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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. X, No. 289.] SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1827. [Price 2d.





Bushy Park.

[Illustration:]
Among the suburban beauties of the metropolis, and as an attraction for
home-tourists, Bushy is entitled to special notice, independent of its
celebrity as the retreat of royalty--it being the residence of _His
Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence_, an accurate portrait of whom will
be presented, to our readers with the usual _Supplementary Number_ at
the close of the present volume of the MIRROR.

_Bushy Park_ is an appendage to the palace and honour of Hampton Court;
and though far from assimilating to that splendid pile, it is better
fitted for rural enjoyment, whilst its contiguity to the metropolis
almost gives it the character of _rus in urbe_.[1] The residence is a
handsome structure, and its arrangement is altogether well calculated
for the indulgence of royal hospitality--a characteristic of its present
distinguished occupant, as well as of that glorious profession, to the
summit of which his royal highness has recently been exalted. The park,
too, is well stocked with deer, and its rangership is confided to the
duke. The pleasure grounds are tastefully disposed, and their beauty
improved by the judicious introduction of temples and other artificial
embellishments, among which, a naval temple, containing a piece of the
mast of the Victory, before which Nelson fell, and a bust of the noble
admiral, has been consecrated to his memory by the royal duke, with
devotional affection, and the best feelings of a warm heart.

[1] The Duke is a good economist of time; for what with excellent cattle
and the glory of Macadamized roads, his R.H. comes to town in the
morning, transacts his official business at the Admiralty, and
frequently returns to Bushy to dinner.

The park is a thoroughfare, and the circumstances by which this public
claim was established are worthy of record, as a specimen of the justice
with which the rights of the community are upheld in this country. The
_village Hampden_, in the present case, was one Timothy Bennet, of whom
there is a fine print, which the neighbours, who are fond of a walk in
Bushy Park, must regard with veneration. It has under it this
inscription:--"Timothy Bennet; of Hampton Wick, in Middlesex, shoemaker,
aged 75, 1752. This true Briton, (unwilling to leave the world worse
than he found it,) by a vigorous application of the laws of his country
in the cause of liberty, obtained a free passage through Bushy Park,
which had many years been withheld from the public." Regeneration (or
the renewal of souls) is, however, a shoemaker's _forte_.

The above engraving of Bushy is copied from an elegant coloured view,
drawn by Ziegler, and published by Griffiths, of Wellington-street,
Strand.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FUGITIVE.

A SCOTCH TALE.

_(For the Mirror.)_

It was now abute the gloaming when my ain same Janet (heav'n sain her
saul) was sitting sae bieldy in a bit neuk ayant the ingle, while the
winsome weans gathering around their minnie were listing till some auld
spae wife's tale o' ghaists and worriecows; when on a sudden some ane
tirled at the door pin.

"Here's your daddie, bairns," said the gudewife ganging till the door;
but i' place o' their daddie, a tall chiel wrappit i' a big cloak,
rushed like a fire flaught into the bield, and drappit doun on the
sunkie ewest the ingle droghling and coghling.

"What's your wull, friend?" said Janet, glowering on him a' i' a gliff,
"the gudeman's awa."

"Save me, save me," shrieghed the stranger, "the sleuth hounds are at my
heels."

"But wha may ye be, maister," cried the dame, "I durstna dee your
bidding while Jamie's frae the hause."

"Oh, dinna speir, dinna speir mistress," exclaimed the chiel a' in a
curfuffle, "ainly for the loe of heav'n, hide me frae the red coats
whilk are comin' belive--O God, they are here," he cried, as I entered
the shealing, and uttering a piercing skirl, he sprung till the wa', and
thrawing aff his cloak, drew his broad claymore, whilk glittered
fearsome by the low o' the ingle.

"Hauld, hauld, 'tis the gudeman his nainsell," shreighed Janet, when the
stranger drapping the point o' the sword, clingit till my hand, and
while the scauding tear draps tricklit adoun his face prigged me to fend
him.

"Tak' your certie o' that my braw callant," said I, "ne'er sail it be
tauld o' Jamie Mc-Dougall, that he steeked his door again the puir and
hauseless, an the bluidy sleuth hounds be on ye they'se find it ill
aneugh I trow to get an inkling o' ye frae me, I'se sune shaw 'em the
cauld shouther."

Sae saying, I gared him climb a rape by whilk he gat abune the riggin o'
the bield, then steeking to the door thro' whilk he gaed, I jimp had
trailed doun the rape, when in rinned twa red coat chiels, who couping
ilka ane i' their gait begun to touzle out the ben, and the de'il gaed
o'er Jock Wabster.

"Eh, sirs! eh, sirs!" cried I, "whatna gaits' that to steer a bodie, wad
ye harry a puir chiel o' a' his warldly gear, shame till ye, shame till
ye, shank yoursell's awa."

"Fusht, fusht, fallow," cried ane o' the churls, "nane o' your bourds
wi' us, or ye may like to be the waur aff; where is the faus loon? we
saw him gae doun the loaning afore the shealing, and here he maun needs
be."

"Aweel, sirs," I exclaimed, "ye see there isna ony creatur here, our
nainsell's out-taken; seek again an ye winna creed a bodie; may be the
bogle is jumpit into the pot on the rundle-tree ower the ingle, or
creepit into the meal ark or aiblins it scoupit thro' the hole as ye cam
in at the door. Ye may threep and threep and wampish your arms abute, as
muckle as ye wuss, ye silly gowks, I canna tell ye mair an I wad."

"May be the Highland tyke is right, cummer, (said one o' the red coats)
and the fallow is jumpit thro' the bole, but harkye maister gudeman, an
ye hae ony mair o' your barns-breaking wi us, ye'se get a sark fu' o'
sair banes, that's a'."

"Hear till him, hear till him, Janet," said I, as the twa southron
chiels gaed thro' the hole, trailing their bagganets alang wi' 'em;
"winna the puir tykes hae an unco saft couch o' it, think ye, luckie, O
'tis a gude sight for sair e'en to see 'em foundering and powtering i'
the latch o' the bit bog aneath."

"Nane o' your clashes e'enow, gudemon," said she, "but let the callant
abune gang his gate while he may."

"Ye're aye cute, dame," I cried, thrawing the bit gy abune, and in a
gliffing, doun jumpit the chiel, and a braw chiel he was sure enough,
siccan my auld e'en sall ne'er see again, wi' his brent brow and buirdly
bowk wrappit in a tartan plaid, wi' a Highland kilt.

"May the gude God o' heaven sain you," he said "and ferd you for aye,
for the braw deed ye hae dreed the day; tak' this wee ring, gudemon, and
tak' ye this ane, gudewife, and when ye look on this and on that, I rede
ye render up are prayer to him abune for the weal o' Charles Edward,
your unfortunate prince."

Sae speaking, he sped rath frae the bield, and was sune lost i' the
glunch shadows o' the mirk night.

Mony and mony a day has since rollit ower me, and I am now but a dour
carle, whose auld pow the roll o' time hath blanched; my bonnie Janet is
gone to her last hame, lang syne, my bairns hae a' fa'en kemping for
their king and country, and I ainly am left like a withered auld trunk,
waiting heaven's gude time when I sall be laid i' the mouls wi' my
forbears.

Abune--above.

Aiblins--perhaps.

Bagganet--bayonet.

Barns-breaking--idle frolic.

Belive--immediately.

Ben--inner apartment of a house that contains but two.

Bield--hut.

Bieldy--snug.

Bole--cottage window.

Bourds--jeers.

Brent-brow--smooth open forehead.

Buirdly-bowk--athletic frame.

Clashes--idle gossip.

Couping--overturning.

Cummer--comrade.

Curfuffle--agitation.

De'il gaed o'er Jock Wabster--everything went topsy-turvy.

Dour carle--rugged old man.

Dreed the day--done this day.

Droghling and coghling--puffing and blowing.

Ewest--nearest.

Fire flaught--flash of lightning.

Forbears--forefathers.

Fusht--tush.

Gared--made.

Gliff--fright.

Gliffing--very short time.

Gloaming--twilight.

Glowering--gazing.

Gy--rope.

Glunch--gloomy.

Harry--plunder.

Ingle--fire.

Ill--difficult.

Ilka--every.

Kemping--striving.

Laid i' the mouls--laid in the grave.

Low--flame.

Loaning--lane.

Luckie--dame.

Latch--mire.

Mirk--dark.

Out-taken--excepting.

Pow--head.

Powtering--groping.

Prigged--earnestly entreated.

Rath--quick.

Rede--pray.

Riggin--roof.

Sain--bless.

Sark fu' o' sair banes--sound beating.

Scoupit--scampered.

Shank yoursell's awa--take yourselves off.

Shealing--rude cottage.

Show 'em the cauld shouther--appear cold and reserved.

Skirl--shrill cry.

Sleuth-hounds--blood-hounds.

Speir--ask.

Steiked--shut.

Steer--injure.

Sunkie--low stool.

Threep--threaten.

Tirled at the door pin--knocked at the door.

Touzle out--ransack.

Tyke--dog.

Wampish--toss about.

Worriecows--hobgoblins.

Wuss--wish.

A G.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE INDIAN MAIDEN'S SONG,

BY WILLIAM SHOBERL.

The youth I love is far away.
  O'er forest, river, brake, and glen;
And distant, too, perchance the day,
  When I shall see him once again.

Nine moons have wasted[1] since we met,
  How sweetly, then, the moments flew!
Methinks the fairy vision yet
  Portrays the joy that ZEMLA knew.

In list'ning to the tale of strife,
  When Shone AZALCO'S prowess bright,
The strange adventures of his life,
  That gave me such unmix'd delight.

That dream of happiness is past!
  For ever fled those magic charms!
The cruel moment came at last,
  That tore AZALCO from my arms!

What bitter pangs my bosom rent,
  When he my sight no longer bless'd!
To some lone spot my steps I bent,
  My secret sorrows there confess'd.

My sighs, alas! were breath'd unheard,
  Could aught on earth dispel my grief?
Nor smiling sun, nor minstrel bird,
  Can give this aching heart relief.

