The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 17, No. 473, January 29, 1831. Various

dreams assail with dread

      The bosom's haunted gloom,

      Oh, why should we lament the dead?

      —Plant roses on my tomb.

      The birds shall sing, amid their leaves,

      To skies of richest bloom;

      But cypress-shade the spirit grieves;—

      —Plant roses on my tomb.

      I loved them when a careless child,

      And bless'd their deep perfume,

      When lute and song my dreams beguiled;

      —Plant roses on my tomb.

      The fragrance touch'd with golden light,

      And beautified with bloom;—

      Oh, plant them in the sunset bright,

      To consecrate my tomb.

      R.A.8

      HALCYON DAYS

(To the Editor.)

      In illustration of your correspondent P.T.W.'s article, entitled "Halcyon Days," in No. 471, I beg to furnish you with the following, from a friend's album:—

      There is a bird, a little bird, of plumage bright and gay,

      Free as the tenants of the sea, free as its finny prey;

      In wintry storms she lays her eggs, the briny sands among,

      And twice seven days sweet calms succeed where billows roared along.

      These are the sailor's Halcyon Days, when pleasure's on the main;

      The young ones hatched, the storm appears, and Boreas rules again.

      H.H.C.

      ORIGIN OF THE ENGLISH TITLE "DUKE OF CLARENCE."

(To the Editor.)

      In No. 437 of the Mirror, is an account of "Clarence and its Royal Dukes, " which seems to imply that the title is derived from a town in Suffolk; but according to a recent traveller, the origin is of much older date, having descended by marriage, from the Latin conquerors of Greece. He thus describes the ancient town of Clarentza:—"One of the most prominent objects was Castel Tornese, an old Venetian fort, now a ruin, but in former days affording protection to the town of Chiarenza, or Clarentza, which, by a strange decree of fortune, has given the title of Clarence to our Royal Family. It would appear that at the time when the Latin conquerors of Constantinople divided the Western Empire amongst their leading chieftains, Clarentza, with the district around it, and which comprised almost all of ancient Elis, was formed into a Duchy, and fell to the lot of one of the victorious nobles, who transmitted the title and dukedom to his descendants, until the male line failed, and the heiress of Clarence married into the Hainault family. By this union, Phillippa, the consort of Edward III. became the representative of the Dukes of Clarence; and on this account was Prince Lionel invested with the title, which has since remained in our Royal Family. It is certainly singular that a wretched village in Greece should have bestowed its name upon the British monarch." According to the above account, Clarentia, I should suppose, is a corruption of Clarentza, and, perhaps, took its name in honour of the son of the warlike Edward; but, as to a "wretched village in Greece," bestowing its name upon the British monarch, the writer must be aware, according to his own account, that in ancient times Clarentza was no more a poor village, than Clare is what it was, when the wassail bowl cheered the baronial hall of its now mouldering castle.

      W.G.C.

      YES, WE SHALL MEET AGAIN

(For the Mirror.)

      "The grave is the ordeal of true affection."

Washington Irving.

      Yes, we shall meet again,

      When this world's strife is over;

      And where comes not care or pain,

      A brighter land discover.

      I will not think, in lasting night,

      Earth's love and friendship dies;—

      It lives again, serenely bright,

      In worlds beyond the skies.

      I will not think the grave hath power

      To dim this heart's undying love;—

      Oh! may I still, in death's dark hour,

      Its lasting fondness prove.

      Immortal sure some feelings are;—

      Oh! not of earth the pure devotion,

      Which lives in one fond earthly care,

      And that—pure Friendship's soft emotion.

      For brightest this wild world appears

      When far each selfish care is driven;

      Soft Pity! dry not yet thy tears—

      They make dark earth resemble heaven.

      For other's weal, for other's woe,

      Let me have smiles and tears to give;

      And all my busy care bestow,

      In some fond trusting heart to live.

      And let a voice be murmuring near,

      When other sounds are faint and low.

      And whisper softly in my ear.

      When Death's chill dews are on my ear—

      "Yes, we shall meet again,

      When this world's strife is over;

      And, where comes not care or pain,

      A better land discover."

Kirton Lindsey.

      ANNE R.

      WHO WAS KATERFELTO?

(To the Editor.)

      Perhaps some of your curious readers would oblige me with a little information concerning the personage mentioned in these lines of Cowper:—

      "And Katerfelto, with his hair on end,

      At his own wonders wondering for his bread,"

Task—Winter Evening.

      All that I could discover about him, I found accidentally in a pamphlet on Quackery, published in 1805, at Kingston-upon-Hull. In a note to that little work, I am informed that Dr. Katerfelto practised on the people of London in the influenza of 1782; that he added to his nostrum the fascinations of hocus pocus; and that among other philosophical apparatus, he employed the services of some extraordinary black cats, with which he astonished the ignorant, and confounded the vulgar. But he was not, it seems, so successful in his practice when out of London: not long before his death, he was committed by the Mayor of Shrewsbury to the common House of Correction in that town, as a vagrant and impostor. When or how he died does not appear.

      Cowper, when he mentions the name of Katerfelto, in the Task, in alluding to the advertisements of the London newspapers—and probably wrote the passage in the year 1782. The Task was published complete in 1785.

      Whoever has easy access to the newspapers of 1782 or thereabout (as I, at this moment have not) will most probably discover some amusing particulars about this Doctor, that may attract your readers, few of whom will be more gratified than

      Great Russell-st.

      W.C.

      THE CHEROOT

(To the Editor.)

      In page 429, vol. xvi. of your amusing Miscellany, the Cheroot is called a China Cigar. The writer, if he had given himself the trouble to inquire of any person who had ever been in that country, would have ascertained that there is no such thing as a Cheroot manufactured in China; and what are called Cigars there

8

Our correspondent assures us that the above lines were written many months before "The Tribute of Roses" appeared in the Literary Gazette.—See Mirror, vol. xvi. page 176.