Chapter I: Front Matter

THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

No. 469.] SATURDAY JANUARY 1, 1831 [PRICE 2d.

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Petrarch and Arquà; Ariosto, Tasso, and Ferrara;--how delightfully are these names and sites linked in the fervour of Italian poetry. Lord Byron halted at these consecrated spots, in his "Pilgrimage" through the land of song:--

There is a tomb in Arquà;--rear'd in air,
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose
The bones of Laura's lover: here repair
Many familiar with his well-sung woes,
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose
To raise a language, and his land reclaim
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes:
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.

They keep his dust in Arquà, where he died;
The mountain-village where his latter days
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride--
An honest pride--and let it be their praise,
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze
His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain
And venerably simple; such as raise
A feeling more accordant with his strain
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane.

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt
Is one of that complexion which seems made
For those who their mortality have felt,
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade,
Which shows a distant prospect far away
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd,
For they can lure no further; and the ray
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday,

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers,
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by,
Clear as a current, glide the sauntering hours
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality.
If from society we learn to live,
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers, vanity can give
No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive;

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey
In melancholy bosoms, such as were
Of moody texture from their earliest day,
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay,
Deeming themselves predestin'd to a doom
Which is not of the pangs that pass away;
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb,
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom.[1]

[1] Childe Harold, Canto iv.

The noble bard, not content with perpetuating Arquà in these soul-breathing stanzas, has appended to them the following note:--

Petrarch retired to Arquà immediately on his return from the
unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at Rome, in the year
1370, and, with the exception of his celebrated visit to
Venice in company with Francesco Novello da Carrara, he
appears to have passed the four last years of his life between
that charming solitude and Padua. For four months previous to
his death he was in a state of continual languor, and in the
morning of July the 19th, in the year 1374, was found dead in
his library chair with his head resting upon a book. The chair
is still shown amongst the precious relics of Arquà, which,
from the uninterrupted veneration that has been attached to
every thing relative to this great man from the moment of his
death to the present hour, have, it may be hoped, a better
chance of authenticity than the Shaksperian memorials of
Stratford-upon-Avon.

Arquà (for the last syllable is accented in pronunciation,
although the analogy of the English language has been observed
in the verse) is twelve miles from Padua, and about three
miles on the right of the high road to Rovigo, in the bosom
of the Euganean Hills. After a walk of twenty minutes across a
flat, well-wooded meadow, you come to a little blue lake,
clear, but fathomless, and to the foot of a succession of
acclivities and hills, clothed with vineyards and orchards,
rich with fir and pomegranate trees, and every sunny fruit
shrub. From the banks of the lake the road winds into the
hills, and the church of Arquà is soon seen between a cleft
where two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly inclose
the village. The houses are scattered at intervals on the
steep sides of these summits; and that of the poet is on the
edge of a little knoll overlooking two descents, and
commanding a view not only of the glowing gardens in the dales
immediately beneath, but of the wide plains, above whose low
woods of mulberry and willow thickened into a dark mass by
festoons of vines, tall single cypresses, and the spires of
towns are seen in the distance, which stretches to the mouths
of the Po and the shores of the Adriatic. The climate of these
volcanic hills is warmer, and the vintage begins a week sooner
than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot
be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red marble, raised
on four pilasters on an elevated base, and preserved from an
association with meaner tombs. It stands conspicuously alone,
but will be soon overshadowed by four lately planted laurels.
Petrarch's fountain, for here every thing is Petrarch's,
springs and expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a
little below the church, and abounds plentifully, in the
driest season, with that soft water which was the ancient
wealth of the Euganean Hills. It would be more attractive,
were it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets and wasps. No
other coincidence could assimilate the tombs of Petrarch and
Archilochus. The revolutions of centuries have spared these
sequestered valleys, and the only violence which has been
offered to the ashes of Petrarch was prompted, not by hate,
but veneration. An attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus of
its treasure, and one of the arms was stolen by a Florentine
through a rent which is still visible. The injury is not
forgotten, but has served to identify the poet with the
country, where he was born, but where he would not live. A
peasant boy of Arquà being asked who Petrarch was, replied,
"that the people of the parsonage knew all about him, but that
he only knew that he was a Florentine."

Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously traced and
recorded. The house in which he lodged is shown in Venice. The
inhabitants of Arezzo, in order to decide the ancient
controversy between their city and the neighbouring Ancisa,
where Petrarch was carried when seven months old, and remained
until his seventh year, have designated by a long inscription
the spot where their great fellow citizen was born. A tablet
has been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St. Agatha,
at the cathedral, because he was archdeacon of that society,
and was only snatched from his intended sepulture in their
church by a _foreign_ death. Another tablet with a bust has
been erected to him at Pavia, on account of his having passed
the autumn of 1368 in that city, with his son-in-law Brossano.
The political condition which has for ages precluded the
Italians from the criticism of the living, has concentrated
their attention to the illustration of the dead.

Byron's visit was in 1818. Of this we may quote more on the appearance of Mr. Moore's second volume of the Poet's Life. Meanwhile, let us add the following graceful paper from the _Athenæum_, June 12, 1830: the subject harmonizes most happily with the classic title of that journal. It will be perceived that the tourist is familiar with Mr. Prout's drawing, or the original of our Engraving.

At Monselice we took another carriage, and dashed off to the
Euganean Hills, to visit Arquà, the last dwelling and the
burial-place of Petrarch. The road, in the feeling of M'Adam,
is antediluvian, or rather post-diluvian, for it is little
better than a water-course; but it passes through a country
where I first saw olive-trees in abundance, vines in the
luxuriance of nature, and pomegranates growing in hedges. The
situation of the little village is perfectly delightful--of
Petrarch's villa, beautiful. The apartments he occupied
command the finest view, and are so detached from the noise
and annoyances of the farm dwelling, though connected under
one roof, that I think it not impossible he made the addition.
There are four or five rooms altogether, if two little closets
of not more than six feet by three may be called rooms; yet
one of these is believed to have been his study; and in his
study, and at his literary enjoyments, he died. Every thing is
preserved with a reverential care that does honour to the
people; and his chair, like less holy and less credible
relics, is inclosed in a wire-frame, to prevent the
dilapidations of the curious. I believe these things to be
genuine. I believe in the local traditions that point out his
study, and his kitchen, and his dying chamber.--Petrarch was
all but idolized in his own time, and his fame has known no
diminution; therefore these affectionate recollections of him
have always been treasured there for the gratification of his
pilgrims, and with a becoming reverence themselves, the people
naturally set apart as sacred all that belonged to him. I have
noticed the compactness of his few rooms, and their separation
from the larger apartments--they have also a separate
communication by a small elegant flight of steps into the
garden, as you may see in Prout's drawing. If the rooms were
not an addition, and it did not suggest itself at the moment
to look attentively, I believe these little architectural and
ornamental steps to have been; and as we know he did meddle
with brick and mortar, by building a small chapel here, the
conjecture is not improbable;--it is but a conjecture, and
remains for others to confirm or disprove.

A little wild, irregular walk runs, serpent like, all round
the garden, which, situated at the head of the valley, is shut
in by the hills--itself a wilderness of luxuriance and beauty.
It was a glorious evening, and every thing in agreement with
our quiet feeling. I am not an enthusiast, and to you I need
not affect to be other than I am; but I have felt this day
sensibly, and shall remember it for ever. Petrarch's fame is
worth the noise and nothing of all the men-slayers since Cain!
It is fame indeed, holy and lovely, when the name and
reputation of a man, remembered only for wisdom and virtue,
shall have extended into remote and foreign kingdoms with such
a sound and echo, that centuries after a stranger turns aside
into these mountains to visit his humble dwelling. It is the
verification of the prediction of Boccaccio--"This village,
hardly known even at Padua, will become famous through the
world." I do not presume to offer a eulogy on Petrarch as a
writer, but as a man. In all the relations of son, brother,
father, he is deserving all honour; and I know not another
instance of such long-continued, sincere, and graceful
friendships, through all varieties of fortune, from the
Cardinal of Cabassole, to the poor fisherman at Vaucluse, as
his life offers; including literary friendships, which, after
so many years, passed without one discordant feeling of
rivalry or jealousy, ended so generously and beautifully, with
his bequest to poor Boccaccio of "five hundred florins of the
gold of Florence, to buy him a winter habit for his evening
studies," and this noble testimony of his ability in
addition--"I am ashamed to leave so small a sum to so great a
man."

Petrarch, in my opinion, was one of the most amiable men that
ever lived;--I know nothing about Laura, or her ten children;
I agree with those who believe the whole was a dream or an
allegory; and, I half suspect that Shakspeare thought so too,
and following a fashion, addressed his own sonnets to some
like persons; at any rate, no one knows about either much more
than I do;--certainly Petrarch's _real_ love had more real
consequences. Petrarch was a sincere Christian, without
intolerance--a sound patriot, without austerity; who neither
wasted his feelings in the idle generalities of philosophy,
nor restricted them to the narrow limits of a party or
faction;--he was just, generous, affectionate, and gentle. All
his sonnets together do not shed a lustre on him equal to the
sincere, single-hearted, mild, yet uncompromising spirit that
breathes throughout the letters of advice and remonstrance,
which, not idly or obstrusively, but under the sanction and
authority of his great name, and the affectionate regard
professed for him, he addressed to all whom he believed
influential either for good or ill; from Popes and Emperors,
to the well meaning insane tribune of Rome.

We went after this to see his tomb, which is honourable
without being ostentatious: a plain stone sarcophagus, resting
on four pillars, and surmounted by a bust; suited to the quiet
of his life, his home, and his resting-place. I passed
altogether a day that will shine a bright star in memory; and
we wandered about there, unwilling to leave it, until long
after the ave-maria bell had tolled, and were obliged in
consequence to get a guide, and return by another road through
the marshes, where I first saw those fairy insects the
fire-flies, and thousands of them. For this we are detained
the night at Monselice, and must rise the earlier, for we have
written to ----, fixing the day of our arrival at Florence.

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THE SILENT ACADEMY, OR THE EMBLEMS.

FROM THE FRENCH.

(_For the Mirror_.)

There was at Amadan, a celebrated academy, the first statute of which was contained in these terms. "_The Academicians think much, write little, and speak but as little as possible_." They were called "The Silent Academy," and there was not a man of learning in all Persia but was ambitious of being admitted of their number. Doctor Zeb, author of an excellent little work, entitled "The Gag," understood in his distant province that there was a vacant place in the Silent Academy. He set out immediately, arrived at Amadan, and presenting himself at the door of the hall, where the members were assembled, he desired the doorkeeper to deliver to the president, a billet to this import, "_Doctor Zeb humbly asks the vacant place_." The doorkeeper immediately acquitted himself of his commission, but, alas! the doctor and his billet were too late, the place had been already filled.

The whole academy were affected at this _contretems_; they had received a little before, as member, a court wit, whose eloquence, light and lively, was the admiration of the populace, and saw themselves obliged to refuse Doctor Zeb, who was the very scourge of chatterers, and with a head so well formed and furnished.

The president, whose place it was to announce to the doctor the disagreeable news, knew not what to resolve on. After having thought a little he filled a large cup with water, and that so very full, that one drop more would have made it spill over. Then he made the sign that they might introduce the candidate. He appeared with that modest and simple air which always accompanies true merit. The president rose, and without saying a word, he pointed out to him with an afflicted air, the emblematic cup, the cup so exactly full. The doctor apprehended the meaning that there was no room for him in the academy; but taking courage, he thought to make them understand that an academician supernumerary would derange nothing. Therefore, seeing at his feet a rose leaf, he picked it up and laid it delicately on the surface of the water, and that so gently, that not a single drop escaped.

At this ingenious answer they were all full of admiration, and in spite of rules, Doctor Zeb was admitted with acclamation.

They directly presented to him the register of the academy in which they inscribed their names on their admission, and the doctor having done so, nothing more remained than to thank them in a few words according to custom. But Doctor Zeb, as a truly _silent_ academician, thanked them without saying a word. He wrote on the margin the number 100, which was the number of his new brethren, and then placing a cipher before the figure (0100) he wrote beneath "_Their worth is neither less nor more_." The president answered the modest doctor with as much politeness as presence of mind: he put the figure 1 before the number 100, and wrote (1100) "_They are ten times what they were before_."

_Dorset_. COLBOURNE.

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THE TOPOGRAPHER.

TRAVELLING NOTES IN SOUTH WALES.

_Vale of Tawy--Copper Works, &c.--Coal Trade._--In our former paper[2] we gave a description of the Vale of Tawy, as it appears by night; we will now again revisit it. The stranger who explores this vale must expect to return with a bad headache. We have described it as a desolate looking place, when seen at night, but the darkness only throws a veil over its barrenness. The face of the country, which would otherwise have been beautiful, is literally scorched by the desolating effects of the copper smoke; and when it is considered that a multitude of flues are constantly emitting smoke and flames strongly impregnated with sulphur, arsenic, &c., it is not to be wondered at. A canal runs up the vale into the country for sixteen miles, to an elevation of 372 feet: it is flanked near the copper-works by many millions of tons of copper slag; and there are no less than thirty-six locks on the line. It is a fact, that in spite of the infernal atmosphere, a great many of the people employed in these works attain old age. Every evil effect about Swansea, however, is ascribed to the copper smoke. The houses in this district are remarkable for clean exterior: the custom of whitewashing the roofs, as well as the walls, produces a pleasing effect, and is a relief to the eye in such a desert. There are eight large copper smelting establishments, besides several rolling-mills, now at work; the whole country is covered with tram-roads and coal-pits, many of which vomit forth their mineral treasures close to the road side. At Landore, about two miles from Swansea, is a large steam-engine, made by Bolton and Watt, which was formerly the lion of the neighbourhood. This pumping engine draws the water from all the collieries in the vale, throwing up one hundred gallons of water at each stroke: it makes twelve strokes in a minute, and consequently discharges 72,000 gallons an hour. This engine, however, is very inferior in construction and finish to the pumping engines of Cornwall, some of which are nearly three hundred horsepower. At the consols mines, there are two engines, each with cylinders of ninety inches in diameter, and everything about them kept as clean as a drawing-room. What an extraordinary triumph of the ingenuity of man, when it is considered that one of these gigantic engines can be stopped in an instant, by the mere application of the fingers and thumb of the engineer to a screw! The quantity of coals consumed by the copper-works is enormous. We have heard that Messrs. Vivians, who have the largest works on the river, alone consume 40,000 tons annually: this coal is all small, and not fit for exportation. The copper trade may be considered as comparatively of modern date. The first smelting works were erected at Swansea, about a century ago; but now it is calculated that they support, including the collieries and shipping dependant on them, 10,000 persons, and that 3,000 l. is circulated weekly by their means in this district. Till within the last few years, there were considerable copper smelting establishments at Hayle, in Cornwall; but that county possessing no coals, they were obliged to be abandoned, as it was found to be much cheaper to bring the ore to the coal than the latter to the ore. Formerly, from the want of machinery to drain the water from the workings (copper being generally found at a much greater depth than tin), the miners were compelled to relinquish the metallic vein before reaching the copper: indeed, when it was first discovered, and even so late as 1735, they were so ignorant of its value, that a Mr. Coster, a mineralogist in Bristol, observing large quantities of it lying amongst the heaps of rubbish round the tin mines, contracted to purchase as much of it as could be supplied, and continued to gain by Cornish ignorance for a considerable time. The first discoverer of the ore was called Poder (it long went by his name), who actually abandoned the mine in consequence; and we find that it was for some time considered that "_the ore came in and spoilt the tin_." In the year 1822 the produce of the Cornish copper mines amounted to 106,723 tons of ore, which produced 9,331 tons of copper, and 676,285 l. in money. In the same year, the quantity of tin ore raised was only 20,000 tons. The Irish and Welsh ores are generally much richer than those of Cornwall; but occasionally they strike on a very rich _lode_ (or vein) in that county. Last spring, some ore from the Penstruthal mine was ticketed at Truro, at the enormous price of 54 l. 14s. per ton; and a short time previous, in the Great St. George Mine, near St. Agnes, a lode was struck five feet thick, which was worth 20 l. a ton. There are only six other copper-works in the kingdom besides those of Swansea, five of which are within fifteen miles of that town; the other is at Amlwch (in the isle of Anglesea), where the Marquess of Anglesea smelts the ore raised in his mines there. The annual import of ore into Swansea in 1812 was 53,353 tons; in 1819, 70,256 tons were brought coastwise: besides which, several thousand tons of copper ore are imported from America every year. Since this period there has been a large increase. Most of the ships which are freighted with copper ore load back with coal, for the Cornish and Irish markets. Of bituminous, in 1812, 43,529 chalders, and in 1819, 46,457 chalders were shipped coastwise, besides a foreign trade of about 5,000 chalders every year. Most of this goes to France, the French vessels coming here in ballast for this purpose; but all coal shipped for abroad must be riddled through a screen composed of iron bars, placed three-eighths of an inch apart, as it is literally almost dust. Great hopes are now entertained here that government will abolish the oppressive duty on sea-borne coal. In the stone-coal and culm[3] trade, Swansea and Neath almost supply the whole kingdom. Independent of foreign trade, 55,066 chalders of culm and 10,319 tons of stone-coal were shipped coastwise in 1819: last year the ports of Swansea and Neath shipped 123,000 chalders of stone-coal and culm. Stone-coal improves in quality as it advances westward. That of Milford, of which however only about 6,000 chalders are annually exported, sells generally at from 50s. to 60s. per chaldron in the London market--a price vastly exceeding the finest Newcastle coal. It emits no smoke, and is used principally in lime-burning and in manufactories where an intense heat and the absence of smoke is required. The Swansea culm is mostly obtained about thirteen miles from the town. The bituminous coal mines in the vale of Tawy are fast getting exhausted, and the supply of coal must at no distant day be drawn farther westward, near the Burry River, where the quality of the coal is much improved, approaching nearer to that of Newcastle. The national importance of the inexhaustible supply of this mineral which exists in Wales, is incalculable; but as it has already been alluded to in _The Mirror_, in an extract from Mr. Bakewell's Geology, we will not farther pursue the subject.[4] While mentioning the trade of Swansea, we should not omit to state that two extensive potteries, tin and ironworks, and founderies, &c., and bonding warehouses and yards for foreign goods, &c. exist here.

VYVIAN.

[2] See Mirror, vol. xvi.

[3] The small of the stone-coal.

[4] See Mirror, vol. xii.

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SPIRIT OF THE ANNUALS.

A FRENCH GENTLEMAN'S LETTER TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND IN LONDON.

Ah my deer frend--I cannot feel the plaisir I expresse to come to your country charming, for you see. We are arrive at Southampton before yesterday at one hour of the afternoon, and we are debarked very nice. I never believe you when at Paris, you tell me that the Englishwomen get on much before our women; but now I agree quite with you; I know you laughing at your countrywomen for take such long steps! My faith! I never saw such a mode to walk; they take steps long like the man! Very pretty women! but not equal to ours! White skins, and the tint fresh, but they have no mouths nor no eyes. Our women have lips like rose-buttons; and eyes of lightning; the English have mouth wide like the toads, and their eyes are like _"dreaming sheeps,"_ as one of our very talented writers say, "mouton qui rève." It is excellent, that. I am not perceived so many English ladies _tipsy_ as I expect; our General Pilon say they all drink brandy; this I have not seen very much. I was very surprise to see the people's hair of any colour but red, because all our travellers say there is no other hair seen, except red or white! But I come here filled with candour, and I say I _have seen some_ people whose hair was not red. You tell me often at Paris, that we have no music in France. My dear friend, how you are deceived yourself! Our music is the finest in the world, and the German come after; you other English have no music; and if you had some, you have no language to sing with. It is necessary that you may avow your language is not useful for the purpose ordinary of the world. Your window of shop are all filled at French names--"des gros de Naples," "des gros des Indes," "des gros d'été," &c. If English lady go for demand, show me, if you please, sir, some "fats of Naples," some "fats of India," and some "fats of summer," the linendraper not understand at all. Then the colours different at the silks, people say, "puce évanouie," "oeil de l'empereur," "flammes, d'enfer," "feu de l'opéra;" but you never hear lady say, I go for have gown made of "fainting fleas," or "emperors' eyes," or "opera fires," or of the "flames" of a place which you tell me once for say never to ears polite! You also like very much our musique in England; the street-organs tell you best the taste of the people, and I hear them play always "Le petit tambour," "Oh, gardezvous, bergerette," "Dormez, mes chéres amours," and twenty little French airs, of which we are fatigued there is a long time. I go this morning for make visit to the house of a very nice family. When I am there some time, I demand of the young ladies, what for they not go out? One reply, "Thank you, sir, we are always oblige for stay at home, because papa _enjoy such very bad health_." I say, "Oh yes! How do you do your papa this morning, misses!" "He is much worse, I am obliged to you, sir!" I bid them good bye, and think in myself how the English are odd to _enjoy_ bad health, and the young ladies much oblige to me because their papa was much worse! "Chacun à son goút," as we say. In my road to come home, I see a board on a gate, and I stopped myself for read him. He was for say, any persons beating carpets, playing cricket, and such like diversions there, should be persecuted. My faith! you other English are so droll to find any diversion in beating carpets! Yet it is quite as amusing as to play the cricket, to beat one little ball with big stick, then run about like madmen, then throw away big stick, and get great knock upon your face or legs. And then at cards again! What stupid game whist! Play for amuse people, but may not laugh any! Ah! how the English are droll! I have nothing of more for say to you at present; but I am soon seeing you, when I do assure you of the eternal regard and everlasting affection of your much attached friend.--_Comic Offering_.

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HOOD'S COMIC ANNUAL.

We have taken a slice, or rather, _four cuts_, from Mr. Hood's facetious volume. Their fun needs not introduction, for the effect of wit is instantaneous. To talk about them would be like saying "see how droll they are." We omitted the Conditions drawn up by the Provisional Government, (the baker, butcher, publican, &c.) in our account of the revolutionary stir, or as the march-of-mind people call a riot, "the ebullition of popular feeling," at Stoke Pogis. Here they are, worthy of any Vestry in the kingdom, Select or otherwise.

"_Conditions._

"1. That for the future, widows in Stoke Pogis shall be allowed
their thirds, and Novembers their fifths.

"2. That the property of Guys shall be held inviolable, and
their persons respected.

"3. That no arson be allowed, but all bon-fires shall be burnt
by the common hangman.

"4. That every rocket shall be allowed an hour to leave the
place.

"5. That the freedom of Stoke Pogis be presented to Madame
Hengler, in a cartridge-box.

"6. That the military shall not be called out, uncalled for.

"7. That the parish beadle, for the time being, be authorized
to stand no nonsense.

"8. That his Majesty's mail be permitted to pass on the night
in question.

"9. That all animosities be buried in oblivion, at the Parish
expense.

"10. That the ashes of old bon-fires be never raked up.

" (Signed)
{WAGSTAFF, High Constable.
{WIGSBY."

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Our next quotations are two comico-serio Ballads:--

FRENCH AND ENGLISH.

"Good Heaven! why even the little children in France speak
French!" ADDISON.