Public Journals.
Reading edition
NOTES FROM THE LONDON REVIEW,
NO. 1.
ANCIENT AND MODERN LUXURIES.
As a learned doctor, a passionate admirer of the Nicotian plant, was not long since regaling himself with a pinch of snuff, in the study of an old college friend, his classical recollections suddenly mixed with his present sensation, and suggested the following question:—"If a Greek or a Roman were to rise from the grave, how would you explain to him the three successive enjoyments which we have had to-day after dinner,—tea, coffee, and snuff? By what perception or sensation familiar to them, would you account for the modern use of the three vulgar elements, which we see notified on every huckster's stall?—or paint the more refined beatitude of a young barrister comfortably niched in one of our London divans, concentrating his ruminations over a new Quarterly, by the aid of a highly-flavoured Havannah?" The doctor's friend, whose ingenuity is not easily taken at fault, answered, "By friction, which was performed so consummately in their baths. It is no new propensity of animal nature, to find pleasure from the combination of a stimulant, and a sedative. The ancients chafed their skins, and we chafe our stomachs, exactly for that same double purpose of excitement and repose (let physiologists explain their union) which these vegetable substances procure now so extensively to mankind. In a word, I would tell the ancient Greeks or Romans, that the dealer in tea, coffee, tobacco, and snuff, is to us what the experienced practioner of the strigil was to them; with this difference, however, that while we spare our skins, our stomachs are in danger of being tanned into leather."
THE STAGE.
We may compare tragedy to a martyrdom by one of the old masters; which, whatever be its merit, represents persons, emotions, and events so remote from the experience of the spectator, that he feels the grounds of his approbation and blame to be in a great measure conjectural. The romance, such as we generally have seen it, resembles a Gothic window-piece, where monarchs and bishops exhibit the symbols of their dignity, and saints hold out their palm branches, and grotesque monsters in blue and gold pursue one another through the intricacies of a never-ending scroll, splendid in colouring, but childish in composition, and imitating nothing in nature but a mass of drapery and jewels thrown over the commonest outlines of the human figure. The works of the comedian, in their least interesting forms, are Dutch paintings and caricatures: in their best, they are like Wilkie's earlier pictures, accurate imitations of pleasing, but familiar objects—admirable as works of art, but addressed rather to the judgment than to the imagination.
ENGLISH WOMEN.
Nothing could be more easy than to prove, in the reflected light of our literature, that from the period of our Revolution to the present time, the education of women has improved among us, as much, at least, as that of men. Unquestionably that advancement has been greater within the last fifty years, than during any previous period of equal length; and it may even be doubted whether the modern rage of our fair countrywomen for universal acquirement has not already been carried to a height injurious to the attainment of excellence in the more important branches of literary information.
But in every age since that of Charles II, Englishwomen have been better educated than their mothers. For much of this progress we are indebted to Addison. Since the Spectator set the example, a great part of our lighter literature, unlike that of the preceding age, has been addressed to the sexes in common: whatever language could shock the ear of woman, whatever sentiment could sully her purity of thought, has been gradually expunged from the far greater and better portion of our works of imagination and taste; and it is this growing refinement and delicacy of expression, throughout the last century, which prove, as much as any thing, the increasing number of female readers, and the increasing homage which has been paid to the better feelings of their sex.
Mr. Lee, the high-constable of Westminster, in the Police Report, says, "I have known the time when I have seen the regular thieves watching Drummonds' house, looking out for persons coming out: and the widening of the pavement of the streets has, I think, done a great deal of good. With respect to pick-pocketing, there is not a chance of their doing now as they used to do. If a man attempts to pick a pocket, it is ten to one if he is not seen, which was not the case formerly."
CRIME IN PARIS.
Vidocq, in his Memoires, relates, that in 1817, with twelve agents or subordinate officers, he effected in Paris the number of arrests which he thus enumerates:—
Assassins or murderers 15 Robbers or burglars 5 Ditto with false keys 108 Ditto in furnished houses 12 Highwaymen 126 Pickpockets and cutpurses 73 Shoplifters 17 Receivers of stolen property 38 Fugitives from the prisons 14 Tried galley-slaves, having left their exile 43 Forgers, cheats, swindlers, &c. 46 Vagabonds, robbers returned to Paris 229 By mandates from his excellency 46 Captures and seizures of stolen property 39 —— 811
WITNESSES.
The protracted proceedings of our criminal courts are productive of one serious evil, which we have never seen noticed. Domestic servants, and others who appear as witnesses, must frequently wait, day after day, in the court-yard and avenues, or in the adjacent public-houses, until the cases on which they have been subpoenaed are called for trial. During these intervals they converse and become acquainted with others in attendance, a large proportion of whom are generally friends or associates of the prisoners. It is thus that the most dangerous intimacies have been formed; and many instances have occurred where servants, who have been seen in the courts as witnesses for a prosecution, have soon afterwards appeared there as prisoners.
YOU'LL COME TO OUR BALL.
"Comment! c'est lui?—que je le regarde encore!—c'est que vraiment il est bien changé; n'est pas, mon papa?"—Les premiers Amours.
You'll come to our Ball—since we parted, I've thought of you, more than I'll say; Indeed, I was half broken-hearted, For a week, when they took you away. Fond Fancy brought back to my slumbers Our walks on the Ness and the Den, And echoed the musical numbers Which you used to sing to me then. I know the romance, since it's over, 'Twere idle, or worse, to recall:— I know you're a terrible rover: But, Clarence,—you'll come to our Ball! It's only a year, since at College You put on your cap and your gown; But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge, And chang'd from the spur to the crown: The voice that was best when it faltered Is fuller and firmer in tone; And the smile that should never have altered,— Dear Clarence,—it is not your own: Your cravat was badly selected, Your coat don't become you at all; And why is your hair so neglected? You must have it curled for our Ball. I've often been out upon Haldon, To look for a covey with Pup: I've often been over to Shaldon, To see how your boat is laid up: In spite of the terrors of Aunty, I've ridden the filly you broke; And I've studied your sweet, little Dante, In the shade of your favourite oak: When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, I sat in your love of a shawl; And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence, Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball. You'll find us all changed since you vanished: We've set up a National School, And waltzing is utterly banished— And Ellen has married a fool— The Major is going to travel— Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout— The walk is laid down with fresh gravel— Papa is laid up with the gout: And Jane has gone on with her easels, And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; And Fanny is sick of the measles,— And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. You'll meet all your Beauties;—the Lily, And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, And Lucy, who made me so silly At Dawlish, by taking your arm— Miss Manners, who always abused you, For talking so much about Hock— And her sister who often amused you, By raving of rebels and Rock; And something which surely would answer, A heiress, quite fresh from Bengal— So, though you were seldom a dancer, You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. But out on the world!—from the flowers It shuts out the sunshine of truth; It blights the green leaves in the bowers, It makes an old age of our youth: And the flow of our feeling, once in it, Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, Grows harder by sullen degrees— Time treads o'er the grave of Affection; Sweet honey is turned into gall. Perhaps you have no recollection That ever you danced at our Ball. You once could be pleased with our ballads— To-day you have critical ears: You once could be charmed with our salads— Alas! you've been dining with Peers— You trifled and flirted with many—- You've forgotten the when and the how— There was one you liked better than any— Perhaps you've forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly, Of those who delight or enthrall, None love you a quarter so truly As some you will find at our Ball. They tell me you've many who flatter, Because of your wit and your song— They tell me (and what does it matter?) You like to be praised by the throng— They tell me you're shadowed with laurel, They tell me you're loved by a Blue— They tell me you're sadly immoral, Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! But to me you are still what I found you Before you grew clever and tall— And you'll think of the spell that once bound you— And you'll come—won't you come?—to our Ball! London Magazine.
PARTY.
Two dogs cannot worry one another in the streets without instantly forming each his party among the crowd; much more then does the principle apply to higher contests.