



Produced by Jonathan Ingram, The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and
Instruction, David Garcia and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.





THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. XII, No. 338.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1828. [PRICE 2d.




Nelson's Monument, at Liverpool.

[Illustration]

(_To the Editor of the Mirror_.)


In No. 270 of the MIRROR, you favoured us with a correct engraving of
the Town Hall, Liverpool, and informed us of a trophied monument erected
to the memory of Nelson in the Liverpool Exchange Buildings. Of the
latter I am happy to be able to present you with the above view.

The monument, executed in bronze by Richard Westmacott, Esq. R.A.
is erected in the area of the Liverpool Exchange Buildings, and was
completed in October, 1823. The subscription amounted to about 9,000l.
The weight of the bronze of which it is composed is estimated at upwards
of 22 tons. The figures are in the proportion of seven feet.

On a basis of Westmoreland marble stands a circular pedestal of the same
material, and peculiarly suitable in colour to the group which it
supports. At the base of the pedestal are four emblematic figures, in
the character of captives, or vanquished enemies, in allusion to Lord
Nelson's victories. The spaces between these figures, on the sides of
the pedestal, are filled by four grand bas-reliefs, executed in bronze,
representing some of the great naval actions in which Nelson was
engaged. The other parts of the pedestal are richly decorated with
lions' heads and festoons of laurel; and in a moulding round the upper
part of it is inscribed, in brass letters, pursuant to the resolution
of the general meeting, that most impressive charge delivered by the
illustrious commander previous to the commencement of the battle of
Trafalgar, "ENGLAND EXPECTS EVERY MAN TO DO HIS DUTY."

The figures constituting the principal design are Nelson, Victory, and
Death: his Country mourning for her loss, and her Navy, eager to avenge
it,--naturally claim a place in the group.

The principal figure is the Admiral, resting one foot on a conquered
enemy, and the other on a cannon. With an eye stedfast and upraised to
Victory, he is receiving from her a fourth naval crown upon his sword,
which, to indicate the loss of his right arm, is held in his left hand.
The maimed limb is concealed by the enemy's flag, which Victory is
lowering to him. Under the folds of the flag Death lies in ambush for
his victim, intimating, that Nelson received the reward of his valour
and the stroke of death at the same moment.

By the figure of an exasperated British seaman is represented the zeal
of the navy to wreak vengeance on the enemies who robbed England of her
gallant leader.

Britannia, with laurels in her hand, and leaning regardless of them on
her spear and shield, describes the feelings of the country fluctuating
between the pride and the anguish of triumph so dearly purchased, but
relying for security on her own resources.

_Hoxton_. T. WARD.

       *       *       *       *       *


TAKING OF CONSTANTINOPLE BY THE TURKS.[1]

[1] From the time of Alcibiades to the reign of Mahommed II.,
Constantinople has undergone twenty-four sieges.

(_For the Mirror_.)


Mahomet II., soon after he mounted the Turkish throne, resolved to
achieve some glorious action, that he might surpass the fame of his
predecessors; and nothing appeared so compatible with his ambition as
the gaining of Constantinople, and the total subversion of the Greek
empire, which at that period was in a very precarious condition. The
sultan, therefore, made vast preparations, which the Greek emperor,
Constantine VIII., perceiving, he solicited the aid of several Christian
princes, especially of Pope Nicholas V. and the king of Naples; but they
_all_, in a most unaccountable manner, excused themselves. Being thus
disappointed, the emperor laid an embargo on all vessels within his
ports, so that he added about three thousand veterans of different
nations to the garrison of his imperial city, which before consisted
of only six thousand Greeks.

In the spring of 1453, Mahomet set forward, with an army of three
hundred thousand men, for Constantinople, which city, on the ninth day
of April, was closely invested by land. The Turkish galleys would have
done the same by sea, had not the emperor been extremely vigilant, for
he caused the haven to be strongly chained from Constantinople to Pera,
having within the chain his whole strength of shipping. The Turks, on
the land side, erected towers, cast up trenches, and raised batteries;
from these works they carried on their attacks with great fury, and made
several breaches, which, however, the besieged repaired with much
industry, at the same time repulsing their enemies with artillery. This
unexpected bravery greatly enraged Mahomet, who loudly exclaimed, "It is
neither the Grecians' skill nor courage, but the Franks, that defend the
city." Affairs stood thus, when a renegado Christian informed the sultan
how he might bring part of his fleet over land to the very haven of
Constantinople. Mahomet, who began to despair of taking the city,
determined to put the project of the renegado into execution; and he
therefore committed the charge of it to a famous bassa, who, with
wonderful labour, brought seventy vessels out of the Bosphorus, up a
steep hill, the space of eight miles, to the haven of the city. The
Turks, being thus miraculously possessed of the haven, assaulted the
city also on that side; but their whole fleet was shamefully routed,
and ten thousand of their men were killed. Yet this loss, instead
of depressing their spirits, increased their courage, and on the
twenty-ninth of May, early in the morning, they approached the walls
with greater violence than ever; but so undaunted was the resolution
of the Christians, that they repulsed their assailants with prodigious
slaughter for a considerable time.

Constantine, however, who had undertaken the charge of one of the city
gates, unhappily received a wound in the arm; and, being obliged to
retire from the scene of action, his soldiers were discouraged, forsook
their stations, and fled after him, notwithstanding his earnest prayers
to the contrary. In their flight, they crowded so thickly together,
that, while endeavouring to enter a passage, above eight hundred of them
were pressed to death. The ill-fated emperor likewise perished. It is
needless to describe what quickly ensued--the infidels became masters of
the fine city of Constantinople, whose inhabitants were all,--except
those who were reserved for lust,--put to the sword, and the plunder,
pursuant to a promise made previously by the sultan, was given up to the
Turkish soldiers for three days together.

G.W.N.

       *       *       *       *       *



GAME OF CHESS.

(_To the Editor of the Mirror_.)


Perceiving in No. 321 of the MIRROR a brief history of the game of
chess, perhaps the following anecdote will not be found unacceptable
to your readers:--When the game of chess was first invented, the emperor
of China sent for the inventor, and desired him to teach it him. The
emperor was so delighted with the game, that he told the inventor
whatever he should demand should be given him as a remuneration for his
discovery. To which he replied, that if his majesty would but give him a
grain of corn for the first square of the chess-board, and keep doubling
it every check until he arrived at the end, he would be satisfied. At
first the emperor was astonished at what he thought the man's modesty,
and instantly ordered his request to be granted.

The following is the sum total of the number of grains of corn, and also
the number of times they would reach round the world, which is 360
degrees, each degree being 69-1/2 miles:--

18446743573783086315 grains.

3883401821 times round the world.

I perfectly agree with your correspondent that China has the preference
of invention.

G.H.C.

       *       *       *       *       *



QUEEN ELIZABETH'S VIRGINAL.

(_To the Editor of the Mirror_.)


On reading No. 336 of the MIRROR, I saw an account of an ancient musical
instrument, _the virginal_, stating it to have been an instrument much
in use in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. That such was the case there can
be no doubt, for the musical world can still furnish many compositions,
written expressly for Queen Elizabeth, her majesty being considered a
very good performer on the virginal. But it is not generally known that
the very identical instrument, the favourite property of that queen,
is still in the possession of a Mr. Jonah Child, artist, of Dudley,
Worcestershire. It is a very fine-toned old instrument, considering the
many improvements which have been made since that date, and if put in
good repair, (which might easily be done, it being quite playable in its
present state,) it would not disgrace the name of a Kirkman, or of any
of our latest and best harpsichord makers; indeed, it is very far
superior to any other instrument of the kind I ever heard. The case is
good, particularly in the inside, which is of exquisite workmanship, and
beautifully ornamented with (as far as I recollect) gilt scroll work; on
the keys has been bestowed a great deal of labour and curious taste.
Each of the sharps, or short keys, is composed of a number (perhaps
thirty) of bits of pearl, &c., well wrought together. On the whole it
is an object well worthy of the attention of the antiquarian and the
musician.

Although a stranger to Mr. Jonah Child, I feel great pleasure, while
speaking on the subject, in acknowledging the very courteous reception
I once met with, on calling at that gentleman's house to see the above
curiosity.

_Hampstead Road_. S.A.

       *       *       *       *       *



FIRE TOWERS.

(_To the Editor of the Mirror_.)


I perceive by a paper in your interesting little work, that the round
towers so common in Scotland and Ireland, have afforded the antiquaries
much room for the display of their erudition, in ascertaining the
purposes for which these towers have been erected.

Now, if any of these worthy and learned gentlemen were to take a trip to
Sutherlandshire, in Scotland, they would see the _exact purpose_ for
which these buildings were erected; it was merely for the purpose of
hanging the church bell in, as stated by your correspondent, in No. 335,
of the MIRROR; for there stands at present in the parish of Clyne, near
Dunrobin, the seat of the most noble the Marquess of Stafford, one of
the said towers with the church bell hung in it to this day, unless
removed since last October, the time at which I was there. It stands on
the top of an eminence, a short distance (about fifty yards) to the west
of the parish church, and is about twenty-five feet high.

A. GAEL.

       *       *       *       *       *



A SUMMER SCENE, BY CLAUDE.

(_For the Mirror_.)


  How proudly those hush'd towers receive the glow
  That mellows the gold sunset--and the trees,
  Clasping with their deep belt the festal hills,
  Are ting'd with summer-beauty; the rich waves
  Swell out their hymn o'er shells and sweet blue flow'rs,
  And haply the pure seamaid, wandering by,
  Dips in them her soft tresses. The calm sea,
  Floating in its magnificence, is seen
  Like an elysian isle, whose sapphire depths
  Entranc'd the Arabian poets! In the west,
  The clouds blend their harmonious pageantry
  With the descending sun-orb; some appear
  Like Jove's immortal bird, whose eyes contain'd
  An essence of its sanctity--and some
  Seem like proud temples, form'd but to admit
  The souls of god-like men! Emerald and gold
  And pink, that softens down the aerial bow,
  Are interspersed promiscuously, and form
  A concentration of all lovely things!
  And far off cities, glittering with the pomp
  Of spire and pennon, laugh their joyance up
  In the deep flood of light. Sweet comes the tone
  Of the touch'd lute from yonder orange bow'rs,
  And the shrill cymbal pours its elfin spell
  Into the peasant's being!
                            A sublime
  And fervid mind was _his_, whose pencil trac'd
  The grandeur of this scene! Oh! matchless Claude!
  Around the painter's mastery thou hast thrown
  An halo of surpassing loveliness!
  Gazing on thy proud works, we mourn the curse
  Which'reft our race of Eden, for from thee,
  As from a seraph's wing, we catch the hues
  That sunn'd our primal heritage ere sin
  Weav'd her dark oracles. With thee, sweet Claude!
  _Thee!_ and blind Maeonides would I dwell
  By streams that gush out richness; there should be
  Tones that entrance, and forms more exquisite
  Than throng the sculptor's visions! I would dream
  Of gorgeous palaces, in whose lit halls
  Repos'd the reverend magi, and my lips
  Would pour their spiritual commune'mid the hush
  Of those enchanting groves!

_Deal_.

REGINALD AUGUSTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *



THE NOVELIST

A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ.

(_For the Mirror_.)


  "Still the boar held on his way
  Careless through what toils it lay,
  Down deep in the tangled dell--
  Or o'er the steep rock's pinnacle.
  Staunch the steed, and bold the knight
  That would follow such a flight!"


The night was fast closing in, and the last retiring beams of the sun
shed a mournful light over an extensive tract of forest bordering upon
the district of the Hartz, just as (but I must not forget the date,
somewhere about the year 1547,) the Baron Rudolf found himself in the
very disagreeable predicament of having totally lost his companions and
his way, amidst an almost interminable region of forest and brushwood.
"Hans," addressing himself to his noble steed, "my old veteran, I must
trust to thee, since thy master's wit is at a stand, to extricate us
from this dilemma."

The animal finding his head free, moved forward as fast as bush and
brake would permit him. They had proceeded in this way for half an hour
longer, when the Baron at last bethought himself of his bugle, and wound
a long and powerful blast; but the echo was the only answer he received.
He repeated the sound with the like effect. Again the Baron lost his
patience, and "Der terefel--" when all at once his steed made a dead
stop, and pricked up his ears as at some well known sound. The Baron
listened attentively, and distinctly heard the blast he had sounded ten
minutes before, responded by one so exactly similar, though apparently
at a great distance, that he could scarcely believe the "evidence" of
his ears. "By the mass but that must be the work of Mynheer von
Heidelberger himself, for no one in my own broad barony can wind that
blast save Rudolf Wurtzheim." He shrunk within himself at the very
thought; for to any one it was rather appalling to meet this being at
such a place and hour. The recollection of an adventure in these wilds
which occurred on this very eve, twelve-months previous, now rushed
vividly to his mind. The concurrence in the date was startling. In
short, on reflection, he began to think there was witchcraft throughout
the affair.

He had lost his companions of the chase in rather a singular manner; on
this afternoon, being unusually unsuccessful, the Baron, while hunting
a brace of favourite stag-hounds in a dell apart from the rest of the
field, suddenly struck upon a boar of remarkable size; attracted by the
cries of the dogs, the Baron spurred Hans to the pursuit, and did not
reflect that he was pursuing a route apart from the other hunters; and
trusting to his knowledge of the wilds he so often traversed, he bore
on with undiminished speed. The boar seemed to have a pair of wings in
addition to his legs. Suffice it to say, that though Hans chased him in
gallant style, yet the Baron eventually lost his way in the pursuit,
partly owing to the doubling of the animal, till both dogs and boar
completely disappeared from sight.

Entangled in the forest, the evening rapidly approached, a general hush
prevailed, and all endeavours to recover his track seemed fruitless.

The sun had now gone down for a considerable time, and a mist was
arising that obscured the little light which the luminary of night
afforded.

"Mein Gott," exclaimed the Baron, "mortal or devil, he has involved me
in a very disagreeable predicament, and to avoid him is, I fear,
impossible." He once more sounded a long blast; again the blast was
re-echoed after a short lapse of time, though seemingly at an extreme
distance. "Ah, there it comes again! what if my ears should deceive me,
and this should be the answering bugle of my faithful Wildstein." The
thought infused some fresh vigour into him; the low night wind murmuring
through the trees, reminded him of the importance of every moment, Hans
and his master pushed onwards through brake and dell.

It will be necessary, however, that we should leave the Baron for
awhile, and detail some occurrences germane to our tale, and which are
necessary for its developement. And now as Mark Antony says, "Lend me
your ear."

Some years before the preceding events took place, there dwelt in a spot
of the most romantic description, a personage known by the designation
of Mynheer von Heidelberger. No one had either heard or could recollect
when or whence he came. Strange rumours were afloat respecting this
person, and the peasantry crossed themselves with fright if they were
led near the spot where his dwelling was said to be; and if his name
was casually mentioned in the circle round the winter's hearth, all
involuntarily drew their seats into a closer space. Impelled by
adventurous curiosity, many individuals were said to have visited him,
for the purpose of obtaining some insight into futurity; for his
knowledge of the future, and the "things that none may name," was
reputed to be great. It was also rumoured that some of his visitants
had never returned.

About this time, by the sudden death of her father, the Baron Ernest,
who was killed, it was believed, by a fall from his horse while hunting,
Agatha von Keilermann was left sole and undisputed heiress of his vast
domains. A prize so great, united to a fair person, caused many suitors
to be on the alert; but they all met with ill success, being generally
dismissed rather summarily.

Ambition was always the ruling passion of Rudolf Wurtzheim, whose
domains adjoined those of the Baron Ernest, and before the death of
the latter it had also been allied to jealousy of his great power and
wealth. Not daunted by the ill success of his predecessors, he became a
suitor of the fair Agatha. He met with a summary repulse. Burning with
rage and mortified ambition, the Baron bethought himself of Mynheer von
Heidelberger, of whose fame he had sometimes heard.

At the close of a day far advanced in autumn, he set off to visit this
being. The howling of the wind as it came in fitful gusts through the
openings of the forest, formed no bad accompaniment to his thoughts;
while the indistinct twilight received little aid from the moon, which
waded through heavy masses of clouds. The Baron, however, was a man of
daring spirit. He had often been led past the spot, whilst engaged in
the chase, near which the _solitaire_ was said to dwell:--

  "Vague mystery hangs on all these desert places!
    The fear which hath no name hath wrought a spell,
  Strength, courage, wrath, have been, and left no traces!
    They came--and fled; but whither? who can tell!"

He several times, on account of the uncertain light, lost his track.
At length he emerged into the rocky scenery of the mountain side, and
an indistinct light in the distance served to guide his steps. He now
entered between two rocks of great height; till a magnificent waterfall
almost blocked up the way. The Baron stepped cautiously forward,
and after apparently passing through a cavern, the scene opened and
displayed (for, to his surprise, the light was greatly increased,)
a wild view, in which nature had piled rock, cavern, and mountain
together, till the whole seemed lost and blended in one general chaos.
At the foot, and a short distance before him, were seen a number of
persons of venerable aspect, grouped on the turf around the vast
amphitheatre of rocks, and a noise as of many hammers, greeted his
ears. Attracted onwards by the now distinct glittering light, the Baron
proceeded boldly to the mouth of what seemed a natural grotto. He loudly
demanded admittance, the entrance being blocked up with a large stone.
He was at first answered by a scornful laugh; indeed, as he afterwards
found, he had entered by the wrong path, and observed a scene, perhaps,
never displayed to mortal eyes. The stone was at last removed, and in
the interior he found the object of his search:--

                    He, like the tenant
  Of some night haunted ruin, bore an aspect
  Of horrors, worn to habitude.

What passed will appear in the sequel, and the Baron returned just at
nightfall; while his ghastly demeanour and unquiet eye betokened the
nature of his visit. It is said many a wild and unearthly peal of
laughter resounded that night through the mountains.

In three months from that time the lady Agatha became his wife. She had
suddenly disappeared from her grounds a short time before, and to the
amazement and wonder of all, returned with the Baron Wurtzheim, to whom
she was united the same evening. Rumour was busy upon this occasion, but
the mystery which enveloped it was never dispersed. The lady Agatha,
however, seemed oppressed with a ceaseless gloom; in a short time she
devoted herself entirely to seclusion, and in a year after her marriage,
expired in giving birth to a son. The demeanour of Rudolf was most
strange on this occasion. He had apparently a weight on his mind, which
seemed to increase with dissipation, when he devoted his time to hunting
and nightly revels, with a band of choice friends and dependents. Time,
however, which blunts the edge of the keenest misfortunes, seemed to
restore him to his former self.

Years passed away. Some time before the commencement of this legend, the
Baron lost his path whilst hunting, and was benighted in the forest.
After much fatigue, he was attracted by a light amongst trees which he
found to proceed from a low building. It was in a state of extreme
dilapidation, though a sort of wing appeared to have been recently
tenanted. His knocks for admittance not having been answered, he lifted
up the latch and boldly entered. Nothing greeted his sight save the
almost extinguished remains of a fire. The apartment was lone and
destitute of furniture. Having bestowed Hans as well as he could,
he laid himself on the floor; while he felt an extreme chillness of
spirits, which he endeavoured in vain to shake off; he was soon buried
in sleep.

He was awakened by a noise resembling the strokes of many hammers.
He conceived his senses must be wandering, for he found that he was
at the entrance of the amphitheatre of rocks near the dwelling of the
_solitaire_. The same group of figures appeared, and it was not long
before a voice, which he knew to be that of Heidelberger, slowly
repeated the following chant:--

  Woe to him who dares intrude
  Upon our midnight solitude!
  Woe to him whose faith is broken--
  Better he had never spoken.
  'Ere twelve moons shall pass away,
  Thou wilt he beneath our sway.
  Drear the doom, and dark the fate
  Of him who rashly dares our hate!

  Deceive me once, I tell thee never
  Shall thy soul and body sever!
  Under the greenwood wilt thou lie,
  Nor shall thou there unheeded die.
  Mortal, thou my vengeance brave,
  Thou had'st better seen thy grave.
  Drear the doom, and dark the fate
  Of him who rashly dares our hate!

Meanwhile the Baron had sunk into a state of insensibility. When he
awoke from his trance it was broad daylight, and the birds were singing
merrily around the ruin.

After this adventure, the Baron resumed many of his old habits; and
sought by deeper dissipation to dispel the visions of the past. His son
was now grown up a sickly youth, and his father's inquietude about him
was so great that he would not suffer him for a moment to be out of the
sight of his attendants.

The year rolled on without any harm befalling the Baron, and his
spirits lightened as the time advanced. He had almost forgotten the
circumstance, when on the day preceding that of the anniversary of the
adventure just related, a grand hunting party was proposed, it being the
birth-day of his son. We now return to the situation in which we left
the Baron at the beginning of this legend.

The forest seemed to the exhausted Rudolf, almost interminable, and
this provoking horn perplexed him sadly. On this night the dreaded
twelve-months expired. The bare thought made him redouble his speed.
The darkness seemed increasing, and the flapping of the bats and hoarse
croaking of the night birds, disturbed by his progress through the
branches, did not add to his comfort; when to his great joy, he felt a
strong current of air, and found that he had at last apparently emerged
from the thickest of the forest. The moon was now beginning to cast her
"peerless light" over the scene, and Rudolf perceived he was in an
extensive amphitheatre or opening of the trees, which he could not
recollect ever having seen before, bounded at a short distance by what
seemed a small lake, near the centre of which grew a large and solitary
pine.

The moon had now fully risen. Hans who had been flagging for some time,
fell suddenly lame. From this fresh misfortune the Baron was aroused by
the well known baying of his gallant stag-hounds. "Aiglette and Caspar
are not baying after nothing," thought he. He was not long in suspense.
To his extreme amazement, the identical boar which had caused all his
trouble and fatigue, appeared closely followed by both the dogs.

"Donner et blitzen,"