ON SPIDERS. Pallas (who was as quick as Fineear) stands at once before the culprit. The nurse and damsels fall down; but Arachne herself looks full at the goddess, with a changing cheek cer tainly, but otherwise firm and unterrified. Surely it would make a fine picture. What says your oracle, Mr. Weathercock? Pallas is before the group -Venerantur numina Nymphæ, Mygdonidesque nurus. Sola est non ter rita virgo. Sed tamen erubuit, subitusque invita notavit Insects are very curious; and the spider is a curious insect. There is first, the Barbary spider, which is as big as a man's thumb. It carries its children in a bag, like a gypsey. During their nonage, the young folks reside there altogether, coming out occasionally for recreation, but dutifully returning. In requital for this, the young spiders, when they are full grown, become mortal foes to the parent, attack him (or her) with violence, and if they are conquerors, dispose of his body in a way perfectly understood by our friends on the other side of the Atlantic. Then there is the American spider (covered all over with hair), which is so large as to be able to destroy small birds, and afterwards devour them and also the common spider, which looks like a couple of peninsulas, with a little isthmus (its back) between. But the most remarkable spider of history was the daughter of the dyer Idmon,-Arachne. She, as many of our readers know, was changed into a spider for challenging Minerva to surpass her tapestry. This was impertinent enough, to be sure: whether it deserved its punishment or not is a subject which we leave to the Greeks. There is, however, something in the dauntless behaviour of Arachne, which, we may be permitted to say, strikes us as fine. On the challenge being given, We rather admire that our Correspondent could forget that wonderful spider, the Tarantula, which perhaps bit St. Vitus, and for whose bite it is said that "Music has charms," or that curious half-spider, the Sensitive Catch-fly, or that more marvellous insect, the Caribbean, one of whose webs suffices for a fishing net, capable of catching the largest cod. Perhaps this last is too fabulous; but the two former are sufficiently vouched for to become objects of curiosity. We will conclude with an account of two spiders of modern times. It is said that the sexton of the church of St. Eustace, at Paris, was surprised at very often discovering a certain lamp extinct early in the morning. The oil appeared always to have been regularly consumed. He sat up several nights in order to discover the mystery. At last he saw a spider of enormous dimensions come down the chain (or cord) and drink up all the oil.-A spider of vast size was also seen in the year 1751 in the cathedral church of Milan. It was observed to feed on the oil of the lamps. It was killed (when it weighed four pounds!) and afterwards sent to the Imperial museum at Vienna. These stories are said to be facts. S. We should almost have suspected that our friend Clare had sent us a SONNET in another hand, the following is so much in his manner. I NEVER pass a venerable Tree, Pining away to nothingness and dust,— But warm Reflection wakes her saddest thought, And sees Earth's bubbles, Youth so eager sought, And all the pictures of life's early day The reader will spare us a preface to the next paper, which seems to be on" Epitaphs and Monuments." All we know of the matter is, that they should both be compact, and that neither should consist of base materials. The Epitaph should even be short. If there be any difficulty in suiting the peculiarities of an individual, there is one inscription (Mors omnibus est communis) at the service of every body who chooses to die. It is like the magic ring, which became wider or narrower as the finger required, and suited ever body. It is like good Mr. Martin's blacking, to which no boot comes amiss; and it is as full of morality as a churchyard, or the Rake's Progress by Hogarth. ON EPITAPHS AND MONUMENTS. I send you, Sir, the copy of an stance shall exclude them from your epitaph on one of the favourite ge- Magazine. It is true that they ar nerals of Napoleon.. It has remained rived here in a somewhat illegal manin my memory during many years. ner-they may, perhaps, have been Whether it has ever appeared in even injured a little by the sea-water print (in England) I do not know: 1-and possibly they are faded by have not seen it. The lines were time. Notwithstanding these things, communicated to me by a gentleman they appeal strongly to my feelings. who was a favorer of the Napoleon In fact, they please me. I do not "dynasty," as it has been called. I stop to inquire whether the second believe (to come at once to facts) syllable of" Montebelli" (in the se that they were smuggled over in a cond line) be long or short: I leave pair of silk stockings. It is for you all those matters to the critics.This to determine whether this circum- is the epitaph. Conditur hoc tumulo Martis non æmulus impar I had intended to give a poetical version of these lines; but perhaps a simple translation of them in prose will be better. It is difficult to transplant the beauty and spirit of Greek or Latin poetry in any shape into English literature, and to make a perfect poetical version is, I suspect, impossible. In this tomb lies buried the Duke of Montebello: He, who was the rival of Mars:-he, for whom our Cæsar wept: The terror of our enemies; And thy delight, O mourning mother, Gaul !— The hero Napoleon commanded That the ashes of his comrade should rest here- Methinks there is something grand in thus writing up, on brass or marble, the honours of the dead. There is no claim so perishable-no fame so transient, but it may be fixed and saved from utter oblivion by the graver or the pen. I have always sympathized very strongly with Mr. Godwin's desire to perpetuate the memories of illustrious people. As the temples and the tombs of Rome are a part of the national wealth, so should our monuments form part of ours. The good that must result from keeping alive great actions is beyond all common computation. We are ready enough to boast of our great men, and to build them up busts and sepulchres-provided they be politicians. But if their intellects have a wider range, and spread over the whole province of letters, we leave them to their reputation. If we go to Westminster Abbey, or elsewhere, we see the statue of Mr., the bust of Lord, or a tablet or an urn which tells that Sir Somebody Something (a Whig or a Tory) sleeps beneath. But where is the grand public tomb of Milton, or of Shakspeare? where is the monument of Chaucer? where is the laurelled head of Spenser? I do not admit the poor bust at Stratford, nor the memorial at Moorfields, or Cripplegate. We have one of the grandest temples in the world,-Saint Pauls; and there we put, and shall continue to put, statues of soldiers and sailors, who gain for us our little battles (men, whose men have crippled a 74-gun ship, or mown down a squadron of horse,): but Milton, who had the highest imagination of any poet that ever breathed, lies unheeded in St. Giles's in Cripple gate; and Shakspeare, whose genius surpassed that of every other human being since the creation of Adam, has a tomb like a farmer's on the banks of the Avon. There is no Santa Croce here. Men must live in their works, or perish. Some of our minor worthies,-Gray, Thomson, Prior, Dryden, &c. have niches, we believe, in Westminster Abbey; but their masters and ours-the spirits whose bright thoughts have illuminated the land, and extended the sphere of human intellect, are passed by and forgotten. G. Leaving graves, and worms, and epitaphs,' we now come to what? a Wish!' There must be some mistake in this title, we apprehend. To say a wish' is like saying a twin.' They are never alone. They come, like herrings, in shoals; but in no particular season. The floods of October and the drought of Summer are equally favourable to them. Like wallflowers, or the dark-red mosses, they thrive best in barren places; and yet they are succulent plants, and would drain even a poet's fancy. We will set one of them in our "meadow of margin:" perhaps it may live. A WISH. GIVE me-Gods! I ask but this From the deep Olympian bowls, From that rich harmonious strife Bids me.-Shall I disobey, When pale Learning leads the way Unto her green forest walks, Where she muses, and oft talks With her serious scholars young, Who have from the wild world flung, Hate-Slander-Fame bought-Honour sold- The cunning of the courtier's smile, C. I would on no account depreciate the merits of our naval or military men: I speak only in the way of comparison. A brave man, be he soldier or sailor, is useful, and has his undoubted claims to distinction; but he is not a benefactor of the human race to the same extent as a philosopher or a poet. Our Italian friend, Belzoni, deserves a tomb; but it is for his exertions in Egypt, and not because he lifted a table with twelve men upon it. The physical and the intellectual are different things. THE MERMAID. To use a sporting phrase, the Mermaid has been well backed. In the first place, she is detained at the Custom House, and a price of 20001. set upon her ape-like head. Then her picture is sent to Carlton House, and her demi-ladyship is let out of the Custom House :-she next takes a first floor at Tom Watson's Turf Coffee House, and sends round her cards for a daily "at home:" The great surgeons pay a shilling for a peep-and she is weighed in the scales, and found wanting. Sir A. Carlisle is said to have disputed her womanhood: Sir Everard Home questioned her haddock moiety. One great surgeon thought her to be half a baboon and half a gudgeon: another vowed she was half Johanna Southcote, with a salmon petticoat. Dr. Rees Price thought her a Mermaid clean out: and his opinion was disinterestedly forwarded to us by the proprietor. Lastly, she has become a ward in Chancery, and equity barristers tussle for her rights with all their usual manliness and propriety. She has no comb and glass but how can a lady in her difficulties regard the care of her person. If she washes herself with her own fins, we ought to expect no more. Certainly now she is in Chancery, Sir John Falstaff's taunt of Dame Quickly cannot be applied to her, "Thou art neither fish nor flesh, and a man knows not where to have thee!" We have been much pleased with the showman's advertisement about this little Billingsgate woman; he treats the question of her "To be, or not to be," like a true philosopher, and only wishes you to be satisfied that she has a claim somehow upon your shilling. [Advertisement.]-The Mermaid in the Sporting World. So much has been said for and against this wonderful animal, and perhaps with a view to bring the period of dissection earlier than is intended by the proprietor, and we understand it is his determination to satisfy the public opinion on this important question, by some of our first medical men and naturalists, as soon as the bare expences that he has incurred by bringing it to this country are liquidated, which cannot be long now, from the many hundreds of spectators that daily call to to view it; among the number many of our noble families; it has also been honoured by visits of royalty. The difference of opinion is now great, whether it will turn out a VOL. VI, natural production or a made-up deception, that a great deal of betting has taken place on the event; and as many persons back the strength of their opinion for and against the Mermaid, the sporting men will have a fine opportunity of making a good book, as some are laying 5 and 6 to 4 on the Mermaid being a natural production, while others are laying the same odds, and even 2 to 1 against it. A sporting gentleman, who is supposed to have some concern in this Mermaid, has taken many bets and some long odds to a large amount, that it really is what it is represented a Mermaid. It is now exhibiting at Watson's, Turf Coffee House, St. James's-street. We warrant us when this lady comes to be "what she is represented," that the Lord Chancellor will look upon her as one of the oldest wards under his care. The Stirling paper gives an account of a gentleman every way fit to become Miss Mermaid's suitor. His dabbling propensities-his passion for wet clothes-his great ageall render the match desirable. Ought not a reference to be immediately made to the master to inquire into the settlements?-What an account for the papers! - Marriage in wet life! At Shoreditch, on St. Swithin's day, Mr. John Monro, aged 95, to Miss Salmon, the Mermaid. The lady was given away by the Lord Chancellor, and, immediately after the ceremony, the happy pair set off for the Goodwin Sands to pass the honeymoon. Two fish-women attended as bridemaids. The account of Mr. Monro is as follows:-he seems a fit subject for his namesake, the doctor. at present living, at a place called Glenarie, (From the Stirling Journal.)—There is six miles from Inverary, a person of the name of John Monro, at the advanced age of 95, who makes a point of walking daily, for the sake of recreation, the six miles betwixt his residence and Inverary, or to the top of Tullich-hill, which is very steep, and distant about two miles. Should the rain pour in torrents, so much the better, and with the greater pleasure does he perambulate the summit of the hill for hours in the midst of the storm. Whether it is natural to this man, or whether it is the effect of habit, cannot be said; but it is well known he cannot endure to remain any length of time with his body in a dry state. During summer, and when the wea ther is dry, he regularly pays a daily visit to the river Arca, and plunges himself 2 S headlong in with his clothes on; and should they get perfectly dry early in the day, so irksome and disagreeable does his situation become, that, like a fish out of water, he finds it necessary to repeat the luxury. He delights in rainy weather, and when the "sky lowers, and the clouds threaten," and other men seek the "bield or ingle side," then is the time that this "man of habits" chooses for enjoying his natural element in the highest perfection. He never bends his way homewards till he is completely drenched; and, on these occasions, that a drop may not be lost, his bonnet is carried in his hand, and his head left bare to the pattering of the wind and rain. He at present enjoys excellent health; and, notwithstanding his habits, he has been wonderfully fortunate in escaping colds, a complaint very common in this moist climate-but when he is attacked, whether in dry weather or wet weather, whether in summer or winter, his mode of cure is not more singular than it is specific. Instead of confining himself and indulging in the ardent sweating potions so highly extolled among the gossips of his country, he repairs to his favourite element, the pure streams of the Arca, and takes one of his usual headlong dips, with his clothes on. He then walks about for a few miles, till they become dry, when the plan pursued never fails to check the progress of his disorder. In other respects, the writer has never heard any thing singular regarding his manners or habits. DRURY-LANE THEATRE. THE DRAMA. This house is going on very successfully,-and the manager contrives to keep up an interest by ringing the changes upon a few of the great names of what Mr. Pierce Egan would denominate the Histrionic Hemisphere. He does not revive sterling old comedies, nor waste his funds upon the revival of tragedies time-stamped and powerful: -neither does he flatter Mr. Moncrieff into comedy, nor betray any other popular living author into the costly construction of new pieces. He is wise enough to let the gilding silently do its work. The newspapers kindly goad the flagging wonder of the public mind, by occasionally setting forth some pleasant exaggeration about Drury-lane magnificence. Within a week we were gravely told, that the gilding itself would cover an acre of ground! And who could resist three shillings and sixpence to see an acre of gold?-So long as the Road to Ruin and Wild Oats will put money in the purse, the manager would be foolish indeed to pamper the public taste with richer food. Kean's re-appearance in Richard the Third loaded the house from the pit's passage to the furthest nook of the third heaven:will any one say, that Shakspeare had any hand in this;-or that Kean's vast talent drew a single person there?-No-the house was bright and gay, and the public wished to see any first appearance under the lustrous pillars. We remember that, in the last season, we could lay our lengths on the pit-benches at Mr. Kean's Richard, as upon a sofa:-now, in the new house, you can hardly find room to sit upright, and must, at any rate, be content to have seven or eight elbows studded over your sides and back-bone. The squeeze in, at the opening of the doors, is as agreeably dangerous and oppressive as of old. Champooing is a joke to it. The first night of Kean, since the rebuilding, was a treat to those in dedicate health. And the night on which Young and Kean play together ought to be observed by all rheumatic lovers of the drama. This "great union," as the Theatrical Observer called it, will, by the time our present Number passes the press, have taken place-and, by the mass! it seems to have been attended with as many difficulties in its completion as though it were accomplished under the new marriage act. The newspapers stated that their recommendation had been attended to ;--that the union of Mr. Kean's and Mr. Young's great talents would realize all that dramatic taste could desire ;that all difficulties had been removed in the most liberal manner by Mr. Elliston's interference-would not our readers suppose that these gentlemen had been prevailed upon to play John Lump and Looney M'Twolter together, instead of Othello and Iago?-Can they be so idle as to think that either. will dim the other's brightness in that amazing tragedy,if they both possess |