Although a stranger to Mr. Jonah Child, I feel great pleasure, while speaking on the subject, in acknowledging the very courteous reception I once met with, on calling at that gentleman's house to see the above curiosity.
I perceive by a paper in your interesting little work, that the round towers so common in Scotland and Ireland, have afforded the antiquaries much room for the display of their erudition, in ascertaining the purposes for which these towers have been erected.
Now, if any of these worthy and learned gentlemen were to take a trip to Sutherlandshire, in Scotland, they would see the exact purpose for which these buildings were erected; it was merely for the purpose of hanging the church bell in, as stated by your correspondent, in No. 335, of the MIRROR; for there stands at present in the parish of Clyne, near Dunrobin, the seat of the most noble the Marquess of Stafford, one of the said towers with the church bell hung in it to this day, unless removed since last October, the time at which I was there. It stands on the top of an eminence, a short distance (about fifty yards) to the west of the parish church, and is about twenty-five feet high.
How proudly those hush'd towers receive the glow
That mellows the gold sunset—and the trees,
Clasping with their deep belt the festal hills,
Are ting'd with summer-beauty; the rich waves
Swell out their hymn o'er shells and sweet blue flow'rs,
And haply the pure seamaid, wandering by,
Dips in them her soft tresses. The calm sea,
Floating in its magnificence, is seen
Like an elysian isle, whose sapphire depths
Entranc'd the Arabian poets! In the west,
The clouds blend their harmonious pageantry
With the descending sun-orb; some appear
Like Jove's immortal bird, whose eyes contain'd
An essence of its sanctity—and some
Seem like proud temples, form'd but to admit
The souls of god-like men! Emerald and gold
And pink, that softens down the aerial bow,
Are interspersed promiscuously, and form
A concentration of all lovely things!
And far off cities, glittering with the pomp
Of spire and pennon, laugh their joyance up
In the deep flood of light. Sweet comes the tone
Of the touch'd lute from yonder orange bow'rs,
And the shrill cymbal pours its elfin spell
Into the peasant's being!
A sublime
And fervid mind was his, whose pencil trac'd
The grandeur of this scene! Oh! matchless Claude!
Around the painter's mastery thou hast thrown
An halo of surpassing loveliness!
Gazing on thy proud works, we mourn the curse
Which 'reft our race of Eden, for from thee,
As from a seraph's wing, we catch the hues
That sunn'd our primal heritage ere sin
Weav'd her dark oracles. With thee, sweet Claude!
Thee! and blind Maeonides would I dwell
By streams that gush out richness; there should be
Tones that entrance, and forms more exquisite
Than throng the sculptor's visions! I would dream
Of gorgeous palaces, in whose lit halls
Repos'd the reverend magi, and my lips
Would pour their spiritual commune 'mid the hush
Of those enchanting groves!
THE NOVELIST
"Still the boar held on his way
Careless through what toils it lay,
Down deep in the tangled dell—
Or o'er the steep rock's pinnacle.
Staunch the steed, and bold the knight
That would follow such a flight!"
The night was fast closing in, and the last retiring beams of the sun shed a mournful light over an extensive tract of forest bordering upon the district of the Hartz, just as (but I must not forget the date, somewhere about the year 1547,) the Baron Rudolf found himself in the very disagreeable predicament of having totally lost his companions and his way, amidst an almost interminable region of forest and brushwood. "Hans," addressing himself to his noble steed, "my old veteran, I must trust to thee, since thy master's wit is at a stand, to extricate us from this dilemma."
The animal finding his head free, moved forward as fast as bush and brake would permit him. They had proceeded in this way for half an hour longer, when the Baron at last bethought himself of his bugle, and wound a long and powerful blast; but the echo was the only answer he received. He repeated the sound with the like effect. Again the Baron lost his patience, and "Der terefel—" when all at once his steed made a dead stop, and pricked up his ears as at some well known sound. The Baron listened attentively, and distinctly heard the blast he had sounded ten minutes before, responded by one so exactly similar, though apparently at a great distance, that he could scarcely believe the "evidence" of his ears. "By the mass but that must be the work of Mynheer von Heidelberger himself, for no one in my own broad barony can wind that blast save Rudolf Wurtzheim." He shrunk within himself at the very thought; for to any one it was rather appalling to meet this being at such a place and hour. The recollection of an adventure in these wilds which occurred on this very eve, twelve-months previous, now rushed vividly to his mind. The concurrence in the date was startling. In short, on reflection, he began to think there was witchcraft throughout the affair.
He had lost his companions of the chase in rather a singular manner; on this afternoon, being unusually unsuccessful, the Baron, while hunting a brace of favourite stag-hounds in a dell apart from the rest of the field, suddenly struck upon a boar of remarkable size; attracted by the cries of the dogs, the Baron spurred Hans to the pursuit, and did not reflect that he was pursuing a route apart from the other hunters; and trusting to his knowledge of the wilds he so often traversed, he bore on with undiminished speed. The boar seemed to have a pair of wings in addition to his legs. Suffice it to say, that though Hans chased him in gallant style, yet the Baron eventually lost his way in the pursuit, partly owing to the doubling of the animal, till both dogs and boar completely disappeared from sight.
Entangled in the forest, the evening rapidly approached, a general hush prevailed, and all endeavours to recover his track seemed fruitless.
The sun had now gone down for a considerable time, and a mist was arising that obscured the little light which the luminary of night afforded.
"Mein Gott," exclaimed the Baron, "mortal or devil, he has involved me in a very disagreeable predicament, and to avoid him is, I fear, impossible." He once more sounded a long blast; again the blast was re-echoed after a short lapse of time, though seemingly at an extreme distance. "Ah, there it comes again! what if my ears should deceive me, and this should be the answering bugle of my faithful Wildstein." The thought infused some fresh vigour into him; the low night wind murmuring through the trees, reminded him of the importance of every moment, Hans and his master pushed onwards through brake and dell.
It will be necessary, however, that we should leave the Baron for awhile, and detail some occurrences germane to our tale, and which are necessary for its