The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 289, December 22, 1827
TekstDuring my confinement I made the most energetic attempts to reconcile myself to my fatal destiny. I formed a plan for my future life, complete in every particular. My character being destroyed, and most of my friends alienated, I determined to convert my property into money, and to seek a refuge in the United States. At length the term of my imprisonment approached its close, and on the 30th of September, 1791, I was liberated—my flesh creeps as I name the day.
I waited in the prison till it was dusk. Finding that I had the key of my chambers upon my person, I resolved, in the first instance, to visit once again the scene of my former tranquil studies. Before I reached the Temple the gates had been closed, and the gatekeeper, as I entered, eyed me with an unpleasant curiosity. I reached my chambers. There was still light sufficient to enable me to select some papers which I particularly wished to secure. I entered the chambers and walked in to my sitting-room, but suddenly stopped on seeing a figure reclining on the sofa. My library-table was before him, covered with law books. At first I imagined that my laundress had permitted some stranger to occupy my rooms during my incarceration. As I entered the chamber the figure rose, and with feelings of indescribable horror I perceived the semblance of myself—
–"And my flesh's hair upstood, 'Twas mine own similitude."
–I cannot relate what followed, for my senses deserted me. On recovering, my mysterious visiter had departed without leaving the slightest clue by which I might fathom the impenetrable secret of my persecutions. I have sometimes imagined that they arose from one of those wonderful natural resemblances which in some instances appear to be well authenticated; but, natural or supernatural, they changed the current of my life. Unable to endure the disgrace of being pointed at as a convicted felon, I converted my property into money, and, under another name, I now live respected in a foreign land.—Ibid.
THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS
"FASHIONABLE TALES."
Lord Normanby has written one of the best, if not the best, of this class of works, the tendency of which is in most instances of questionable character. But they give a tone to the reading taste of the day, as the recent circumstance of two of them forming the first subject of three literary reviews will sufficiently attest. The work to which we specially allude, is Matilda, a Tale of the Day, the noble author of which has just produced another of the same stamp, entitled Yes and No, to whose sketches and portraits we shall shortly introduce our readers. It will be seen that his lordship is no mean artist, nor does he belong to the novel-making tribe, whose hole-and-corner curiosity has made us as familiar with the Corso as we are with our own Bond-street. But the following snatch from Yes and No proves that these smatterers of fashion—these clippers of reputation—are encouraged by some portion of that class whose vanities they affect to expose:—
SCENE—A "Hall" in the Country.
"It is always as well here to know who one's next neighbour is," continued Fitzalbert, "for this is not one of those snug parties where one can do or say what one pleases without observation." "How do you mean?" asked Germain. "Why, Lady Boreton encourages these literary poachers on the manors, or rather manners of high life; she gives a sort of right of free chase to all cockney sportsmen to wing one's follies in a double-barrelled duodecimo, or hunt one's eccentricities through a hot-pressed octavo. Not that they are, generally speaking, very formidable shots—they often bring down a different bird from the one they aimed at, and sometimes shut their eyes and blaze away at the whole covey; which last is, after all, the best way. Their coming here to pick out individuals is needless trouble. Do you know the modern recipe for a finished picture of fashionable life? Let a gentlemanly man, with a gentlemanly style, take of foolscap paper a few quires; stuff them well with high-sounding titles—dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies, ad libitum. Then open the peerage at random, pick a supposititious author out of one page of it, and fix the imaginary characters upon some of the rest; mix it all up with quantum suff. of puff, and the book is in a second edition before ninety-nine readers out of a hundred have found out the one is as little likely to have written, as the others to have done what is attributed to them."
Again—here is a picture of the guests: "Captains that have been to the North Pole; chemists who can extract ice from caloric; transatlantic travellers and sedentary bookworms; some authors, who own to anonymous publications they have never written; and others who are suspected of those they deny; besides the usual quantum of young ladies and gentlemen, who rest their claims to distinction upon the traditionary deeds of their great grandfathers."
SOCIETY OF UNITED IRISHMEN
At the head of the table, which occupied the centre of the apartment, and in an arm-chair raised by a few steps from the floor, sat the president of the society of United Irishmen. He alone was covered, and though plainly dressed, there was an air of high breeding and distinction about him; while in his bland smile were exhibited, the open physiognomy of pleasantness, and love-winning mildness, which still mark the descendants of the great Anglo-Norman Lords of the Pale, the Lords of Ormond, Orrery, and Arran, the Mount Garrets, and Kilkennys,—in former times, the great oligarchs of Ireland, and in times more recent, the grace and ornament of the British court.
The president was the Honourable Simon Butler: beside him, on a lower seat, sat the secretary. His uncovered head, and unshaded temples received the full light of the suspended lamp. It was one of those finely chiselled heads, which arrest the imagination, and seem to bear incontrovertible evidence of the certainty of physiognomical science. A dress particularly studied, was singularly contrasted with the athletic figure and antique bearing of this interesting looking person. For though unpowdered locks, and the partial uncovering of a muscular neck, by the loose tie of the silk handkerchief had something of the simplicity of republicanism, yet the fine diamond chat sparkled at the shirt breast, and the glittering of two watch-chains (the foppery of the day), exhibited an aristocracy of toilet, which did not exactly assort with the Back-lane graces. The secretary of the United Irishmen, was Archibald Hamilton Rowan.
On the opposite side sat a small, well-formed, and animated person, who was talking with singular vivacity of look and gesture, to one of extremely placid and even formal appearance. The first was the gay, gallant, and patriotic founder of the society, Theobald Wolfe Tone, the other was the celebrated and clever Doctor Drennan, a skilful physician, and an elegant writer, who might have passed in appearance, for the demure minister of some remote village-congregation of the Scotch kirk.
A tail, elegant, and sentimental looking person sat near to them, in an attitude of interested attention, listening to the speaker, to whom, it seemed, he was about to reply. It was Thomas Addas Emmet, the son of the state physician of Ireland—then a young lawyer of great promise, and now the Attorney-General of New York. The handsome and animated Dr. Mackenna, one of the most popular writers of the day, and Oliver Bond, the representative of the most reputable class of merchants, had grouped forward their intelligent heads; while one who brought no personal beauty to the cause (that letter of recommendation to all causes), James Napper Tandy, stood waiting with a packet of letters, which he had received in his former quality of secretary to the meeting.
While other leaders of the Union distinguished for their birth, talents, or principles (and it is remarkable that they were all protestants), filled up the seats near the head of the table; more mixed groups less distinguished by the beau sang, which then came forth, in the fine forms of the genuine Irish gentry of both sects, were congregated in the obscurity of the bottom of the room—Lady Morgan's O'Briens and O'Flahertys.
STORY OF RICHARD PLANTAGENET, SON OF RICHARD III
It was on this awful night (the night preceding the battle of Bosworth Field), according to a letter which I have read from Dr. Thomas Brett to Dr. William Warren, president of Trinity-hall, that the king took his last farewell in his tent of Richard Plantagenet, his natural son, who himself thus describes that interview:—"I was boarded with a Latin schoolmaster, without knowing who my parents were, till I was fifteen or sixteen years old; only a gentleman, who acquainted me he was no relative of mine, came once a quarter and paid for my board, and took care to see that I wanted for nothing. One day this gentleman took me and carried me to a great fine house, where I passed through several stately rooms, in one of which he left me, bidding me stay there. Then a man richly dressed, with a star and garter, came to me, asked me some questions, talked kindly to me, and gave me some money. Then the fore-mentioned gentleman returned, and conducted me back to my school.
"Some time after, the same gentleman came to me again with a horse and proper accoutrements, and told me I must take a journey with him into the country. We went into Leicestershire, and came to Bosworth Field, and I was carried to king Richard's tent. The king embraced me, and told me I was his son. 'But, child,' said he, 'to-morrow I must fight for my crown. And assure yourself if I lose that, I will lose my life too; but I hope to preserve both. Do you stand on yonder hill, where you may see the battle out of danger, and when I have gained the victory, come to me; I will then own you to be mine, and take care of you. But if I should be so unfortunate as to lose the battle, then shift as well as you can, and take care to let no one know that I am your father; for no mercy will be shown to any one so nearly related to me.' The king then presented me with a purse of gold, and giving me a farewell embrace, dismissed me from his tent. I followed the king's directions; and when I saw the battle lost and the king killed, I hastened back to London, sold my horse and fine clothes, and the better to conceal myself from all suspicion of being son to a king, and that I might have the means to live by my honest labour, I put myself apprentice to a bricklayer. But having a competent skill in the Latin tongue, I was unwilling to lose it; and having an inclination also to reading, and no delight in the conversation of those I am obliged to work with, I generally spend all the time I have to spare in reading by myself."
The letter says, "When Sir Thomas Moyle built Eastwell House, near London, about the year, 1544, he observed his chief bricklayer, whenever he left off work, retired with a book. Sir Thomas had curiosity to know what book the man read, but was some time before he could discover it; he still putting the book up if any one came toward him. However, at last Sir Thomas surprised him, and snatched the book from him, and looking into it found it to be Latin. He then examined him, and finding he pretty well understood that language, he inquired how he came by his learning. Hereupon the man told him, as he had beer, a good master to him, he would venture to trust him with a secret he had never before revealed to any one. He then related the above story. Sir Thomas said, 'You are now old, and almost past your labour; I will give you the running of my kitchen as long as you live.' He answered, 'Sir, you have a numerous family; I have been used to live retired, give me leave to build a house of one room for myself in such a field, and there, with your good leave, I will live and die.' Sir Thomas granted his request, he built his house, and there continued to his death. Richard Plantagenet was buried the 22nd day of December, anno ut supra ex registro de Eastwell sub 1550. This is all the register mentions of him, so that we cannot say whether he was buried in the church or church-yard; nor is there now any other memorial of him except the tradition in the family, and some little marks where his house stood. This story my late Lord Heneage, earl of Winchelsea, told me in the year 1720." Thus lived and died, in low and poor obscurity, the only remaining son of Richard III!