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87 & 88, ABBEY-STREET.






Animals, Covering of, .    .

Animals, Value    of    Lower,    to Man,

British Constitution,    Part    I.,

„    „    Part    II.,

„    „    Part    III.,

Calais, Surrender    of,    .

Cheerfulness, .    .    .

Clothing from Nature,    .

Columbus, Part I., .    .

„ Part II.,    .

Commerce, The Results of,

Complaint of the Dying Year,

Death of Queen Philippa,

Distresses of a Common Soldier Eagle, The, .    .

Elephant, The,    .    .

Ephemera, The.    .    .

Eternity of the Deity,    .

Flowers, .    .    .

Folly of Pride,    .    .

Gentleman, Character of the Educated, Grave, The, ....

Increased Love of Life with Age,

Insects, Sagacity of,    .    .

Ireland, Coast Scenery of, Part I.,

,,    ,,    Part II.,

„    „    Part III.,

„    „    Part IV.,

Ireland, Industrial Resources of, Part I.,

„    „    Part II.,

„    „    Part    III.,

„    „    Part IV.,

„    „    Part V..

Ivy of Ireland, The, .    .    .

Liberty, ..... Metals Part I.,    .    .    ,






































A 2

Metals, Part II., ........    179


„ Part III.,........184

Mirza, The Vision of, ....    .    .    363

Nature superior to Science, ......    51

Niagara, Falls of, .......    .    385

Pearls, ..........    239

Plants, Adaptation of, to their respective Countries, .    .    145

Political Economy :—•

On Value, Part I., ......    .    259

„    Part II.,.......262

On Wages, Part I., ......    .    264

„ Part II., .....    268

Rich and Poor, Part I.,    .    .    .    .    .    .273

„    Part II., ......    276

On Capital, Part I., .    .    .    .    .    .    .    280

„ Part II., ......    284

On Taxes, Part I., ......    .    286

„    Part II.,.......289

„    Part III.,.......292

Letting and Hiring, Part I.,    ....    .    293

,, „ Part II., . .


„ „ Part III., . .


Pyramids, The, .....


Reading, Taste for, .....


Sayings of Poor Richard, Part I., . .


„ „ Part II., . .


„ „ Part III., . .


Scenery of the Sea Coast, . . .


Scenery of the Upper Oronoco, . . Scripture History


The Journeying of the Israelites, .


Settlement in the Holy Land, . .


The Hebrew Commonwealth, . .


G overnment by Judges, ......

History of the Israelites from the establishment of the


Monarchy until the Revolt of the Ten Tribes, . .


From the Revolt of the Ten Tribes until the Captivity, From the Restoration of the Jews until the Birth of


Christ, .....

. . .


Jewish Festivals and Ordinances, .


Solon and Croesus, .....


Spiritual Blindness, ....



Supreme Intelligence, The, ......    400

Trees, Part I.,    ........    196

„ Part II.,........204

Tory, Island of, ........    29

Vegetables, Uses of, .    .    •    .    .    ■    .152

Westminster Abbey, .......    332

Whale, The,.........190

World and Men of the World, .    .    .    .    .    .    26

World, the Beauty of, ......    .    350


Agincourt, Battle of, ... .


Agincourt, Night before the Battle of, .


Barmecides, The Time of the, . .


Birth Day, My, .....


Braes of Yarrow, The, ....


Caroline, Part I., . . . . .


,, Part II., .....


Christ’s Second Coming, ....


Cloud, The, ......


Description of a Cathedral, . . .


Dirge in Cymbeline, ....


Dover Cliff, ......


Dying Christian to his Soul, . . .


Elegy in a Country Church-yard, . .


Elegy on Mr. Oldham, ....


Elegy on his Son by George Canning, .


Epistle to Earl of Oxford, . . .


Epitaph on Mrs. Mason, ....


Fairy Thorn, The, .....


Grecian Hosts, Marshalling of, . .


Holly Tree, The, .....


Ingratitude, ......


Innisfail, The Song of, . . . .


Irish Chieftain, Magnanimity of an, . .


Jerusalem, ......


Last Man, ......


Liberty, .......


Lord Ullin’s Daughter, ....


Manfred, The Spirits summoned by, .



Mariana, .........    143

Niagara,...... .    390

Ocean, The, .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    97

Ode to Adversity, ........    405

Ode on Eton College,    .    .    .    .    .    .    .337

Pibroch of Donuil Dim,    .    .    .    .    .    .    .165

Poplar Field, The, ........    25

Rainbow, The,    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    15

Rhine, The, .........    238

Royal George, Loss of the, .    .    .    .    .    .    74

St. Bernard, The Great, .......    253

Sea, The Gifts of the, .......    305

Sea-gull, Lines to a, .......    50

Sennacherib’s Host, Destruction of, .    .    .    .    .105

Siege of Troy, Night at the, ......    368

Silent, Oh Moyle, ........    55

Sonnet, ..........    202

Sunset, ..........    69

Tempest, Scene from the, ......    357

Vision of Belshazzar, .    .    .    .    .    .    .114

Winter’s Tale, Scene from the, .....    383

Wish, A,.........28

Yarrow Unvisited, ........    89

Yarrow Visited, ........    149





If I were to pray for a taste which should stand me in stead under every variety of circumstances, and be a source of happiness and cheerfulness to me through life, and a shield against its ills, however things might go amiss, and the world frown on me, it would be a taste for reading. I speak of it of course only as a worldly advantage, and not in the slightest degree as superseding or derogating from the higher office, and surer and stronger panoply of religious principles, but as a taste, an instrument, and a mode of pleasurable gratification. Give a man this taste, and the means of gratifying it, and you can hardly fail of making him a happy man, unless indeed you put into bis hands a most perverse selection of books. You place him in contact with the best society in every period of history ; with the wisest, the wittiest; with the tenderest, the bravest, and the purest characters who have adorned humanity. You make him a denizen of all nations ; a contemporary of all ages. The world has been created for him. It is hardly possible but the character should take a higher and better tone from the constant habit of associating in thought, with a class of thinkers, to say the least of it, above the average of humanity. It is morally impossible but that the manners should take a tinge of good breeding and civilization, from having constantly before one’s eyes the way in which the best bred

and the best informed men have talked and conducted themselves in their intercourse with each other. There is a gentle, but perfectly irresistible coercion in a habit of reading, well directed, over the whole tenor of a man’s character and conduct, which is not the less effectual because it works insensibly, and because it is really the last thing he dreams of.

For the hard-working man, after his daily toil, or in its intervals, there is nothing like reading an entertaining book, supposing him to have a taste for it, and supposing him to have the book to read. It calls for no bodily exertion, of which he has had enough, or too much. It relieves his home of its dulness and sameness, and transports him into a livelier, and gayer, and more diversified and interesting scene, and while he enjoys himself there he may forget the evils of the present moment. Nay, it even accompanies him to his next day’s work, and, if the book he has been reading be anything above the very idlest and lightest, gives him something to think of, besides the mere mechanical drudgery of his every-day occupation —something he can enjoy while absent, and look forward with pleasure to return to.

But supposing him to have been fortunate in the choice of his book, and to have alighted on one really good, and of a good class. What a source of domestic enjoyment is laid open ! What a bond of family union ! He may read it aloud, or make his wife read it, or his eldest boy or girl, or pass it round from hand to hand. All have the benefit of it, all contribute to the gratification of the rest, and a feeling of common interest and pleasure is excited. Nothing unites people like companionship in intellectual enjoyment. It does more, it gives them mutual respect, and to each among them, self-respect—that corner-stone of

all virtue. It furnishes to each the master-key by which he may avail himself of his privilege as an intellectual being, to

“ Enter the sacred temple of his breast,

And gaze and wander there a ravished guest;

Wander through all tire glories of his mind,

Gaze upon all the treasures he shall find.”

And while thus leading him to look within his own bosom for the ultimate source of his happiness, warns him at the same time to he cautious how he defiles and desecrates that inward and most glorious of temples.

Sir John Herschel.


They came from a land beyond the sea,

And now o’er the western main Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,

From the sunny land of Spain.

“ Oh, where’s the isle we’ve seen in dreams, Our destined home or grave ?”

Thus sang they, as by the morning’s beams, They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o’er ocean shines A sparkle of radiant green,

As though in that deep lay emerald mines, Whose light through the wave was seen.

“ ’Tis Innisfail—’tis Innisfail!”

Rino's o’er the echoing sea;

While, bending to Heaven, the warriors hail That home of the brave and free.

* Innisfail was an ancient name of Ireland.

Then turned they unto the eastern wave, Where now their day-god’s eye A look of such sunny omen gave As lighted up sea and sky.

Nor frown was seen through sky or sea,

Nor tear o’er leaf or sod,

When first on their Isle of Destiny Our great forefathers trod.

Thomas Moore.


Reclining on a couch of fallen leaves, wrapped in a fleecy mantle, with withered limbs, hoarse voice, and snowy beard, behold a venerable man. His pulses beat feebly; his breath becomes shorter; he exhibits every mark of approaching dissolution. This is the old Year; and as our readers must all remember him a young man, as rosy and blithesome as themselves, they Avill, perhaps, feel interested in hearing some of his dying expressions, together with a few particulars of his past life. His existence is still likely to be prolonged a few weeks by the presence of his daughter December, the last and sole survivor of his twelve fair children : and it is thought the father and daughter will expire together. The following are some of the expressions which have been taken down just as they fell from his dying lips: any want of order or accuracy will, therefore, be excused.

“I am,” said he, “the son of old father Time, “and the last of a numerous progeny; for he has “had no less than several thousand of us; but it “has ever been his fate to see one child expire be“ fore another was born. It is the opinion of some “that his own constitution is beginning to break “ up,and that when he has given birth to a hundred

“or two more of us, his family will be complete, “and then he himself will be no more.

“ Alas ! how have I been deceived! like other “youngsters I was sanguine and credulous in “early life; and no wonder : for in my youthful “days I received nothing but flattery and adulation, with the fairest promises of respect and good “treatment. I heard that my poor brother and “predecessor had been very ill used: this they “confessed, while they declared their intentions “to behave better to me. I have been told that “on the morning of my birth, nothing was heard “but the language of joy and congratulation. It “was a season of general festivity: every face “beamed with pleasure; all was hope and expectation. In some places the event was announced “by the ringing of bells: in others, it was recog-“nized by solemn thanksgivings and hymns oi “praise. My name was sounded in every social “circle, and my appearance was acknowledged in “many a retired chamber. It was not, indeed, “on those outward and noisy demonstrations of “joy that my highest hopes were founded; but “rather upon the many private assurances, and “even solemn vows and promises I received, from “one and another, of being well treated, duly appreciated, and properly employed. It was at this “time that I heard so much of their ill conduct “towards my late brother; how his property had “been squandered, and his gifts undervalued; “while, as the best and only compensation they “could make for this behaviour, I was to receive “double attention and unabating respect. I could “not but felicitate myself upon having made my “appearance at so favourable a juncture, when so “many seemed sensible of my value, and agreed “as with one consent to do me justice. It was “thus, in good humour with myself and my de-

“pendants, that I commenced my sanguine career; “and moving onward in my swift but regular “course, began to distribute of my substance as I “passed. Though it is true that I gave but little “at a time, yet my donations were so perpetual “that all who stood ready to receive as I dealt “them out, might have become rich: but very “early in my career I began to experience considerable disappointment from observing, that “although I was still spoken of in terms of general respect, yet that my individual gifts were “despised or misemployed. Many of my precious “moments have I seen thrown away with great “contempt, as of no value, although they were of “the very same quality as those weeks and months “of which they still continued to acknowledge the “importance.”

Here the Old Year called for his account-book, and turned over the pages with a sorrowful eye. He has kept, it appears, an accurate register of the moments, minutes, hours, days, weeks, and months, which he has issued, and subjoined in some places notices of the use to which they have been applied. These particulars it would be tedious to detail; perhaps the recollection of our readers may furnish them as well. But we must notice one circumstance: upon turning to a certain page in his accounts, the old man was much affected, and the tears streamed down his furrowed cheeks. This was no other than the register of the forty-eight Sundays which he has already issued; and which, of all the wealth he had to dispose of, has been, it appears, the most scandalously wasted. “These,” said he, “were my most precious gifts : alas ! how lightly have they been esteemed.” Here, upon referring back to certain old memorandums, he found a long list of vows and resolutions which had a particular reference to these fifty-two Sun-

days. This, with a mingled emotion of grief and anger, he tore into a hundred pieces, and threw them on the embers, by which he was endeavouring to warm his shivering limbs.

o    # o    #    m

“And yet I feel,” said he, “more pity than indignation towards these unhappy offenders ; they “were far greater enemies to themselves than to “me. But there are a few outrageous ones, by “whom I have been defrauded of so much of my “substance, that it is difficult to think of them “with patience; that notorious thief Procrastination, for instance, of whom every body has heard, “and who is well known to have wronged my “venerable father of so much of his property. “There are also three noted pickpockets, Sleep, “Sloth, and Pleasure, from whom I have suffered “much; besides a certain busybody called Dress, “ who, under the pretence of making the most of “me, and taking great care of my gifts, steals “away more of my property than any two of them.

“As for me, all must acknowledge that I have “performed my part towards friends and foes. I “have fulfilled my utmost promise, and been more “bountiful than many of my predecessors. My “twelve fair children have, each in turn, aided “my exertions; and their various tastes and dispositions have all conduced to the general good. “Mild February, who sprinkled the naked boughs “with delicate buds,and brought her wonted offering of early flowers, was not of more essential “service than that rude blustering boy March, who, “though violent in his temper, was well-intentioned “and useful. April, a gentle, tender-hearted girl, “wept his loss, yet cheered me with many a smile. “June came, crowned with roses, and spark -“ling in sunbeams, and laid up a store of costly “ornaments for her luxuriant successors. But “I cannot stay to enumerate the good qualities

‘and graces of all my children. You, my poor “December, dark in your complexion, and cold in “your temper, greatly resemble my first-born, “January, with this difference, that he was most “prone to anticipation, and you to reflection.

“If there should be any, who, upon hearing my “dying lamentation, may feel regret that they “have not treated me more kindly, I would beg “leave to hint, that it is still possible to make “some compensation for their past conduct, by “rendering me, during my few remaining days, “as much service as may yet be in their power: “let them testify the sincerity of their sorrow by “an immediate alteration in their behaviour. It “would give me particular pleasure to see my “only surviving child treated with respect: let “no one slight her offerings: she has a considerable part of my property still to dispose of, which, “if well employed, will turn to good account. “Not to mention the rest, there are four precious “Sundays yet in her gift; it would cheer my last “moments to know that these had been better “prized than the past.

“It is very likely, at least after my decease, that “ many may reflect upon themselves for their mis-“ conduct towards me. To such I would leave it “as my dying injunction, not to waste time in unavailing regret; all their wishes and repentance “will not recall me to life. I shall never, never “return! I would rather earnestly recommend to “their regard my youthful successor, whose appearance is shortly expected. I cannot hope to “survive long enough to introduce him; but I “would fain hope that he would meet with a “favourable reception; and that, in addition to the “flattering honours which greeted my birth, and “the fair promises which deceived my hopes, more “ diligent exertion, more persevering efforts may be

“expected. Let it be remembered that one honest “endeavour is worth ten fair promises.”

Having thus spoken, the Old Year fell back on his couch, nearly exhausted; and trembling so violently as to shake the last shower of golden leaves from his canopy. Let us all hasten to testify our gratitude for his services, and repentance for our abuse of them, by improving the few remaining days of his existence, and by remembering the solemn promises we made him in his youth. This is the best preparation we can make for his expected successor.

Jane Taylor.


Triumphal arch that fill’st the sky When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud philosophy To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow ?

When science from creation’s face Enchantment’s veil withdraws,

What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.

When o’er the green nndeluged earth Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine, How came the world’s gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled O’er mountains yet untrod,

Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang On earth delivered from the deep,

And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the muse’s eye,

Unraptured greet thy beam ;

Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the poet’s theme !

The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings,

When glittering in the freshened fields The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle, cast O’er mountain, tower, and town,

Or mirrored in the ocean vast,

A thousand fathoms down !

As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem,

As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam.

For faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man.

Thomas Campbell.



Rostrevor, a favourite watering-place in the north of Ireland, is situated on the bay of Carlingford. It is built on an acclivity which ascends gracefully from the margin of the water, and is backed by those precipitous and lofty mountains in which the Mourne chain here abruptly terminates. Although completely open to the sea, none but southern breezes blow upon it; the adjacent hills protect it on the north and east, and a promontory, covered with luxuriant trees, juts between it and the west.


At the opposite extremity of the Mourne chain is Newcastle, another much esteemed watering-place. It is beautifully situated at the foot of Slieve Donard, the highest mountain in Ulster. This mountain rises nearly four miles in gradual ascent from the village, and is about three thousand feet in perpendicular height.

The county of Down is bordered on the north by the bay of Carrickfergus, or, as it is generally called, Belfast Lough. This lough is about twelve miles long and five broad, and gradually narrows from the sea entrance to the mouth of the Lagan. As there are scarcely any rocks, or other impediments to navigation in this bay, it is peculiarly well adapted to maintain the commercial importance of Belfast—a city which Lord Macaulay describes as “ one of the most flourishing seats of industry in the British Isles.” The inland scenery on every side of the town is varied and picturesque. It is mountainous to the north and north-west, where, Divis mountain, about two miles distant, rises to the height of more than one thousand five hundred feet above the sea level. Farther to the north are some lofty hills, the most remarkable of which is Cave Hill, taking its name from some curious caves near its summit. It is topped by a large ratli, or earthen fortification. The view from this hill is exceedingly fine, commanding the town of Belfast, with its huge and towering factories, the entire of the Lough, the greater part of Down, and, on a clear day, the coast of Scotland.

Carrickfergus, a small but interesting town on this bay, is situated very near its entrance from the north. Its castle, which stands upon a reef of rock projecting into the sea, is, in every view of the town, a most picturesque and conspicuous


object. Three sides of the building are, at ordinary tides, enclosed by water. The only entrance is towards the town, between two towers, which, from their shape, are called half moons. It is defended by a narrow passage with embrasures for fire-arms. Near the centre of this passage was formerly a drawbridge, and .a part of the barbican that protected the bridge can still be seen.

The town of Larne is situated at the foot of a deep glen, and near it is the long narrow peninsula, known as Island Magee, where there is a druidical cromlech, the covering stone of which, resting on three huge supporters, is a triangular slab six feet in length, and inclined towards the east. There

B 2

is also a “rocking-stone,” which, like the numerous others scattered over Ireland, is so accurately poised that the slightest impulse is capable of setting it in motion, though it is so large that it is almost impossible Avliolly to dislodge it.

The scenery of the island, independently of these objects, is exceedingly interesting. On its east are “ The Gobbins,” one of the loftiest headlands on the north coast, in which traces of the columnar pillars, so remarkable at the Causeway, may be seen. The cliffs are very precipitous, and the coast abounds in singular caves. In the immediate vicinity of Larne stand the ruins of the ancient castle of Olderfleet, built on the extremity of a small and narrow peninsula. It was on this spot that Edward Bruce landed, in 1315.

Glenarm is beautifully situated on the sea, at a few miles distance from Larne. The small bay, which is formed by a deep circular winding of the shore, is protected on each side by lofty headlands ; the mountains look down upon it, and a small river flows between the town and the ancient castle, which in feudal days took a prominent part in the history of the country.

The road from Glenarm to Ballycastle is constructed with great skill and taste; it is exceedingly picturesque, for many miles running close by the sea, and overhung by lofty precipitous rocks which rise like gigantic walls from the shore. Cliffs are cut through, chasms crossed, watercourses bridged, and that so skilfully, that over a rough and jagged coast a passage is made as smooth and level almost as a cricket field. Of the several deep and romantic glens which cross this road, the vale of Glenariff is the most beautiful. The eastern entrance opens to the sea; and highly cultivated lands mingle with dark precipices and

bared rocks, while a clear and rapid river, supplied by cataracts far up the glen, runs through the centre of the vale.

At the mouth of this river are the caves of Red Bay, formed, probably, at some remote period, by the action of the tide on the soft red sandstone. Of three of the largest, one is used as a forge; in another a woman has taken up her strange abode; while in the third a school was formerly held.


Between this and Bally castle are the villages of Cushendall and Cushendun, both embosomed in the hollows of the mountains, which here dve such a wild and romantic appearance to the coast of Antrim, and which terminate abruptly towards the sea in stupendous cliffs, the chief of which are those of Fair Head, already described in Third Book. Through a cleft in the face of these cliffs

is a celebrated pass called the Gray Man's Path. The entrance to the pass at the top is extremely narrow; and a joint of greenstone, which has fallen across it, forms a sort of natural gate, through which the descent must be made, and which conducts to a gradually expanding passage leading to the base. There are other similar chasms along the summit, which have proved fatal to cattle pasturing upon the headland.

The shore in this neighbourhood is indented with coves, made partly by the action of the sea, and partly by the wear of the mountain torrents. One of these torrents forms a cascade, called “ The Leap,” which in rainy seasons is an object of great beauty.

Within a few miles of Ballycastle is the famous bridge oi “ Carrick-a-Rede,” or the rock in the road. The rock, which is an island crag of rudely formed prismatic basalt, is connected with the mainland by a bridge of ropes thrown across a chasm sixty feet in breadth and eighty-four in depth. This “flying bridge” is formed of two strong cables, running parallel to each other, and fastened to rings inserted in the solid rock on each side of the chasm, the narrow interval between the ropes being occupied by a boarded pathway. The danger in crossing is very great, as the fragile structure bends beneath the feet of the passenger, and frequently swings violently in the wind. Some persons have been precipitated into the deep chasm below, but those accustomed to this mode of transit, cross fearlessly and safely, often with great loads of salmon from the fishery at the base of the rock.

The Causeway, the next object of interest along the shore, has been already described in the Third Book. N ot far from it is the Castle of Dunluce, probably one of the finest of the many ruined


castles of Ireland. It stands on a perpendicular and isolated rock, the entire surface of which is so completely occupied by the edifice that the external walls are in continuation with the perpendicular sides of the cliff. The walls are not very lofty, but, from the great area they enclose, they must have contained a large number of apartments. In the north-eastern end is a small room, actually projecting over the sea, the rocky base having fallen away ; and from the door of this apartment there is a giddy view of the rolling billows beneath. The rock on which the castle stands is separated from the mainland by a large chasm; and entrance was obtained by a bridge formed of movable planks, resting on two narrow walls, about eight

feet asunder, built in the form of an arch. The planks were removed when the visiter entered. Only one of the walls is now standing, and it is across this, which is barely thirteen inches broad, that entrance is at present obtained. It requires a great deal of firmness to walk on so narrow a path, over the rocky chasm beneath.

On the mainland, close to the castle, there is a second collection of similar buildings, erected at a later period. Beneath the cliff on which the castle stands is a cave, penetrating completely through from the sea to the rocky basin on the land side of the castle. It may be entered by a small opening in the south end.

Not far from Dunluce are Portrush and Porf-stewart, both prettily situated on the sea. The^ are much frequented by bathers during the summer. A traveller gives the following account of the remarkable phenomenon, called Fata Mov-gana, which he observed off Portrush, while rowing near the Causeway. We had now,” he says, “ got into the centre of the bay, and could observe the whole bending of the shore from Bengore Head to Portrush Point, when one of the men said, ‘ Look, there are the merry dancers of Portrush,’ and on looking in that direction we all observed this most extraordinary phenomenon. Portrush Point, which a few moments before was probably the most uninteresting object on the coast, now assumed a most commanding aspect. A lofty mountain arose in a conical peak, like Croagh Patrick; rugged rocks with serrated points pierced the clouds; and instantly all this vanished, and a beautiful softly-swelling wooded hill presented itself, a lofty embattled castle, a broad belt of full-grown wood, green lawns, and all the decorations of a nobleman’s demense. And again, as if by a talismanic touch, all this disappeared,

and on a plain two armies in battle array seemed to oppose one another, and dense masses of troops, horse and foot, stood motionless, as if in suspense, for the battle signal; and now they rushed together, and the opposing battalions closed, and a loose shapeless cloud rose up, as if it were the mingled dust and smoke ascending from the conflict; and all at once the whole vision dissolved away, and nothing was seen but the low uninteresting peninsula of Portrush. So vivid was the delusion, so strange, so beautiful, so magnificent was the optical representation, that were I in the remotest part of Ireland, and assured that I would see it again, I should without hesitation, and almost at any sacrifice of time and trouble, attend to witness it once more.”


The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite fi eld,and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid,

A_nd the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat "Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the sOene where his melody charmed me before Resounds with his sweet flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,

And 1 must ere long lie as lowly as they,

With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,

To mnse on the perishing pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than he.



Go abroad into the streets of the populous city, contemplate the continuous outpouring there of human energy, and the countless varieties ot human character. The ways are thronged, carriage-way and pavement; multitudes are hurrying to and fro, each on his own errand, or are loitering about from listlessness, or from want of work, or have come forth into the public concourse, to see and to be seen, for amusement, or for display, or on the excuse of business. The carriages of the wealthy mingle with the slow wains laden with provisions or merchandise, the productions of art or the demands of luxury. The streets are lined with shops, open and gay, inviting customers, and widen now and then into some spacious square or place, with lofty masses of brickwork or of stone, gleaming in the fitful sunbeam, and surrounded or fronted with what simulates a garden’s foliage. Follow them in another direction, and you find the whole ground-stead covered with large buildings, planted thickly up and down, the homes of the mechanical arts. The air is filled, below, with a ceaseless importunate, monotonous din, which penetrates even to your innermost chamber, and rings in your ears even when you are not conscious of it; and overhead, with a canopy of smoke, shrouding God’s day from the realms of obstinate, sullen toil. This is the end of man!

Or stay at home, and take up one of those daily

prints, which are so true a picture of the world ; look down the columns of advertisements, and you will see the catalogue of pursuits, projects, aims, anxieties, amusements, indulgences which occupy the mind of man. He plays many parts: here he has goods to sell, there he wants employment ;.....there again he seeks to borrow money

here he offers you houses, great seats or small tenements ; he has food for the million, and luxuries for the wealthy, and sovereign medicines for the credulous, and hooks, new and cheap, for the inquisitive. Pass on to the news of the day, and you will learn what great men are doing at home and abroad ; you will read of wars and rumours of wars ; of debates in the Legislature; of rising men, and old statesmen going off* the scene; of political contests in this city or that county; of the collision of rival interests. You will read of the money market, and the provision market, and the markets for metals ; of the state of trade, the call for manufactures, news of ships arrived in port, of accidents at sea, of exports and imports, of gains and losses, of frauds and their detection. Go forward, and you arrive at discoveries in art and science, discoveries (so called) in religion, the court and royalty, the entertainments of the great, places of amusement, strange trials, offences, accidents, escapes, exploits, experiments, contests, ventures. 0 this curious, restless, clamorous, panting being, which we call life !—and is there to be no end to all this ? Is there no object in it ? It never has an end ; it is its own object!

And now, once more, put aside what you see and what you read of the world, and try to penetrate into the hearts, and to reach the ideas and the feelings of those who constitute it; look into them as closely as you can ; enter into their houses and private rooms ; strike at random through the

streets and lanes; take as they come, palace and hovel, office or factory, and what will you find ? Listen to their words, witness, alas ! their works ; you will find in the main the same lawless thoughts, the same unrestrained desires, the same ungoverned passions, the same earthly ojnnions, the same wilful deeds, in high and low, learned and unlearned; you will find them all to be living for the sake of living; they one and all seem to tell you, “We are our own centre, our own end.” Why are they toiling ? why are they scheming ? for what are they living 1    “ We live,” they seem

to say, “to please ourselves; life is worthless except we have our own way ; we are not sent here at all, but we find ourselves here, and we are but slaves unless we can think what we will, believe what we will, love what we will, hate what we will, do what we will. We detest interference on the part of God or man. We do not bargain to be rich or to be great; but we do bargain, whether rich or poor, high or low, to live for ourselves, to live for the lust of the moment, or according to the doctrine of the hour, thinking of the future and the unseen just as much or as little as we please.”

Dr. Newman.


Mine be a cot beside the hill;

A beehive’s hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church among the trees

Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze,

And point with taper spire to Heaven.



Dr. JOHNSON,* by a few eloquent words, created an interest in Iona that still attracts to its shores pilgrims of every class; and awakens a lively curiosity regarding the history of the personage who founded its remarkable ecclesiastical buildings,—our own Columba. It is not, however, any disparagement to that sacred territory to affirm that the island of Tory has an interest not possessed by the Hebridean; inasmuch as we find in it at this hour remains of the very buildings erected by the early Christian monks, who had there devoted themselves to a life of holy seclusion.

Saint Columba was one of the most remarkable Christian missionaries of the past apostolic age. He was born at Gartan, in the county of Donegal,

* The following are the words alluded to:—We were now treading that illustrious island, which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge, and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future, predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me, and from my friends, be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona.

about the year 521 ; and though his descent from King Niall, of the nine hostages, gave him a high civil rank among his countrymen, lie, from a very early age, devoted himself to the service of religion. He was indefatigable in his exertions to spread Christianity over the land; he founded no less than three hundred monasteries and churches, and gave in his own person an illustrious example of virtue.

It is difficult to conjecture why, at a time when the Irish had already been converted to Christianity, he should have determined on establishing a monastery in Tory, an island so completely cut off, as it must always have been, from communication with other parts of the country. It is to be presumed that, dreading some civil convulsion in Ireland which might prove fatal to the cause of religion, he intended that this almost inaccessible spot should be the means of preserving it until better times should arrive.

From Dunfanaghy the sail to Tory is very beautiful, passing under Horn Head, a bold promontory descending abruptly into the sea from a height of eight hundred feet. Large flocks of waterfowl breed in its caverns and continually encircle its rugged sides, while the sea-eagle soars aloft. The headland takes its name from two projecting peaks at the summit, which bear a resemblance to the short thick horns of an ox. As the island is approached, the sea assumes the beautiful ultramarine blue which we look for in vain in shallow water. When Tormore, on the east, is reached, the cliffs of the island form a beautiful prospect ; while, on the opposite side, the coast of Donegal, with its receding headlands and mountains, and Innistrahull, on the verge of the horizon, altogether form a njost striking picture.

Under the most favourable circumstances there

is always some difficulty in effecting a landing on Tory even with the kind assistance of the inhabitants. The landing-place is a small cove, romantically situated in the shelter of the cliffs, and partially defended from the waves of the Atlantic by a high pinnacle of rock called Tor-a-hauv, having a narrow passage between it and the land. This landing place is called Port Doom, from its proximity to an ancient dun or stronghold.

From Ballyness Bay, a boat occasionally goes out to Tory with letters ; passing in its direct course the three smaller islands of Innisbofin, Innisdooey (on which is a cemetery), and Innisbeg. Tory lies about nine miles from the nearest part of the coast of Donegal. Its length is about three miles, and its breadth one ; one-sixth of its surface is considered lit for cultivation. It contains three lakes, two of them of considerable extent. A lighthouse was erected here in 1832, which is of great service to mariners, and has greatly diminished the number of shipwrecks caused by the position of the island in the direct course of vessels entering or departing by the North Channel.

Before the erection of the lighthouse, the inhabitants derived considerable profit from acting as pilots, and also from the timber thrown on shore. In one place a deep hollow is shown on the cliffs communicating with the sea, through which logs of timber are occasionally shot up by the violence of the waves. It resembles the famous cavern near Horn Head, called M‘Swine’s Gun, through which the water rushes with such violence as to produce a very loud report.

The only place on the island where a few shrubs flourish is a hollow called Lagrehy, or the “ Ram’s Hollow,” formed by the subsidence of the surface into a cavern beneath.

There are two “towns” on the island (“villages,” perhaps is a more correct expression), East Town and West Town ; the latter being the principal, and containing the ecclesiastical ruins and one of those round towers for which Ireland is so remarkable. The building materials, both ancient and modern, are fragments of red granite; and as limestone is not found on the island, the mortar has been obtained by burning sea-shells, chiefly those of the limpet.

The principal business of the inhabitants is the manufacture of kelp from seaweed, for the production of iodine. The seaweed when dried and burned, in a rude kiln built on the sea-shore, forms a calcined mass which is called kelp. Seaweed is also largely used for manuring the land ; it is carried off the beach on the small island horses in panniers. Oats and potatoes are the only crops raised, and it is remarkable that the potato disease never reached this distant island.

Few quadrupeds are found except the rabbit, which is plentiful; and it is positively stated that rats, the universal plague of man, will not live on the island.

The “curragh,” which forms the principal means of communication with the mainland, is one of the most primitive, and certainly, with persons accustomed to its management, from its buoyancy, one of the safest of boats. The canoe formed from the hollow trunk of a tree may have preceded its use, but the raw hide of a newly-slain animal, properly extended, presented a readier means of constructing a boat. In the sculptures from Nineveh, a similar use of the hide is observed as a means of crossing rivers, and Caesar, Pliny, and other ancient writers mention the “ curragh.” In these boats, the Irish made their descents on the coast of Britain about the year 431. The term

“ curragh” is possibly derived from the same root \sdth the Latin word corium* a hide. The framework consists of a gunwale and a number of branches for ribs, which are kept in their places by smaller twigs interwoven. According to the original fashion, a fresh hide with the hair inside was drawn over this skeleton, and being laced with thongs to the gunwale, became rigid as it contracted in drying. At present a cheaper material is found in tarred canvas, which is doubled, with a layer of brown paper between. On the coast of the opposite mainland, the curraghs have generally sharp bows and square sterns; but those of Tory, intended to pass with safety through the long swell of the Atlantic, are square or nearly so at both extremities. The rower kneels at the bow, and impels the boat with a short broad paddle, which he uses instead of an oar, without resting it on the gunwale. Heavy loads of seaweed are carried in these boats, and even cattle are transported in them across the sound.

There is a National school at the village of West Town, and within the last few years a Roman Catholic church has been built, and a clergyman now resides on the island.f



" Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel ;

For your father’s on the hill, and your mother is asleep.

Come up above the crags, and we’ll dance a hioh-land reel

Around the fairy thorn on the steep.”

* Pronounced cu'-ri-um. t Slightly altered from Ulster Archl. Journal.


At Anna Grace’s door ’twas thus the maidens cried,

Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green;

And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,

The fairest of the four, I ween.

They’re glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,

Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;

The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,

And the crags in the ghostly air :

And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,

The maids along the hill-side have ta’en their fearless way,

Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow

Beside the fairy Hawthorn gray.

The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,

Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;

The rowan berries cluster o’er her low head gray and dim,

In ruddy kisses sweet to see.

The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,

Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,

And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go,

Oh, never carolled bird like them!

But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze That drinks away their voices in echoless repose, And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes,

And dreamier the gloaming grows.

And sinking one by one, like lark notes from the sky    ^    _

When the falcon’s shadow saileth across the open shaw,

Are hushed the maiden’s voices, as cowering down they lie

In the flutter of their sudden awe.

For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath,    •

And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitethorn between,

A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,

And they sink down together on the green.

They sink together silent, and stealing side to side, They fling their lovely arms o’er their drooping necks so fair,

Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, For their shrinking necks again are bare.

Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed,

Soft o’er their bosoms beating—the only human sound—

They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,

Like a river in the air, gliding round.

c 2

Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say,

But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three—

For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,

By whom they dare not look to see.

They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold,

And the curls elastic falling as her head with draws ;

They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,

But they dare not look to see the cause :

For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies

Through all that night of anguish and perilous


And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes,

Or their limbs from the cold ground raise.

Till out of Night the Earth has rolled her dewy side,

With every haunted mountain and stream}’ vale below;

When as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide

The maidens’ trance dissolveth so.

Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,

And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain—

They pined away and died within the year and day,    _

And ne’er was Anna Grace seen again.

Samuel Ferguson.


No observation is more common, and at the same time more true, than that “ one half of the world is ignorant how the other half lives.” The misfortunes of the great are held up to engage our attention ; are enlarged upon in tones of declamation ; and the world is called upon to gaze at the noble sufferers : the great, under the pressure of calamity, are conscious of several others sympathising with their distress ; and have, at once, the comfort of admiration and pity.

There is nothing magnanimous in bearing misfortunes with fortitude when the whole world is looking on ; men in such circumstances will act bravely, even from motives of vanity ; but he who, in the vale of obscurity, can brave adversity ; who, without friends to encourage, acquaintances to pity, or even without hope to alleviate his misfortunes, can behave with tranquillity and indifference is truly great ; whether peasant or courtier, he deserves admiration, and should be held up for our imitation and respect.

While the slightest inconveniences of the great are magnified into calamities; while tragedy mouths out their sufferings in all the strains of eloquence, the miseries of the poor are entirely disregarded ; and yet some of the lower ranks of people undergo more real hardships in one day than those of a more exalted station suffer in their whole lives.

It is inconceivable what difficulties the meanest of our common sailors and soldiers endure without murmuring or regret; without passionately declaiming against Providence, or calling their fel-

lows to be gazers on their intrepidity. Every day is to them a day of misery; and yet they entertain their hard fate without repining.

With what indignation do I hear an Ovid, or a Cicero, complain of their misfortunes and hardships, whose greatest calamity was that of being unable to visit a certain spot of earth, to which they had foolishly attached an idea of happiness ! Then distresses were pleasures, compared to what many of the adventuring poor every day endure without murmuring. They ate, drank, and slept; they had slaves to attend them, and were sure of subsistence for life; while many of their fellow-creatures are obliged to wander, without a friend to comfort or assist them, and even without a shelter from the severity of the season.

I have been led into these reflections from accidentally meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow, whom I knew when a boy, dressed in a sailor’s jacket, and begging at one of the outlets of the town, with a wooden leg. I knew him to be honest and industrious when in the country, and was curious to learn what had reduced him to his present situation. Wherefore, after giving him what I thought proper, I desired to know the history of his life and misfortunes, and the manner in which he was reduced to his present distress. The disabled soldier, for such he was, though dressed in a sailor’s habit, scratching his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himself into an attitude to comply with my request, and gave me his history as follows:

“ As for my misfortunes, master, I can’t pretend to have gone through any more than other folks : for, except the loss of my limb, and my being obliged to beg, I don’t know any reason, thank Heaven, that I have to complain; there is Bill

Tibbs, of our regiment, he has lost both his legs, and an eye to boot; but, thank Heaven, it is not so bad with me yet.

“ I was bom in Shropshire; my father was a labourer, and died when I was five years old; so I was put upon the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of a man, the parishioners were not able to tell to what parish I belonged, or where I was born, so they sent me to another parish, and that parish sent me to a third. I thought, in my heart, they kept sending me about so long, that they would not let me be born in any parish at all; but at last, however, they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a scholar, and was resolved at least to know my letters ; but the master of the workhouse put me to business as soon as I was able to handle a mallet; and here I lived an easy kind of a life for five years. I only wrought ten hours in the day, and had my meat and drink provided for my labour. It is true, I was not suffered to stir out of the house, for fear, as they said, I should run away; but what of that ? I had the liberty of the whole house, and the yard before the door, and that was enough for me. I was then bound out to a farmer, where I was up both early and late; but I ate and drank well, and liked my business well enough, till he died, when I was obliged to provide for myself; so I was resolved to go and seek my fortune.

“ In this manner I went from town to town, worked when I could get employment, and starved when I could get none: when, happening one day to go through a field belonging to a justice of the peace, I spied a hare crossing the path just before me. I killed the hare, and was bringing it away in triumph, when the justice himself met me : he called me a poacher and a villain ; and collaring

me, desired I would give an account of myself. I fell upon my knees, begged his worship’s pardon, and began to give a full account of all that I knew of my breed, seed, and generation ; but, though I gave a very good account, the justice would not believe a syllable I had to say; so I was indicted at sessions, found guilty, and sent up to London to Newgate, in order to be transported as a vagabond.

“ After five months in prison, I was put on board a ship, and sent oft’ with two hundred more, to the plantations. We had but an indifferent passage; for, being all confined in the hold, more than a hundred of our people died for the want of sweet air: and those that remained were sickly enough, God knows. When we came ashore, we were sold to the planters, and I was bound for seven years more. As I was no scholar, for I did not know my letters, I was obliged to work among the negroes; and I served out my time, as in duty bound to do.

“ When my time was expired, I worked my passage home, and glad I was to see old England again, because I loved my country. I was afraid, however, that I should be indicted for a vagabond once more, so did not much care to go down into the country, but kept about the town, and did little jobs when I could get them.

“ I was very happy in this manner for some time, till one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked me down, and then desired me to stand. They belonged to a press-gang: I was carried before the justice, and, as I could give no account of myself, I had my choice left, whether to go on board a man of war, or list for a soldier. I chose the latter: and in this post of a gentleman I served two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battles of Yal and Fontenoy, and received but one

wound, through the breast here; but the doctor of our regiment soon made me well again.

“ When the peace came on I was discharged, and as I could not work, because my wound was sometimes troublesome, I listed for a landman in the East India Company’s service. I here fought the French in six pitched battles: and I verily believe, that, if I could read or write, our captain would have made me a corporal. But it was not my good fortune to have any promotion, for I soon fell sick, and so got leave to return home again with forty pounds in my pocket. This was at the beginning of the present war, and I hoped to be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of spending my money; but the government wanted men, and so I was pressed for a sailor before ever I could set foot on shore.

“ The boatswain found me, as he said, an obstinate fellow: he swore he knew that I understood my business well, but that I shammed Abraham,* to be idle; but, God knows, I knew nothing of sea-business, and he beat me without considering what he was about. I had still, however, my forty pounds, and that was some comfort to me under every beating; and the money I might have had to this day, but that our ship was taken by the French, and so I lost all.

“ Our crew was carried into Brest, and many of them died, because they were not used to live in a jail; but, for my part, it was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. One night, as I was sleeping on the bed of boards, with a warm blanket about me, for I always loved to lie well, I was awakened by the boatswain, who had a dark lantern in his hand. ‘Jack,’ says he to me, ‘ will you knock out

* Feigned sickness or infirmity.

the French sentries’ brains ‘ I don’t care,’ says I, striving to keep myself awake, ‘if I lend a hand.’ ‘ Then follow me,’ says he, ‘ and I hope we shall do business.’ So up I got, and tied my blanket, which was all the clothes I had, about my middle, and went with him to fight the Frenchmen. I hate the French, because they are all slaves, and wear wooden shoes.

“ Though we had no arms, one Englishman is able to beat five French at any time; so we went down to the door, where both the sentries were posted, and, rushing upon them, seized their arms in a moment, and knocked them down. From thence, nine of us ran together to the quay, and, -seizing the first boat we met, got out of the harbour and put to sea. We had not been here three days before we were taken up by the Dorset privateer, who were glad of so many good hands; and we consented to run our chance. However, we had not so much good luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the Pompadour privateer, of foi’ty-guns, while we had but twenty-three ; so to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. The fight lasted for three hours, and I verily believe we should have taken the Frenchman, had we but had some more men left behind ; but unfortunately we lost all our men just as we were going to get the victory.

“I was once more in the power of the French, and I believe it would have gone hard with me had I been brought back to Brest; but, by good fortune, we were retaken by the Yiper. I had almost forgot to tell you, that in that engagement I was wounded in two places; I lost four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was shot off. If I had had the good fortune to have lost my leg and use of my hand on board a king’s ship, and not aboard a privateer, I should have been entitled

to clothing and maintenance during the rest of my life; hut that was not my chance: one man was horn with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another Avith a Avooden ladle. HoAvever, blessed he God! I enjoy good health, and Avill for ever love liberty and Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England for ever, huzza! ”

Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in admiration at his intrepidity and content; nor could I avoid acknoAvledging, that an habitual acquaintance Avith misery, seiwes better than philosophy to teach us to despise it.




My eyes are filmed, my beard is gray,

I am bowed Avith the weight of years ;

I Avould I were stretched in my bed of clay, With my long-lost youth’s compeers !

For back to the Past, though the thought brings Avoe,

My memory ever glides—

To the old, old time, long, long ago,

The time of the Barmecides!

To the old, old time, long, long ago,

The time of the Barmecides.

* The Barmecides were the princes of the Barnac family, and flourished just before Haroun al Raschid, who succeeded his brother in the year 786. The generosity, munificence, and affability of the Barmecides rendered them the delight of all ranks of people.

Then Youth was mine, and a fierce wild will, And an iron arm in war,

And a fleet foot high iipon Ishkar’s hill,

When the watch-lights glimmered afar,

And a barb as fiery as any, I trow,

That Khoord or Beddaween rides,

Ere my friends lay low—long, long ago,

In the time of the Barmecides,

Ere my friends lay low—long, long ago,

In the time of the Barmecides.

One golden goblet illumed my board,

One silver dish was there ;

At hand my tried Karamanian sword Lay always bright and bare,

For those were the days when the angry blow Supplanted the word that chides—

When hearts could glow—long, long ago,

In the time of the Barmecides,

When hearts could glow—long, long ago,

• In the time of the Barmecides.

Through city and desert my mates and I Were free to rove and roam,

Our canopy by turns the deep of the sky,

Or the roof of the palace-dome—

Oh ! ours was that vivid life to and fro Which only sloth derides :—

Men spent Life so, long, long ago,

In the time of the Barmecides.

Men spent life so, long, long ago,

In the time of the Barmecides.

I see rich Bagdad once again,

With its turrets of Moorish mould,

And the Khalif’s twice five hundred men Whose binishes flamed with gold;

I call up many a gorgeous show Which the Pall of Oblivion hides—

All passed like snow, long, long ago,

YVith the time of the Barmecides ;

All passed like snow, long, long ago,

With the Time of the Barmecides!

But mine eye is dim, and my beard is gray, And I bend with the weight of years—

May I soon go down to the House of Clay Where slumber my Youth’s compeers !

For with them and the Past, though the thought wakes woe,

My memory ever abides,

And I mourn for the Times gone long ago,

For the Tunes of the Barmecides !

I mourn for the Times gone long ago,

For the Times of the Barmecides !

J. C. Mangan.



In scarcely any part of Ireland is the bold and rocky character of the coast better shown than in the western shore of the county Clare.

From Loop Head, the northern point of the mouth of the Shannon, to Dunbeg, nature has exhibited an endless variety of those caverns, chasms, bays, headlands, and island rocks, into which the waves of the Atlantic have broken up the coast of this country. The cliffs of Moher and the caves of Kilkee are truly magnificent.

The Bay of Galway, lying to the north of Clare, was formerly one of the most important bays of

Ireland, and its geographical position and great natural advantages entitle it to this distinction. The entrance to this magnificent basin is sheltered by the islands of Arran. The bay contains a number of creeks, inlets, and harbours, of which that of Galway itself is the most important. Sailing into Galway Bay, the shores present a great deal of diversity. On the right hand is the range of the Burren mountains, in the County of Clare; while on the Galway side, the country exhibits the mingled beauties of rich cultivation and primeval wildness. The town of Galway is finely situated on a narrow neck of land between an arm of the bay and Lough Corrib, a lake thirty miles in length.

The coast scenery that presents itself upon quitting the Bay of Galway through the northern passage is exceedingly grand. A glance at the map will be sufficient to show the singular formation of the coast; the irregular indentations run far into the land, and form deep harbours, where the navies of Great Britain might lie at anchor ; yet so completely unknown and unfrequented are they, that scarcely a sail, save those of the poor fishermen s boats, is ever to be seen on their undisturbed waters. Some idea may be formed of the extraordinary facilities which this sequestered district possesses for trade and commerce, from the following extract from a late eminent engineer’s report. “ There are,” says he, “ upwards of twenty safe and capacious harbours jit for vessels of any burthen; about twenty-five navigable lakes in the interior, of a mile or more in length, besides many smaller; the sea coasts and all these lakes abound with fish.”

The most striking features of the Connemara landscape are its mountains, which start up from

lakes that want only the arbutus and holly of Killarney to rival the beauteous scenery of that part of Kerry. The Twelve Pins, whose summits,


devoid of vegetation, glitter with the brilliancy peculiar to the quartz rock of which they are formed, constitute a magnificent group of mountains, ranging in height from two to three thousand feet above the level of the sea. The sides and bases of these mountains, from which the violence of the Atlantic storms has not yet been able to wash away their vegetable covering, exhibit tints of great brilliancy and variety from the heaths and lichens which cover them in rich profusion. What the arbutus is to Killarney the heath is

to Connemara, and the eye rests gratefully on its streaks of pale pink, rich brown, or glowing-purple, mixed with the tender green of mountain grasses.

In what is called the Joyce Country, or Upper Connemara, the formation is different; for instead of plains of granite and peaks of quartz, there are extended platforms of sandstone cut into ravines, the deepest and longest of which, that occupied by the waters of Killery harbour, is considered not inferior to any similar scene in Europe.

The absence of wood is the greatest drawback to the beauty of Connemara scenery, yet, denuded of trees as it now is, it is certain that at no very remote period it was abundantly furnished witli natural woods. Indeed noble forests once existed in every province of Ireland, and even on those western shores, so exposed to the violence of the Atlantic gales, stately pines flourished where it is now imagined that no tree can vegetate. Oak, fir, yew, and birch are the species of timber most abundant in the bogs, and are sometimes found at the depth of thirty feet from the surface.

The chief object of attraction in the neighbourhood of Sligo is Lough Gill, which is about eight miles long and two broad. The hill sides, which in some cases rise abruptly from the water, are covered to a considerable elevation with wood ; and the lake is adorned with many islands, almost every one of which is finely wooded.

The abbey of Sligo is well deserving of notice. It was originally erected by one of the Fitzgeralds, about the year 1252, but having been afterwards destroyed by fire, it was re-erected in its present style of architecture in 1414. It is a picturesque ruin of very large dimensions. It has a beautiful window of carved stone, under which is the altar, also of cut stone. Here are two ancient monu-




ments, one bearing date 1616, and the other belonging to one of the O’Connor kings. The steeple, which is still entire, is supported upon a carved arch, the inside of which is also carved. Adjoining are three sides of a square of beautifully carved arches, of about four feet in height. Almost all the little pillars are differently ornamented, and one has a human head cut on the inside of the arch. There are several vaults throughout the ruins, which, with the abbey-yard, are still used for burial purposes.



White bird of the tempest! oh, beautiful thing, With the bosom of snow, and the motionless wing; Now sweeping the billow, now floating on high, Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the sky: Now poising o’er ocean thy delicate form,

Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm: Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn,

Now shooting along like a ray of the morn;

Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtained dome, Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam ; Now silently poised o’er the war of the mam, Like the spirit of charity brooding o’er pain; Now gliding with pinion, all silently furled,

Like an Angel descending to comfort the world 'l Thou seem’st to my spirit, as upward I gaze— And see thee, now clothed in mellowest rays, Now lost in the storm-driven vapours that fly, Like hosts that are routed across the broad sky— Like a pure spirit true to its virtue and faith, ’Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and death ’ Rise! beautiful emblem of purity! rise On the sweet winds of heaven, to thine own brilliant skies,

Still higher! still higher! till lost to our sight, Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light;

And I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee, Must long for the moment—the joyous and free— When the soul, disembodied from nature, shall spring,

Unfettered, at once to her Maker and King; When the bright day of service and suffering past, Shapes, fairer than thine, shall shine round her at last, While the standard of battle triumphantly furled, She smiles like a victor, serene on the world !

Gerald Griffin.


The manner in which the mind is led away by the study of physical science from the moral considerations which should always accompany it, is worthy of notice as being common in ordinary books on science, and in popular treatises or manuals. They often speak of man and nature as two antagonists, as if man were always striving to conquer nature. We boast of our triumphs over nature, and we seem to consider her avariciously withholding from us the possession of her secrets, as if she were the jealous guardian of the Hesperides, and we Hercules; she the keeper of the Golden Fleece, and we the Argonauts; as if the man of science were a thief who eludes her watchfulness, or overcomes her power, steals her keys from her, and unlocks, in spite of her, her hidden treasures. Hence every discovery is treated as almost the subject of a boast, and put forward as a victory, as something new extorted from nature. Now, it is exactly the contrary. In all physical science we can only be the servants and disciples of nature. She must be the absolute mistress, and she will not yield one tittle of her power to us. We must be the scholars, she must be our teacher; we cannot annul one of her laws, or force her to give up one single point which has, from the beginning, been established. It is not, therefore, by conflicting with her, but by learning from her with docility, and simplicity, and admiration, that we shall fairly overcome her. And this may be done in two different ways. One is, if I may use the expression, by alluring her to our assistance, making her our friend, and for that purpose using her own laws which we have already discovered. For by submission

D 2

alone to those laws, which she herself has taught us, can we overcome her.

Let me now, in order to put this view more strikingly before you, imagine a conversation, such as has often, I dare say, taken place, especially at the commencement of steam locomotion, in almost every part of the world. We will suppose a person, by way of introducing the conversation, say of the steam-engine—“ What a wonderful invention; how marvellous; to what a pitch has science been brought; how completely has she mastered nature and her laws! We have destroyed space, we have cheated time, we have invented a piece of mechanism which we have endowed with almost vital power, to which we have given all but intelligence; and how proudly it goes on its way! You hear it snorting and panting in its first efforts to dash forward, until it has gained a course as smooth, as regular, and as certain almost as the very orbits of the planets. We ride thus secure in the pride of that power —nature resists us in vain. We cut through her mountain ridges, though they be made of the hardest granite; we pass over her yawning valleys by magnificent viaducts. We drain away whole regions of bog or marsh, if they come in our way; or we fill up almost unfathomable chasms. Thus we go on overriding everything, and anticipating no obstacle that will not be mastered by the skill and power of man.” “Hold!” says one who has been listening to this boastful speech; “hold! look at yon cloud; it is heavy with thunder. See those flashes, which already break through it—those bright lances, each tipped with fire, destructive beyond all the power of man; see their direction towards us. Suppose that by a law of nature, which you have not repealed, one of those strike, and it makes a wreck

of that proud monster. In an instant his brazen skin would be stripped off, and cast aside; his iron frame and burning viscera would be strewn around with the violence of a volcano, and we should leave it lying upon the road, a ruin, a mutilated carcase from one single touch of the power of nature, defied by man.” “Nay,” says a third, “I will not consent to a trial like that. I do not think it is necessary to invoke the power of nature in its most gigantic, and at the same time, its most instantaneous action, to prove what it can do. It is not thus, in a vengeful form, that I will put into contrast that great production of man’s ingenuity and the power of nature. No; I will take the most harmless, the most gentle, the most tender thing in her, and I will put that against the other. What is there softer, more beautiful, and more innocent than the dew-drop, which does not even discolour the leaf upon which it lies at morning; what more graceful, when, multiplied, it makes its chalice of the rose, adds sweetness to its fragrance, and jewels to its enamel? Could anything be less likely to hurt than this? You shake with your hand the dower-cup in which it sparkles, and at once it vanishes. Expose the steam engine but to the action of this little and insignificant agent; let it tall upon the strong monster for a short time, and continue to cover it. It does not come as an enemy; it comes in a gentle and wooing form. It loves that iron; it is ready to deprive itself of a portion of its own substance, of that which is one of the most brilliant things in nature, the little oxygen which it contains, and to bestow it on the iron. And the metal, although you made a compact with it that it should be bright and polished, and be your iron slave for ever, cares more for the refreshment from those drops of dew than

it does for you, and it absorbs them willingly. And so by degrees, it allows its whole surface to be usurped and occupied by them, and the result of this conspiracy against you soon begins to appear. Every polished rod, so beautiful and fair, is blotched and gangrened, every joint is anchylosed and solidified, every limb becomes decrepit, and you have soon a worthless piece of mechanism, lumber that must be thrown aside. A few drops from heaven have conquered the proudest work of man’s ingenuity and skill.”

We come to this simple conclusion, that the more we study the laws of nature, the more we see how powerful it is, how superior to man, how it is the exponent and exhibitor of magnificent wisdom, of might with which we cannot cope. We must not pretend to too much; but in spite of boasts that nature has been overcome by man, let us ever keep this in mind, that she will always in the end, if it should come to a conflict, vanquish; and that her laws and powers, illimitable and irresistible, represent to us a higher Power than that of man—the power that gives us our own moral strength and lays down our moral laws.

Cardinal Wiseman.


According to an ancient legend the daughter of Lir was by some supernatural power transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander for many hundred years over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the Church bell was to be the signal of her release.


Silent, oh Moyle, he the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While murmuring mournfully, Lir’slonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.

When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furled'?

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping Fate bids me languish long ages away;

Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that day-star mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love?

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit to the fields above?

Thomas Moore.



The southern point of the Shannon’s mouth is, like the northern, composed of huge cliffs, tunnelled into caves of various sizes, and cut into the most fantastic forms by the combined action of the sea and air. The caves of Ballybunion, situated in north Kerry, may be classed among the natural wonders of Ireland. They are very numerous, and connected with each other by lofty halls.    " .

The following short description of another part of Kerry is given by Lord Macaulay:—

“ The south-western part of Kerry is now well known as the most beautiful tract in the British Isles. The mountains, the glens, the capes stretching far into the Atlantic, the crags on which the eagles build, the rivulets falling down rocky passes, the lakes overhung by groves in which the wild deer find covert, attract every year crowds of wanderers sated with the business and the pleasures of great cities. The beauties of the country are, indeed, too often hidden in the mist and rain Avhich the west wind brings up from a boundless ocean. But on the rare days when the sun shines out in all his glory, the landscape has a freshness and a warmth of colouring seldom found in our latitude. The myrtle loves the soil, the arbutus thrives better than even on the sunny shore of Calabria. The turf is of a livelier hue than elsewhere ; the hills glow with a richer purple; the varnish of the holly and the ivy is more glossy; and berries of a brighter red peep through foliage of a brighter green.”

The scenery in the neighbourhood of Bantry is very striking and attractive. The most prominent

feature is its noble bay, which presents, in general, the appearance of a widespread lake, girded by a zone of mountains of the finest and boldest outline. It is over thirty miles in length, and from three to eight miles in breadth, and is, in some places, fully forty fathoms deep. At the north side the mountain barriers which coniine it, seem to start up abruptly from the water’s edge, and its southern coasts are equally stern and precipitous. There are not many islands in this large expanse of water, but there are two of considerable size—Bere Island and Whiddy; the first, which stands farthest out to seaward, lies close to the northern shore, near the little village of Castletown Berehaven; the other lies close to the town of Bantry at the head of the bay, and in front of Glengariff.

The bay is remarkable for the successive hostile descents of two French fleets; the first in 1689, in aid of James II., and the second in 1796, when the fleet was overtaken by a storm, and wrecked or dispersed.

Situated on the Bay of Bantry is the celebrated vale of Glengariff. “ It is impossible,” says Mr. Windele, “ to speak adequately of it. Its name, which signifies the coarse or rough glen, expresses its main characteristic. It is a deep valley, nearly three miles in length, winding into the depths and solitudes of the mountains. It seldom exceeds a quarter of a mile in breadth, and is shut in at either side by wooded steeps and stupendous precipices. Through the centre of the glen flows a mountain river, which becomes after heavy rains a foaming torrent. The hills enclosing the glen are of the wildest character, singularly broken and irregular in their outline. Rocks and stones, some of enormous dimensions, are flung together in strange confusion, but the

roughness is relieved by a variety of luxuriant toliage; for the bases of the hills, and every crevice and hollow are filled with trees and shrubs, which grow to great perfection. The arbutus, the yew, the holly, seem native to the place; and, amidst apparent barrenness and desolation, there prevails a luxuriance of vegetation not exceeded in the happiest situations.”

Not far from Glengariff, but inland, is the wild and romantic lake of Gougane-Barra, the source of the river Lee. It is a mountain recess, or hollow, about a mile and a half long, environed, save at the east side, by steep and lofty hills, covered with heath and rock. The centre of this hollow is occupied by a lake of considerable extent, which spreads itself under the shadow of the lofty cliffs on the north, and stretches westerly towards the deep recesses through which the infant Lee meets it.

Nearly midway in the lake is a small wooded island, the greater portion of which is covered by the ruins of a religious house with its appurtenant buildings and courts. The large square court in the centre, which is shaded with trees, contains two circular cells in each side, evidently of so remote an antiquity as to be among the earliest stone works in Ireland,

“ There is a green island in lone Gougane-Barra,

Where Allua of song rushes forth as an arrow,

In deep-valleyed Desmond, a thousand wild fountains

Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains.

There grows the wild ash ; and a time-stricken willow

Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow

As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning,

It lightly laughs hack to the laugh of the morning.

And its zone of dark hills—oh ! to see them all brio'ht’nino;

o    o

When the tempest flings out its red banner of 1 ightning;

And the waters rush down, ’mid the thunder’s deep rattle,

Like the clans from the hills at the voice of the battle;

And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,

And wildly from Maolagh the eagles are screaming.

Oh! where is the dwelling, in valley or highland,

So meet for a bard as this lone little island ?”


In the close vicinity of Gougane-Barra is the celebrated pass of Keim-an-eigh, or “ The Path of the Deer.” The separation of the vast hills, at either side, is barely sufficient to afford room for a road of moderate breadth, with a rugged channel at one side for the waters, which, in the winter season, rush down in foaming torrents from the high grounds adjoining. At its entrance from the Gougane side the pass is seen with best effect; there its close cliffs are steepest, and the toppling crags assume their most picturesque forms, and present the closest resemblance to fantastic piles and ancient ruins. These receive beauty and variety from the various mosses which encrust them, and the dwarf shrubs and underwood, ivy, and creeping plants, which soften, with their mellow hues, the general effect. The London

Pride grows wild here, and on the sum mountains, in astonishing profusion; and hei also are found the arbutus and the ash, growing,, at immense heights overhead, on crags almost inaccessible to the human foot.

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“ The distant appearance of Cork harbour, from the seaward approach,” says Mrs. Hall, “is gloom}’, rocky, and inhospitable ; but as its entrance between two bold headlands—scarcely half a mile apart and crowned with fortifications—opens upon theview,itscharacterundergoes a complete change.


The town of Cove (now Queenstown), with the island of Spike, forming a sort of natural breakwater, and several smaller islands, give variety and interest to a noble expanse of water that spreads

out like a lake before the view; its sparkling-billows heaving in sportive mimicry of the wild ocean without. The harbour is one of the most secure, capacious, and beautiful of the kingdom, and is large enough to contain the whole navy of the British Empire.”

It is diversified by other islands besides that of Spike; one of which, Haulbowline, is the depot for naval stores; and another, Rocky Island, is the Government depot for gunpowder The storerooms are excavated in the solid ruck, and communicate with each other by apertures in the sides.

To do full justice to the river Lee is impossible. On either side numberless attractive objects greet the eye in succession; and the wild and the cultivated are so happily mingled that it would seem as if the hand of taste had been everywhere employed to direct and improve nature. Moore calls it “ the noble sea avenue to Cork and an eastern traveller observed that “ a few minarets placed in its hanging gardens would realize the Bosphorus.” From its mouth to the city quays, the river, in its perpetual changes, appears a series of lakes, from which there is no visible passage except over one of the surrounding hills. These hills are clad from the summit to the waters edge with every variety of foliage ; graceful villas and ornamental cottages are scattered among; them in profusion, and here and there some ancient ruin recalls a story of the past.

Cork holds an important position amongst the cities of Ireland, on account of its extent, population, and commerce. It has a cheerful and prosperous aspect; the leading streets are wide ; and though the houses may be said to be built with studied irregularity, their appearance is by no means ungraceful or unpleasing.


0    reader ! hast thou ever stood to see

The holly tree ?

The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves,

Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the Atheist’s sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

1    love to view these things with curious eyes,

And moralise:

And in this wisdom of the holly tree Can emblems see

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear Harsh and austere;

To those who on my leisure would intrude, Reserved and rude;

Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I, day by day,

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And, as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green,

The holly leaves a sober hue display Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the holly tree ?

So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem, amid the young and gay, More grave than they;

That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the holly tree.




Christopher Columbus, the celebrated navigator and discoverer of the Western World, was born in the city of Genoa, about the year 1440. Although several illustrious families have contended for his alliance to them, his father and his ancestors appear to have followed the trade of wool-carders, and were of humble origin. Columbus received his education at the University of Padua, and having evinced an early passion for the sea, entered into nautical life at the age of fourteen. The first voyage in which we have any authentic accounts of his being engaged, was a warlike expedition fitted out at Genoa in 1459, when, associated with hardy and daring adventurers, he acquired so much distinction as to be intrusted with a separate command. After this, it is supposed, he was employed in expeditions against the Mahommedans and Venetians, in company with a famous corsair of his own name

and family, and acquired reputation and experience in his profession. His son Fernando relates, that in an engagement off the coast of Portugal with four Venetian galleys, returning richly laden from Flanders, the vessel on board which he served, and one of the Venetian ships to which it was grappled, took fire. Columbus threw himself into the sea, seized an oar which was floating near him, and by this means, and his dexterity in swimming, reached the shore, although two leagues distant. Proceeding thereafter to Lisbon, he was induced to take up his residence in that capital.

Columbus became acquainted in Lisbon with the most eminent men in science and maritime art, whom the encouragement of Prince Henry of Portugal had attracted around him. At this period (1470) he was in the vigour of manhood, of an engaging appearance, grave, courteous, and affable in his deportment, moderate and simple in his diet and apparel, eloquent in discourse, possessing high magnanimity, and a temper, which, though irritable, was under the control of a gentle and enthusiastic piety. He married the daughter of a distinguished navigator who had discovered and colonized the island of Porto Santo; and having obtained possession of the journals and charts of this gentleman, and also having heard accounts of his voyages from his widow, Columbus was seized with an irresistible desire of visiting unknown regions. In order to indulge it, he made a voyage to Madeira, and continued during several years to trade with that island, with the Canaries, Azores, the settlements in Guinea, and the other places which the Portuguese had discovered on the continent of Africa. By the experience acquired in such a number of voyages, Columbus

became one of the most skilful navigators in Europe.

At the commencement of the fifteenth century the intelligence of Europe, and particularly of Portugal, was directed in seeking everywhere for geographical knowledge. The lofty and enterprising mind of Prince Henry, matured by diligent researches and laborious investigation, conceived the idea of the circumnavigation of Africa ; and under his auspices the Cape of Good Hope was doubled, and the commerce of the East thrown open to maritime adventure. At this period the existence of the Western World was never dreamt of; the Atlantic Ocean was regarded with awe and wonder, “seeming,” says Washington Irvim “ to bound the world as with a chaos into whicn conjecture could not penetrate, and enterprise feared to adventure.” The danger and tediousness of the voyage by Africa first set Columbus to ruminate whether a shorter and more direct passage to the East Indies could not be found out ; and after long consideration, he became thoroughly convinced that, by sailing across the Atlantic in a westwardly direction, new countries, probably forming part of the vast continent of India, would infallibly be discovered. He was led to this conviction by the theory of the ancients and the discovery of the moderns, aided by his own experience and the advancement of science.

Columbus received a decided confirmation of his theory from the observations of many modern navigators. A Portuguese pilot, proceeding farther westward than usual, found a piece of artificially-carved timber floating on the sea, and, as it was wafted by a westerly wind, he conjectured that it might have come from some unknown land in


that direction. The brother-in-law of Columbus found a similar piece of wood on Porto Santo ; and had also seen canes of enormous size floating upon the waves, which resembled those described by Ptolemy as growing in India. After a continuance of westerly rvinds, trees torn up by the roots were often driven on the coast of the Azores; and at one time the dead bodies of two men, with singular features, different from those of any known race of people, were cast on the island of Flores.

On these grounds Columbus formed the vast and daring enterprise which was destined to hand down his name to posterity with unfading honour; and, firmly established in a belief of the successful result of his projects, he never spoke in doubt or hesitation; but with as much certainty as if his eyes had beheld the wislied-for land. A deep religious sentiment also mingled with his thoughts, and gave them at times a tinge of a sublime and lofty kind. He looked upon himself as standing in the hand of Heaven, chosen from among men for the accomplishment of its high purpose; the ends of the earth were to be brought together, and all nations, and tongues, and languages, united under the banners of the Redeemer.

The disturbed state of Portugal under Alphonso retarded the progress of discovery. The compass, too, though in general use, had not gained that reliance which induces mariners fearlessly to brave the dangers of the deep; and the progress of a voyage through boundless wastes appeared extravagant and impracticable. Nothing daunted, however, by these disheartening symptoms, Columbus pursued his favourite schemes with ardour, and longed to put them into execution. So perilous an adventure was not, however, to be undertaken

without the patronage of some sovereign power ; and John II. of Portugal, having at this juncture ascended the throne, and being favourably inclined to the cause of discovery, Columbus made his proposals to him, which were graciously received by that monarch, and referred by him to a committee of learned men. Unfortunately, however, these very men had advised to search for a passage to India by an opposite course to that which Columbus recommended as the shortest and most certain. They could not therefore approve of his proposal without submitting to the double mortification of condemning their own theory and of acknowledging his superiority. They accordingly recommended the king to fit an expedition privately and attempt the proposed discovery by the designated route, which they ascertained from charts and details craftily obtained from Columbus. He had the weakness to consent to this perfidious counsel. The vessel departed, but their pilots having neither the genius nor fortitude of Columbus, gave up in despair, and returned, execrating the project as extravagant and irrational.

This ungenerous and unworthy attempt roused the indignation of Columbus, who immediately quitted Portugal, taking with him his son Diego, and made application to the government of Genoa: but this republic, weakened by the reverses of war, rejected a proposal that would have restored its ancient splendour, and might for a long period have perpetuated the golden wand of commerce in the failing grasp of Italy. Columbus next carried his proposition to Venice, where he was equally unsuccessful. He also sent his brother to lay his plans before Henry VII. of England, ]laving in the meantime sailed himself for Spain,

E 2

where he arrived after having exhausted all his means.

Columbus, in this state of abject poverty, met with great hospitality from Friar Juan Perez, who encouraged and assisted him to set out for the Castilian court at Cordova in the spring of I486. The moment was unpropitious for such a proposition, the Spanish sovereign being at the time engaged in military preparations against the Moorish kings. When at length lie obtained audience of the king, his views were looked upon as absurd and impracticable. Worn out with disappointment, and supporting himself by making maps and charts, Columbus began to look to other courts in hopes of meeting more encouragement. Pie had already made preparations for this purpose, when his former friend, the worthy ecclesiastic, Juan Perez, solicited him to defer his journey, making application at the same time to Queen Isabella, the result of which was a gracious invitation to Columbus to come back to court, accompanied with the present of a small sum to equip him for the journey. Columbus appeared before the persons appointed to confer with him, with the same confident hopes of success as formerly, and insisted on the same high recompense. He proposed that a small fleet should be fitted out under his command, stipulating that he should be invested with the titles and privileges of admiral and viceroy of all the seas and lands he should discover, with one-tenth of all gains, either by trade or commerce. His terms were deemed inadmissible; the negotiations were broken oft’, and Columbus was already on the road to Cordova, with the intention of going to France, when he was overtaken by a messenger from the queen, who had been prevailed upon, by the arguments

of two of Columbus’s patrons, again to favour his undertakings. The arrangements were finally completed, and he set sail on the 3rd of August, 1492, in three small vessels, only one of which was completely decked.


How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, And sunbeams melt along the silent sea ;

For then sweet dreams of other days arise,

And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light that plays Along the smooth wave tow’rd the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think’twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

Thomas Moore.



As the squadron advanced, various indications of land, such as birds flying from the west, the water becoming less salt, and occasionally covered with weeds, animated and supported the courage of the crew, but at length murmurs and fears began to prevail amongst them.

They had sailed for eleven days wafted by a most propitious breeze, over a tranquil sea, without shifting or lowering a sail. The rude seamen began to be alarmed that no other winds blew but easterly, and that it would therefore be impossible for them ever to return home. The sailors lost all patience and became so mutinous and refractory that it required the utmost address of

Columbus to maintain his authority. The appearances of land, though frequent, were in many instances deceiving; and at last the seamen broke forth into loud clamours, and insisted on abandoning the voyage. Fortunately, however, on the following day, the manifestations of land were such as no longer to admit of doubt. In the evening Columbus discovered a light glimmering at a distance, and the next morning land was clearly seen about two leagues off. The sailors now burst forth into the most extravagant transports. They threw themselves at the feet of Columbus, implored his pardon, and pronounced him to be a person inspired by Heaven with more than human sagacity and fortitude, to accomplish a design so far beyond the ideas and conceptions of all former ages. At daybreak they landed, and in the names of the Castilian sovereigns, took possession of these new countries, giving the island the name of San Salvador. Having visited several of the West India Islands, and settled a colony in Hispaniola, he again set sail for Spain. After encountering several violent tempests, Columbus arrived in the Tagus, near Lisbon, on the 4th of March, 1493. His triumphant return excited the most unbounded transport. It is thus described by Lamartine:—

“ Ferdinand and Isabella, having been informed of the return and discoveries of their admiral, by the messenger whom he had despatched from Lisbon, awaited him at Barcelona with honour and munificence worthy the greatness of his services. The Spanish nobility came from all the provinces to meet him. He made a triumphal entry as a prince of future kingdoms.

“ The Indians brought over by the squadron as a living proof of the existence of new races of men in these newly-discovered lands, marched at the

head of the procession, their bodies painted with divers colours, and adorned with gold necklaces and pearls. The animals and birds, the unknown plants, and the precious stones collected on those shores, were exhibited in golden basins, carried on the heads of Moorish or Negro slaves.

“ The eager crowd pressed close upon them, and wondrous tales were circulated concerning the officers and companions of Columbus. The admiral himself mounted on a richly caparisoned charger, presented by the king, next appeared, accompanied by a numerous cavalcade of courtiers and gentlemen. All eyes were directed toward the man inspired of Heaven, who first had dared to lift the veil of Ocean. People sought in his face for a visible sign of his mission, and thought they could discern one.

“ The beauty of his features, the thoughtful majesty of his countenance, the vigour of youth joined to the dignity of a riper age, the combination of thought with action, of strength with experience, a thorough appreciation of his worth, combined with piety towards God, and with gratitude towards his sovereigns, who awarded him the honour which he brought them as a conqueror, made Columbus then appear (as those relate who saw him enter Barcelona) like a hero of Grecian story.

“ ‘ None could compare with him,’ they say; ball felt him to be the greatest or the most fortunate of men.’ Ferdinand and Isabella received him on their throne, shaded from the sun by a golden canopy. They rose up before him, as though he had been an inspired messenger. They made him sit on a level with themselves, and listened to the solemn and circumstantial account of his voyages.

“ At the end of his recital, which habitual eloquence had coloured with his exuberant imagin-

ation, and impregnated with fervent enthusiasm, the king and queen, moved even to tears, fell on their knees and repeated a hymn of thanksgiving, for the greatest conquest that the Almighty had ever yet vouchsafed to sovereigns.

“ Couriers were instantly despatched to carry the wondrous news and fame of Columbus to all the courts of Europe. The obscurity with which lie had until then been surrounded changed to a brilliant renown, filling the earth with his name. His discovery became the subject of conversation for the world.”

The successful discovery of Columbus, great and manifold as were its advantages to mankind, was but a prelude to the dark and troubled epoch of his own life. By his second voyage to the Western World he no doubt realized his expectations, extended his discoveries, and came back to Spain with substantial proofs of success; but the ostensible purpose of his return was to obtain reparation of injurious imputations which had been heaped upon him, and to have his privileges confirmed and enlarged so as to enable him to control the colonists, who had become refractory and unmanageable. But his third voyage only accelerated his disastrous fate. The newly-discovered possessions were distracted with the horrors of rebellion. The verdant and blooming isles, the expected abodes of peace and happiness, were converted into theatres of sanguinary conflicts and misery; and Columbus found himself an object of fear and execration. It was during this voyage, in 1498, that he landed for the first time on the coast oi America, at Paria; so that he was preceded by Sebastian Cabot and Americus Vespucius, who departed from Europe the preceding year, and both visited the American continent before him. The latter has had the honour of giving a name to the

New World. Meanwhile liis enemies in the Old World were not idle. An investigation into his ■conduct was instituted under the control of one who was empowered, should he find the charge of mal-adxninistration proved, to supersede Columbus, and assume the government of Hispaniola. The result was, that after being treated with the greatest indignities, he was sent to Spain in chains. From these disgraceful bonds he was immediately on his arrival released by the Spanish monarch ; but his complaints were tardily acknowledged; he again sank into obscurity, and was reduced to such straitened circumstances, that, according to his own account, “ he had no place to repair to except an inn, and very frequently had not wherewithal to pay his reckoning.”

At length he was again employed in a fourth voyage, with restricted powers; but the result was unpropitious, and he returned to Spain, dejected in mind and worn out with bodily infirmities. He expired on the 20th of May, 150G, commending, with his latest breath, his spirit to God.

He died in ignorance of the real grandeur of his discovery. Until the last he entertained the idea that he had merely opened a new way to the old resorts of opulent commerce, and had discovered some of the wild regions of the East. He supposed Hispaniola to be the ancient Ophir which had been visited by the ships of King Solomon, and that Cuba was but a remote part of Asia.

What visions of glory would have broken upon his mind could he have known that he had indeed discovered a new continent, equal to the Old World in magnitude, and separated by two vast oceans from all the earth hitherto known by civilized man! And how would his magnanimous spirit be consoled amidst the afflictions of age and the cares of penury, the neglect of a fickle public, and

the injustice of an ungrateful king, could he have anticipated the splendid empires which would arise in the beautiful world he had discovered, and the nations, and tongues, and languages which Avere to fill its lands with his renown, and to revere and bless his name to the latest posterity.

Encyc. Britannica.


Toll for the brave !

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native shore.

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset;

Down went the Royal George With all her creAV complete!

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;

His last sea-fight is fought,

His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;

She sprang no fatal leak,

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,

His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,

Full charged with England’s thunder,

And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o’er;

And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.



Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of living. Those dangers which, in the vigour of youth we had learned to despise, assume new terrors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the prevailing passion of the mind, and the small remainder of life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off' our end, or provide for a continued existence.

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the wise are liable ! If I should judge of that part of life which lies before me by that which I have already seen the prospect is

hideous. Experience tells me that my past enjoyments have brought no real felicity, and sensation assures me that those I have felt are stronger than those to come. Yet experience and sensation in vain persuade; hope, more powerful than either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty ; some happiness, in long perspective, still beckons me to pursue ; and, like a losing gamester, every new disappointment increases my ardour to continue the game.

Whence, then, is this increased love of life, which grows upon us with our years ? whence comes it that we thus make greater efforts to preserve our existence at a period when it becomes scarce worth the keeping ? Is it that nature, attentive to the preservation of mankind, iixcreases our wishes to live while she lessens our enjoyments ; and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips imagination in the spoil ? Life would be insupportable to an old man who, loaded with infirmities, feared death no more than when in the vigour of manhood; the numberless calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleasure, would at once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery ; but happily the contempt of death forsakes him at a time when it could only be prejudicial, and life acquires an imaginary value in proportion as its real value is no more.

Our attachment to every object around us increases in general from the length of our acquaintance with it. “ I would not choose,” says a French philosopher, “ to see an old post pulled up with which I had been long acquainted.” A mind long habituated to a certain set of objects insensibly becomes fond of seeing them ; visits them from habit, and parts from them with reluctance. From hence proceeds the avarice of the old in

every kind of possession; they love the Avorld and all that it produces; they love life and all its advantages, not because it gives them pleasure, but because they have known it long.

Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, commanded that all who were unjustly detained in prison during the preceding reigns should be set free. Among the number who came to thank their deliverer on this occasion there appeared a majestic old man, who, hilling at the emperor’s feet, addressed him as follows : “ Great father of China, behold a wretch, now eighty-five years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-two. I was imprisoned, though a stranger to crime, or without being even confronted with my accusers. I have now lived in solitude and darkness for more than fifty years, and am grown familiar with distress. As yet dazzled with the splendour of that sun to which you have restored me, I have been wandering the streets to find out some friend that would assist, or relieve, or remember me ; but my friends, my family, and relations are all dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me, then, O Chinvang, to wear out the wretched remains of life in my former prison ; the Avails of my dungeon are to me more pleasing than the most splendid palace. I have not long to live, and shall be unhappy unless I spend the rest of my days where my youth was passed—in that prison from which you Avere pleased to release me.”

The old man’s passion for confinement is similar to that we all have for life. We are habituated to the prison, Ave look round with discontent, are displeased Avith the abode, and yet the length of our captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we have planted, the houses Ave have built, or the posterity Ave have begotten, all

serve to bind us closer to earth, and imbitter our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaintance ; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and amusing; its company pleases, yet for all this it is but little regarded. To us who are declined in years, life appears like an old friend; its jests have been anticipated in former conversation; it has no new story to make us smile, no new improvement with which to surprise, yet still we love it; destitute of every enjoyment, still we love it; husband the wasting treasure with increasing frugality, and feel all the poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation.

Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sincere, brave, an Englishman. He had a complete fortune of his own, and the love of the king his master, which was equivalent to riches. Life opened all her treasures before him, and promised a long succession of future happiness. He came, tasted of the entertainment, but was disgusted even at the beginning. He professed an aversion to living, was tired of walking round the same circle; had tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow weaker at every repetition. “ If life be in youth so displeasing,” cried he to himself, ■“ what will it appear when age comes on ? if it be at present indifferent, sure it will then be execrable.” This thought imbittered every reflection, till at last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he ended the debate with a pistol! Had this self-deluded man been apprised that existence grows more desirable to us the longer we exist, he would then have faced old age without shrinking; he would have boldly dared to live, and served that society by his future assiduity which he basely injured by his desertion.



I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams;

I hear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet Luds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,

As she dances about the sun.

I Avield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under ;

And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;

And all the night ’tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits,

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,

It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The spirit he loves remains ;

And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.


The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes And his burning plumes outspread,

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack When the morning star shines red.

As on the jag of a mountain crag

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings ;

And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden.

Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor By the midnight breezes strewn;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun’s throne with a burning zone,

And the moon’s with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.

From cape to cape with a bridge-like shape Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow ;

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of the earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I rise and upbuild it again.




There are persons who never see the light of day ; they live in pits and mines, and there the}work, there they take their pleasure, and there perhaps they die. Do you think they have any right idea, though they have eyes, of the sun’s radiance, of the sun’s warmth ? any idea of the beautiful arching heavens, the blue sky, the soft clouds, and the moon and stars by night ? any idea of the high mountain, and the green smiling earth ?    0 what an hour it is for him who is

suddenly brought from such a pit or cave, from the dull red glow and the flickering glare of torches, and that monotony of artificial twilight, in which day and night are lost, is suddenly, I say, brought thence, and for the first time sees the bright sun moving majestically from east to west, and witnesses the gradual graceful changes of the air and sky from morn till fragrant evening ! And oh ! what a sight for one born blind to begin to see,—a sense altogether foreign to all his previous conceptions ! What a marvellous new state of being, which, though he ever had the senses of hearing and of touch, never had he been able, by the words of others, or any means of information he possessed, to bring home to himself in the faintest measure! Would he not find himself, as it is said, in a “ new world T What a revolution would take place in his modes of thought, in his habits, in his ways, and in his doings hour by hour ! He would no longer direct himself with his hands and his hearing; he would no longer ' 'topc about \ he would sec ]—he would at a glance take in ten thousand objects, and, what is more, their relations and their positions the one towards the other. He would know what was great and

what was little, what was near, what was distant, what things converged together, and what things were ever separate; in a word, he would see all things as a whole, and in subjection to himself as a centre.

But further, he would gain knowledge of something closer to himself and more personal, than all these various objects; of something very different from the forms and groups in which light dwelt as in a tabernacle, and which excited his admiration and love. He would discover lying upon him, spreading over him, penetrating him, the festering seeds of unhealthiness and disease in their primary and minutest forms. The air around us is charged with a subtle powder or dust, which falls down softly on every thing, silently sheds itself on every thing, soils and stains every thing, and, if suffered to remain undisturbed, induces sickness and engenders pestilence. It is like those ashes of the furnace, which Moses was instructed to take up and scatter in the face of heaven, that they might become ulcers and blisters upon the flesh of the Egyptians This subtle plague is felt in its ultimate consequences by all, the blind as well as those who see ; but it is by the eyesight that we discern it in its origin and in its progress ; it is by the sun’s light that we discern our own defilement, and the need we have of continual cleansing to rid ourselves of it.

Now what is this dust and dirt but a figure of sin ? so subtle in its approach, so multitudinous in its array, so incessant in its solicitations, so insignificant in its appearance, so poisonous in its effects. It falls on the soul gently and imperceptibly ; but it gradually breeds wounds and sores, and ends in everlasting death. And as we cannot see the atoms of dust that have settled on us

without the light, and as that same light, which makes us to see them, teaches us withal, by their very contrast with itself, their unseemliness and dishonour, so the light of the invisible world, the teaching and examples of revealed truth, bring home to us both the existence and also the deformity of sin, of which we should be unmindful or forgetful without them. And as there are men who live in caverns and mines, and never see the face of day, and do their work as best they can by torch-light, so there are multitudes, nay, whole races of men, who, though possessed of eyes by nature, cannot use them duly, because they live in the spiritual pit, in the region of darkness, “ in the land of wretchedness and gloom, where there is the shadow of death, and where order is not.”

Dr. Newman.


Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover;

Thy braes, how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover!

For ever now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;

For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love—the flower of Yarrow.

He promised me a milk-white steed To bear me to his father’s bowers ;

He promised me a little page

To squire me to his father’s towers;

He promised me a wedding ring—

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ;—

Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow !

His mother from the window looked With call the longing of a mother ;

His little sister weeping walked

The green-wood path to meet her brother ;

They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough ;

They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look—

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!

No longer walk, thou lovely maid—

Alas, thou hast no more a brother!

No longer seek him east or west,

And search no more the forest thorough ;

For wandering in the night so dark,

He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek,

No other youth shall be my marrow—

I’ll seek thy body in the stream,

And then with thee I’ll sleep in Yarrow.

—The tear did never leave her cheek,

No other youth became her marrow—

She found his body in the stream,

And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.



There is no passion which steals into the heart more imperceptibly, and covers itself under more disguises, than pride. For my own part, I think if there is any passion or vice which I am wholly a stranger to, it is this ; though at the same time, perhaps this very judgment which I

form of myself, proceeds in some measure from this corrupt principle.

T have been always wonderfully delighted with that sentence in Holy Writ,—“ Pride was not made for man,” as he is, (1) a sinful, (2) an ignorant, (3) a miserable being.

There is nothing in his understanding, in his will, or in his present condition, that can tempt any considerate creature to pride or vanity.

These three very reasons why he should not be proud, are, notwithstanding, the reasons why he is so. Were he not a sinful creature, he would not be subject to a passion which rises from the depravity of his nature ; were he not an ignorant creature, he would see that he has nothing to tie proud of; and were not the whole species miserable, he would not have those wretched objects of comparison before his eyes, which are the occasions of this passion, and which make one man value himself more than another.

A wise man will be contented that his glory be deferred until such time as he shall be truly glorified ; when his understanding shall be cleared, his will rectified, and his happiness assured; or in other words, when he shall be neither sinful, nor ignorant, nor miserable.

If there be any thing that makes human nature appear ridiculous to beings of superior faculties, it must be pride. They know so well the vanity of those imaginary perfections that swell the heart of man, and of those little supernumerary advantages whether in birth, fortune, or title, which one man enjoys above another, that it must certainly very much astonish, if it does not very much divert them, when they see a mortal puffed up, and valuing himself above his neighbours, on any of these accounts, at the same time that he is liable to all the common calamities of the species.

To set this thought in its true light, we will fancy, if you please, that yonder mole-hill is inhabited by reasonable creatures; and that every ant (his shape and way of life only excepted) is endowed with human passions. How should we smile to hear one give us an account of the pedigrees, distinctions, and titles that reign among them!—Observe how the whole swarm divide and make way for the ant that passes through them ! You must understand he is an emmet of quality, and has better blood in his veins than any ant in the mole-hill. Ho you not see how sensible he is of it, how slow he marches forward, how the whole rabble of ants keep their distance ? Here you may observe one placed upon a little eminence, and looking down on a long row of labourers. He is the richest insect on this side the hillock: he has a walk of half-a-yard in length, and a quarter of an inch in breadth; he keeps a hundred menial servants, and has at least fifteen barley-corns in his granary. He is now chiding and beslaving the emmet that stands before him, one who, for all that we can discover, is as good an emmet as himself.

But here comes an insect of rank ! Ho not you take notice of a little white straw that he carries in his mouth ? That straw, you must understand, he would not part with for the longest tract about the mole-hill: you cannot conceive what he has undergone to purchase it! See how the ants of all qualities and conditions swarm about him ! Should that straw drop out of his mouth, you would see all this numerous circle of. attendants follow the next that took it up; and leave the discarded insect, or run over his back, to come at his successor.

If now you have a mind to see all the ladies of the mole-hill, observe, first, the pismire that

listens to the emmet on her left hand, at the same time that she seems to turn away her head from him. He tells this poor insect that she is a goddess; that her eyes are brighter than the sun ; that life and death are at her disposal. She believes him, and gives herself a thousand little airs upon it. Mark the vanity of the pismire on your left hand. She can scarce crawl with age; but you must know she values herself upon her birth ; and if you mind, spurns at every one that comes within her reach. The little nimble coquette, that is running by the side of her, is a wit. She has broken many a pismire’s heart. Ho but observe what a drove of lovers are running after her.

We will here finish this imaginary scene. But first of all, to draw the parallel closer, will suppose, if you please, that death comes down upon the mole-hill, in the shape of a cock-sparrow, who picks up, without distinction, the pismire of quality and his flatterers, the pismire of substance and day-labourers, the white-straw officer and his sycophants, with all the goddesses, wits, and beauties of the mole-hill.

May we not imagine, that beings of superior natures and perfections regard all the instances of pride and vanity among our species, in the same kind of view, when they take a survey of those who inhabit this earth; or (in the language of an ingenious French poet) of those pismires that people this heap of dirt, which human vanity has divided into climates and regions?

A ddisov.


From Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled ;

Had trod the hanks of Clyde, and Tay,

And with the Tweed had travelled ;

And when we came to Clovenford,

Then said my ‘ winsome Marrow,’

Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,

And see the Braes of Yarrow.”

“ Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,

Who have been buying, selling,

Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;

Each maiden to her dwelling !

On Yarrow’s banks let herons feed,

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow !

But we will downward with the Tweed,

Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

“ There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us ;

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus ;

There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow :

Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow ?

“ What’s Yarrow but a river bare,

That glides the dark hills under ?

There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder.”

—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; My True-love sighed for sorrow ;

And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow !

“ Oli! green,” said I, “ are Yarrow’s liolms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing !

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

But we will leave it growing.

O’er hilly path, and open Strath,

We’ll wander Scotland thorough ;

But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow.

Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ;

The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake Float double—swan and shadow !

Yve will not see them ; will not go,

To-day, nor yet to-morrow;

Enough if in our hearts we know There’s such a place as Yarrow.

Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown !

It must, or we shall rue it:

We have a vision of our own ;

Ah ! why should we undo it ?

The treasured dreams of times long past, We ll keep them, winsome Marrow !

For when we’re there, although ’tis fair, ’Twill be another Yarrow !

“ If Care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,—

Should we be loth to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy;

Should life be dull, and spirits low,

Twill soothe us in our sorrow,

That earth has something yet to show,

The bonny holms of Yarrow ! ”




The finest and most comprehensive view of Dublin is obtained from the eminence near the Magazine in the Phoenix Park. From this point the spectator sees before him the entire extent of the city, its splendid bridges, and the domes and spires of its public buildings and churches. The Park is a royal demesne, containing the summer residence of the Viceroy, and is a favourite place of resort for the recreation of the citizens. Here also are situated the Zoological Gardens, on a plot of ground sloping to the margin of a small l ike. Numerous hawthorn groves are scattered through the Park, which in spring time are loaded with snow-white blossoms, and give a delicious


fragrance to the air. The open spaces between the woods and copses are for the most part irregular and uneven; the principal level plain is the “ Fifteen Acres,” though why so named it would be difficult to determine, as its area is said to be three hundred acres. This place is used for exercising the troops of the garrison; reviews frequently taking place during the summer season.

From the Park to the North Wall Lighthouse, a distance of three miles, lines of noble quays, connected by numerous bridges, extend along the banks of the Liffey. The view of the city from Carlisle-bridge is distinguished for its grandeur and beauty. Sackville-street, adorned by the Nelson Monument, the Post Office, and Rotundo, stretches to the north; while to the south lies


Westmoreland-street, terminated by the ancient walls of Trinity College, and the noble Corinthian portico of the Bank of Ireland. On the north bank, east of the bridge, stands the Custom House, a magnificent structure; and westward in the distance is seen the massive dome of the Four Courts.

Viewed from the Hill of Howth, Dublin Bay forms a picture whose features are as varied as they are beautiful and extensive.

A lighthouse stands on the southern side of the hill, on a small promontory nearly detached from the mainland by a deep ravine. Here, it is said, the remnant of the Danes who escaped from the battle of Clontarf insulated themselves by digging a fosse across the neck of the promontory, and


defended their little fortress until they were carried off in their vessels.

A few years ago the handsome and flourishing town of Kingstown, situated on the south side of Dublin Bay, was a poor village, called Dunleary, consisting almost entirely of fishermen’s cabins! The construction of a capacious harbour was the first and great step for the prosperity of the town, which was further advanced by the formation of a railway, which connects it with the metropolis.

The County of Wicklow has justly been termed “ The Garden of Ireland,” for nowhere else is to be found assembled such a variety of natural beauties, heightened and improved by the hand of art. The beauties of this region have afforded

a subject for the pen of Ireland’s sweetest lyrist. “ The Meeting of the Waters,” one of the most admired of the Irish Melodies, celebrates the beauties of the Yale of Avoca, and another melody commemorates a romantic legend of Glendalough.

There are several routes to Wicklow, but that which passes through the villages of Dundrum and Enniskerry is probably the most attractive on account of its romantic scenery. Approaching Enniskerry, the traveller beholds before him the striking natural cleft in the heart of the mountain, called “ The Scalp,” through which the road runs. The sides of this singular defile are covered with huge masses of disjointed granite, conveying to the mind of the passenger the idea that they are momentarily in danger of toppling down on his head.

At a short distance from the village is the picturesque waterfall of Powerscourt, which is nearly two hundred feet in height. It is situated at the extremity of a beautiful semicircular amphitheatre formed by mountains wooded to their summits.

From the waterfall the river Ear Me flows

#    #    O

through a romantic glen considerably more than a mile in length, the precipitous sides of which are thickly clothed with oaks. About midway down the glen there is a huge mass of rock projecting at a great height above the river, which has received the name of the Lovers’ Leap.

Following the course of the Dargle downwards, we reach at a distance of four miles the town of Bray, situated on the seashore, about a mile beyond the promontory of Bray Head.

A few miles south of Bray lies the Glen of the Downs, a beautiful dell, walled in by mountains (clothed in many parts with oak, ash, and evergreen shrubs) so precipitous as barely to leave room for the narrow road and the small bright


stream that glides through it. Near the outlet of the glen is the pretty hamlet of Delgany, situated in the centre of a beautiful tract of country, and surrounded with objects of interest.

The river Vartry forms at the head of the Devil’s Glen a fall of many feet in an unbroken descent, which is exceedingly beautiful.

Two or three miles to the northward of Round-wood is the beautiful lake called Luggelaw. It is encompassed on all sides by mountains, some of them of the wildest character.

From Glendalough, which has been described in a former book, a road leads to Glenmalure, a valley, through which for several miles winds the Avonbeg. The character of this glen is different from the picturesque beauty of the wooded Dargle, or the softer features of the Glen of the Downs; its aspect is wild and impressive, the rude and barren rocks which rise abruptly on either hand, giving a savage grandeur to the scene. At the junction of Glenmalure with the Yale of Avoca, the Avonbeg and Avonmore unite their streams, and the confluence of these rivers is termed the Meeting of the Waters. Nature has here scattered her charms with a liberal hand; waving woods, clear waters, and verdant shores, combine to render the scene one of surpassing softness and tranquillity; as has been gracefully described by Moore in one of his melodies.


When Bacchus, as the poets tell us, was roaming in his youth through the islands of the West, the last he visited, and the one he loved the most, was Ireland. So much did he love it that when

he was returning home to heaven, he took from his crown the vine that bound it, and was about to plant it in the ground as a memorial of his affection. But being assured by the aged king of the island that Saturn himself of old, when lying hid there from the wrath of Jupiter, had thrice planted the vine in vain (as it always withered away, by reason of the envy which Hyperion from the first had shown towards Ireland); the wine-god wept. Then taking from his thyrsus a branch of ivy, he planted it on the spot where his tears had fallen, and blessed it, and said, “ Hail and farewell! Flourish for ever here; for thou wilt flourish here, Child of the shade and of the shower! and if, as the Titan Prometheus once prophesied amongst the assembled gods, this island, now the happiest of all that are bathed by the ocean stream, be doomed to be strewn in future ages with the towers of her kings and the temples of her gods, do thou fondly embrace those ruins—clothe them with thy robes of unfading verdure, and make them more lovely in their desolation than the towers and temples of other lands in all their uninjured beauty!”


There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar;

I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.


Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin—his control Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, un coffined, and unknown.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,

And monarclis tremble in their capitals,—

The oak leviathans, whose hu<tp ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada’s pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:—not so thou, Unchangeable ,save to thy wild waves’ play— Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow— Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,

Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving ;boundless, endless, and sublime— The image of Eternity—the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror—’twas a pleasing fear,

For I was as it were a child of thee,

And trusted to tliy billows far and near,

And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.



A year and a month after the departure of the twelve tribes from Egypt, they broke up their encampment in the elevated region about Mount Sinai. The nation assumed the appearance of a regular army; military order and discipline were established; and each tribe marched in succession under its own leaders, with its banner displayed, and took up its position in the appointed quarter of the camp. The whole number of lighting men was six hundred and three thousand live hundred and fifty-five. This formidable army set forward singing, “ Let Gocl arise, and let his enemies be scattered;'' and thus, already furnished with their code of laws, and irresistible both in then numbers, and in the promised assistance of God, they marched onward to take possession of the fruitful land, which had been promised to their fathers. The pillar of lire still led the way by night, and the pillar of cloud by day; but Moses likewise secured the assistance of Hobab, his brother-in-law, who had been accustomed to traverse the desert, and know intimately the bearings of the country, the usual resting-places, the water-springs, and the character and habits of the wandering tribes.

Their march was interrupted by adventures, most of which were occasioned by their own secli-

G 2

tious murmurings; but at length they arrived at the southern frontier of the promised land, at a place called Kadesh Barnea. Their wanderings are now drawing to an end, and they are to reaj > the reward of all their toil and suffering, the final testimony of the divine favour. Twelve spies, one from each tribe, are sent out to make observations on the fruitfulness of the country, the character of the inhabitants, and the strength of their fortifications. Among these the most distinguished are Caleb, of the tribe of Judah, and Joshua, of Ephraim. During the forty days of their absence the assembled people anxiously await their return; and at length they are seen advancing towards the camp, loaded with delicious fruits, for it was now about the time of the vintage.

In one respect their report is most satisfactory; Canaan had undergone great improvement since the time when Abraham and Jacob had pastured their flocks in the open and unoccupied plains. The vine, the olive, the pomegranate, and the fig, were cultivated with great success ; and the rich sample which they bear (a bunch of grapes, almost as much as two men could carry, suspended from a pole, with figs and pomegranates,) confirms their cheering narrative. But at the same time, they bring intelligence which overwhelms the whole people with terror. These treasures weiy guarded by fierce and warlike tribes, not likely to abandon their native plain without an obstinate and bloody contest. Their cities were strongly fortified; and, above all, nearly the first enemies they would have to encounter would be men of colossal stature, the descendants of the gigantic people celebrated in their early national tradition, a people before whom they wouid be as grasshoppers. Their long slavery had debased the minds of the Jewish people: their confidence in the divine protection gave way at

once before their sense of physical inferiority, and the total deficiency of moral courage. “ Back to Egypt” is the general cry. Joshua and Caleb in vain reprove their pusillanimity, and want of faith in the promises of God. Moses therefore is instructed by God to inform the people that, on account of their murmurings, all who left the land of Egypt should perish in the wilderness, save < »illy Joshua and Caleb. He therefore commands them, on the authority of God, to retreat directly from the borders of the promised land. They are neither to return to Egypt, nor to attempt an easier conquest; but they are condemned to wander for a definite period of forty years in the barren and dismal regions through whicli they had marched. No hope is held out that their lives shall be prolonged; they are distinctly assured that not one of them shall receive those blessings, on the promise of which they had surrendered themselves to the guidance of Moses, abandoned Egypt, and traversed the wilderness.

Of the Hebrew history during the succeeding thirty-eight years passed in the desert, we know little excepting an attempt made by Korah and his followers, to assume to themselves the rights of the priests whom God had set apart to minister-holy things. They were miraculously destroyed, and the Levites confirmed in their rights by a miracle. Each tribe was commanded to take a rod and mark it with the name of their chief, and the rod which should blossom was to show the tribe chosen. Then Moses laid the twelve rods before the tabernacle, and the rod which blossomed was Aaron’s for the tribe of Levi, and it brought forth almonds. The people were satisfied, and the rod was laid up in the ark, as a testimony or witness that the office of the priesthood belonged to the tribe of Levi.

But during these thirty-eight years they were undergoing a course of discipline which fitted them for achieving the conquest from which they had formerly shrunk. When the former generation, therefore, had gradually sunk into the grave, and a new race had sprung up, trained to the hold and hardy habits of the wandering Arab ; when the free air of the desert had invigorated their frames, and the canker of slavery had worn out of their minds; and when continued miraculous support for so many years had strengthened their faith in the assistance of God, the Hebrew nation again suddenly appeared at Kadesli, the same point on the southern frontier of Palestine from which they had retreated. At this point Mirian died, and was buried with great honour. Tin-whole camp was distressed for the want of water, and was again miraculously supplied. Here likewise Moses himself betrayed his mistrust in the divine assistance, and the final sentence was issued, that he should not lead the nation into the possession of the promised land. Many formidable difficulties opposed their penetrating into Canaan on this frontier. They were therefore directed to make a circuit; to pass around the Dead Sea, and crossing the Jordan, to proceed at once into the heart of the richest and least defensible part of the country. Before they commenced this march Aaron died, and was buried at Mount Hor. As the Edomites refused to let them pass through the defiles in the mountains, they were forced to march southward along the valley, now called El Araba, and turn the ridge where it is very low, close to the branch of the Red Sea. It was at this period that they were infested by fiery serpents, of the biting of which they were cured by steadfastly gazing on a serpent of brass erected at the command of God by Moses. At length, not-

withstanding the opposition of the Moabites, Midianites, and Amorites, they drew near the termination of their wanderings. But the triumph of the people was to be preceded by the death of the lawgiver. He was to behold, not to enter, the promised land. Once he had sinned from want of confidence in the divine assistance, and the penalty affixed to his offence was now exacted. As his end approached, he summoned the assembly of all Israel to receive his final instructions. He recounted their whole eventful history since their deliverance, their toils, their dangers, their triumphs. He recapitulated and consolidated in one brief code (the Book of Deuteronomy) the

whole law, in some degree modified and adapted to the future circumstances of the republic. He then appointed a solemn ratification of this covenant with God to he made as soon as they were in possession of the country which now lay before them. And, finally, having enlarged on the blessings of obedience ; having, with dark and melancholy foreboding of the final destiny of the people, laid before them still more at length the consequences of apostacy and wickedness; and having enriched the national poetry with an ode worthy of him who composed the Hymn of Triumph by the Red Sea, Moses was directed to ascend the loftiest eminence in the neighbourhood, in order that he might once behold, before his eyes were closed for ever, the land of promise. From the top of Mount Abarim, or Nebo, the lawgiver, whose eyes were not dimmed, and who had suffered none of the infirmities of age, might •survey a large tract of country. To the right, lay the mountain pastures of Gilead, and the romantic district of Bashan; the windings of the Jordan might be traced along its broad and level valley, till, almost beneath his feet, it flowed into the Dead Sea. To the north spread the luxuriant plains of Esdraelon, and the more hilly yet fruitful country of Lower Galilee. Right opposite stood the city of Jericho, embowered in its groves of palms; beyond it the mountains of Judaea, rising above each other till they reached the sea. Gazing on this magnificent prospect, and beholding in prophetic anticipation his great and happy commonwealth occupying its numerous towns and blooming fields, Moses breathed his last. The place of his burial was unknown, lest, perhaps, the impious gratitude of his followers might ascribe divine honours to his name, and assemble to worship at his sepulchre.



The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest, when summer is green, That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest, when autumn hath blown,

That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strown.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed on the face of the foe as he passed: And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill , And their hearts but once heaved and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed, with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: The tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Asliur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentiles, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!



When Moses was dead, Joshua the son of Nun, of the tribe of Ephraim, who had already been appointed his successor, was commanded by God to lead his people into the land of Canaan, and exhorted to that faith, courage, and obedience, which was to be rewarded by success. “As I was with Moses, so will I be with thee. I will not fail thee or forsake thee. Only be thou strong, and very courageous, that thou mayst observe to do all the law which my servant Moses commanded thee; turn not from it to the right hand, nor to the left, that thou mayst prosper whithersoever thou goest.”

Thus divinely appointed, Joshua received from all the people a promise of obedience. He then removed his camp to the borders of Jordan, and sent spies across to Jericho, a fortified town on the other side the river, and the first thejr would have to besiege.

After this he prepared to cross the river with all his people, their wives, children, and substance, in face of many hostile nations. But a miracle was vouchsafed to him, as it had been to Moses, on the opening of his mission. Forty years ago the waters of the Red Sea had been divided for Moses and the Israelites to pass over into the wilderness ; and now the same divine hand made a way for Joshua to lead their children across tiie river Jordan into the land of promise.

It was the time of harvest, when the Jordan was at its fullest, and accustomed to overflow its banks; but as soon as the priests who bore the ark touched its waters, the waters divided, and stood

in a heap on each side, while the whole people passed over on dry ground. Thus was it ordained that the children of Abraham should first enter easily and peacefully upon their inheritance—soon to be won by the sword. They encamped at Gilgal, on the other side the river, where they celebrated the Passover for the first time in their new land.

The first Canaanitish city that fell into then-hands was Jericho, of which they obtained possession by a miracle.

They were commanded to compass the city once every day for six days—the men of war were to march first round it, the priests following with the ark, and all preserving perfect silence. On the seventh day they were to compass it seven times, and on the seventh time, at a blast from the trumpets, all the people were to shout with a great shout, on which it was promised that the walls of the city should fall down. And the people did as the}" were commanded, and on the seventh day, at the blast of the trumpets, Joshua called aloud and said, “ Shout! for the Lord hath given you the city!” And they shouted, and the walls of Jericlio fell, and they entered and took possession. But the city was pulled down, and it was commanded that no man should afterwards rebuild it.

Thus was the first great frontier town delivered into the hands of Joshua; the second, Ai, was taken by force. Gibeon, another great city, was saved by the craft of the inhabitants, who, under a ialse account of themselves, obtained a league or promise of safety from the Israelites; but they were reduced to a servile condition, as the Israelites had been expressly forbidden by the Lord to make peace with any of the Canaanites.

By the destruction of the five kings of the Amorites, the whole of the south part of the land fell into the hands of Joshua. But the northern

part still remained unconquered. At length an immense army was collected by divers nations, under the command of Hazor, king of Jabin; and the Israelites defeated them at the waters of Merom, a small lake of the Jordan, beyond the Sea of Galilee. And Joshua also cut off some of that giant race, the Anakims, whom the people had so greatly feared. Thus the land was possessed by the children of Israel (for those Canaanites who still remained in the land became subject to them), excepting that portion near the Mediterranean, which they unwisely and against the divine command left in possession of the Philistines, who afterwards sorely troubled them. The territory thus obtained was ordered to be equally divided among their tribes and families, according to their respective numbers; and the persons selected to superintend this national work were, Eleazar, the high priest; Joshua, who acted in the character of judge, and the twelve princes or heads of Israel. Every tribe was put in possession of a separate district or province, in which all the occupiers of the land were not only Israelites, but more particularly sprung from the same stock, and descendants of the same patriarch. The several families, again, were placed in the same neighbourhood, receivingtheir inheritance in the same part or subdivision of the tribe. To secure the permanence and mutual independence of every separate tribe, a law was enacted by the authority of heaven, providing that the landed property of every Israelite should be unalienable. Whatever circumstances might befall the owner of a field, and whatever might be the obligations under which he placed himself to his creditor, he was released from all claims at the year of jubilee. “Ye shall hallow,” said the inspired legislator, “the fiftieth year, ar “proclaim liberty throughout all the land urd

“the inhabitants thereof. It shall be a jubilee “unto you, and ye shall return every man to his “ possession, and ye shall return every man unto “liis family. And the land shall not be sold for “ever; for the land is mine, saith the Lord; for ye “are strangers and sojourners with me.”

Though. a Hebrew could not thus divest himself of his land in perpetuity, he could dispose of it so far as to put another person in possession of it during a certain number of years, reserving to himself and his relations the right of redeeming it, should they ever possess the means; and having, at all events, the sure prospect of reversion at the period of the jubilee. In the eye of the lawgiver this transaction was not regarded as a sale of the land, but merely of the crops for a stated number of seasons. It might, indeed, have been considered simply as a lease, had not the owner, as well as his nearest kinsman, enjoyed the privilege of resuming occupation, whenever they could repay the sum for which the temporary use of the land had been purchased. Houses that were built in fields or villages, were, in regard to the principle of alienation, placed on the same footing as the lands themselves ; being redeemable at all times, and destined to return to their original owners in the year of jubilee. But it is worthy of notice, that houses in cities and large towns, were, when sold, redeemable only during one year; after which the sale was held binding for ever. There was, indeed, an exception in this case in favour of the Levites, who could, at any time, redeem “the houses of the cities of their possession,” and who, moreover, enjoyed the full advantage of the fiftieth year.


The Hebrews, like most other nations in a similai state of society, held their lands on the condition of military service. The grounds of exemption allowed by Moses prove clearly that every man of competent age was bound to bear arms in defence of his country. In every tribe there was a chief called the Prince of the tribe, or the Head of Thousands; and under him were the Princes of Families, or Commanders of Hundreds. A tribe was divided into several families ; the term being used here, not in its ordinary acceptation, to signify a mere household, but rather in the heraldic sense, to denote a lineage or kindred descended from a common ancestor, and constituting one of the main branches of an original stock. It appears, moreover, that a record of these Families, of the households in each, and even of the individuals belonging to every household, was placed in the hands of the chief ruler.

But the policy established by the Jewish lawgiver was not confined to the constitution and government of the separate tribes. It likewise extended its regulations to the common welfare of the whole, as one kingdom under the special direction of Jehovah; and provided that on all great occasions they should have the means of readily uniting their councils and combining their strength. Even during the less orderly period which immediately followed the settlement of the Hebrews in the land of their inheritance, we find traces of a general government, a national senate, whose deliberations guided the administration of affairs in all cases of difficulty or hazard ; judges,

raised up on extraordinary emergencies, and invested with a high degree of executive authority as the first magistrates of the commonwealth; and, lastly, the controlling voice of the congregation of Israel, whose concurrence appears to have been at all times necessary to give vigour and effect to the resolutions of then* leaders. To these constituent parts of the Hebrew government wo may add the Oracle or voice of Jehovah, without whose sanction no measure of importance could be adopted either by the council or by the judge.

Provision was, moreover, made by Moses, and established by Joshua, for the due administration of justice throughout the land. “Judges and officers,” said the former, “ shalt thou make in all thy gates, which the Lord thy God giveth thee ; and they shall judge the people with just judgment. Thou shalt not wrest judgment ; thou shaft not respect persons, neither take a gift ; for a gift doth blind the eyes of the wise, and pervert the words of the righteous.” The place where those judges held their audience was the gate of the city; for, as the Israelites were all husbandmen, who went out in the morning to their work, and did not return till the evening, the gate of the city was the place where they most frequently met. The judges took their seats immediately after morning prayers, and continued till the end of the sixth hour, or twelve o’clock ; and their authority, though not in capital cases, continued to be respected by the Israelites long after Jerusalem was levelled with the ground.

To this brief account of the political constitution of the ancient Jews may be added some notice of the tribe of Levi, the duties and revenues of which were fixed by peculiar laws, and which, inasmuch as it supplied the whole nation with judges, lawyers, scribes, teachers, and physicians,

was in a great variety of its avocations as closely connected with secular life as with the ministry of the tabernacle. We find in the first chapter of the Book of Numbers, a command issued by the authority of Jehovah to separate the tribe now mentioned from the rest of their brethren, and not to enrol them among those who were to engage in war. It was determined, on similar grounds, that the Levites were to have no inheritance in the land, like the other tribes, but were to receive from their kinsmen, in name of maintenance, a tenth part of the gross produce of their fields and vineyards. The occupations for which they were set apart were altogether incompatible with the pursuits of agriculture or the feeding of cattle. It was deemed expedient, therefore, that they should be relieved from the cares and toil connected with the possession of territorial estates, and devote their whole attention to the service of the altar and the instruction of the people. To effect these wise purposes, it was necessary that the members of this learned body should not be confined to one particular district, but that they should be distributed among all the other tribes, according to the extent of their several inheritances and the amount of their population. With this view, the law provided that forty-eight cities should be set apart for them, together with such a portion of soil as might seem requisite for their comfort and more immediate wants. Six of these cities were invested with the special right of affording refuge and protection to a certain class of criminals. The man-slayer or he who ‘ killed his neighbour ignorantly ’ could demand admittance into the cities of refuge, and was entitled to gratuitous lodging and maintenance, until his cause should be determined by competent judges.

As learning and the several professions con-

nected with the knowledge of letters were con-lined almost exclusively to the tribe of Levi, the distribution of its members throughout the whole of the Hebrew commonwealth was attended with many advantages. Every Levitical city became at once a school and a seat of justice. There the language, the traditions, the history, and the laws of their nation were the constant subjects of study, pursued with that zeal and earnestness which can only arise from the feeling of a sacred obligation, combined with the impulse of an ardent patriotism. Within their walls were deposited copies of tlieii religious, moral, and civil institutions, which it was their duty, not only to preserve, but to multiply. They kept, besides, the genealogies of the tribes, in which they marked the lineage of every family who could trace their descent to the Father of the Faithful. Being carefully instructed in the law, and possessed of the annals of their people from the earliest days, they were well qualified to supply the courts with magistrates and scribes, men who were fitted not only to administer justice, but also to frame a record of all their decisions. It is perfectly clear that, in the reign of David and of the succeeding kings, the judges and other legal officers were selected from among the Levites; there being in those days not fewer than six thousand of this learned body who held such appointments.


The King was on his throne,

The Satraps thronged the hall;

A thousand bright lamps shone O’er that high festival.

A thousand cups of gold,

In Judah deem’d divine—

Jehovah’s vessels hold

The godless heathen’s wine.

In that same hour and hall,

The fingers of a hand

Came forth against the wall,

And wrote as if on sand;

The fingers of a man;—

A solitary hand

Along the letters ran,

And traced them like a wand.

The monarch saw, and shook, And hade no more rejoice ;

All bloodless waxed his look,

And tremulous his voice.

“ Let the men of lore appear,

The wisest of the earth,

And expound the words of fear, Which mar our royal mirth. ”

Chaldea’s seers are good,

But here they have no skill;

And the unknown letters stood Untold and awful still.

And Babel’s men of age Are wise and deep in lore;

But now they were not sage, They saw—but knew no more

A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth,

He heard the king’s command,

He saw that writing's truth.

The lamps around were bright,

The prophecy in view;

He read it on that night,—

The morrow proved it true.

“ Belshazzar’s grave is made,

His kingdom passed away;

He, in the balance weighed,

Is light and worthless clay.

The shroud his robe of state,

His canopy the stone :

The Mede is at his gate!

The Persian on his throne!”



In the history of the Twelve Tribes of Israel, or Hebrew nation, and their government, it must be remembered that God was pleased to allow them to look to Him as their supreme Euler or King, whom they might consult in all their difficulties, through His high priest, at the place where He had chosen to place His Name—viz., where the tabernacle was set up. Thus their government has been called a Theocracy (divine government. When they fell, as they so often did, into idolatry, they were then punished by being left to themselves, which always ended by their falling into the hands of their enemies,—either of those Ca-naanites whom, contrary to God’s commands, they had suffered to remain in the land, or of the Mi-

dianites, or Moabites, or Philistines, or some other neighbouring nation. Suffering and oppression usually brought them at last to a sense of their sin; then they sought once more their God and King, and He, unwilling wholly to abandon His people, raised up deliverers for them. Some of these deliverers of Israel were not only warriors, but wise and just judges, who put down idolatry, restored obedience, and during their lives preserved the people free and happy. Such was Othniel, the son of Caleb’s younger brother, who delivered Israel from the King of Mesopotamia, and judged the land in peace for forty years.

Sometimes God raised up judges who were not themselves warriors, but who excited and directed some military leader to deliver the people from their enemies. Such was Deborah, the wife of Lapidoth, who judged Israel after Ehud. And when the Israelites had fallen into the hands of Jabin, King of one of the Canaanite cities, she was commissioned to call on Barak, the son of Abinoam, of the tribe of Naphthali, to raise an army and deliver his nation. He refused to go unless she went with him. Deborah consented, but she warned him that the journey would not tend to his honour, for that in consequence of his faintheartedness, the Lord would deliver up Sisera, the enemy’s general, into the hands of a woman, not of herself, but the wife of Heber the Kenite. Accordingly, though the Canaanites were defeated, Sisera was slain by the hand of a woman.

The song of Deborah on this occasion ends thus:—

“ So let all tliine enemies perish, 0 Lord:

But let them that love Him be as the sun When he goeth forth in his might.”

Again, some of these deliverers were simply men of great valour, unusual strength, and skill

in war, which qualities were of course increased by the elevating thought, that they were called by God to deliver then- nation. Such was Ehud, who delivered the children of Israel out of the hands of the Moabites, and who lived before Deborah’s time. Such was Gideon, whom God commanded first to destroy the altar of Baal in his native city, and then to deliver his people out of the hands of the Midianites, whose idolatries they had followed. His commission was confirmed to him by a miracle. Jeplitlia the Gileadite, who saved Israel from the Ammonites, was another of these warlike deliverers. And Samson, the son of Manoah, of the tribe of Dan, was another also, to whom God gave vast strength, but who performed no great act of deliverance, because his own obedience was very imperfect. He was permitted to show forth the divine power, indeed, against the Philistines, when he pulled down the pillars of their idol hall, but he involved himself in their destruction, after having judged Israel in an irregular manner for twenty years. After the death of Samson, we hear of no judge or deliverer in Israel for many years. The people occasionally inquired of the Lord through the high priest. But they sank into a lawless state, and every man did what was right in his own eyes.

The state of tilings was not much better while Eli the high priest judged Israel for forty years. He was not himself wicked, but he knew that his sons disobeyed God’s laws, and he restrained them not. Therefore was the Lord displeased against Eh and his sons, for they caused Israel to sin. And the people went out against the Philistines, and were smitten by the Philistines; then, in their presumption, thinking they should be victorious if the ark of God were among them, the elders of Israel sent to Shiloh, and brought the

•ark into the camp, and the two sons of Eli came with it. And a great shout of joy was raised in the camp, but vain was the shout and the confidence,—the ark indeed was there, but the Lord was not present with the ark. And the Philistines came upon them with great slaughter, and carried it off!

Old Eli sat by the road side watching (for he trembled for the ark), when one who had fled from the field of battle arrived and told the dreadful news—“Israel has fled before the Philistines; thy two sons, Hophni and Phineas are slain, and the ark of the Lord is taken.” And when mention was made of the ark of God, Eli fell backward from his seat, and died.

The ark, indeed, was taken by the idolatrous Philistines, but it proved a terrible evil to them. Wherever they carried it during the seven months it remained with them, there the people were smitten with a sore disease: so they sent it back to Israel with peace offerings. And it was brought at last to a place called Kirjath-jearim, where it remained twenty years.

But the Lord had not been all this time without a witness; for Samuel the prophet lived, and was a faithful teacher of righteousness, and reprover of sin. He was the son of Elkanali and Hannah, both faithful worshippers of God, and had been granted to their prayers. In pious gratitude they devoted him to the service of the Lord from his childhood, and he was brought up by Eli in the tabernacle. When still very young the Lord made him the bearer of a solemn warning to Eli of the ruin which was coming on his house. This was before the ark was removed from Shiloh. After that event, and the death of Eli, Samuel, who had long been established as a prophet in Israel, judged the people for many years. He endeavoured to

reform them, and persuaded them to put away their idols, and turn with sorrow and repentance to the Lord; then they implored him to pray for them. So the Lord was again favourable to them through the prayer of Samuel.

But when Samuel was old, his sons became judges, and they walked not in their father’s way: they were unjust, and the people grew tired of their government, and desired a king; and Samuel consulted the Lord, and was commanded to make them a king.


Saul, a young man of the tribe of Benjamin, remarkable for his stature, was elected. The qualities which recommended Saul to the choice of the tribes leave no room for doubt that it was chiefly as a military leader that he was raised to the throne. Nor was their expectation disappointed, so far as courage and zeal were required in conducting the affairs of war. But the impetuosity of the king’s character, and a certain indifference in regard to the claims of the national faith, paved the way for his downfall and the extinction of his family. Saul reigned forty years, when having been defeated in a battle with the Philistines, and his son Jonathan slain, he threw himself on his own sword and died. The act, which thus terminated the career of the first Hebrew monarch, exhibits a most affecting tragedy ; in which the valour of a gallant chief, contrasted with his despair and sorrow, throws a deceitful lustre over an event which the reader feels that he ought to condemn.

The person -whom Samuel was commissioned to choose as Saul’s successor was David, who belonged to the tribe of Judah. He was the youngest son of Jesse, and the great grandson of Boaz and Ruth. To the skill of an experienced warrior he added a deep reverence for the institutions of his country and the forms of divine worship; whence he procured the high distinction of being a man after God’s own heart. To this celebrated king was reserved the honour of taking from the Jebusites a strong fortress on the borders of Judah and Benjamin, and of laying there the foundations of Jerusalem, which became the metropolis of Palestine and the seat of the Hebrew government. On Mount Zion he built a suburb of considerable beauty and strength, which continued for many years to bear his name, and to reflect the magnificence of his genius. Not satisfied with this acquisition, he extended his arms on all sides, till the borders of his kingdom reached from the river Euphrates to the confines of Egypt. But the splendour of his reign was afterwards clouded by the rebellion of his sou Absalom; and the nation, which could now have defied the power of its bitterest enemies, was divided and miserably reduced by the foul passions that reigned in the royal palace. Still, notwithstanding the rebellion of Absalom, and the defection of certain military leaders, David bequeathed to his successor a flourishing kingdom; rapidly advancing in the arts of civilized life, enjoying an advantageous commerce, the respect of the neighbouring states, and a decided preponderance among the minor governments of Western Asia.

David employed the last years of his life in making preparations for the building of the temple. He appointed his son Solomon king over Israel, and his beautiful thanksgiving on this occasion,

as well as his prayer for his son and people, that they might keep God’s commandments, are recorded. He died full of years and honour.

The success which had attended the arms of his father, rendered the accession of Solomon tranquil and secure, so far, at least, as we consider the designs of the surrounding nations. Accordingly, finding himself in possession of quiet, as well as of an overflowing treasury, he proceeded to realize the pious intentions of David in regard to the House of God, and thereby to obey the last commands which had been imposed upon him before he received the crown. The chief glory of Solomon’s reign is identified with the erection of the temple. Nor were the advantages arising from this great undertaking confined to the spiritual objects to which it was principally subservient. On the contrary, the necessity of employing foreign artists, and of drawing part of his materials from a distance, suggested to the king the benefits of a regular trade; and as the plains of Syria produced more corn than the natives could consume, he supplied the merchants of Tyre and the adjoining ports with this valuable commodity, in return for the manufactured goods which his own subjects could not fabricate. It was in his reign that the Hebrews first became a commercial people ; and although considerable obscurity still hangs over the voyages which were undertaken by the mariners of Solomon, there is no reason to doubt that his ships were to be seen on the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, and the Persian Gulf. It was also in this reign that the limits of Jewish power attained their utmost reach, comprehending even the remarkable district of Palmyrene, a spacious and fertile province in the midst of a frightful desert. There were in it two principal towns, Thapsacus or Tiphsah and Palmyra,

from the latter of which the whole country took its name. Solomon,it is well known, took pleasure in adding to its beauty and strength, as being one of his main defences on the eastern border, and hence it is spoken of in Scripture as Tadmor in the wilderness.

But the popularity of Solomon’s government did not keep pace with the rapidity of his improvements or the magnificence of his works. Perhaps the vast extent of his undertakings may have led to unusual demands upon the industry of the people, and may have given rise to those discontents which, though repulsed during his own lifetime, were openly and boldly avowed on the accession of his son Relioboam. This prince, rejecting the advice of his aged counsellors, and following that of the younger and more violent, soon had the misfortune to see the greater part of his kingdom wrested from him. In reply to the address of his people, who entreated an alleviation of their burdens, he declared that instead of requiring less at their hands, he should demand more. My father made your yoke heavy, I will add to your yoke ; my father chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions.” Such a resolution, expressed in language at once so contemptuous and severe, alienated from his government ten tribes, who sought a more indulgent master in Jeroboam, a declared enemy of the house of David. Thus the Israelites were divided into two kingdoms; the one, consisting of ten tribes, called the kingdom of Israel; the other, consisting of the tribes of Judah and Benjamin, called the kingdom of Judah. The consequence of this division was an almost continual rivalship and warfare between the two kingdoms.


Fallen is thy throne, 0 Israel! Silence is o’er thy plains ;

Thy dwellings all lie desolate,

Thy children weep in chains.

Where are the dews that fed thee On Etham’s barren shore ?

The fire from heaven that led thee Now lights thy path no more.

Lord! thou didst love Jerusalem Once she was all thine own ;

Her love thy fairest heritage,

Her power thy glory’s throne,

Till evil came and blighted Thy long-loved olive-tree,

And Salem’s shrines were lighted For other gods than Thee.

Then sank the star of Solyma,

Then passed her glory’s day,

Like heath that in the wilderness The wild winds whirl away.

Silent and waste her bowers,

Where once the mighty trod ;

And sunk those guilty towers Where Baal reigned as God

“ Go,” said the Lord, “Ye conquerors Steep in her blood your swords,

And raze to earth her battlements,

For they are not the Lord’s.

Till Zion’s mournful daughter O’er kindred bones shall tread,

And Hinnom’s vale of slaughter Shall hide but half her dead.”

Thomas Moore.


After the revolt of the ten tribes, Jerusalem soon ceased to be regarded by the Israelites as the centre of their religion, and the bond of union among the descendants of Abraham. Jeroboam erected in his kingdom the emblems of a less pure faith, to which he confined the attention of his subjects; while the frequent wars that ensued, and the treaties formed on both sides with the Gentile nations on their respective borders, completed the estrangement which ambition had begun. Little attached to the native line of princes, the Israelites placed on the throne of Samaria a number of adventurers, who had no qualities to recommend them besides military courage and an irreconcilable hatred towards the more legitimate claimants of the house of David. The reigns of these sovereigns possess little interest; let it suffice, therefore, to say, that about two hundred and seventy years after the death of Solomon, the Israelites were subdued by Shalmaneser, the powerful monarch of Assyria, who carried them away captive into the remote provinces of his vast empire.

The kingdom of Judah, less distracted by the pretensions of usurpers, and confirmed in the principles of patriotism by a more rigid adherence to the law of Moses, continued during one hundred and thirty years longer to resist the encroachments of the rival powers, Egypt and Assyria, which now began to contend in earnest for the possession of Palestine. Several endeavours were made, even after the destruction of Samaria, to unite the energies of the twelve tribes, and thereby secure the independence of the sacred territory. But a pitiful jealousy had succeeded to the aversion created by a long course of hostile aggression, while the over-

whelming armies, which incessantly issued from the Euphrates and the Nile to select a field of battle within the borders of Canaan, soon left to the feeble councils of Jerusalem no other choice than that of an Egyptian or an Assyrian master. At length in the year six hundred and two before the Christian era, when Jehoiakim was on the throne of Judah, Nebuchadnezzar, who already shared with his father the government of Assyria, advanced into Palestine at the head of a formidable army. A timely submission saved the city, as well as the life of the pusillanimous monarch. But, after a short period, finding the conqueror engaged in more important affairs, the vanquished king made an effort to recover his dominions by throwing off the Babylonian yoke. The siege of Jerusalem was renewed with greater vigour on the part of the invaders, in the course of which Jehoiakim was killed, and his son Coniah or Jehoiachin ascended the throne. Scarcely, however, had the new sovereign taken up the reins of government, than he found it necessary to open the gates of his capital to the Assyrian prince, who carried him, his principal nobility, and the most expert of his artisans, as prisoners to the banks of the Tigris. The nominal authority was now confined to a brother or uncle of the captive king, whose original name, Mattaniah, was changed to Zedekiali by his lord paramount, who considered him merely as the governor of a province. Impatient of an office so subordinate, and instigated,it is probable, by emissaries from Egypt, he resolved to hazard his life and liberty for the chance of reconquering the independence of his crown. This imprudent step brought Nebuchadnezzar once more before the walls of Jerusalem. A siege which appears to have continued fifteen or sixteen months, terminated in the final reduction of the holy city, and in

the captivity of Zedekiah, who was treated with the utmost severity. His two sons were executed in his presence, after which his eyes were put out: when, being loaded with fetters, he was carried to Babylon and thrown into prison. The work of destruction was intrusted to Nebuzar-adan, the captain of the guard, who burnt the house of the Lord, and the king’s house, and all the houses of Jerusalem, and every great man’s house burnt he with fire. And the army of the Chaldees that were with the captain of the guard brake down the walls of Jerusalem round about. The rest of the people that were left in the city, and the fugitives that fell away to the king of Babylon, with the remnant of the multitude, did the captain of the guard carry away. But he left the poor of land to be vinedressers and husbandmen.


It had been foretold by the Prophets that the Jews should remain in captivity during seventy years; and as they were led away exactly six centuries before the Christian era, their return to the Holy Land must have occurred about the year 530 prior to the same great epoch. The names of Zerubbabel, Nehemiah, and Ezra, occupy tin-most distinguished place among those who were selected by Divine Providence to conduct the restoration of the chosen people. After much toil, interruption, and alarm, Jerusalem could once more boast of a temple, which, although destitute of the rich ornaments lavished upon that of Solomon, was at least of equal dimensions, and erected on the same sacred ground.

Under the Persian satraps, who directedthe civil and military government of Syria, the J ews were

permitted to acknowledge tlie authority of their High Priest, to whom, in all things pertaining to the law of Moses, they rendered the obedience which was due to the head of their nation. Their prosperity, it is true, was occasionally diminished or increased by the personal character of the sovereigns who successively occupied the throne of Cyrus; but no material change in their circumstances took place until the victories of Alexander the Great had laid the foundation of the Syro-Macedonian kingdom in Western Asia, and given a new dynasty to the crown of Egypt. The struggles which ensued between these powerful states frequently involved the interests of the Jews, and made new demands on their allegiance; although it is admitted that as each was desirous to conciliate a people who claimed Palestine for their unalienable heritage, the Hebrews at large were, during two centuries, treated with much liberality and favour. But this generosity or forbearance was interrupted in the reign of Antiochus Epiphanes, who, alarmed by the report of insurrections, and harassed by the events of an unsuccessful war in Egypt, directed his angry passions against the Jews. Marching suddenly upon Jerusalem, he put forty thousand of the inhabitants t< > death, pillaged the treasury, seized all the sacred vessels, and commanding a sow to be sacrificed on the altar of burnt-offerings, caused every part of the temple, even the Holy of Holies, to be sprinkled with the blood of the unclean animal. A short time afterwards, he issued an edict for the extermination of the whole Hebrew race, which one of his generals, Apollonius, proceeded to execute with the most atrocious cruelty. Driven to desperation by these severities, the Jews flew to arms, led on by the brave family of the Maccabees, whose valour and perseverance soon enabled them to dis-

pute with the powerful monarch of Syria the sovereignty of Palestine. Success at last crowned the efforts of those who fought for their religion and liberty, and the Maccabees or Asmoneans raised themselves to supreme power by uniting the offices of king and pontiff. They continued to govern Palestine for upwards of a hundred years ; during the greater part of which time the Jews were far from enjoying uninterrupted tranquillity. The kingdom was often threatened by external enemies, and tom by internal dissensions, till at length the disputes of two rival claimants of the throne gave a pretext for the interference of the Romans. Pompey, who had already overrun the finest provinces of Syria, advanced to Jerusalem,-and having listened to the claims of the two competitors, settled the priesthood upon Hyrcanus, but without annexing to it the civil power. After some delay this was conferred by Cmsar on Antipater, an Idmnean who was succeeded by his son Herod.

^ The reign of Herod, who, to distinguish him from others of the same name, is usually called the Great, was no less remarkable for domestic calamity than for the public peace and happiness. Urged by suspicion, he put to death his beloved wife, Mariamne, her mother, brother, grandfather, uncle, and two sons. His palace was the scene of incessant intrigue, misery, and bloodshed; his nearest relations being ever the chief instruments of his worst sufferings and fears. It was, perhaps, to divert his apprehensions and remorse that he employed so much of his time in the labours of architecture. Besides a royal residence on Mount Zion, he built a number of citadels throughout the country, and laid the foundations of several splendid towns. He also formed the design of rebuilding the temple in its former splendour and greatness, which had been much impaired by the

lapse of live hundred years, and the ravages of successive wars. As it was necessary to remove the dilapidated parts of the edifice before the new building could be begun, the Jews looked on with a suspiqious eye; apprehensive lest the king, who had already introduced many innovations at variance with the national habits and prejudices, should obliterate every vestige of their ancient sanctuary, under pretence of doing honour to their faith. But the prudence of Herod calmed their fears ; and, as the work proceeded, they saw, with the utmost joy, a fabric of stately architecture crowning the brow of Mount Moriah, with glittering masses of white marble and pinnacles of gold.

As Herod advanced towards old age his troubles multiplied, and his apprehensions were increased, till at length he sank under the pressure of a loathsome disease. He was permitted by the Romans so far to exercise the privileges of an independent prince as to distribute by will the inheritance of sovereignty among the more favoured of his children; and, in virtue of this indulgence, he assigned to Archelaus the government of Idumaea, Samaria, and Judaea, while he bestowed on Herod-Antipas a similar authority over Paraea and Galilee: I tune a and Trachonitis were afterwards given by the Romans to Philip, the eldest son of Herod. Archelaus, the metropolis of whose dominions was Jerusalem, ruled in quality of ethnarch about nine years ; but so little to the satisfaction either of his master at Rome, or of the people whom he was appointed to govern, that at the end of this period he was summoned to render an account of his administration at the imperial tribunal, when he was deprived of his power and wealth, and finally banished into Gaul. J udsea was now reduced to a Roman province, dependent on the prefecture of Syria, though usually placed under the inspection

of a subordinate officer, called the procurator or governor. Thus the sceptre passed away from Judah, and the lawgiver, descended from the family of Jacob, ceased to enjoy power within the coniines of the promised land.

It was at this epoch, in the last year of the reign of Herod, that the Messiah was bom, and conveyed into Egypt for security. The unjust and cruel government of Archelaus, for which, as has just been related, he was stripped of his authority by the head of the empire, was probably the cause why the holy family did not again take up their residence in Judaea, but preferred the milder rule of Herod-Antipas. Wlien Joseph heard that Archelaus reigned in Judaea in the room of Herod his father, he was afraid to go thither : notwithstanding, being warned of God in a dream, he turned aside into the paths of Galilee : and he came and dwelt in a city called Nazareth.

Christ’s second coming. *

The Lord shall come ! The earth shall quake, The mountains to their centre shake;

And, withering from the vault of night,

The stars shall pale their feeble light.

The Lord shall come! a dreadful form,

With rainbow wreath and robes of storm ;

On cherub wings and wings of wind,

Appointed Judge of all mankind.

Can this be He, who wont to stray A pilgrim on the world’s highway,

Oppressed by power, and mocked by pride,

The Nazarene,—the crucified ?

While sinners in despair shall call,

•“ Rocks, hide us ; mountains, on us fall!”

The saints, ascending from the tomb,

Shall joyful sing, The Lord is come!”Heber.


In order to unite the people in commemorating or bringing to remembrance certain great events, which had marked God’s dealings with them ; and also to remind them of their constant dependence on Him for all their blessings, Moses appointed, by divine command, certain festivals or ordinances to be kept sacred, and in the way he directed.

First, then, was the weekly sabbath or rest, which began at sunset on Friday evening, and ended at sunset on Saturday evening; and which was appointed to remind them of God as the Creator of all things, in commemorating the day which the Almighty, having completed his work, called the day of His rest. No labour was to disturb this day of solemn rejoicing among the people ; no tire was to be lit in their houses; no food cooked by them; so that their servants, and even their cattle, might partake of the general rest.

There were four great feasts, at three of which all the males of the nation were commanded to appear before the Lord, at the place where He should choose to put His Name. The manifestation of God’s presence by some sign, is often spoken of in Scripture as His Name; and as it was to the ark of the covenant that the sio-n of


God’s presence was annexed, the place where that ark was set up was considered as the place where “the Lord had set His Name.” That place now was Shiloh,—Joshua having set up the ark in the tabernacle there; and as sacrifices could be offered there alone, the three great festivals were held there.

The first of these was the Passover, which commemorated the departure of the Israelites from

I 2

Egypt, and which was held on the fourteenth evening of the month Abib, which, in honour of that great event, they were to call the beginning of months. A lamb was slain and eaten in haste, iir a travelling habit, and upright posture, to remind them of the night on which they first partook of it, after having sprinkled their doorposts with its blood, according to divine command, that the destroying angel, which smote the firstborn of Egypt, might pass over their dwellings. This feast included and was followed by the Feast of Unleavened Bread, which lasted a week, and reminded them of their hurried journey, when they could not wait to leaven their bread.

The second was the Feast of Pentecost, which celebrated the gathering of the corn harvest. It took place fifty days after the Passover, and hence its name, which means fifty. It was also called the Feast of Weeks, because it took place seven weeks after the first sickle was put into the corn; but it commemorated a far more important event, the delivery of the Law from Mount Sinai. It is commonly celebrated by Christians under the name of Whitsunday; and for them it commemorates a still more important event, the outpouring of the Holy Ghost, on the day of Pentecost, under the sign of tongues of fire.

The third festival was that of Tabernacles,—a joyous thanksgiving at the ingathering of the vintage and other fruits of the land ; and commemorative to the Israelites of their life in the wilderness for forty years, when they dwelt in tents or tabernacles. No festival was solemnized so joyfully as this. While it lasted, which was seven days, the people dwelt in tents wreathed with leaves, or booths made of boughs of trees. It was a festival suited to their delightful climate and lovely land, at the most genial season of the year.

Lastly, came the Feast of Trumpets. It was the custom of the Jews to announce each new moon by the blowing of trumpets. At the first day of the new moon in September (the first month of their civil year), a solemn festival was held, and announced by trumpets,—whence it was called the Feast of Trumpets. But this did not require the males of the nation to go up before the Lord.

At the three other festivals, when all the males being withdrawn, and their property thus left defenceless, it was promised that no nation which was at war with them, should invade their land (as it would have been natural, humanly speaking, that they would), and we accordingly find no record of their having done so.

Besides these festivals, there were two remarkable ordinances. Every seventh year was a sabbath of rest, during which the land was to lie fallow. And to avoid the natural inconveniences which would follow from this ordinance, the sixth year brought forth fruit for three—that is, for its own year, for the seventh or Sabbath year, and the eighth or sowing year.

The Jubilee, or year of rejoicing, was another most beneficent ordinance. It took place, as has been already said, every fiftieth year, when any man who had been obliged to part with his liberty received it again; and all who had been obliged to part with their land, entered again into possession of it.




Vital spark of heavenly flame ! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame ! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying. Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life !


Hark ! they whisper; angels say,

Sister spirit, come away!

What is this absorbs me quite,

Steals my senses, shuts my sight,

Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ?

Tell me, my soul, can this be death ?


The world recedes ; it disappears ! Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring :

Lend, lend your wings ! I mount! I fly l 0 Grave ! where is thy victory ?

0 Death ! where is thy sting ?



The covering of different animals is as much to be admired as any part of their structure, both for its variety and its suitableness to their several natures. We have bristles,hair, wool,furs,feathers, quills, prickles, scales; yet in this diversity, both of material and form, we cannot change one ani-

mal’s coat for another, without evidently changing it for the worse: taking care, however to remark, that these coverings are, in many cases, armour as well as clothing, intended for protection as well as warmth. The human animal is the only one which is naked, and the only one which can clothe itself. This is one of the properties which renders man an animal of all climates and of all seasons. He can adapt the warmth or lightness of his covering to the temperature of his habitation. Had he been born with a fleece upon his back, although he might have been comforted by its warmth in cold climates, it would have oppressed him by its weight and heat, as the species spread towards the warmer regions. What art, therefore, does for men, nature has, in many instances, done for those animals which are incapable of art. Their clothing of its own accord, changes with their necessities. This is particularly the case with that large tribe of quadrupeds which are covered with furs. Every dealer in hare-skins and rabbit-skins knows how much the fur is thickened by the approach of winter. It seems to be a part of the same constitution and the same design, that wool, in hot coun tries degenerates, as it is called, but in truth, most happily for the animal’s ease, passes into hair; whilst on the contrary, that hair, in the dogs of the polar regions, is turned into wool, or something very like it: to which may be referred, what naturalists have remarked, that bears, wolves,foxes, hares, which do not take the water, have the fur much thicker upon the back than the belly; whereas, in the beaver, it is thickest upon the belly, as are the feathers in water-fowl.

The covering of birds cannot escape the most vulgar observation. Its lightness, its smoothness, its warmth; the disposition of the feathers all inclined backward, the down about their stem,

the overlapping of their tips, their different configuration in different parts, not to mention their variety of colours, constitute a vestment for the body, so beautiful, and so appropriate to the life which the*animal is to lead, as that, I think, we should have had no conception of anything equally perfect, if we had never seen it, nor can now imagine anything more so. Let us suppose (what is possible only in supposition) a person who had never seen a bird, to be presented with a plucked pheasant, and bid to set his wits to work how to contrive for it a covering, which shall unite the qualities of warmth, lightness, and the least resistance to the air, and the highest degree of each ; giving it also as much of beauty and of ornament as he could afford : he is the person to behold the work of the Deity, in this part of His creation, with the sentiments which are due to it. In the small order of birds which winter with us, from a snipe downwards, let the external colour of the feathers be what it will, their Creator has universally given them a bed of black down next their bodies. Black, we know, is the warmest colour; and the purpose here is to keep in the heat arising from the heart and circulation of the blood. It is further likewise remarkable, that this is not found in larger birds : for which there is also a reason—small birds are much more exposed to the cold than large ones; forasmuch as they present, in proportion to their bulk, a much larger surface to the air.



In the hide of an animal, the hair and skin are two entirely distinct things, and must be considered separately as materials for clothing. The hair of quadrupeds differs much in fineness. It is chiefly the smaller species which are provided with those soft, thick, glossy coverings that bear the name of fur, and they are found in the greatest perfection where they are most wanted, that is, in the coldest countries. They form, indeed, the riches of those dreary wastes which produce nothing else for human use. The animals most esteemed for their fur are of the weasel kind : the glutton, the marten, the sable, and the ermine. Fur is either used growing to the skin, or separated from it. In its detached state, it is usually employed in making a stuff called felt. The scales of the hair are so disposed, that they make no resistance to the finger drawn along the hair from the root to the point, but cause a roughness and resistance in a contrary direction. From this property, hairs when beaten or pressed together, are disposed to twist round each other, and thus to cohere into a mass.

Wool differs from common hair, in being more soft and supple, and more disposed to curl. These properties it owes to a degree of unctuosity, or greasiness, which is with difficulty separated from it. The first operation the fleece undergoes is that of picking and sorting into the different kinds of wool of which it is composed. These are next cleansed from marks and stains, and freed from their offensive greasiness. The wool is then delivered to the wool-comber, win* by means of iron-spiked combs, draws out the fibres, smooths and straightens them, separates the

refuse, and brings it into a state fit for the spinner. The spinner forms the wool into threads, which are more or less twisted, according to the manufacture for which they are designed: the more twisted forming worsted, the looser yarn. The kinds of stuff's made wholly or partly of wool are extremely various; and Great Britain produces more of them, and, in general, of better quality, than any other country. A more perfect manufacture than our broad cloths, with respect to beauty and utility, cannot easily be conceived. The threads in it are so concealed by a fine nap or down raised on the surface,and curiously smoothed and glossed, that it looks more like a rich texture of nature’s forming than the work of the weaver. Wool in common with other animal substances, takes a dye better than any vegetable matters. Our cloths are therefore made of every hue that can be desired; but, in order to fit them for the dyer, they are first freed from all greasiness and foulness by the operation of fulling, in which the cloths are beaten by heavy mallets as they lie in water, with which a quantity of fuller’s earth has been mixed. This earth unites with the greasy matter and renders it soluble in water; so that, by continually supplying fresh streams while the beating is going on, all the foulness is at length carried off. The operation of fulling has the further effect of thickening the cloth, and rendering it more firm and compact, by mixing the threads with each other, something in the manner of a felt. The cloths of inferior fineness are mostly called narrow cloths. Some of those used for great-coats, by their substance and shagginess, resemble the original fleece, or rather the fur of a bear, and render unnecessary the use of furred garments. Indeed, with the single material of wool, art has been able much better to suit the

different wants of man in his clothing, than can be done by all the productions of nature. What could be so comfortable for our beds as blankets ? What so warm, and at the same time so light, for pained and palsied limbs, as flannel? The several kinds of the worsted manufacture are excellent for that elasticity which makes them sit close to a part without impeding its motions. This quality is particularly observable in stockings made of worsted. Even the thinnest of the woollen fabrics possess a considerable degree of warmth, as appears in shawls. The real shawls are made of the fine wool of Tibet, in the eastern part of Asia; but they have been very well imitated by the product of some of our English looms. Carpeting is another article made of wool, equally appropriated to luxury.

Men must have been far advanced in the observation of nature, before they found out a material for clothing in the labours of a caterpillar. China appears to have been the first country to make use of the web spun by the silk-worm. This creature, which, in its perfect state, is a kind of moth, is hatched from the egg, in the form of a caterpillar, and passes from that state successively to those of a chrysalis, and of a winged insect. While a caterpillar, it eats voraciously, its proper and favourite food being the leaves of the different species of mulberry. By this diet it is not only nourished, but is enabled to lay up, in receptacles within its body, formed for the purpose, a kind of transparent glue, which has the property of hardening as soon as it comes into the air. When arrived at full maturity, it spins itself a web out of this gluey matter, within which it is to lie safe and concealed during its transformation into the helpless and motionless state of a chrysalis. The silk-worm’s web is an oval ball, called a cocoon, of a hue

varying from light straw colour to full yellow, and consisting of a single thread wound round and round, so as to make a close and impenetrable covering. The thread is so very line, that when unravelled, it has been measured to 700 or 1,000 feet, all rolled within the compass of a pigeon’s egg. In a state of nature, the silk-worm makes its cocoon upon the mulberry-tree itself, when it shines like a golden fruit among the leaves ; and in the southern parts of China, and other warm countries of the East, it is still suffered to do so, the cocoons being gathered from the trees without further trouble. But, in even the wannest climates of Europe, the inclemency of the weather in spring, when the worms are hatched, will not permit the rearing of them in the open air. They are kept, therefore, in warm but airy rooms, constructed for the purpose, and are regularly fed with mulberry-leaves till the period of their full growth. As this tree is one of the latest in leafing, silk-worms cannot advantageously be reared in cold climates. During their growth, they several times shed their skin, and many die under this operation. At length they become so full of the silky matter, that it gives them a yellowish tinge, and they cease to eat. Twigs are then presented to them on little stages of wicker-work, on which they immediately begin to form their webs. When the cocoons are finished, a small number, reserved for breeding, are suffered to eat their way out in their butterfly state; and the rest are killed in the chrysalis state, by exposing the cocoons to the heat of an oven. A downy substance called floss is next removed from the outside of the cocoons, which are then thrown into warm water, and the ends of the threads being found, several are joined together, and wound in a single one upon a reel. This is the silk in its natural state, called raw silk. It

next undergoes some operations to cleanse and render it more supple; after which it is made into what is called organzine, or thrown silk, being-twisted into thread of such different degrees of fineness as are wanted in the different manufactures. This is done by mills of curious construction, which turn at once a vast number of spindles, and perform at the same time the process of unwinding, twisting, reeling, &c. The excellence of silk, as a material for clothing, consists in its strength, lightness, lustre, and readiness in taking-dyes. When little known in Europe it was highly prized for its rarity: it is now esteemed for its real beauty and other valuable qualities. As it can never be produced in great abundance, it must always be a dear article of clothing. The fabrics of silk are very numerous, and almost all devoted to the purposes of show and luxury. In thickness they vary from the finest gauze to velvet, the pile of which renders it as close and warm as fur. Some of the most beautiful of the silk manufactures are the glossy satin ; the elegant damask, of Avhicli the flowers are of the same hue with the piece, and only show themselves from the difference of shade; the rich brocade, in which flowers of natural colours, or of gold and silver thread, are interwoven; and the infinitely varied ribands. It is also a common material for stockings, gloves, buttons, strings, &c., in which its durability almost compensates for its dearness. Much is used for the purpose of sewing, no other thread approaching it in strength. Silk, in short, bears the same superiority among clothing- materials that gold does among metals; it gives an appearance of richness wherever it is employed, and confers a real value. Even the refuse of silk is carefully collected, and serves for useful purposes. The down about cocoons, and the waste separated in the operations

raw silk undergoes, are spun into a coarser thread, of which very serviceable stockings are made; and the interior part of the cocoon is reckoned the best material for making artificial flowers.

The Ailanthus silk-worm, of which an engraving is given, has lately attracted great attention in this country, and appears likely to supersede the ordinary silk-worm in many respects. It is a native of China, and has been largely used for the purpose of supplying clothing for the people. As the name implies, the caterpillar feeds upon the Ailanthus-tree, which, although imported from warmer climates than our own, grows well and fast in England, and has been firmly acclimatized. Rearing the Ailanthus-moth is an easy process, the caterpillars remaining quietly on the trees, and spinning their cocoons amid the branches.

The eggs are hatched in a similar manner to those of the common silk-worm, and after the worms have been fed through their first moult with picked leaves, they are transferred to the trees, and there left. It is of course necessary to cover the trees with netting, in order to prevent the birds from feeding on them.


“ Mariana in the moated grange.”—Measure for Measure-

With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and ail;

The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the garden-wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange : Unlifted was the clinking latch ;

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, “ My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said;

She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!”

Her tears fell with the dews at even;

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide.

After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by,

And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, “ The night is dreary, He cometh not,” she said;

She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!”

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : The cock sung out an hour ere light:

From the dark fen the oxen’s low Came to her : without hope of change,

In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, “ The day is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said;

She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!”

About a stone-cast from the wall

A sluice with blackened waters slept.

And o’er it many, round and small,

The clustered marish-mosses crept.

Hard by a poplar shook alway,

A11 silver-green with gnarled bark:

For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray.

She only said, “ My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said;

She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!”

And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro,

She saw the gusty shadow sway.

But when the moon was very low,

And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, “ The night is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said;

She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”

All day within the dreamy house,

The doors upon their hinges creaked ;

The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about.

Old faces glimmered thro’ the doors,

Old footsteps trod the upper floors,

Old voices called her from without.

She only said, “ My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said;

She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!”

The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower.

Then, said she, “ I am very dreary,

He will not come,” she said;

She wept, “ I am aweary, aweary,

Oh God, that I were dead!”



It is surprising to learn that there are upwards of a hundred thousand species of plants upon the surface of the earth, and what is more surprising-still, every one of these species has its1 native country, some particular region, or peculiar spot, on the surface of the globe, to which, in its conK

stitution and formation, it is peculiarly adapted. Some are formed to spring up into luxuriance beneath the scorching rays of a tropical sun; some are so constituted as to vegetate beneath the snow, and to withstand the severity of a polar winter; some are made to deckthe valley with their variegated beauties; and some are formed “to blush unseen,and wastetli(drsweetness on thedesert air,” amidst Alpine solitudes: but there is not one of those numerous plants which has not its particular place assigned to it. It would be equally vain to attempt to make some of these vegetable forms change their places (without a corresponding change of temperature) with impunity, as it would be to make the experimentof removing the finny inhabit ants of the ocean from their native element in order to make them harmonize and live in comfort among the feathery tenants of the grove. The wisdom and goodness of the Deity are indeed no less manifested in the geographical distribution, than in the curious process observed in the vegetation, the wonderful structure, and other striking peculiarities of plants. We have not room to multiply instances. But where, it may be asked, could the dense woods, which constitute the Brazilian forest, be more appropriately situated? Where could the delightful vistas, and pleasant walks, and refreshing arbours of the many-trunked banyan-tree be better placed? Where could that numerous host of natural umbrellas, the family of the palms, which overshadow, with their luxuriant and projecting foliage, almost every island, rock, and sand-bank, between the tropics, display their cooling shades with better effect? Where could that wonderful exuberance of the earth’s bounty, the bread-fruit-tree, by which, in the words of Captain Cook, “If a man “plant but ten trees in his whole lifetime, (and “that he may do in an hour,) he will as completely

“fulfil his duty to his own, and to future generations, as the natives of our less temperate climate “can do, by ploughing in the winter’s cold, and “reaping in the summer’s heat, as often as these “seasons return:”—where, I say, can this exuberance be more beneficially manifested, than in those regions where “the same glowing beams of the sun that raises the plant into a shrub, and the shrub into a tree,” render the gloom of the forest, and the intervening screen of the overhanging foliage so desirable, where the least exertion becomes oppressive, and coolness and ease may be said to constitute the principal wants of the inhabitants? And where, it may be further inquired, could those immense fields, upon which are raised our various crops of corn, be better made to expand their extensive surfaces, and lay open their treasures to the influence of the sun, than in those temperate regions of the globe, where, instead of being hurtful, a moderate degree of labour is conducive to health, and the agricultural labourer goes forth to his work in the morning, and returns in the evening, rather invigorated than exhausted, by the ordinary occupations of the day? If we extend our views much farther to the north, we may in vain look for the spontaneous luxuriance of the torrid zone, or the golden-coloured fields of the intervening climates: but here we shall find, what is at once more suit -able to the climate and the wants of its inhabitants, a plentiful supply of the reindeer-lichen, which being formed by nature to vegetate beneath the snow, is there found out, in requisite abundance, by that useful creature the name of which it bears, and which is of itself a treasure to the inhabitants of those regions. The valuable properties of Iceland-moss are now beginning to be better understood; and, in what part of the

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habitable world could this singularly nutritious vegetable have been more judiciously and mercifully made to abound, than in that island of wonderful contrasts, where the variable climate is often so unfavourable to vegetation of a larger growth, and the hopes of the husbandman are so repeatedly disappointed by unwelcome visitants, in the form of icy particles floating in the air? The pitcher-plant of the eastern, and the milk or cow-tree of the western world, may each of them be reckoned among nature’s wonderful contrivances, and be justly regarded as evidences of the wisdom and goodness of the Being who knows so well how to proportion the acts of His bounty to the necessities and wants of His creatures. The singular appendages which form the extremities of the pitcher-plant are so many urns, containing a clear, wholesome, and well-tasted water. In the morning the lid is closed, but it opens during the day, when a portion of the water evaporates ; this, however, is replenished in the night; and each morning the vessel is full, and the lid shut. As this plant grows in sultry climates, and is found in the island of Java, in the most stony and arid situations, how welcome and exhilarating-must the sight of it often be to the weary traveller ; and, from the marks of teeth upon the vessel, it would appear that even beasts have their wants supplied at the same plenteous source. The milk-tree, or cow-tree, so called on account of the resemblance its singular juice bears to the milk of animals, in place of which M. Humboldt has seen it used for every domestic purpose, is thus described by that enterprising traveller :— “ 1 confess that among the great number of curious “ phenomena which I have observed in the course “ of my travels, there are few which have made a stronger impression on my mind than the cow-

“ tree. On the barren declivities of a rock grows “ a tree, whose leaves are dry and coriaceous ; its “ thick ligneous roots scarcely enter the rock; for “ several months in the year, rain scarcely waters “ its fan-shaped leaves; the branches appear dry “ and dead; but when an incision is made in the “ trunk, a sweet and nutritious milk flows from it. “ It is at the rising of the sun that the vegetable “ liquid runs most abundantly; then the natives “ and negroes are seen to come from all parts, “ provided with vessels to receive the milk, which “ becomes yellow, and thickens at the surface. “ Some empty their vessels under the same tree ; “ others carry them home to their children. It is “ like a shepherd distributing to his family the “ milk of his flock. If those who possess these “ precious trees near their habitation, drink with “ so much pleasure their beneficent juice, with “ what delight will the traveller, who penetrates “ these mountains, appease with it his hunger and “ thirst! ” The few instances here recorded may serve as general specimens of that wise ordination, universally to be observed, if duly attended to, in the geographical arrangement and distribution of vegetables.

Popular Philosophy.


And is this—Yarrow?—This the Stream Of which my fancy cherished,

So faithfully, a waking dream ?

An image that hath perished!

O that some Minstrel’s harp were near, To utter notes of gladness,

And chase this silence from the air,

That fills my heart with sadness !

Yet why ?—a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings;

Nor have these eyes by greener hills * Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, St. Mary’s Lake Is visibly delighted ;

For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o’er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused,

A tender hazy brightness ;

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes All profitless dejection;

Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ?

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding:

And haply from this crystal pool,

Now peaceful as the morning,

The Water-wraith ascended thrice—

And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy Lovers,

The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers :

And Pity sanctifies the Verse

That paints by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love ; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow !

But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination,

Ddfct rival in the light of day Her delicate creation:

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy ;

The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds .

Rich groves of lofty stature,

With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature ;

And rising from those lofty groves, Behold a Ruin hoary !

The shattered front of Newark’s Towers, Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for childhood’s opening bloom For sportive youth to stray in ;

For manhood to enjoy his strength ;

And age to wear away in !

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,

A covert for protection Of tender thoughts, that nestle there— The brood of chaste Affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day,

The wildwood fruits to gather,

And on my True-love’s forehead plant A crest of blooming heather!

And what if I enwreathed my own !

Twere no offence to reason ;

The sober Hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season.

1 see—but not by sight alone,

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ;

A ray of fancy still survives—

Her sunshine plays upon thee !

Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure ;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the Heights, They melt, and soon must vanish;

One hour is theirs, nor more is mine— Sad thought, which I would banish,

But that I know, where’er I go,

Thy genuine image, Yarrow !

Will dwell with me—to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow.



Trees.—These stupendous specimens of creative power spread not their wide-extended roots, nor lift their lofty heads, in vain. Beneath their cooling shades our flocks and herds find a comfortable asylum from the scorching rays of a summer sun : the wild stragglers of the forest have a place of refuge among their woods and thickets, whilst the feathery songsters of the grove build their little dwellings in security, and sing among tlieir branches. But in what a variety of respects, besides affording the inhabitants of warm climates an agreeable shelter from the mid-day heat, are they made subservient to the use of man! Some, as

the bread-fruit-tree of the Pacific Ocean, the cabbage-tree of East Florida, the tea-tree of China, the sugar-maple-tree of America, the coffee-tree and sugar-cane of the West Indies, and the numerous luxuriant fruit-bearing trees scattered over the face of the globe, contribute to our wants in the form of food. The fountain-tree on one of the Canary Islands is said by voyagers to furnish the inhabitants with water ; while the paper-mulberry-tree of the Southern Ocean and the cotton-shrub of America, provide us with materials for clothing. The candleberry myrtle presents the inhabitants of Nankin with a substitute for animal tallow. The salt-tree of Chili yields a daily supply of fine salt. The cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and pimento, furnish us with spices. The Jesuit’s-bark, manna, senna, and others, produce a variety of simple but useful medicines. Some trees yield a precious balsam for the healing of wounds; some a quantity of turpentine and resin ; and others give out valuable oils and gums. Nor are trees serviceable only in a natural state. By the assistance of art some are converted into houses to protect man from the inclemency of the weather, or are moulded into a variety of forms for the purposes of building and domestic comfort; others raise the huge fabric of the floating castle or bulky merchant-ship, by which our shores are protected from foreign invasion, and articles of industry and commerce transported to the remotest regions.

Shrubs.—Much that has already been said respecting the utility of trees, may also be applied to shrubs ; but there are three particulars in which the latter may be said to differ from the former, and on which depends much of their usefulness to man. The first of these is their stature, the second their greater pliability, and the third the

prickly armour with which many of them are covered. Some shrubs, as the gooseberry, the rasp, and the currant bushes, so common in our gardens, gratify the palate, and temper the blood, during the summer months, with agreeable and cooling iruit; others, as the rose, delight and please the eye by the beauty of their flowers, or, as the sweet-scented briar, regale the olfactory nerves with the fragrance of their perfumes. But how could these several ends have been accomplished, if, by a more exalted exposure, the fruit-bearing bushes had placed their treasures beyond our reach, the rose with its back turned to us, had been “ born to blush unseen,’’and each aromatic shrub removed far above the sense of smelling, had literally been left

“ To waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

With regard to that considerable share of pliant elasticity possessed by some, how easily does it admit the branches to be turned aside, and to resume their former position, in gathering the fruit or flowers ! and how serviceable does this property enable us to make some of them in the form of hoops, baskets, or wicker-work of any description ! while the sharp-pointed prickles with which they are armed, not only serve as weapons of defence to themselves, but furnish us with cheap and secure fences against the inroads of straggling cattle, and the unwelcome intrusion of the unprincipled vagrant.

Herbs.—These, in an especial manner, may be said to constitute the food of man and beast, as well as to yield their assistance in an infinity of ways ; and behold in what profusion they spring forth ! in what numerous bands they appear ! Yonder a held of golden-eared wheat presents to the view

a most prolific crop of what forms the chief part of the staff of life. Here a few acres of long-bearded barley ripen, to provide us with a favourite beverage. On the right hand stand the tall-growing and slender oats and the flowering potatoes, to revive and nourish the hopes of the poor; while on the left, the heavy-laden bean, and the low-creeping pea, in lengthened files, vegetate to furnish provender for our horses or the globular turnip increases its swelling bulk, to lay up for our herds a supply of food, when the softer herbage of the field is locked up by the congealing powers of winter. What a spontaneous crop of luxuriant herbage do our meadows present in the appointed season! and in what a profusion of wholesome pasture do the numerous flocks of sheep and cattle roam ! Whether they frequent the solitary holm, beside the still waters, or range the pathless steep, still they are followed by the goodness of the Lord. Myriads of grassy tufts spring up on every side, and they are satisfied out of the treasures of Providence. But the herbaceous productions of the field are not universally calculated for the purposes of food. In some places numerous groups of tall, thin, flexible plants make their appearance, whose filmy coats being properly manufactured, are converted into the most costly and delicate raiment; while others of a coarser texture furnish the mariner with wings to his vessel, cordage to tighten his masts, or the ponderous cable to stay his bark in the midst of the fluctuating element. Yet even here their services do not end, for when worn out in one shape they assume another, and not only furnish the material from which is formed the wrapper of the manufacturer, and the package of the merchant, but that invaluable article upon which we write—upon which we are able to hold converse with friends at a distance—and by means

of which man transmits his thoughts to man, and generations yet unborn will be enabled to hold converse with past ages. By means of these pliant productions we are also supplied with a variety of seeds and oils, of much request in common life ; and wherever disease is known, there, we have reason to believe, medical herbs spring up as antidotes : some communicating them healing virtues by the root, some by the leaves, and others by the flowers or seeds. A number of these, and many others of the greatest utility in medicine, come forth in various places of the globe without the aid of art, and are found growing wild among the herbs of the field.    Book of Natu re.


Why does not every one have a geranium in his window, or some other flower? It is very cheap ; its cheapness is next to nothing, if you raise it from seed or from a slip; and it is a beauty and a companion. It sweetens the air, rejoices the eye, links you with nature and innocence, and is something to love. And if it cannot love you in return, it cannot hate you; it cannot utter a hateful thing even for your neglecting it; for, though it is all beauty, it has no vanity.

But, if you choose a geranium, or possess but a few of them, let us persuade you to choose the scarlet kind, the old original” geranium, and not a variety of it, not one of the numerous diversities of red and white, blue and white, ivy-leaved, &c. Those are all beautiful, and very fit to vary a large collection ; but to prefer them to the originals of the race, is to run the hazard of preferring

the curious to the beautiful, and costliness to sound taste.

It may he taken as a good general rule, that the most popular plants are the best; for otherwise they would not have become such. And what the painters call “pure colours,” are preferable to mixed ones, for reasons which Nature herself has given when she painted the sky of one colour, and the fields of another, and divided the rainbow itself into a few distinct colours, and made the red rose the queen of flowers.

Variations in flowers are like variations in music, often beautiful as such, but almost always inferior to the theme on which they are founded, the original air. And the rule holds good in beds of flowers, if they be not very large, or in any other small assemblage of them. Nay, the largest bed will look well, if of one beautiful colour, while the most beautiful varieties may be inharmoniously mixed up. We do not, in general, love and honour any one single colour enough, and we are instinctively struck with a conviction to this effect, when we see it abundantly set forth. The other day we saw a little garden wall covered with nasturtiums, and felt how much more beautiful it was than if anything had been mixed with it; for the leaves and the light and shade offer variety enough. Embower a cottage thickly and completely with nothing but roses, and nobody would desire the interference of another plant.

Suppose flowers themselves were new! Suppose they had just come into the world, a sweet reward for some new goodness, and that we had not yet seen them quite developed; that they were in the act of growing, and just issued with their green stalks out of the ground, and engaged the attention of the curious. Imagine what we should

feel when we saw the first lateral stem bearing off from the main one or putting forth a leaf. How we should watch the leaf gradually unfolding its little graceful hand; then another, then another ; then the main stalk rising and producing more ; then one of them giving indications of astonishing novelty—a bud! then this mysterious bud gradually unfolding like a leaf, amazing us, enchanting us, almost alarming us with delight, as if we knew not what enchantment were to ensue, till at length, in all its fairy beauty, and odorous voluptuousness, and mysterious elaboration of tender and living sculpture, shines forth the blushing flower.

Yet this phenomenon to a person of any thought and lovingness, is what may be said to take place every day ; for the commonest objects are wonders at which habit has made us cease to wonder, and the marvellousness of which we may renew at pleasure by taking thought. Last spring, walking near some cultivated grounds, and seeing a multitude of green stalks peeping forth, we amused ourselves with imagining them the plumes or other head-gear of fairies, and wondered what faces might ensue ; and from this exercise of the fancy, we fell to considering how true, and not merely fanciful, those speculations were, what a perpetual reproduction of the marvellous was carried on by Nature ; how utterly ignorant we were of the causes of the least and most disesteemed of the commonest vegetables, and what a quantity of life, and beauty, and mystery, and use, and enjoyment was to be found in them, composed of all sorts of elements, and shaped as if by the hands of fairies. What workmanship, with no apparent workman!

The other day we were in a garden where Indian corn was growing, and some of the ears were plucked to show us. First one leaf or sheath

was picked off, then another, another, a fourth, and so on, as if a fruit-seller were unpacking his papers ; and at last we came, in the inside, to the grains of corn, packed in cucumber shapes of pale gold, and each of them pressed and flattened against each other, as if some human hand had been doing it in the caverns of the earth. But what hand ? The same that made the poor, yet rich, hand (for is it not His workmanship also !) that is tracing these marvelling lines; and if it does not tremble to say so, it is because love sustains, and because the heart also is a flower which has a right to be tranquil in the garden of the All-wise.

Leigh Hunt.


Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear ;

Take that best gift, which Heaven so lately gave: To Bristol’s fount I bore with trembling care Her faded form; she bowed to taste the wave, And died. Does youth, does beauty read the line ?

Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ? Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine:

Ev’n from the grave thou shalt have power to charm.

Bid them be chaste—be innocent, like thee;

Bid them in duty’s sphere as meekly move; And if so fair, from vanity as free;

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love.

Tell them, tho’ ’tis an awful thing to die,

’Twas ev’n to thee, yet the dread path once trod, Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high,

And bids “the pure in heart behold their God.”



Two distinct species of elephants are found in different continents, the one inhabiting Asia, and the other Africa. Although the Asiatic and African elephants are very similar in external form, they may at once be distinguished from each other by the dimensions of the head and the ear. In the Asiatic animal the head is elongated, the forehead concave, and the ears not remarkable for their size, while in the African elephant the head is much shorter, the forehead convex, and the ears of enormous magnitude, nearly meeting on the back of the head, and hanging with their tips below the neck.

The molar teeth also afford excellent indications of the country to which their owner has belonged, for the enamel upon the surface of the teeth of the Asiatic elephant is moulded into a number of narrow bands like folded ribands, while that of the African species is formed into five or six diamond or lozenge-shaped folds. In the Indian elephant too, only the males are furnished with tusks, and not every individual of that sex, whereas in the African species both sexes are supplied with these valuable appendages, those of the male being much larger and heavier.

The strangest portion of the elephant’s form is the trunk or proboscis, which is in fact a development of the upper lips and the nose. It is perforated through its entire length by the nostrils, and is furnished at its extremity with a kind of finger, which enables this huge creature to perform the most delicate operations, such as picking a pin from the ground, or plucking up a single blade of grass.

Elephants are fond of water, and have a curious capability of laying in a store in their interior, somewhat after the fashion of the camel, but possess the power of drawing the liquid supply from them stomachs by means of their trunks, and scattering it in a shower over their backs in order to cool their heated bodies. When drinking, the elephant inserts the tip of his trunk into the stream, fills its cavities with water, and then turning his trunk so as to get the extremity well into his throat, he discharges its contents fairly into his stomach.

The Asiatic elephant bears a world-wide fame for its capabilities as a servant and companion of man, and for the extraordinary development of its intellectual faculties. Hundreds of these animals are annually captured, and in a very


short period of time become wholly subjected to their owners, and learn to obey their commands with implicit obedience. Indeed the power of the human intellect is never more conspicuous than in the supremacy which man maintains over so gigantic and clever an animal.

In all work which requires the application of great strength, combined with judgment, the elephant is supreme. Sir Emerson Tennent relates that two elephants, employed in piling ebony and satinwood in the yards attached to the commissariat stores at Colombo, accomplished their work with as much precision as if it had been done by dock labourers, and with greater rapidity. When the pile attained a certain height, and they were no longer able by their conjoint efforts to raise one of the heavy logs of ebony to the summit, they had been taught to lean two pieces against the heap, up the inclined plane of which they gently rolled the remaining logs, and placed them trimly on the top.

Another elephant of Ceylon was employed in building a wall under the supervision of an overseer. Whenever he completed one course, he signalled to the overseer, who came and inspected his work, and after ascertaining that the task was properly performed, gave the signal to lay another. On one occasion, the elephant placed himself against a portion of the wall and refused to move from the spot when the overseer came to the part of the wall which his body concealed. The overseer, however, insisted on the animal's moving aside, and the elephant, seeing that his stratagem had failed, immediately set hard to work at pulling down the wall Avhich he had just built, and which was defective in the spot which he had been attempting to conceal from the inspectoi’’s eye.

There are instances where elephants left alone, have acted according to the necessities of the case with the most remarkable intelligence. The author of “ Twelve Years’ Military Adventure,” relates that he saw a woman give a baby in charge to an elephant while she went on some business, and observed with great admiration the sagacity and care of the unwieldy nurse. The babe, with the restlessness of childhood, began to crawl about, getting sometimes under the huge legs of the animal, and at others, becoming entangled among the branches on which he was feeding. On such occasions, the elephant would in the most tender manner disengage the child, either by lifting it out of the way with his trunk, or removing the impediments to its progress. When it had crawled so far as nearly to reach the limits of the elephant’s range (for he was chained by the leg to a stump driven into the ground), he would protrude his trunk and lift the child back as gently as possible to the spot whence it started. No nurse could have tended her charge with more show of reason.

There are two modes of capturing the Asiatic elephant, the one by pursuing solitary individuals and binding them with ropes, and the other by driving a herd of the animals into a previously prepared pound, and securing the entrance. In the former method the hunters are aided by trained female elephants, which enter into the spirit of the chase with wonderful animation, and help their riders in every possible manner. When they see a fine male, these females advance carelessly towards him plucking leaves and grass, as if they were perfectly indifferent to his presence. He soon becomes attracted to them, when the}” overwhelm him with caresses, and occupy his attention so fully that he does not observe the

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proceedings of the “ mahouts” or riders, who slip quietly to the ground, and attach their rope nooses to his legs, fastening the ends of the cords to some neighbouring tree. Should no suitable tree be at hand, the females are sagacious enough to comprehend the difficulty, and to urge their victim towards some large tree which is sufficiently strong to withstand his struggles.

The elephant is always guided by a mahout, who sits astride upon its neck, and directs its movements by means of his voice, aided by a kind of spiked hook, which is applied to the animal’s head. The persons who ride upon the elephant are either placed in the howdah, a kind of carriage strapped on his back, or sit upon a large pad, and the animal kneels in order to permit the riders to mount.

The size of elephants has been greatly exaggerated, as the enormous bulk of the animal makes its height appear much greater than is really the case. Eight feet is about the average height, and nine or ten feet is the utmost to which it ever attains.

The natural food of the elephant consists of grass and leaves, which it plucks daintily with the tip of its trunk, and always beats against its forelegs in order to shake off the dust. In this country, the average daily food of an adult elephant, is one truss of hay, one truss of straw, a bushel of barley meal and bran, and thirty pounds of potatoes.

Although the tame elephant is usually gentle in his disposition, there are certain times when he becomes greatly excited, and is sometimes so powerfully agitated that he will attack anything that comes m his way, and has often been known to assault his own keeper. Elephants in this condition are technically termed “must” elephants, and are carefully guarded as long as the paroxysm lasts.

At the present day the African elephant is never domesticated, but is taken for its valuable tusks and teeth. Its flesh is also used as food by the native tribes, and some portions are grateful even to European palates. The flesh of the boiled foot is soft and gelatinous. The ivory of the African elephant is extremely valuable, and vast quantities are imported annually into this country. On an average a pair of tusks weighs one hundred and twenty pounds, and sells for more than thirty pounds sterling.

Wood’s Nat. Hist.


Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil.

Come away!—Come away!

Hark to the summons,

Come in your war-array,

Gentles and Commons!

Come from deep glen,

And from mountain so rocky The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlochy.

Come every hill-plaid,

And true heart that wears one, Come every steel blade,

And strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter,

Leave the corpse uninterred,

The bride at the altar.

Leave the deer—leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges;

Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come, as the winds come,

When forests are rended!

Come as the waves come,

W hen navies are stranded !

Faster come!—Faster come!

Faster and faster!

Chief, vassal, page, and groom,

Tenant and master!

Fast they come! Fast they come!

See how they gather,

Wide waves the eagle plume,

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids! Draw your blades!

Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu!

Now for the onset!

Sir Walter Scott.


After the departure of the King of France, with his army, from the hill of Sangate, the Calesians saw clearly that all hopes of succour were at an end; which occasioned them so much sorrow and distress, that the hardiest could scarcely support it. They entreated therefore most earnestly the

Lord John de Vienne, their governor, to mount upon the battlements, and make a sign that he wished to hold a parley. The King of England, upon hearing this, sent to him Sir Walter Manny and Lord Basset. When they were come near, the Lord de Vienne said to them, “ Dear gentlemen, you who are very valiant knights, know that the King of France, whose subjects we are has sent us hither to defend this town and castle from all harm and damage : this we have done to the best of our abilities. All hopes of help have now left us, so that we are most exceedingly straitened ; and if the gallant king, your lord, have not pity upon us, we must perish with hunger. I therefore entreat that you would beg of him to have compassion on us, and to have the goodness to allow us to depart in the state we are in ; and that he will be satisfied with having possession of the town and castle, with all that is within them, as he will find therein riches enough to content him.” To this Sir Walter Manny replied, “John, we are not ignorant of what the king our lord’s intentions are, for he has told them to us. Know, then, that it is not his pleasure you should get off so, for he is resolved that you surrender yourselves solely to his will, to allow those whom he pleases their ransom, or to put them to death; for the Calesians have done him so much mischief, and have by their obstinate defence cost him so many lives and so much money, that he is mightily enraged.”

The Lord de Vienne answered, “ These conditions are too hard for us. We are but a small number of knights and squires who have loyally served our lord and master, as you would have done, and have suffered much ill and disquiet; but we will endure more than any men ever did in a similar situation, before we consent that the

smallest boy in the town should fare worse than the best. I therefore once more entreat you, out of compassion, to return to the King of England, and beg of him to have pity on us. He will, I trust, grant you this favour; for I have such an opinion of his gallantry as to hope that, through God’s mercy, he will alter his mind.” The two lords returned to the king, and related what had passed. The king said he had no intention of complying with the request, but should insist that they surrender themselves unconditionally to his will. Sir Walter replied, “ My lord, yon may be to blame in this, as you will set us a very bad example; for if you order us to go to any of your castles, we shall not obey you so cheerfully, if you put these people to death, for they will retaliate upon us in a similar case.” Many barons who were then present supported this opinion. Upon which the king replied, “ Gentlemen, I am not so obstinate as to hold my opinion alone against you all. Sir Walter, you will inform the governor of Calais, that the only grace he must expect from me is, that six of the principal citizens of Calais march out of the town, with bare heads and feet, with ropes round their necks, and the keys of the town and castle in their hands. These six persons shall be at my absolute disposal, and the remainder of the inhabitants pardoned.” Sir Walter returned to the Lord de Vienne, who was waiting for him on the battlements, and told him all that he had been able to gain from the king. “ I beg of you,” replied the governor, “ that you would be so good as to remain here a little, whilst I go and relate all that has passed to the townsmen ; for as they have desired me to undertake this, it is but proper they should know the result of it.” He went to the market-place, and caused the bell to be rung; upon which all

the inhabitants, men and women, assembled in the town-hall. He then related to them what he said, and the answers he had received, and that he could not obtain any conditions more favourable, to which they must give a short and immediate answer.

This information caused the greatest lamentations and despair; so that the hardest heart would have compassion on them; even the Lord de Vienne wept bitterly.

After a short time the most wealthy citizen of the town, by name Eustace de St. Pierre, rose up and said, “ Gentlemen, if such misery can be averted by my death, I am ready to die to save my townsmen, and I name myself as the first of the six.”

When Eustace had done speaking, they all rose up, and almost worshipped him; many cast themselves at his feet, with tears and groans. Another citizen, very rich and respected, rose up and said, “ He would be the second to his companion Eustace.” His name was John Daire. After him, James Wissart, who was very rich in merchandize and lands, offered himself as companion to his two cousins; as did Peter Wissart, his brother. Two others then named themselves, which completed the number demanded by the King of England.

The Lord John de Vienne then mounted a small hackney—for it was with difficulty that he could walk—and conducted them to the gate. There was the greatest sorrow and lamentation all over the town ; and in such manner were they attended to the gate, which the governor ordered to be opened, and then shut upon him and the six citizens, whom he led to the barriers, and said to Sir Walter Manny, who was there waiting for him, “ I deliver up to you, as governor of Calais, with the consent of the inhabitants, these six

citizens ; and I swear to you, that they were, and are at this day, the most wealthy and respectable inhabitants of Calais. I beg of you, gentle sir, that you would have the goodness to beseech the king, that they may not be put to death.” “ I cannot answer for what the king will do with them,” replied Sir Walter; “ but you may depend, that I will do all in my power to save them.”

The barriers were opened, when these six citizens advanced towards the pavilion of the king; and the Lord de Vienne re-entered the town. When Sir Walter Manny had presented these six citizens to the king, they fell upon their knees, and, wTith uplifted hands, said, “ Most gallant king, see before you six citizens of Calais, who have been capital merchants, and who bring you the keys of the castle and of the town. We surrender ourselves to your absolute will and pleasure, in order to save the remainder of the inhabitants of Calais, who have suffered much distress and misery. Condescend therefore, out of your nobleness of mind, to have mercy and compassion upon us.” All the barons, knights, and squires, that were assembled there in great numbers, wept at the sight.

The king eyed them with angry looks (for he hated much the ¡people of Calais, for the great losses he had formerly suffered from them at sea) and ordered their heads to be stricken off All present entreated the king, that he would be more merciful to them; but he would not listen to them. Then Sir Walter Manny said, “ Ah, gentle king, let me beseech you to restrain your anger. You have the reputation of great nobleness of soul; do not therefore tarnish it by such an act as this, nor allow any one to speak in a disgraceful manner of you. In this instance, all the world will say you have acted cruelly, if

you put to death six such respectable persons, who, of their own free will, have surrendered themselves to your mercy, in order to save their fellow-citizens.” Upon this the king gave a wink, saying, “ Be it so,” and ordered the headsman to be sent for; for that the Calesians had done him so much damage, it was proper they should suffer for it.

The Queen of England, who at that time was with child, fell on her knees, and, with tears, said, “ Ah, gentle sir, since I have crossed the sea with great danger, to see you, I have never asked you one favour: now, I most humbly ask as a gift, for the sake of the Son of the Blessed Mary, and for your love to me, that you will be merciful to these six men.” The king looked at her for some time in silence, and then said, “ Ah, lady, I wish you had been anywhere else than here. You have entreated in such a manner that I cannot refuse you ; I therefore give them to you, to do as you please with them.” The queen conducted the six citizens to her apartments, and had the halters taken from around their necks, after which she new clothed them, and served them with a plentiful dinner; she then presented each with six nobles,* and had them escorted out of the camp in safety.

Froissart’s Chronicles.

A Coin.


During the time that such numbers of noblemen of the kingdom of France were assembled at Tournehem under the command of the Duke of Burgundy, and the Duke of Lancaster was encamped with his army in the valley opposite to them, a circumstance happened in England, which, though so very common, was not the less unfortunate for the king, his children, and the whole kingdom. That excellent lady the Queen of England (who had done so much good, and during her whole life had assisted all knights, ladies, and damsels who had applied to her, who had had such boundless charity for all mankind, and who had naturally such an affection for the Hainault nation, being the country from which she sprung,) lay at this time dangerously ill at Windsor Castle, and her disorder daily increased.

When the good lady perceived her end approaching, she called to the king, and, extending her right hand from under the bed-clothes, put it into the right hand of the king, who was very sorrowful at heart, and thus spoke :—“We have enjoyed our union in happiness, peace, and prosperity. I entreat, therefore, of you, that on our separation you will grant me three requests.” The king, with sighs and tears, replied—“ Lady, ask; whatever you request shall be granted.” “ My lord, I beg you will acquit me of whatever engagements I may have entered into formerly with merchants for their wares, as well on this as on the other side of the sea. I beseech you also to fulfil whatever gifts or legacies I may have made, or left to churches, here or on the Continent,

wherein I have paid my devotions, as well as what I may have left to those of both sexes who have been in my service. Thirdly, I entreat that,, when it shall please God to call yon hence, you will not choose any other sepulchre than mine, and that you will lie by my side in the cloisters of Westminster.” The king, in tears, replied, “ Lady, I grant them.”

Soon after, the good lady, having recommended to God the king and her youngest son, Thomas, who was present, gave up her spirit. Thus died this Queen of England, in the year of grace 1369.

Froissart’s Chronicles.



Metals, from the number and variety of uses to which they are applied, are among the most interesting of mineral substances. They are considered to be simple bodies, for they cannot be decomposed into other elements, or shown to consist of a mixture of different substances. There are above fifty metals known, but only those in general use will be treated of here. These are platina, gold, silver, mercury, copper, iron, tin, lead, and zinc.

They are distinguished by a peculiar brilliancy, called metallic lustre; and, unlike glass and crystals, they cannot be seen through. Sir Isaac Newton, indeed, observed that very thin gold leaf seems to transmit the green rays of light, for objects placed behind it in the sun-beams appear green; but this appearance has been ascribed to the rays of light passing through an

immense number of very minute openings in the thinly-hammered gold.

Metals are also malleable, ductile, and fusible, and it is on these qualities that then great value almost entirely depends.

They are generally found in mountainous countries, deposited in veins of various thickness, and at various depths in the earth; they are mostly found combined with stony and other matters, and the substance thus formed is called an ore of the metal it contains. They are, however, sometimes met with in a state of purity, and are then said to be found native.

Gold, silver, and platina, are the most valuable of all the metals.

Gold .-—Gold is of a reddish yellow colour, and is rather softer than silver, harder than tin, and more easily melted than copper. It is the heaviest of all metals, except platina, being between nineteen and twenty times as heavy as an equal bulk of water. This fact affords a ready means of discovering counterfeit gold coin from genuine ; for, as gold must be adulterated with something much lighter than itself, platina being too valuable to be thus used, a false coin, if of the same weight with the true, will be sensibly bigger.

No other substance is equal to gold in malleability ; for it may be beaten out into leaves so thin that it would require two hundred and eighty-two thousand of them, laid one over another, to form a plate only one inch in thickness. This leaf-gold is made by beating a plate of the metal between pieces of skin with heavy hammers. Its tenacity also is considerable, though in this respect it yields to iron, copper, platina, and silver. A gold-wire, somewhat less than the tenth of an inch in diameter, will support a weight of 150 lbs. avoirdupois without breaking.

Another good quality of gold is its line colour. Scarcely anything makes a more splendid appearance than gilding, and as gold is not liable to rust in a pure and clear air, as other metals are, it is extensively used for the purposes of ornament.

Gold, when it is made into coin, or used for any common purposes, is mixed with a small portion of some other metal in order to harden it; this is called alloy. Our gold coin, which is very beautiful when new, has one-twelfth part of alloy (consisting of a mixture of silver and copper.) Scarcely any metal takes a stamp or impression better than gold, and it is capable of a very fine polish.

Gold, which is found only in the metallic state, is discovered either embedded in certain rocks, or spread out in thin plates or grains on their surface, or among the sands of various streams in different parts of the world, washed down with the soil by the torrents. It is found in most parts of the world, but very rarely in such quantities as to pay the expenses of obtaining it.

In the county of Wicklow some fine specimens of gold have been found—one mass weighing twenty-two ounces. In Devonshire gold has been found, but not in sufficient quantity to pay the cost of obtaining it. In Cornwall it has been found in the tin streams of Carnon Yale ; it has also been found in Scotland; but the mines of Hungary and Transylvania are the only goldmines of any importance in Europe. The goldmines of North America and Australia, however, far exceed these, and, in fact, yield so much as to surpass all hitherto conceived to be possible. The discovery of these is indeed among the most remarkable events of which history has preserved any account.

Silver:—Silver is a metal of a fine white colour.

When pure and polished it is the brightest of the metals, and brighter also than any other metallic body except polished steel; it is softer than copper but harder than gold, and is ten and a half times as heavy as an equal bulk of water. It is very malleable and ductile ; it may be beaten out into leaves only the one-thousandth part of an inch thick, and drawn out into wire much finer than the human hair. It is silver-wire, when gilt, that has the name of gold-wire; and what is called gold-lace is but flattened silver thread, gilt, twisted round silk, and woven. In tenacity silver is superior to gold, but inferior to platina—so that is has an intermediate strength between these two metals.

Silver and gold both melt with greater difficulty than lead, and not until they are at a bright red heat. Silver is easily alloyed with copper by melting them together; the compound is harder and more sonorous than silver, and retains its white colour even when the proportion of copper exceeds one-half. Its hardness is greatest when the copper amounts to one-fifth of the silver. British standard, or sterling silver, of which coin is made, is a compound in bulk of about three and a half parts of silver to one part of copper.

Silver being the most beautiful of the white metals, and capable of taking a very fine polish, is used for a great variety of ornamental purposes. Silver leaf is used for silvering in the same way as gold-leaf is used for gilding. Saucepans and other cooking utensils are sometimes silvered over in the inside to prevent the victuals from getting any taint from the metal of the vessels, for silver is not capable of being corroded or dissolved by any of the liquids used for food, as iron and copper are; it is, however, easily dissolved by nitric acid (aqua-fortis), when it yields crystals, which being afterwards melted in a crucible, form what is

(tailed lunar caustic. The substance is of great value to surgeons, who use it to burn away diseased flesh, warts, and other excrescences of the skin. Indelible ink, used for marking linen and other stuffs, is made by dissolving lunar caustic in water, and adding a little gum to it to thicken it. The yellow colour employed in painting porcelain is obtained from silver.

Silver is procured both native and as an ore. The minerals in which native silver is found are so numerous that it may be said to occur in all kinds of rock. At one time it appears as if filtered into their fissures; at another, as if it vegetated on their surface; and at a third, as if it were embedded in them. Different methods are employed in different countries to separate this metal from its ore. Most commonly the ore is broken into small pieces by mills-; it is then mixed with mercury and agitated in vessels filled with water; the silver unites with the mercury, forming an amalgam, which being afterwards exposed to the proper heat, the mercury is evaporated and the silver remains in a state of purity. The pure metal is then melted and cast into small bars called ingots.

When lead is first extracted from its ore it always contains a certain portion of silver, which is separated, when in sufficient quantity to repay the expense, by a process called refining. The lead of some English mines, of Scotland, of the Isle of Man, and of Ireland, contains considerable quantities of silver. In other parts of Europe large quantities are procured in the same way; but America, which produces for the most part ores containing but a small proportion of lead, is estimated to furnish ten times more silver than all other parts of the world together. The richest silver mines are those of Mexico, Peru, and Bolivia.


Platina :—Platina is a metal of a white colour, like silver, but not so bright. It is harder than silver, and about twice as heavy, being twenty-one times the weight of an equal bulk of water, so that it is the heaviest substance with which we are acquainted. It is exceedingly ductile, malleable and difficult to be melted. It may be beaten out into leaves of such thinness as to be blown about with the breath, and it has been drawn out into wire not exceeding the two-thousand part of an inch in diameter. It may be exposed to the strongest heat of a smith’s forge without melting, but can be fused with the aid of a blow-pipe ; pieces of it may, however, be welded together without difficulty when heated to whiteness.

It is not in the smallest degree altered by the action of air or water. These excellent properties render it applicable to the most important uses— it is made into mirrors for reflecting telescopes, into mathematical instruments, pendulums, and clock-work, particularly when the construction of these should be more than usually correct. The Russians have issued platina-coins of various values. If platina could be obtained in sufficient quantity it would, perhaps, be more generally used than any other metal.

This extraordinary metal, which ranks next in value to gold, was first brought into Europe from South America about the year 1785. It has since been discovered in Estramadura in Spain, and in the Ural Mountains in Asiatic Russia, where it is now raised in large quantities. Platina is found only under the form of small flattened grains, about the size of linseed.



Iron:—Iron, is a metal of a bluish-gray colour, and, when polished, is very brilliant. It has a peculiar astringent taste called chalybeate, and, when rubbed, it has a slight smell. Its tenacity is greater than that of any other metal, as a wire of about one-tenth of an inch thick will support 550 lbs. avoirdupois without breaking. Its hardness, also, exceeds that of most other metals, and it may be rendered harder by being converted into steeL In the state of steel, it is malleable at every heat, and its malleability increases in proportion to the degree of heat to which it is exposed, but it cannot be hammered out nearly as thin as gold or silver, or even as copper.

The chief defect of iron is that it is very subject to rust. Every liquor, and even a moist air corrodes it. But the rust is sometimes very valuable, as many springs of water are made medicinal by the iron which they dissolve in the bowels of the earth. These are all called chalybeate waters, and they may be known by their inky taste, and the rust-coloured sediment which they leave in their course.

Iron is the lightest of the common metals, except tin, being nearly eight times the weight of water.

Cast or pig-iron is the name given to this metal when first extracted from its ore, called ironstone, It is of immense utility in machinery and for tools of all sorts: it is also used for pots, grates, pillars, and many other purposes in which hardness without flexibility is required. It is changed

M 2

into wrought-iron by being put into a furnace and kept melted by fire, by which it acquires by degrees consistency and tenacity. It is taken out whilst hot, and violently beaten with large heavy hammers worked by machinery. In this manner it is made into bars of iron.

Steel is prepared from wrought-iron, by being melted in a furnace with charcoal. Steel, if heated to redness and then cooled slowdy, becomes soft and pliable; if plunged while hot into cold water it will take a high polish, and becomes so hard that it will scratch glass, while, at the same time, it becomes very brittle. All cutting instruments are made of steel, and the very fine-edged ones are generally tempered brittle, as razors, penknives, and surgeons’ instruments; but sword-blades are made flexible, and the best of them will bend double without breaking or becoming crooked. The steel of which springs are made has the highest possible degree of elasticity given to it. A watch-spring is one of the most perfect examples of this kind. Steel for ornaments is made extremely hard and close-grained, so as to bear an exquisite polish. Common hammered iron is chiefly used for works of strength, as horse-shoes, bars, bolts, and the like.

It would be endless to mention the manifold uses of this truly precious metal, under its different forms. It is equally serviceable to the arts, the sciences, agriculture, and war—the same ore furnishes the sword and the plough-share, the scythe and the chisel, the spring of a watch or of a carriage, the anchor and the cannon. Its usefulness is only equalled by its abundance; for it is the most universally diffused of the metals. It is found in every country in greater or less quantities; but England, France, Sweden, and Russia are richer in this metal than other parts of Europe.

Copper:—Copper is one of the metals most anciently known, and is so called from the island of Cyprus, where it was mined by the Greeks. It is of a reddish brown colour and has a great deal of brilliancy; it has a disagreeable taste, and the hand, when rubbed on it, acquires an unpleasant smell. It is nearly nine times the weight of water, and is very malleable, bearing to be hammered out into leaves so thin as to be blown about by the slightest breeze. Its ductility and tenacity are such that it can be drawn out to a fine wire, which when about the one-tenth of an inch in thickness, will support a weight of 300 lbs. avoirdupois, without breaking.

Its greatest defect is that it rusts very easily. The rust of copper is called verdigris, and is one of the most active poisons.

Copper is very much used for making cooking vessels, and vessels for distilling, brewing, dyeing, and the like, because it is easily worked and is sufficiently strong, though hammered thin, and bears the fire well. Great care is necessary in the use of copper cooking vessels; they should be kept quite clean and no acid or even water allowed to stand in them for any time, as verdigris would otherwise be formed. To prevent this danger, copper vessels are generally tinned on the inside. Copper is also used for various purposes in gunpowder-factories, because it does not, like iron, produce sparks on being struck. It is corned into money, for it takes an impression very well, and as its value is small in proportion to silver, it serves usefully for the purchase of articles of little cost.

Bronze, which is a mixture of copper with tin, has of late been used for coining. The ancients employed bronze, containing much tin, in making swords, spear-heads, hatchets, chisels, armour, as well as rings and ornaments for the person. In

our times it is used for cannon, statues, and for bells also, as it is deeply sonorous.

Brass, which is a mixture of copper and zinc, is of a fine golden colour, harder, more easy to melt, and less liable to rust than copper. It does not bear hammering well, but is generally cast into the shape wanted, and then turned in a lathe and polished. It is of extensive use in the arts.

Copper is found in many countries. Cornwall, Devonshire, and Wales yield large quantities, especially the first; and it is produced in five counties of Ireland, of which Cork and Wicklow supply the most. The mines of Scotland were never remunerative, and have been abandoned. After the British and Irish copper mines those of Cuba, Chili, and Australia are by far the most important, but the metal is also produced in Sweden, Russia, Japan, China, Persia, and many parts of America.

Lead:—Lead ranks with iron and copper in being one of the most useful metals. It is of a bluish gray colour, and when melted or newly cut is very bright, but it soon becomes tarnished by exposure to the air. It has scarcely any taste hut gives a peculiar smell when rubbed. It is one of the softest of the common metals, is easily cut with a knife, may be scratched with the nail, and marks paper or the fingers with a gray stain. It is very flexible and malleable, and may be beaten into thin leaves, but it is of such imperfect tenacity that it cannot be drawn into fine wire. Its weight being somewhat more than eleven times that of water, it is ranked among the heavy metals, and comes in this respect after platina and gold. It melts at a lower heat than any of the other metals, except mercury, and at a great heat it boils and evaporates. It may also be readily calcined, changing into a powder or scaly matter,

which may be made by fire to take all colours from yellow to deep red. Red lead is calcined lead, exposed for a considerable time to a strong fiame.

Lead in a variety of forms is most extensively used in the arts. There is a good deal of it in flint-glass, which it renders clearer; and it is also used in the glazing of earthen-ware. White lead is lead corroded by the steam of vinegar. It is the principal preparation of lead in general use for painting. It mixes well with oil, spreads easily under the brush, and gives a uniform coat. It is, however, very poisonous, and occasions the ill health to which painters are liable.

The great softness of lead, and the ease with which it is melted, are the properties which have brought it so much into use. When rolled out between iron cylinders into sheets, it is employed to cover the roofs of houses and other buildings. It is also used for gutters, water-pipes, and cisterns, because it does not rust, and is very lasting.

Immense quantities of lead are used in the manufacture of shot. For this purpose it is alloyed with arsenic to make it hard, and more apt to take a globular form. The shot is made by letting the melted alloy fall from a great height into water through an iron or copper frame, pierced with holes of the size the shot is required. An alloy of lead with antimony is used for printing types.

Mines of this valuable mineral have been worked in England from the era of the Romans. It appears to have been known at a very early period, as it is mentioned by Moses as a metal in common use.

The British and Irish lead-mines are, perhaps, the most important in the world; the metal is also, however, found in large quantities in Germany, France, and America.



Tin:—Tin is a metal of a white colour like silver, and when pure is nearly as brilliant. It is harder than lead, but not so hard as gold; in this quality it holds a middle place between these two metals, It has an unpleasant taste, and when rubbed gives out a peculiar smell.

It is somewhat soft and flexible like lead, but is distinguished by the crackling noise it makes when bent. It melts as easily as lead, and is readily calcined; when heated to redness, in a crucible open to the air, it burns with a white flame, changing into a yellowish white powder. called putty of tin. It is a light metal, being only seven and a quarter times the weight of water.

The malleability of tin is so very great, that, if they were required in the arts, leaves might be formed from it as thin again as tin-foil, which is only the one-thousandth part of an inch thick. Its ductility and tenacity are not great, as a wire of one-tenth of an inch in thickness will support only about 40 lbs. avoirdupois, without breaking.

The uses of tin are numerous, most frequently in combination with other metals. As it is little liable to rust or to be corroded by common liquors, it is employed for lining cooking-vessels made of copper or iron. This is done by melting the tin, and spreading it upon the copper or iron, which is first lightly pitched over to make the tin adhere. Tinned ware, commonly called tin-ware, is made of thin iron plates. These are first well cleansed by washing, they are then dipped into melted tin, and afterwards steeped in water mingled with

sulphuric acid, which makes the tin not only cover the iron but penetrate it, so that its whole substance becomes of a whitish colour. Pins, which are made of brass wire, are covered with tin to make them look silvery. Tin combined with several other metals is of very general use : with copper in different proportions it forms bronze, bell-metal, and other useful alloys; with iron, as we have just seen, it forms tin-plate; with lead it constitutes pewter and solder of various kinds. Tin-foil coated with mercury makes the reflecting surface of glass mirrors. A compound of tin with gold gives the fine crimson and purple colours to stained glass, and imitations of precious stones. Enamel, which is a beautiful substance of the nature of glass, is made by melting the materials of the frit of flint glass with the rust of tin, and the colour is varied by adding other substances. Oxide of gold makes it of a red colour; that of copper a green ; that of cobalt a blue ; and of iron a fine black.

Tin is never found in the native or pure state, and there are but two kinds of ore, called tinstone and tin-pyrites. The ore when taken from the mines is broken into small pieces, and then well washed by passing streams of water over it; it is then roasted and smelted, when it runs into moulds of stone, where it cools, and is then called block-tin.

This metal has been known from the most remote antiquity. The Phoenicians carried on an extensive trade with the Britons of Cornwall for it, long before the birth of Christ. The richest mines of our times are those of Cornwall, Bohemia, and Saxony, in Europe ; and Malacca, Banca, and Billitan, in Asia.

Zinc:—Zinc is a metal of a bluish white colour. M hen this metal is rubbed for some time between

the fingers, they acquire a peculiar taste and smell. It is rather soft, tinging the fingers when rubbed upon them with a black colour. Its weight is seven times that of water, sometimes a little less, the lightest being considered the purest. This metal forms as it were the limit between the brittle and malleable metals. Its malleability is not at all equal to that of copper, lead, or tin; yet it is not brittle like antimony or arsenic. When tempered it yields under the blows of the hammer, and may be reduced to pretty thin plates, which are supple and elastic, but cannot be folded without breaking. It is not very ductile, but it may with care be drawn out into wire.

The compounds of zinc with other metals are of the greatest importance in the arts. Besides its employment in the manufacture of brass, bell-metal, and other alloys, it has of late years been formed into plates, and used for many purposes for which lead was hitherto used, such as the roofing of buildings, water-spouts, dairy-pans, the sheathing of ships, ornaments, and other purposes. It is much employed on the Continent for the manufacture of statues. It is also used, like tin, for coating iron to prevent it rusting, producing what is known as galvanized iron.

The best quality of this metal is found in Flintshire and the Isle of Man; and it is commonly found with lead. It is also procured in Silesia, France, Belgium, and China.

Mercury:—Mercury or quicksilver is a metal differing from all others, by being a fluid at the common temperature of the air. It was known in the remotest ages, and seems to have been used by the ancients in gilding and in separating gold from other bodies, just as it is by us. Its colour is white like silver, hence its name quicksilver. Although it is always fluid in our climate, a very

great degree of cold makes it solid, and then it is malleable like other metals. This cold, which is thirty-nine degrees below zero, sometimes occurs naturally in Russia and at Hudson’s Bay; and in Britain it has been obtained by a freezing mixture. If a piece of solid mercury be thrown into a glass of warm water it becomes fluid, but the water at once freezes and the glass is shivered to pieces. To the touch, frozen mercury feels like red hot Iron, so that in beating it care must be taken that it does not touch the fingers. Mercury being nearly fourteen tunes as heavy as an equal bulk of water, comes next in order of weight after platina and gold, and it is the heaviest of all known fluids. Owing to this a smaller quantity of it than of any other fluid is equal in weight to« the pressure of the air, which has caused it to be [»referred before all others for barometers. As. heat expands mercury like other fluids, it is also, used in the construction of thermometers.

If mercury be well rubbed with fat, or oil, or gum, it unites with them, losing all its metallic appearance; this is one of the forms in which it is used in medicine. It also unites freely with gold, silver, lead, tin, bismuth, and zinc. A mixture or alloy of mercury with any metal, if there be so much mercury in it as to render it soft, somewhat like butter, is called an amalgam. These amalgams are much employed in gilding and silvering, as the mercury is easily driven off by heat, and the other metal is left behind. Copper buttons are gilt by shaking them in a vessel with a lump of amalgam of gold and mercury till they are covered over with it. They are then put into a pan and held over the fire; the mercury,being very volatile, flies off in the form of vapour, leaving the gold behind spread over the buttons. Thus many dozen buttons are gilt at once with the greatest

ease. The metal with which the backs of mirrors and looking-glasses are coated is an amalgam of tin and mercury. Vermilion, one of the finest red paints, is a particular mixture of mercury and sulphur.

Mercury is often obtained from mines native, or in the pure metallic state, in the form of small drops attached to the rocks or lodged in the crevices of other ores; it is also found combined with silver and sulphur. The principal mines are those of Almaden, in Spain; of Idria, in Carniola; of the Palatinate, on the left bank of the Rhine; and of Quanta Velica, in Peru. This last mine is a vast cavern, 170 fathoms in circumference and 480 fathoms deep.


How fearful,

And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low !

The crows, and choughs, that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade ! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head.

The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,

Appear like mice; and yond’ tall anchoring bark, Diminished to her cock ;* her cock, a buoy, Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge, That on th’ unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.


* i.e. Her cock-boat.


Almeria and Leonora.

Aim. It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed. Leon. It bore the accent of a human voice.

Aim. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle. We’ll listen.

Leon. Hark!

Aim. No, all is hushed, and still as death,

’Tis dreadful!

How reverend is the face of this tall pile,

Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,

To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof,

By its own weight made steadfast and immovable, Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold,

And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice—my own affrights me with its echoes. Leon. Let us return; the horror of this place, And silence will increase your melancholy.



Although the whale bears so close a resemblance to a fish, and is able to pass a considerable time below the water, it possesses no gills through which it may respire and renew its blood through the agency of the water, but breathes atmospheric air in the same manner as the other mammalia. If a whale were to be detained below the surface of the water for too long a period, it would be inevitably drowned, a fact which was once curiously exemplified by the death of a whale which had entangled itself in a rope fastened to a dead and sunken whale, and was found drowned when

tlie rope was drawn to the surface. No wounds had been inflicted upon the animal, but it had not been able to disengage itself from the detaining cord in time to breathe, and was consequently suffocated. When the whale is about to breathe it is forced to rise to the surface of the sea, and there makes a number of respirations, which are technically called spoutings, because a column of mixed water and vapour is ejected from the nostrils or blowholes as they are termed, and spouts upward to a great height, sometimes as much as twenty feet. In order to enable the animal to respire without exposing itself unnecessarily, the blow-holes are placed on the upper part of the head, so that when a whale is reposing itself on the surface of the sea, there is very little of its huge carcass visible, except the upper portion of the head and a part of the back. The spoutings are made with extraordinary violence, and can be heard at some distance.

The limbs of the whale are so modified in their form that they can hardly be recognised by their external appearance alone, as the limbs of a veritable mammal. In shape they closely resemble the fins of a fish, and it is not until they are stripped of the thick skin, which envelopes them, that the true limb is developed. The chief use of these organs seems to be to assist the animal in preserving its position in the water, for the» carcass rolls over on its back as soon as it is deprived of the balancing power of the fins—as they are generally called. They are also employed for the purpose of grasping the young, whenever the mother-whale is anxious for the safety of her offspring, but they are of little use in urging the animal through the water, that duty being almost entirely performed by the tail, an enormously powerful organ, set transversely upon the body, and driving the creature forward by its powerful

vertical sweeps. With such wonderful strength is the tail endowed^ that the largest whales are able by its aid to leap clear out of the water, as if they were little fish leaping after flies. This movement is technically termed breaching, and the sound which is produced by the enormous carcass as it falls upon the water, is so powerful as to be heard for a distance of several miles. The length of the tail is, in the larger whales, about five or six feet, but it is often more then twenty feet in breadth. There are several species of whales, the principal of which are—the Greenland whale, the Cachalot, and the Rorqual.

The Greenland whale is an animal of very great value, on account of the oil which is procured in great quantities from its blubber and other portions of its structure, while the baleen, commonly called whalebone, finds its use in every civilised land. The natives of the polar regions procure many necessaries of life from various parts of its body ; they eat the flesh and drink the oil. The whalebone is placed along the sides of the mouth for the purpose of aiding the whale in procuring its food, and separating it from the water. It is found in a series of plates, thick and solid at the insertion into the jaw, and splitting at the extremity into a multitude of liair-like fringes.

Small shrimps, crabs, and lobsters, together with various molluscs, form the diet on which the vast bulk of the Greenland whale is sustained. Driving with open mouth through the congregated shoals of these little creatures, the whale en-gulphs them by millions in its enormous jaws, and continues its destructive course until it has sufficiently charged its mouth with them. Then, closing its jaws, and driving out through the interstices of the whalebone the water which it has taken with its prey, it retains the captured

animals which are entangled in the whalebone, and swallows them at its ease.

The Greenland whale is inoffensive and timorous, and, except when roused by the pain of a wound or the sight of its offspring in danger, will always flee from the presence of man. Sometimes, however, when harpooned—that is, struck with an iron lance to which a long line is attached —it turns fiercely upon the boat from which the fatal weapon has been launched, and with a single blow of its tail—its only weapon—has been known to shatter a stout boat to fragments, driving men, ropes, and oars, high into the air.

It is a very affectionate animal, holding firmly to its mate, and protecting its young with a fearlessness that is quite touching to any one except a whaler, who takes advantage of the poor creature’s natural affection to decoy the mother within reach of his harpoon. When harpooned the whale dives to a very great depth, carrying the weapon buried in its flesh, but is forced to return in half an hour to the surface for air. By noticing the direction of the line which is attached to the harpoon, the whalers generally contrive to be so near their victim when it emerges, that they can fix another harpoon, or strike it with a lance before it can again descend into the depths of the ocean. This animal attains the length of seventy feet when full grown, the length of its head being sixteen feet. Its colour is a uniform black.

The Rorqual is the largest of all whales, many specimens having been known to attain a length of more than one hundred feet, and one or two have reached the extraordinary length of one hundred and twenty feet. As this species yields little oil, and its baleen being of no value, the whalers permit it to pass unmolested. It is, however, sometimes mistaken for the Greenland whale


and harpooned, but is very seldom killed, being so remarkably active and fearless, that in many cases the aggressors have paid dearly for their error. On one such occasion the animal started off in a direct line, and at such a speed that the men lost their presence of mind, and forgot to cut the rope that connected it with the boat. Making directly for a neighbouring icefield, the whale shot under it, and drew the boat with all its crew beneath the ice, where they disappeared for ever. On another occasion a Rorqual, struck through the error of the seamen, dived with such rapidity, so soon as it felt the sting of the harpoon, that it carried nearly three thousand feet of line out of the boat in about a minute of time, and escaped by snapping the rope.

Not contenting itself with such modes of escape, the Rorqual will often turn fiercely upon the whaling boats, and dash them to pieces by repeated strokes of its tail.

The Cachalot whale is chiefly notable on account of the valuable substance called spermaceti, which is obtained from its head. When the whale is killed and towed to the ship’s side, the head is cut off and affixed to tackles for the purpose of supporting it in a convenient position ; a large hole is then cut in the top of it, and a number of sailors lower their buckets into the cavity, and bale out the liquid matter.

This species is very widely spread over the globe, but is not found in the polar seas. It is one of the largest of the whales, an adult male measuring from seventy to eighty feet in length, and thirty feet in circumference.

Wood’s Natural History.


Though sliort thy span, God’s unimpeached decrees,

Which made that shortened span one long disease, Yet merciful in chastening, gave thee scope For mild, redeeming virtues, faith and hope, Meek resignation, pious charity :

And since this world was not the world for thee, Far from thy path removed, with partial care, Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure’s flowery snare, Bade earth’s temptations pass thee harmless by, And fixed on heaven thine unreverted eye !

Oh! marked from birth and nurtured for the skies! In youth, with more than learning’s wisdom wise; As sainted martyrs, patient to endure;

Simple as unweaned infancy, and pure;

Pure from all stain (save that of human clay, Which Christ’s atoning blood hath washed away), By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed, Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest!

While I, reversed our nature’s kindlier doom, Pour forth a father’s sorrows on thy tomb.


The Ash.—The common asli is one of the noblest of our forest-trees, and generally carries its principal stem higher than the oak, rising in an easy flowing line. Its chief beauty, however, consists in the lightness of its whole appearance. Its-branches at first keep close to the trunk, but as they begin to lengthen, they commonly take an easy sweep; and the looseness of the leaves corresponding with the lightness of the spray, the whole forms an elegant depending foliage.

The leaves of the common ash were used as fodder for cattle by the Romans, who esteemed them better for that purpose than those of any other tree; and in this country, in various districts, they were used in the same manner.

It is indigenous to Northern and Central Europe, to the north of Africa, and to Japan.

There are many remarkable ash-trees in various parts of the kingdom. The trunk of one in King’s county is twentj^-one feet ten inches in circumference, and seventeen feet high before the branches break out.

The ash will grow exceedingly well upon almost any soil, and indeed is frequently met with in rocks and ruined walls where its Avinged seeds have been deposited by the wind. The roots of this tree are remarkably beautiful, and often finely A'eined. They, Avith certain knotty excrescences found on the trunks, take a very excellent polish.

With the exception of the oak, the timber of the ash serves for the greatest variety of uses of any tree in the forest. It is excellent for ploughs, for axletrees,harroAvs,oars, blocksfor pulleys, carts, ladders, &c., and the branches make good fuel. The best time to fell an ash is after a growth of from eighty to one hundred years.

Beech.—This tree is supposed to be indigenous to England, but not to Scotland or Ireland. The branches of the beech are fantastically wreathed and disproportioned, twining awkwardly among one another, and running often into long unvaried lines, without any of that strength and firmness which we admire in the oak, or of that easy simplicity which pleases in the ash. In full leaf it has the appearance of an overgrown bush. The leaves are of a pleasant green, and many of them remain on the branches during winter. In France and Switzerland they are used when dried for beds, or, instead of straw, for mattresses. Its fruit consists of two nuts joined at the base, and covered with an almost globular coating, furnished with spines on the outside, but delicately smooth and silky within. Beech mast, as it is called, was formerly used for fattening swine and deer. It affords also a sweet oil, which the poor of some of the Continental countries eat most willingly.

The wood of this tree is not valuable for building purposes, being soft and sappy, but it is so easy of being worked that it is a great favourite with the turner. It is made into bowls, dishes, trays, trenchers, &c. Beechen bowls, curiously carved, were highly prized by the ancient shepherds, and we learn that their use was almost universal.

Elm,—The elm, when it has assumed the dignity and hoary roughness of age is not excelled in grandeur and beauty by any of its brethren. It then partakes so much of the character of the oak as to be easily mistaken for it. The leaves of the elm are small, and give a natural lightness to the tree, notwithstanding its great size and closeness of construction.

In favourable situations, the common elm becomes a large timber tree, of considerable beauty

and utility ; naturally growing upright. It is the first tree to put forth its light and cheerful green in spring, a tint which contrasts agreeably with the foliage of the oak, whose leaf has generally in its early state more of an olive cast. So prolific is this tree in leaves that it affords a constant shade during the summer months, and for this reason it has been planted in most of the public and royal gardens of Europe. It is also of quick growth, as it will yield a load of timber in little more than forty years ; it continues to grow, if planted in a rich, loamy soil, neither too dry nor too moist, till it is one hundred, or one hundred and fifty years old; and it will live several centuries.

Idle wood of the elm is hard and tough, and is greatly esteemed for pipes that are constantly under ground. In London, before iron pipes were used, the consumption of this timber for water pipes was enormous. It is also valuable for keels, for planking beneath the water-line of ships, and for mill wheels and water works. When long bows were in fashion it was used in their manufacture, and the statutes recommend it for that purpose.

This tree attains an enormous size when full grown. One in Yorkshire is a magnificent specimen of the English elm. This noble tree is about fifteen feet in circumference in the bole, and still thicker at the height of four feet from the ground, where it divides into five enormous boughs, each of the size of a large tree, and gracefully descending to the ground; the whole forming a splendid mass of foliage, having a circumference of about one hundred and forty yards at the thickest part.

Oak.—This tree holds the same rank in the vegetable world that the lion does among quadrupeds, and the eagle among birds; that is to say, it is the emblem of grandeur, strength, and dura-

tion. Its bulk, its longevity, and the extraordinary strength and durability of its timber, constitute it the King of Forest Trees.

The oak grows naturally in the middle and south of Europe, in the north of Africa, and in the Himalayas, Cochin-China, and Japan. In America it abounds throughout the greater part of the northern continent, more especially in the United States. In Europe the oak is abundant in Britain, France, Spain, and Italy.

Oaks are about eighteen years old before they yield any fruit, a peculiarity which seems to indicate the great longevity of the tree ; for “ soon ripe and soon rotten,” is an adage that holds generally throughout the organic world. It requires sixty or seventy years to attain a considerable size, but it will go on increasing and knowing no decay for centuries, and live for more than one thousand years. The timber formed from it is more durable than that from any of our other trees, and on this account it has been largely used in the construction of ships. The wood procured from the British oak is more durable than that procured from the oaks of any other country. In Ireland there are many large oak trees to be met with at the present time, but judging from the numerous trunks found embedded in the bogs, they are much fewer, and smaller than formerly.


A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on O’er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and boated slow ; Even in its very motion there was rest ;

While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given ;

And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven, Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies,

And tells to man his glorious destinies.



Horse-Chestnut.—The common horse-chestnut is supposed to be a native of the north of India, and appears to have been introduced into England about the year 1575. It is a tree of the largest size, with an erect trunk and a pyramidal head. It forms its foliage generally in a round mass, with little appearance of those breaks which are so much to be admired, and which contribute to give an airiness and lightness, at least a richness and variety, to the whole mass of foliage. This tree is, however, chiefly admired for its flower, which in itself is beautiful. It is generally, however, considered one of the most ornamental trees in our plantations. “ Few trees are so magnificent in foliage as the horse-chestnut, with its large fan-like leaves, far more resembling those of some tropical plant than the garb of a forest tree in climes like ours; but when these are crowned with its pyramids of flowers, so splendid in their distant effect, and so exquisitely. modelled and pencilled when we gather and examine their fair forms—is it not then the pride of the landscape ? If the oak—the true British oak—be the forest king, let us give him at least

a partner in his majesty ; and let the chestnut, whose noble head is crowned by the hand of spring with a regal diadem, gemmed with myriads of pearly, and golden, and ruby flowers, let her be queen of the woods ; and while we listen to the musical hum of bees, as they load themselves with her wealth of honey, we will fancy they are congratulating their noble and generous friend on her new honours.”*

The leaves of the horse-chestnut are large, of a deep green colour, fine, and palmated, and appear very early in the spring; it is naturally uniform in its growth. In the spring it produces long spikes, with beautiful flowers, white and variegated, generally in such number as to cover the whole tree, and to give it the appearance of one gigantic bouquet. No flowering shrub is rendered more gay by its blossoms than this tall treq ; thus it combines beauty with grandeur, in a degree superior to any other vegetable of these climates.

The buds of this tree, before they shoot out leaves, become turgid and large, so that they have a good effect to the eye long before the leaves appear; and it is peculiar to the horse-chestnut, that as soon as the leading shoot is come out of the bud, it continues to grow so fast as to be able to form its whole summer’s shoot in about three weeks’ or a month’s time : after this it grows little or nothing more in length, but thickens, and becomes strong and woody, and forms the buds for the next year’s shoot. The flowers are in full blossom about May, and continue in bloom for a month or more. The fruit l’ipens about the end of September or the beginning of October.

There are many fine specimens of this tree in

* “ Romance of Nature.”

various parts of the country. The largest in Britain is said to be at Trocton, in Lincolnshire, fifty-nine feet high. Loudon says this is a most magnificent tree, with immense branches extending over the space of three hundred and five feet in circumference ; and the branches are so large as to require props, so that at a little distance it looks like an Indian banyan tree.

The horse-chestnut is propagated from the nut, of which a sufficient quantity should be gathered as they fall from the trees, and soon afterwards either sown or mixed up with earth, until the spring; because, if exposed to the atmosphere, they will lose their germinating power in a month. After being transplanted into the nursery, and having there attained a sufficient size, the young trees must be taken out with care, the great side shoots and bruised parts of the roots lopped off, and then planted in large hol^s, level with the surface of the ground at the top of their roots, the fibres being all spread and lapped in the fine mould, and the turf also worked to the bottom : October is the best season for this work. Like most other trees, this delights in good fat land, but it will grow exceedingly well on clayey and marly grounds; large trees have been known to look luxuriant and healthy in very cold barren earth. It will attain a very large size in a few years.

The timber of this tree is not very valuable, especially where great strength is required, nor will it bear exposure to the air. It is, however, of some use to the turner, and also serviceable for flooring, linings to carts, &c. Du Hamel recommends it as suitable for water-pipes, which are kept constantly underground. The fruit is of a farinaceous quality, but so bitter as to be useless for food. Goats, sheep, and deer are said to be

very fond of the nuts ; the hark has considerable astringency, and may be used for tanning leather. A decoction of the rind will dye the hair of a golden hue.

The Sycamore, or Greater Maple.—Turner, who wrote in 1551, considered the sycamore as a stranger, or tree that had been introduced. On the Continent it is spread over the mountains of middle Europe; and is found in Switzerland, where it particularly abounds, growing at an elevation of from two thousand to three thousand feet above the level of the sea, where the soil is dry and of a good quality.

The sycamore is a noble tree, vying, in point of magnitude, with the oak, the ash, and other trees of the first rank. It presents a grand unbroken mass of foliage, contrasting well, in appropriate situations, with trees of a lighter and more airy character. It has round spreading branches, and a smooth ash-coloured bark, frequently broken into patches of different hues, by peeling off in large flakes, like the planes. The leaves have long foot-stalks, are four or five inches broad, palmate, with five acute, unequally serrated lobes ; the middle one largest, pale or shining beneath. The flowers are green, the size of a currant blossom, disposed into pendulous, compound clusters. Selby observes that “ from the strength of its spray, and the nature of its growth, which is stiff and angular, the sycamore is especially calculated to act as a shelter or breakwind in exposed situations, whether it be upon the coast where it braves the cutting eastern blasts, or upon bleak and elevated tracts, subjeet to long continued and powerful winds ; for even in such localities, provided the soil be dry and of tolerable quality, it attains a respectable size, and shows an upright form, unconquered by the

ti:e sycamoee.


blast.” It is not unfrequently planted in streets and before houses, on account of its spreading-branches and thick shade, for which it bears a high reputation.

The common sycamore is generally propagated by seed ; and its varieties by layers, or by budding or grafting. It will also propagate freely by cuttings of the roots. It is a tree of rapid growth, frequently attaining a diameter of from four to five inches in twenty years. It arrives at its full growth in fifty or sixty years ; but it requires to be eighty or one hundred years old before its wood arrives at perfection. It produces fertile seeds at the age of twenty years, but flowers several years sooner. The longevity of the tree is from one hundred and forty to two hundred years, though it has been known of a much greater age. There are many fine sycamores in different parts of the kingdom; the largest of which, one at Bishopton in Renfrewshire, is sixty feet in height and twenty feet in girth. It is more than three hundred years old, and yet it has the appearance of being perfectly sound.

Pine or Fir.—The pine, or Scotch fir, in favourable situations, attains the height of from eighty to one hundred feet, with a trunk from two to four feet in diameter, and a head somewhat conical or rounded, belt generally, jiarrow in proportion to its height, as compared with the heads of other broad-leafed trees. The bark is of a reddish tinge, comparatively smooth, scaling off in some varieties, and rough and furrowed in others. The general length of the leaves, in vigorous young-trees, is from two to three inches; but in old trees they are much shorter; they are smooth on both surfaces, stiff, and pointed, and remain green on the tree during four years, when they drop off. It requires eighteen months to mature the cones;

f> 2

and in a state of nature it is two years before the seeds are in a condition to germinate.

The needle leaf of the pine seems necessary to protect the tree from injury; for if their leaves were of a broader form, the branches would be borne down, in winter, by the weight of snow in the northern latitudes, and they would be more liable to be uprooted by the mighty hurricane. It is, however, enabled thus to evade both-, as the snow falls through, and the winds penetrate between, the interstices of its leaf. Struggling through the branches, the wind comes in contact with such an innumerable quantity of points and edges, as, even when gentle, to produce a deep murmur, or sighing; but when the breeze is strong, or the storm is raging abroad, it produces sounds like the murmuring of the ocean, or the beating of the surge and billows among the rocks.

The durability of the red timber of this tree is almost as great as that of the oak; and some of it, grown in the north Highlands, is reported to have been as fresh and full of resin after having-been three hundred years in the roof of an old castle, as newly-imported timber from Memel.

A Itered from “ Woodland Gleanings.”





I’ll bid the hyacinth to blow,

I’ll teach my grotto green to be; And sing my true love, all below The holly bower and myrtle tree.

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring, The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bow'er, Thou spirit of a milder clime,

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, Of mountain heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,

Or cuckoo’s plaintive roundelay.

Where’er thy morning breath has played, Whatever isles of ocean fanned,

Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy land.

For sure from some enchanted isle,

Where-Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty’s fairest, brightest mould:

1 rom some greSfi Eden of the deep, Where Pleasure’s sigh alone is heaved, Tv here tears of rapture lovers weep, Endeared, undoubting, undeceived:

From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lost— Where Nature lights her leading star, And love is never, never crossed.

Oli gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel Avith the cloudless Hours In Nature’s more propitious home.

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,

That o’er enchanted spirits twine,

A fairer form than Cherub loves,    jfr

And let the name be Caroline.

Thomas Campbell.





Gem of the crimson-coloured even Companion of retiring day,

Why at the closing gates of heaven, Beloved star, dost thou delay ?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns

When soft the tear of twilight flows, So due thy plighted love returns To chambers brighter than the rose •



To Peace, to Pleasing, and to Love -So kind a star thou 'seem’st to he,

Sure some enamoured orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee !

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power Of love’s delicious witchery.

Oh ! sacred to the fall of day,

Queen of propitious stars, appear,

A.nd early rise and long delay When Caroline herself is here.

Shine on her chosen green resort

Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court An angel’s feet to tread them down.

Shine on her sweetly scented road Thou star of evening’s purple dome,

That lead’st the nightingale abroad,

And guid’st the pilgrim to his home.

Shine where my charmer’s sweeter breath Embalms the soft exhaling dew,.

Where dying winds a sigh bequeath To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where, winnowed by the gentle air,

Her silken tresses darkly flow And fall upon her brow so fair

Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day’s decline,

In converse sweet to wander far—

0 bring with thee my Caroline,

And thou shalt be my ruling star!

Thomas Campbell.



The materials which we employ as fuel for our domestic and industrial purposes are all derived from the vegetable kingdom, being either wood of modern growth, or else turf or coal, which are themselves but masses of vegetable matter compressed or decomposed. In this country we may practically exclude wood from our consideration as a fuel; there is no feature of the Irish landscape more characteristic than the desert baldness of its hills, robbed of those sylvan honours that elsewhere diversify a rural prospect. This barrenness of trees is but of recent origin. Numerous localities, in every part of Ireland, derive their names from having been originally covered with forests. In every district where bogs abound it is found that, immersed in the turf, are quantities of large timber, generally fir, birch, and oak ; the former so impregnated with resinous material, that a splinter burns like a candle, and may be employed as such. This resin is partly the native turpentine of the tree, but, for the most part, it consists of peculiar bodies produced by the decomposition to which the wood is subjected, and by which, if the action were continued for a sufficient length of time, true bituminous coal might be produced. Moreover, that our country was some centuries ago as remarkable for its extent of forests as it is now by the reverse, appears from all our histories. Many causes conspired for their destruction. In some cases they were rooted up to increase the arable surface, while in others they were cut down to destroy the shelter which bands

of outlaws found in their recesses. An extensive export trade in oak was at one time carried on, and two centuries ago the manufacture of iron was in great activity throughout this country, and led to the cutting down of innumerable trees, in order to prepare charcoal. During all this time no one planted ; all sought their present profit, regardless of the future, and the result has been that at present the timber grown in Ireland is not sufficient for those- uses to which it is specially adapted, and as a fuel we may consider it never to be employed.

There is no doubt but that the coal has had its origin in the amassing together of great quantities of trees and plants. There is good reason to suppose that vegetable growth during the periods in which coal was formed was much more active than it is now in the same localities. The plants whose forms may still be recognised in the beds of coal, belong, in great part, not to the vegetation of temperate climates, but to that which at present characterizes the scenery of the tropics. In the convulsions to which the surface of the earth has been subjected these forests have been destroyed ; the growth of an immense surface, probably carried together by currents, has been covered with mud and sand, and was thus subjected, under the influence of enormous pressure, and probably of an elevated temperature, to those decomposing agents, by which vegetable matter, when in contact with moisture, is incessantly affected.

Under such circumstances, wood is converted into coal. The change is not sudden or direct. It would be diffiult to recognise in the coal usually burnt the forms of those plants from which it had its origin. But there are many varieties of coal. In the deposits of the true coal formation the chemical changes have been carried on

through such a lapse of ages, and under circumstances so favourable to their action, that it is now completed. But in geological epochs less remote masses of vegetable remains have also been embedded, in which we can study the intermediate states of change. The alteration in the chemical composition of wood, when it is converted into coal, is capable of being accurately traced, and consists in the removal of most of the oxygen and some of the hydrogen of the wood. These elements pass off combined with carbon, and are found haunting the recesses of the coal mine, under the forms of those damps or vapours so fatally known to miners—the oxygen and carbon forming the carbonic acid, termed choke damp j the. hydrogen and carbon constituting the light carburetted hydrogen, or lire damp. The quantity of carbon removed from the wood being comparatively small, the more perfect the coal is the more carbon is found in it, until finally, in the anthracite, or stone coal, we find specimens which are almost pure carbon.

The coal formation of Ireland consists of a series of sandstone and slaty rocks, which rest upon the upper limestone, and give an aspect of considerable elevation to the districts. They are seven in number; of these, one is in Leinster, two are in Munster, three in Ulster, and one in Connaught. These districts differ materially according as they are situated to the north or to the south of Dublin: the former yielding bituminous or flaming coal, the latter yielding only stone coal, or anthracite, which burns without flame.

The Leinster deposit occupies the greater portion of Kilkenny, Queen’s County, and part of Carlow. It is bounded on the east, west, and south by the Barrow and the Nore, which run immediately at the base of the Colliery Hills.

Its general appearance, when viewed from a distance, is that of a very steep ridge of high land running in a direct line for many miles, rising from eio’ht hundred to one thousand feet above

O    (    t

its base, and apparently flat on its summit. It presents this character on every side, but when viewed from the eminence itself it resembles a barren table-land rising precipitously above a Hat and highly cultivated country. This district constitutes a great mineral basin, whose strata, consequently inclining from the edge towards the centre, consist of beds of slate-clay, fire-clay, and the coal beds. The former is usually the most abundant. It is a dull, earthy mineral, divides easily into thin hakes, and decomposes rapidly when exposed to the air. The sandstone of the coal formation consists of a flinty substance cemented by a paste of lime or clay; it frequently becomes slaty, so as to split easily into layers, as is the case in the well-known Carlow hags. Beneath the coal is generally a clay, locally termed coal seat, which is quite equal to the best Stourbridge clay, for all the purposes to which that is applied.

To the south and west of the Leinster district is that which is peculiarly termed the Munster coal field. This tract, the most extensive development of the coal strata in the British empire, occupies considerable portions of the counties of Clare, Limerick, Cork, and Kerry. In all these counties coal has been discovered, and coal mines, worked.

The most extensive collieries at present worked in this district, are situated in the barony of Duhallow, in the county of Cork. The beds here are from two to three feet thick, and produce an excellent anthracite. To the north of Dublin, as has been said, the coal is bituminous, and of this

■species there is a small, but highly interesting •example, in the county of Tyrone. The coal of this district burns rapidly with flame, and evolves great heat. It is not difficult to raise, and its quantity is such as to be capable of diffusing the blessings of industrial prosperity over an extensive area. At the northern extremity of Antrim is found a coal district, unimportant as to magnitude, but remarkable from its association with the great basaltic mass from which the characteristic scenery of Fair Head and the Causeway is derived. This coal field differs from all the others in this country in not resting upon limestone, but upon mica slate. In Monaghan there is a small coal basin, but the strata dip at so large an angle as to render the working difficult.

The last of the coal fields of this country is the Connaught district, and consists of the hills which surround Lough Allen; and which occupy large parts of the counties of Roscommon, Sligo, Leitrim, and a portion of Cavan, in Ulster, extending to about 114,000 acres. The coal fields in the immediate vicinity of Arigna are remarkable for the rich beds of ironstone which they contain. These are exposed in the channel of the River Arigna in incredible numbei’s.

Sir Robert Kane.

What is called lignite, or wood-coal is also found in Ireland. It is intermediate between wood and coal. The heat which it produces is more diffused, but less intense than the latter. It exists in large quantities along the shores of Lough Neagh, from Washing Bay, in Tyrone, to Sandy Bay, in Antrim. In the latter place a boring of seventy-six feet gave a thickness of fuel to the extent of sixty feet, the remaining sixteen feet being clay.



The other source of fuel, turf or peat, is of comparatively modern formation, and is considered most specially characteristic of this island. Our bogs may become, under the influence of an enlightened energy, sources of industry eminently productive. It is a fuel of excellent nature. The process of its formation is thus described by Captain Portlock, in the Memoir of the Ordnance ¡Survey of Londonderry:—

“In the production of bog, sphagnum, or bog-moss, is allowed on all hands to have been a principal agent, and superabundant moisture the exciting cause. The process may be thus stated:— A shallow pool induced and favoured the vegetation of aquatic plants, which gradually crept in from the borders towards the centre. Mud accumulated round their roots and stalks, and a spongy, semi-fluid mass was thus formed, well fitted for the growth of moss, which now, especially sphagnum, began to luxuriate; this, absorbing a large quantity of water, and continuing to shoot out new plants above, while the old were decaying, rotting, and compressing into a solid substance below, gradually replaced the water by a mass of vegetable matter, which in course of time became peat. In mountain districts the progress of the phenomena is similar. Pools, indeed, cannot in so many instances be formed owing to the steepness of the slopes, but the clouds and mists, resting on the summits and sides of mountains, amply supply their surface with moisture; which comes, too, in the most favourable form for vegetation, not in a sudden, torrent, but unceasingly and gently, drop by

drop. The summit bogs of high mountains are distinguishable from those of lower levels by the total absence of large trees.”

The bogs of Ireland cover about one-seventh of its entire surface, and of this extent the mountain bogs, which are principally distributed through the hilly country which ranges along the -coast, take up somewhat less than one-half. The flat bogs, which in an industrial point of view deserve the chief attention, are spread over the central portions of the great limestone plain. The district west of the Shannon contains by far the greatest portion of bog, and a tfliai n of peat passes almost from Dublin to that river through the central counties. In Leitrim, Kerry, and Antrim there is also a large extent of bog.

As turf includes a mass of plants in different-stages of decomposition, its aspect and constitution vary very much. Near the surface it is light coloured, spongy, and contains the vegetable remains but little altered. Deeper it is brown, denser, and more decomposed; while at the base of the greater bogs, some of which have a depth of forty feet, the mass oi turf assumes the black colour, and nearly the density of coal, to which it also approximates very much in chemical composition: When ignited turf gives off inflammable gas, much water, and leaves a light, easily combustible charcoal. The heating power of dry turf is about one-half that of coal, but the turf in ordinary use loses much of this power by the water which is allowed to remain in its texture, and of which the spongy character of its mass renders it very difficult to get rid. It is very usual to find the turf of commerce, even when it feels quite dry to the hand, containing one-fourth its weight of water.

The characteristic fault of turf as a fuel is its

want of density, which renders it difficult to concentrate within a limited space the quantity of heat necessary for many operations. It yields in burning a vast body of volatile inflammable ingredients, which pass into the flues and chimney, and thus distributes the heat over a great space, whilst in no one point is the heat intense. If it be required, however, it is quite possible to obtain a very intense heat with turf.

The removal of the porosity and elasticity of turf, so that it may assume the solidity of coal, has been the object of many experimenters. The only modes that present promise of success are those invented by Mr. Williams. One of these consists in drying the turf well, and then impregnating it with tar, which renders it waterproof as it were, besides making its calorific power little inferior to coal. Turf so prepared has no tendency to re-absorb moisture, which is the serious defect in turf that has been perfectly dried.

The employment of turf as a source of heat in industry is extending ; already it supplies exclusively the steam boats on the Shannon, and a great number of distilleries and mills.

Not merely may the turf be utilized in its natural condition, or compressed, or impregnated with pitchy matter, but we may form charcoal from it as we do from wood. Turf charcoal is usually very light and friable. It is hence peculiarly fitted for the manufacture of gunpowder, and is about twenty per cent, more combustible than wood charcoal. For many Industrial uses the light charcoal is unsuited, but by coking compressed turf a charcoal may be produced which is far superior to that of wood charcoal, and even equal to that of the best coal-made coke. Tar and various valuable oils are also produced from turf.

Sir Robert Kane.



This metal is indispensable to an advanced condition of the arts, and a nation without it must always remain in a state of semi-barbarism. Its chiefs may, indeed, be magnificent in gold and jewels, its warriors may be armed with shields and swords of bronze, on which the labour of long-practised workmen may bestow a finish, admirable even at the present day, but the rarity and cost of material deprive the general population of all power to render those precious metals available for their domestic comfort. It is only where iron is obtainable ; where, cheap and abundant, it places within the reach of all the means of constructing the various tools by which the arts and agriculture are so materially advanced, that civilization can become firmly grounded amongst a people. As the means of existence become cheaper and more easily procured, there is afforded time for mental cultivation, and, growing out of that by proper discipline, there is produced a sounder morality, and a life of peace and justice ; we may, therefore, look upon coal and iron, by whose agencies this cheapness is chiefly obtained, as powerful agents of civilization and of man’s intellectual progress.

Some centuries ago Ireland presented a picture of manufacturing industry such as we would now find, perhaps, in the interior of Russia, or the mountainous districts of northern Spain, but which the progress of the arts has banished from Britain and Central Europe. Covered with forests and possessing iron ore of the highest purity, in

great abundance, Ireland was sprinkled over with small iron-works, in which wood charcoal was employed; and thus iron manufactured of excellent quality—in fact, such as we now import from Sweden for all the finer purposes of cutlery and mechanism. About two hundred years ago, iron was an article of export from Ireland to London. But in Ireland, as in England, where, at the same time, the same processes of manufacture were followed, the vast quantity of wood consumed, to make charcoal for the iron-works, gradually stripped the country of its forests, and when the supply of fuel failed, the working of iron was, of course, abandoned. Similar causes are at the present moment in operation on the continent of Europe, and limit the economic manufacture of iron by means of wood to those countries in which a thinly scattered population admits of large tracts being employed in growing timber. The wonderfully fortunate destiny of England intervened at that very time, when her iron trade was in process of rapid annihilation. The energy and genius of one man rescued her from becoming a mere dependent for iron on the north of Europe, and, by inventing the process of reducing iron from the ore by means of coke, made the first step in the path of discovery which rendered that country the industrial sovereign of the world. In Ireland there was no man like Dudley, so that while the iron manufacture of England assumed a new and enlarged existence, the iron manufacture of this country rapidly declined, until finally, a century ago, when they had burned out all that remained of the wood, the last charcoal furnace was extinguished in Kerry.

The substitution of coal coke for charcoal created a revolution not only in the kind of fuel but in the kind of ore employed, and indeed in


the localities where the manufacture could be carried on advantageously. Before that time the minerals employed were such as are found in Tyrone, together with the bog-iron ores; but it was found that in almost every coal district there occurs an ore of iron quite different from those, and which is now known as clay-ironstone. The richness of this ore varies very much, but being found in immediate proximity to the fuel, and still more, the coal beds presenting other minerals of use in the manufacture, it was found more advantageous to smelt it than to bring either richer ores from a distance to the fuel, or the fuel any distance to the richer ores. In fact, the manufacture of iron requires a variety of materials, which it woidd be very expensive to bring together, did their sources lie at a considerable distance; but by an organization of nature, of which it is impossible to exaggerate the wisdom and the importance to mankind, all that are necessary lie in contact with each other. The coal measures contain beds of hard and infusible sandstone of which portions of the furnaces may be built; they rest usually on clay, of which the best fire-bricks may be formed ; and dispersed in layers through the slate which covers the coal, is found in abundance the iron ore, whilst the limestone necessary as a flux, lies on the edges of the coal basin. Now this combination of sandstone for hearths, clay for crucibles and bricks, lime for flux, ore and coal for smelting, is not restricted to any one district; and, in fact, were any of them absent, or difficult to be procured, the economic manufacture of the metal would be impossible.

The clay-ironstone, which has become almost the exclusive source of iron to Great Britain, occurs in great abundance in this country, in the coal districts of Leinster and of Connaught. In

the Leinster district a succession of beds of slate, sandstone, and clay are associated with the coal ; the ironstone occurs abundantly in nodules disseminated through the layers of slate, from which they separate spontaneously by weathering, or are easily detached. It is very rich, and in many places remains of ancient excavations are still visible, where this bed has been worked in search of ironstone, and indeed some of the iron furnaces may be seen.

The abundance of ironstone found in the Connaught coal district gave origin to several works for the reduction of the metal at that early period when the extensive woods supplied charcoal for the furnaces; and almost 'without intermission since Dudley’s invention, attempts have been made at various times, and by different individuals, to carry on iron works in that locality. Mr. Twigg thus speaks of the Arigna district “ The ironstone mines have been examined, and the result found extremely favourable. A greater variety of ironstones I never met with, from which I have no hesitation in saying that pig-iron of the best quality, and fit for foundry work of every kind may be obtained. The iron mines continue for two miles and a half. I measured several of the beds to two feet thick, and in the bed of the Arigna river any quantity can be got at the shortest notice. There is enough to last two furnaces for two hundred and fifty years.”

The ores of the Leinster and Connaught coal fields are equal, and even, in average, superior to those generally employed in Great Britain. The ironstone of Kilkenny is but little inferior to that of Arigna, whilst the ores of Lough Allen attain a richness in iron equalled only by the black band ironstone of Glasgow.

Sir Robert Kane.

P 2



The ores of copper are found distributed throughout the clay-slate districts in a great number of localities. In many places the indications are so trifling as not to offer any inducement to enterprise, but in others they are so abundant as to have given origin to numerous extensive and prosperous mining establishments. The mines at present in practical work may be said to form three groups, all on the sea-side. The first, in the county Wicklow, occupying the Yale of Ovoca; the second is in the county Waterford, at Knock -mahon; and the third, occupying the western angle of the island, is situated in the southern portions of Cork and Kerry. Of these the two last are by far the most valuable. The Knock-mahon mines are situated close to the village of Bonmahon, and extend from the Bay of Dun-garvan to the Bay of Tramore. This district has long been known for its mineral treasures, many of its veins having been worked by the ancient inhabitants. One almost insulated promontory is perforated like a rabbit-burrow, and is known as the Danes’ Island, because the peasantry attribute these ancient mines, like all other relics of remote civilization, to that enterprising people. In the abandoned workings antique tools have been found, stone hammers and chisels, and wooden shovels. The number of persons in constant employment is about 1,200, and the sum paid in labour is not less than j?2,500 per month.

The Cork mines are situated principally near the towns of Skibbereen, Skull, Ballydehob, and

Castletown, of which the latter are the most important. These were commenced upwards of fifty years ago, and give employment at the present time to upwards of one thousand persons. The Kerry mines were situated at Kenmare, Ross Island, and Mucruss, but these are now abandoned. A curious fact in the history of the last-mentioned mine is worthy of notice. In working it there was found in great profusion a mineral of a granulated metallic appearance, as hard as a stone; its colour on the surface was dark blue, tending to a beautiful pink. As it was not copper ore it was thrown away as rubbish ; nobody knew what it was except one workman, who recognised it to be cobalt ore, a mineral of great value, and from which the beautiful blue glass and smalt blue is made. This man managed to get away upwards of twenty tons of it as rubbish. Long afterwards the proprietor of the mine learned its value, but as the deposit of it had been worked out and thrown away as useless, it only remained for him to ruminate on the fortune he might have made had he ] »ossessed a proper knowledge of his business.

Lead is even more extensively diffused throughout Ireland than copper, and is found in a much greater variety of rocks. The granite rocks of Dublin and Wicklow are intersected by a great number of veins containing ores of this metal. These veins have been worked at Dalkey, Killiney, Powerscourt, Glendalough, and many other places; and have proved, in general, very remunerative. In the clay-slate of the north of Ireland, which spreads over the counties of Louth, Armagh, and Down, several lead mines were opened, the majority of which, however, were afterwards abandoned for various reasons. Lead ore has been met with in several localities in Connemara

and Donegal, but no workings have been entered upon. The limestone rocks of the east of Clare have been found to contain several very large deposits of lead ore, which have been worked with great success. That at Milltown is probably one of the oldest in Ireland. At one time it may be supposed that there was a rich deposit, as the ancient excavations are very extensive. When these were completely cleared, some rude tools were discovered—such as oaken shovels and iron picks—the latter of an extraordinary size and weight. The Ballyliickey lead mines in the same county are the richest, and are now worked very profitably.

Towards the close of the last century native gold was found to occur, disseminated in the bed of the streams which descend from the northern face of the Croghan Kinshela—a mountain which lies on the confines of Wicklow and Wexford. Considerable quantities were collected by the people. It occurred in massive lumps, and in small pieces down to the minutest grain. Particles of native gold were found in other parts of Wicklow, but in quantities too trifling to pay the cost of working.

There is no doubt but that sources of native gold were known to the Irish at a very remote period. The abundance of gold ornaments and weapons, which are so peculiar to this island, and for which no source of importation can be assigned, is sufficient evidence of this; as well as the testimony of our ancient writers descriptive of the use and manufacture of this precious metal.

Native silver has also been found in Cronebane, in Wicklow, but the deposit has been long since exhausted. The particles were seldom so large as to be visible to the eye, but the silver was

extracted by fusion with lead. It was auriferous, containing thirty grains of gold in each ounce. More recently it has been discovered in another mine associated with lead. It is also found in Cork.

The occurrence of tin-stone in Ireland is of very considerable importance, as this metal, indispensable in the arts and of high price, is one of the most valuable elements of mineral industry. Hitherto it has been found, however, only disseminated through the auriferous soil of Wicklow; no veins or workable deposits of it having been met with.

Of the remaining metals of practical importance many have been found, and in some cases their mines have been worked in Ireland, but they have not attained much development hitherto. Manganese occurs at Howth in the vicinity of Dublin ; and also in Wicklow, but more especially at Glandore, on the southern coast of Cork. An ore of antimony is found in Clare, associated with the lead ore of the mines already alluded to; it is also found in Armagh, where it forms a vein of about four inches in thickness. The curious history of the cobalt ore at Killarney has been already given. Nowhere else has it been found in any quantity, though traces of it occur in all the mining districts. The minerals of nickel, chrome, arsenic, and bismuth have been found, but have not hitherto been objects of industrial enterprise. An ore of zinc is a common associate of the veins of lead and copper, and is intermixed sometimes in large quantities with the iron pyrites, worked in the Wicklow district for the manufacture of sulphur and sulphuric acid.

Sir Robert Kane.



Manufactures and agriculture are so closely connected that the latter can be carried on, with the best effect, only where the industrial arts are in a flourishing condition. The farmer requires for his clothing the produce of various manufactures, and for his protection a house made comfortable by the labours of various artisans. His plough, his winnowing and threshing machines, have been invented for him by ingenious mechanists. On the other hand, the manufacturer must be fed. The produce of the farm finds its quickest and readiest sale in the neighbouring manufacturing town. The risk of transport to a distance, of sales to strangers, of change of markets, are all avoided rvhere domestic industry provides for the farmer purchasers in his own country. Moreover, besides food the manufacturer takes from the agriculturist various materials, as flax and hemp, wool and hides, which form a large part of the value of his farm produce, and yet derive their greatest value from the subsequent processes of manufacture to which they are submitted. The two great branches of human occupation, manufacturing and agricultural, so far from being opposed or inconsistent, are thus really bound together by the strongest ties.

It has been shown already that Ireland possesses many facilities for manufacturing industry, but it is peculiarly and specially adapted to agriculture, from the fertility of the soil, to which all competent judges have borne testimony. Mr. M'Culloch says of it, that although “ a large proportion of it is covered with bogs and moun-

tains it contains a great deal of tlie most excellent land. The luxuriance of its pastures, and the heavy crops of wheat that are everywhere raised attest its extraordinary fertility.” Mr. Wakefield, who was himself an agriculturist of long experience in England says, that “ a great portion of the soil of Ireland throws out a luxuriant herbage, springing from a calcareous subsoil without any considerable depth, as is found throughout Roscommon, in some parts of Galway and Clare, and other districts. Some places exhibit the richest loam I ever saw turned up with a plough : this is the case throughout Meath in particular. On the banks of Fergus and Shannon the land is of a different kind, but equally productive, though the surface presents the appearance of marsh. These districts are called caucasses; the substra-ture is a blue silt deposited by the sea, which seems to partake of the qualities of the upper stratum, for this land cannot be injured by any depth of ploughing. In the counties of Limerick and Tipperary there is another kind of rich land, consisting of a dark, friable, dry, and sandy loam, which, if preserved in a clean state, would throw out corn for several years in succession. It is equally well adapted for grazing and tillage. The richness of the land in some of the vales may be accounted for by the deposition of soil carried thither from the upper grounds by rains. The subsoil is calcareous, so that the very richest manure is thus spread over the land below, without subjecting the farmer to any labour. In the north the quantity of rich soil is not very considerable, yet valleys of extraordinary fertility are found in every county; and I was not a little astonished, amidst the rocky and dreary mountains of Donegal, where there was hardly a vestige of cultiva tion, to find myself drop all at once

into a district where the soil was exceedingly fertile. Independently of the caucasses, the richest soil in Ireland is to be found in Tipperary, Limerick, Longford, and Meath. Some parts of the county of Cork are uncommonly fertile, and upon the whole, Ireland may be considered as affording land of excellent quality, although I am by no means prepared to go the length of many writers, who assert that it is decidedly, acre for acre, richer than England.”

The vegetable kingdom is placed in nature intermediate between the mineral kingdom, which is submitted solely to the operation of physical laws, and the animal kingdom, in which vital organization is most complex and most perfect. The mineral kingdom is distinguished by an absolute fixity of constitution, whilst the materials of which the animal is composed are in a constant state of change. By the very act of its living force the materials of which it consists die, are thrown off, and other new elements of the same kind must be taken in their place, or else the whole animal dies. The living being, therefore, requires food to supply this want of new material, and for this food it must look abroad in nature. The carnivorous, or most highly organized animals, prey upon those of an inferior vital power, while these in then' turn prey upon the vegetable kingdom. Thus the different kinds of plants must ultimately supply the means of sustenance to all animal bodies, for in no case is an animal able to use a mineral material as a nutritious food. When, however, an animal dies and decomposes, its constituents are restored to the mineral kingdom. The various elements which had formed its bones and muscles, its nerves and viscera, pass into simpler forms of combination, diffuse themselves in the atmosphere, are carried off dissolved in water, or else, entombed beneath the surface, re-appear after the lapse of many ages, in rocks, and thus become the indices of animal existence of which all other trace might long before have vanished from the earth. From this mineral form the elements of animal existence are rescued by means of plants. The same elements pass successively from the mineral to the vegetable, and from that to the animal, and again, by the dissolution of the latter back to the mineral kingdom, to be the foundation of another and similar series of changes. When we see in the summer the country rich with luxuriant crops, gay with foliage and flowers, where in winter all had appeared dead and desert looking; when we find new generations of animals replace those that die, it is important to recollect that there is still no new element added to those previously existing on the globe—we see but the old elements under different forms.

The soil of a country is formed by the decomposition of the minerals which it contains, and therefore its fertility mainly depends on the rocks that lie beneath it, or whose elements'are brought to it by rivers. A district of which the rock is simple cannot furnish a good soil. A pure quartz or a pure limestone could only furnish to plants lime or silica, and they should in consequence languish for want of other elements equally important. The more numerous, therefore, the rocks are, and the greater the diversity in their mineral character, the more complex will be the soil furnished by their decomposition, and the greater its fertility.

If these principles be applied to the soils of Ireland, they will be borne out in a remarkable degree. The districts known to be most fertile are, in Ulster, about the Yale of the Lagan ; and, in Munster, the Golden Yale, which stretches from the end of the coal formation at Cashel to near Limerick; and these districts are found to contain a greater number of different kinds of rocks than any other locality in Ireland.

It is necessary to add that all fertile soils contain peculiar organic matters. After the death of a plant its elements enter into new arrangements, and by a series of progressive alterations, are finally converted into a dark brown material, termed vegetable mould.

Ireland produces in great abundance the several grain and root crops, but the extensive use and culture of the potato has become almost a national characteristic ; and of all the starchbearing plants it is that which affords the greatest quantity of produce from a given surface of land. It is used here almost solely for food, but in other countries it is the basis of many manufactures. The potato reduced to flour is at present extensively employed upon the Continent in the preparation of a very wholesome bread, and the starch made from it is consumed in making confectionery, jellies, sago, tapioca; in thickening paper, and in a variety of uses, by which such quantities of it are employed as to render its manufacture a really important and extensive department of industry. It is scarcely creditable, therefore, to find that we import from Scotland and from France large quantities of this starch for consumption in Ireland. The most remarkable of all the applications of potato starch is the preparation of sugar and spirits. Under the influence of certain chemical agents starch is converted into sugar, and this, by fermentation, yields spirits. On the Continent the manufacture of spirits from corn is almost abandoned, and potato spirits is almost universally used. In flavour it so resembles brandy that it is well known that a large quantity of the French brandy brought into London, is potato-spirit from Hamburg coloured with burnt sugar.

The flax-crop is also a most important one for Ireland, as the soil is in many cases peculiarly adapted for its growth; and as on it so large a proportion of the population in the north may be considered to depend for subsistence. It may be cultivated on any soil of moderate fertility, but, of course will grow in greatest luxuriance and yield its largest produce where the land is most fruitful. From the importance of the flax culture, as well to the farmer as to the manufacturer, it might be supposed that it should be at least cultivated to such an extent as to supply our own industrial wants. Such, however, is far from being the case, as every year a large quantity of flax is imported into Great Britain and Ireland from the Baltic ports and from Belgium.

The great value of it to this country is that it s cultivation supplies not merely a source of agricultural, but of manufacturing employment. In this respect it is far more beneficial than a food crop of the same money value, or occupying the same ground. The flax as it leaves the hand of the farmer gives employment to the dresser-, from him it passes to the spinner, then to the weaver, the bleacher, and perhaps to the embroiderer.

The linen manufacture has been hitherto, almost exclusively, confined to the north of Ireland, but this does not arise from any physical circumstances of soil or climate; for flax was formerly cultivated to some extent in certain parts of the south and centre of Ireland, and the quantity of produce was found decidedly greater than the average of the crops given in the north, while the quality of the fibre possessed a delicacy but seldom met with in the ordinary flax of Ulster.

Sir Robert Kane.




The castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine. And hills all rich with blossomed trees,

And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy wert thou with me.


And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,

And hands which offer early flowers,

Walk smiling o’er this paradise;

Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o’er this vale of vintage-bowers;

But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!


I send the lilies given to me;

Though long before thy hand they touch,

I know that they must withered be,

But yet reject them not as such;

For I have cherished them as dear,

Because they yet may meet thine eye,

And guide thy soul to mine even here,

When thou behold’st them drooping nigh ; And know’st them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine!


The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground,

And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round:

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here ;

Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear,

Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!



The animal that produces pearls in the greatest abundance, of the purest nature, and of the highest value, was classed by Li unions with the muscles ; but some other naturalists have formed it into a distinct genus. In this country it is usually called the pearl oyster. It inhabits the Persian Gulf, the coasts of Ceylon, the sea of New Holland, the Gulf of Mexico, and the coasts of Japan. It attains perfection nowhere but in the equatorial seas; but the pearl fishery in the island of Ceylon is the most celebrated and productive. No scene in Ceylon presents so dreary an aspect as the long sweep of desolate shore to which, from time immemorial, adventurers have resorted from the uttermost ends of the earth in search of the precious pearls for which this gulph is renowned. On approaching it from sea the only perceptible landmark is a building erected as a temporary residence for the Governor. A few cocoa-nut palms appear next above the low sandy beach, and presently are discovered the scattered houses which form the villages of Aripo and Condatchy.

Between these two places the shore is raised to a height of many feet by enormous mounds of shells, the accumulations of ages, the millions of oysters, robbed of their pearls, having been, year after year, flung into heaps that extend for a distance of many miles.

During the progress of a pearl fishery, this singular and dreary expanse becomes suddenly enlivened by the crowds who congregate from distant parts of India; a town is improvised by the construction of temporary dwellings, huts of timber and cajans, with tents of palm leaves or canvas ; and bazaars spring up to feed the multitude on land, as well as the seamen and divers in the fleets of boats that cover the bay. The persons engaged in this calling are chiefly Tamils and Moors who are trained for the service by diving for chanks.2 The apparatus employed to assist the diver in his operations are exceedingly simple in their character: it consists merely of a stone about thirty pounds weight (to accelerate the rapidity of his descent), which is suspended over the side of the boat, with a loop attached to it for receiving the foot; and of a net-work basket, which he takes down to the bottom, and fills with the oysters as he collects them. One of the earliest Arabian geographers, describing, in the ninth century, the habits of the pearl divers in the Persian Gulph, says that, before descending, each filled his ears with cotton steeped in oil, and compressed his nostrils by a piece of tortoiseshell. This practice continues there to the present day; but the diver of Ceylon rejects all such expedients; he inserts his foot in the “ sinking-stone,” and inhales a full breath ; presses his nostrils with his left hand; raises his body as high as possible above the water, to give force to his descent, and, liberating the stone from its fastenings, he sinks rapidly below the surface. As soon as he has reached the bottom the stone is drawn up, and the diver, throwing himself on his face, commences with alacrity to fill his basket with oysters. This, on a concerted signal, is hauled rapidly to the surface; the diver assisting his own ¡iscent by springing on the rope as it rises.

Improbable tales have been told of the capacity which these men acquire of remaining for prolonged periods under water; but Captain Steuart, who filled for many years the office of Inspector of the Pearl Banks, assured me that he had never known a diver to continue at the bottom longer than eighty-seven seconds, nor to attain a greater-depth than thirteen fathoms; and on ordinary occasions they seldom exceeded fifty-five seconds in nine-fathom water.

^ The oidy precaution to which the Ceylon diver devotedly resorts is the mystic ceremony of the shark-charmer, whose exorcism is an indispensable preliminary to every fishery. Strange to say, though the Gulph of Manaar abounds with sharks, not more than one well authenticated accident is known to have occurred from this


source during any pearl fishery since the British have had possession of Ceylon. In all probability the reason is, that the sharks are alarmed by the unusual number of boats, the multitude of divers, the noise of the crews, the incessant plunging of the sinking-stones, and the descent and ascent of the baskets filled with shells. The dark colour of the divers themselves may also be a protection ; whiter skins might not experience an equal impunity. The divers of the Persian Gulph are so conscious of this advantage of colour, that they are accustomed to blacken their limbs, in order to baffle the sea monsters.

Pearl consists of concentric coats of the same substance as that which forms the mother-of-pearl of the shell; they are produced by the extravasation of a lapidifying fluid, secreted in the organs of the animal, and filtered by its glands. For one pearl that is found perfectly round and detached hundreds of irregular ones occur; they are sometimes so numerous that the animal cannot shut its shell, and so perishes. The pearl is a formation forced upon the animal by some annoying substance in its shell which it covers with mother-of-pearl, as the bees do intrusive wasps with wax, to fix it or hinder it from affecting them by putridity, and other causes.

The Bay of Tamblegam, connected with the magnificent harbour of Trincomalee, is the seat of another pearl fishery, and the shell which produces them is the thin transparent oyster, whose clear white shells are used in China and elsewhere as a substitute for window-glass. They are also collected annually for the sake of the diminutive pearls contained in them. These are exported to the coast of India, to be calcined for lime, which the luxurious affect to chew with their betel. These pearls are also burned in the mouths of the dead. So prolific are these mollusca, that the quantity of shells taken by the licensed renter in the three years prior to 1858 could not have been less than eighteen millions. They delight in brackish water, and on more than one recent occasion, an excess of either salt water or fresh has proved fatal to great numbers of them.

Sir James Emerson Tennent.


Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ;

Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage ;

If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty.

Colonel Lovelace.


The splendid birds which are so familiar to us under the general title of eagles, form the first gioup of the great Falcon family, which includes eagles, falcons, and hawks.

' The whole of the falcon tribe are eminently destructive birds, gaining their subsistence chiefly by the chase, seldom feeding on carrion except when pressed by hunger, or when the dead animal has only recently been killed. They kill their

Q 2

prey with almost a single blow, sweeping down upon the doomed creature with lightning velocity, and striking it fiercely with their talons.

The chief of the eagle family are the Imperial Eagle of Asia and Southern Europe, the Bold Eagle of Australia, the Martial Eagle of South Africa, the Harpy Eagle of South, and the Bald Eagle of North America, the Golden Eagle, the Osprey, and the Sea Eagle of the British Isles.

The well known golden eagle is one of the finest of these grand birds. Its colour is a rich blackish brown on the greater part of the body; the head and neck are covered with feathers of a rich golden red, which have earned for the bird its popular name. It is a truly magnificent bird in point of size, often measuring nine feet from tip to tip of the extended wings.

In England the golden eagle has long been extinct; but it is still found in the mountainous parts of Ireland and Scotland. Its nest is always made upon some elevated spot, generally upon a ledge of rock; and on a neighbouring ledge is stored the food brought up by the parent eagles from the plains below, consisting of hares, partridges, and game of all ldnds, lambs, rabbits, young pigs, fish, and other similar articles of food. An eagle’s nest might therefore be supposed to be an unpleasant neighbour to the farmers, but it is said that the birds respect the laws of hospitality, and provided that they are left unmolested, will spare the flocks of their immediate neighbours, and forage for food at a considerable distance.

In hunting for their prey, the eagle and his mate mutually assist eacb other. As the rabbits and hares are generally under cover during the day, the eagle is forced to drive them from their place of concealment, and manages the matter in a very clever and sportsmanlike manner. One of the eagles conceals itself near the cover which is to be beaten, and its compan on then dashes among the bushes, screaming aimaking such a disturbance that the terrified initiates rush out in hopes of escape, and are immediately pounced upon by the watchful confederate. When in pursuit of its prey it is a most audacious bird, having been seen to carry off a hare from before the noses of the hounds. It is an expert fisher, catching and securing salmon and various sea fish with singular skill.

When wounded or attacked it is a terrible opponent, as may be seen by the following anecdote :

“ An eagle was at one time captured in the county Meath, by a gamekeeper, who, surprising the bird sleeping, after a surfeit on a dead sheep in the neighbourhood, conceived the idea of taking him alive, and for that purpose approached noiselessly and clasped the bird in his arms. The eagle recovering, and unable to use his wings, clutched with his talons, one of which entered the man’s chest, the hind claw meeting the others underneath the flesh. The man, unable to disengage the talon, strangled the bird, but the claws were yet too firmly clutched to open. Taking out his knife, he severed the leg from the body, and walked with the penetrating talon to the village dispensary, to have it removed.”

The bald or white-headed eagle, which is found throughout the whole of North America, haunting the sea coasts as well as the mouths of the large rivers, receives it name from the snowy-white colour of its head and neck, and is remarkable from being the bird chosen by the Americans as the emblem of their nation.

It builds its nest upon some lofty tree, and as it continues to use the same nest, year after year, and make additions of fresh building materials at every brooding eason, its home comes in course of time to be of-enormous size.

The female gr ards its young with the utmost care, and so long as they are helpless and unfledged no danger will be sufficient to make her forsake them.

The bald eagje will eat almost anything that has ever possessed animal life; but he is especially fond of lambs, kids, and young deer.

The following is Mr. Audubon’s admirable description of the way in which this bird hunts for and kills its feathered prey :—“ The eagle is seen perched, in an erect attitude, on the summit of the tallest tree by the margin of the broad stream. His glistening, but stern eye, looks over the vast expanse. He listens attentively to every sound that comes to his quick ear from afar, glancing every now and then on the earth beneath, lest even the light tread of the fawn may pass unheard. His mate is perched on the opposite side, and should all be tranquil and quiet, warns him, by a cry, to continue patient. At this well-known call he partly opens his broad wings, inclines his body a little dowiiwards, and answers to her voice in tones not unlike the laugh of a maniac. The next moment he resumes his erect attitude, and again all around is silent. Ducks of many species—the teal, the Avidgeon, the mallard, and others are seen passing Avith great rapidity, but the eagle heeds them not; they are at this time beneath his attention.

“ The next moment, however, the Avild trumpetlike sound of a yet distant, but approaching, swan is heard. A shriek from the female eagle comes across the stream, for she is as fully alert as her mate. The latter suddenly shakes the whole of his body, and with a few touches of his bill, aided by the action of his cuticular muscles, arranges his plumes in an instant. The snow-white bird is now in sight; her long neck is stretched forward; her eye is on the watch, vigilant as that of her enemy; her large Avings seem with difficulty to support the weight of her body, although they flap incessantly: so irksome do her exertions seem, that her very legs are spread beneath her tail to aid her in her flight. She approaches, however; and the eagle has marked her for his prey.

“ As the swan is passing the dreaded pair, the male bird starts from his perch, with an awful scream, that to the swan’s ear brings more terror than the report of a duck-gun. Now is the moment to witness the display of the eagle’s powers. He glides through the air like a falling-star, and, like a flash of lightning, comes upon the timorous quarry, which, now, in agony and despair seeks by various manoeuvres to elude the grasp of his cruel talons. It mounts, doubles, and willingly would plunge into the stream were it not prevented by the eagle, which possessed of the knowledge that by such a stratagem the swan might escape him, forces it to remain in the air, by attempting to strike it with his talons from beneath.

“ The hopeof escape is soongivenupby the swan.

“ It has already become much weakened, and its strength fails at the sight of the courage and swiftness of its antagonist. Its last gasp is about to escape, when the ferocious eagle strikes with its talons the underside of its wing, and, with unresisted power, forces the bird to fall in a slanting-direction upon the nearest shore.

“ It is then that may be seen the cruel spirit of this dreadful enemy of the feathered race whilst exulting over its prey. He presses down his powerful feet, and drives his sharp claws deep into the heart of the dying swan; and shrieks with delight as he feels its last convulsions. The female has watched every movement of her mate, and, if she did not assist him in capturing the swan, it was not from want of will, but merely that she felt full assurance that the power and courage of her lord were quite sufficient for the deed. She now sails to the spot where he eagerly awaits her, and when she has arrived, they together turn the breast of the luckless swan upwards, and gorge themselves with gore.”

Wood and Audubon.


’Twas first in that disastrous fight,

Rokeby and Mortham proved their might, There had they fall’n among the rest,

But pity touched a chieftain’s breast;

The Tanist he to great O’Neil,

He checked his fofl’wers’ bloody zeal,

To quarter took the kinsmen bold,

And bore them to his mountain-hold,

Gave them each silvan joy to know, Slieve-Donard’s cliffs and woods could show, Shared with them Erin’s festal cheer, Showed them the chase of wolf and deer, And, when a fitting time was come,

Safe and unransomed sent them home, Loaded with many a gift, to prove A gen’rous foe’s respect and love.

Sir Walter Scott.


The parental instinct of insects is well worthy of attention. A striking instance of this has been already given, in the Third Book, in the lesson on the butterfly; but many other insects display this instinct no less remarkably.

The dragon-fly is an inhabitant of the air, and could not exist in water; yet in this element, which is alone adapted for her young, she ever carefully drops her eggs. The larvae of the gadfly are destined to live in the stomach of the horse. How shall the parent, a two-winged fly, conduct them thither ? By a mode truly extraordinary. Flying round the animal, she curiously poises her body for an instant, while she glues a single egg to one of the hairs of his skin; and she repeats this process until she has fixed, in a similar way many hundred eggs. These, after a few days, on the application of the slightest moisture attended by warmth hatch into little grubs. Whenever, therefore, the horse chances to lick any part of his body to which they are attached, the moisture of the tongue discloses one or more grubs, which, adhering to it by means of the saliva, are conveyed into the mouth, and thence find their way into the stomach. But here a question occurs to you. It is but a small portion of the horse’s body, which he can reach with his tongue : what, you ask, becomes of the eggs deposited in other parts ? I will tell you how the gad-fly avoids this dilemma; and I will then ask you if she does not discover a provident forethought, a depth of instinct which almost casts into shade the boasted reason of man. She places her eggs only on those parts of the skin which the horse is able to reach with his tongue: nay, she confines them almost exclusively to the knee or the shoulder, which he is seen to lick. What could the most refined reason, the most precise adaptation of means to an end, do more '( Not less admirable is the parental instinct of that vast tribe of insects known by the name of ichneumons, whose young are destined to feed upon the living bodies of other insects. You see this animal alight upon the plants, where the caterpillar (which is the appropriate food of her young) is to be met with, run quickly over them, carefully examining every leaf, and having found the unfortunate object of her search, insert her sting into its flesh, and there deposit an egg. In vain her victim, as if conscious of its fate, writhes its body, spits out an acid fluid, and brings into action all the organs of defence with which it is provided. The active ichneumon braves every danger, and does not desist until her courage and address have insured subsistence for one of her future progeny. Perhaps, however, she discovers that she has been forestalled by some precursor of her own tribe, that has already buried an egg in the caterpillar she is examining. In this case she leaves it, aware that it would not suffice for the support of two, and proceeds in search of some other yet unoccupied. The process is of course varied in the case of those minute species, of which several, sometimes as many as a hundred and fifty, can subsist in a single caterpillar. The little ichneumon repeats her operations until she has darted into her victim the requsite number of eggs. The larvse, hatched from the eggs thus ingeniously deposited, find a delicious banquet in the body of the caterpillar, which is sure eventually to fall a victim to their ravages. So accurately, however, is the supply of food proportioned to the demand, that this event does not take place until the young ichneumons have attained their full growth. In this strange and apparently cruel operation one circumstance is truly remarkable. The young ichneumon, though every day, perhaps, it gnaws the inside of the caterpillar, and though at last it has devoured almost every part of it, except the skin and intestines, carefully all this time avoids injuring the vital organs, as if aware that its own existence depends on that of the insect on which it preys. Thus the caterpillar continues to eat, to digest, and to move, apparently little injured, to the last, and only perishes when the grub within it no longer requires its aid.

Another tribe of ichneumons, whose activity and perseverance are equally conspicuous, like the insidious cuckoo, contrive to introduce their eggs into the nests in which bees and other insects have deposited theirs. With this view they are constantly on the watch, and the moment the unsuspecting mother has quitted her cell, for the purpose of collecting a store of food or materials, glide into it and leave an egg, the germ of a future assassin of the larva; which is to spring from that deposited by its side.

There is a spider common under clods of earth, which may at once be distinguished by a white globular silken bag, about the size of a pea, in which she has deposited her eggs attached to the extremity of her body. Never miser clung to his treasure with more tenacious solicitude than this spider to her bag. Though apparently a considerable incumbrance, she carries it with her everywhere. If you deprive her of it, she makes the most strenuous efforts for its recovery; and no personal danger can force her to quit the precious load. Are her efforts ineffectual,—a stupifying melancholy seems to seize her, and, when deprived of the first object of her cares, existence itself seems to have lost its charms. If she succeeds in regaining her bag, or if you restore it to her, her actions demonstrate the excess of her joy. She eagerly seizes it, and with the utmost agility, runs off with it to a place of security. Nor is the attachment of this affectionate mother confined to her eggs. After the young spiders are hatched, they make their way out of the bag by an orifice, which she is careful to open for them, and without which they could never escape; and then, like the young of the Surinam toad, they attach themselves in clusters, to her back, belly, head, and even legs; and in this situation, where they present a very singular appearance, she carries them about with her, and feeds them, until their first moult, when they are big enough to provide their own subsistence.

Kirby and Spence.


Night was again descending, when my mule, That all day long had climbed among the clouds, Higher and higher still, as by a stair Let down from heaven itself, transporting me, Stopped, to the joy of both, at that low door, That door which ever, as self-opened, moves To them that knock, and nightly sends abroad Ministering Spirits. Lying on the watch,

Two dogs of grave demeanour welcomed me,

All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb;. And a lay-brother of the Hospital,

Who, as we toiled below, had heard by fits The distant echoes gaining on his ear,

Came and held fast my stirrup in his hand While I alighted. Long could I have stood, With a religious awe contemplating That House, the highest in the Ancient World, And destined to perform from age to age The noblest service, welcoming as guests All of all nations and of every faith;

A temple, sacred to Humanity'3

It was a pile of simplest masonry,

With narrow Avindows and vast buttresses,

Built to endure the shocks of time and chance.

On the same rock beside it stood the church. Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity;

And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale,

A little lake, where never fish leaped up,

Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow.

On the eastern shore

Under a beetling cliff stood half in gloom

A lonely chapel destined for the dead,

For such as, having wandered from their way, Had perished miserably. Side by side,

Within they lie, a mournful company,

All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them; Their features full of life yet motionless In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change, Though the barred windows, barred against the wolf,

Are always open!—But the North blew cold; And, bidden to a spare but cheerful meal,

I sate among the holy brotherhood

At their long board. The fare indeed was such

As is prescribed on days of abstinence,

But might have pleased a nicer taste than mine; And through the floor came up, an ancient crone Serving unseen below; while from the roof A lamp hung flickering, such as loves to fling Its partial light on Apostolic heads,

And sheds a grace on all. Theirs Time as yet Had changed not. Some were almost in the prime; Nor was a brow o’ercast. Seen as they sate, Ranged round their ample hearth-stone in an hour Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile,

As children; answering, and at once, to all The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth; Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk Music; and gathering news from them that came, As of some other world. But when the storm Rose, and the snow rolled on in ocean waves, When on his face the experienced traveller fell, Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands, Then all was changed; and,sallying with their pack Into that blank of nature, they became Unearthly beings. ‘ Anselm, higher up,

Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long, And now, as guided by a voice from Heaven, Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence

Whose can it be, but his who never erred ?*

A man lies underneath ! Let us to work!—

But who descends Mont Yelan ? ’Tis La, Croix. Away, away ! if not, alas, too late.

Homeward he drags an old man -and a boy, Faltering and falling, and but half awaked, Asking to sleep again.’ Such their discourse.

What though Frost Reign everlastingly, and ice and snow Thaw not, but gather—there is that within, Which, where it comes, makes Summer ; and, in thought,

Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe Those from the South ascending, every step As though it were their last,—and instantly Restored, renewed, advancing as with songs,

Spun as they see, turning a lofty crag,

That plain, that modest structure, promising Bread to the hungry, to the weary rest.



Quadrupeds being so very necessary to man in every situation, he is particularly interested in them history : without their aid, what a wretched and forlorn creature would he have been! The principal part of his food, his clothing, and his amusements are derived wholly from them.

The horse and the ass, the elephant, the camel, the lama, and the reindeer contribute to ease his

* Alluding to Barri, a dog of great renown in his day. His skin is stuffed, and preserved in the Museum of Berne.

fatigues, and to give him that swiftness which he wants from nature. By their assistance he changes place without labour ; he attains health without weariness; his pride is enlarged by the elegance of equipage, and other animals are pursued with a certainty of success. It were happy indeed for man, if while converting these quadrupeds to his own benefit, he had not turned them to the destruction of his fellow-creatures; he has employed some of them for the purpose of war, and they have conformed to his noxious ambition with hut too fatal an obedience.

The cow, the sheep, the deer, and all their varieties are necessary to him, though in a different manner. Their flesh makes the principal luxuries of his table, and their wool or skins the chief ornament of his person. Even those nations that are forbid to touch anything that has life, cannot wholly dispense with their assistance. The milk of these animals makes a principal part of the food of every country, and often repairs those constitutions that have been broken by disease.

The dog, the cat, and the ferret, may be considered as having deserted from their fellow quadrupeds, to enlist themselves under the conduct and protection of man. At his command they exert all their services against such animals as they are capable of destroying, and follow them into places where he himself wants abilities to pursue.

As there is thus a numerous tribe that he has taken into protection, and that supplies his necessities and amusements, so there is also a still more numerous one that wages an unequal combat against him, and thus calls forth his courage and his industry. Were it not for the lion, the tiger, the panther, the rhinoceros, and the bear, he would scarce know his own powers, and the superiority of human art over brutal fierceness. These serve to excite and put his nobler passions into motion. He attacks them in their retreat, faces them with resolution, and seldom fails of coming off with a victory. He thus becomes hardier and better in the struggle, and learns to know and to value his own superiority.

As the last-mentioned animals are called forth by his boldest efforts, so the numerous tribes of the smaller vermin kind excite his continual vigilance and caution; his various arts and powers have been nowhere more manifest than in the extirpation of those that multiply with such prodigious fecundity. Neither their agility nor their minuteness can secure them from his pursuits; and though they may infest, they are seldom found materially to injure him.

In this manner we see that not only human want is supplied, but that human wit is sharpened by the humbler partners of man in the creation. By this we see that not only their benefits but their depredations are useful, and that it has wisely pleased Providence to place us like victors in a subdued country, where we have all the benefits of conquest, without being as secure as to run into the sloth and excesses of a certain and undisturbed possession.


A Chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries “ Boatman, do not tarry !

And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry!”


“Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle This dark and stormy water ?”

“ 0 I’m the Chief of Ulva’s isle,

And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.

“ And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together ;

For should he find us in the glen My blood would stain the heather.

His horsemen hard upon us ride ; Should they our steps discover,

Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?”

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight— “ I’ll go, my chief, I’m ready :

It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady :—

“ And by my word ! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ;

So though the waves are raging white I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking ;

And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer:

“ O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,

“ Though tempests round us gather ;

I’ll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry .father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,—•

When, oh ! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o’ei'iistr.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing :

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,—

His wrath was changed to waging.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade His child he did discover :—

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her-4weP:

“ Come back ! come back !” he cried in grief, “ Across this stormy water ;

And I’ll forgive your Highland Chief,

My daughter '—0 my daughter !”

’T was vain; the loud Avaves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing ;

The waters wild went o’er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

Thomas Campbell.


Gold and silver are the most convenient metals to use as money, because they take up but little room in proportion to their value. Hence they are called the precious metals.

But why should gold and silver be of so much more value than iron 1 For they are not nearly so useful. We should be very ill off without knives, and scissors, and spades, and hatchets; and these could not be made so well from anj^ thing as from iron; and silver and gold would make very bad tools indeed.

To understand this, you must remember that it

R 2

is not the most useful things that are of the most value. Nothing is more useful than air and water, without which we could not live. Yet these are, in most places, of no value, in the proper sense of the word; that is, no one will give anything in exchange for them, because he can have them without.

In some places, indeed, water is scarce; and then people are glad to buy it. You may read in Scripture of many quarrels that arose about wells of water ; because in some of the eastern countries water is so scarce that a well is a very important possession. But water is not more useful in those places where people are glad to buy it, than it is here, where, by the bounty of Providence, it is plentiful. It is the scarcity that gives it value, and where iron is scarce it is of great value.

Some islands which our ships have visited produce no iron; and the people there are glad to get a few nails in exchange for a hog. But, in most countries, iron, which is the most useful of all metals, is also, through the goodness of Providence, the most plentiful. But still it is of some value; because it must be dug from the mines, and smelted in furnaces, and wrought into tools, before we can make use of it. If knives and nails were produced by nature ready made, and could be picked up everywhere like pebbles, they would be of no value, because every one might get them for nothing. But they would be just as useful as they are now.

Scarcity alone, however, would not make a thing valuable if there were no reason why any one should desire to possess it. There are some kinds of stones which are scarce, but of no value, because they have neither use nor beauty. You would not give anything in exchange for such a stone ; not because you cannot easily get it, but because you have no wish for it.

But a stone which is scarce and very beautiful, may be of great value, though it is of no use but to make an ornament for the person. Such are diamonds, and rubies, and many others. Many people will work hard to earn money enough to buy, not only food and necessary clothing, but also lace, and jewels, and other articles of finery.

And they desire these things the more, because, besides being beautiful to the eye, they are reckoned a sign of wealth in the person who wears them. A bunch of wild flowers will often be a prettier ornament than a fine ribbon, or a jewel; but a woman likes better to wear these last, to show that she can afford the cost of them ; whereas the wild flowers may be had for picking.

There is no harm in people’s desiring to be well dressed according to their station in life ; but it is a pity that so many should be fond of expensive finery above their station which often brings them to poverty. And often they spend money on ornaments, which would be better laid out in buying good useful clothes and furniture, and in keeping them clean. A mixture of finery with rags and dirt is a most disgusting sight.

You understand, now, I hope, that whatever is of value must not only be desirable for its use or beauty, or some pleasure it affords, but also scarce; that is, so limited in supply that it is not to be had for nothing. And of all things which are desirable, those, are the most valuable which are the most limited in supply ; that is, the hardest to be got.

This is the reason why silver and gold are of more value than iron. If they had been of no use or beauty at all, no one would have ever desired them; but being desirable, they are of greater value than iron, because they are so much scarcer and harder to be got.

But besides being desirable and being scarce, there is one point more required for a thing to have value ; or, in other words, to be such, that something else may be had in exchange for it. It must be something that you can part with to another person. For instance, health is very desirable, and is what every one cannot obtain ; and hence, we sometimes do speak of health as being of value; but this is not the strict use of the word value; for no one can give his health to another in exchange for something else. Many a rich man would be glad to give a thousand pounds, or ] lerhaps ten thousand pounds, in exchange for the healthy constitution and strong limbs of a poor labourer; and, perhaps, the labourer would be glad to make such a bargain; but though he might cut off his limbs, he could not make them another man’s: he may throw away his health, as many do, by intemperance ; but he cannot transfer it— that is, part with it to another person.


On these elementary points such questions as the following may be usefully put to themselves by those to whom the subject is new :—

1.    Why is air not an article of value?—Because, though it be very useful, it is to be had for nothing.

2.    Why ns. some scarce kind of stone, that is oi

no use or beauty, not an article of value ? Because, though it be not a thing that every one can get, no one desires to get it.    _

° 3. Why is a healthy constitution not an article of value ?—Because though it be very desirable, and is not what every one can get, it is not transferable ; that is, cannot be transferred or parted with by one person to another.

4. Wiry is a spade an article of value ?—Because it is, 1st, desirable, as being of use ; 2ndly, limited in supply—that is, it is not what every one can have for nothing ; and 3rdly, transferable—that is, one person can part with it to another.

5. Why is a silver spoon of more value than a spade ?—Because, though it be not more useful, it is more limited in supply, or harder to be got, on account of the difficulty of working the mines of silver.

When anything that is desirable is to be had by labour, and is not to be had without labour, of course we find men labouring to obtain it; and things that are of very great value will usually be found to have cost very great labour. This has led some persons to suppose that it is the labour Avliicli has been bestowed on anything that gives it value; but this is quite a mistake. It is not the labour which anything has cost that causes it to sell for a higher price ; but on the contrary, it is its selling for a higher price that causes men to labour in procuring it. For instance, fishermen go out to sea, and toil hard in the wet and cold to catch fish, because they can get a good price for them ; but if a fisherman should work hard all night and catch but one small fish, while another had perhaps caught a thousand, by falling in with a shoal, the first would not be able to sell his one fish for the same price as the other man’s thousand, though it would have cost him the same labour. It has now and then happened that a salmon has leaped into a boat by chance ; but though this has cost no labour, it is not for that reason the less valuable. And if a man in eating an oyster, should chance to meet with a fine pearl, it would not sell for less than if he had been diving for it all day.

It is not, therefore, labour that makes things

valuable, but their being valuable that makes them worth labouring for. And God, having judged in His wisdom that it is not good for man to be idle has so appointed things by His Providence, that few of the things that are most desirable can be obtained without labour. It is ordained for man to eat bread in the sweat of his face ; and almost all the necessaries, comforts, and luxuries of life, are obtained by labour.    Whately.


Some labourers are paid higher than others. A caipenter earns more than a ploughman, and a watchmaker more than either; and yet this is not from the one working harder than the other.

And it is the same with the labour of the mind as with that of the body. A banker’s clerk, who has to work hard at keeping accounts, is not paid so high as a lawyer or a physician.

You see from this that the rate of wages does not depend on the hardness of the labour, but on the value of the work done.

But on what does the value of the work depend ?

The value of each kind of work is like the value of anything else ; it is greater or less, according to the limitation of its supply—that is, the difficulty of procuring it. If there were no more expense, time, and trouble, in procuring a pound of gold than a pound of copper, then gold would be of no more value than copper.

But why should the supply of watchmakers and surgeons be more limited than of carpenters and ploughmen ? That is, why is it more difficult to make a man a watchmaker than a ploughman ?

The chief reason is, that the education required costs a great deal more. A long time must be spent in learning the business of a watchmaker or a surgeon before a man can acquire enough skill to practise; so that unless you have enough to support you all this time, and also to pay your master for teaching you the art, you cannot become a watchmaker or a surgeon, and no father would go to the expense of breeding up a son a surgeon or watchmaker, even though he could well afford it, if he did not expect him to earn more than a carpenter, whose education costs much less. But sometimes a father is disappointed in his expectation. If the son should turn out stupid or idle, he would not acquire skill enough to maintain himself by his business ; and then the expense of his education would be lost : for it is not the expensive education of a surgeon that causes him to be paid more for setting a man’s leg, than a carpenter is for mending the leg of a table; but the expensive education causes fewer people to become surgeons. It causes the supply of surgeons to be more limited—that is, confined to a few; and it is this limitation that is the cause of their being better paid.

So that you see the value of each kind of labour is higher or lower, like that of all other things, according as the supply is limited.

Natural genius will often have the same effect as the expensiveness of education, in causing one man to be better paid than another. For instance, one who has a natural genius for painting may become a very fine painter, though his education may not have cost more than that of an ordinary painter; and he will then earn, perhaps, ten times as much, without working any harder at his pictures than the other. But the cause why a man of natural genius is higher paid for his work than another is still the same. Men of genius are scarce; and their work, therefore, is of the more value, from being more limited in supply.

Some kinds of labour, again, are higher paid from the supply of them being limited by other causes, and not by the cost of learning them, or the natural genius they require. Any occupation that is unhealthy, or dangerous, or disagreeable, is paid the higher on that account; because people would not otherwise engage in it. There is this kind of limitation in the supply of house-painters, miners, gunpowder makers, and several others.

Some people fancy that it is unjust that one man should not earn as much as another who works no harder than himself. And there certainly would be a hardship, if one man could force another to work for him at whatever wages he chose to give. This is the case with those slaves, who are forced to work, and are only supplied by their masters with food and other necessaries, like horses. So also, it would be a hardship, if I were to force any one to sell me anything, whether his labour, or his cloth, or cattle, or corn, at any price I might choose to fix. But there is no hardship in leaving all buyers and sellers free—the one to ask whatever price he may think fit; the other to offer what he thinks the article worth. A labourer is a seller of labour—his employer is a buyer of labour; and both ought to be left free.

If a man choose to ask ever so high a price for his potatoes, or his cows, he is free to do so ; but then it would be very hard that he should be 'allowed to force others to buy them at that price, whether they would or no. In the same manner, an ordinary labourer may ask as high wages as he likes; but it would be very hard to oblige others to employ him at that rate, whether they would or not. And sothelabourer himself would think,if the same rule were applied to him ; that is, if a tailor, and a carpenter, and a shoemaker, could oblige him to employ them, whether he wanted their articles or not, at whatever price they chose to lix.

In former times, laws used to be often made to fix the wages of labour. It was forbidden, under a penalty, that higher or lower wages should be asked or offered, for each kind of labour, than what the law fixed. But laws of this kind were found never to do any good; for when the rate fixed by law for farm labourers, for instance, happened to be higher than it was worth a farmer’s while to give for ordinary labourers, he turned off all his workmen, except a few of the best hands, and employed these on the best land only; so that less corn was raised, and many persons were out of work, who would have been glad to have had it at a lower rate, rather than earning nothing. Then, again, when the fixed rate was lower than it would answer to a farmer to give to the best workmen, some farmers would naturally try to get these into their service, by paying them privately at a higher rate. And this they could easily do, so as to escape the law, by agreeing to supply them with com at a reduced price, or in some such way ; and then the other farmers were driven to do the same thing that they might not lose all their best workmen; so that laws of this kind come to nothing.

The best way is to leave all labourers and employers, as well as all other sellers and buyers, free to ask and to offer what they think fit; and to make their own bargain together, if they can agree, or to break it oft' if they cannot.

But labourers often suffer great hardships, from which they might save themselves by looking forward beyond the present day. They are apt to complain of others, when they ought rather to blame their own imprudence. If, when a man is earning good wages, he spends all as fast as he gets it in thoughtless intemperance, instead of laying by something against hard times, he may afterwards have to suffer great want when he is out of work, or when wages are lower ; but then he must not blame others for this, but his own improvidence. So thought the bees in the following fable:—

“ A grasshopper, half starved with cold and hunger at the approach of winter, came to a well-stored beehive, and humbly begged the bees to relieve his wants with a few drops of honey. One of the bees asked him how he had spent his time all the summer, and why he had not laid up a store of food like them? ‘ Truly,’ said he, ‘ I spent my time very merrily, in drinking, dancing, and singing, and never once thought of winter.’ ‘ Our plan is very different,’ said the bee, ‘ we work hard in the summer, to lay by a store of food against the season when we foresee we shall want it; but those who do nothing but drink, and dance, and sing, in the summer, must expect to starve in the winter.’ ”


Some people suppose that the rising and falling of wages depend on the price of provisions. They imagine that wages must be high when bread is dear ; and again, that when bread falls, wages will be lowered in the same proportion. So that it makes no real difference to a labourer whether the price of his food be high or low.

But any one who will observe and make inquiries, will find that this is contrary to the fact. Wages are not found to rise and fall according to the price of provisions. And indeed there seems no reason to expect any such thing. The cause why a skilful mechanic earns high wages, compared with those of common labourers, is, that his services cannot be had cheaper. And, for the same reason, when labourers of any kind are scarce (as, for instance, in a newly settled colony), wages will be high; because employers are then looking out for labourers, and will bid against each other to obtain them. And however cheap subsistence may be, no one will work for low wages when he can get high.

On the other hand, when there are many labourers looking out for work, they will submit to labour for a bare subsistence, rather than remain idle and starve. And the dearness of bread does not make it worth while to an employer to pay high wages, when he can get workmen for less; nor does it necessarily make their work worth the more to him. A clothier, for instance, or a cutler, may find the price of cloth, or of knives, remaining the same, when the price of bread is raised. The labour, therefore, of his workmen will be worth no more to him than it was before.

It may sometimes happen, accordingly, in hard times, that a farmer or tradesman is forced to part with some of his labourers, because the highest wages he can afford to pay them would not be enough for their support; so that they ai'e obliged to go and seek for work elsewhere.

In prosperous times, again, however cheap food may be, an employer may find it answer to pay his workmen high wages—far beyond what is sufficient for their bare support—if the demand for labourers be so great that he cannot get them for less.

The high or low rate of wages, in short, depends not on the price of provisions, but on the demand and supply of labour. When many labourers are looking out for work, wages will fall; and they will rise when many employers are looking out for labourers.

It is also a mistake to suppose, that when a master tradesman or manufacturer is making-large profits, this lowers the wages of his labourers. It is generally the reverse. When any branch of trade is slack, the master tradesmen are forced to sell their goods so cheap, that it barely answers to them to keep their men at work at the very lowest rate of wages they can live on. So that both profits and wages are then low.

And, on the other hand, when the trade is flourishing, the masters will make larger profits by it, and will be ready to employ more workmen and at higher wages. And again, it is generally found the most profitable to employ the best workmen, though they are paid higher wages than what an ordinary workman can earn. In these cases, therefore, high wages and high profits go together.

All attempts of governments to regulate by law the rate of wages are, as we have seen in a former lesson, both useless and mischievous. Indeed, it may be said, that more harm than good is likely to be done by almost any interference of government with men’s money transactions, whether letting and hiring, or buying and selling of any kind.

But there is also a much more frequent and more hurtful interference from another quarter; that is, when men who are not lawful governors, and have no legal authority, combine together to control their neighbours, and to dictate to each man what wages he shall pay or receive, and how he shall dispose of his property.

Sometimes when labourers have come in harvest time from another part of the country, to earn their bread by helping to get in the hay or corn, they have been violently assaulted and driven away by the people of the neighbourhood, lest they should lower the rate of harvest-wages. Sometimes men are prevented by violence from using the most effective machines for threshing corn, spinning, weaving, and other works, from an idea that the use of the best instruments tends to lower the price of labour ; though, to go on acting on such a notion would bring us to the condition of savages, who dig up roots with a sharp stick, and are clothed in raw hides and bunches of leaves.

An industrious farmer, again, is often prevented from renting a farm, from which another tenant has been put out for mismanaging the land, or for not paying the rent. The owner of the land, perhaps, is willing to let it to him ; and yet he is threatened with being beaten or murdered if he takes it, by secret combinations of men who have no right to the land whatever.

And, again, many an industrious poor lad is prohibited from learning a trade, by which he might earn his living, because in many places the master tradesman is forbidden by his journeymen to take as many apprentices as he would—the journeymen seeking to keep the trade to themselves in order to keep up their wages. And they accordingly agree together, that if a master does not conform to their rules, they not only will not work for him, but will not allow any one else to work for him. It is very common for the workmen in some manufactory or other branch of business, to form themselves into Unions, for the purpose of enforcing certain regulations, the principle of which is, that no one shall work under a certain rate of wages fixed by them ; and if he cannot obtain work at this rate, he is to remain idle and starve, on pain of being most cruelly persecuted by the other workmen.

Every man has a right, no doubt, to demand whatever wages he thinks fit, and to refuse to work for less; but it is most unjust and oppressive that he should prevent others from working for whatever wages they choose to accept, or from using whatever tools and machines they may think proper.

And moreover, it generally happens that the persons who seek thus to benefit themselves, by using violence or threats against their neighbours, will be found in the end to have defeated their own object, and done more hurt to themselves than to any one else.

They often throw themselves out of work for so long a time, that even a rise in wages at the end of that time will not make up for the loss. And in the end, they generally lose their employment altogether, by destroying the trade of the masters who employ them.

By forcing the masters to pay higher wages than they can afford, and interfering with the management of their business, they make their trade unprofitable. Some of the masters are ruined; others turn all their capital into money, and either give up business, or else go to America, or to some other part of the world.

But the work-people remain. Some of them try to learn new trades; but those who seek to maintain themselves in this way, generally find themselves prevented by other Trades’ Unions— the workmen combining to keep out all newcomers. Some live on the charity of their friends, and some subsist by begging, or go into the workhouse.

Whenever men come to understand their own true interests, they will agree to resist all illegal

combinations. They will resolve to act together firmly, not in resisting the law, or in seeking for alterations in it, but in supporting the law, and resisting all who try to encroach on any other man’s rights. They will do their utmost to secure for themselves and all their countrymen • true liberty; that is, that every man should be left free to dispose of his own property, his own time, and strength, and skill, in whatever way he himself may think fit, provided he does no wrong to his neighbours.    Whately.


Besides those who work for their living, some at a higher rate and some at a lower, there are others who do not live by their labour at all, but are rich enough to subsist on what they or their fathers have laid up. There are many of these rich men, indeed, who do hold laborious offices, as magistrates and members of parliament. But this is at their own choice. They do not labour for their subsistence, but live on their property.

There can be but few of such persons, compared with those who are obliged to work for their living. But though there can be no country where all, or the greater part, are rich enough to live without labour, there are several countries where all are poor ; and in those countries where all are forced to live by their labour, the people are much worse off than most of the labourers are in this country. In savage nations almost every one is half starved at times, and generally half naked. But in any country in which property is secure, and the people industrious, the wealthofthat country willincrease, and those who are the most industrious and frugal will gain more than such as are idle and extravagant, and will lay by something for their children, •who will thus be born to a good property.

Young people who make good use of their time, are quick at learning, and grow up industrious and steady, may, perhaps, be able to earn more than enough for their support, and so have the satisfaction of leaving some property to their children; and if they, again, should, instead of spending this property, increase it by honest diligence, prudence, and frugality, they may in time raise themselves to wealth. Several of the richest families in the country have risen in this manner from a low station. It is, of course, not to be expected that many poor men should become rich, nor ought any man to set his heart on being so ; but it is an allowable and a cheering thought, that no one is shut out from the hope of bettering his condition, and providing for his children.

And would you not think it hard that a ir.aD should not be allowed to lay by his savings for his children ? But this is the case in some countries, where property is so ill-secured that a man is liable to have all his savings forced from him, or seized upon at his death; and there all the people are miserably poor, because no one thinks it worth his while to attempt saving anything.

There are some countries which were formerly very productive and populous, but which now under the tyrannical government of the Turks, or other such people, have become almost deserts. In former times Barbary produced silk, but now most of the mulberry-trees (on whose leaves the silk-worms are fed) are decayed; and no one thinks of planting fresh trees, because he has no security that he shall be allowed to enjoy the produce.

Can it be supposed that the poor would be better off if all the property of the rich were taken away and divided' among them, and no one allowed to become rich for the future? The poor would then be much worse off than they are now ; they would still have to work for their living as they do now, for food and clothes cannot be had without somebody's labour. But they would not work near so profitably as they do now, because no one would be able to keep up a large manufactory or farm well stocked, and to advance wages to workmen, as is done now, for work which does not bring in any return for, perhaps, a year or two. Every man would live, as the saying is, “ from hand to mouth,” just tilling his own little patch of ground, enough to keep him alive, and not daring to lay by anything, because if he were supposed to be rich, he would be in danger of having his property taken away and divided.

And if a bad crop, or a sickly family, brought any one into distress, which would soon be the case with many, what would he do after he had spent his little property ? He would be willing to work for hire, but no one could afford to employ him, except in something that would bring in a very speedy return; for even those few who might have saved a little money would be afraid to have it known, for fear of being forced to part with it. They would hide it somewhere in a hole in the ground, which used formerly to be a common practice in this country, and still is in some others, where property is very scarce. Under such a state of things the whole country would become poorer and poorer every year; for each man would labour no more than justenough for his immediate supply, and would also employ his labour less profitably than now, for want of a proper division of labour; and no one would attempt to lay by anything, because he would not be sure of being allowed to keep it. In consequence of all this, the whole produce of the land and the labour of the country would become much less than it is now ; and we should soon be reduced to the same general wretchedness and distress which prevails in many half-savage countries. The rich, indeed, would have become poor; but the poor, instead of improving their condition, would be much worse off than before. All would soon be as miserably poor as the most destitute beggars are now: indeed, so far worse, that there would be nobody to beg of.


It is best for all parties, the rich, the poor, the middling, that property should be secure, and that every one should be allowed to possess what is his own, to gain whatever he can by honest means, and to keep it or spend it as he thinks fit—provided he does no one any injury. Some rich men, indeed, make a much better use of their fortunes than others: but one who is ever so selfish in his disposition can hardly help spending it on his neighbours. If a man has an income of £5,000 a year, some people might think, at first sight, that if his estate were divided among one hundred poor families, which would give each of them £50 a year, there would thus be, by such a division, one hundred poor families the more enabled to subsist in the country. But this is quite a mistake. Such would, indeed, be the case, if the rich man had been used to eat as much food as one hundred poor families, and to wear out as much clothes as all of them. But we know this is not the case. He pays away his income to servants, and labourers, and tradesmen, and manufacturers of different articles, who lay out the money in food and clothing for their families; so that in reality the same sort of division of it is made as if it had been taken away from him. He may, perhaps, if he be a selfish man, care nothing for the maintaining of all these families, but still he does maintain them; for if he should choose to spend £1,000 a year in fine pictures, the painters who are employed in those pictures are as well maintained as if he had made them a present of the money, and left them to sit idle. The only difference is, that they feel they are honestly earning their living, instead of subsisting on charity; but the total quantity of food and clothing in the country is neither the greater nor the less in the one case than in the other. But if a rich man, instead of spending all his income, saves a great part of it, this saving will almost always be the means of maintaining a still greater number of industrious people ; for a man who saves, hardly ever, in these days, at least, hoards up gold and silver in a box, but lends it out on good security, that he may receive interest upon it. Suppose, instead of spending £1,000 a year on paintings, he saves that sum every year. Then this money is generally borrowed by farmers, or manufacturers, or merchants, who can make a profit by it in the way of their business, over and above the interest they pay for the use of it. And in order to do this, they lay it out in employing labourers to till the ground, or to manufacture cloth and other articles, or to import foreign goods: by which means the corn, and cloth, and other commodities of the country, are increased.

The rich man, therefore, though he appears to have so much larger share allotted to him, does not really consume it, but is only the channel through which it flows to others. And it is by this means much better distributed than it could have been otherwise.

The mistake of which I have been speaking, of supposing that the rich cause the poor to be the worse off, was exposed long ago in the fable of the stomach and the limbs:—

“ Once on a time,” says the fable, “ all the other members of the body began to murmur against the stomach, for employing the labours of all the rest, and consuming all they had helped to provide, without doing anything in return. So they all agreed to strike work, and refused to wait upon this idle stomach any longer. The feet refused to carry it about; the hands resolved to put no food into the mouth for it; the nose refused to smell for it, and the eyes to look out in its service; and the ears declared they would not even listen to the dinner-bell; and so of all the rest. But after the stomach had been left empty for some time, all the members began to suffer. The legs and arms grew feeble; the eyes became dim, and all the body languid and exhausted.

‘Oh, foolish members,’ said the stomach, ‘ you now perceive that what you used to supply to me, was in reality supplied to yourselves. I did not consume for myself the food that was put into me, but digested it, and prepared it for being changed into blood, which was sent through various channels as a supply for each of you. If you are occupied in feeding me, it is by me in turn, that the blood-vessels which nourish you are fed.’ ”

You see then, that a rich man, even though he may care for no one but himself, can hardly avoid benefiting his neighbours. But this is no merit of his, if he himself has no desire or wish to benefit them. On the other hand, a rich man who seeks for deserving objects to relieve and assist, and is, as the Apostle expresses it, “ ready to give, and glad to distribute, is laying up in store for himself a good foundation for the time to come, that he may lay hold on eternal life.” It is plain from this, and from many other such injunctions of the Apostles, that they did not intend to destroy the security of property among Christians, which leads to the distinction between the rich and the poor ; for their exhortations to the rich to be kind and charitable to the poor, would have been absurd if they had not allowed that any of their people should be rich; and there could be no such thing as charity in giving anything to the poor, if it were not left to each man’s free choice to give or spend what is his own. Indeed, nothing can be called your own which you are not left free to dispose of as you will. The very nature of charity implies that it must be voluntary : for no one can be properly said to give anything that he has no power to withhold. The Apostle Paul, indeed, goes yet farther, when he desires each man to give according as he is disposed in his heart, and not grudgingly, because God loveth the cheerful giver.

When men are thus left to their own inclinations to make use of their money, each as he is disposed in his heart, we must expect to find that some will choose to spend it merely on their own selfish enjoyments. Such men, although as you have seen, they do contribute to maintain many industrious families without intending it, yet are themselves not the less selfish and odious. But still we are not the less forbidden to rob, or defraud, or annoy them. Scripture forbids us to covet our neighbour’s goods, not because he makes a right use of them, but because they are his.

When you see a rich man who is proud and selfish, perhaps you are tempted to think how much better a use you would make of wealth if you were as rich as he. I hope you would : but the best proof that you can give that you would behave well if you were in another’s place, is by behaving well in your own. God has appointed to each his own trials, and his own duties; and He will judge you, not according to what you think you would have done in some different station, but according to what you have done, in that station in which he has placed you.



We have seen that a rich man who spends on himself his income of £1,000 or £10,000 a year, does not diminish the wealth of the whole country by so much, but only by what he actually eats and wears, or otherwise consumes, himself. The rest he hands over to those who work for him or wait on him ; paying them either in food or clothes, or, what comes to the same thing, in money to buy what they want. And if he were to give to the same persons what he now pays, leaving them to continue idle, there would not be the more food or clothes in the country; only these people would sit still, or lounge about and do nothing, instead of earning their bread.

But they are the happier and the better for being employed instead of being idle, even though their labour should be only in planting flowers, or building a palace to please their employer’s fancy.

Most of the money that is spent, however, is laid out in employing labourers on some work that is profitable ; that is, in doing something which brings back more than is spent on it, and thus goes to increase the whole wealth of the country. Thus, if, instead of employing labourers to cultivate a flower-garden or build me a summerhouse for my pleasure, I employed them in raising corn, or building a mill to grind it, the price of that corn, or the price paid for grinding by those who bring com to the mill, will be more (if I have conducted the business prudently) than what I had spent on those works. So that instead of having parted with my money for ever, as when it is spent on a pleasure-garden or summer-house, it comes back to me with addition. This addition is called profit; and the money so laid out is called capital.

A man who lays out his money in this manner may do the same over again, as soon as it comes back to him; so that he may go on supporting labourers year after year. And if he saves each year a part of his profit, and adds it to his capital, as a thriving farmer or manufacturer generally does, he will be continually employing more and more labourers, and increasing the wealth of the country. He himself, indeed, is, perhaps,not thinking of his country, but is only seeking to enrich himself: but this is the best and surest way he could take for enriching his country; for, every man in the nation who adds to his own wealth without lessening the wealth of others, must, it is plain, be adding just so much to the wealth of the nation. Sometimes, indeed, one man gains by another’s loss; and then, of course, nothing is added to the wealth of the country. If a man gets rich by gambling, or begging, or robbery, others lose at least as much as he gains ; but if he gets rich by his skill in farming,or manufactures, or mining; all that he gains is so much added to the wealth of the whole country since it is not lost by any one else.    J

Many persons dispose of their property in this way, though they are not themselves engaged in business, hut lend their money to others, who are. Suppose you were a labouring man, and had £100 left you as a legacy; or had saved up that sum from your earnings; you might not know how to trade with the money to advantage; and if you keep it in a strong box, for the use of your children, you would not be the better for it all your life ; and at the end of twenty or thirty years, your children would find just the same sum that you first put in. Or if you took out £5 every year to spend, at the end of twenty years it would be all gone. But you might lend it to some person engaged in business, who would give you security for the repayment of tire principal, as it is called, that is, the sum borrowed, and would pay you £4 or £5 every year for the use of it; which is called interest. This he would be glad to do, if he knew that he could employ this £100 in buying materials, and paying workmen, to weave cloth, for instance, or make tables and chairs, which would bring in, by the end of the year £*110 ; for out of this increase of £10, after paying you £5 for the use of your money, he would have gained £5 for himself.

In this way great part of the capital that is engaged in trades and manufacturers, is employed by persons who are not themselves the owners of it.

The more capital there is in a country, the better for the labourers ; for the poorer the master is, the fewer labourers he can afford to employ, and the less sure he can be of being able to pay them.

Suppose you were a poor man,in a newly-settled country, and asked your neighbour to help you to dig a piece of fertile ground, promising him a share of the produce for his pains; he might say—“I have nothing to live on in the meantime; if you want me to dig for you, you must pay me daily wages.” But if you have nothing beforehand, except bare necessaries for yourself—that is, if you have no capital—you cannot pay him till harvest. Your land, therefore, will remain half-tilled; and he will be forced to go into the woods to seek for wild berries, or to hunt and fish, to provide himself food. Indeed, all would be forced to begin in this manner, if you suppose a number of men left to themselves, even on the most fertile land, without any property to set out with—that is, without capital. They would have great difficulties to struggle against for a long time ; but when they had advanced some way in acquiring wealth, they would find it easier to obtain more.

For, as it is, you may observe that wealth is always obtained by means of wealth—that is, it is gained by the help of capital; without which, abour can hardly be carried on. Corn is raised oy labour; but a previous stock of corn is needed, joth to sow the ground, and to maintain the abourer till the harvest is ripe. The tools with »vhich he works are made with tools. The handle if the axe with which he cuts wood is made of vood ; the iron of it was dug from the mine with ron instruments: and it is the same with almost :very kind of labour. You may judge, therefore, iow difficult and slow men’s first advances must lave been, when they had to work with their bare lands,orwithstakesandsharpstones for their tools.

Accordingly, in countries that are ill provided vith capital, though the inhabitants are few in lumber, and all of them are forced to labour for ■he necessaries of life, they are worse fed, clothed, uid lodged, than even the poorest are in a richer lountry, though that be much more thickly peopled, md though many of the inhabitants of it are not ibliged to labour with their hands at all.


The money, food, and other things which a farmer spends on the labourers and on the horses which cultivate his land, or a clothier on his weavers, is called circulating capital; because he parts with it, from time to time, and it returns to him as in a circle, in the shape of corn or cloth. The farmer’s barns, ploughs, carts, and horses, and the clothier’s looms and warehouses, are called fixed capital; because they bring in a profit, not by being parted with, but by being kept as long as they are fit for use.

Any new kind of tool or machine, by enabling a few men to do the work of many, is likely, when first introduced, to throw several men out of employment; but, in the end, it almost always finds employment for many more. Thus, for instance, when the art of printing was first introduced, many who used to gain their living by copying, were thrown out of employment, because a very few printers could produce as many copies of a book as several hundred writers. But, in a short time books, being thus rendered so much cheaper, many more were enabled to buy them ; and many hundred times as many printers were employed as there were copyists before. And the same thing takes place in almost every kind of machinery.

There is one way of employing capital, which people are apt to murmur at, as if it did them an injury, though there is none that does more important service to the public. A man who deals in corn or other provisions, is, of course, watchful to buy them up when they are cheap, and to keep

them till they are dearer, that he may sell them at a profit. Now, an unthinking person is apt to complain of corn-dealers when bread is dear, as if they were the cause of scarcity; but, in truth, it is they that preserve us from being absolutely starved whenever there happens to be a scanty harvest. Not that a corn-dealer is thinking of benefiting the public; he is only thinking of gaining for himself a profit on his capital,.like any other tradesman ; but the way he takes to secure this profit, which is by buying up corn when it is cheap, and selling it when dear, is exactly the way in which the plentiful crop of one year may supply the defect of another, so that there may not be first waste and then famine, and in which a short supply may be made to hold out.

When the captain of a ship finds his provisions run short, so that there is not, suppose, above three weeks’ provisions on board, and his voyage is likely to last four, he puts the crew on short allowance: and thus, by each man’s submitting to eat only three-fourths of his usual quantity, the provisions hold out. But if the crew should mutiny when they felt hungry, and insist on having their full allowance, then, by the end of the three weeks, all would be consumed, and they would perish with hunger. Now it is plain that the same would be the case with the whole nation, if, when the harvest fell short, all were to go on at the ordinary rate of consumption.

Suppose such a failure in the crops that all the corn in the country was only enough for three-quarters of a year, according to the common rate of consumption, it is plain that if all men went on eating the usual quantity, there would be nothin^ left for the last three months, and the most cLreacb ful famine would prevail.

How is this to be prevented, as there is no captain to put people on short allowance ; and it is not to be expected that all should agree, each to stint himself for the public good ? If corn remained at the usual price, all would continue to eat the usual quantity, till there was none left. But the prospect of a scarcity causes farmers, and millers, and others, who have capital, to keep what ' corn they have by them, in expectation of a higher price, and to buy up what they can, at home and from abroad; and, as they refuse to sell it except at an advanced price in proportion to the scarcity, the dearness of food forces people to be more saving. In this way the store of provisions is husbanded in the whole country, just as on board a ship, and is made to last till next harvest; and thus by suffering a certain degree of hardship, the people are saved from perishing by famine.

It is curious to observe, how, through the wise and beneficent arrangement of Providence, men thus do the greatest service to the public when they are thinking of nothing but their own gain. And this happens not only in the case of corn-dealers, but generally. When men are left quite free to employ their capital as each thinks best for his own advantage, he will almost always benefit the public, though he may have no such design or thought.    Whaiely.


We read in Scripture that when the Jews returned from the captivity, and began to rebuild the walls of their city, they were so beset by enemies, that they were forced to be constantly armed and on their guard; and, for fear of a sudden attack, each man worked with one hand only, and the other hand held a weapon ready. In this way it would take at least two men to do the work of one. But the danger they were in obliged them to put up with this inconvenience.

Many countries in the East are at this day nearly in the same condition. They are so infested by robbers, chiefly Ai’abs, always roaming about in search of plunder, that no man can hope to escape being robbed unless he is well armed and on his guard. Travellers tell us, that when a husbandman goes to sow his fields, he takes with him a companion with a sword or spear, to protect him from being robbed of his seed-corn. This must make the cultivation of the ground very costly, because the work which might be done by one man requires two ; one to labour, and the other to fight: and both must have a share of the crop which would otherwise belong to one. And after all, the protection of property must be very imperfect, for you may suppose the robbers will often come in such force as to overpower the defenders, and plunder the industrious of all the fruits of their labours. Accordingly, in those countries, there is very little land cultivated. Most of it lies waste; the inhabitants are few—not one-twentieth of what the land could maintain ; and these are miserably poor. And all this is owing to the insecurity of property.

And the same is the case in all countries where the people are savages or nearly savages. Most of the time, and labour, and care of a savage, is taken up in providing for his defence. He is occupied in providing arms for his protection, against those whom he is able to fight; or in seeking hiding-places from those who are too strong for him. In somevery wild and savage islands,several families are obliged to join together, and build their little cabins on the top of a steep rock, which they fence round with a trench and sharp stakes, to protect them against their neighbours of the next village; and, after all, they are often taken by surprise, or overpowered. In such countries as that, there are a hundred times as many people killed every year, in proportion to their numbers, as in any part of Europe. It is true that there is not so much property lost, because there is very little to lose; for people must he always exceedingly poor in such countries. In the first place, above half their time and labour is taken up in providing for their safety ; and in the next place, this is so imperfectly done after all, that they can never be secure of the fruits of their industry.

The remedy of this miserable state of things is to be found in settled government. The office of a government is to afford protection; that is, to secure the persons and property of the people from violence and fraud. For this purpose it provides ships of war, and bodies of soldiers, to guard against foreign enemies and against pirates, hands of robbers, or rebels ; and also provides watchmen, constables, and other officers, to apprehend criminals; judges and courts of justice for trials; and prisons for confining offenders; and, in short, everything that is necessary for the peace and security of the people.

The expenses of the army and navy, and of everything that government provides, are paid by the people, and it is but fair that we should pay for all these things, since they are for our benefit. We pay taxes and government duties for these purposes. Taxes are the price people pay for being governed and protected. They correspond to the hire which the husbandman, in eastern countries, must pay to his companion who carries the spear or sword to guard him from robbers.

Some people do not understand this, or do not recollect it. Many are apt to think taxes quite a different kind of expense from all others ; and either do not know, or else forget, that they receive anything in exchange for the taxes. But, in reality, this payment is as much an exchange as any other. You pay money to the baker and butcher for feeding you, and to the tailor for clothing you ; and you pay the king and parliament for protecting you from being plundered, murdered, or cheated.. Were it not for this, you could be employed scarcely half your time in providing food and clothing, and the other half would be taken up in guarding against being robbed of them; or in working for some other man whom you would hire to keep watch and to fight for you. This would cost you much more than you pay in taxes ; and yet you may see, by the example of savage nations, how very imperfect that protection would be. Even the very worst government that ever was, is both much better and much cheaper than no government at all. Some of the Roman emperors were most detestable tyrants, who plundered and murdered great numbers of innocent men; yet even under their reigns there were not so many of their subjects (in proportion to their numbers) plundered or murdered, in ten years, as there are among some savage tribes, in one year.


You understand, now, that taxes are the hire or price paid to government in exchange for protection ; just as any other payment is made in exchange for anything we want.


Tliere is, however, one important difference: that other payments are left to each man’s choice; but every one is obliged to pay the taxes. If I do not choose to buy shoes of a shoemaker, but to make shoes for myself at home, or to go without them, I am at liberty to do so ; and the same with other such payments. But it is not so with the payments to government. If any one should say, “ I choose to protect my own person and property myself, without any assistance from soldiers, or sailors, or constables, or judges, and therefore I will not pay taxesthe answer would be : “Then go and live by yourself in some savage country; or join some tribe of wild Indians and live as they do : but, while you live with us, in a country which has a government, you cannot, even if you wish it, avoid partaking of the protection of government. The fleets and armies which keep off the foreign enemies from plundering the country, are a defence to you, as well as to us; you are protected, as well as we, by the laws and officers of justice, from the thieves and murderers, who would otherwise be let loose on -society. Since, therefore, the government must, whether it will or no, afford you a share of its protection, it is fair that you should be obliged, whether you will or no, to pay your share of its expenses. But if you are so foolish as not to like this bargain, you must leave the country, and go and live somewhere else in the wilderness.”

It is quite lair, then, that as long as a man lives in any country, he should be obliged to submit to the government, and to pay the taxes: and how much each shall pay is determined by the government. There is one great difference between this exchange and all others; when you hire a man to work for you, you make your own bargain with him; and if you and he cannot agree ns to the rate of payment, you will employ some one else instead. But the government of any country, whether it be a King, or a President, or a Senate, or Parliament, or, in short, whatever kind of government it is, must always have power to make all the people submit; since, otherwise, it could not perform the office of protecting them. It is not left to each person’s choice, therefore, how much he shall pay for his protection, but government fixes the taxes, and enforces the payment of them.

Many governments have made a bad use of this power, and have forced their subjects to pay much more than the reasonable expenses of protecting and governing the country. In some countries, and in this among others, the people are secured against this kind of ill-usage by choosing their own governors; that is, the Members of Parliament, without whom no laws can be made, or taxes laid on.

It is very right to require that the public money should not be waste,fully spent, and that we should not be called on to pay more than is necessary. But many persons are not so thankful as they ought to be for the benefit which they enjoy, in living under the protection of a government, because they do not know, or do not consider, the wretched condition of those who are without any regular government. Of all the commodities we pay for, there is none so cheap, compared with what it would cost us to provide ourselves with it, as the protection which is afforded us by government. If we all made clothes and shoes for ourselves, instead of buying them of the tailor and shoemaker, our clothes and shoes would, indeed, be much worse than they are, and would cost us much more. But we should be far worse off still, if each of us had to provide by himself for the

T 2

defence of his own person and property. Such protection as he would be thus able to obtain, would cost a great deal and be worth very little.


Much the greatest part, however, of the taxes that are paid goes to the expenses, not of the present year, hut of past years; that is, to pay the interest on the National Debt. During our long and costly wars, much more was spent in each year than could be raised by taxes. Government, therefore, borrowed money of rich merchants and others, engaging to pay interest on this till it should be repaid, which most of it has not been, and perhaps never will be. The lenders, therefore, received in exchange for their money, annuities; that is, a right to receive so much a year out of the taxes raised by government; and these annuities, which we call government securities, or property in the funds, may be sold by one person to another or divided among several others, just like any other property. When a poor man has saved up a little money, he generally puts it into the funds, as it is called, or deposits it in a savings bank, which does this for him; he is then one of the government creditors, and receives his share of the taxes. You see, therefore, that if the National Debt were abolished by law, without payment, many, even of the labouring classes, would lose their all; and the nation would not be relieved of the burden ; since it would be only robbing one set of our countiymen for the benefit of another set. We may be sorry that so much money was formerly spent on gunpowder, which was fired off, and on soldiers’ coats, and ships, which were worn cut, but nothing we can now do can recall this, any more than last year’s snow. The expense is over and past, and the taxes raised to pay the interest of the money borrowed, are not so much lost to the country, but only so much shifted from one to another. All of us contribute to pay this in taxes: and all government creditors, that is, all who have money in the funds, or in the savings banks, receive a share of it as a just debt. Thus the taxes find their way back into many a poor man’s cottage who never suspects it.

I have said that far the greater part of the taxes are raised for this purpose ; that is, for paying the interest of the National Debt. The following calculation will make this clear to you; every twenty shillings paid in taxes, are disposed of in about these proportions :—*

s. d

Expenses of the Army, Navy, &c.    .    .    .72

King, Judges, Ministers of State,"] and other public officers, .    .    |

Pensions and Sinecure Places, i.e., }■ Civil List, .    0 10

those that have no duties belong- I

ing to them,......J

Irtterest of the National Debt, .    .    .    12 0



When one man parts entirely with anything that belongs to him, to another person, and receives payment for it, this transaction is called, as you know, selling and buying. When he parts with it for a time only, that is, lends it, to another, and receives payment for this, the transaction is commonly called letting and hiring.

But there are various words used to express this kind of dealing. When any one allows me, for a certain price, the use of his coach, ship, or

* The proportions are considerably altered since the text was written. They are now about 8s. 3d. for Army and Navy; Os. Id. for Civil List; and Ss. 2 d. for Interest of the National Debt.

horse, this price is called hire. And so also if he lets me himself, that is, his labour, to wait on me or work for me, I am said to hire him ; and the payment he receives is sometimes called hire though more commonly, ivages. But if, instead of a carriage or a horse, he lets me a house, or garden, the price I pay him is called rent. And if he allows me the use of his money, the price I pay for the loan of it is called interest. Now, though these different words are thus employed, you are not to suppose that they signify so many different kinds of transactions. If you consider attentively what is meant by the words Rent, Hire, and Interest, you will perceive that they all in reality signify the same sort of payment. It is only the fashion of the language to employ these different words according to the different kinds of articles that are lent.

The Israelites were forbidden, in the law of Moses, to lend to their brethren on usury, that is, interest. As they were not designed to be a trading people, but to live chiefly on the produce of their own land, they were not likely to have any considerable money transactions together, and would seldom have occasion to borrow, except when oneof themhappenedto fall into distress; and then his brother Israelites were expected to assist him freely, out of brotherly kindness and friendship ; as is becoming in members of the same family. For they were all descended from twelve brothers, the sons of Jacob, who. was also called Israel, and from whom they took their name ; and they were commanded to consider each other as brethren.

But they were allowed by God’s law to receive interest on the loan of money, or of anything else lent to a stranger, that is, any one besides the Israelites. And this shows that there can be nothing wrong in receiving interest, or any other kind of hire; for the law expressly charges them not to oppress or wrong the strangers, but to treat them not only justly, hut kindly and charitably.

I have said that there is no real difference between paying for the loan of money, and for the loan of anything else. For suppose I have ¿£*100 lying by me, you will easily see that it comes to the same thing, whether I buy a house or a piece of land with the money, and let it to my neighbour at so much a year, or whether I lend him the money to buy the house or the land for himself, on condition of his paying me so much a year for the use of my money. But in the one case his yearly payment will be called rent, and in the other case it gets the name of interest.


Every man ought to be at liberty to sell, let, or use in any way he likes best, his house, or land, or anything that is his property. There are some countries in the world, indeed, inhabited by halfsavage tribes, such as the Tartars, where land is not private property, but is all one great common on which every man turns out his cattle to feed. These people, of course, lead a wandering life, dwelling in tents, and removing from place to place, in search of fresh pasture ; and the land, as you may suppose, is never cultivated, as no one would think of sowing seed, when another might reap the harvest.

There are other countries, again, where any man may keep possession of a piece of ground which he has ploughed and sown, till he has gathered in the crop ; but as soon as ever it is out of his occupation, any one-else is free to take possession of it. This is the case in many parts of

Arabia at this day; and such seems to have been the state of many parts of the land of Canaan while Abraham and Isaac dwelt there.

But it is plain that, in such a state of things, it would not be worth any one’s while to spend money in fencing, draining, and manuring the land; because he would know that if he were disabled by sickness from continuing to cultivate it, or if he died leaving young children, it would pass into other hands, and all he had spent would be lost to him.

In order, therefore, that the land should be properly cultivated, it must be private property; and if a piece of land is your property, you ought to be at liberty to dispose of it like any other property ; either to sell it, or to cultivate it yourself, or to employ a bailiff and labourers to cultivate it for you, or to let it to a farmer.

When land is scarce in proportion to the number of people, in any country, the hire, or rent, as it is called, which the farmer pays for the use of it, will be the greater. The reason of this is very simple, and easy to be understood. The price of land, either to buy or to hire, increases, like the price of everythingelse,in proportion to the scarcity of it, compared with the number of those wdio want it, and can afford to pay for it. When horses are scarce, in proportion to those who want them, and can afford to pay for them, the price or the hire of a horse increases; and so it is with everything else, and with land among the rest. A farmer desires land, because he hopes to make a profit by raising corn and other crops from it; and he consents to pay rent for it, because he cannot obtain land without. And so it is with everything that we buy or hire. We consent to pay for it as much as we think it worth to us, when we desire to have it, and cannot obtain it without that payment

Land is desired, therefore, on account of the crops that may be raised from it; and rent is paid for it, because it cannot be had without rent. You may have land for nothing in the Arabian desert; but no one desires it there, because it will produce nothing. But, again, in many of the uncleared parts of America, land may be had for nothing, though the soil is good and will bear plentiful crops. But there the land is so abundant, and the people so few, that any one may have as much as he chooses to clear. In this country, therefore, land that will produce any crops is of value, because the supply of it is limited. In the wilds of America it is of no value ; not because (like the Arabian deserts) it will produce nothing, but because, though it is very fertile, there is enough, and much more than enough, for every one who wants it. But even in the newly-settled parts of America the land becomes of some value as soon as it is cleared of wood, and has roads made through or near it. And many persons are willing to buy, or to pay rent for, such land, even when they might have land for nothing in the depth of the forests. But then they would have to clear the ground of trees, and would be obliged to send perhaps some hundreds of miles to a market, to sell the corn, and to buy what they wanted.

But as land grows scarcer in proportion to the number of people, that is, as the people multiply, the owners of it find that they can obtain a higher and higher rent. This, as I have explained, is because everything that is useful becomes an article of value, that is, will fetch a price, when it is limited in quantity.

Some persons fancy that the reason why land fetches a rent, is because the food, and other things produced by land, afford the necessary support of man’s life. But they do not consider that air, which we do not pay for, is as necessary to life as food; and that no one would pay for anything which he might have without payment. If good land were as abundant in this country, in proportion to the people, as it is in some of the wilds of America, every one might take as much as he pleased for nothing. It would produce corn and other necessaries, as it does now; yet he would pay nothing but the labour of cultivation. Here, on the contrary, the only kind of land for which no one would pay rent is that which will produce nothing, and is of no use at all; like the shingles of the beach on many parts of the coast. However scarce land (or any other article) may be, no one will pay for that which is useless ; and however useful it may be, he will not pay for that which is so plentiful as to be had for nothing. As was explained in a former lesson, the value of anything is not caused by its scarcity alone, or by its usefulness alone, but by both together.

Some, again, fancy that the rent is paid on account of the expense which the owner of the soil (or landlord, as he is called) has laid out in enclosing the land, manuring it, and bringing it into cultivation. And some of our land certainly has in this way cost the landlord a great expense, which he would not have bestowed, if he had not expected to be repaid by the rent. But it is not this expense that is the cause of the rent’s being paid ; for if he had laid out ever so much in trying to improve the land, still, if he did not bring it to produce the more, he would not obtain the higher rent. And, on the other hand, though your land may have cost you nothing, still, if it will produce anything, and there is not enough of it for everybody, you may always obtain a rent for it. There are pastures of great extent, in some parts of this country, which have never had any expense laid out on tliem. But they naturally produce grass for sheep; and farmers accordingly pay rent for them.

Again, there are on some parts of the coast, rocks which are hare only at low water, and are covered by the sea at every tide. On these there grows naturally a kind of sea-weed called kali, or kelp ; which is regularly cut and carried away to be dried and burned, for the sake of the ashes, used in making soap and glass. These rocks are let by the owners of them'to those who make a trade of gathering this kelp for sale. Now, you see by this, that rent cannot depend on the land’s producing food for man, or on the expenses laid out in bringing it into cultivation ; for there is rent paid for these rocks, though they produce no food, and though they never have been or can be cultivated.

Sometimes, again, rent is paid for a piece of ground on account of its situation, even though nothing grows on it. A fisherman, for instance, may be glad to rent a piece of the sea-beach, in a spot where it is convenient for him to draw up his boat, and spread his nets to dry, and build his cottage and storehouses.


Some persons are apt to think that a high price of corn, and other provisions, is caused by high rents; but this is quite a mistake. It is not the high rent of l and that causes the high price of corn ; but, on the contrary, the high rent of land is the effect of the high price , of the corn and other things produced by the land. It is plain that rents do not lessen the supply of corn, and the price of corn depends on the supply brought to market, compared with the number of people who want to buy.

Suppose all landlords were to agree to lower their rents one-half, the number of acres of land, and the quantity of corn raised, would remain the same, and so would the number of mouths that want corn. The farmer, therefore, would get the same price for his corn as he does now ; the only difference would be, that he would be so much the richer, and the landlord so much the poorer: the labourers, and the rest of the people, would he no better off than before.

But some persons say, that if rents were lower, the farmers could afford to pay higher wages to their labourers; but those who talk so, confound together a payment and a gift. Wages are a payment for the use of man’s labour for a certain time; and as long as the price of corn remains the same, the day’s work of the thresher would not be worth more to the farmer who employs him, on account of the farmer’s having become a richer man than formerly. No doubt, the richer any one is, the better he can afford to bestow a gift, if he is disposed to do so, either on his labourers, or on the tradesmen he deals with, or on any of his neighbours. But a pair of shoes is not worth the more to him on account of his being rich ; though he can afford, if he thinks fit, out of kindness and charity, to make the shoemaker a- present of double the price of them ; and so, also, a day’s work in threshing or ploughing, is not worth the more to him on account of his being richer, though he may choose to bestow a gift on the thresher or ploughman. It is plain, therefore, that making farmers richer and landlords poorer, would make no change in what is paid as wages. The farmer would have more to give, if he were disposed to give away his money, and the landlord would have less ; but there is no reason to suppose that more would be given away altogether than there is now,

Aik! if all rents were to be entirely abolished, and every farmer were to keep the land he now occupies, without paying anything for it, this would only be taking away the land from one man and giving it to another—the one would be robbed and the other enriched; but the supply of corn, and the price of it, would not be altered by such a robbery. Or, again, if you were to make a law for lowering rents, so that the land should still remain the property of those to whom it now belongs, but that they should not be allowed to receive more than so much an acre for it; the only effect of this would be, that the landlord would no longer let his land to a farmer, but would take it into his own hands, and employ a bailiff to look after it for him.

This is a very common practice in some countries abroad ; but the land is seldom so well cultivated on that plan as when it is let to a farmer who has been bred to the business, and whose livelihood depends on his making the most of his farm.    Whately.


There is no place in the town which I so much love to frequent as the Royal Exchange. It gives me a secret satisfaction, and in some measure gratifies my vanity, as I am an Englishman, to see so rich an assembly of countrymen and foreigners, consulting together upon the private business of mankind, and making this metropolis a kind of emporium for the whole earth. I must confess I look upon high-change to be a great council, in which all considerable nations have their representatives. Factors in the trading world are what ambassadors are in the politic world; they negotiate affairs, conclude treaties,

*.    'i


and maintain a good correspondence between those wealthy societies of men that are divided from one another by seas and oceans, or live on the different extremities of a continent. I have often been pleased to hear disputes adjusted between an inhabitant of Japan and an alderman of London, or to see a subject of the Great Mogul entering into a league with one of the Czar of Muscovy. I am infinitely delighted in mixing with these several ministers of commerce, as they are distinguished by their different walks and different languages. Sometimes I am jostled among a body of Armenians ; sometimes I am lost in a crowd of Jews ; and sometimes make one in a group of Dutchmen. I am a Dane, Swede, or Frenchman at different times; or rather fancy myself like the old philosopher, who upon being asked what countryman he was, replied that he was a citizen of the world.

Though I very frequently visit this busy multitude of people, I am known to nobody there but my friend Sir Andrew, who often smiles upon me as he sees me bustling in the crowd, but at the same time connives at my presence without taking further notice of me. There is indeed a merchant of Egypt, who just knows me by sight, having formerly remitted me some money to Grand Cairo ; but as I am, not versed in the modern Coptic, our conferences go no farther than a bow and a grimace.

This grand scene of business gives me an infinite variety of solid and substantial entertainments. As I am a great lover of mankind, my heart naturally overflows with pleasure at the sight of a prosperous and happy multitude, insomuch that at many public solemnities I cannot forbear expressing my joy with tears that have stolen down my cheeks. For this reason I am

wonderfully delighted to see such a body of men thriving in their own private fortunes, and at the same time promoting the public stock ; or in other words, raising estates for their own families, by bringing into their country whatever is wanting, and carrying out of it whatever is superfluous.

Nature seems to have taken particular care to disseminate her blessings among the different regions of the world, with an eye to this mutual intercourse and traffic among mankind, that the natives of the several parts of the globe might have a kind of dependence upon one another, and be united together by their common interest. Almost every degree produces something peculiar to it. The food often grows in one country and the sauce in another. The fruits of Portugal are corrected by the products of Barbadoes, and the infusion of a China plant is sweetened by the pith of an Indian cane. The Philippine islands give a flavour to our European bowls. The single dress of a woman of quality is often the product of a hundred climates. The muff and the fan come together from the different ends of the earth. The scarf is sent from the torrid zone, and the tippet from beneath the pole. The brocade petticoat rises out of the mines of Peru, and the diamond necklace out of the bowels of Hindostan.

If we consider our own country in its natural prospect, without any of the benefits and advantages of commerce, what a barren, uncomfortable spot of earth falls to our share! Natural historians tell us, that no fruit grows originally among us, that our climate of itself, and without the assistance of art, can make no further advances towards a pium than a sloe, that our melons, our peaches, our figs, our apricots, and cherries are strangers imported in different ages, and naturalized in our gardens \ and that they would all degenerate ’

wholly neglected by the planter, and left to the mercy of our sun and soil.

Nor has traffic more enriched our vegetable world, than it has improved the whole of nature among us. Our ships are laden with the harvest of every climate. Our tables are stored with oils, and spices, and wines ; our rooms are filled with pyramids of China, and adorned with the workmanship of Japan ; our morning’s draught comes to us from the remotest corners of the earth; we repair our bodies by the drugs of America; and repose ourselves under Indian canopies. The vineyards of France have been called our gardens, the spice-islands our hot-beds, the Persians our silk-weavers, and the Chinese our potters. Nature, indeed, furnishes us with the bare necessaries of life, but traffic gives us a great variety of what is useful, and at the same time supplies us with everything that is convenient and ornamental. Nor is it t he least part of our happiness, that whilst we enjoy the remotest products of the north and south, we are free from those extremities ot weather which gave them birth; that our eyes are refreshed with green fields, at the same time that our palates are feasted with fruits thatrise between the tropics.

For these reasons there are not more useful members in a commonwealth than merchants. They knit mankind together, in a mutual intercourse of good offices, distribute gifts of nature, find work for the poor, add wealth to the rich, and magnificence to the great.

Our English merchant converts the tin of his own country into gold, and exchanges its wood for rubies. The Mohammedans are clothed in our British manufacture, and the inhabitants of the frozen zone warmed with the fleeces of our sheep.

When I have been upon the ’Change, I have often fancied one of our old kings standing in

person where he is represented in effigy, and looking down upon the wealthy concourse of people with which that place is every day filled. In this case how would he be surprised to hear all the languages of Europe spoken in this little spot of his former dominions, and to see so many private men, who in his time would have been the vassals of some powerful baron, negotiating like princes for greater sums of money than were formerly to be met with in the royal treasury! Trade without enlarging the British territories, has given a kind of additional empire. It has multiplied the number of the rich, made our landed estates infinitely more valuable than they were formerly, and added to them an accession of other estates as valuable as the lands themselves.

A cldison.


Our little world, the image of the great,

Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set,

Of her own growth hath all that nature craves, And all that’s rare, as tribute from the waves. As Egypt does not on the clouds rely,

But to the Nile owes more than to the sky;

So what our earth, and what our heaven denies, Our ever-constant friend, the sea, supplies.

The taste of hot Arabia’s spice we know,

Free from the scorching sun that makes it grow Without the worm, in Persian silks we shine; And without planting, drink of every vine.

To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs;

Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow; ■ We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.




I HAVE heard that nothing gives an author so great pleasure as to find his works respectfully quoted by others. Judge, then, how much I must have been gratified by an incident I am going to relate to you. I stopped my horse lately where a great number of people were collected at an auction of merchant’s goods. The hour of the sale not being come, they were conversing on the badness of the times; and one of the company called to a plain, clean old man, with white locks, “ Pray, Father A braham, what think you of the times? Will not these heavy taxes quite ruin the country ? How shall we ever be able to pay them ? What would you advise us to do ?” Father Abraham stood up, and replied, “If you would have my advice, I will give it to you in short, ‘For a word to the wise is enough,’ as Poor Richard says.” They joined in desiring him to speak his mind, and gathering round him, he proceeded as follows:—“Friends,” said he, “the taxes are indeed very heavy, and if those laid on by the Government were the only ones we had to pay, we might more easily discharge them; but we have many others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, and four times as much by our folly; and from these taxes the Government cannot ease or deliver us, by allowing an abatement. However, let us hearken to good advice, and something may be done for us—‘God helps them who help themselves,’ as Poor Richard says.

“It would be thought a hard government that should tax its people one-tenth part of their

* A name under which Dr. Franklin wrote.

time to be employed in its service; but idleness taxes many of us much more. Sloth, by bringing on diseases, absolutely shortens life. ‘ Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than labour wears; while the used key is always bright,’ as Poor Richard says. ‘ But dost thou love life, then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of,’ as Poor Richard says. How much more than is necessary do we spend in sleep ! forgetting that ‘ The sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that there will be sleeping enough in the grave,’ as Poor Richard says.

“ ‘ If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must be,’ as Poor Richard says, ‘ the greatest prodigality ;’ since, as he elsewhere tells us, ‘ Lost time is never found again; and what we call time enough, always proves little enough ;’ let us then up and be doing, and doing to the purpose ; so by diligence shall we do more with less perplexity. Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all easy; and he that riseth late must trot all day, and shall scarce overtake his business at night; while laziness travels so slowly that poverty soon overtakes him. Drive thy business, let not that drive thee; and ‘ early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,’ as Poor Richard says.

“So, what signifies wishing and hoping for better times? We may make these times better if we bestir ourselves. ‘ Industry need not wish, and lie that lives upon hopes will die fasting. There are no gains without pains ; then help hands, for I have no lands; or if I have, they are smartly taxed.’ ‘He that hath a trade hath an estate; and he that hath a calling hath an office of profit and honour,’ as Poor Richard says; but then the trade must be worked at, and the calling followed, or neither the estate or the office will enable us to

u 2

pay our taxes. If we are industrious, we shall never starve; for ‘ At the working man’s house hunger looks in, but dares not enter.’ Nor will the bailiff or the constable; for 1 Industry pays debts, while despair increaseth them.’ What though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich relation left you a legacy. ‘ Diligence is the mother of good luck, and God gives all things to industry. Then plough deep, while sluggards sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep.’ Work while it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be hindered to-morrow. ‘ One to-day is worth two to-morrows,’ as Poor Richard says; and further, ‘ Never leave that till to-morrow which you can do to-day.’ If you were a servant, would you not be ashamed that a good master should catch you idle ? Are you then your own master? be ashamed to catch yourself idle, when there is so much to be done for yourself, your family, your country, and your king. Handle your tools without mittens; remember that ‘ The cat in gloves catches no mice,’ as Poor Richard says. It is true there is much to be done, and perhaps you are weak-handed; but stick to it steadily, and you will see great effects ; for ‘ Constant dropping-wears away stones; and by diligence and patience the mouse ate in two the cable; and little strokes fell great oaks.’

“Methinks I hear some of you say, ‘Must a man afford himself no leisure ?’ I will tell thee, my friend, what Poor Richard says, ‘ Employ thy time well if thou meanest to gain leisure; and since thou art not sure of a mimrte, throw not away an hour.’ Leisure is time for doing something useful; this leisure the diligent man will obtain, but the lazy man never; for ‘A life of leisure and a life of laziness are two things. Many without labour would live by their wits

only, but they break for want of stock’; whereas industry gives comfort, and plenty, and respect. ■ Fly pleasures, and they will follow you. The diligent spinner has a large web; and now I have a sheep and a cow, everybody bids me good morrow.’”    Dr. Franklin.


"But with our industry we must likewise be steady, settled, and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and not trust too much to others ; for, as Poor Richard says—

‘ I never saw an oft-removed tree,

Nor yet an oft-removed family,

That throve so well as those that settled be

and again, ‘ Three removes are as bad as a fire and again, ‘ Keep thy shop, and thv shop will keep thee ;’ and again, ‘ If you woum have your business done, go ; if not, send ;’ and again,

1 He that by the plough would thrive,

Himself must either hold or drive;’

and again, ‘ The eye of a master will do more work than both his hands ;’ and again, ‘Want of care does us more damage than want of knowledge ;’ and again, ‘Not to oversee workmen, is to leave them your purse open.’ Trusting too much to others’ care is the ruin of many ; but a man’s own care is profitable ; for ‘ If you would have a faithful servant, and one that you like, serve yourself.’ ‘ A little neglect may breed great mischief: for want of a nail the shoe was lost; tor want of a shoe the horse was lost; and for want of a horse the rider was lost, being overtaken and slain by the enemy ; all for want of a little care about a horse-shoe nail.’

“ So much for industry, my friends, and attention to one’s own business ; but to these we must add frugality, if we would make our industry more certainly successful. A man may, if he knows not how to save as he gets, keep his nose all his life to the grindstone and die not worth a groat at last. ‘ A fat kitchen makes a lean will and

‘ Many estates are spent in the getting,

Since women for tea forsook spinning and knitting,

And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting.’

‘ If you would be wealthy, think of saving as well as of getting. The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her outgoes are greater than her incomes.’

“ Away then with your expensive follies, and you will not then have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and chargeable families; for ‘ What maintains one vice would bring up two children. You may think, perhaps, that a diet a little more costly, clothes a little liner, and a little entertainment now and then, can be no great matter; but remember, ‘ Many a little makes a mickle.’ Beware of little expenses; ‘ A small leak will sink a great ship,’ as Poor Richard says; and again, ‘ Who dainties love shall beggars prove ;’ and moreover, ‘ Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them.’

“ Here you are all got together at this sale of fineries and nick-nacks. You call them goods, but if you do not take care they will prove evils to some of you. You expect they Avill be sold cheap, and perhaps they may far less than they cost; but if you have no occasion for them, they must be dear to you. Remember what Poor Richard says, 1 Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou slialt sell thy necessaries ;’ and again, ‘ At a great pennyworth pause a while.’

He means that the cheapness is apparent only, and not real; or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may do thee more harm than good. For in another place he says, ‘ Many have been ruined by buying good penny-worths.’ Again, ‘ It is foolish to lay out money in a purchase of repentance,’ and yet this folly is practised every day at auctions, for want of minding the Almanack.'11 Many a one, for the sake of finery on the back, have half-starved themselves and their families. ‘Silks and satins; scarlet and velvets, put out the kitchen fire,’ as Poor Richard says. These are not the necessaries of life; they can scarcely be called the conveniences ; and yet, only because they look pretty, how many want to have them ? By these, and other extravagances, the genteel are reduced to poverty, and forced to borrow of those whom they formerly despised; but who, through industry and frugality, have maintained their standing -in which case it appears plainly that ‘ A ploughman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees,’ as Poor Richard says. Perhaps they have had a small estate left them, which they knew not the getting of; they think ‘ It is day, and will never be night;’ that a little to be spent out of so much is not worth minding; but ‘Always taking out of the meal-tub, and never putting in, soon comes to the bottom,’ as Poor Richard says; and then, ‘ When the well is dry, they know the worth of water.’ But this they might have known before if they had taken his advice :—If you would know the value of money, go and try to borrow some ; for ‘ He that goes a borrowing goes a sorrowing,’ as Poor Richard says ; and indeed so does he that lends to such people, when 4

lie goes to get it in again. Poor Dick further advises, and says—

‘ Fond pride of dress is sure a very curse;

Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse.’

And again, ‘ Pride is' as loud a beggar as want, and a great deal more saucy.’ When you have bought one fine thing, you must buy ten more that your appearance may be all of a piece; but Poor Dick says, ‘ It is easier to suppress the first desire than to satisfy all that follow it.’ And it is as truly folly for the poor to ape the rich, as for the frog to swell in order to equal the ox.

‘ Vessels large may venture more,

But little boats should keep near shore.’

It is, however, a folly soon punished; for, as Poor Bichard says, ‘ Pride that dines on vanity sups on contempt;’ ‘ Pride breakfasted with Plenty, dined with Poverty, and supped with Infamy.’ And, after all, of what use is this pride of appearance, for which so much is risked, so much is suffered ? It cannot promote health nor ease pain ; it makes no increase of merit in the person; it creates envy ; it hastens misfortune.”

Dr. Franklin.


“What madness must it be to run in debt for superfluities ? For only think what you do when you run in debt; you give to another power over your liberty. If you cannot pay at the time, you will be ashamed to see your creditor; you will be in fear when you speak to him ; you will make poor, pitiful, sneaking excuses ; and, by degrees, come to lose your veracity, and sink into base, downright lying; for, ‘ The second vice is lying, the first is running in debt,’ as Poor Richard

says ; and again, to the same purpose, £ Lying rides upon debt’s back whereas a free-born man ought not to be ashamed nor afraid to see or speak to any man living. But poverty often deprives a man of all spirit and virtue. ‘ It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright.’ What would you think of that prince, or of that government, who should issue an edict forbidding you to dress like a gentleman or gentlewoman, on pain of imprisonment or servitude ? Would you not say that you were free, have a right to dress as you please, and that such an edict would be a breach of your privileges, and such a government tyrannical ? And yet you put yourself under such tyranny, when you run in debt for such dress ! Your creditor has authority, at his pleasure, to deprive you of your liberty, by confining you in gaol till you shall be able to pay him. When you have got your bargain, you may, perhaps, think little of payment; but, as Poor Richard says, ‘ Creditors have better memories than debtors; creditors are great observers of set days and times.’ The day comes round before you are aware, and the demand is made before you are prepared to satisfy it; or, if you bear your debt in mind, the term, which at first seemed so long, will, as it lessens, appear extremely short: time will seem to have added wings to his heels as well as his shoulders. ‘ Those have a short Lent who owe money to be paid at Easter.’ At present, perhaps, you may think yourselves in thriving circumstances, and that you can bear a little extravagance without injury; but—

4 For age and want save while you may,

No morning sun lasts a whole day.’

Gain may be temporary and uncertain, but ever,

while you live, expense is constant and certain; and, ‘ It is easier to build two chimneys than to keep one in fuel,’ as Poor Richard says; so rather go to bed supperless than rise in debt.

‘ Get what you can and what you get hold,

’Tis the stone that will turn all your lead into gold.’

And when you have got the philosopher’s stone, sure you will no longer complain of bad times or the difficulty of paying taxes.

“ This doctrine, my friends, is reason and wisdom ; but, after all, do not depend too much on your own industry, and frugality, and prudence, though excellent things, for they may be all blasted without the blessing of Heaven ; and, therefore, ask that blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable to those that at present seem to want it, but comfort and help them. Remember Job suffered, and was afterwards prosperous.

Dr. Franklin.

“ And now, to conclude, ‘ Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other,’ as Poor Richard says, and scarce in that; for, it is true, 1 We may give advice but we cannot give conduct.’ However, remember this, ‘ They that will not be counselled cannot be helped ;’ and further, that ‘ If you will not hear Reason, she will rap your knuckles,’ as Poor Richard says.” Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people heard it and approved the doctrine, and immediately practised the contrary, for the auction opened and they began to buy extravagantly.


Government may be divided into three heads :— the Legislative, the Executive, and the Judicial. The first branch is employed in enacting and repealing laws ; the second, in executing all that is required from day to day for the public service ; and the third, in deciding causes between man and man, and in trying persons accused of crime. In an absolute monarchy all these powers belong to the Sovereign, who carries on the government by such persons as he may think fit to appoint; but in a limited monarchy, such as ours, they are kept distinct from each other. The legislative power, which is the great basis of all the others, belongs to Parliament alone : that is, to the King, the House of Lords, and the House of Commons acting conjoint^.

The King, who holds the highest office in the state, is not elected to his position, but inherits it. In this country a female may become the ruling Sovereign, but in some parts of Europe no female can succeed so long as there is any male of the royal family. It is on this account that the kingdom of Hanover, which was held by the last five of our kings, passed, on the accession of Victoria, to a younger son, the Duke of Cumberland.

The King, as one of the constituents of Parliament, has a share in the making and repealing of the laws, for no measure can become the law of the realm until it receives his sanction; but in addition to this he has a power peculiar to his position as Sovereign, which is called the “royal prerogative.” Thus, though no tax can be imposed with-

out the consent of Parliament, the expenditure of the money raised by taxes is intrusted to the king. He is the distributor of titles and dignities ; he creates peers of the realm ; and to him belongs the appointment of officers in the army and navy, governors of colonies, lords lieutenant, judges, ministers of state, and others connected with the executive. The King has also the sole power of declaring war or making peace, or entering into treaties with foreign countries. It is, moreover, part of his office to summon Parliament, to prorogue it, or dissolve it whenever he thinks fit. In fact to him is intrusted a share of the legislative power, and the whole of the executive.

As for the judicial power, the King has so far a share in it that he can pardon criminals and appoint judges.

It is difficult to reconcile so much power with the idea of a limited monarchy, for, at first sight, the King appears to be invested with all the prerogatives that ever were claimed by the most absolute monarchs ; but the great check to this power is the fact that Parliament alone can grant supplies. The King may command armies and equip fleets, but without the money voted by Parliament he cannot maintain them; he may bestow places and employments, but without the Parliament he cannot pay the salaries attending on them. He can declare war, but without his Parliament it is impossible for him to carry it on.

And again, it is understood, the King does not interfere personally in the business of government, but acts through ministers appointed by him and removable at his pleasure. As, however, ministers cannot carry on the government unless they enjoy the confidence of Parliament, because the laws and taxes which such ministers

proposed would be rejected by the votes of the members, there is, therefore, a complete protection against the appointment of improper men. Besides a minister is responsible to Parliament for every act that he takes part in; he can be impeached before the House of Lords, and if found guilty, punished, notwithstanding that he may have been only carrying out the wishes of the King.

The person selected by the King to lead the ministry is called the Premier, or Prime Minister, and sometimes the First Lord of the Treasury or department for conducting the receipt and expenditure of the revenue. The other most important officers of the state are the Lord High Chancellor, who presides over the House of Lords, is supreme judge of the Court of Chancery, and keeps the “ Great Seal” which must be affixed to several important state papers; the Lord President of the Council, that is, of the Privy Council; the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who attends to the business of taxes ; the Secretaries of State ; the First Lord of the Admiralty, &c., &c. These form what is called the Cabinet, or the persons with whom the King is supposed to consult in a confidential and private manner.

At present the King does not attend the meetings of the Cabinet, but leaves his ministers to deliberate together by themselves, so that each may speak his mind more freely. When their deliberations are finished they lay before the King what they have determined on advising. In some cases men are appointed Cabinet Ministers, without their holding any other office, merely to assist in the general deliberations.

The House of Lords is next in dignity to the King. They have the advantage of personal honours, and of an hereditary title. The estab-

lished ceremonial gives to their assembly a great pre-eminence over that of the representatives of the people. They are the upper house, and the others are the lower house. They are in a more especial manner considered as the King’s Council; and it is in the place where they assemble that his throne is placed. When the King comes to the Parliament the Commons are sent for, and make their appearance at the bar of the House of Lords. It is, moreover, before the Lords, as before then Judges, that the Commons bring their impeachments.

The House of Lords is called also the House of Peers, probably to show that though there are differences of rank among the members—a duke being the highest, and a baron the lowest—yet all are equal as to their political rights and privileges. All English peers are members of the upper house, but Scotch and Irish peers, except such as are also peers of England, have only the privilege of sending a certain number of their own body to represent them. The number of peers in the house is always fluctuating, because titles may become extinct, or they may be held by minors, who cannot have a seat, or the King may at any time elevate a commoner to the peerage.

The House of Lords is not only a deliberative assembly, but a court of justice ; it is, in fact, the highest court of justice in the realm, as appeals can always be made from the others to it, but from it there is no appeal. The decision of legal questions that come before the house is practically left to the “ Law Lords”—that is, those who have been raised to the peerage on account of their legal eminence. The others take no part in the trials that are going on, except when there is some question about matters of fact; and then they act the part of an ordinary j ury.

The Lord Chancellor presides in the House of Lords and puts each question to the vote. He sits on a cushion stuffed with wool, and called the “ woolsack which is a custom supposed to have been established to remind all persons of the importance of the production of wool in this country.


The House of Commons, or lower house, consists of persons elected by the people to take care of their interests. They are called “Members of Parliament,” though in strictness a peer is equally entitled to the name. Some represent counties, some portions of counties, some towns or boroughs, and some universities. Some places return one member, others two or more. All persons have not votes in returning a member of Parliament; certain special qualifications are necessary, and these, together with the places that shall return members, and all the forms for conducting elections, are fixed from time to time by acts of Parliament. A clergyman cannot become a member of the House of Commons; nor can any peer who is entitled to a seat in the House of Lords; but a peer’s son, even if he is heir to a peerage, may. So soon, however, as he succeeds to his title he vacates his seat in the Commons.

It is also a law of this house that any member who accepts place under the government vacates his seat; though after vacating he may be reelected. No member can voluntary resign his position as member of Parliament, but to pre-

vent the great inconvenience that might sometimes arise to individuals from this, it is the custom for those who wish to retire to accept a nominal place under government, without duties and without pay, called “ The Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds.”

The president of the House of Commons is called the Speaker. He is elected by the members from their own body, and it is his duty to keep the house in order, to represent it, and speak in its behalf when it is necessary to hold any communications with the King or others. He takes no part in the debates and gives no vote except when the members on a division happen to be equal, and then he has the casting vote. When, however, the house is in committee on a bill the Speaker leaves the chair and becomes in all respects like any other member. Every member who speaks professes to address himself to the Speaker.

The assembling, proroguing, and dissolving of Parliament depend, as lias been said, on the pleasure of the King; but in practice Parliament meets once a year.    For, as the money which is

required for carrying on the government can only be raised by a vote of Parliament, it is essentially necessary to hold these annual sessions. Moreover the Mutiny Act—the law by which the discipline of the army is maintained—is never passed but for a single year; so that if Parliament did not assemble annually that act would expire, and the soldiers, besides that there would be no means of paying them, would not be obliged to obey their officers. Seven years is the longest time that any Parliament can be continued, but the King usually dissolves it sooner, so that the average duration of the Parliaments seldom exceed four years.

Every law must originate in one of the two

houses of Parliament; and any member of either can bring a measure, or bill as it is called, for discussion. There is, however, this difference between the two houses, that in the lower house a member must first move for leave to bring in the bill, whereas in the other a bill may be brought in at once. And, again, in the House of Commons no motion can be put to the vote unless it has been seconded, that is, unless some other member supports it—but in the upper house there is no such rule.

No money bill can originate with the lords; nor, practically, are they even allowed to alter such a bill when brought up from the House of Commons ; for the commons regard themselves as the representatives of the great mass of the nation; whose property is at stake, and therefore they are jealous of any interference from others in such matters.

Every bill, before it can pass either house, must be read therein a first, second, and third time; and the votes are taken on each reading. Formerly each bill was actually read, but this practice ceased when printing came into general use. Each member is now supplied with a printed copy of the bill, which he can study at leisure, and the bill is understood to have been “read” when the vote for reading it has passed. It is not usual for those who may be opposed to any measure to vote against its first reading, though they commonly give notice that they shall oppose it on the second reading; and the form which their opposition often takes is to move that the bill be read a second time that day six months, for it almost always will happen that before the expiration of that time the session will have been over. When it is agreed that a bill shall be read a second time it is brought before what is called a “ Committee


of tlie whole House.” The house in committee consist of the same members as before, but under somewhat different regulations ; instead of beingpresided over by the Lord Chancellor and the Speaker there is a chairman of committee appointed. Each clause of the bill is discussed at the second reading and put to the vote separately ; when it is either passed, rejected, or altered. When a bill has gone through committee a motion is made for the third reading; and if this is agreed to it is moved “ that the bill do now pass.” It is not common for a bill to be opposed in these last two stages, but it is perfectlyallowableto do so, and is in fact sometimes done. When it passes one house it is sent to the other, where it is discussed in the same way; and, if approved of, it is submitted to the King, whose sanction makes it the law of the land until altered or rejected by the same course. When a bill has passed the House of Lords any peers who are opposed to it have the privilege of entering a protest against it; and these protests are regularly kept. In the House of Commons there is not the right of thus protesting.

There are also some differences between the houses in the method of recording their votes. The peers say “content” or “not content;” the commons say “aye” or “no.” The commons again must vote personally but the peers may vote by proxy, that is, any peer may, during his absence, leave in the hands of another peer a certain writing drawn up in regular form which enables that other to give the vote for the one who is absent. This seems to have arisen from the fact that the lords, exoept those who represent the Scotch and Irish peerage, being members of the legislature by virtue of a right inherent in their persons, are supposed to sit in Parliament on their own account, and for the support of their

own interests. The commons have not that privilege because they are themselves the proxies, as it were, of the people, but by an arrangement called “ pairing off” two members who design to vote on opposite sides, and who find it inconvenient to attend, may absent themselves without interfering with the general result of the voting. No peer can hold more than two proxies, and none but a bishop can hold a bishop’s proxy, and he cannot hold a proxy of one of the temporal lords. When the House of Lords is in committee proxies are not admitted, as each member is then supposed to vote with reference to the debates actually going on.

When any member wishes to oppose some motion that has been made, there are different forms for doing so. He may, simply and directly, speak and vote against it, or he may move what is called “the previous questionthat is, that the house should proceed with the rest of the business that is before it, taking no notice of the other motion that has been made. This is often done when it is thought that there are several members who would not wish to pronounce a decided condemnation of that motion by voting directly against it; but who do not choose that it should be taken into consideration at that time.

If any member has reason to believe that the business of the house is being improperly hurried on, or brought forward, when the majority of its opponents are absent he has the privilege of moving an adjournment; and when a division has taken place on that question, if there is a majority against adjourning, he, or any other, may soon after move again “ that the house do now adjourn,’’ for, though the same motion cannot be made twice,' it is decided that since the word now denotes a different time, that this is not the same

x 2

motion as the other. By persevering in such motions any one member may stop the proceedings of the house; but of course no one would resort to this extreme step unless strongly impressed with the necessity for it.

The House of Lords may continue sitting and transacting business, however small the number of those actually present. In the House of Commons, on the contrary, any member may move  that the house be countedand if it shall then appear that there are less than forty present, the house must adjourn.

If either of the two Houses of Parliament obstinately refuses to pass what the other approves of, certain steps are taken to bring about an agreement, as otherwise no bill could become law. If the House of Commons opposes, then the Kin;;' dissolves Parliament, and new members are elected who will probably be more favourable to the measure ; if the House of Lords opposes, one remedy is to create as many new peers favourable to the measure as will form a majority of the house, or to attach to the measure a money bill, so that if they reject the bill they cannot obtain the money.

The people are not allowed to interfere with the deliberations of Parliament, and no member of either house can be made responsible out of the house for anything he says in it; but the people have the right of petitioning either house, or the King. Petitions to the King are usually presented through his ministers; though from some eminent bodies of men, such as universities, the King is accustomed to receive petitions on the throne. A petition to either House of Parliament may be presented by any member of that House, who does so by moving that it may be “ laid on the table” of the house. And some one will

always be found to present a petition from any persons however humble in station, provided it contain no offensive matter, and be respectfully worded. In the House of Lords the presenter of a petition sometimes makes a speech in support of it; and sometimes another will answer him; and perhaps a long debate will ensue on the petition. But in the House of Commons there is a rule against this. A petition must be presented with merely a statement of its general object, and from whom it comes.


Acts of Parliament form what is called the written or statute law of the realm; but there is, in addition to this, the unwritten or common law, which is not founded on any known act of the legislature, but receives its force from immemorial custom, and derives its origin from Acts of Parliament, the originals of which are now lost, but which were enacted in the time which immediately followed the conquest. The principal objects settled by the common law are, the rules of descent, the different methods of acquiring-property, the various forms of rendering contracts valid, &c. This law is equally binding as the other so long as no Act of Parliament has been passed in reference to it, but an Act of Parliament, being the result of the united wills of the three constituent parts of the legislature, supersedes in all cases both the common law and all former statutes.

The different causes decided by the laws are said to be either civil or criminal. Civil causes are between man and man; as where there is a dispute about some property, or where one man

claims compensation from another for some injury or damage done to him ; while criminal causes are those in which a person is accused-of some crime against the community, for which the law awards a punishment. In the one case the accuser is called the plaintiff, and his opponent the defendant; but in the other the accuser is called the prosecutor, who comes forward in the name of the King, that is, on behalf of the community, of which the King is the supreme ruler, and the person accused is called the prisoner.

The Courts of Justice are, the House of Lords, the Court of Chancery, and the Common-law Courts.

The proceedings in the House of Lords acting as a Coui’t of Justice, have been already alluded to. In the Court of Chancery, the Lord Chancellor decides by himself, without any jury, a particular class of causes pertaining to what is called Chancery-law. In the Common-law Courts the Judges cannot pronounce judgment until they receive the verdict of a jury.

All Judges are appointed by the Crown, but the King has not the power of removing any of them, except the Lord Chancellor, and he, being a member of the ministry, retires with it. In former times the King had the power not only of appointment, but of dismissal, but this was liable to so great abuse, by the appointment, for instance, of Judges who would decide only as the King wished, or who, if they did not, could he replaced by others more compliant, that it was withdrawn from the royal prerogative. Judges can now be deprived of office only by being guilty of such misconduct as that both Houses of Parliament address the King praying for their removal. This is one means by which the law secures a prisoner against unjust decisions; there

are several others, which will be best understood by a description of the manner in which criminal prosecutions are conducted.

When a person is charged with a crime, the Magistrate, or Justice of the Peace, issues a warrant to bring the party before him for examination. Before examining him he is bound to warn him against making any admissions likely to criminate himself. If it should appear either that no crime had been committed, or that there were no just grounds to suspect him of it, lie must be set at liberty. If the contrary result, the person accused must give bail for his appearance to answer the charge, unless in capital cases ; for then he must, not as a punishment, but for safer custody, be really committed to prison in order to take his trial at the next sessions.

Again, it is further ordained that the accusation must be again discussed before he can be exposed to the danger of a trial. This discussion is carried on by a body called the Grand Jury, selected by the Sheriff from the most considerable persons in the county. The number of grand jurors must be more than twelve, and less than twenty-four the function of this jury is not to try the cause but to see is it worth trial, and this they do by going into the evidence for the prosecution only, omitting all notice of the evidence for the defence. If twelve of these persons do not concur in the opinion that the accusation is well grounded, the party is immediately discharged, though he may be afterwards taken up on the same crime if further evidence be discovered. If on the contrary, twelve of the Grand Jury find the proofs ,sufficient, they bring in what is called a true bill against him, and he is sent for trial before a common jury, whose verdict finally decides on the truth or falsehood of the accusation.

As the fate of the prisoner thus entirely depends on the men who compose this jury, justice requires that he should have a share in the choice of them, and this he has through the right which the law allows him of challenging, or objecting to such of them as he may think objectionable. These challenges are of two kinds; one, which is called the challenge to the array, has for its object to set the whole panel aside; and this is resorted to when it is thought that the Sheriff who formed the panel is personally interested in the case. The other form of challenge is taking-exception against the jurors individually for certain specified reasons, as, for instance, against a lord on the jury, against a person not legally qualified to sit, against a person convicted of felony, perjury, &c., or against a person having any interest in the conviction of the prisoner. Moreover, the law allows the prisoner, in cases of felony, to challenge twenty jurors peremptorily, that is to say, without showing any cause.

When at length the jury is formed, and they have taken an oath to judge according to the evidence brought before them, the indictment is opened, and the prosecutor produces the proofs of his accusations. The witnesses must deliver their evidence in the presence of the prisoner, who is at liberty to question them, and to produce witnesses on his own behalf. He is allowed to have counsel to assist him, not only in discussions on the law of the case, hut also in the investigation of the fact itself. When the evidence on both sides has closed, it is the duty of the Judge to sum up the facts which have been advanced on both sides. He points out to the jury what are the most important points of the case, and gives then his opinion both as to the evidence, and as to the points of law that may be involved. The jury

tli«n retire until they have agreed to a verdict. In England and Ireland they must be unanimous, but in Scotland the opinion of the majority constitutes the verdict.

As the main object of trial by jury is to guard accused persons against all decision from men invested with official authority, it is a rule that the opinion of the Judge is only to have as much weight as the jurymen themselves choose to give it. They can judge entirely for themselves on all points connected with the trial. If their verdict be “ not guilty,” the prisoner is set at liberty, and cannot, on any pretence whatever, be tried again for the same offence. If the verdict declares him guilty, then, and not till then, the Judge enters upon his function as a Judge, and pronounces the punishment which the law appoints.

For further prevention of abuses it is an invariable usage that the trial be public.


THE MARSHALLING OF THE GRECIAN HOSTS. Gerenian Nestor thus his speech began :

“ Most mighty Agamemnon, king of men,

Great Atreus’ son, no longer let us pause,

The work delaying which the pow’rs of heav’n Have trusted to our hands; do thou forthwith Bid that the heralds proclamation make,

And summon through the camp the brass-clad Greeks ;

While, in a body, through the wide-spread ranks We pass, and stimulate their war-like zeal.”

He said ; and Agamemnon, king of men, Obedient to his counsel, gave command That to the war the clear-voiced heralds call The long-haired Greeks : they gave the word, and straight

1 rom ev ry quarter thronged the eager crowd. The heav’n-born kings, encircling Atreus’ son, The troops inspected : Pallas, blue eyed maid,’ Before the chiefs her glorious aegis bore,

By time untouched, immortal: all around A hundred tassels hung, rare works of art,

All gold, each one a hundred oxen’s price.

W ith this the goddess passed along the ranks, Exciting all; and fixed in every breast The firm resolve to wage unwearied war;

And dearer to their hearts than thoughts of home Or wished return, became the battle field.

As when a wasting fire, on mountain tops, Seizes the blazing woods, afar is seen The glaring light; so, as they moved, to heav’n Flashed the bright glitter of their burnished arms.

As when a num’rous flock of birds, or geese, Or cranes, or long-necked swans, on Asian mead. Beside Cayster’s stream, now here, now there, Disporting, ply their wings ; then settle down With clam’rous noise, that all the mead resounds ; So to Scamander’s plain, from tents and ships, Poured forth the countless tribes ; the firm earth groan’d

Beneath the tramp of steeds and armed men. Upon Scamander’s flow’ry mead they stood, Unnumbered as the vernal leaves and flow’rs.

Or as the multitudinous swarms of flies,

That round the cattle-sheds in spring-tide pour, While the warm milk is frothing in the pail;

So numberless upon the plain, arrayed For Troy’s destruction, stood the longhair’d Greeks. And as experienced goat-herds when their flocks Are mingled in the pasture, portion out Their sev’ral charges, so the chiefs arrayed Their squadrons for the fight, while in the midst The mighty monarch Agamemnon moved :

His eye, and lofty brow, the counterpart


Of Jove, the Lord of thunder; in his girth Another Mars, with Neptune’s ample chest.

As ’mid the thronging heifers in a herd Stands proudly eminent, the lordly bull;

So, by Jove’s will, stood eminent that day,

’Mid many heroes, Atreus’ godlike son.

Lord Derby. (Translation of Homer)


From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fixed sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other’s watch :

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s umbered face :

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night’s dull ear ; and from the tents, The armourers, accomplishing the knights,

With busy hammers closing rivets up,

Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, And the third hour of drowsy morning name. Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,

The confident and over-lusty French Do the low-rated English play at dice ;*

And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night,

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp So tediously away. The poor condemned English, Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires Sit patiently and inly ruminate The morning’s danger; and their gesture sad,

' In allusion to the fact that on the eve of the battle the French played at dice for their anticipated English prisoners.

Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats, Presenteth them nnto the gazing moon So many horrid ghosts. O ! now, who will behold The royal captain of this ruined band,

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent. Let him cry—Praise and glory on his head !

For forth he goes, and visits all his host,

Bids them good-morrow with a modest smile, And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen. Upon his royal face there is no note,

How dread an army hath enrounded him,

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watched night;

But freshly looks, and over-bears attaint,

With cheerful semblance, and sweet majesty ; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.

A largess universal, like the sun,

His liberal eye doth give to every one,

Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle, all Behold, as may unworthiness define,

A little touch of Harry in the night.

And so our scene must to the battle fly.



When I am in a serious humour, I very often wa lk by myself in Westminster Abbey, where the gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I, yesterday, passed the whole afternoon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing myself with the tombstones and inscriptions that I met with



in those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried person, but that he was born upon one day, and died upon another ; the whole history of his life being comprehended in these two circumstances that are common to all mankind. I could not but look upon these registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons, who had left no other memorial of them, but that they were born, and that they died.

They put me in mind of several persons mentioned in the battles of heroic poems, who have sounding names given them, for no other reason but that they may be killed, and are celebrated for nothing but being knocked on the head. The life of these men is finely described in Holy Writ by “ the path of an arrow,” which is immediately closed up and lost.

Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with the digging of a grave, and saw in every shovel-full of it that was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull, intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldering earth, that some time or other had a place in the composition of a human body. Upon this I began to consider with myself what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused together under the pavement of that ancient cathedral; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled amongst one another, and blended together in one common mass ; how-beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay undistinguished in the same promiscuous heap of matter.

After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality as it were in the lump, I examined it more particularly, by the accounts which I found on several of the monuments which are raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them were covered with such extravagant epitaphs, that if it were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would blush at the praises which his friends had bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively modest, that they deliver the character of the person departed, in


Greek or Hebrew, and by that means are not understood once in a twelvemonth. In the poetical quarter I found there were poets who had no monuments, and monuments which had no poets. I observed, indeed, that the present war had filled the church with many of those uninhabited monuments, which had been erected to the memory of persons whose bodies were, perhaps, buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean.

I could not be but very much delighted with several modem epitaphs, which are written with great elegance of expressionandjustness of thought, and therefore do honour to the living as well as the dead. As a foreigner is very apt to conceive an idea of the ignorance or politeness of a nation from the turn of their public monuments and inscriptions, they should be submitted to the perusal of men of learning and genius before they are put in execution. Sir Cloudesley Shovel’s monument has very often given me great offence. Instead of the brave rough English admiral, which was the distinguishing character of that plain gallant man, he is represented on his tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, and reposing himself upon velvet cushions, under a canopy of state. The inscription is answerable to the monument; for instead of celebrating the many remarkable actions he had performed in the service of his country, it acquaints us only with the manner of his death, in which it was impossible for him to reap any honour. The Dutch, whom we are apt to despise for want of genius, show an infinitely greater taste of antiquity and politeness in their buildings and works of this nature, than what we meet in those of our own country. The monuments of their admirals, which have been erected at the public expense, represent them like themselves, and are adorned

with rostral crowns and naval ornaments, with beautiful festoons of seaweed, shells, and coral.

But to return to our subject. I have left the repository of our English kings for the contemplation of another day, when I shall find my mind disposed for so serious an amusement.

I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and gloomy imaginations; but, for my own part, though I am always serious, I do not know what it is to be melancholy ; and can, therefore, take a view of Nature in her deep and solemn scenes with the same pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones. By this means I can improve myself with those objects which others consider with terror. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me ; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of -the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow ; when I see kings lying by those who deposed them; when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect, with sorrow and astonishment, on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contemporaries,and make ourappearance together.

,    Addison.


Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry’s* holy shade ;

And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor’s heights the expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey ;

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way!

Ah, happy hill! ah, pleasing shade !

Ah, fields beloved in vain !    ,

Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain :

I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,

My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen F nil many a sprightly race,

Disporting on thy margin green,

The paths of pleasure trace,

Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave ?

* King Henry VI., founder of the College.


The captive linnet which inthral ?

What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle’s speed,

Or urge the flying ball ?

While some on earnest business bent Their murmuring labours ply ’Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry :

Still as they run they look behind ;

They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possessed ;

The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast.

Theirs, buxom health of rosy hue,

Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer of vigour born ;

The thoughtless day, the easy night,

The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play ;

ISTo sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day;

Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune’s baleful train.

Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band; Ah, tell them they are men !

These shall the fury passions tear,

The vultures of the mind,

Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind ;

Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy with rankling tooth That inly gnaws the secret heart;

And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, And Sorrow’s piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high,

To bitter scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning Infamy.

The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness’ altered eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild, Amid severest woe.

Lo ! in the vale of years beneath A grisly troop are seen,

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen :

This racks the joints, this fires the veins That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage :

Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band,

That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consumino- Asre.

o o

To each his sufferings : all are men, Condemned alike to groan ;

The tender for another’s pain,

The unfeeling for his own.

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies ?

Thought would destroy their paradise.

No more ; where ignorance is bliss ’Tis folly to he wise.



We were roused, as soon as the sun dawned, by Anthony, our faithful Greek servant and interpreter, with the intelligence that the pyramids were in view. We hastened from the cabin; and never will the impression made by their appearance be obliterated. By reflecting the sun’s rays, they appear as white as snow, and of such sur-

prising magnitude, that nothing we had previously conceived in our imagination had prepared us for the spectacle we beheld. The sight instantly convinced us, that no power of description, no delineation, can convey ideas adequate to the effect produced in viewing these stupendous monuments. The formality of their construction is lost in their prodigious magnitude; the mind, elevated by wonder, feels at once the force of an axiom, which, however disputed, experience confirms, that in vastness, whatever be its nature, there dwells sublimity. Another proof of then indescribable power is, that no one ever approached them under other emotion than those of terror, which is an-<)ther principal source of the sublime. In certain instances of irritable feeling, the impression of awe and fear has been so great as to cause pain rather than pleasure ; hence, perhaps, have originated descriptions of the pyramids which represent them as deformed and gloomy masses, without taste or beauty. Persons who have derived no satisfaction from the contemplation of them, may not have been conscious that the uneasiness the}experienced was the result of their own sensibility.

()thers have acknowledged ideas widely different, excited by every wonderful circumstance of character and of situation ; ideas of duration, almost endless ; of power inconceivable; of majesty supreme ; of solitude, most awful; of grandeur, of desolation, and of repose.

With what amazement did we survey the vast surface that was presented to us when we arrived at this stupendous monument, which seemed to reach the clouds! Here and there appeared some Arab guides upon the immense masses above us, like so many pigmies, waiting to show the way to the summit. Now and then we thought we heard voices, and listened; but it was the wind

in powerful gusts sweeping the immense ranges of stone. Already some of our party had begun the ascent, and were pausing at the tremendous depth which they saw below. One of our military companions, after having surmounted the most difficult part of the undertaking, became giddy in consequence of looking down from the elevation he had attained ; and being compelled to abandon the project, he hired an Arab to assist him in effecting his descent. The rest of us, more accustomed to the business of climbing heights, with many a halt for respiration, and many an exclamation of wonder, pursued our way towards the summit. The mode of ascent has been frequently described; and yet, from the questions which are often proposed to travellers, it does not appear to be generally understood. The reader may imagine himself to be upon a staircasQ, every step of which, to a man of middle stature is nearly breast high ; and the breadth of each step is equal to its height; consequently, the footing is secure; and, although a retrospect, in going up, be sometimes fearful to persons unaccustomed to look down from an)' considerable elevation, yet there is little danger of falling. In some places, indeed, where the stones are decayed, caution may be required; and an Arab guide is always necessary, to avoid a total interruption ; but, upon the whole, the means of ascent are such that almost every one may accomplish it. Our progress was impeded by other causes. We carried with us a few instruments, such as our boat-compass, a thermometer, a telescope, &c.; these could not be trusted in the hands of the Arabs, and they were liable to be broken every instant. At length we reached the topmost tier, to the great delight and satisfaction of all the party. Here we found a platform, thirty-two feet square, consisting of nine large stones, each


O A o •i) th *>

of which might weigh about a ton; although they are much inferior in size to some of the stones used in the construction of this pyramid. Travellers of all ages, and of various nations, have here inscribed their names. Some are written in Greek, many in French, a few in Arabic, one or two in English, and others in Latin. We were as desirous as our predecessors to leave a memorial of our arrival: it seemed to be a tribute of thankfulness due for the success of our undertaking; and presently every one of our party was seen busied in adding the inscription of his name.

The view from this eminence amply fulfilled our expectations; nor do the accounts which have been given of it, as it appears at this season of the year, exaggerate the novelty and grandeur of the sight. All the region towards Cairo and the Delta, resembled a sea covered with innumerable islands. Forests of palm-trees were seen standing in the water, the inundation spreading over the land where they stand, so as to give them an appearance of growing in the flood. To the north, as far as the eye could reach, nothing covdd be discerned but a watery surface thus diversified by plantations and by villages. To the south we saw the pyramids of Saccara; and upon the east of these, smaller monuments of the same kind nearer to the Nile. An appearance of ruins might indeed be traced the whole way from the pyramids of Gizeh to those of Saccara, as if they had been once connected, so as to constitute one vast cemetery. Beyond the pyramids of Saccara we could perceive the distant mountains of the Said ; and upon an eminence near the Libyan side of the Nile, appeared a monastery of considerable size. Towards the west and south-west, the eye ranged over the great Libyan Desert, extending to the utmost verge of the horizon, without a single object to

interrupt the dreary horror of the landscape, except dark floating spots caused by the shadows of passing clouds upon the sand.

Upon the south-east side is the gigantic statue of the Sphinx, the most colossal piece of sculpture which remains of all the works executed by the ancients. The French have uncovered all the pedestal of this statue; and all the cumbent or leonine parts of the figure; these were before entirely concealed by sand. Instead, however, of answering the expectations raised concerning the work upon which it was supposed to rest, the pedestal proves to be a wretched substructure of brick-work and small pieces of stone put together like the most insignificant piece of modern masonry, and wholly out of character both with respect to the prodigious labour bestowed upon the statue itself, and the gigantic appearance of the surrounding objects. Beyond the Sphinx we distinctly discerned amidst the sandy waste the remains and vestiges of a magnificent building, perhaps the Serapeum.

Immediately beneath our view, upon the eastern and western side, we saw so many tombs that we were unable to count them, some being half buried in the sand, others rising considerably above it. All those are of an oblong form, with sides sloping like roofs of European houses. The second pyramid, standing to the south-west, has the remains of a covering near its vertex, as of a plaiting of stone which had once invested all its four sides. Some persons, deceived by the external hue of this covering, have believed it to be marble ; but its white appearance is owing to a partial decomposition affecting the surface only. Not a single fragment of marble can be found anywhere near this pyramid. It is surrounded by a paved court, having walls on the outside, and places as

for doors or portals in the walls. A third pyramid of much smaller dimensions than the second, appears beyond the Sphinx to the south-west; and there are three others, one of which is nearly buried in the sand, between the large pyramid and this statue to the south-east.

Dr. Clarice.


Farewell, too little and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own ;

For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine:

One common note on either lyre did strike,

And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike :

To the same goal did both our studies drive:

The last set out the soonest did arrive.

Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,

Whilst his y oung friend performed and won the race:

O early ripe ! to thy abundant store

What could advancing age have added more ?

It might, what Nature never gives the young, Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue, But satire needs not those, and wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line :

A noble error and but seldom made,

When poets are by too much force betrayed.

Thy generous fruits though gathered ere their prime,

Still showed a quickness; and maturing Time But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rhyme.

Once more hail and farewell; farewell thou young, But, ah, too short, Marcellus, of our tongue !

Thy brows with ivy and with laurels bound ; But Fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.    Dry clen.


Those who have been much upon our coasts know that there are two different kinds of shores— that which slants down to the water with a gentle declivity, and that which rises with a precipitate boldness, and seems set as a bulwark to repel the force of the invading deeps. It is to such shores as these that the whole tribe of the gull kind resort, as the rocks offer them a retreat for their young, and the sea a sufficient supply. It is in the cavities of these rocks, of which the shore is composed, that the vast variety of sea-fowl retire to breed in safety. The waves beneath, that continually beat at the base, often wear the shore into an impending boldness, so that it seems to jut out over the water, while the raging of the sea makes the place inaccessible from below. These are the situations to which sea-fowl chiefly resort, and bring up their young in undisturbed security.    .

Those who have never observed our boldest coasts, have no idea of their tremendous sublimity. The boasted works of art, the highest towers, and the noblest domes are but ant-hills when put in comparison; the single cavity of a rock often exhibits a coping higher than the ceiling of a Gothic cathedral. The face of the shore offers to the view a wall of massive stone ten times higher than our tallest steeples. What should we think of a precipice three-quarters of a mile in height ? and yet the rocks of St. Kilda are still higher ! What must be our awe to approach the edge of that impending height, and to look down upon the unfathomable vacuity below; to ponder on the terrors of falling to the bottom, where the waves that swell like mountains are scarcely seen to

curl on the surface, and the roar of an ocean a thousand leagues broad appears softer than the murmur of a brook ? It is in these formidable mansions that myriads of sea-fowl are for ever seen sporting, flying in security down the depth, half a mile beneath the feet of the spectator. The crow and the chough avoid those frightful precipices ; they choose smaller heights, where they are less exposed to the tempest; it is the cormorant, the gannet, the tarrock, and the terne, that venture to these dreadful retreats, and claim an undisturbed possession. To the spectator from above, those birds, though some of them exceed the size of an eagle, seem scarce as large as a swallow, and their loudest screaming is scarcely perceptible.

But the generality of our shores are not so formidable. Though they may rise two hundred fathoms above the surface, yet it often happens that the water forsakes the shore at the departure of the tide, and leaves a noble and delightful walk for curiosity on the beach. Not to mention the variety of shells with which the strand is strewed, the lofty rocks that hang over the spectator’s head, and that seem but just kept from falling, produce in him no unpleasing gloom. If to this be added the fluttering, the screaming, and the pursuits of myriads of water-birds, all either intent on the duties of incubation, or roused at the presence of a stranger, nothing can compose a scene of more peculiar solemnity. To walk along the shore when the tide is departed, or to sit in the hollow of a rock when it is come in, attentive to the sounds that gather on every side, above and below, may raise the mind to its highest and noblest exertions. The solemn roar of the waves swelling into and subsiding from the vast caverns beneath, the piercing note of the gull, the fre-

quent chatter of the guillemot, the loud note of the auk, the scream of the heron, and the hoarse deep periodical croaking of the cormorant, all unite to furnish out the grandeur of the scene, and turn the mind to Him who is the essence of all sublimity.



All worldly shapes shall meet in gloom, The Sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality !

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time !

I saw the last of human mould Th’a>t shall Creation’s death behold,

As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun’s eye had a sickly glare,

The Earth with age was wan,

The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight—the brands Still rusted in their bony hands ;

In plague and famine some !

Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread, And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb !

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm passed by—

Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun,

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

’Tis mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway Thou dim discrowned king of day :

For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let Oblivion’s curtain fall Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall Life’s tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,

Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe,

Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

Ev’n I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire;

Test of all sunless agonies,

Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death— Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of nature spreads my pall; The majesty of Darkness shall *

Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark ;

Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim,

When thou thyself art dark!

No ! it shall live again and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By Him recalled to breath,

Who captive led captivity,

Who robbed the grave of Victory,

And took the sting from Death !

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature’s awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste—

Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race On Earth’s sepulchral clod The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality Or shake his trust in God!

Thomas Campbell.


Leave the prison of your own reasonings, leave the town, the work of man, the haunt of sin ; go forth far from the tents of Cedar and the slime of Babylon; with the patriarch go forth to meditate in the field, and from the splendours of the work imagine the unimaginable glory of the Architect. Mount some bold eminence, and look back, when the sun is high and full upon the earth, when mountains, cliffs, and sea, rise up before you like a brilliant pageant, with outlines noble and graceful, and tints and shadows soft, clear, and har-


monious, giving depth and unity to the whole; and then go through the forest, or fruitful field, or along meadow and stream, and listen to the distant country sounds, and drink in the fragrant air which is poured around you in spring or summer; or go among the gardens, and delight your senses with the grace and splendour, and the various sweetness of the flowers you find there ; then think of the almost mysterious influence upon the mind of particular scents, or the emotion which some gentle, peaceful strain excites in us, or how soul and body are rapt and carried away captive by the concord of musical sounds, where the ear is open to their power; and then when you have ranged through sights, and sounds, and odours, and your heart kindles, and your voice is full of praise and worship, reflect, not that they tell you nothing of your Maker, but that they are the poorest and dimmest glimmerings of His Glory, and the very refuse of His exuberant riches, and but the dusky smoke which precedes the flame, compared with Him who made them. Such is the Creator in His Eternal Uncreated Beaut}', that, were it given to us to behold it, we should die of very rapture at the sight. Moses, unable to forget the token of it he had once seen in the Bush, asked to see it fully, and on this very account was refused. " He said, Show me Thy glory : and He said, Thou canst not see my face ; for men shall not see Me and live.” When saints have been favoured with glimpses of it, it has thrown them into ecstasy, broken their poor frame of dust and ashes, and pierced it through with such keen distress, that they have cried out to God, in the very midst of their transports, that He would hold His hand, and, in tenderness to them, check the abundance of His consolations. What saints partake in fact, we enjoy in thought

and meditation ; and even that mere reflection of God’s glory is sufficient to sweep away the gloomy, envious thoughts of Him, which circle round us, and to lead us to forget ourselves in the contemplation of the All Beautiful. He is so bright, so majestic, so serene, so harmonious, so pure ; He so surpasses, as being its archetype and fulness, all that is graceful, gentle, sweet, and fair on earth; His voice is so touching, and His smile so winning while so awful, that we need nothing more than to gaze and listen, and be happy. Sav not this is not enough for love and joy; even in sights of this earth, the pomp and ceremonial of royalty is sufficient for the beholder; he needs nothing more than to be allowed to see ; and were we but admitted to the courts of heaven, the sight of Him, ever transporting, ever new, though He addressed us not, would be our meat and drink to all eternity.    Dr. Newman.


Westmoreland.    O that we now had here

Enter King Henry.

But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day!

K. Hen.    What’s he that wishes so ?

My cousin Westmoreland ?—No, my fair cousin : If we are marked to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men the greater share of honour.

I pray thee, wish not one man more from England. In truth, I am not covetous for gold;

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear Such outward things dwell not in my desires

But if it be a sin to covet honour I am the most offending soul alive.

I would not lose so great an honour,

As one man more, methinks, would share from me, For the best hope I have. 0, do not wish one more ;

Bather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight Let him depart; his passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is called the feast of Crispian :*

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his friends,

And say, To-morrow is Saint Crispian:

Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars: And say, these wounds I had on Crispin’s day. Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he’ll remember, with advantages,

What feats he did that day : Then shall our names, Familiar in their mouths as household words,— Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,— Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered: This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered :

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile

» The Battle of Agincourt was fought on the 25th October, 1415 —Saint Crispin’s day.

This day shall gentle his condition :

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here ;

And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks That fought with us upon St. Crispin’s day.



I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I consider as an act, the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth who are subject to the greatest depressions of melancholy ; on the contrary, cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment ; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.

If we consider cheerfulness in three lights with regard to ourselves, to those we converse with, and to the great Author of our being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of these accounts. The man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind, is not only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and faculties of his soul. His imagination is always clear, and his judgment undisturbed; his temper is even and unruffled, whether in action or in solitude. He comes with relish to all those goods which nature has provided for him, tastes all the plea-

sures of the creation which are poured about him, and does not feel the full weight of those accidental evils which may befall him.

If we consider him in relation to the persons whom he converses with, it naturally produces love and good-will towards him. A cheerful mind is not only disposed to be affable and obliging; but raises the same good-humour in those who come within its influence. A man finds himself pleased, he does not know why, with the cheerfulness of his companion. It is like a sudden sunshine that awakens a secret delight in the mind, without her attending to it. The heart rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows out into friendship and benevolence towards the person who has so kindly an effect upon it.

When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant habitual gratitude to the great Author of nature. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and thanksgiving to Providence under all its dispensations. It is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed, and a secret approbation of the Divine Will in His conduct towards man.

A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to the dictates of virtue and right reason, has two perpetual sources of cheerfulness in the consideration of his own nature and of that Being on whom he has a dependence. If he looks into himself he cannot but rejoice in that existence which is so lately bestowed upon him, and which, after millions of ages, will be still new, and still in its beginning. How many self-congratulations naturally rise in the mind when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity,—when it takes a view of those improvable faculties which in a few years, and even at its first setting out, have made

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so considerable a progress, and which will still be receiving an increase of perfection, and consequently an increase of happiness ! The consciousness of such a being spreads a perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul of a virtuous man, and makes him look upon himself every moment as more happy than he knows how to conceive.

The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind is the consideration of that Being on whom we have our dependence, and in whom, though we behold Him as yet but in the first faint discoveries of His perfections, we see everything that we can imagine as great, glorious, or amiable. We find ourselves everywhere upheld by His goodness, and surrounded with an immensity of love and mercy.

In short, we depend upon a Being whose power qualifies Him to make us happy by an infinity of means, whose goodness and truth engage Him to make those happy who desire it of Him, and whose unchangeableness will secure us in this happiness to all eternity.

Such considerations, which every one should perpetually cherish in his thoughts, will banish from us all that secret heaviness of heart which unthinking men are subject to when they lie under no real affliction : all that anguish which we may feel from any evil that actually oppresses us, to which I may likewise add those little cracklings of mirth and folly that are apter to betray virtue than support it; and establish in us such an even and cheerful temper, as makes us pleasing to ourselves, to those with whom we converse, and to Him whom we were made to please.

A ddison.


Ferdinand—bearing a log—Miranda.

Fer. There be some sports are painful, and their labour

Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters Point to rich ends. This my mean task Would be as heavy to me, as odious; but The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead, And makes my labours pleasures : oh ! she is Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed ; And he’s composed of harshness. I must remove Some thousand of these logs, and pile them up, Upon a sore injunction : my sweet mistress Weeps when she sees me work; and says, such baseness

Had never like executor. I forget:

But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours ;

Most busy, least when I do it.

Enter Miranda; and Frospero behind.

Mira.    Alas ! now, pray you,

Work not so hard: I would, the lightning had Burnt up those iogs that you are enjoined to pile. Pray, set it down, and rest you: when this burns, ’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father Is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself;

He’s safe for these three hours.

Fer.    Oh, most dear mistress !

The sun will set, before I shall discharge What I must strive to do.

Mira.    If you’ll sit down,

I’ll bear your logs the while. Pray, give me that; I’ll carry it to the pile.

Fer.    No, precious creature :

I had rather crack ray sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonour undergo,

While I sit lazy by.

Mira.    It would become me

As well as it does you; and I should do it With much more ease, for my good will is to it, And yours it is against.

Pro.    Poor worm ! thou art infected ;

This visitation shows it.    [Apart],

Mira.    You look wearily.

Fer. No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with me,

When you are by at night. I do beseech you, Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,

What is your name ?

Mira.    Miranda,—oh, my father!

I have broke your hest to say so.

Fer.    Admired Miranda!

Indeed, the top of Admiration ; worth What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard; and many a time The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear : for several virtues Have I liked several women ; never any With so full soul, but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owned, And put it to the foil: but you, oh you!

So perfect, and so peerless, are created Of every creature’s best.

Mira.    I do not know

One of my sex; no woman’s face remember,

Save from my glass my own ; nor have I seen More that I may call men, than you, good friend, And my dear father : how features are abroad,

I am skill-less of; but, by my modesty,

(The jewel in my dower,) I would not wish Any companion in the world but you;

Nor can imagination form a shape,

Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle Something too wildly, and my father’s precepts I therein do forget.

Fer.    I am, in my condition,

A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;

(I would, not so!) and would no more endure This wooden slavery, than to suffer The flesh-fly blow my mouth.—Hear my soul speak:

The very instant that I saw you, did My heart fly to your service; there resides,

To make me slave to it; and for your sake Am I this patient log-man.

Mira.    Bo you love me ?

Fer. Oh heaven! oh earth! bear witness to this sound,

And crown what I profess with kind event,

If I speak true ; if hollowly, invert What best is boded me to mischief! I,

Beyond all limit of aught else i’ the world,

Bo love, prize, honour you.

Mira.    I am a fool,

To weep at what I am glad of.



It is almost a definition of a gentleman, to say he is one who never inflicts pain. This description is both refined, and, as far as it goes, accurate ; for certainly he may be represented as one who, while he abounds in services and civilities to others, aims (so to say) at others obtaining without his giving, at offering without obtruding, and at being felt without being seen. He is mainly occupied in merely removing the obstacles which

hinder the free and unembarrassed action of those about him ; and he concurs with their movements rather than takes the initiative himself. His benefits may be considered as parallel to what are called comforts or conveniences in arrangements of a personal nature : like an easy chair or a good fire, which do their part in dispelling cold and fatigue, though nature provides both means of rest and animal heat without them. The true gentleman in like manner, carefully avoids whatever may cause a jar or jolt in the minds of those with whom he is cast;—all clashing of opinion, or collision of feeling, all restraint, or suspicion, or gloom, or resentment; his great concern being to make every one at their ease and at home.

He has his eyes on all his company ; he is tender towards the bashful, gentle towards the distant, and merciful towards the absurd ; he can recollect to whom he is speaking ; he guards against unseasonable allusions or topics which may irritate ; he is seldom prominent in conversation, and never wearisome. He makes light of favours while he does them, and seems to be receiving when he is conferring. He never speaks of himself except when compelled, never defends himself by a mere retort; he has no ears for slander or gossip, is scrupulous in imputing motives to those who interfere with him, and interprets everything for the best. He is never mean or little in his disputes, never takes unfair advantage, never mistakes personalities or sharp sayings for arguments, or insinuates evil which he dare not say out.

From a long-sighted prudence he observes the maxim of the ancient sage, that we should ever conduct ourselves towards our enemy as if he were one day to be our friend. He has too much good sense to be affronted at insult, he is too

busy to remember injuries, and too indolent to bear malice. He is patient, forbearing, and resigned, on philosophical principles ; he submits to pain, because it is inevitable ; to bereavement, because it is irreparable ; and to death, because it is his destiny.

If he engages in controversy of any kind, his disciplined intellect preserves him from the blundering discourtesy of better, though less educated minds, who, like blunt weapons, tear and hack instead of cutting clean, who mistake the point in argument, waste their strength on trifles, misconceive their adversary, and leave the question more involved than they find it. He may be right or wrong in his opinion, but he is too clear-headed to be unjust; he is as simple as he is forcible, and as brief as he is decisive. Nowhere shall we find greater candour, consideration, indulgence : he throws himself into the minds of his opponents, he accounts for their mistakes. He knows the weakness of human reason as well as its strength, its province and its limits.

If he be an unbeliever, he will be too profound and large-minded to ridicule religion or to act against it ; he is too wise to be a dogmatist or fanatic in his infidelity. He honours the ministers of religion, and he is contented with declining its mysteries, without assailing or denouncing them. He is a friend of religious toleration, and that, not only because his philosophy has taught him to look on all forms of faith with an impartial eye, but also from the gentleness and effeminacy of feeling which is the attendant on civilization.

Dr. Newman.


“ My Birth-day”—what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears !

And how each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears !

When first our scanty years are told It seems like pastime to grow old;

And as Youth counts the shining links, That Time around him hinds so fast, Pleased with the task he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man and false as vain,

Who said, “ were he ordained to run “ His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done.” — Ah, ’tis not thus the voice, that dwells In sober birth-days, speaks to me;

Far otherwise—of time it tells,

Lavished unwisely, carelessly;

Of counsel mocked; of talents, made Haply for high and pure designs,

But oft, like Israel’s incense laid Upon unholy, earthly shrines,

Of nursing many a wrong desire ;

Of wandering after Love too far And taking every meteor fire,

That crossed my pathway, for his star.—• All this it tells, and, could I trace The imperfect picture o’er again With power to add, retouch, efface,

The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay!

How quickly all should melt away—-

All—but that Freedom of the Mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me ; Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingdy ;

And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love’s true light at last I’ve found, Cheering within, when all grows dark,

And comfortless, and stormy round!

Thomas Moore.


On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in me- * ditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life ; and passing from one thought to another, Surely, said I, man is but a shadow, and life a dream. Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock, that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it Avas exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard: they put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in paradise, to wear out the impressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius; and that several had been entertained with that music, who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and, by the waving of his hand, directed me to approach to the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature ; and as my heart was entirely subdued to the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, Mirza, said he, I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it, Cast thy eyes eastward, said he, and tell me what thou seest?—I see, said I, a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it. The valley that thou seest, said he, is the vale of Misery; and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity. What is the reason, said I, that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other ? What thou seest, said he, is that portion of Eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now, said he, this sea that isbounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it. I see a bridge, said I, standing in the midst of the tide. The bridge thou seest, said he, is Human Life: consider

it attentively. Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of three score and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches; the genius told me that this bridge first consisted of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it: but tell me further, said he, what thou discoverest on it.

I see multitudes of people passing over it, said I, and a black cloud hanging on each end of it. As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and, upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire. There were, indeed, some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollify and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves; some were looking up towards ' the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and, in the

midst of a speculation, stumbled and fell out of sight; multitudes were busy in the pursuit of bubbles, that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others with phials, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them.

The genius, seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. Take thine eyes off the bridge, said he, and tell me if thou seest anything that thou dost not comprehend. Upon looking up, What mean, said I, those great flocks of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many other feathered creatures, several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches. These, said the genius, are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that infest human life. I here fetched a deep sigh : Alas, said I, man was made in vain! how is he given away to misery and mortality, tortured in life, and swallowed up in death! The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. Look no more, said he, on man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity, but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it. I directed my sight as I was ordered, ■ and (whether or no the good genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part

of the mist, that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one-half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with innumerable islands that were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran among them ; I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the side of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers, and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me at the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that 1 might fly away to those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. The islands, said he, that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted, as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sand on the sea-shore; there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or even thine imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according; to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled in them ; every island is a paradise, accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, 0 Mirza,

habitations worth contending for? Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward ? Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an existence ? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him.—I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean, on the other side of the rock of adamant. The genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found he had left me. I then turned again to the vision I had been so long contemplating ; but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the longhollowvalley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides of it.



The troops exulting sat in order round,

And beaming fires illumined all the ground As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night O’er Heaven’s clear azure spreads her sacred light. When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,

And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene; Around her throne the vivid planets roll,

And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole ; O’er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,

And tip with silver every mountain’s head ;

Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies :

The conscious swains rejoicing in the sight,

Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light:

So many flames before proud I lion* blaze,

And lighten glimmering Xanthusf with their rays; The long reflections of the distant fires Gleam on the walls and tremble on the spires.

A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,

And shoot a shady lustre o’er the field.

Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend,

Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes send ; Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn And ardent warriors wait the rising morn.

Popes Iliad.

The passage from Homer, of which Pope’s translation is given above, has been thus rendered by Lord Derby.

As when in heav’n, around the glittering moon The stars shine bright amid the breathless air; And ev’ry crag, and every jutting peak Stands boldly forth, and ev’ry forest glade;

Ev’n to the gates of heav’n is opened wide The boundless sky; shines each particular star Distinct; joy fills the gazing shepherd’s heart.

So bright, so thickly scattered o’er the plain, Before the walls of Troy, between the ships And Xanthus’ stream, the Trojanwatchfires blazed.

A thousand fires burnt brightly; and round each Sat fifty warriors in the ruddy glare ;

With store of provender before them laid,

Barley and rye, the tethered horses stood Beside the cars, and waited for the morn.

* Troy was called Ilion from Ilus, one of its kings. It was the chief town of Troas, a country of Phrygia, in Asia Minor.

f Xanthus a river of Troas; according to Homer, it was called Scamander by men, and Xanthus by the gods.

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“ The mind sits terrified at the objects she has herself magnified, and blackened; reduce them to their proper size and hue, she overlooks them.

Tis true,” said I, “ the gaol is not an evil to be despised; but strip it of its towers, fill up the moat, unbarricade the doors; call it simply a confinement, and suppose it is some tyrant of a distemper, and not of a man who holds you in it, the evil vanishes, and you bear the other half without complaint.”

I was interrupted in the depth of this soliloquy with a voice, which 1 took to be that of a child, which complained, “ It could not get out.” I looked up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, nor child, I went out without further attention. In my return through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over ; and looking up, I saw it was a starling, hung in a little cage. “ I can’t get out; I can’t get out,” said the starling.

I stood looking at the bird; and to every person who came through the passage it ran buttering to the side towards which they approached it, with the same lamentation of its captivity. “ I can’t get out,” said the starling. “ God help thee,” said I, “ but I will let thee out, cost what it will so I turned about the cage to get at the door; it was twisted, and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces. I took both hands to it.

The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance,and thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it as if impatient. “ I fear, poor creature,” said I, “ that I cannot set thee at liberty.” “ No,” said the starling, I can’t get out; I can’t get out.”

I vow I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; nor do I remember an incident in my life where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly called home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my reasoning upon the gaol; and I walked upstairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them.

“ Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, slavery,” said I, “still thou art a bitter draught! and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.

“Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess,” addressing myself to Liberty, “ whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change; no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron. With thee to smile upon him, as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious heaven!” cried I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent, “grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion, and shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto Thy divine providence, upon those heads that are aching for them.”

The image of the bird in his cage pursued me into my room; I sat down, close by my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture


was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me, I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body, half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish ; in thirty years, the western breeze had not once fanned his blood ; he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time; nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His children—but here my heart began to bleed, and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw, in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed; a little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights hehadpassed there. He had one of these little sticks in his hand, and, with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As 1 darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down, shook his head, and went on with his work of aflliction. I heard the chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh. I saw the iron enter into his soul; I burst into tears; I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.    Sterne.

I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba and cry, Tis all barren—and so it is ; end so is all the world to him who will not cul-

tivate the fruits it offers. I declare that, were I in a desert, I would find out wherewith in it to call forth my affections. If I could not do better, I would fasten them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself to—I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their protection^I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the loveliest trees throughout the desert; if their leaves withered, I would teach myself to mourn, and when they rejoiced, I would rejoice with them.



Sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnell’s Poems, published by Pope, after the said Earl’s imprisonment in the Tower, and retreat into the country, in the year 1721.

Such were the notes thy once-loved poet sung, Till death untimely stopped his tuneful tongue. Oh just beheld, and lost! admired and mourned ! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorned! Blest in each science, blest in every strain!

Bear to the Muse!—to Harley dear—in vain!

For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend,

Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;

For Swift and him, despised the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great;

Bext’rous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleased to ’scape from Flattery to Wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,

(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear).

Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,

Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e’er was great;

Or, deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure, if aught below the seats divine Can touch immortals, ’tis a soul like thine:

A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried, Above all pain, all passion, and all pride,

The rage of power, the blast of public breath, The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;

The muse attends thee to thy silent shade:

’Tis hers, the brave man’s latest steps to trace, Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.

When Interest calls oft’ all her sneaking train, And all the obliged desert, and all the vain;

She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell,

When the last lingering friend has bid farewell. Even now she shades thy evening-walk with bays, (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise)

Even now, observant of the parting ray,

Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day, Through Fortune’s cloud one truly great can see, Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he.



The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal; every other affliction to forget; but this wound, we consider it a duty to keep open. This affliction we cherish, and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that has perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would willingly forget a tender parent, though to remember it be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns ?

No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection ; when the sudden anguish, and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gaiety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn, even from the charms of the living.

Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave, even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him ? But the grave of those we love, what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded, in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities ! the last testimonies of expiring love! the feeble, fluttering, thrilling,—oh, how thrilling!—pressure of the hand! the last fond look of the glazing eye turning upon us, even from the threshold of existence!

the faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection '

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle the account with thy conscience, for every past benefit unrequited ; every best endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never—never—never return to be soothed by thy contrition! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou hast given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.

Washington Irving.

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning, by the bitterness of this, thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.


Spirit of the A ir.

Mortal ! to thy bidding bowed,

From my mansion in the cloud,

Which the breath of twilight builds,

And the summer’s sunlight gilds With the azure and vermilion Which is mixed for my pavilion ;

Though thy quest may be forbidden,

On a star-beam I have ridden ;

To thine adjuration bowed,

Mortal! be thy wish avowed !

Spirit of the Mountains.

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains : They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,

With a diadem of snow.

Around his waist are forests braced The Avalanche in his hand ;

But ere it fall, that thundering ball Must pause for my command.

The Glacier’s cold and restless mass Moves onward day by day ;

But I am he who bids it pass,

Or with its ice delay.

1 am the spirit of the place,

Could make the mountain bow And quiver to his caverned base—

And what with me wouldst Thou ?

Spirit of the Ocean.

In the blue depth of the waters,

Where the wave hath no strife,

Where the wind is a stranger,

And the sea-snake hath life,

Where the Mermaid is decking Her green hair with shells ;

Like the storm on the surface Came the sound of thy spells ; O’er my calm Hall of Coral The deep echo rolled—

To the Spirit of Ocean Thy wishes unfold!

Spirit of the Earth.

Where the slumbering earthquake Lies pillowed on fire,

And the lakes of bitumen Rise boilingly higher;

Where the roots of the Andes Strike deep in the earth,

As their summits to heaven Shoot soaringly forth ;

I have quitted my birthplace,

Thy bidding to bide—

Tliy spell hath subdued me,

Thy will be my guide !

Spirit of the Winds.

I am the Rider of the wind,

The Stirrer of the storm ;

The hurricane I left behind Is yet with lightning warm;

To speed to thee, o’er shore and sea I swept upon the blast:


The fleet I met sailed well, and yet ’Twill sink ere night be past.


Contemplate the Supreme Being, the Being of beings ; fix the idea of Him in your minds. He is one; He has no rival; He has no equal; He is unlike anything else; He is Sovereign; He can do what He will. He is unchangeable from first to last; He is all-perfect; He is infinite in His power and His wisdom, or He could not have made this immense world which we see by day and by night.

And since He is everlasting, and has created all things from a certain beginning, it follows that He has lived in an eternity before He began to create anything. What a wonderful thought is this! there was a state of things in which God was by Himself, and nothing else but He. There was no earth, no sky, no sun, no stars, no space, no time, no beings of any kind; no men, no Angels, no Seraphim. His throne was without ministers ; He was not waited on by any; all was silence, all was repose, there was nothing but God ; and this state continued, not for awhile only,but for a measureless duration; it was a state which had ever been ; it was the rule of things, and creation has been an innovation upon it. Creation is, comparatively speaking, but of yesterday; it has lasted a poor six thousand years, say sixty thousand, if you will, or six million, or six million million; what is this to eternity ? nothing at all; not so much as a drop compared to the whole ocean, or a grain of sand to the whole earth. I say through a whole eternity God was by Himself, with no other being but Himself; with nothing external to Himself, not working, but at rest, not speaking, not receiving homage from any, not glorified in creatures, but

blessed in Himself and by Himself, and wanting nothing.

What an idea this gives us of the Almighty ! He is above us, we feel He is ; how little we can understand Him ! We fall in even with men upon earth, whose ways are so different from our own, that we cannot understand them ; we marvel at them ; they pursue courses so unlike ours, they take recreations so peculiar to themselves, that we despair of finding anything in common betiyeen them and ourselves ; we cannot make conversation with them.    Dr. Newman.


Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou ai’t not so unkind As man’s ingratitude!

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not.


THE EPHEMERA ; AN EMBLEM OF HUMAN LIFE. You may remember, my dear friend, that when we lately spent that happy day in the delightful garden and sweet society of the Moulin Joly, I stopped a little in one of our walks, and stayed some time behind the company. We had been shown numberless skeletons of a kind of little fly, called an ephemera, whose successive generations,

we were told, were bred and expired within the day. I happened to see a living company of them on a leaf, who appeared to be engaged in conversation. You know I understand all the inferior animal tongues. My too great application to the study of them is the best excuse I can give for the little progress I have made in your charming language.

I listened, through curiosity, to the discourse of these little creatures; but as they, in their national vivacity, spoke three or four together, I could make but little of their conversation. I found, however, by some broken expressions that I heard now and then, they were disputing warmly on the merit of two foreign musicians, one a gnat, the other a mosquito; in which dispute they spent their time, as regardless of the shortness of life as if they had been sure of living a month.

Happy people! thought I; you are certainly under a wise, just, and mild government, since you have no public grievances to complain of, nor any subject of contention, but the perfections and imperfections of foreign music. I turned my head from them to an old gray-headed one, who was single on another leaf, and talking to himself. Being amused with his soliloquy, I put it down in writing, in the hope that it will likewise amuse her to whom I am so much indebted for the most pleasing of all amusements, her delicious company and heavenly harmony.*

“ It was,” said he, “ the opinion of learned philosophers of our race, who lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast world, the Moulin Joly, could not itself subsist more than eighteen hours; and I think there was some foundation for that opinion ; since, by the apparent

* Madame Brillon, to whom the letter was written.

motion of the great luminary that gives life to all nature, and which in my time has evidently declined considerably toward the ocean at the end of our earth, it must then finish its course, he extinguished in the waters that surround us, and leave the world in cold and darkness, necessarily producing universal death and destruction.

“ I have lived seven of those hours, a great age, being no less than four hundred and twenty minutes of time. How very few of us continue so long ! I have seen generations born, flourish, and expire. My present friends are the children and grandchildren of the friends of my youth, who are now, alas, no more! And I must soon follow them ; for by the course of nature, though still in health, I cannot expect to live above seven or eight minutes longer.

“ What now avails all my toil and labour, in amassing honey-dew on this leaf which I cannot live to enjoy! What political struggles I have been engaged in, for the good of my compatriot inhabitants of this bush, or my philosophical studies for the benefit of our race in general! for, in politics, what can laws do without morals ? Our present race of ephemerae will in the course of minutes become corrupt, like those of other and older bushes, and consequently as wretched.

“ And in philosophy, how small our progress ! Alas ! art is long, and life is short! My friends would comfort me with the idea of a name, they say, I shall leave behind me ; and they tell me I have lived long enough to nature and to glory. But what will fame be to an ephemera who no longer exists ? And what will become of all history in the eighteenth hour, when the world itself, even the whole Moulin Joly, shall come to its end, and be buried in universal ruin ?”

Hr. Franklin.


Perdita, Florizel, Polixenes, Camillo, Lorcas. Per.    [to Pol.] Sir, welcome,

It is m}T feather’s will, I should take on me The hostess-ship o’ the day:—[To Cam.] You’re welcome, sir.—

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.—Reverend sirs,

For you there’s rosemary, and rue; these keep Seeming and savour all the winter lon^:

o    o

Grace and remembrance be to you both,

And welcome to our shearing !

Pol.    Shepherdess,

(A fair one are you) well you fit our ages With flowers of winter.

Per. Sir, the year growing ancient,—

Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth Of trembling winter,—the fairest flowers o’ the season

Are our carnations and streaked gilliflowers, Which some call nature’s bastards : of that kind Our rustic garden’s barren, and I care not To get slips of them.

Pol.    Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them ?

Per.    For I heard it said

There is an art which, in their piedness, shares With great creating nature.

Pol.    Say there be;

Yet nature is made better by no mean,

But nature makes that mean : so, o’er that art Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry

A gentle «cion to the wildest stock,

And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race: this is an art

Which does mend nature,—change it rather; but The art itself is nature.

Per.    So it is.

Pol. Then make your garden rich in gilliflowers, And do not call them bastards.

Per.    I’ll not put

The dibble in the earth to set one slip of them. Here’s flowers for you ;

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;

The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun,

And with him rises weeping: these are the flowers

Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given To men of middle age. You are very welcome. Cam. I should leave grazing were I of your flock,

And only live by gazing.

Per.    Out, alas !

You’d be so lean, that blasts of January •Would blow you through and through.—Now, my fair’st friend,

I would, I had some flowers o’ the spring, that might

Become your time of day; and yours, and yours. O Proserpina!

For the flowers now, that frighted, thou let’st fall From Dis’s waggon! daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,

Or Cytherea’s breath ; pale primroses,

That die unmarried ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips and The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower-de-luce being one. 0 ! these I lack, To make you garlands of; and, my sweet friend, To strew him o’er and o’er.

Flo.    What! like a corse ?

Per. No, like a hank, for love to lie and play on; Not like a corse; or if,—not to be buried,

But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers.

Methinks, I play as I have seen them do In Whitsun-pastorals: sure this robe of mine Does change my disposition.

Flo.    What you do,

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,

I’d have you do it ever: when you sing,

I’d have you buy and sell so ; so give alms ;

Pray so ; and, for the ordering your affairs,

To sing them too : When you do dance, I wish you A wave o’er the sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own No other function : Each your doing,

So singular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, That all your acts are queens.



The form of the Niagara Falls is that of an irregular semicircle, about three-quarters of a mile in extent. This is divided into two distinct cascades by the intervention of Goat Island, the extremity of which is perpendicular, and in a line with the precipice over which the water is projected. The cataract on the Canada side of the river is called the Horseshoe, or Great Fall, from its peculiar form—and that next the United States the American Fall.

The Table Rock, from which the falls of the

2 B

Niagara may be contemplated in all their grandeur, lies on an exact level with the edge of the cataract on the Canada side, and, indeed, forms a part of the precipice over which the water gushes. It derives its name from the circumstance of its projecting beyond the cliffs that support it like the leaf of a table. At this point a magnificent amphitheatre of cataracts burst upon my view, with appalling suddenness and majesty. However, in a moment the scene was concealed from my eyes by a dense cloud of spray, which involved me so completely that I did not dare to extricate myself. A mingled and thundering rushing filled my ears. I could see nothing except when the wind made a chasm in the spray, and then tremendous cataracts seemed to encompass me on every side; while below, a raging and foaming gulf of undiscoverable extent lashed the rocks with its hissing waves, and swallowed, under a horrible obscurity, the smoking floods that were precipitated into its bosom. At first the sky was obscured by clouds, but after a few minutes the sun burst forth, and the breeze subsiding at the same time, permitted the spray to ascend perpendicularly. A host of pyramidal clouds rose majestically, one after another, from the abyss at the bottom of the fall; and each, when it had ascended a little above the edge of the cataract, displayed a beautiful rainbow, which in a few minutes was gradually transferred into the bosom of the cloud that immediately succeeded. The spray of the Great Fall had extended itself through a wide space directly over me, and, receiving the full influence of the sun, exhibited a luminous and magnificent rainbow, which continued to overarch and irradiate the spot on which I stood, while I enthusiastically contemplated the indescribable scene.

The body of water which composes the middle part of the Great Fall is so immense, that it descends nearly two-thirds of the space without being ruffled or broken and the solemn calmness with which it rolls over the edge of the precipice is finely contrasted with the perturbed appearance it assumes after having reached the gulf below. But the water towards each side of the Fall is shattered the moment it drops over the rock, and loses as it descends, in a great measure, the character of a fluid, being divided into pyramidal-shaped fragments the bases of which are turned upwards. The surface of the gulf below the cataract presents a very singular aspect; seeming, as it were, filled with an immense quantity of hoar frost, which is agitated by small and rapid undulations. The particles of water are dazzlingly white, and do not apparently unite together, as might be supposed, but seem to continue for a time in a state of distinct comminution, and to repel each other with a thrilling and shivering motion, which cannot easily be described.

The noise made by the Horseshoe Fall, though very great, is less than might be expected. When the weather is clear and frosty, it may be distinctly heard at the distance of ten or twelve miles; but much farther when there is a steady breeze. After leaving the Table Bock, the traveller may proceed down the river nearly half a mile, where he will come to a small chasm in the bank, in which there is a spiral staircase enclosed in a wooden building. By descending the stair, which is seventy or eighty feet perpendicular height, he will find himself under the precipice on the top of which he formerly walked. A high but sloping bank extends from its base to the edge of the river ; and on the summit of this there is a narrow slippery path, covered with

2 b 2

angular fragments of rock, which leads to the Great Fall. The impending cliffs, hung with a profusion of trees and brushwood, overarch this road, and seem to vibrate with the thunders of the cataract. In some places they rise abruptly to the height of one hundred feet, and display upon their surfaces fossil shells, and the organic remains of a former world; thus sublimely leading the mind to contemplate the convulsions which nature has undergone since the creation. As the traveller advances, he is frightfully stunned by the appalling noise ; clouds of spray sometimes envelope him, and suddenly check his faltering steps; rattlesnakes start from the cavities of the rocks, and the scream of eagles soaring among the whirlwinds of eddying vapour which obscure the gulf of the cataract, at intervals announce that the raging waters have hurled some bewildered animal over the precipice. After scrambling among piles of huge rocks that obstruct his way, the traveller gains the bottom of the Fall, where the soul can be susceptible only of one emotion— that of uncontrollable terror.

It was not until I had, by frequent excursions to the Falls, in some measure familiarized my mind with their sublimities, that I ventured to explore the penetralia of the Great Cataract. The precipice over which it rolls is very much arched underneath, while the impetus which the water receives in its descent projects it far beyond the cliff, and thus an immense Gothic arch is formed by the rock and the torrent. Twice I entered the cavern, and twice I was obliged to retrace my steps, lest I should be suffocated by the blast of dense spray that whirled around me ; however, the third time, I succeeded in advancing about twenty-five yards. Here darkness began to encircle me; on one side, the black cliff

stretched itself into a gigantic arch far above my head, and on the other, the dense and hissing torrent formed an impenetrable sheet of foam, with which I was drenched in a moment. The rocks were so slippery, that I could hardly keep my feet, or hold securely by them ; while the horrid din made me think the precipices above were tumbling down in colossal fragments upon my head.

It is not easy to determine how far an individual might advance between the sheet of water and the rock; but were it even possible to explore the recess to its utmost extremity, scarcely any one, I believe, would have courage to attempt an expedition of the kind.

A little way below the Great Fall, the river is, comparatively speaking, so tranquil that a ferryboat plies between the Canada and the American shores, for the convenience of travellers. When I first crossed, the heavy flood tossed about the skiff with a violence that seemed very alarming ; but as soon as we gained the middle of the river, my attention was altogether engaged by the surpassing grandeur of the scene before me. I was now within the area of a semicirle of cataracts, more than three thousand feet in extent, and floated on the surface of a gulf, raging, fathomless, and interminable. Majestic cliffs, splendid rainbows, lofty trees, and columns of spray, were the gorgeous decorations of this theatre of wonders, while a dazzling sun shed refulgent glories upon every spot of the scene. Surrounded with clouds of vapour, and stunned into a state of confusion and terror by the hideous noise, I looked upwards to the height of one hundred and fifty feet, and saw vast floods, dense, awful, and stupendous, vehemently bursting over the precipice, and rolling down, as if the windows of heaven were

opened to pour another deluge upon the earth. Loud sounds, resembling discharges of artillery or volcanic explosions, were now distinguishable amidst the watery tumult, and added terrors to the abyss from which they issued. The sun, looking majestically through the ascending spray, was encircled by a radiant halo ; while fragments of rainbows floated on every side, and moment tarily vanished only to give place to a succession of others more brilliant. Looking backwards, I saw the Niagara river, again become calm and tranquil, rolling magnificently between the towering cliffs that rose on either side, and receiving showers of orient dew-drops from the trees that gracefully overarched its transparent bosom. A gentle breeze ruffled the waters, and beautiful birds fluttered around, as if to welcome its egress from those clouds and thunders and rainbows, which were the heralds of its precipitation into the abyss of the cataract.



THERE’snothing great or bright,thou glorious Fall, Thou may’st not to the fancy’s sense recall:

The thunder-riven cloud, the lightning’s leap, The stirring of the chambers of the deep ;

Earth’s emerald green, and many-tinted dyes, The fleecy whiteness of the upper skies;

The tread of armies, thickening as they come, The boom of cannon and the beat of drum ;

The brow of beauty and the form of grace,

The passion and the prowess of our race :

The song of Homer in its loftiest hour,

The unresisted sweep of Roman power Britannia’s trident on the azure sea;

America’s young shout of liberty!

Oh ! may the wars that madden in thy deeps, There spend their rage, nor climb the encircling steeps,

And till the conflict of thy surges cease,

The nations on thy banks repose in peace.

Lord Carlisle.


The name of Croesus, the fifth and last king of Lydia, who reigned 557 years before Christ, has passed into a proverb to describe the possession of immense riches. When Solon, the legislator of Athens, and one of the most celebrated of the ancient sages of Greece, came to Sardis, where Croesus held his court, he was received in a manner suitable to the reputation of so great a man. The king, attended by his courtiers, appeared in all his regal pomp and splendour, dressed in the most magnificent apparel. Solon, however, did not discover surprise or admiration. This coldness and indifference astonished and displeased the king, who next ordered that all his treasures, magnificent apartments, and costly furniture, his diamonds, statues, and paintings, should be shown to the philosopher.

When Solon had seen all, he was brought back to the king, who asked whether he had ever beheld a happier man than he. Yes, replied Solon : one Tellus, a plain but worthy citizen of Athens, who lived all his days above indigence; saw his country in a flourishing condition ; had children who were universally esteemed ; and, having had the satisfaction of seeing those children’s children, died fighting for his country.

Such an answer, in which gold and silver were accounted as nothing, seemed to Croesus to indi-

cate strange ignorance and stupidity. However, as he flattered himself with being ranked in the second degree of happiness, he asked him whether after Tellus, he knew another happier man Solon answered,—Cleobis and Biton, of Argos, two brothers, perfect patterns of fraternal affection, and of the respect due from children to their parents. Upon a solemn festival their mother, a priestess of J uno, was obliged to go to the temple; and the oxen not being ready for her chariot, they put themselves in the harness, and drew it thither amidst the blessings of the people. Every mother present congratulated the priestess on the piety of her sons. She, in the transport of her joy and thankfulness, earnestly entreated the goddess to reward her children with the best thing that heaven could give to man. Her prayers were heard; when the sacrifice was over, they fell asleep in the temple, and there died in a soft and peaceful slumber.

What, then ! exclaimed Croesus, you do not reckon me in the number of the happy ? King of Lydia, replied Solon, true philosophy, considering what an infinite number of vicissitudes and accidents the life of man is liable to, does not allow us to glory in any prosperity we enjoy ourselves, nor to admire happiness in others, which, perhaps, may prove only transient or superficial. No man can be esteemed happy but he whom heaven blesses with success to the last. As for those who are perpetually exposed to dangers, we account their happiness as uncertain as the crown to a champion before the combat is determined.

It was not long before Croesus experienced the truth of what Solon had told him. Being defeated by Cyrus, King of Persia, and his capital taken, he was himself taken prisoner; and, by order of the conqueror, laid bound upon a pile to be burnt

alive. The unfortunate prince now recollected the admonition of the Athenian sage, and cried aloud, 0 Solon, Solon, Solon!

Cyrus, who, with the chief officers of his court, was present, was curious to know why Croesus pronounced that name with so much vehemence. Being told the reason, and reflecting on the uncertainty of all sublunary things, he was touched with commiseration, ordered the monarch to be taken from the pile, and treated him afterwards with honour and respect.

Thus had Solon the glory of saving the life of one king, and giving a wholesome lesson of instruction to another.


The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fade's the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a m ouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

2 b 3

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twitteringfrom the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ;

No children run to lisp their sire’s return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Them furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team ah'eld! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ;

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile -The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour :—•

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne’er unroll ;

Chill penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full-many a gem, of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear ;

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood,

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

The applause of list’ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray;

Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;

E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonoured dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ;

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,—

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

“ Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

“ There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;

Now drooping woeful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

“ The next with dirges due in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne;

Approach and read—for thou canst read—the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”


Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,

A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ;

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send;

He gave to Misery all he had—a tear;

He gained from Heaven—’twas all he wished— a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode—•

There they alike in trembling hope repose—

The bosom of his Father and his God.



To take in at one view the grand character of these stupendous scenes, the spectator must be stationed on the little mountain of Manimi, a granitic ridge that rises from the Savannah north of the church of the mission, and is itself only a continuation of the steps of which the cataract of Manimi is composed. We often visited this mountain, for we were never weary of the view of this astonishing spectacle, concealed in one of the most remote corners of the earth. Arrived at the summit of the rock, the eye suddenly takes in a sheet of foam extending a whole mile. Enormous masses of stone, as black as iron, issue from its bosom. Some are paps grouped in pairs, like

basaltic hills ; others resemble towers, strong castles, and ruined buildings. Their gloomy tint contrasts with the silvery splendour of the foam. Every rock, every islet, is covered with vigorous trees, collected in clusters. At the foot of those paps, as far as the eye can reach, a thick vapour is suspended over the river, and through this whitish fog the tops of the lofty palm-trees shoot up. This majestic plant, the trunk of which is more than eighty feet high, has a leafy plumage of a brilliant lustre, which rises almost straight towards the sky. At every hour of the day, the sheet of foam displays different aspects. Sometimes the hilly islands and the palm-trees project their shadows; sometimes the rays of the setting sun are refracted in the humid cloud that shrouds the cataract. Coloured arcs are formed, and vanish, and appear again alternately ; light sport of the air, their images wave above the plain. Such is the character of the landscape discovered from the top of the mountain Manimi. I do not hesitate to repeat, that neither time, nor the view of the Cordilleras, nor my abode in the temperate valleys of Mexico, have effaced from my mind the powerful impression of the aspect of the cataracts. When I read a description of those places in India that are embellished by running waters and a vigorous vegetation, my imagination retraces a sea of foam, and palm-trees, the tops of which rise above a stratum of vapour. The majestic scenes of nature, like the sublime works of poetry and the arts, leave remembrances that are incessantly awakening, and through the whole of life mingle with all our feelings of what is grand and beautiful. The calm of the atmosphere, and the tumultuous movement of the Waters, produce a contrast peculiar to this zone. Hence no breath of wind ever agitates the foliage,

no cloud veils the splendour of the azure vault of heaven ; a great mass of light is diffused in the air; on the earth, strewn with plants with glossy leaves, and on the bed of the river, which extends as far as the eye can reach. This appearance surprises a traveller born in the north of Europe. The idea of wild scenery—of a torrent rushing from rock to rock—is linked in his imagination with that of a climate where the noise of the tempest is mingled with the sound of the cataracts ; and where, in a gloomy and misty day, the sweeping clouds seem to descend into the valley, and rest upon the tops of the pines. The landscape of the tropics in the low regions of the continent has a peculiar physiognomy ; something of greatness and repose, which it preserves even when one of the elements is struggling with invincible obstacles. Near the equator, hurricanes and tempests belong to islands only, to deserts destitute of plants, and those spots where parts of the atmosphere repose upon surfaces from which the radiation of heat is very different.—Humboldt.


(Over Fidele, supposed to be dead.)

With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,

I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: Thou shalt not lack The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azured harebell like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine whom not to slander, Outsweetened not thy breath: the ruddock* would With charitable bill bring thee all this;

Yea and furred moss besides, when flowers are none,

To winter-ground thy corse.


* Ruddock—the red-breast.

To fair Fidel e’s grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,

But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew;

The female fays shall haunt the green And dress thy grave with pearly dew;

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid,

With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling -winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell,

Or ’midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed ;

Beloved till life can charm no more;

And mourned till Pity’s self be dead.



As in the human frame there is a living principle, acting upon it and through it by means of volition, so, behind the veil of the visible universe, there is an invisible intelligent Being, acting on and through it, as and when He will. Further, I mean that this invisible Agent is in no sense a

soul of the world, after the analogy of human nature, but on the contrary, is absolutely distinct from the world, as being its Creator, Upholder, Governor, and Sovereign Lord. Here we are at once brought into the circle of doctrines which the idea of God embodies. I mean then by the Supreme Being, one who is simply self-dependent, and the only being who is such; moreover that He is without beginning or eternal, and the only Eternal; that in consequence He has lived a whole eternity by himself; and hence that He is all sufficient for His own blessedness, and all blessed, and ever blessed.

Further, I mean a Being, who, having these prerogatives, has the supreme Good, or rather is the supreme Good, or has all the attributes of Good in infinite greatness; all wisdom, all truth, all justice, all love, all holiness, all beautifulness; who is omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent; ineffably one, absolutely perfect; and such, that what we do not know and cannot even imagine of Him, is far more wonderful than what we do and can. I mean one who is sovereign over His own will and actions, though always according to the eternal rule of right and wrong, which is Himself. I mean moreover that He created all things out of nothing, and preserves them every moment, and could destroy them as easily as He made them ; and that in consequence, He is separated from them by an abyss, and is incommunicable in all His attributes.

And further, He has stamped upon all things, in the hour of their creation, their respective natures, and has given them their work and mission and then- length of days, greater or less, in their appointed place. I mean, too, that He is ever present with His works, one by one, and confronts everything He has made by His parti-

cular and most loving Providence, and manifests Himself to each according to its needs; and on rational beings has imprinted the moral law, and given them power to obey it, imposing on them the duty of worship and service, searching and scanning them through and through with His omniscient eye, and putting before them a present trial and a judgment to come.

Such is what Theology teaches about God, a doctrine, as the very idea of its subject matter presupposes, so mysterious as in its fulness to lie beyond any system, and to seem even in parts to be irreconcilable with itself, the imagination being unable to embrace what the reason determines. It teaches of a Being infinite yet personal; all blessed yet ever operative; absolutely separate from the creature, yet in every part of the creation at every moment; above all things yet under every thing. It teaches of a Being who though the highest, yet in the work of creation, conservation, government, retribution, makes Himself, as it were, the minister and servant of all; who, though inhabiting eternity, allows Himself to take an interest, and to feel a sympathy, in the matters of space and time. His are all beings, visible and invisible, the noblest and the vilest of them. His are the substance, and the operation, and the results of that system of physical nature into which we are born. His too are the powers and achievements of the intellectual essences on which He has bestowed an independent action and the gift of origination.

The laws of the universe, the principles of truth, the relation of one thing to another, their qualities and virtues, the order and harmony of the whole, all that exists, is from Him ; and, if evil is not from Him, as assuredly it is not, this is because evil has no substance of its own, but is only the

defect, excess, perversion, or corruption of that which has. All we see, hear, and touch, the remote sidereal firmament, as well as our own sea and land, and the elements which compose them, and the ordinances they obey, are His. The primary atoms of matter, their properties, their mutual action, their disposition and collocation, electricity, magnetism, gravitation, light, and whatever other subtile principles or operations the wit of man is detecting or shall detect, are the works of His hands. From Him has been every movement which has convulsed and refashioned the surface of the earth. The most insignificant or unsightly insect, is from Him, and good in its kind ; the ever-teeming, inexhaustible swarms of animalculæ, the myriads of living motes invisible to the naked eye, the restless over-spreading vegetation which creeps like a garment over the whole earth, the lofty cedar, the umbrageous banana are His. His are the tribes and families of birds and beasts, their graceful forms, their wild gestures, and their passionate cries.

And so in the intellectual, moral, social, and political world. Man, with his motives and works, his languages, his propagation, his diffusion, is from Him. Agriculture, medicine, and the arts of life, are His gifts. Society, laws, government, He is their sanction. The pageant of earthly royalty has the semblance and the benediction of the Eternal King. Peace and civilization, commerce and adventure, wars when just, conquest when humane and necessary, have His co-operation, and His blessing upon them. The course of events, the revolution of empires, the rise and fall of states, the periods and eras, the progresses and the retrogressions of the world’s history, not indeed the incidental sin, over-abundant as it is, but the great outlines and issues of human affairs, are from

His dispositions. The elements and types and seminal principles and constructive powers of the moral world, in ruins though it he, are to be referred to Him.

He “ enlighteneth every man that cometh into this world.” His are the dictates of the moral sense, and the retributive reproaches of conscience. To Him must be asciibed the rich endowments of the intellect, the radiation of genius, the imagination of the poet, the sagacity of the politician, the wisdom (as the Scripture calls it), which now rears and decorates the Temple, now manifests itself in proverb or in parable.

The old saws of nations, the majestic precepts of philosophy, the luminous maxims of law, the oracles of individual wisdom, the traditionary rules of truth, justice, and religion, even though embedded in the corruption, or alloyed with the pride, of the world, bespeak His original agency, and His long-suffering presence. Even where there is habitual rebellion against Him, or profound far-spreading social depravity, still the under-current or the heroic outburst, of natural virtue, as well as the yearnings of the heart after what it has not, and its presentiment of its true remedies, are to be ascribed to the Author of all good.

Anticipations or reminiscences of His glory haunt the mind of the self-sufficient sage and of the pagan devotee; His writing is upon the wall, whether of the Indian fane, or of the porticoes of Greece.

Dr. Neivman.

All that is good, all that is true, all that is beautiful, all that is beneficent, be it great or small, be it perfect or fragmentary, natural as well as supernatural, moral as well as material, comes from Him.



Daughter of Jove, relentless power,

Thou tamer of the human breast,

Whose iron scourge, and torturing hour The bad affright, afflict the best!

Bound in thy adamantine chain,

The proud are taught to taste of pain,

And purple tyrants vainly groan

With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.


When first thy Sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, designed,

To thee he gave the heavenly birth,

And bade thee form her infant mind.

Stern rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore:

What Sorrow was, thou bad’st her know,

And from her own she learned to melt at other’s woe.


Scared at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly’s idle brood,

Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy; And leave us leisure to be good.

Light they disperse; and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe;

By vain Prosperity received,

To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.


Wisdom, in sable garb arrayed,

Immersed in rapturous thought profound,

And Melancholy, silent maid

With leaden eye, that loves the ground,

Still on thy solemn steps attend;

Warm Charity, the general friend,

With Justice to herself severe,

And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.


O gently on thy suppliant’s head,

Dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,

Nor circled with the vengeful band,

(As by the impious thou art seen)

With thundering voice, and threatening mien, With screaming Horror’s funeral cry,

Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.


Thy form benign, 0 Goddess, wear,

Thy milder influence impart,

Thy philosophic train be there To soften, not to wound my heart;

The generous spark extinct revive,

Teach me to love, and to forgive,

Exact my own defects to scan,

What others are to feel, and know myself a man.


People, young and raw, and soft-natured, think it an easy thing to gain love, and reckon their oivn friendship a sure price of any man's; but when experience shall have shown them the hardness of most hearts, the hollowness of others, and the baseness and ingratitude of almost all, they will then find that a friend is the gift of God, and that Tie only who made hearts can unite them.




Vowel sounds—fate, far, fall, bat, mSe, /¿eZp, pine, marine, note,


Aaron, d'-ron.

Abarira, ab'-a-rim.

Abib, d'-bib.

Abinoam, ab-in'-no-am. Achill, ack'-il.

Ai, a'-i.

Allua. al'-u-a.

Almaden, al-m'd'-den. Antiochus, an-ti'-o-kus. Antipater, an-tip'-d-ter. Arabic, ar'-ab-ic. Archelaus, dr-ki-ld'-us. Aripo, dr’-'ip-o.

Armada, är-mü'-da.

Ashur, ash'-ur. Asmoneans, as-mo-ne -ans. Audubon, awe'-du-bon. Baal, bä'-al.

Balaam, bä'-lam.

Barak, ba-rak.

Bashan, bä'-shan. Beersheba, be-er-she'-ba. Blenheim, bien'-liime. Brahmin, brä'-min.

Cairo, ki'-ro, or kä-i'-ro. Caleb, kd'-leb.

Canaan, ha'-nan. Canaanites, kd'-nan-ites. Ceylon, cil-ö'ne or ci'-Ion. Chaldea, kdl-de'-a. Cherbourg, sher-boor'. Cheviot, tchiv’-'i-ot. Cleobis, cle'-o-bis.

Colin, kdl'-in.

Coniah, ho-ni'-ä. Cordilleras, kor-diV-e-raz. Cordova, kor'-dü-va. Cowper, koo'-per. Cronebane, kröne-bän’. Deborah, deb'-o-rah. Diego, di-ä'-go.

Divis, div'-is.

Drachenfels, dr'äk'-en-fels.

Eleazar, el-e-a'-zar.

Elaraba, el-dr'-a-ba.

Eli, e'-li.

Elkanah, el-kd'-nah, or el'-ka-nah.

Epiphanes, e-piph'-a-nes. Esdraelon, es-dre'-lon. Estremadura, es'-tre-ma-doo'-ra. Etham, e'-tham.

Eton, e-ton.

Euphrates, u-fra'-tez.

Fata Morgana, fd-td-mor-gd'-na. Fidele, fid-e'-le.

Flores, Jid'-rez.

Gaelic, gay'-lick.

Genoa, je-nu'-a or jen'-o-a. Ghizeh, djez'-d.

Gideon, gid'-e-on.

Gilead, gil'-e-ad.

Gileadite, gil'-e-ad-ite. Granada, gran-a'-da.

Guanza Yelica, goo-an'-sa vel'-i-ca.

Haulbowline, haul-bo'-lin. Havre, hbvr.

Hazor, hd’-zor.

Hebridean, heb-ri-dee'-an. Herschel, hersh'-el.

Hesperides, hes-per'-i-dez. Hesperus, lies'-per-us. Hispaniola, his-pan-i-o'-la. Humboldt, hum'-bolt. Hyrcanus, hir-ca!-nus.

Idria, id'-r'i-a.

Idumaea, id-u-mee'-ah.

Ilion, il'-i-on.

Innisbofin, in-nis-bo-fin'.

Iona, i-d'-na.

Ituraea, it-u-ree'-a.

Jabin, ja -bin.

Java, ja'-va.

Jebusites, jeb'-u-sites.

I Jehoiackin, je-hoy'-a-kin.

* Byron makes it Trafalgar', to suit the metre.

Jehoiakim, je-hoy'-a-kim.

Jeroboam, jer-o-bo -am.

Jesse, jes'-se.

Kadesh Barnea, ka'-desh-bdr'-ne-a.

Katerfelto, kdt-er-fel'-to. Kenite, hee'-nite.

Kirj ath-jearim, kir'-jath je'-a-rim.

Kosciusko, kos-i-us'-ko.

La Croix, la hrwa.

Lagan, lag’-an.

Lamartine, lam'-ar-teen. Lapidotli, lap'-id-oth.

Lebanon, leb'-an-on.

Leuctra, look!-tra.

Levi, le'-vi.

Levite, lii'-vite.

Libyan, lib'-y-an.

Linnasus, lin-ne'-us.

Llewellyn, le-wel'-in.

Loo Choo, loo koo.

Lydian, lid'-i-an.

Madeira, ma-da'-ra.

Manaar, man-a'-ar.

Manimi, man'-i-mi.

Maolagh, mway'-o-lagh. Manoah, ma-nb'-ah.

Marathon, mar'-a-thon. Mariamne, mar-i-am'-ne. Mattaniah, mal-an-%'-ah. Merom, mee'-rom.

Messiah, mes-sl'-ah.

Messias, mes-si'-as.

Monmouth, mon'-muth. Mordaunt, mor'-dant.

Moriah, mo-ri'-ah.

Moslem, moz'-lem.

Mucruss, muck'-russ. Naphthali, naf -tha-li. Nebuzar-adan ,neb-u-zar'-a-dan. Nehemiah, ne-he-ml'-ah. Newark, new'-ark.

Niall, ni’-al.

Nineveh, nin'-e-veh.

Ophir, o' -fir.

Othniel, oth-nee'-el.

Ovid, ov'-id.

Padua, pad'-u-a, or pa'-doo-a. Palmyra, pal-mî'-ra. Palmyrene, pal-mi-reen'-Paræa, par-e'-a.

Philistines, fil'-is-tmes.

Phineas ,fin'-ne-as.

Phœnix, fe'-nix.

Pleiades, pll'-a-dez.

Pliny, plin'-y.

Powerscourt, pôres-court. Ptolemy, tol'-em-y.

Rehoboam, re-ho-bô'-am.


Sab o^Wsa-bee'-an.

Sacc*a, sak-ka'-ra.

Said, sâ'-id.

Salem, sa'-lem._

Samaria, sam-a'-ri-a.

San Salvador, san-sal'-va-ddr. Sebastian Cabot, seb-'ds'-ti-an cab'-ot.

Sennacherib, sen-ack’-e-rib. Serapeum, ser-a-pe-um. Shalmaneser, shal-ma-nê'-zer. Sharon, shâ'-ron, or shar'-on. Shiloh, shi'-lô Sinai, sï'-nai.

Sisera, sis'-er-a.

Slieve Donard, sleeve-don'-ard. Stourbridge, stoor'-bridge. Surinam, soo'-ri-nam. Tamblegam, tam'-bel-gam. Thames, terns.

Thapsacus, thap'-sa-cus.

Tibet, tib'-et.

Tigris, ti'-gris.

Tiphsah, tif-sah.

Trachonitis, trak-o-ni'-tis. Trafalgar, tra-fal'-gar* Trineomalee, tring-kô-ma-lee'. Tyre, tire.

Xanthus, zan'-thus.

Zedekiah, zed-e-ki'-ah. Zerubbabel, ze-rub'-ba-bel.


Printer to the Commissioners of National Education in Ireland

Now ready, in Fifteen Books, Foolscap 4to, Price 2d. each,




Written and Arranged by A. Stewart, Teaclter of IV


Initiatory Exercises.

Letters and Combinations.

Short Words.


Text Hand.

Text and Round.

Round Hand.

8.    Introduction to Small Hand.

9.    Round and Small Hands.
















Small Hand.

Text, Round, and Small Hands.

Introduction to Ladies’ Hand.

Ladies’ Hand.

Commercial Sentences. Figures.

'JpHIS Series is produced by an entirely

New Process, the Lines being printed direct from Copper Plates by Patented Machinery, thus securing an accuracy and finish much superior to that obtainable by any process hitherto employed. This system has been adopted successfully in France, and being approved by the Emperor, the books so produced are universally adopted in all the Public Schools throughout the Empire.

In the proper Gradation and Arrangement of the Lines, as well as in the Style of Writing and Engraving, much thought and care have been bestowed, and it is believed they will recommend themselves to ail Practical Teachers as an improvement upon any existing series.

London: GEORGE PHILIP & SON, 32, Fleet-street.

Liverpool : Caxton Buildings, South John-street} and 49 & 51, South Castle-street.

Agent for Ireland:

AXEXL&XH)ER THOBS, Printer and Publisher,

frislj ^aiional ^djool §ook



The Royal George was lost at Spithead in August, 1782 She-was the flag ship of Admiral Kempenfelt, and was to sail hi a few days to the Mediterranean.


The Gulf of Manaar has been fished from the earliest times for the large chank shell, to be exported to India, where it is still sawn into rings and worn as anklets and bracelets by the women of Hindostari. Another use for these shells is their conversion into wind instruments, which are sounded in the temples on all occasions of ceremony.


In the course of the year they entertain from thirty to thirtv-five thousand travellers.


Poor Richard’s Almanack.