tachent, le danger est nul, et la réparation est peu dispendieuse"-a description explaining most concisely the peculiar merits of Papier-Mâché, with the more valuable qualities of this material.

Some years earlier than the middle of the last century, the father of Joseph Wilton, sculptor, and Royal Academician, diverged from his original business of a plasterer, and established workshops, in Edwardstreet, Cavendish-square, for the manufacture of Papier-Mâché ornaments for chimney-pieces and frames for lookingglasses; and so successful was his enterprise, that he for many years constantly employed several hundred persons, including children as well as adults. His show-rooms were at the south-west corner of Hedge-lane, Charing-cross; and the fortune he acquired in the sale of PapierMâché decorations enabled him to rebuild them with considerable advantage. would seem the father died while his son Joseph was studying at Florence, as on his return to London, in 1755, his family received him with open arms, and he entered on the occupation of his father's house at Charing-cross, where he continued to carry on the Papier-Mâché works, then in high reputation.

It

The manufacturers of Papier-Mâché, at that period, seem, however, not to have been aware of the susceptibility of improvement of which each process in its production was capable: unaided by the powerful operations of the steam-engine in the moulding, and almost invariably exhibiting great poverty of taste, the architectural and other ornaments in Papier-Mâché could in no way be placed in rivalry with plaster casts, in respect to design or price; and the practice of casting in the material of that day fell into disuse.

By this change in the mode of execution, a most mischievous effect was produced in the art of decorative design: all the deep undercuttings and bold shadows, which marked the style of design in Queen Anne's reign, became impracticable, when ornaments were to be cast. A meagre, tame, petite manner almost of necessity ensued, till at length, by the end of the last century, the art of designing architectural ornament declined into a deplorable state.

The subsequent introduction of Greek ornament formed a new era: the limited capabilities of plaster-casting became, in consequence, less inconvenient, as the broad, flat character of the Greek style was favourable to the process of casting; and, had that manner of design continued to prevail generally, it is more than probable no material change would have taken place in the manufacture of orna

ment.

But great fluctuations have occurred in the public taste: the pure and elegant simplicity of Greek ornament, being in its nature appreciable only by the more highly cultivated tastes, its merits are not comprehended by the generality of persons; and, therefore, after the stimulus of novelty had ceased to operate, fashion soon led the public appreciation into other channels. The bold originality of the Gothic designs, the gorgeous and meretricious richness of the Flemish and French schools, and the picturesque and fantastic forms of the Elizabethan style, soon found many admirers; and this great change in the manner of designing ornament has given rise to important improvements in the manufacture of the highly plastic substance called Papier-Mâché; plaster being totally inapplicable to the exact imitation of embellishments in the abovementioned florid styles; whilst to carve in wood all these fanciful forms, would occasion a cost far beyond the means of all ordinary fortunes. As to the putty-composition, a material introduced at the latter end of the last century as a substitute for wood-carving in picture-frames and other decorations, its extraordinary weight, brittle and impracticable nature, added to the difficulties and heavy expenses incurred in its manufacture, as well as in the fixing it up, render it applicable only to a very limited range of purposes.

These preliminary remarks having shewn the origin of Papier-Mâché, the causes of its improvement and re-introduction,-it will next be our business to describe the mode of applying the material to the various capabilities and uses for which it is so admirably adapted. It will, therefore, be sufficient to mention, that the application of steam-power, and the vast improvement, of recent date, in all branches of mechanical science, have enabled Mr. Bielefeld, the present manufacturer, to produce a material similar, in name only, to the Papier-Mâché of the last century: its hard compactness, strength, imperishable nature, lightness, and tractability, (if such an expression may be allowed,) the facility and quickness with which it may be prepared, put together and fixed up, and, finally, its cheapness, are qualities which eminently distinguish it, but which cannot, perhaps, be fully appreciated, excepting by those who have had professional experience in its application. Among the latter, to the architect, builder, and house-decorator, the most extensive opportunities are offered for the employment of Mr. Bielefeld's Papier-Mâché; inasmuch as not only all the forms of ornament commonly in use may be executed

with it, in every way superior to that with any other material, but its particular qualities are such as to extend the field of invention immeasurably beyond the limits to which it has been hitherto confined. To assert that whatever has been attempted in stucco may be accomplished with the greatest facility in Papier-Máché, would be very inadequately expressing its capabilities. The manufacturer will, perhaps, be accused of trespassing upon the credulity of the reader, in saying, that whatever the genius of Grinlin Gibbons induced him to attempt in wood, may be effectively performed in Papier-Mâché, with no less sharpness, no less relief, no less lightness, and much less liability to injury; Papier-Maché having this great advantage over wood, that, although as hard, it is tougher, and is wholly without the grain in wood, which gives it a bias or tendency to chip off in one direction but with Papier-Mâché it is wholly different; no matter in what direction a blow falls, nothing but destructive violence will damage it, strike which way you will; and the manufacturer's specimens fully prove the truth of the above remarks.

In architecture and interior decoration, Papier-Mâché is advantageously used. Nothing can possibly be more to the purpose, in cases where an old, plain plasterceiling has to be rendered ornamental by the application of panels, pateras, &c.; without disturbing the ground of the ceiling, every kind of enrichment can thus be applied to the surface; and so trifling is the weight of these ornamental additions,

that old laths and ceiling-joists can receive them with perfect safety. A new cornice, dry, and ready to colour, can thus be fixed up against an old ceiling, without the delay, rubbish and dirt attendant on running a plaster cornice; indeed, without the removal of a single article of furniture, an old ceiling can, in a very few hours, be made, if desired, to assume an entirely new aspect. By the same means, old plain stuccoed walls can be paneled, or otherwise enriched, with equal convenience and dispatch. When, from the lapse of time, or other cause, the enrichments on an old stuccoed or carved ceiling have fallen to pieces; or when, as is not unfrequently the case in works of even recent date, plaster ornaments have detached themselves from the ceiling by merely the operation of their own weight, the injury is repaired in Papier-Mâché with perfect success; ornaments of great boldness and projection being thus applied to the face of the old work without the least risk, and when, perhaps, the timbers are so slight as to make heavy plaster ornaments highly dangerous. In the completion and decoration of new buildings is a further unlimited range of ornamental purposes to which Papier-Mâché is applicable. Columns of every order and degree of enrichment, including not only the capitals and bases, but the entire shafts, whether fluted in the classic style, or fretted over with arabesques, as in the CinqueCento and Elizabethan styles; caryatides, termini, and chimera; are all produced with great facility and but slight cost.

be immersed by the breaking of ice. The means generally used by the Royal Humane Society are ladders, boat-hooks, sledge-boats, or ropes; but the above invention combines all the utility of these, without their inconveniences. It is proposed to slide the boat upon the ice, with a mast to turn on a centre, having a doubleaction lever, which, with great ease, may be turned round to any side by guiding the lower lever. At the extremity of the long upper lever, is attached a rope, with a cross-piece of wood, where one or more cords may be fastened, having weights to sink in the water, when the boat is brought towards the hole in the ice; care being taken not to come too near the fracture, as the lever will be sufficiently long to reach over the hole, and be directed to any desired part: by letting down the crossspars perpendicularly, where the person is immersed, he may lay hold of them, or the ropes, and may then be raised out of the water; and, by turning the lever, be landed where the ice is safe. But, should the person be exhausted, or not be able to lay hold of the rope, there is provided a waterproof bag, into which an assistant may get, and proceed to the drowning person; around the top of the bag is an India-rubber air tube, for the purpose of floating it: the man assisting is to be drawn forward over the spot, and let down into the water.

New Books.

CAPTAIN MORRIS'S SONGS.

[NOTHING can be in worse taste than the reprint of Captain Morris's Songs, political, amatory, and convivial, which have just re-appeared in the publishers' horizon. First, the original title has been dropped, for the very lackadaisical one of Lyra Urbanica; or, the Social Effusions of the celebrated Captain Charles Morris, of the late Life Guards, as runs the titlepage of the new edition. Secondly, the work is divided into a pair of volumes, instead of forming a handsome table-book, such as accords with the present taste of buyers and readers. Alack! what would poor old Morris" have said to the classical affectation of Lyra Urbanica, the sucrée taste of which but ill bespeaks the rich and graceful imagery, the fertile fancy, the touching sentiment, and the "soul-reviving" melody, which characterize every line of these delightful lyrics. "Alas! poor Yorick! we knew him well:" well do we remember his "old buff waistcoat," his courteous manner, and his gentlemanly pleasantry, long after this Nestor of Song had retired to enjoy

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the delights of rural life, despite the prayer of his racy verse:]

In town let me live then, in town let me die ;
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
Oh! give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall.

[Again, there is no "biographical sketch of the author" prefixed to these songs, which we take to be an especial matter of regret, seeing that Captain Morris was born in the middle of the last century, and that he outlived the majority of the bon-vivant society which he gladdened with his genius, and lit up with his brilliant humour. Even "the sweet shady side of Pall-Mall" of his verse has almost disappeared; and of the princely home whereat he was wont to shine, not a trace remains. Half the present generation of readers may, therefore, with propriety ask, "Who was Captain Morris?". '-an interrogative to which we will endeavour to reply, hoping for "the usual indulgence," &c. Charles Morris, then, was born of good family, in the celebrated year 1745, and appears to have inherited a taste for lyric composition; for his father composed the popular song of Kitty Crowder. At an early age, Captain Morris distinguished himself by his devotion to the muses. It is remarkable that no less than three generations of his family have served in the army, and were, by turns, in the same regiment. Captain M. afterwards exchanged into the Guards, where he was the contemporary of Captain Topham. His two sons are likewise in the army: the lady of one of them, Major Morris, descended in a diving-bell at Plymouth, about eighteen years since, on which occasion she penned some appropriate stanzas, while seated in the bell. For half a century, Captain Morris moved in the first circles of rank and gaiety: he was "the Sun of the Table" at Carlton Palace, as well as at Norfolk House and, attaching himself politically, as well as convivially, to his table companions, he composed the celebrated ballads of Billy's too young to drive us," and "Billy Pitt and the Farmer," which continued long in fashion as the best satires upon the ascendant politics of the day. His humorous ridicule of the Tories was however, but ill repaid by the Whigs, upon their accession to office; at least, if we may trust the beautiful ode of "the old Whig Poet to his old Buff Waistcoat," already quoted in the Literary World. (See vol. i. p. 244.) We are not aware of this piece being included in any edition of the Songs: it bears date "G. R., Aug. 1, 1815;" six years subsequent to which we first saw it among the papers of the late Alexander Stephens, Esq. It was printed

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in the Monthly Magazine, in 1821, and thence has been transferred to our pages. The "Songs " became very popular : in 1830, we possessed a copy of the twentyfourth edition; and we remember one of the ditties to have been "sung by the Prince of Wales, to a certain lady," to the air of "There's a difference between a Beggar and a Queen." Captain Morris's finest Anacreontic is the song Ad Poculum, for which he received the gold cup from the Harmonic Society; and it is one of the gems of this collection:]

To my Cup.

Come, thou soul-reviving cup!
Try thy healing art;

Stir the fancy's visions up,

And warm my wasted heart.
Touch with freshening tints of bliss
Memory's fading dream;

Give me, while thy lip I kiss,

The heaven that's in thy stream.

As the 'witching fires of wine

Pierce through Time's past reign,
Gleams of joy, that once were mine,
Glimpse back on life again;
And if boding terrors rise

O'er my melting mind,
Hope still starts to clear my eyes,
And drinks the tear behind.

Then life's wintry shades, new drest,
Fair as summer seem;

Flowers I gather from my breast,
And sunshine from the stream.
As the cheering goblets pass,
Memory culls her store;
Scatters sweets around my glass,
And prompts my thirst for more.

Far from toils the great and grave
To proud ambition give,
My little world kind Nature gave,
And simply bade me live.
On me she fix'd an humble art,

To deck the Muse's grove;

And on the nerve that twines my heart
The touch of deathless love.

Then, rosy god, this night let me
Thy cheering magic share;

Again let hope-fed Fancy see
Life's picture bright and fair.

Oh! steal from care my heart away,
To sip thy healing spring;
And let me taste that bliss to-day
To-morrow may not bring.

[Of the celebrated Beefsteak Club, (at first limited to twenty-four members, but increased to twenty-five, to admit the Prince of Wales,) Captain Morris appears to have been the laureat; and of this "Jovial System" he was the intellectual centre. In the year 1831, he bade adieu to the Club, in these stanzas :]

Adieu to the world! where I gratefully own
Few men more delight or more comfort have known :
To an age far beyond mortal lot have I trod
The path of pure health, that best blessing of God;
And so mildly devout Nature temper'd my frame,
Holy Patience still soothed when Adversity came.
Thus, with mind ever cheerful, and tongue never
tired,

I sung the gay strains these sweet blessings inspired;

And, by blending light mirth with a moral-mix'd stave,

Won the smile of the gay and nod of the grave.
But, at length, the dull languor of mortal decay
Throws a weight on a spirit too light for its clay;
And the fancy, subdued as the body's opprest,
Resigns the faint flights that scarce wake in the
breast.

A painful memento that man's not to play
A game of light folly through Life's sober day ;
A just admonition, though view'd with regret,
Still blessedly offer'd, though thanklessly met.
Too long I, perhaps, like the many who stray,
Have upheld the gay themes of the Bacchanals' day;
But at length Time has brought, what it ever will
bring,

A shade that excites more to sigh than to sing.

In this close of Life's chapter, ye high-favour'd few, Take my Muse's last tribute-this painful adieu ! Take my wish, that your bright social circle on earth For ever may flourish in concord and mirth;

For the long years of joy I have shared at your board, Take the thanks of my heart-where they long have been stored;

And remember, when Time tolls my last passingknell,

The "old bard" dropp'd a tear, and then bade ye"Farewell!"

[In 1835, however, Captain Morris was persuaded to revisit "the Club," upon the occasion of a large and elegant silver bowl, with an appropriate inscription, being presented by the Society, as a testimonial of their affectionate esteem; when the venerable bard addressed the brotherhood in the following stanzas:]

Well, I'm come, my dear friends, your kind wish to obey,

And drive, by light mirth, all Life's shadows away;
To turn the heart's sighs to the throbbings of Joy,
And a grave aged man to a merry old boy.
'Tis a bold transformation, a daring design,
But not past the power of Friendship and Wine;
And I trust that e'en yet this warm mixture will raise
A brisk spark of light o'er the shade of my days.

[Our quotations are at random strung, and the reader must pardon us, if, in the exuberance-the overflow-of the subject, the time gets out of joint. In "the Toper's Apology," one of the most sparkling songs in the collection, occurs this brilliant version of Addison's comparison of wits and flying fish:]

My Muse, too, when her wings are dry,
No frolic flight will take;

But round a bowl she'll dip and fly,
Like swallows round a lake.
Then if the nymph will have her share,
Before she'll bless her swain;
Why that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

[The following are excellent in their way-Bacchanalian and Sentimental:]Life's a Fable.

Well, if you choose my frolic Muse,

And think her noise won't teaze you,
With humble skill she'll wait your will,
And try her wing, to please you.
The sportive lass can help our glass
At every stage of pleasure,
To every sight can pitch her flight,
And trip in every measure.

Chorus.

Then roll along, my lyric song;

It seasons well the table,

And tells a truth to Age and Youth,

That Life's a fleeting fable.

Few live below like me, I know,

On dreams and airy fancies;
Your sober folk think love a joke,
And call them vain romances.

But pleased awhile through life to smile,
I shun these close inspectors,
And while they view with optics true,
I squint through these reflectors.
I'll ne'er remove the dream of Love,
Since here it fixed its station;

It shoots a flame through all my frame,
That brightens all creation;
My early fate hath filled my pate
With Fancy's magic folly,

And, touched with wine, the visions shine
Still brightest when I'm jolly.

Old Horace, when he dipp'd his pen,
'Twas wine he had resort to;

He chose for use Falernian juice,
As I choose old Oporto;

At every bout an ode came out,

Yet Bacchus kept him twinkling;
As well aware more fire was there,
Which wanted but the sprinkling.
Anacreon's harp was harsh and sharp,
Till wine had tuned his finger;
Alcæus, till he'd got his fill,

Found all his genius linger;
Old Ennius, too, could nothing do,
Till bumpers made him rhymy;
And when I sing, 'tis not the thing,
Unless the bottle's by me.

As well as mirth, good wine gives birth
To many a sad epistle;

Poor Sappho oft, when Phaon scoff'd,
Would wet her Lesbian whistle;
Propertius whined, with tipsy mind,
For Cynthia's cold injustice;

And Ovid, for he could no more

Drink round with great Augustus.

Nay, Jove, we're taught, from nectar caught
His jovial way of thinking;

And every sport that graced his court
Was seasoned well with drinking.
Each goddess there, who took her share,
Still found her eyes more killing;
And night or day they ne'er said nay,
While Ganymede kept filling.

Thus Mirth and Woe the brighter shew
From rosy wine's reflection;
From first to last, this truth hath past-
"Twas made for Care's correction.
Then what those think who water drink,
Of these old rules of Horace,

I shan't now shew; but this I know,
His rules do well for MORRIS.

The Deserted Mansion.

The mind's often pensive and weary,
Spleen then shews us Life's shady part:
The future looks cheerless and dreary,
The past hangs decay'd on the heart!
But of all the sunk spirit's dejections,
That one's the most deadly I know,
When a heart blessed with social affections
To Solitude sinks at a blow.
Long blest, under roofs that united

All charms happy Life could combine,
While tracing through days that delighted,
The heart-cheering joys that were mine-
I forget not the change Fate awarded;
How heart-sunk, and cold as a stone,
When all the gay circle departed,

I moped through the mansion alone!

I can never forget, while I'm mortal,
The chill that I felt in my breast,
When I turned back to enter the portal
Where all was a blank and a waste.
I thought when, in sobs past suppressing,
I saw the last wheels roll away,
All oblivion of life would be blessing,
Compared to the shock of that day.
All empty, and vacant, and hollow,
The rooms seem'd sepulchral to me;
My legs stalk'd in tremour to follow,
My eyes glared at nothing to see;
The sofas, the chairs, and the tables

All deepen'd my Memory's gloom;
The curtains seem'd darken'd to sables,
The pictures the shades of a tomb.
The galleries that rung with gay talking,
When Mirth's sprightly footsteps were there,
Seem'd cloisters for spectres to stalk in,
And whistled with desolate air;

No bell gave the sound of existence,
No feet lightly tripp'd on the stair;
No laugh, either near or at distance,
Was heard in this dome of Despair.
In short, all was dungeon within doors;
And yet, though so dark was my sight,
I durstn't go up to the windows,
Where oft we had sat through the night.
Reflection, too, deaden'd my spirit,

I fear'd to look back on past joy,
(I found that my heart wouldn't bear it,)
And struggled all thought to destroy.

This leaden, disconsolate sinking,

No term of my rhyme can convey;
'Twas suspense of all sense and all thinking,
And closed were my eyes on the day.

I sought a dark hole of seclusion,
There droop'd down my head in despair;
And, till Grief sent my eyes a suffusion,
No sight in the house could I bear.

I know there's a price for all pleasure,

A penance for hours of joy;

That Fate hangs his scale for this measure,
And Time runs to give and destroy.
Things must be thus changed or inverted;
But, oh, may I never again

Be left in a palace deserted,

Where Friendship and Joy had their reign!

[We have little to add, but that this reprint, notwithstanding its ill-assorted baptismal regeneration, will be acceptable to all who enjoy "the feast of reason and the flow of soul." It is embellished with a well-engraved portrait of the Captain, "from a picture in the possession of the family," and an excellent likeness it is.

Many years since, Captain Morris retired to a villa, presented to him, we believe, by the late Duke of Norfolk: it is named Brockham Court Lodge, and is situated a short distance from Dorking, and the foot of the noble range of which Box Hill forms the most picturesque point. Here the Captain "drank the pure pleasures of the rural life" long after many a bright light of his own time had flickered out and become almost forgotten. He died on July 11, 1838, in his ninety-third year: his illness, which was only of four days' duration, being internal inflammation. The attainment of so great an age, and the recollection of Capt. Morris's associations, will remind the reader that he must have