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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. XIV, NO. 407.] DECEMBER 24, 1829. [PRICE 2d.



                         CONTAINING
                       ORIGINAL ESSAYS


 HISTORICAL NARRATIVES; BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIRS; SKETCHES OF
       SOCIETY; TOPOGRAPHICAL DESCRIPTIONS; NOVELS
                    AND TALES; ANECDOTES;

                       SELECT EXTRACTS
                            FROM
                   NEW AND EXPENSIVE WORKS;

               _POETRY, ORIGINAL AND SELECTED;_
              The Spirit of the Public Journals;
            DISCOVERIES IN THE ARTS AND SCIENCES;
                   _USEFUL DOMESTIC HINTS;_
                        _&c. &c. &c._

                          ========
                          VOL. XIV.
                          ========

                           London,
      PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. LIMBIRD, 143, STRAND,
                  (_Near Somerset House_.)
                            ____
                            1829





PREFACE


Wassailing, prefaces, and waits, are nearly at a stand-still; and in
these days of universality and everything, we almost resolved to leave
this page blank, and every reader to write his own preface, had we not
questioned whether the custom would be more honoured in the breach than
the observance.

My Public--that is, our readers--we have served you seven years, through
fourteen volumes; in each renewing our professions of gratitude, and
study for your gratification; and we hope we shall not presume on your
liberal disposition by calculating on your continued patronage. We have
endeavoured to keep our engagements with you--_to the letter_[1]--as
they say in weightier matters; and, as every man is bound to speak of
the fair as he has found his market in it, we ought to acknowledge the
superabundant and quick succession of literary novelties for the present
volume. There is little of our own; because we have uniformly taken Dr.
Johnson's advice in life--"to play for much, and stake little" This will
extenuate our assuming that "from castle to cottage we are regularly
taken in:" indeed, it would be worse than vanity to suppose that price
or humble pretensions should exclude us; it would be against the very
economy of life to imagine this; and we are still willing to abide by
such chances of success.

    [1] This is not intended exclusively for the _new type_ of the
        present volume.

Cheap Books, we hope, will never be an evil; for, as "the same care and
toil that raise a dish of peas at Christmas, would give bread to a whole
family during six months;" so the expense of a gay volume at this season
will furnish a moderate circle with amusive reading for a twelvemonth.
We do not draw this comparison invidiously, but merely to illustrate the
advantages of literary economy.

The number _Seven_--the favourite of Swift, (and how could it be
otherwise than odd?) has, perhaps, led us into this rambling monologue
on our merits; but we agree with Yorick in thinking gravity an errant
scoundrel.

A proportionate Index will guide our accustomed readers to any
particular article in the present volume; but for those of shorter
acquaintance, a slight reference to its principal points may be useful.
Besides, a few of its delights may have been choked by weeds and
crosses, and their recollection lost amidst the lights and shadows
of busy life.

The zeal of our Correspondents is first entitled to honourable mention;
and many of their contributions to these pages must have cost them much
time and research; for which we beg them to accept our best thanks.

Of the Selections, generally, we shall only observe, that our aim has
been to convey information and improvement in the most amusing form.
When we sit down to the pleasant task of cutting open--not cutting
_up_--a book, we say, "If this won't turn out something, another will;
no matter--'tis an essay upon human nature. (We) get (our) labour for
(our) pains--'tis enough--the pleasure of the experiment has kept (our)
senses, and the best part of (our) blood awake, and laid the gross to
sleep." In this way we find many good things, and banish the rest;
we attempt to "boke something new," and revive others. Thus we have
described the Siamese Twins in a single number; and in others we
have brought to light many almost forgotten antiquarian rarities.

Of Engravings, Paper, and Print, we need say but little: each speaks
_prima facie,_ for itself. Improvement has been studied in all of
them; and in the Cuts, both interest and execution have been cardinal
points. Milan Cathedral; Old Tunbridge Wells and its Old Visitors;
Clifton; Gurney's Steam Carriage; and the Bologna Towers; are perhaps
the best specimens: and by way of varying architectural embellishments,
a few of the Wonders of Nature have been occasionally introduced.

Owen Feltham would call this "a cart-rope" Preface: therefore, with
promises of future exertion, we hope our next Seven Years may be as
successful as the past.

143, _Strand, Dec._ 24, 1829.


[Illustration: Thomas Campbell, Esq.]

       *       *       *       *       *




MEMOIR OF THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.


Of the subject of this memoir, it has been remarked, "that he has not,
that we know of, written one line, which, dying, he could wish to blot."
These few words will better illustrate the fitness of Mr. Campbell's
portrait for our volume, than a laudatory memoir of many pages. He has
not inaptly been styled the Tyrtaeus of modern English poetry, and one
of the most chaste and tender as well as original of poets. He owes less
than any other British poet to his predecessors and contemporaries.
He has lived to see his lines quoted like those of earlier poets in the
literature of his day, lisped by children, and sung at public festivals.
The war-odes of Campbell have scarcely anything to match them in-the
English language for energy and fire, while their condensation and the
felicitous selection of their versification are in remarkable harmony.
Campbell, in allusion to Cymon, has been said to have "conquered both
on land and sea," from his Naval Odes and "Hohenlinden" embracing both
scenes of warfare.

Scotland gave birth to Thomas Campbell. He is the son of a second
marriage, and was born at Glasgow, in 1777. His father was born in 1710,
and was consequently nearly seventy years of age when the poet, his son,
was ushered into the world. He was sent early to school, in his native
place, and his instructor was Dr. David Alison, a man of great celebrity
in the practice of education. He had a method of instruction in the
classics purely his own, by which he taught with great facility, and
at the same time rejected all harsh discipline, substituting kindness
for terror, and alluring rather than compelling the pupil to his duty.
Campbell began to write verse when young; and some of his earliest
attempts at poetry are yet extant among his friends in Scotland. For his
place of education he had a great respect, as well as for the memory of
his masters, of whom he always spoke in terms of great affection. He was
twelve years old when he quitted school for the University of Glasgow.
There he was considered an excellent Latin scholar, and gained high
honour by a contest with a candidate twice as old as himself, by which
he obtained a bursary. He constantly bore away the prizes, and every
fresh success only seemed to stimulate him to more ambitious exertions.
In Greek he was considered the foremost student of his age; and some
of his translations are said to be superior to any before offered for
competition in the University. While there he made poetical paraphrases
of the most celebrated Greek poets; of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and
Aristophanes, which were thought efforts of extraordinary promise.
Dr. Millar at that time gave philosophical lectures in Glasgow. He was
a highly gifted teacher, and excellent man. His lectures attracted the
attention of young Campbell, who became his pupil, and studied with
eagerness the principles of sound philosophy; the poet was favoured
with the confidence of his teacher, and partook much of his society.

Campbell quitted Glasgow to remove into Argyleshire, where a situation
in a family of some note was offered and accepted by him. It was in
Argyleshire,[2] among the romantic mountains of the north, that his
poetical spirit increased, and the charms of verse took entire
possession of his mind. Many persons now alive remember him wandering
there alone by the torrent, or over the rugged heights of that wild
country, reciting the strains of other poets aloud, or silently
composing his own. Several of his pieces which he has rejected in his
collected works, are handed about in manuscript in Scotland. We quote
one of these wild compositions which has hitherto appeared only in
periodical publications.

    [2] For a view of this retreat, see the MIRROR No. 337.

       *       *       *       *       *


DIRGE OF WALLACE.


  They lighted a taper at the dead of night,
    And chanted their holiest hymn;
  But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright
    Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
  And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,
    When a death-watch beat in her lonely room,
  When her curtain had shook of its own accord;
    And the raven had flapp'd at her window-board,
  To tell of her warrior's doom!

    Now sing you the death-song, and loudly pray
    For the soul of my knight so dear;
  And call me a widow this wretched day,
    Since the warning of God is here!
  For night-mare rides on my strangled sleep:
    The lord of my bosom is doomed to die:
  His valorous heart they have wounded deep;
  And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,
    For Wallace of Elderslie!

  Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
    Ere the loud matin bell was rung,
  That a trumpet of death on an English tower
    Had the dirge of her champion sung!
  When his dungeon light look'd dim and red
    On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
  No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;
  No weeping was there when his bosom bled--
    And his heart was rent in twain!

  Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear
    Was true to that knight forlorn;
  And the hosts of a thousand were scatter'd