{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11569/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11569","id":"gutenberg_11569","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11569","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Encyclopedias/Dictionaries/Reference","Category: History - British","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Nature/Gardening/Animals","Popular literature -- Great Britain -- Periodicals","The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction"],"text":"THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.\n\nVOL. 19. No. 547.]    SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1832    [PRICE 2d.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nWILTON CASTLE.\n\n\n[Illustration: Wilton Castle.]\n\nHere is one of the ivy-mantled relics that lend even a charm to romantic\nnature on the banks of the Wye. Its shattered tower and crumbling wall,\ncombine with her wild luxuriance, to form a scene of great picturesque\nbeauty, though, as Gilpin observes, \"the scene wants accompaniments to\ngive it grandeur.\"\n\nThese ruins stand opposite to Ross, on the western bank of the Wye. The\nCastle was for several centuries the baronial residence of the Greys of\nthe south, who derived from it their first title, and who became owners\nin the time of Edward the First. It may therefore be presumed to have\nbeen one of the strongholds, in the great struggles for feudal\nsuperiority with Wales, which were commenced by Edward, whose \"active\nand splendid reign may be considered as an attempt to subject the whole\nisland of Great Britain to his sway.\"[1] Or, in earlier times, being\nsituated on the ancient barrier between England and Wales, it may have\nbeen a station of some importance, from its contiguity to Hereford,\nwhich city was destroyed by the Welsh, but rebuilt and fortified by\nHarold, who also strengthened the castle. The whole district is of\nantiquarian interest, since, at the period of the Roman invasion,\nHerefordshire was inhabited by the Silures, who also occupied the\nadjacent counties of Radnor, Monmouth, and Glamorgan, together with that\npart of Gloucestershire which lies westward of the Severn. The Silures,\nin conjunction with the Ordovices, or inhabitants of North Wales,\nretarded, for a considerable period, the progress of the Roman victors,\nwhose grand object seems to have been the conquest of these nations, who\nhad chosen the gallant Caractacus as their chieftain, and resolutely\nexhausted every effort in defence of the independence of their country.\n\n    [1] Mackintosh's Hist. England, vol. i, p. 247.\n\nThe present demolished state of the Castle is referred to the Royalist\nGovernors of Hereford, by whose orders it was burnt to the bare walls\nduring the reign of Charles I. in the absence of its then possessor, Sir\nJ. Brydges.\n\nThe scenery of the WYE, at this point is thus described by tourists:\n\"From Hereford to Ross, its features occasionally assume greater\nboldness; though more frequently their aspect is placid; but at the\nlatter town wholly emerging from its state of repose,\" it resumes the\nbrightness and rapidity of its primitive character, as it forms the\nadmired curve which the churchyard of Ross commands. The celebrated\nspire of Ross church, peeping over a noble row of elms, here fronts the\nruined Castle of Wilton, beneath the arches of whose bridge, the Wye\nflows through a charming succession of meadows, encircling at last the\nlofty and well-wooded hill, crowned with the majestic fragments of\nGooderich Castle, and opposed by the waving eminences of the forest of\nDean. The mighty pile, or peninsula, of Symonds' Rock succeeds, round\nwhich the river flows in a circuit of seven miles, though the opposite\npoints of the isthmus are only one mile asunder. Shortly afterwards, the\nWye quits the county, and enters Monmouthshire at the New Wear.\n\nThe Rev. Mr. Gilpin, in his charming little volume on Picturesque\nBeauty,[2] has a few appropriate observations: after passing Wilton--\n\n    [2] Observations on the River Wye, &c. By William Gilpin,\n    M.A.--Fifth Edition.\n\n\"We met with nothing for some time during our voyage but grand, woody\nbanks, one rising behind another; appearing and vanishing by turns, as\nwe doubled the several capes. But though no particular objects\ncharacterized these different scenes, yet they afforded great variety of\npleasing views, both as we wound round the several promontories, which\ndiscovered new beauties as each scene opened, and when we kept the same\nscene a longer time in view, stretching along some lengthened reach,\nwhere the river is formed into an irregular vista by hills shooting out\nbeyond each other and going off in perspective.\"\n\nWe ought not to forget to mention Ross, and its association with one of\nthe noblest works of GOD--honest John Kyrle, celebrated as the Man of\nRoss. Pope, during his visits at Holm-Lacey, in the vicinity, obtained\nsufficient knowledge of his beneficence, to render due homage to his\nworth in one of the brightest pages of the records of human character.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\"MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS\"--EGGS.\n\n(_For the Mirror._)\n\n\nIn a paper on the _Superstitions of the Sea_, a few years ago,[3] I\nslightly alluded to the nautical belief that the appearance of the\nStormy Petrel, and other marine birds at sea, was often considered to be\nthe forerunner of peril and disaster; and as your excellent\ncorrespondent, _M.L.B._, in a recent number, expresses a wish to know\nthe origin of the _soubriquet_ of _Mother Carey's Chickens_, which the\nformer birds have obtained, I now give it with all the brevity which is\nconsistent with so important a narration. It appears that a certain\noutward-bound Indiaman, called the _Tiger_, (but in what year I am\nunable to state,) had encountered one continued series of storms, during\nher whole passage; till on nearing the Cape of Good Hope, she was almost\nreduced to a wreck. Here, however, the winds and waves seemed bent on\nher destruction; in the midst of the storm, flocks of strange looking\nbirds were seen hovering and wheeling in the air around the devoted\nship, and one of the passengers, a woman called \"Mother Carey,\" was\nobserved by the glare of the lightning to laugh and smile when she\nlooked at these foul-weather visitants; on which she was not only set\ndown as a witch, but it was also thought that they were her familiars,\nwhom she had invoked from the _Red Sea_; and \"all hands\" were seriously\nconsidering on the propriety of getting rid of the old beldam, (as is\nusual in such cases,) by setting her afloat, when she saved them the\ntrouble, and at that moment jumped overboard, surrounded by flames; on\nwhich the birds vanished, the storm cleared away, and the tempest-tossed\n_Tiger_ went peacefully on her course! Ever since the occurrence of this\n\"astounding yarn,\" the birds have been called \"Mother Carey's Chickens,\"\nand are considered by our sailors to be the most unlucky of all the\nfeathered visitants at sea.\n\n    [3] See Mirror, No. 205, vol. xi.\n\nTo turn by a not unnatural transition from _birds_ to _eggs_, permit me\nto inform your Scottish correspondent, _S.S._ (see No. 536,) where he\nasserts that the plan of rubbing eggs with grease in order to preserve\nthem, \"is not so much as known in our own boasted land of stale eggs and\nbundlewood;\" that the said _discovery_ has long been known and practised\nin many parts of old England; and that the repeated experience of\nseveral friends warrants me in giving a decided negative to his\nassertion that eggs so prepared \"_will keep any length of time perfectly\nfresh_.\" If kept for a considerable period, though they do not become\nabsolutely bad, yet they turn _very stale_. I happen to know something\nof Scotland, and was never before aware that the raw clime of our\nnorthern neighbours was so celebrated for its poultry. _M.L.B._ is\ncertainly misinformed in speaking of the trade in _Scotch_ eggs to\n_America_. The importation of eggs from the continent into England is\nvery extensive: the duty in 1827 amounted at the rate of 10_d_. per 120,\nto 23,062_l_. 19_s_. 1_d_.; since which period there has, we believe,\nbeen an increase. The importation of eggs from Ireland is also very\nlarge. If _S.S._ resides in London, he may have occasion to sneer at\n\"our boasted land of stale eggs;\" but he should rather sneer at the\npreserved French eggs, with which the London dealers are principally\nsupplied.\n\nVYVYAN.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE CURFEW BELL.\n\n(To the Editor.)\n\n\nIn addition to the remarks made by _Reginald_, in No. 543, and by\n_M.D._, and _G.C._, in No. 545 of _The Mirror_, let me add that the\nCurfew is rung every night at eight, in my native town, (Winchester,)\nand the bell, a large one, weighing 12 cwt., is appropriated for the\npurpose, (not belonging to a church) but affixed in the tower of the\nGuildhall, and used only for this occasion, or on an alarm of fire.\n\nIn that city the Curfew was first established under the command of the\nConqueror, and the practice has continued to the present day. I have\nbeen assured by many old residents, that it formerly was the custom to\nring the bell every morning at four o'clock, but the practice being\nfound annoying to persons living near, the Corporation ordered it to be\ndiscontinued.\n\nTo such of your readers who, like myself, are fond of a solitary ramble\nalong the sea shore by moonlight, I would say, go to Southampton or the\nIsle of Wight; take an evening walk from Itchen through the fields to\nNetley, thence to the Abbey and Fort ruins, under woods that for a\nconsiderable distance skirt the coast; or on the opposite side, through\nthe Forest of Oaks, from Eling to Dibden, and onwards over the meadows\nto Hythe: there they may, in either, find ample food for reflection,\nconnected with the Curfew Bell.\n\nSeated on a fragment of the towers of Netley Abbey, whose pinnacles were\nso often hailed by seamen as well known landmarks, but whose Curfew has\nfor centuries been quiet, the spectator may see before him the crumbling\nremains of a fort, erected hundreds of years ago. On the left is an\nexpanse of water as far as the eye can reach, and in his front the\ncelebrated New Forest,--\n\n  Majestic woods of ever vigorous green,\n  Stage above stage, high waving o'er the bills;\n  Or to the far horizon wide diffus'd,\n  A boundless deep immensity of shade--\n\nthe scene of William's tyranny and atrocity, the spot where his children\nmet their untimely end, and where may be seen the _tumuli_ erected over\nthe remains of the Britons who fell in defence of their country.\n\nIn the deep recesses of a wood in the south-east prospect, the eye may\nfaintly distinguish the mouldering remains of the Abbey of Beaulieu,\nfamed in days of yore for its Sanctuary, the name of which is now only\nrecorded in history. Even the site of the tower is unknown, whose Curfew\nhas long ceased to warn the seamen, or draw the deep curse from the\nforester.\n\nThere they may\n\n  \"On a plat of rising ground,\n  Hear the far off Curfew sound,\n  Over the wide watered shore,\n  Swinging slow with sullen roar.\"\n\nThe Curfew is rung at Southampton, Downton, Ringwood, and many other\ntowns in the west, every night at eight.\n\nP.Q.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nTHE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nSPANISH SCENERY.\n\n\nThe following is from the delightful pencil of Washington Irving: it\nwill be seen to bear all the polish of his best style:--\n\n\"Many are apt to picture Spain to their imaginations as a soft southern\nregion, decked out with all the luxuriant charms of voluptuous Italy. On\nthe contrary, though there are exceptions in some of the maritime\nprovinces, yet, for the greater part, it is a stern, melancholy country,\nwith rugged mountains, and long sweeping plains, destitute of trees, and\nindescribably silent and lonesome, partaking of the savage and solitary\ncharacter of Africa. What adds to this silence and loneliness, is the\nabsence of singing-birds, a natural consequence of the want of groves\nand hedges. The vulture and the eagle are seen wheeling about the\nmountain-cliffs, and soaring over the plains, and groups of shy bustards\nstalk about the heaths; but the myriads of smaller birds, which animate\nthe whole face of other countries are met with in but few provinces in\nSpain, and in those chiefly among the orchards and gardens which\nsurround the habitations of man.\n\n\"In the interior provinces the traveller occasionally traverses great\ntracts cultivated with grain as far as the eye can reach, waving at\ntimes with verdure, at other times naked and sunburnt, but he looks\nround in vain for the hand that has tilled the soil. At length, he\nperceives some village on a steep hill, or rugged crag, with mouldering\nbattlements and ruined watch tower; a stronghold, in old times, against\ncivil war, or Moorish inroad; for the custom among the peasantry of\ncongregating together for mutual protection, is still kept up in most\nparts of Spain, in consequence of the maraudings of roving freebooters.\n\n\"But though a great part of Spain is deficient in the garniture of\ngroves and forests, and the softer charms of ornamental cultivation, yet\nits scenery has something of a high and lofty character to compensate\nthe want. It partakes something of the attributes of its people; and I\nthink that I better understand the proud, hardy, frugal, and abstemious\nSpaniard, his manly defiance of hardships, and contempt of effeminate\nindulgences, since I have seen the country he inhabits.\n\n\"There is something, too, in the sternly simple features of the Spanish\nlandscape, that impresses on the soul a feeling of sublimity. The\nimmense plains of the Castiles and of La Mancha, extending as far as the\neye can reach, derive an interest from their very nakedness and\nimmensity, and have something of the solemn grandeur of the ocean. In\nranging over these boundless wastes, the eye catches sight here and\nthere of a straggling herd of cattle attended by a lonely herdsman,\nmotionless as a statue, with his long, slender pike tapering up like a\nlance into the air; or, beholds a long train of mules slowly moving\nalong the waste like a train of camels in the desert; or, a single\nherdsman, armed with blunderbuss and stiletto, and prowling over the\nplain. Thus the country, the habits, the very looks of the people, have\nsomething of the Arabian character. The general insecurity of the\ncountry is evinced in the universal use of weapons. The herdsman in the\nfield, the shepherd in the plain, has his musket and his knife. The\nwealthy villager rarely ventures to the market-town without his trabuco,\nand, perhaps, a servant on foot with a blunderbuss on his shoulder; and\nthe most petty journey is undertaken with the preparation of a warlike\nenterprise.\n\n\"The dangers of the road produce also a mode of travelling, resembling,\non a diminutive scale, the caravans of the east. The arrieros, or\ncarriers, congregate in convoys, and set off in large and well-armed\ntrains on appointed days; while additional travellers swell their\nnumber, and contribute to their strength. In this primitive way is the\ncommerce of the country carried on. The muleteer is the general medium\nof traffic, and the legitimate traverser of the land, crossing the\npeninsula from the Pyrenees and the Asturias to the Alpuxarras, the\nSerrania de Ronda, and even to the gates of Gibraltar. He lives frugally\nand hardily: his alforjas of coarse cloth hold his scanty stock of\nprovisions; a leathern bottle, hanging at his saddle-bow, contains wine\nor water, for a supply across barren mountains and thirsty plains. A\nmule-cloth spread upon the ground, is his bed at night, and his\npack-saddle is his pillow. His low, but clean-limbed and sinewy form\nbetokens strength; his complexion is dark and sunburnt; his eye\nresolute, but quiet in its expression, except when kindled by sudden\nemotion; his demeanour is frank, manly, and courteous, and he never\npasses you without a grave salutation: 'Dios guarde \u00e0 usted!' 'Va usted\ncon Dios, Caballero!' 'God guard you! God be with you, Cavalier!'\n\n\"As these men have often their whole fortune at stake upon the burthen\nof their mule, they have their weapons at hand, slung to their saddles,\nand ready to be snatched out for desperate defence. But their united\nnumbers render them secure against petty bands of marauders, and the\nsolitary bandolero, armed to the teeth, and mounted on his Andalusian\nsteed, hovers about them, like a pirate about a merchant convoy, without\ndaring to make an assault.\n\n\"The Spanish muleteer has an inexhaustible stock of songs and ballads,\nwith which to beguile his incessant wayfaring. The airs are rude and\nsimple, consisting of but few inflexions. These he chants forth with a\nloud voice, and long, drawling cadence, seated sideways on his mule, who\nseems to listen with infinite gravity, and to keep time, with his paces,\nto the tune. The couplets thus chanted, are often old traditional\nromances about the Moors, or some legend of a saint, or some love-ditty;\nor what is still more frequent, some ballad about a bold contrabandista,\nor hardy bandolero, for the smuggler and the robber are poetical heroes\namong the common people of Spain. Often the song of the muleteer is\ncomposed at the instant, and relates to some local scenes or some\nincident of the journey. This talent of singing and improvising is\nfrequent in Spain, and is said to have been inherited from the Moors.\nThere is something wildly pleasing in listening to these ditties among\nthe rude and lonely scenes that they illustrate; accompanied, as they\nare, by the occasional jingle of the mule-bell.\n\n\"It has a most picturesque effect also to meet a train of muleteers in\nsome mountain-pass. First you hear the bells of the leading mules,\nbreaking with their simple melody the stillness of the airy height; or,\nperhaps, the voice of the muleteer admonishing some tardy or wandering\nanimal, or chanting, at the full stretch of his lungs, some traditionary\nballad. At length you see the mules slowly winding along the cragged\ndefile, sometimes descending precipitous cliffs, so as to present\nthemselves in full relief against the sky, sometimes toiling up the deep\narid chasms below you. As they approach, you descry their gay\ndecorations of worsted tufts, tassels, and saddle-cloths, while, as they\npass by, the ever-ready trabuco slung behind the packs and saddles,\ngives a hint of the insecurity of the road.\n\n\"The ancient kingdom of Granada, into which we are about to penetrate,\nis one of the most mountainous regions of Spain. Vast sierras, or chains\nof mountains, destitute of shrub or tree, and mottled with variegated\nmarbles and granites, elevate their sun-burnt summits against a\ndeep-blue sky; yet in their rugged bosoms lie engulfed the most verdant\nand fertile valley, where the desert and the garden strain for mastery,\nand the very rock is, as it were, compelled to yield the fig, the\norange, and the citron, and to blossom with the myrtle and the rose.\n\n\"In the wild passes of these mountains the sight of walled towns and\nvillages, built like eagles' nests among the cliffs, and surrounded by\nMoorish battlements, or of ruined watch-towers perched on lofty peaks,\ncarries the mind back to the chivalric days of Christian and Moslem\nwarfare, and to the romantic struggle for the conquest of Granada. In\ntraversing these lofty sierras the traveller is often obliged to alight\nand lead his horse up and down the steep and jagged ascents and\ndescents, resembling the broken steps of a staircase. Sometimes the road\nwinds along dizzy precipices, without parapet to guard him from the\ngulfs below, and then will plunge down steep, and dark, and dangerous\ndeclivities. Sometimes it straggles through rugged barrancos, or\nravines, worn by winter torrents, the obscure path of the\ncontrabandista; while, ever and anon, the ominous cross, the monument of\nrobbery and murder, erected on a mound of stones at some lonely part of\nthe road, admonishes the traveller that he is among the haunts of\nbanditti, perhaps at that very moment under the eye of some lurking\nbandolero. Sometimes, in winding through the narrow valleys, he is\nstartled by a hoarse bellowing, and beholds above him on some green fold\nof the mountain side a herd of fierce Andalusian bulls, destined for the\ncombat of the arena. There is something awful in the contemplation of\nthese terrific animals, clothed with tremendous strength, and ranging\ntheir native pastures in untamed wildness, strangers almost to the face\nof man: they know no one but the solitary herdsman who attends upon\nthem, and even he at times dares not venture to approach them. The low\nbellowing of these bulls, and their menacing aspect as they look down\nfrom their rocky height, give additional wildness to the savage scenery\naround.\"\n\n(From _The Alhambra_, or _New Sketch Book_, to which we propose to\nreturn in a _Supplement_ in a fortnight.)\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nANECDOTE GALLERY.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE UNLUCKY PRESENT: A TALE.\n\n\nA Lanarkshire minister (who died within the present century) was one of\nthose unhappy persons, who, to use the words of a well known Scottish\nadage, \"can never see green cheese but their een reels.\" He was\n_extremely covetous_ and that not only of nice articles of food, but of\nmany other things which do not generally excite the cupidity of the\nhuman heart. The following story is in corroboration of this\nassertion:--Being on a visit one day at the house of one of his\nparishioners, a poor lonely widow, living in a moorland part of the\nparish, he became fascinated by the charms of a little cast-iron pot,\nwhich happened at the time to be lying on the hearth, full of potatoes\nfor the poor woman's dinner, and that of her children. He had never in\nhis life seen such a nice little pot--it was a perfect conceit of a\nthing--it was a gem--no pot on earth could match it in symmetry--it was\nan object altogether perfectly lovely. \"Dear sake! minister,\" said the\nwidow, quite overpowered by the reverend man's commendations of her pot;\n\"if ye like the pot sae weel as a' that, I beg ye'll let me send it to\nthe manse. It's a kind o' orra (_superfluous_) pot wi' us; for we've a\nbigger ane, that we use for ordinar, and that's mair convenient every\nway for us. Sae ye'll just tak a present o't. I'll send it ower the morn\nwi' Jamie, when he gangs to the schule.\" \"Oh!\" said the minister, \"I can\nby no means permit you to be at so much trouble. Since you are so good\nas to give me the pot, I'll just carry it home with me in my hand. I'm\nso much taken with it, indeed, that I would really prefer carrying it\nmyself.\" After much altercation between the minister and the widow, on\nthis delicate point of politeness, it was agreed that he should carry\nhome the pot himself.\n\nOff then he trudged, bearing this curious little culinary article,\nalternately in his hand and under his arm, as seemed most convenient to\nhim. Unfortunately the day was warm, the way long, and the minister fat;\nso that he became heartily tired of his burden before he got half-way\nhome. Under these distressing circumstances, it struck him, that, if,\ninstead of carrying the pot awkwardly at one side of his person, he were\nto carry it on his head, the burden would be greatly lightened; the\nprinciples of natural philosophy, which he had learned at college,\ninforming him, that when a load presses directly and immediately upon\nany object, it is far less onerous than when it hangs at the remote end\nof a lever. Accordingly, doffing his hat, which he resolved to carry\nhome in his band, and having applied his handkerchief to his brow, he\nclapped the pot, in inverted fashion, upon his head, where, as the\nreader may suppose, it figured much like Mambrino's helmet upon the\ncrazed capital of Don Quixote, only a great deal more magnificent in\nshape and dimensions. There was, at first, much relief and much comfort\nin this new mode of carrying the pot; but mark the result. The\nunfortunate minister having taken a by-path, to escape observation,\nfound himself, when still a good way from home, under the necessity of\nleaping over a ditch, which intercepted him, in passing from one field\nto another. He jumped; but surely no jump was ever taken so completely\n_in_, or, at least _into_, the dark as this. The concussion given to his\nperson in descending caused the helmet to become a hood; the pot slipped\ndown over his face, and resting with the rim upon his neck, stuck fast\nthere; enclosing his whole head as completely as ever that of a new born\nchild was enclosed by the filmy bag, with which nature, as an indication\nof future good fortune, sometimes invests the noddles of her favourite\noffspring. What was worst of all, the nose, which had permitted the pot\nto slip down over it, withstood every desperate attempt, on the part of\nits proprietor, to make it slip back again; the contracted part, or\nneck, of the _patera_, being of such a peculiar formation as to cling\nfast to the base of the nose, although it had found no difficulty in\ngliding along its hypothenuse. Was ever minister in a worse plight? Was\nthere ever _contretemps_ so unlucky? Did ever any man--did ever any\nminister, so effectually hoodwink himself, or so thoroughly shut his\neyes, to the plain light of nature? What was to be done? The place was\nlonely; the way difficult and dangerous; human relief was remote, almost\nbeyond reach. It was impossible even to cry for help; or, if a cry could\nbe uttered, it might reach, in deafening reverberation, the ear of the\nutterer, but it would not travel twelve inches farther in any direction.\nTo add to the distresses of the case, the unhappy sufferer soon found\ngreat difficulty in breathing. What with the heat occasioned by the\nbeating of the sun on the metal, and what with the frequent return of\nthe same heated air to his lungs, he was in the utmost danger of\nsuffocation. Every thing considered, it seemed likely that, if he did\nnot chance to be relieved by some accidental wayfarer, there would soon\nbe _death in the pot_.\n\nThe instinctive love of life, however, is omni-prevalent; and even very\nstupid people have been found, when put to the push by strong and\nimminent peril, to exhibit a degree of presence of mind, and exert a\ndegree of energy, far above what might have been expected from them, or\nwhat they were ever known to exhibit, or exert, under ordinary\ncircumstances. So it was with the pot-ensconced minister. Pressed by the\nurgency of his distresses, he fortunately recollected that there was a\nsmith's shop at the distance of about a mile across the fields, where,\nif he could reach it before the period of suffocation, he might possibly\nfind relief. Deprived of his eyesight, he acted only as a man of\nfeeling, and went on as cautiously as he could, with his hat in his\nhand. Half crawling, half sliding, over ridge and furrow, ditch and\nhedge, somewhat like Satan floundering over chaos, the unhappy minister\ntravelled with all possible speed, as nearly as he could guess, in the\ndirection of the place of refuge. I leave it to the reader to conceive\nthe surprise, the mirth, the infinite amusement of the smith, and all\nthe hangers-on of the _smiddy_, when, at length, torn and worn, faint\nand exhausted, blind and breathless, the unfortunate man arrived at the\nplace, and let them know (rather by signs than by words) the\ncircumstances of his case. In the words of an old Scottish song,\n\n  \"Out cam the gudeman, and high he shouted;\n  Out cam the gudewife, and low she louted;\n  And a' the town neighbours were gathered about it:\n        And there was he, I trow.\"\n\nThe merriment of the company, however, soon gave way to considerations\nof humanity. Ludicrous as was the minister, with such an object where\nhis head should have been, and with the feet of the pot pointing\nupwards, like the horns of the great Enemy, it was, nevertheless,\nnecessary that he should be speedily restored to his ordinary condition,\nif it were for no other reason than that he might continue to live. He\nwas accordingly, at his own request led into the smithy, multitudes\nflocking around to tender him their kindest offices, or to witness the\nprocess of release; and, having laid down his head upon the anvil, the\nsmith lost no time in seizing and poising his goodly forehammer. \"Will I\ncome sair on, minister?\" exclaimed the considerate man of iron, in at\nthe brink of the pot. \"As sair as ye like,\" was the minister's answer;\n\"better a chap i' the chafts than die for want of breath.\" Thus\npermitted, the man let fall a blow, which fortunately broke the pot in\npieces, without hurting the head which it enclosed, as the cook-maid\nbreaks the shell of the lobster, without bruising the delicate food\nwithin. A few minutes of the clear air, and a glass from the gudewife's\nbottle, restored the unfortunate man of prayer; but, assuredly, the\nincident is one which will long live in the memory of the parishioners\nof C----.--_Chambers' Edinburgh Journal._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nTHE NATURALIST.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nLOUDON'S MAGAZINE OF NATURAL HISTORY.\n\n\nSundry and manifold are our obligations to this delightful Journal. From\nthe Number (26) for the present month we glean the following:\n\n_The Gurnard and Sprat._\n\nMr. J. Couch, in an interesting paper on the fishes of Cornwall, has the\nfollowing notes:\n\n\"Ray observes that the word gurnard, which may be regarded as the\nEnglish term, is derived _a grunnitu_, from grunting like a hog. In\nthis, however, I venture to think this eminent naturalist mistaken.\nPengurn is the ancient Cornu-British name for these fishes, and\nsignifies hard head; and its English translation is now sometimes given\nto the grey gurnard. From the Cornish word _gurn_ (hard), I therefore\nderive the name, as descriptive of the head of these species. This is a\ncommon fish at all seasons; but in December and January it sometimes\nabounds to such a degree, that, as they are not much esteemed, I have\nknown them sold at thirty for a penny. It keeps near the bottom\ncommonly, at no great distance from land; but sometimes multitudes will\nmount together to the surface; and move along with the first dorsal fin\nabove the water: they will even quit their native element, and spring to\nthe distance of a yard; thus imitating the flying gurnard, though not to\nthe same extent. In summer they are found basking in the sun, perhaps\nasleep, as they will at times display no signs of animation, until an\nattempt is made to seize them.\n\n\"In reference to some observations by Mr. Yarrell, in the _Zoological\nJournal_, relative to the distinction between the sprat and the young of\nthe pilchard and herring, I can state that Cornish fishermen term the\nyoung of both the latter fishes sprats; but, how far this should go in\ndetermining the judgment of a naturalist will appear, when I add that I\nhave never seen above one specimen of the genuine sprat in Cornwall, and\nthat was brought me by a fisherman, to be informed what fish it was. In\ntaking fish out of his net by night, he felt it to be neither a pilchard\nnor a herring, and supposed it something rare.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nSTRUCTURE OF BIRDS.\n\n\nBirds may be said to constitute an isolated class of beings. They are\ndistinguished by certain characters from all other animals: their\nclassification does not pass into any other, and cannot, therefore, be\nconsistently introduced into the supposed chain or gradation of natural\nbodies.\n\nThe skeleton or bony frame of birds is in general lighter than in\nquadrupeds. They have the largest bones of all animals, in proportion to\ntheir weight; and their bones are more hollow than those of animals that\ndo not fly: air-vessels also enable them to blow out the hollow parts of\ntheir bodies, when they wish to make their descent slower, rise more\nswiftly, or float in the air. The spine is immovable, but the neck has a\ngreater number of bones, (never less than nine, and varying from that to\ntwenty-four,) and consequently of joints, and more varied motion, than\nin quadrupeds. The breast-bone is very large, with a prominent keel down\nthe middle, and is formed for the attachment of very strong muscles: the\nbones of the wings are analagous to those of the fore-legs in\nquadrupeds, but the termination is in three joints or fingers only, of\nwhich the exterior is very short. This will be better understood by the\nannexed:\n\n[Illustration: Skeleton of a Turkey.]\n\nThe muscles that move the wings downwards, in many instances, are a\nsixth part of the weight of the whole body; whereas those of a man are\nnot in proportion one hundredth part so large. The centre of gravity of\ntheir bodies is always below the insertion of their wings to prevent\nthem falling on their backs, but near that point on which the body is,\nduring flight, as it were, suspended. The positions assumed by the head\nand feet are frequently calculated to accomplish these ends, and give to\nthe wings every assistance in continuing the progressive motion. The\ntail also is of great use, in regulating the rise and fall of birds and\neven their lateral movements. What are commonly called the legs are\nanalogous to the hind legs in quadrupeds, and they terminate, in\ngeneral, in four toes, three of which are usually directed forwards, and\none backwards; but in some birds there are only two toes, in others\nthree.\n\nBirds exceed quadrupeds in the quantity of their respiration, for they\nhave not only a double circulation, and an aerial respiration, but they\nrespire also through other cavities beside the lungs, the air\npenetrating through the whole body, and bathing the branches of the\naorta, or great artery of the body, as well as those of the pulmonary\nartery.\n\nBirds are usually classed according to the forms of their bills and\nfeet, from those parts being connected with their mode of life, food,\n&c. and influencing their total habit very materially.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE RHINOCEROS BIRD.\n\n\nThis curious bird is of the order _Pic\u00e6_, or Pies, and of the genus\n_Buceros_, consisting of birds of rather large size, and distinguished\nby the disproportionate forms of their beaks, which are often still\nfurther remarkable for some kind of large prominence on the upper\nmandible. The most conspicuous species is the _Buceros Rhinoceros_ of\nLinn\u00e6us, commonly called the Rhinoceros Bird.\n\n[Illustration: The Rhinoceros Bird.]\n\nIts general size is that of a Turkey, but with a much more slenderly\nproportioned body. Its colour is black, with the tail white, crossed by\na black bar: the beak is of enormous size, of a lengthened, slightly\ncurved, and pointed shape, and on the upper mandible, towards the base,\nis an extremely large process, equal in thickness to the bill itself,\nand turning upwards and backwards in the form of a thick, sharp-pointed\nhorn, somewhat resembling the horn of the rhinoceros. The use of this\nstrange proboscis is by some supposed to be that of enabling the bird\nmore easily to tear out the entrails of its prey; but others affirm that\nit is not of a predaceous nature, feeding only on vegetable substances.\nThis bird is principally found in the East Indian Islands. A remarkably\nfine specimen was preserved in the Leverian Museum.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nTHE SKETCH-BOOK.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nRECOLLECTIONS OF A WANDERER.\n\n_A scene on the coast of Cornwall._\n\n\nA short time before my departure from the hamlet of Landwithiel,[4] I\nwas awoke early one morning by the roaring of the wind in the huge old\nchimney of my room--the whole tenement, indeed, occasionally shook as a\nviolent gust swept down the valley, tossing the branches of the stout\nold tree before the door to and fro in a way that threatened at last to\nlevel them with the dust. The very briny scent of the atmosphere\nconvinced me there was some sea running in the bay; and it was the more\nunexpected as we had had no tokens of a storm for several days previous.\nFrom the peninsular situation of this county, surrounded on almost every\nside with the restless ocean and exposed to the wide sweep of the\nAtlantic, it may be supposed that storms are of frequent occurrence. As\non the present occasion, they often come with little or no warning; and\nthe effects of a hurricane in the distant main, far outstripping the\nwind, sometimes rolls with tremendous fury towards our western shores,\non which the sea is encroaching in every part.\n\n    [4] See \"Recollections of a Wanderer,\" _Mirror_, Nos. 430-475.\n\nLandwithiel was a wild little place. It was essentially a \"fishing\nvillage.\" The people ploughed the deep, not the land; and the constant\nexposure--blow high, blow low--on the restless sea, endued its\ninhabitants, and the Cornish fishermen generally, with a fearlessness of\ndanger and boldness of character almost unequalled in these islands. The\nlives and pursuits of the two great classes in this county--the maritime\nand mining population--are widely opposite to each other. The one class\npass their existence on the stormy waters of the deep, whilst the other\nlabour far below the surface of the earth; each being continually\nexposed to numberless perils and dangers.\n\nWhen I descended below I found my host already astir; so after attending\nwell to the inward man, I lost no time in starting towards the harbour.\nAs I formerly described, this comes abruptly in sight round a sharp\nangle, at some elevation from the beach. On the upper part of the\ndescent the road was flanked on each side with a row of cottages, the\nstreet being so steep that steps were formed in many parts to aid the\nprogress of the passenger. This gave an air of singularity and wildness\nto the place, which was aided by the boldness of the surrounding\nscenery. The street bore all the marks of the occupation of the\ninhabitants--nets hanging to dry--strings of fish--an old oar--or a\n\"fisher's wife\" broiling fish for her husband's breakfast--met the eye\non either side.\n\nOn clearing the street, I observed a larger throng on the old pier than\nwas wont to gather there on ordinary occasions. There was obviously some\nunusual subject of interest agitated amongst them; so I turned from my\ncourse and joined the group.\n\nA gale is an important event in a fishing town. Independent of the\ninterest naturally felt for the various craft belonging to the place\nwhich may happen to be afloat, there may be wrecks or other marine\ncasualties to excite the interest or cupidity of the observer.\n\nThere was a tremendous tumbling sea rolling into the little bay, when I\ndrew towards the pier. At the further end was a group of persons in\nearnest conversation, whom I distinguished as the knowing ones and\nlong-heads of the place; while their younger companions were engaged in\nparties walking briskly to and fro on the pier. A tier of boats had been\ncarefully drawn up high and dry beyond the wreck left by the last spring\ntide. Four or five, however, were afloat, and lurching heavily alongside\nthe pier, whither the tide had not long reached; the wind rattling\namongst the masts, shrouds, and half-bent sails of some craft which had\njust run in for shelter from the impending storm. My recent adventure\nhad made me pretty well acquainted with most of the persons around: and\nI learned that a _ground swell_ had been observed along shore the\npreceding night. This phenomenon is generally occasioned by a storm in\nthe Atlantic, with a westerly wind; and it affords to the old fishermen\nan almost certain indication of approaching foul weather.\n\n\"A stiff bit of a gale, this same, Master Charles,\" said an old tar,\ngiving an energetic jerk to his trousers, \"Ay, ay, old boy,\" he replied,\n\"this wind is not blowing for nothing, you may take my word for it; but\nif the Jane and the Susan hove in sight I'd not mind a bit for all that;\nwe've not a stick afloat but her.\"\n\n\"What! is Sam Clovelly[5] out this morning, Helston?\" I anxiously\ninquired of the pilot, who was a manly, excellent sort of fellow. He had\ngrown grey with service, and there was something in the steady eye and\ncalm decision of his look that marked him out as no common character.\n\n    [5] See _Mirror_, No. 475. \"Dawlish's Hole.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, we have no tidings of him yet, and the sky looking as black,\nyonder, as the face of a negro; but we'll hope that he's run out of\nharm's way before now.\"\n\nAs the morning waxed apace, the interest in the fate of the Jane and\nSusan became more evident amongst the by-standers. Every stick that came\nin sight cut out conversation; but many an eye was cast anxiously to\nwindward in vain for poor Sam Clovelly and his brother Arthur, who had\nbeen out since the preceding night. Presently the two little orphan\nsisters of the missing men came upon the pier, and Helstone, the pilot,\nand some of the others anxiously endeavoured to cheer and console them.\n\n\"I'll be bound they've run for ---- port long ago, darlings, so don't\ncry now, Jane; the old craft's stood many a stronger breeze than this;\nnow, wipe your eyes, there. Poor things,\" he said, turning to me, as the\nchildren went farther on the pier, \"their two brothers are the only\nfriends they have got in the world, and if they are gone who is to take\ncare of them? Their father, old Sam Clovelly, was lost--I recollect the\ntime well--somewhere off Milford; leaving his wife, with two stiff tidy\nbits of lads, and likely to increase the family; well, sir, she took to\nher bed, with the shock, and never rose from it more, after giving birth\nto these two little girls, leaving poor Sam and Arthur to struggle on\nlike a cutter in a heavy sea. But God Almighty never deserts the\ninnocent, sir--you've seen that, I dare say? Sam's been a steady lad,\nand has prospered, and he and Arthur have never forgotten their mother's\ndying words, and have been very kind to their sisters; but, come what\nwill, the orphans shall never want a friend as long as Charley Helston\nhas a home or a bit of bread to offer them.\"\n\nWe now again reverted to the state of the day. As the gale swept on,\nnumberless craft were running along the coast towards ---- port, for\nshelter. A crack Fowey-man now making a board till she \"eat out\" of the\nwind a North-countryman right ahead--now with her helm-a-lea, and now\ncareering along with a heavy following sea on either quarter--kept our\nattention on the alert. Presently a steamer came in sight bearing up\nacross the bay towards ---- Head. The white rush of steam from her\nsafety-valves was well made out by the blackness of the windward\nhorizon; and contrasted with the dense puffs of smoke from her funnel,\nwhich were instantly dispersed or carried in heavy patches to leeward.\nThe glory of modern discoveries is unpopular with our coasting-seamen,\nand the mate of a coaster, who was watching her movements, observed that\n\"we should not have a lad fit to hand a sail or man a yard soon with\ntheir cursed machinery.\"\n\nAs she passed on her course \"cleaving blast and breaker right ahead,\"\nwith her weather-wheel often spinning in the air, and as the sky\ndarkened and the waves roared louder, I thought with deep interest on\nwhat might even now be the fate of those, without whose friendly aid I\nshould have been lying on a rocky pillow and seaweed for my shroud, near\nDawlish's Hole. The weather now became entitled to the formidable name\nof a storm, but some time had yet to elapse before darkness added its\nhorrors to the scene of desolation.\n\nHeavy masses of breakers were continually striking the pier-head with\nfearful crashes; now bursting over, amid seas of spray, with resistless\nimpetuosity, drenching every one under its lee; now recoiling for a\nbrief moment, as if to gather strength, leaving a smooth, hollow waste\nof oily sea--like the treacherous pauses of human passion,--and then\nreturning with wilder haste and tenfold added fury to the onset.\n\nThe morning was waning away. I left the pier, and bent my course away\nfrom Landwithiel.\n\nThe path I pursued led along the summit of the cliffs; oftentimes\nwinding so close round the edge of a projecting acclivity, that it\nrequired a clear head and a steady foot, for one false step would have\nbeen instant destruction. The coast below me was justly entitled to take\nits place amongst the finest rock-scenery in the island; and exhibited\nin its grandest form, the peculiarly wild and picturesque nature of the\ncoast of Cornwall. After working my way against a head-wind for three or\nfour miles, I took shelter in Dawlish's Watch Tower, an old half-ruined\nbuilding, which commanded an almost boundless look-out. Nearly right\nopposite to this station lay the Wolf-stone, an insular, and almost\ninaccessible rock, which rose in deep water about three-quarters of a\nmile from land. Whilst scanning with my glass the windward horizon, I\naccidentally rested on this islet, and I had not looked long before my\ngaze was rivetted to it. Two individuals I fancied were standing near a\npole which was erected on the highest point. These lone and unusual\ntenants of the sea-birds' home were obviously, from their motions, much\nagitated. A heavy driving shower, for a few minutes, wrapped it in mist.\nWhen this cleared off, the black and dreary front of the Wolf-stone\nbecame dimly visible through the tumultuous assemblage of gigantic\nbreakers, that were every instant grappling with the steep which defied\nthem. Another minute's observation and I was running at my utmost speed\nback to Landwithiel. The captives could be no other than Sam and Arthur\nClovelly.\n\nMy arrival caused universal stir and interest in Landwithiel. The\nDasher, the best sea-boat in the harbour was instantly manned, with\ndirections to pull to Carn Cove, almost opposite the rock, whither the\nrest of the men rapidly proceeded along the heights. Helston and myself\nalso went thither to consult in the first instance, as to the best plan\nfor relief; for no boat could live, in such a day as this, within some\ndistance of the rock.\n\nThe anxious group gathered on the edge of the cliff; and while a white\nflag was running up a boat's mast which we had erected on the tower, we\ncheered loudly and repeatedly to assure the distant captives that aid\nwas nigh.\n\n\"It is Sam--God be praised,\" sang out Helston, who was steadily looking\nout through his glass--and every one crowded around. \"And is Arthur\nthere too, Charles?\"--\"Yes, I see.--Death! I thought that wave would\nsweep over all. Now they wave their neckcloths--they beckon us to use\nhaste. High water is drawing fast on, and what man ever lived on the\nWolfstone in a spring flood. They wave again; sing away there, my lads,\ncheerily!\" and a tumultuous shout of human voices again mingled with the\nblast.\n\nAlmost every eye was now cast out for the Dasher, and she was seen\npulling with great difficulty--for a handkerchief of canvass would have\nbeen madness--towards the shelter of a projecting mass of rock, in Carne\nCove, in the comparatively smooth water behind which, Helston and myself\nwere enabled with some difficulty to get aboard. It was a moment of some\nexcitement. Accustomed from childhood fearlessly to brave an element\nthey might truly call their own, the gallant little crew steadily seated\nthemselves, and taking off their hats manfully answered the encouraging\ncheers from aloft. The men now shipped their oars, and all having been\nmade snug, I seated myself in the stern-sheets, near Helston, who had\ntaken the helm. There was something fine in his weather-beaten\ncountenance, and grey hair streaming in the breeze, as he steadily\nscanned the dark masses of the distant Wolf-stone--he was a true seaman.\n\nThe Dasher was a boat that would live in almost any weather on this\ncoast, head to wind; but when she was put about, there was no little\ndanger of her being pooped in a heavy following sea. Ours was now the\nformer case, and as the crew put her through the contending sea, which\nat every stroke hit our bows and soaked us with spray, I anxiously\nconsulted with Helston on the best means of shipping the captives on\nmaking the Wolf-stone. Keeping his eye fixed on the rock, which was\ngrimly visible on our larboard bow, he shook his head as the portentous\ndarkness of the sky again claimed our attention. \"If we had been delayed\na quarter of an hour longer they would have been food for fishes;\" I\nremarked, \"but it will be close run; our men are doing all that strength\nand skill can do, but it avails little when opposed to such a power as\nthis.\"\n\n\"Never fear, sir, we shall do yet--you are not so cool as I--how should\nyou? when I have braved the storms of nearly sixty winters:--but the\nWolf-stone's a spot, I will frankly confess, with which I had rather\nmake acquaintance with a clearer sky and a flowing sheet, than on such a\nnight as this. Just give a look-out a-head, sir,\" he added, as we were\nmounting a heavy sea, \"and tell me how things are aloft on the rock.\"\n\nHowever formidable this dreary steep might have appeared at a distance,\nnow we were drawing near to it, the wildness and sublimity of the scene\nsurpassed my calculations. The fugitives, who by their gestures were\nurging us onward, had been driven for shelter to a hollow on the leeward\nside of the rock, which indeed was almost the only spot that now\nafforded an asylum from danger. The waves as they came rolling onwards\nwith aggravated force from the main, ever and anon burst against the\nisle with terrific violence, now breaking into gigantic masses, then\ndriven in columns of sparkling spray to a vast height in the air, and\nnow closing on every side around their victims. The isle, indeed,\nappeared to be menaced with total annihilation.\n\nAs we could now distinguish both the brothers, we instinctively cheered\nthem on drawing towards the landward side of the rock. They were\ncompelled every minute to crouch and cling to the cliff under which they\nhad taken shelter, as a huge wave burst below their feet, and struck\nthem in its upward violence. The Wolf-stone could no longer raise its\nhead in dominion over the main. The surf ran so high immediately around\nit, that to approach at all closely would only have ended in the\ndestruction of every soul. We, therefore, hailed them as we stood under\nits lee, and found that in consequence of their having remained almost\nall night on this dreary spot, drenched with wet, and chilled with cold,\nany effort to swim through the surf would probably be fatal in their\nexhausted state. What then remained to be done? We had ropes on board\nwhich would be of infinite service, could we only devise means to convey\nthem to the rock. At this juncture, the services of my old\nNewfoundlander, Retriever, came forcibly to my mind. The poor animal had\nrefused to be separated from me when we embarked, and lay at my feet in\nthe boat. On his exertions therefore depended the lives of our friends.\nHe soon understood the task he was to perform, and in another second was\ndashing onwards through the waves. An affecting scene now took place\nbetween the brothers, as to who should first avail himself of the\napproaching aid. A gigantic rush of tide, which almost swept entirely\nover the rock, told them, however, that time was precious. But Sam was\nfirm. The younger brother then plunged forward and was soon drawn safely\non board. He informed us, as Retriever again swam away with the rope,\nthat he feared his brother was much more exhausted than himself. With\nbreathless interest, therefore, we watched Sam tie the rope round his\nbody, and enter the water. The violence of the gale, at this instant,\ncompelled us to stand further off the rock; indeed, within a few minutes\nwe foresaw that its presence would only be indicated by a low black mass\nindistinctly seen, amidst the boiling and restless waves of the ocean;\nan appearance, I was told, which it only presents in the most violent\nstorms. Poor Sam, now seen, now lost, amid the foaming ridges of the\nsea, came gradually along till within about forty paces from the boat,\nwhen it was evident his strength had failed him. An arm was shot into\nthe air, then his head and shoulders rose rapidly, and there was a\nsudden blank in the waters. \"Pull away, my lads, for your lives,\" we\nshouted, \"or he is gone!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"It was a hard run thing, I reckon, sirs,\" said Mr. Habbakuk\nSheepshanks, who was rather top-heavy that evening, to a numerous party\nwho were assembled round his capacious hearth at the \"Ship-aground,\"\n\"but all's well, they say, that ends well, so we'll even drink the\nhealth of the brothers in a glass of the free genuine Cognac.\" \"What is\nthat you say!\" said the exciseman....\n\nVYVYAN.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\nSPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nLONDON AND THE PROVINCES COMPARED.\n\n\nIt is the nature of prosperous communities, and the fashion of modern\ntimes, to centralize too much their numbers and their powers. But the\nquestion of distribution and proportion is almost as important in\npolitics as that of production itself. Money and manure are not the only\nthings which are the better for being spread. London and the country\nwould both be gainers by transplanting bodily, a hundred miles off, some\ndozens of its streets--inhabitants and all. There are whole counties\nwhich we should like to colonize with the surplus talent of the\nmetropolis. That surplus talent comprises scores of men, waiting on\nProvidence, feeding on foolish speculations, hanging on the skirts of\nsome frivolous circle, doing nothing there, or worse than nothing,\nspoiling and wasting daily, who, planted out into a sphere of more\nfavourable opportunities, are capable of being a blessing to a\nneighbourhood. However, it is not a case for violent measures. We do not\npropose that London should be compressed into _London proper_,--within\nthe bills of mortality; or that its clubs should be called out on\ncountry service. Patriots, philosophers, and diners out, rusticating by\nroyal proclamation, and under the _surveillance_ of the police, would\nnot come with a temper very suitable to our purpose. An experiment of\nthat sort was made under more likely circumstance, and failed;--as all\nexperiments must, which seek to remove the symptoms, instead of trying\nto act upon the cause. It was in vain that James I. pulled down the new\nhouses as fast as they were built; and that Charles I. ordered home the\ncountry gentlemen.\n\nAlthough there seems something artificial, and almost monstrous, in the\nactual size of London, the means which have led to this result are\naltogether natural. Indeed, whatever forcing has been at any time used,\nor prejudice fostered, has told the other way. Nothing has existed which\ncan be called a court or courtiers for the last two hundred years; and a\nsort of feudal feeling still keeps our squires faithful to their halls.\nTwo exceptions only can be set down to our institutions. The distinction\nof local courts obliges the English Bar to reside near Westminster; and\nthe duration of a modern session substitutes a house for the family of a\nMember of Parliament, in the place of lodgings for himself. Under these\ncircumstances, as \"the wen\" has not been produced, so is it not likely\nto be dispersed by any direct legislative application. To say the truth,\nthe grievance, in our opinion, is not in the _absolute_, but in the\n_relative_ amount of the wealth, intelligence, and virtue, squeezed\ntogether on those marvellous square miles upon which the capital stands.\nWe do not grudge it the pretty country which is hid under its basement\nstories, any more than the social activity and happiness which live\nalong its crowded streets. We serve ejectments upon nobody. The only\nquestion is, whether some would not do well to move of themselves. Among\nthe hopes and objects by whose influence 1,200,000 human beings are\ncollected on the same spot, a certain proportion will be found, which\nhave not been at all,--and more still, which have not been very\njudiciously or magnanimously, considered. There are many in the higher\nclasses of its inhabitants especially, who, we suspect, on examining\ninto their principles and habits, will have some difficulty in\nsatisfying themselves that they have not chosen ill for their real\nhappiness; and, for all real usefulness, a great deal worse. But the\nmistaken notion which most strips the country of its natural guardians,\nis the fallacy, on the part of young and sanguine dispositions, of\nbelieving that the motives and sphere of individual action rise in\nproportion to the apparent magnitude of the scene. These are the\nabsentees most to be regretted. In the single line of professional\npractice, and in its most successful instances, that may be the case.\nBut in taking ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, and in every other of\nthe varied departments of social duty, the sphere of useful action,\nhowever nominally extended, will be found to be strictly and\nsubstantially reduced.\n\nThere can be as little fear that London will ever want any of the\nelements of an enlightened and well-constituted community, as that it\nwill not be large enough. It is very different with the provinces. The\ncapital offers so many real, and still more, so many plausible\nattractions to all that is active and refined, as well as to all that is\nidle and selfish in human nature, that a long list of supernumaries and\nexpectants is sure, in every case, always to be at hand. It is the\nlottery into which the credulous are eager to put in;--it is the theatre\non whose stage ambition and vanity are impatient to appear;--it is the\nland of Cockayne, in whose crowded mazes the selfish escape from every\nduty, and reduce their intercourse with their fellow-creatures to the\nsympathies of visiting and of shopping. It is the seat also of liberal\nsociety, and independent existence, among the friends and occupations of\none's choice. Lord Falkland, the love of his age, admitted, that\nquitting London was the only thing which he was not sufficiently master\nof himself ever to manage without a struggle. In this state of things,\nit is plain that nobody can be of such consequence there but that he is\neasily spared. The death of a town wit is handsomely celebrated, if it\nfurnishes five minutes' conversation for the table where he dined the\nday before. He is replaced with the same regularity and indifference as\nfresh snuff is put into a snuff-box, or fresh flowers are set out upon\nthe epergne. Nobody misses him. The machine goes on without perceiving\nthat the blue-bottle or the gnat has fallen from its wheel.\n\nThe vastness and multiplicity and complexity of the organization by\nwhich the movements of the capital proceed, as it were mechanically, do\nnot act merely by diminishing the general importance of individuals to\nthe system. Except in the case of very happy, and universal, and flowing\nnatures, or under the influence of accidental counteractions, a personal\nrisk, between extreme vagueness and extreme narrowness of character, is\nincurred by the individual himself. In respect of employment, the\ndivision of intellectual labour is so complete, that most persons in\nsuch a situation are tempted to do their own piece of work, and no\nmore;--to rest satisfied with manufacturing the pin's head which happens\nto have fallen to their share. Does a London life tend to quicken the\nmoral pulse and expand the heart? The forms of society are thrown into\ntoo large a scale, and its pace is too rapid, to afford an opportunity\nfor the sort of intercourse by which alone a real acquaintance with,\nunderstanding of, and affection for, each other can be obtained. No\nmeans exist of getting there at any thing further than talents in men,\nand beauty or accomplishments in women.\n\nQualities which can be exhibited as a show are discovered and\nappreciated accordingly. But wisdom and virtue, which are to the mind\nwhat breath is to the body, have no part assigned or assignable to them\non such a stage. A man may pass a life in London without an occasion\narising by which his neighbours can learn whether he is an honest fellow\nor a rogue. The consequence is, that a good deal of such a man's moral\nnature gets imperfectly developed, and dies away. The appropriate object\nis not brought sufficiently close and home to him to stimulate and call\nforth his latent powers. Charity is perhaps better off than most. By a\nsatisfactory compromise, it falls into the hands of a mendicity society.\nBut there are other virtues which do not admit of being compounded for,\nand their burden transferred to a committee, for two guineas a-year. In\nthese cases the moral tax is too often evaded altogether. We are well\naware that men of pleasure are far from being the only persons who have\nturned into a maxim of life the sentence which the Duke of Buckingham\npassed upon the dog which barked after him,--\"Would to God you were\nmarried and settled in the country!\" It is evident that the word\n_provincial_ is often felt, by characters of a higher strain and object,\nto imply an imputation or admission of mediocrity. Now, greatly as\nnations differ, it is generally admitted that all capitals are pretty\nmuch alike. It follows therefore, that the characteristic spirit and\nprinciple of a nation do not appear there to most advantage. Enow worthy\nrepresentatives of that spirit and principle are doubtless there; but\nthey are there too much as though they were not. It is an atmosphere\nwhich no individual powers can penetrate, and where it needs more than\nan ordinary sun to make itself felt or seen. We are satisfied that, on a\njust estimate of the whole case, the provinces, as distinguished from\nthe metropolis, would be found in many instances, perhaps in most, to be\nthe home which a wise lover of himself, and a sincere lover of his kind,\nwould do well to fix in;--not indeed as the scene of a brilliant or\nsybarite existence, but as the post of that salutary influence which\nsinks deepest; and of that usefulness and happiness which last the\nlongest; as most visibly incorporated with, and represented by, our\nfellow-beings.--_Edinburgh Review._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nINFANCY.\n\n(_From the Feuilles d'Automne of Victor Hugo, translated in the Foreign\nQuarterly Review._)\n\n\n  In the dusky court,\n  Near the altar laid,\n  Sleeps the child in shadow,\n    Of his mother's bed:\n  Softly he reposes,\n  And his lids of roses.\n  Closed to earth, uncloses\n    On the heaven o'erhead.\n\n  Many a dream is with him,\n  Fresh from the fairy land,\n  Spangled o'er with diamonds\n    Seems the ocean sand;\n  Suns are gleaming there.\n  Troops of ladies fair\n  Souls of infants bear\n    In their charming hand.\n\n  O, enchanting vision,\n  Lo, a rill up-springs,\n  And, from out its bosom\n    Comes a voice that sings.\n  Lovelier there appear\n  Sire and sisters dear,\n  While his mother near,\n    Plumes her new-born wings.\n\n  But a brighter vision\n  Yet his eyes behold;\n  Roses all, and lilies,\n    Every path enfold;\n  Lakes in shadow sleeping,\n  Silver fishes leaping,\n  And the waters creeping,\n    Through the reeds of gold.\n\n  Slumber on, sweet infant.\n  Slumber peacefully;\n  Thy young soul yet knows not\n    What thy lot may be.\n  Like dead leaves that sweep\n  Down the stormy deep,\n  Thou art borne in sleep,\n    What is all to thee?\n\n  Thou canst slumber by the way;\n  Thou hast learnt to borrow\n  Naught from study, naught from care;\n    The cold hand of sorrow,\n  On thy brow unwrinkled yet,\n  Where young truth and candour sit,\n  Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ\n    That sad word, \"To-morrow.\"\n\n  Innocent, thou sleepest--\n  See the heavenly band.\n  Who foreknow the trials\n    That for man are planned;\n  Seeing him unarmed,\n  Unfearing, un-alarmed,\n  With their tears have warmed\n    His unconscious hand.\n\n  Angels, hovering o'er him,\n  Kiss him where he lies.\n  Hark, he sees them weeping,\n    \"Gabriel,\" he cries;\n  \"Hush,\" the angel says,\n  On his lip be lays\n  One finger, one displays\n    His native skies.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nSTATE OF SOCIETY IN NEW SOUTH WALES.\n\n\nThe following exhibits but a lamentable picture of the \"milk and honey\"\nof this favoured land:\n\n\"The morals of the colony of New South Wales are of an exceedingly\ndepraved description. It is so far from being a country where men begin\na new life and enter upon a fresh course with resolutions of amendment,\nthat the testimony of all respectable men examined on the subject unites\nin asserting that the habits of the freed men, even of those who have\nacquired property and have families, are of the most dissipated\ncharacter. Of the emancipists, to whom grants of land have been made and\nwho are often wealthy, very few, not more it is said than half a dozen,\ncan be selected whose lives are not of a vicious description, who do not\nindulge in dishonest practices of one sort or another, and who have not\nrisen to wealth by fostering and practising some species of villany.\nThese men procure convicts to be assigned to them, who become members of\nthe families, and assist them in carrying on their various frauds. In\nSydney the grog shops are very numerous, and grog shops are receiving\nhouses. A constant trade in stolen goods is going on between Sydney and\nthe remotest parts of the colony, and even between Sydney and this\ncountry. The convicts in remote settlements have no means generally of\nindulging in licentiousness, but they see constantly before them the\nfreed labourer who has, and they burn to enjoy similar privileges: and\nshould their place of occupation be too remote from a theatre of\nindulgence, they get a week of holiday at Sydney, where they arrive in\nnumbers, and, for the time they stay, wallow in every species of\ndebauchery. In such a state of society the public standard of morality\nmust necessarily fall to a very low degree. The leaven spreads from the\ncorrupted part into the whole mass. Just as the slang of London thieves\nis become the classical language of Sydney, so do necessarily a\nfamiliarity with crime, hatred to law, and contempt for virtue, make\ntheir way into the minds and hearts of those who are untainted with\nactual crime. So far from a reformation being even begun in New South\nWales, it would seem that roguery had been carried a degree beyond even\nthe perfection it has reached here. Property is very insecure in Sydney,\nand the most extraordinary robberies take place. Mr. James Walker, in\nhis evidence before a committee of the House of Commons, says 'the\ncolony has a curious effect upon the most practised thieves in this\ncountry; one of the most experienced thieves in London has _something to\nlearn_ when he comes out there; probably he would be robbed the first\nnight he came into his hut.' This was the answer given by an experienced\nsettler to the question, whether he thought any considerable degree of\nreformation took place among the convicts residing at a distance from\nSydney. It is nearly impossible that it should be otherwise. The master\ncan only punish his servant by travelling with him some twenty or thirty\nmiles to a police magistrate, by which he loses his own time, the labour\nof his servant, perhaps for months, if he is condemned to a road gang,\nand after his return has little advantage from his services.\nUnwillingness to work for a master who has been the cause of his\npunishment is a difficult feeling to counteract. The convict has the\ngame in his own hands: he either does no work, wounds himself, falls\nsick, or perhaps, and it is not uncommon, spoils either the materials\nentrusted to him, or the tools which have been put into his hands.\n\n\"Mr. Busby, when asked respecting the prevalence of bush-rangers, who\nare escaped convicts and others who have taken to the bush, says, in his\nEvidence (5th Aug. 1831,) that within the last twelve months, or two\nyears, bush-rangers have been so numerous that it was scarcely possible\nto travel a hundred miles on the road without being stopped: there was\nscarcely a newspaper, in which there were not two or three instances of\npersons, of every rank, being stopped. It was quite an unusual thing\nformerly--but of late there has been a regular system of highway\nrobbery. The laws that have been enacted to put down this horrible state\nof things, will serve for an index of the condition of the colony. They\ndo away with every appearance of personal liberty. 'One act empowered\nmagistrates to issue a warrant, authorizing constables to enter or break\ninto any house, within their district or county, by day or night, at\ntheir own discretion; and to seize any person they might suspect to be\nhighway robbers or burglars; or any individual in the colony, without\nany warrant or authority, may take another into custody, on the mere\nsuspicion that he is a convict illegally at large: if it appear to the\nmagistrate that he had a just or probable cause for suspicion, he is\njustified in doing so. The onus of proving that he is not a convict\nillegally at large, is thrown upon the suspected person, and if that is\nnot established to the satisfaction of the magistrate, he is liable to\nbe retained in custody, or sent to Sydney to be examined and dealt\nwith.'\n\n\"The number of executions in New South Wales in the year 1830 exceeded\nthe whole number of executions in England and Wales, in the same year;\nwhich, taking the proportion of the populations of the countries, makes\ncapital punishments upwards of three hundred and twenty-five times as\nfrequent as in the mother country. This horrid fact is pretty well, of\nitself, an answer to all argument drawn from the idea of Reformation.\nBut direct testimony is abundant. Major McArthur, the son of one of the\nwealthiest and most extensive settlers in the colony, and to whom it\nowes so much for its present progress in production and commerce,\nstates, 'It is painful to know that those whose sentences have expired,\nor to whom pardons have been granted, seldom or ever incline to reform,\neven when they have acquired property. Intoxication and fraud are\nhabitual to them; and hardly six persons can be named throughout the\ncolony, who, being educated men, and having been transported for\nfelonies, have afterwards become sober, moral, and industrious members\nof the community. Crime is of constant occurrence, and so completely\norganized, that cattle are carried off from the settlers in large\nnumbers, and slaughtered for the traders in Sydney, who contract with\nthe commissariat. It is not, therefore, the vicious habits alone of the\ntown which are to be dreaded, but the effects that are communicated and\nfelt throughout the country. The agricultural labourer is encouraged to\nplunder his master, by finding a ready sale for the property he steals,\nand whenever his occupations call him to the towns, he sees and yields\nhimself to the vicious habits around him. He returns intoxicated and\nunsettled to his employer's farm, and incites his comrades to the same\nsensual indulgences, with equal disregard of the risk and the\nconsequences. To these causes the present vitiated and disorganized\nstate of the convicts in New South Wales is chiefly attributable; and\nthe extent of the evil maybe in some degree estimated, when it is stated\n_that the expense of the police establishment amounts to more_ than\n20,000_l_. per annum for a population of 40,000 souls.\"\n\n_Foreign Quarterly Review._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE GATHERER\n\n\n_Premiers._--The following list of premiers, from the accession of\nGeorge III. to 1832, with the number of peers created during their\nrespective premierships, may be acceptable at the present period:--Lord\nChatham, 9; Lord Bute, 9; George Grenville, 4; Lord Rockingham, 4; Duke\nof Grafton, none; Lord North, 27; Lord Shelburn, none; Mr. Fox, 7; Mr.\nPitt, 90; Mr. Addington, 24; Lord Grenville, 3; Duke of Portland, 4; Mr.\nPerceval, none; Lord Liverpool, 50; Mr. Canning, 7; Lord Goderich, 6;\nDuke of Wellington, 2; and Earl Grey, 25.--W.G.C.\n\n_Peers_.--Number of peers (in the present peerage) created by each\nsovereign, from the reign of Henry III. (1264) to the accession of his\npresent majesty:--Henry III., 2; Edward I., 7; Edward II., 6; Edward\nIII., 1; Henry VI., 5; Henry VII, 1; Henry VIII., 6; Edward VI., 2;\nMary, 2; Elizabeth, 8; James I., 15; Charles I., 10; Charles II., 16;\nJames II., 1; William III., 7; Anne, 14; George I., 15; George II., 20;\nGeorge III., 145; George IV., 46. W.G.C.\n\n_Theatrical Property in France_.--A dramatic author in France is\nentitled, every night that his play is performed, to a fixed sum per\nact, viz. 10 francs, for Paris; 5 francs for the large theatres in the\ncountry; 3 francs for the second-rate provincial theatres; and 2 francs\nfor the third-rate. A bureau is established by government, to receive\nthe contributions, and any manager neglecting to make a return, is\npunished by a heavy fine; the amount of which goes to the author. The\nadvantages arising from this system are also enjoyed by the widow and\nchildren of the author. It is calculated that the author of the _Ecole\ndes Viellards_, derives nightly, from the performance of that piece, in\nParis, and the provinces, about 500 francs. Scribe, a successful\n_vaudeville_ writer, is in receipt of a handsome income; and Merle was\nable, from the contributions upon his pieces, to open the Port St.\nMartin Theatre, upon a liberal scale, and thus to lay the foundation of\na brilliant fortune. T. GILL.\n\n_A Magdalene_.---A French bishop preaching, exclaimed, \"A Magdalene is\npresent, she is looking at me, I will not mention her name, but I will\nthrow my book at her.\" He then raised his arm as if to put his threat\ninto execution, when all the women in the church ducked their heads.\n\"What,\" said he, \"all Magdalenes.\" SWAINE.\n\n_Unwelcome Title_.--Charles Incledon, the vocalist, being asked if he\nhad ever read Murray's _Sermons to Asses_, replied, \"he had not, he did\nnot like the book, the title was too personal.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset\nHouse.) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, Leipsic, G.G.\nBENNIS, 55, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris; and by all Newsmen and\nBooksellers._","title":"The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 547, May 19, 1832","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":12612}