The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 395, October 24, 1829. Various

the threat'ning crowd—

      Nor haughty tyrants, with their angry scowl,

      Like beasts that o'er the traveller's pathway prowl—

      Nor southern storm, that o'er the ocean raves,

      And swells in mountain heights its restless waves,

      Can aught avail, with all their force combined,

      To shake the man with firm, though tranquil, mind!

      Guided by Justice and by Wisdom's laws,

      Secure he stands to guard his righteous cause.

      What—tho' in awful haste the tott'ring world,

      By Heaven's command, be into ruin hurl'd:

      As on a rock unshaken he remains,

      Upborne by Him who all the just sustains!

      Destruction's thunders rage from pole to pole—

      Yet he undaunted smiles, and bids them calmly roll!

TOSCARST. SEPULCHRE'S BELL(For the Mirror.)

      Among the list of benefactions in the parish church of St. Sepulchre is the following, relative to the tolling of the church-bell on the eve of the execution of unhappy criminals:

      "Robert Doue, Citizen and Merchant Tailor of London, gave to the parish church of St. Sepulchre's the somme of £50. That after the several Sessions of London, when the prisoners remain in the gaole as condemned men to death, expecting execution on the morrow following, the clarke (that is, the parson) of the church shoold come in the night time, and likewise in the morning, to the window of the prison where they lye, and there ringing certain tolls with a hand-bell appointed for the purpose, he doth afterwards (in most Christian manner) put them in mind of their present condition and ensuing execution, desiring them to be prepared therefore as they ought to be. When they are in the cart, and brought before the wall of the church, there he standeth ready with the same bell, and after certain toles rehearseth an appointed praier, desiring all the people there present to pray for them. The Beadle, also, of Merchant Taylors' Hall hath an honest stipend allowed to See that this is duly done."

      It has been a very ancient custom, on the night previous to the execution of condemned criminals, for the bellman of the above parish to go under Newgate, and, ringing his bell, repeat the verses beneath (which, by the above extract, it would appear, should be the duty of the clergyman), as a friendly admonition to the wretched prisoners:

      "All you that in the condemned hold do lie,

      Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die!

      Watch all and pray, the hour is drawing near

      That you before the Almighty must appear:

      Examine well yourselves, in time repent,

      That you may not t' eternal flames be sent.

      And when St. Sepulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,

      The Lord above have mercy on your souls!

      Past twelve o'clock!"

      In the case of Stephen Gardener, who was executed at Tyburn, in 1724, the bellman chanted the above verses. This man, with another, being brought to St. Sepulchre's watch-house, on suspicion of felony, which, however, was not validated, they were dismissed. "But," said the constable to Gardener, "beware how you come here again, or this bellman will certainly say his verses over you;" for the dreaded bellman happened to be then in the watch-house.—Such proved to be the case, for the same man suffered the penalty of the law, for housebreaking, "the day and year first above mentioned."

W.H.H

      The Contemporary Traveller

NOTES OF A TOUR IN THE ISLAND OF JERSEYBy Alexander Sutherland, Esq. Member of the Royal Physical Society of Edinburgh

      We lost sight of the Needles at sunset. There was little wind; but a heavy weltering sea throughout the night. Nevertheless, our bark drove merrily on her way, and at day-break the French coast, near Cape de la Hogue, was dimly visible through the haze of morning. At dawn the breeze died away; and as the tide set strongly against us, it was found necessary to let go an anchor, in order to prevent the current from carrying us out of our course. The surface of the ocean, though furrowed by the long deep swell peculiar to seas of vast extent, looked as if oil had been poured upon it. The vessel pitched prodigiously too; but neither foam-bubbles nor spray ruffled the glassy expanse. Wave after wave swept by in majesty, smooth and shining like mountains of molten crystal; and though the ocean was agitated to its profoundest depths, its convulsed bosom had a character of sublime serenity, which neither pen nor pencil could properly describe.

      The night-dew had been remarkably heavy, and when the sun burst through the thick array of clouds that impended over the French coast, the cordage and sails discharged a sparkling shower of large pellucid drops. In the course of the forenoon, a small bird of the linnet tribe perched on the rigging in a state of exhaustion, and allowed itself to be caught. It was thoughtlessly encaged in the crystal lamp that lighted the cabin, where it either chafed itself to death, or died from the intense heat of the noon-day sun, which shone almost vertically on its prison. At the time this bird came on board, we were at least ten miles northward of the island of Alderney, the nearest land.

      At one P.M. tide and wind favouring, we weighed anchor, and stood away for the Race of Alderney, which separates that island from Cape de la Hogue. In the Race the tide ran with a strength and rapidity scarcely paralleled on the coasts of Britain. The famous gulf of Coryvreckan in the Hebridean Sea, and some parts of the Pentland Firth, are perhaps the only places where the currents are equally irresistible. To the latter strait, indeed, the Alderney Race bears a great resemblance; and an Orkney man unexpectedly entering it, would be in danger of mistaking Alderney for Stroma, and Cape de la Hogue for Dunnet Head. In stormy weather the passage of the Race is esteemed by mariners an undertaking of some peril—a fact we felt no disposition to gainsay; for though the day was serene, and the swell from the westward completely broken by the intervention of the island, the conflict of counter-currents was tremendous. At some places the water appeared in a state of fierce ebullition, leaping and foaming as if convulsed by the action of submarine fires; at others it formed powerful eddies, which rendered the helm almost of no avail in the guidance of the vessel.

      We steered as near to Alderney, or Aurigni as it is frequently called, as prudence warranted. It is a high, rugged, bare-looking island, encompassed by perilous reefs, but supporting a pretty numerous population. The only arborescent plants discernible from the deck of our vessel, were clumps of brushwood. The grain on the cultivated spots was uncut, and several wind-mills on the higher grounds, indicated the means by which the islanders, who have very little intercourse with the rest of the world, reduce their wheat into flour. The southern side of the island is precipitous, and its eastern cape terminates in a fantastic rock called the Cloak, which our captain consulted as a landmark in steering through the Race. There is only one village in Alderney—a paltry place, named St. Anne, or in common parlance La Ville; and there a detachment of troops is generally stationed. Small vessels only can enter the harbour, which is shelterless, and rendered difficult of access by a sunken reef. At sunset Alderney was far astern, and three of its sister islands, Sark, Herm, and Jethau, were in view ahead.

      It was impossible to behold, without a portion of romantic enthusiasm, the dazzling radiance of the orb of day, as it went down in splendour beyond the gleaming waves. A thousand affecting emotions are liable to be excited by the prospect of that mighty sea whose farther boundaries lie in another hemisphere—whose waters have witnessed the noblest feats of maritime enterprise, and the fiercest conflicts of hostile fleets. Where shall we find the man to whom science is dear, who dreams not of Columbus, when he first feels himself rocked by the majestic billows of the Atlantic—who regards not the golden line of light, which the setting sun casts over the waste of waters, as a type of the intellectual illumination experienced by the ocean pilgrim, when he first steered his bark into its solitudes? Who can survey, even the hither strand of that vast sea, without reflecting that the waves that break at his feet have laved the palm-fringed shores of America; and that the bones of millions—the pride, and pomp, and treasure of nations—repose in the same capacious tomb?

      Anxious