock opposite the entrance of the tomb, where it still remains. Every body is acquainted with it

Mantua me genuit, Calabri rapuere, tenet nunc Parthenope, cecini pascua, rura, duces.

But there are authors who venture to assert, that the tomb of which we are now speaking, is not the sepulchre of Virgil. Of this number are the classic Addison and the laborious and accurate Cluve rius. The authority of two such eminent persons, without doubt, carries great weight with it, but that weight is upon this occasion considerably lessened by the weakness of the arguments on which their opinion is grounded. These arguments may be found in Cluverius, and Addison merely expresses his opinion without entering into any discussion. They are drawn from a few verses of Statius.

In opposition to these arguments, or rather conjectures founded upon the vague expressions of a single poet (a poet often censured for his obscurity), we have the constant and uninterrupted tradition of the country supported by the authority of a numerous host of learned and ingenious antiquaries; and upon such grounds we may still continue to cherish the conviction, that we have visited the tomb of Virgil, and hailed his sacred shade on the spot where his ashes ong reposed.

The laurel which was once said to have sprung up at its base, and covered it with its luxuriant branches, now flourishes only in the verses of youthful bards, or in the descriptions of early travellers; myrtle, ivy and ilex, all plants equally agreeable to the genius of the place, and the subjects of the poet, now perform the office of the long-withered

bays, and encircle the tomb with verdure and perfume.

The sepulchre of Virgil, it may be imagined, must have long remained an object of interest and veneration, especially as his works had excited universal admiration even in his life-time, and were very soon after his death put into the hands of children, and made a part of the rudiments of early education. Yet Martial declares that it had been neglected in his time, and that Silius Italicus alone restored its long forgotten honours.

The reader will learn with regret that Virgil's tomb, consecrated as it ought to be to genius and meditation, is sometimes converted into the retreat of assassins, or the lurking place of Sbirri. Such at least it was the last time we visited it, when wandering that way about sun-set we found it filled with armed men. We were surprised on both sides, and on ours not very agreeably at the unexpected rencounter; so lonely the place and so threatening the aspects of these strangers. Their manners however were courteous; and on inquiry we were informed that they were Sbirri, and then lying in wait for a murderer, who was supposed to make that spot his nightly asylum. It would be unjust to difference towards this or any other accuse the Neapolitans of culpable inbent on the proprietor or the public, to monument of antiquity; but it is incumOn the whole, few places are in themsecure them against such profanation. selves more picturesque, and from the recollection inseparably interwoven with it, no spot is more interesting than the tomb of Virgil.

LAST CHRISTMAS DAY.

(For the Mirror.) "Say, if such blandishments did ever greet Thy charmed soul; hast thou not crav`d to die? Hast not thine immaterial seem'd but air Verging to sigh itself from thee, and share Beatitude? hast thou not watch'd thy breath In meek, faint hope, that soon 'twould sink in death ?" MS. Poem.

LAST Christmas Day! my heart leaps with joy at its very memory; it was a mental Noel, a Christmas of the soul, (if I may thus express myself.) That which I am about to relate of it is strictly true, and I do relate it because that day is one of the very few in our brief existence which form a moral epoch in, and influence subsequent, life. Last Christmas Day, I well remember, my spirit revelled in an Eden blessedness-a bliss which the unholy

world did not, could not, give, and consequently could not take away. Reader! I will hope, I will believe, that thou hast experienced feelings and emotions, like those high and holy ones of which I would endeavour now to preserve a faint transcript. Come then, let us unite our ideas, let us speak together, but let us yet mention as present, those beatific thoughts and imaginings which are indeed past. Let us ever remember and cherish in our heart of hearts those golden fore-tastes of future eternity, or (according to Platonism) those rapturous reminiscences of past, which prove beyond logical demonstration, the existence of some vital principle in man, godlike in faculties, in essence immaterial, in duration, immortal! It is Christmas Day, a deep, unearthly calm possesses our minds; all passions are slumbering, save the beautiful and holy ones of adoring love, mingled with overwhelming gratitude towards our maker, and philanthropic love, universal benevolence, to man. It is winter, but one of those delicious days in which closing our eyes, so that we behold not sad hosts of bare stems and branches, we may well deem that summer reigns! And a summer indeed reigns in our bosoms ! Now nature seems new and fascinating, as it did to Adam when he wakened into life. Now, as for the first time, we discern with unspeakable emotions, that divine affection as well as unlimited power, which actuates and supports creation. Now we comprehend that the universe was designed to minister happiness to myriads of intelligent beings; but that man, by sin, frustrates the gracious intent, and produces misery. Now the glorious golden sun seems in its gladdening lustre, like a smile from its creator; a smile beaming ineffable love, and joy, and peace. Now the sky, the pale, delicate, sapphire sky, the soft, tender, inviting, enfolding, and im measurable sky, appears to image the mercy of its maker. Let us yet gaze upon the sky, for it also admonishes us of other delightful things; it is silent→→ it is awful--it is holy; but its silence is beautiful, and with wordless eloquence it speaks unto our enraptured bosoms of deep, eternal, unimaginable repose! it infuses into our breasts undefinable ideas and sensations; it appears to our enchanted imaginations an emblem meet of the grand dream of eternity, and our spirits seem on the verge of quitting earth, in thrilling contemplations on the islands of that infinite abyss, and their immortal inhabitants ! We gaze in hope, adoration, and rapture on the blue 2 F2

expanse, varied by delicate vapours, sailing calmly, wondrously through it; and then occur to our memories spontaneously, the exquisite lines translated from a morceau, by Gluck, (a German poet;) and our hearts respond as each of us sighs:

"There's peace and welcome in yon sea Of endless blue tranquillity,

Those clouds are living things! I trace their veins of liquid gold, I see them solemnly unfold

Their soft and fleecy wings!
These be the angels that convey
Us weary children of a day

Life's tedious nothing o'er,
Where neither passions come, nor woes
To vex the genius of repose

On death's majestic shore !"

Then do our delighted eyes wander downward; then doth earth appear a glorious, though but a temporary palace, the gift of a gracious God to man! then do we feel an unaccountable assurance that angels visit the beautiful domain; then that (though viewlessly) they rejoice with, they sorrow for, (if angels can sorrow) and they minister unto "the heirs of salvation," as they did in the days of old, and as they will do, to the end of time. Were we not assured of this blessed fact in the book of books, reason would assert, that for a thankless, graceless generation alone, earth should not have been formed so divinely fair; but it is heavenly, that the immortal servitors of man may even here find records of the divinity, and themes for undying thanksgiving. Are we indeed visited, watched, and ministered unto, by beatific essences? Oh, reason and revelation, both loudly proclaim the fact; those beneficent beings may be with us then, when we deem ourselves alone; they may be our society in the solitude of our chambers; they may pass us in the breeze, and they may wander beside us in our loneliest walks. Such meditations are calculated to inspire our bosoms with new life; to brighten all nature around us, and to unite us to the invisible world by ties, of the existence of which we were never previously sensible; ties, at once sweet and so sacred, that we almost crave the blessing of death, in order more surely to strengthen them! Then doth the beauty of "the vale of tears" confound us; then doth it infuse into our bosoms such unalterable fore-tastes; such mysterious and undefinable sensations of the blessedness of " the isles of joy," that our very souls seem to have become but one prayer, one fervent, wordless, agonizing prayer, for divine repose, and unimaginable blessedness; and then doth the mere suggestion of

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final reprobation amount to insufferable torture! Oh, that such heavenly imaginings, such divine intimations of a transcendent futurity, were more frequently vouchsafed to us, and were less evanescent. They are glimpses of everlasting day, shining on wanderers in "the valley of the shadow of death;' they are droppings from the overflowing and ineffable cup of mercy; they are presciences of eternity, inestimable, unutterable! and the pen that would describe indescribable perceptions, droops in shame and sorrow at its own imbecility. Such perceptions have visited, do visit us, on this most rapturous of Christmas Days? Is it not a golden day? does it not remove us for a little space from earth, into the society of the holiest sentient beings, and to the beauty of a celestial, surpassing, world? Does it not bestow on our souls their long-lost ethereal wings? and do not the delighted strangers soar for a little while above the grossest realms of matter? Alas! even but for a little while; now do they drop, for now flag and droop those angelic pinions which are too humid and heavy with that atmosphere, from whence they could not wholly disengage themselves; the golden harps of heaven murmur in their entranced ears no longer; the smiles of the Sons of Peace fade from their enchanted sight; and the clouds of this nether world retain from their enamoured gaze, the treasures of infinity!

Perhaps we have enjoyed a very enthu siastic, a very poetical, Christmas Day! we pretend not to deny it, though steadfastly believing it was neither an antiChristian, nor an utterly unprofitable one; nay, we even venture to hope, that the beatitude of spirit just feebly portrayed was not unpleasing in His sight, unto whom, for His gift of immortal life, we upon Christmas Day render our peM. L. B. culiar thanksgivings!

when the morn awakes again, your city

shall not be

remain unsung,

Deal.

REGINALD AUGUSTINE.

THE BANQUETTING HOUSE, WHITEHALL.*

(For the Mirror.)

per

MANY persons who have visited this chapel may not have noticed or been aware of the splendid painted ceiling by Sir Peter Paul Rubens, which was executed by him when ambassador at the court of James I. This beautiful formance represents the apotheosis of that peaceful monarch, he being seated on his throne, and turning towards the deities of peace and commerce, having rejected the gods of war and discord. It is painted on canvass, and is in excellent preservation; the original painter had £3,000. for his labour; it has been retouched more than once, and the last time was by Cipriani, who had £2,000. for his repairs.

Ralph, in his Critical Review of Public Buildings, observes, "that this picture is not so generally known as one could wish, but needs only to be known to be esteemed according to its merits;' and he further adds, "it is but an 'ill decoration for a place of religious worship, for in the first place, its contents are nowise akin to devotion, and in the next, the workmanship is so very extradinary that a man must have abundance of zeal or no taste, that can attend to anything besides."

It is almost needless to remark, that it was from a passage broken for the oc* For a general description of this magnificent edifice, see MIRROR, No. 247.