Among the Suburban Beauties of The Metropolis, and As an Attraction For Home-tourists, Bushy is Entitled to Special Notice, Independent of Its Celebrity As the Retreat of Royalty—it Being The Residence Of his Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence, an Accurate Portrait Of Whom Will Be Presented, to Our Readers With the Usual supplementary Number At The Close of the Present Volume Of The Mirror.

Bushy Park is an appendage to the palace and honour of Hampton Court; and though far from assimilating to that splendid pile, it is better fitted for rural enjoyment, whilst its contiguity to the metropolis almost gives it the character of rus in urbe. 1 The residence is a handsome structure, and its arrangement is altogether well calculated for the indulgence of royal hospitality—a characteristic of its present distinguished occupant, as well as of that glorious profession, to the summit of which his royal highness has recently been exalted. The park, too, is well stocked with deer, and its rangership is confided to the duke. The pleasure grounds are tastefully disposed, and their beauty improved by the judicious introduction of temples and other artificial embellishments, among which, a naval temple, containing a piece of the mast of the Victory, before which Nelson fell, and a bust of the noble admiral, has been consecrated to his memory by the royal duke, with devotional affection, and the best feelings of a warm heart.

The park is a thoroughfare, and the circumstances by which this public claim was established are worthy of record, as a specimen of the justice with which the rights of the community are upheld in this country. The village Hampden, in the present case, was one Timothy Bennet, of whom there is a fine print, which the neighbours, who are fond of a walk in Bushy Park, must regard with veneration. It has under it this inscription:—"Timothy Bennet; of Hampton Wick, in Middlesex, shoemaker, aged 75, 1752. This true Briton, (unwilling to leave the world worse than he found it,) by a vigorous application of the laws of his country in the cause of liberty, obtained a free passage through Bushy Park, which had many years been withheld from the public." Regeneration (or the renewal of souls) is, however, a shoemaker's forte.

The above engraving of Bushy is copied from an elegant coloured view, drawn by Ziegler, and published by Griffiths, of Wellington-street, Strand.

THE FUGITIVE

A SCOTCH TALE

(For the Mirror.)

It was now abute the gloaming when my ain same Janet (heav'n sain her saul) was sitting sae bieldy in a bit neuk ayant the ingle, while the winsome weans gathering around their minnie were listing till some auld spae wife's tale o' ghaists and worriecows; when on a sudden some ane tirled at the door pin.

"Here's your daddie, bairns," said the gudewife ganging till the door; but i' place o' their daddie, a tall chiel wrappit i' a big cloak, rushed like a fire flaught into the bield, and drappit doun on the sunkie ewest the ingle droghling and coghling.

"What's your wull, friend?" said Janet, glowering on him a' i' a gliff, "the gudeman's awa."

"Save me, save me," shrieghed the stranger, "the sleuth hounds are at my heels."

"But wha may ye be, maister," cried the dame, "I durstna dee your bidding while Jamie's frae the hause."

"Oh, dinna speir, dinna speir mistress," exclaimed the chiel a' in a curfuffle, "ainly for the loe of heav'n, hide me frae the red coats whilk are comin' belive—O God, they are here," he cried, as I entered the shealing, and uttering a piercing skirl, he sprung till the wa', and thrawing aff his cloak, drew his broad claymore, whilk glittered fearsome by the low o' the ingle.

"Hauld, hauld, 'tis the gudeman his nainsell," shreighed Janet, when the stranger drapping the point o' the sword, clingit till my hand, and while the scauding tear draps tricklit adoun his face prigged me to fend him.

"Tak' your certie o' that my braw callant," said I, "ne'er sail it be tauld o' Jamie Mc-Dougall, that he steeked his door again the puir and hauseless, an the bluidy sleuth hounds be on ye they'se find it ill aneugh I trow to get an inkling o' ye frae me, I'se sune shaw 'em the cauld shouther."

Sae saying, I gared him climb a rape by whilk he gat abune the riggin o' the bield, then steeking to the door thro' whilk he gaed, I jimp had trailed doun the rape, when in rinned twa red coat chiels, who couping ilka ane i' their gait begun to touzle out the ben, and the de'il gaed o'er Jock Wabster.

"Eh, sirs! eh, sirs!" cried I, "whatna gaits' that to steer a bodie, wad ye harry a puir chiel o' a' his warldly gear, shame till ye, shame till ye, shank yoursell's awa."

"Fusht, fusht, fallow," cried ane o' the churls, "nane o' your bourds wi' us, or ye may like to be the waur aff; where is the faus loon? we saw him gae doun the loaning afore the shealing, and here he maun needs be."

"Aweel, sirs," I exclaimed, "ye see there isna ony creatur here, our nainsell's out-taken; seek again an ye winna creed a bodie; may be the bogle is jumpit into the pot on the rundle-tree ower the ingle, or creepit into the meal ark or aiblins it scoupit thro' the hole as ye cam in at the door. Ye may threep and threep and wampish your arms abute, as muckle as ye wuss, ye silly gowks, I canna tell ye mair an I wad."

"May be the Highland tyke is right, cummer, (said one o' the red coats) and the fallow is jumpit thro' the bole, but harkye maister gudeman, an ye hae ony mair o' your barns-breaking wi us, ye'se get a sark fu' o' sair banes, that's a'."

"Hear till him, hear till him, Janet," said I, as the twa southron chiels gaed thro' the hole, trailing their bagganets alang wi' 'em; "winna the puir tykes hae an unco saft couch o' it, think ye, luckie, O 'tis a gude sight for sair e'en to see 'em foundering and powtering i' the latch o' the bit bog aneath."

"Nane o' your clashes e'enow, gudemon," said she, "but let the callant abune gang his gate while he may."

"Ye're aye cute, dame," I cried, thrawing the bit gy abune, and in a gliffing, doun jumpit the chiel, and a braw chiel he was sure enough, siccan my auld e'en sall ne'er see again, wi' his brent brow and buirdly bowk wrappit in a tartan plaid, wi' a Highland kilt.

"May the gude God o' heaven sain you," he said "and ferd you for aye, for the braw deed ye hae dreed the day; tak' this wee ring, gudemon, and tak' ye this ane, gudewife, and when ye look on this and on that, I rede ye render up are prayer to him abune for the weal o' Charles Edward, your unfortunate prince."

Sae speaking, he sped rath frae the bield, and was sune lost i' the glunch shadows o' the mirk night.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 289, December 22, 1827

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Various The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction / Volume 10, No. 289, December 22, 1827

Bushy Park

THE FUGITIVE

A SCOTCH TALE

(For the Mirror.)

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