The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 17, No. 483, April 2, 1831

GROTTO AT ASCOT PLACE

Here is a picturesque contrivance of Art to embellish Nature. We have seen many such labours, but none with more satisfaction than the Grotto at Ascot Place.

This estate is in the county of Surrey, five miles south-east from Windsor, on the side of Ascot Heath, near Winkfield. The residence was erected by Andrew Lindergreen, Esq.; at whose death it was sold to Daniel Agace, Esq., who has evinced considerable taste in the arrangement of the grounds. The house is of brick, with wings. On the adjoining lawn, a circular Corinthian temple produces a very pleasing effect. The gem of the estate is, however, the above Grotto, which is situate at the end of a canal running through the grounds. Upon this labour of leisure much expense and good taste have been bestowed. It consists of four rooms, but one only, for the refreshing pastime of tea drinking, appears to be completed. It is almost entirely covered with a white spar, intermixed with curious and unique specimens of polished pebbles and petrifactions. The ceiling is ornamented with pendants of the same material; and the whole, when under the influence of a strong sun, has an almost magical effect. These and other decorations of the same grounds were executed by a person named Turnbull, who was employed here for several years by Mr. Agace. Our View is copied from one of a series of engravings by Mr. Hakewill, the ingenious architect; these illustrations being supplementary to that gentleman’s quarto History of Windsor.

We request the reader to enjoy with us the delightful repose—the cool and calm retreat—of the Engraving. Be he never so indifferent a lover of Nature, he must admire its picturesque beauty; or be he never so enthusiastic, he must regard with pleasure the ingenuity of the artist. To an amateur, the pursuit of decorating grounds is one of the most interesting and intellectual amusements of retirement. We have worshipped from dewy morn till dusky eve in rustic temples and “cool grots,” and have sometimes aided in their construction. The roots, limbs, and trunks of trees, and straw or reeds, are all the materials required to build these hallowed and hallowing shrines. We call them hallowing, because they are either built, or directed to be built, in adoration of the beauties of Nature; who, in turn, mantles them with endless varieties of lichens and mosses. In the Rookery adjoining John Evelyn’s “Wotton” were many such temples dedicated to sylvan deities: one of them, to Pan, consists of a pediment supported by four rough trunks of trees, the walls being of moss and laths, and enclosed with tortuous limbs. Beneath the pediment is the following apposite line from Virgil:

 
Pan curat oves oviumque magistros.
Pan, guardian of the sheep and shepherds too.
 

Yet the building is not merely ornamental, for the back serves as a cow-house!

Pope’s love of grotto-building has made it a poetical amusement. Who does not remember his grotto at Twickenham—

 
The EGERIAN GROT,
Where, nobly pensive, ST. JOHN sat and thought;
Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont’s soul.
Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
Who dare to love their COUNTRY, and be poor.
 

—The Grotto, has, however, crumbled to the dilapidations of time, and the pious thefts of visiters; but, proud are we to reflect that the poetry of the great genius who dictated its erection—LIVES; and his fame is untarnished by the canting reproach of the critics of our time. True it is that the best, or ripest fruit, is always most pecked at.

FAIRY SONG

(For the Mirror.)

 
Slowly o’er the mountain’s brow
Rosy light is dawning;
See! the stars are fading now
In the beam of morning.
Yonder soft approaching ray
Bids us, Fairies, haste away.
 
 
Fairy guardians, watching o’er
Flowers of tender blossom,
Chilling damps descend no more,
And the flow’ret’s bosom,
Opening to th’ approaching day,
Bids ye, Fairies, haste away.
 
 
Hark! the lonely bird of night
Stays its notes of sadness;
Early birds, that hail the light,
Soon shall wake to gladness.
Philomel’s concluding lay
Bids us follow night away.
 
 
Ye that guard the infant’s rest,
Or watch the maiden’s pillow;—
Demons seek their home unblest
’Neath Ocean’s deepest billow:
Harmless now the dreams that play
O’er slumbering eyes, then haste away.
 
 
Farewell lovely scenes, that here
Wait the day god’s shining;
We must follow Dian’s sphere
O’er the hills declining.
Brighter comes the beam of day—
Haste ye, Fairies, haste away.
 

G.J.

DREAMS PRODUCED BY WHISPERING IN THE SLEEPER’S EAR

(For the Mirror)

 
Dreams are but interludes which fancy makes;
When monarch Reason sleeps, this mimic wakes.
 

DRYDEN.

Dr. Abercrombie, in his work on the Intellectual Powers, has recorded several instances of remarkable dreams.—Among them is the following extraordinary instance of the power which may be exercised over some persons while asleep, of creating dreams by whispering in their ears. An officer in the expedition to Lanisburg, in 1758, had this peculiarity in so remarkable a degree, that his companions in the transport were in the constant habit of amusing themselves at his expense. It had more effect when the voice was that of a friend familiar to him. At one time they conducted him through the whole progress of a quarrel, which ended in a duel, and when the parties were supposed to be met, a pistol was put into his hand, which he fired, and was awakened by the report. On another occasion they found him asleep on the top of a locker, or bunker, in the cabin, when they made him believe he had fallen overboard, and exhorted him to save himself by swimming. They then told him a shark was pursuing him, and entreated him to dive for his life; this he instantly did, but with such force as to throw himself from the locker to the cabin floor, by which he was much bruised, and awakened of course. After the landing of the army at Lanisburg, his companions found him one day asleep in the tent, and evidently much annoyed by the cannonading. They then made him believe he was engaged, when he expressed great fear, and an evident disposition to run away. Against this they remonstrated, but at the same time increased his fears by imitating the groans of the wounded and the dying; and when he asked, as he sometimes did, who were down, they named his particular friends. At last they told him that the man next him in the line had fallen, when he instantly sprang from his bed, rushed out of the tent, and was roused from his danger and his dream together, by falling over the tent ropes.

By the by, all this is quite contrary to Dryden’s theory, who says—

 
“As one who in a frightful dream would shun
His pressing foe, labours in vain to run;
And his own slowness in his sleep bemoans,
With thick short sighs, weak cries, and tender groans.”
 

And again, in his Virgil—

 
“When heavy sleep has closed the sight,
And sickly fancy labours in the night,
We seem to run, and, destitute of force,
Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course;
In vain we heave for breath—in vain we cry—
The nerves unbraced, their usual strength deny,
And on the tongue the flattering accents die.”
 

Now this man seems to have had the use not only of his limbs, but of his faculty of speech, while dreaming; and it was not till after he awoke that he felt the oppression Dryden describes; for it is stated, that when he awoke he had no distinct recollection of his dream, but only a confused feeling of oppression and fatigue, and used to tell his companions that he was sure they had been playing some trick upon him.

W.A.R.

P.S. This is a sleepy article; and I would warn its reader to endeavour not to fall asleep over it, and thus endanger his falling over his chair; and lest some familiar friend or chere amie should, finding his instructions in his hand, take the opportunity of making the experiment, and may be create a little jealous quarrel or so.

SONNET TO THE RIVER ARUN

(For the Mirror.)

 
Pure Stream! whose waters gently glide along,
In murmuring cadence to the Poet’s ear,
Who, stretch’d at ease your flowery banks among,
Views with delight your glassy surface clear,
Roll pleasing on through Otways sainted wood;
Where “musing Pity” still delights to mourn,
And kiss the spot where oft her votary stood,
Or hang fresh cypress o’er his weeping urn;—
Here, too, retir’d from Folly’s scenes afar,
His powerful shell first studious Collins strung;
Whilst Fancy, seated in her rainbow car,
Round him her flowers Parnassian wildly flung.
Stream of the Bards! oft Hayley linger’d here;
And Charlotte Smith¹ hath grac’d thy current with a tear.
 

The Author of “A Tradesman’s Lays.” No. 85, Leather Lane.