« ZurückWeiter »
the second, are devoted to the impressions received from the “sights" of Constantinople. Here the party remained till June 20th, when they again started for Smyrna, and subsequently made a more lengthened stay in Greece, a period of the narrative which affords a large fund of entertainment, plainly but most pleasingly conveyed. Malta is subsequently visited, Sicily revisited, and our travellers reached England on the 10th of November, 1841, having been absent rather more than a year, almost every day of which may be said to have been passed in travel.
The journal is written throughout in an easy and lady-like style, and the remarks and observations are always characterized by good taste, good temper, and good feeling. The volumes are illustrated by a large number of very pretty lithographic views; and the publication is altogether a pleasing addition to the light literature of the day.
As a specimen of Lady Grosvenor's style, we shall give her relation of an extraordinary incident in the romance of real life, which occurred only a few days before she visited the spot-a village near Malaya.
A party of soldiers coming in one evening, one of them requested to be billeted on a particular house, which was granted. The terms of the billet being to provide him with lodging, but not with food, he gave the woman of the house a dollar to procure him supper, another for his bed, and gave her besides a bag of dollars to take care of for him till the morning. The woman, struck with his wealth, suggested to her husband when he came home from his work, the not unusual proceeding of murdering the soldier in the night, and taking possession of all lie had. The man refused, saying he would have no hand in such a business, and desired her to think no more of it, and early in the morning went out as usual to his work. In going along he met some of his neighbours, who congratulated him on his son's return home after so long an absence, and particularly on his being settled in his own house. He could not at first comprehend what they meant; but at last it struck him that the soldier who had arrived the night before, must be his son, who had been absent for fifteen years in the army, and had therefore not been recognised. His wife's proposal then flashed across his mind, and he hurried home with a dreadful foreboding of what he might find, and in truth he arrived too late! The wretched woman had already murdered the weary soldier in his sleep, who proved to be her own son, and who had desired to be billeted on his parents' house, intending to surprise them next morning; and having met some of the neighbours in the evening, had told them the secret of his return. Both father and mother were in prison at Malaya at the time we were there.
POETRY FOR THE MILLION.* Ever since Mr. Wakley declared in Parliament that he could write Poetry “ by the mile,” it has been a matter of wonder and speculation with us, what became of his wholesale effusions.
Did he compose at three-mile heats for the League-who, however, have published none of his rhyming addresses. Or, invoking the nine, did he manufacture poetical clothes-lines for Moses, the cheap tailor? Or were those his Long Measure verses retailed by the itinerant ballad-mongers at one penny a-yard ? Above all, did he manufacture all or any of those anonymous volumes of Lays, which encumber the tables of reviewers and the shelves of the Row ?
Poetry for the Million. By an M.P. Edited by Peter Priggins.
This last question las partially been solved. If there be any truth in Prefaces, the M.P. has perpetrated at least one little book which has just appeared under the editorial auspices of a writer well known as having distinguished himself in the Oxford Blues. Through the politeness of the gentleman we suspect, and not that of the M.P., we possess a Right to a copy; but our limits compel us to give the briefest, not the best sample, it contains of the powers of the Laurel Crowner.
Styl. W. W. Ed.
I met a little waiting-maid,
They fall beside her face;
Why then-they're out of place.
Then out from home she trips;
That sparkles on her lips.
That pretty lily hand.
To Bob, who sweeps the Strand! Seriously, instead of waiting for the bonfires and Guys of November, it is a pity that this lively bundle of squibs did not go off'in April, along with the fooleries of Mr. Wakley, when he was vapouring that if he could not write for all time, he could do it for all space. It might then have been taken for the actual work of the Finsbury M.P., intended to show by specimens in various styles, that he was as competent as Wordsworth, Southey, Campbell, Bowles, Landon, Knowles, Ingoldsby, and others of our popular Poets and Versifiers, to sing for the Million.
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
THE CAMBER WELL BEAUTY:
A City ROMANCE.
BY THE EDITOR.
She entered his shop, which was very neat and spacious, and he received her with all the marks of the most profound respect, entreating her to sit down, and showing her with his hand the most honourable place.-ARABIAN Nights.
Mr. Mooby was in his shop, his back to the fire and his face to the Times, when happening to look above the upper edge of the newspaper, towards the street, he caught sight of an equipage that seemed familiar to him.
Could it be !
Yes, it was the same dark brown chariot, with the drab liveries, the same gray horses, with the same crest on the harness, and above all the same lady-face was looking through the carriage-window !
In a moment Mr. Mooby was at his glass-door obsequiously ushering the fair customer into his shop, where with his profoundest bow and his sunniest smile he invited her to a seat at the counter. Her commands were eagerly solicited and promptly executed. The two small volumes she asked for were speedily produced, neatly packed up, and delivered to the footman in drab, to be deposited in the dark-brown chariot. But the lady still lingered. Thrice within a fortnight she had occupied the same seat, on each occasion making a longer visit than the last, and becoming more and more friendly and familiar. Perhaps, being past the prime of life, she was fattered by the extremely deferential attentions of the young tradesman ; perhaps she was pleased with the knowFeb. VOL. LXVII. NO. CCLXVI.
ledge he possessed, or seemed to possess of a particular subject, and was gratified by the interest which he took, or appeared to take in her favourite science. However she still lingered, smiling very pleasantly, and chatting very agreeably in her low, sweet voice, while she turned over the pretty illustrated volumes that were successively offered to her notice.
In the mean time the delighted Mooby did his utmost in the conversational way to maintain his ground, which was no easy task, seeing that he was not well read in her favourite science, nor indeed in any other. In fact, he did not read at all; and although a butcher gets beefish, a bookseller does not become bookish, from the mere smell of his commodity. Nevertheless he managed to get on, in his own mind very tolerably, adding a few words about Egypt and the Pyramids to the lady's mention of the Sphinx, and at the name of Memnon, edging in a sentence or two about the British Museum. Sometimes, indeed, she alluded to classical proper names altogether beyond his acquaintance ; but in such cases, he escaped, by flying off at a tangent to the new ballet, or the last new novel, of which he had derived an opinion from the advertisements—nay, even digressing at need, like Sir Peter Laurie, on the Omnibus nuisance, and the Wooden Pavements. To tell the truth, the lady, as sometimes happens, was so intent on her own share of the discourse, that she paid little attention to his topics or their treatment, and so far from noticing any incongruity would have allowed him to talk unheeded of the dulness of the publishing trade, and the tightness of money in the City. Thanks to this circumstance he lost nothing in her opinion, whilst his silent homage and assiduities recommended him so much to her good graces, that at parting he received an especial token of her favour.
* Mr. Mooby,” said the lady, and she drew an embossed card from an elegant silver case, and presented it to the young publisher, “ you must come and see me.”
Mr. Mooby was of course highly delighted and deeply honoured; not merely verbally, but actually and physically; for as he took the embossed card, his blood thrilled with delight to the very tips of his fingers. Not that he was in love with the donor; though still handsome, she was past the middle-age, and, indeed, old enough, according to the popular phrase, to have been his mother. But then she was so ladylike and well-bred, and had such a carriage—the dark brown one —and so affable—with a footman and a gold-headed cane-quite a first-rate connexion—with a silver crest on the harness--and oh! such a capital pair of well-matched grays! These considerations were all very gratifying to his ambition ; but above all, his vanity was flattered by a condescension which confirmed him in an opinion he had long indulged in secret--namely, that in personal appearance, manners, and fashion, he was a compound of the Apollo Belvidere and Lord Chesterfield, with a touch of Count D'Orsay. But the lady speaks.
“ Any morning, Mr. Mooby, except Wednesday and Friday. I shall be at home all the rest of the week, and shall leave orders for your admittance.”
Mr. Mooby bowed, as far as he could, after the fashion of George IV. -escorted the lady into the street, as nearly as possible in the style of the Master of the Ceremonies at Brighton, and then handed her into
her carriage with the air, as well as he could imitate it, of a French Marquis of the ancien régime.
“ I shall expect you, Mr. Mooby,” said the lady, through the carriage-window. “And as an inducement”-here she smiled mysteriously, and nodded significantly—“ you shall have a peep at my Camberwell Beauty."
CHAP. II. “ And did he go ?” Why, as to his figure, it had been three times cut out, at full
length, in black paper-once on the Chain Pier at Brighton-once in Regentstreet, and once
“ But did he go?" Then, for his face, he had twice had it done in oil, thrice in crayons, and once in pencil by Wageman. Moreover, he had had it miniatured by Lover and he had been in treaty with Behnes for his bust, but the marbling came so expensive
“But did he go, I say?"
So expensive that he gave up the design, and contented himself with a mask in plaster of Paris.
“But did he go?" Yes—to both. To Collen for a half-length, and to Beard for a whole one. I think that was all—but no-he went to What's-hisname, the modeller, and had a cast taken of his leg.
“ Hang his leg! Did he go or not?” To be sure he was a tradesman; but his line was a genteel one, and his shop was double-fronted, in a first-rate thoroughfare, and lighted with gas. Then as to his business, with strict assiduity and attention, and a little more punctuality and despatch
“Confound his business !—Did-he-go?" To the Opera ? Yes, often. And had his clothes made at the West End--and gave champagne—and backed a horse or two for the Darby -and smoked cigars--and was altogether, for a tradesman, very much of a gentleman.
“ But, for the last time, did he go?"
No; but to the looking-glass, over the mantelshelf in his own diningroom, and where, Narcissus like, he gazed at his reflected image till he actually persuaded himself that he was as unique as the Valdarfer Boccaccio, and as elegantly got up as Lockhart's Spanish Ballads.
The dark brown chariot was gone.
As it rattled away, and just as the drab back of the footman disappeared, Mr. Mooby turned his attention to the embossed card, and deliberately read the address thrice over.