{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54258/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54258","id":"gutenberg_54258","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54258","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - British","Category: Journals","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Ireland -- Periodicals"],"text":"THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.\n\n         NUMBER 16.     SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1840.    VOLUME I.\n\n[Illustration: THE CASTLE AND LAKE OF INCHIQUIN, COUNTY OF CLARE.]\n\nConnemara itself, now so celebrated for its lakes and mountains, was not\nless unknown a few years since than the greater portion of the county\nof Clare. Without roads, or houses of entertainment for travellers, its\nmagnificent coast and other scenery were necessarily unvisited by the\npleasure tourists, and but little appreciated even by their inhabitants\nthemselves. But Clare can no longer be said to be an unvisited district:\nthe recent formation of roads has opened to observation many features of\ninterest previously inaccessible to the traveller, and its singular coast\nscenery--the most sublimely magnificent in the British islands, if not in\nEurope--has at least been made known to the public by topographical and\nscientific explorers--it has become an attractive locality to artists and\npleasure tourists, and will doubtless be visited by increasing numbers of\nsuch persons in each successive year.\n\nThere is however as yet in this county too great a deficiency in the\nnumber of respectable houses of entertainment suited to the habits\nof pleasure tourists; for though the wealthier and more educated\nclasses in the British empire are becoming daily a more travelling and\npicturesque-hunting genus, they will not be content to live on fine\nscenery, but must have food for the body as well as for the mind; and\ntruly they must be enthusiastic lovers of the picturesque, who, to\ngratify their taste, will subject themselves to the vicissitudes of such\nan uncertain climate as ours, without the certainty of such consoling\ncomforts as are afforded in a clean and comfortable inn.\n\nYet we do not despair of seeing this want soon supplied. Wherever there\nis a demand for a commodity it will not be long wanting; and the people\nof Clare are too sagacious not to perceive, however slowly, the practical\nwisdom of holding out every inducement of this kind to those who might\nbe disposed to visit them and spend their money among them. The first\nstep necessary, however, to produce such results in any little frequented\ndistrict, is to make its objects of interest known to the public by the\npencil and the pen--the rest will follow in due course; and our best\nefforts, such as they are, shall not be unexerted towards effecting such\nan important good as well for Clare as for many other as yet little known\nlocalities of our country.\n\nClare is indeed on many accounts deserving of greater attention than\nit has hitherto received. It is a county rich in attractions for the\ngeologist and naturalist, and interesting in the highest degree to\nthe lovers of the picturesque. With a surface singularly broken and\ndiversified, full of mountains, hills, lakes, and rivers, dotted all over\nwith every class of ancient remains, its scenery is peculiarly Irish, and\nthough of a somewhat melancholy aspect, it is never wanting in a poetic\nand historic interest. Such a district is not indeed exactly suited to\nthe tastes of the common scenery-hunter, for it possesses but little of\nthat woody and artificially adorned scenery which he requires, and can\nalone enjoy; and hence it has usually been described by tourists and\ntopographers with a coldness which shows how little its peculiarities had\nimpressed their feelings, and how incompetent they were to communicate to\nothers a just estimate of its character. Let us take as an example the\nnotice given by the writers of Lewis\u2019s Topographical Dictionary, of one\nof the Clare beauties of which the natives are most proud--the caverns\ncalled the To-meens or To-mines, near Kiltanan:--\n\n\u201cAt Kiltanan is a succession of limestone caverns, through which a\nrivulet takes its course: these are much visited in summer; many\npetrified shells are found in the limestone, some of which are nearly\nperfect, and--_very curious_!\u201d\n\nThis it must be confessed is cold enough; but the description of the same\nlocality given by our friend the author of the Guide through Ireland, is,\nas our readers will see, not a whit warmer. It is as follows:--\n\n\u201cA mile from Tulla is Kiltanan, the handsome residence of James Moloney,\nEsq.; and in addition to the pleasure of a well-kept residence, in a\nnaked and sadly neglected country, _some interest_ is excited by the\nsubterraneous course of the rivulet called the To-meens, which waters\nthis demesne!\u201d\n\nNow, would any person be induced by such descriptions as those to\nvisit the said To-meens? We suspect not. But hear with what delight a\nnative writer of this county actually revels in a description of these\nremarkable caves:--\n\n\u201cAbout a mile N. W. of Tulla lies the river of Kiltanan, and Milltown,\nfamous for its ever-amazing and elegant subterraneous curiosities,\ncalled the To-mines: they form a part of the river, midway between\nKiltanan House and the Castle of Milltown, extending under ground for a\nspace, which (from its invisible winding banks and crystal meanders) may\nreasonably be computed a quarter of an English mile: they are vaulted,\nand sheltered with a solid rock, transmitting a sufficiency of light and\nair by intermediate chinks and apertures gradually offering at certain\nintervals.\n\nAt each side of this Elysian-like river are roomy passages or rather\napartments, freely communicating one with the other, and scarcely\nobvious to any inclemency whatsoever: they are likewise decorated with\na sandy beach level along to walk on, whilst the curious spectators are\ncrowned with garlands of ivy, hanging in triplets from the impending\nrocky shades: numbers of the sporting game, the wily fox, the wary hare,\nand the multiplying rabbit, &c. merrily parading in view of their own\nsingular and various absconding haunts and retreats. Ingenious nature\nthus entertains her welcome visitants from the entrance to the extremity\nof the To-mines. Lo! when parting liberally rewarded, and amply satisfied\nwith such egregious and wonderful exhibitions, a bridge or arch over\nthe same river, curiously composed of solid stone, appears to them as a\nlively representation of an artificial one.\n\nWhat can the much boasted of Giants\u2019 Causeway, in the north of this\nkingdom, produce but scenes of horror and obscurity? whilst the To-mines\nof the barony of Tulla, like unto the artificial beauties of the Latomi\nof Syracuse, freely exhibit the most natural and pleasing appearances.\n\nLet the literati and curious, after taking the continental tour of\nEurope, praise and even write of the imaginary beauties and natural\ncuriosities of Italy and Switzerland--pray, let them also, on a cool\nreflection, repair to the county of Clare, view and touch upon the truly\nsubterraneous and really unartificial curiosities of the To-mines: they\nwill impartially admit that these naturally enchanting rarities may be\nfreely visited, and generously treated of, by the ingenious and learned\nof this and after ages.\u201d--_A Short Tour, or an Impartial and Accurate\nDescription of the County of Clare, by John Lloyd, Ennis; 1780._\n\nExcellent. Mr Lloyd! Your style is indeed a _little_ peculiar, and\nwhat some would think extravagant and grotesque; but you describe with\nfeeling, and we shall certainly visit your To-meens next summer. But\nin the mean time we must notice another Clare lion, of which you have\ngiven us no account--the lake and castle, which we have drawn as an\nembellishment to our present number. This is a locality respecting the\nbeauty of which there can be no difference of opinion: it has all the\ncircumstances which give interest to a landscape--wood, water, lake,\nmountain, and ancient ruin--and the effect of their combination is\nsingularly enhanced by the surprise created by the appearance of a scene\nso delightful in a district wild, rocky, and unimproved.\n\nThe lake of Inchiquin is situated in the parish of Kilnaboy, barony\nof Inchiquin, and is about two miles and a half in circumference. It\nis bounded on its western side by a range of hills rugged but richly\nwooded, and rising abruptly from its margin; and on its southern side,\nthe domain surrounding the residence of the Burton family, and the\nornamental grounds of Adelphi, the residence of W. and F. Fitzgerald,\nEsqrs. contribute to adorn a scene of remarkable natural beauty. One\nsolitary island alone appears on its surface, unless that be ranked as\none on which the ancient castle is situated, and which may originally\nhave been insulated, though no longer so. The castle, which is situated\nat the northern side of the lake, though greatly dilapidated, is still a\npicturesque and interesting ruin, consisting of the remains of a barbican\ntower, keep, and old mansion-house attached to it; and its situation on\na rocky island or peninsula standing out in the smooth water, with its\ngrey walls relieved by the dark masses of the wooded hills behind, is\neminently striking and imposing.\n\nIt is from this island or peninsula that the barony takes its name; and\nfrom this also the chief of the O\u2019Briens, the Marquis of Thomond, derives\nhis more ancient title of Earl of Inchiquin. For a long period it was the\nprincipal residence of the chiefs of this great family, to one of whom it\nunquestionably owes its origin; but we have not been able to ascertain\nwith certainty the name of its founder, or date of its erection. There\nis, however, every reason to ascribe its foundation to Tiege O\u2019Brien,\nking or lord of Thomond, who died, according to the Annals of the Four\nMasters, in 1466, as he is the first of his name on record who made\nit his residence, and as its architectural features are most strictly\ncharacteristic of the style of the age in which he flourished.\n\nBut though the erection of this castle is properly to be ascribed to the\nO\u2019Briens, it is a great error in the writers of Lewis\u2019s Topographical\nDictionary to state that it has been from time immemorial the property\nof the O\u2019Brien family. The locality, as its name indicates, and as\nhistory and tradition assure us, was the ancient residence of the\nO\u2019Quins, a family of equal antiquity with the O\u2019Briens, and of the same\nstock--namely, the Dal Cas or descendants of Cormac Cas, the son of\nOllioll Oluim, who was monarch of Ireland in the beginning of the third\ncentury. The O\u2019Quins were chiefs of the clan called Hy-Ifearnan, and\ntheir possessions were bounded by those of the O\u2019Deas on the east, the\nO\u2019Loughlins and O\u2019Conors (Corcomroe) on the west and north-west, the\nO\u2019Hynes on the north, and the O\u2019Hehirs on the south. At what period or\nfrom what circumstance the O\u2019Quins lost their ancient patrimony, we have\nnot been able to discover; but it would appear to have been about the\nmiddle or perhaps close of the fourteenth century, to which time their\ngenealogy as chiefs is recorded in that invaluable repository of Irish\nfamily history, the Book of Mac Firbis; and it would seem most probable\nthat they were transplanted by the O\u2019Briens about this period to the\ncounty of Limerick, in which they are subsequently found. Their removal\nis indeed differently accounted for in a popular legend still current in\nthe barony, and which, according to our recollections of it, is to the\nfollowing effect:\n\nIn the youth of the last O\u2019Quin of Inchiquin, he saw from his residence a\nnumber of swans of singular beauty frequenting the west side of the lake,\nand wandering along its shore. Wishing, if possible, to possess himself\nof one of them, he was in the habit of concealing himself among the rocks\nand woods in its vicinity, hoping that he might take them by surprise,\nand he was at length successful: one of them became his captive, and was\nsecretly carried to his residence, when, to his amazement and delight,\nthrowing off her downy covering, she assumed the form of a beautiful\nwoman, and shortly after became his wife. Previous to the marriage,\nhowever, she imposed certain conditions on her lover as the price of\nher consent, to which he willingly agreed. These were--first, that\ntheir union should be kept secret; secondly, that he should not receive\nany visitors at his mansion, particularly those of the O\u2019Briens; and,\nlastly, that he should wholly abstain from gambling. For some years these\nconditions were strictly adhered to; they lived in happiness together,\nand two children blessed their union. But it happened unfortunately\nat length that at the neighbouring races at Cood he fell in with the\nO\u2019Briens, by whom he was hospitably treated; and being induced to indulge\nin too much wine, he forgot his engagements to his wife, and invited\nthem to his residence on a certain day to repay their kindness to him.\nHis wife heard of this invitation with sadness, but proceeded without\nremonstrance to prepare the feast for his guests. But she did not grace\nit with her presence; and when the company had assembled, and were\nengaged in merriment, she withdrew to her own apartment, to which she\ncalled her children, and after embracing them in a paroxysm of grief,\nwhich they could not account for, she took her original feathery covering\nfrom a press in which it had been kept, arrayed herself in it, and\nassuming her pristine shape, plunged into the lake, and was never seen\nafterwards. On the same night, O\u2019Quin, again forgetful of the promises\nhe had made her, engaged in play with Tiege-an-Cood O\u2019Brien, the most\ndistinguished of his guests, and lost the whole of his property.\n\nThe reader is at liberty to believe as much or as little of this story\nas he pleases: but at all events the legend is valuable in a historical\npoint of view, as indicating the period when the lands of Inchiquin\npassed into the hands of the O\u2019Brien family; nor is it wholly improbable\nthat under the guise of a wild legend may be concealed some indistinct\ntradition of such a real occurrence as that O\u2019Quin made a union long kept\nhidden, with a person of inferior station, and that its discovery drew\ndown upon his head the vengeance of his proud compeers, and led to their\nremoval to another district of the chiefs of the clan Hy-Ifearnan.\n\nBe this, however, as it may, the ancient family of O\u2019Quin--more fortunate\nthan most other Irish families of noble origin--has never sunk into\nobscurity, or been without a representative of aristocratic rank; and it\ncan at present boast of a representative among the nobility of the empire\nin the person of its justly presumed chief, the noble Earl of Dunraven.\n\nWe have thus slightly touched on the history of the O\u2019Quins, not only as\nit was connected with that of the locality which we had to illustrate,\nbut also as necessary to correct a great error into which Burke and other\nmodern genealogists have fallen in their accounts of the origin of the\nname and descent of this family. Thus it is stated by those writers that\n\u201cthe surname is derived from Con Ceadcaha, or Con of the hundred battles,\nmonarch of Ireland in the second century, whose grandson was called Cuinn\n(rather O\u2019Cuinn), that is, the descendant of Con, when he wielded the\nsceptre in 254.\u201d But those writers should not have been ignorant that\nCon, which literally signifies the powerful, was a common name in Ireland\nboth in Christian and Pagan times; and still more, they should not have\nbeen ignorant of the important fact for a genealogist, that the use of\nsurnames was unknown in Ireland till the close of the tenth century. The\nstory is altogether a silly fiction; and as the real origin of the family\nappears to be now unknown even to themselves, and as their pedigree has\nnever as yet been printed, we are tempted to give it in an English form,\ntranslated from the original, preserved in the books of Lecan and Duald\nMac Firbis:--\n\n    \u201cConor O\u2019Quinn,\n    the son of Donell,\n\n          ---- Donell,\n\n          ---- Thomas,\n\n          ---- Donell,\n\n          ---- Donogh,\n\n          ---- Giolla Seanain,\n\n          ---- Donogh,\n\n          ---- Morough,\n\n          ---- Corc, who was the tutor of Murtogh O\u2019Brien (the great\n                 grandson of Brian Boru),\n\n          ---- Feidhleachair,\n\n          ---- Niall, who was henchman to Morough, the son of Brian\n                 Boru, whose fate he shared in the battle of Clontarf,\n\n          ---- Conn, from whom the name is derived.\u201d\n\nThe pedigree is carried up from this Con through eighteen generations to\nCormac Cas, the son of Ollioll Oluim, and the common progenitor of all\nthe tribes of the Dal-Cassians.\n\nIn this notice we may add, as an evidence of the ancient rank of the\nfamily, that the Irish annalists at the year 1188 record the death of\nEdaoin, the daughter of O\u2019Quin, Queen of Munster, on her pilgrimage at\nDerry in that year. She appears to have been the wife of Mortogh O\u2019Brien,\nwho died without issue in 1168, and was succeeded by his brother Donald\nMore, the last king of all Munster.\n\nThe Castle of Inchiquin is referred to in the Irish Annals as the\nresidence of the chiefs of the O\u2019Brien family, at the years 1542, 1559,\nand 1573; but the notices contain no interest to the general reader.\n\n                                                                       P.\n\n\n\n\nANCIENT IRISH LITERATURE--No. II.\n\n\nIn a preceding paper under this heading we lately gave a sample from the\nlighter class of native Irish poetry of the seventeenth century, namely,\n\u201cThe Woman of Three Cows.\u201d We have now to present our readers with a\nspecimen of a more serious character, belonging to the same age--an Elegy\non the death of the Tironian and Tirconnellian princes, who having fled\nwith others from Ireland in the year 1607, and afterwards dying at Rome,\nwere there interred on St Peter\u2019s Hill, in one grave.\n\nThe poem is the production of O\u2019Donnell\u2019s bard, Owen Roe Mac an Bhaird,\nor Ward, who accompanied the family in their flight, and is addressed\nto Nuala, O\u2019Donnell\u2019s sister, who was also one of the fugitives. As the\ncircumstances connected with the flight of the Northern Earls, and which\nled to the subsequent confiscation of the six Ulster Counties by James\nI., may not be immediately in the recollection of many of our readers, it\nmay be proper briefly to state, that their departure from this country\nwas caused by the discovery of a letter directed to Sir William Ussher,\nClerk of the Council, which was dropped in the Council-chamber on the\n7th of May, and which accused the Northern chieftains generally of a\nconspiracy to overthrow the government. Whether this charge was founded\nin truth or not, it is not necessary for us to express any opinion; but\nas in some degree necessary to the illustration of the poem, and as\nan interesting piece of hitherto unpublished literature in itself, we\nshall here, as a preface to the poem, extract the following account of\nthe flight of the Northern Earls, as recorded in the Annals of the Four\nMasters, and translated by Mr O\u2019Donovan:--\n\n\u201cMaguire (Cuconnaught) and Donogh, son of Mahon, who was son of the\nBishop O\u2019Brien, sailed in a ship to Ireland, and put in at the harbour\nof Swilly. They then took with them from Ireland the Earl O\u2019Neill (Hugh,\nson of Ferdoragh) and the Earl O\u2019Donnell (Rory, son of Hugh, who was son\nof Magnus) and many others of the nobles of the province of Ulster. These\nare the persons who went with O\u2019Neill, namely, his Countess, Catherina,\ndaughter of Magennis, and her three sons; Hugh, the Baron, John and\nBrian; Art Oge, son of Cormac, who was son of the Baron; Ferdoragh, son\nof Con, who was son of O\u2019Neill; Hugh Oge, son of Brian, who was son of\nArt O\u2019Neill; and many others of his most intimate friends. These were\nthey who went with the Earl O\u2019Donnell, namely, Caffer, his brother, with\nhis sister Nuala; Hugh, the Earl\u2019s child, wanting three weeks of being\none year old; Rose, daughter of O\u2019Doherty and wife of Caffer, with her\nson Hugh, aged two years and three months; his (Rory\u2019s) brother son\nDonnell Oge, son of Donnell, Naghtan son of Calvach, who was son of\nDonogh Cairbreach O\u2019Donnell, and many others of his intimate friends.\nThey embarked on the Festival of the Holy Cross in Autumn.\n\nThis was a distinguished company; and it is certain that the sea has not\nborne and the wind has not wafted in modern times a number of persons\nin one ship more eminent, illustrious or noble, in point of genealogy,\nheroic deeds, valour, feats of arms, and brave achievements, than they.\nWould that God had but permitted them to remain in their patrimonial\ninheritances until the children should arrive at the age of manhood! Woe\nto the heart that meditated, woe to the mind that conceived, woe to the\ncouncil that recommended the project of this expedition, without knowing\nwhether they should, to the end of their lives, be able to return to\ntheir native principalities or patrimonies.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAN ELEGY ON THE TIRONIAN AND TIRCONNELLIAN PRINCES BURIED AT ROME.\n\n\u201cA bhean fuair faill air an ffeart!\u201d\n\n\n    O, Woman of the Piercing Wail,\n      Who mournest o\u2019er yon mound of clay\n            With sigh and groan,\n    Would God thou wert among the Gael!\n      Thou wouldst not then from day to day\n            Weep thus alone.\n    \u2019Twere long before, around a grave\n      In green Tirconnell, one could find\n            This loneliness;\n    Near where Beann-Boirche\u2019s banners wave\n      Such grief as thine could ne\u2019er have pined\n            Companionless.\n\n    Beside the wave, in Donegall,\n      In Antrim\u2019s glens, or fair Dromore,\n            Or Killilee,\n    Or where the sunny waters fall,\n      At Assaroe, near Erna\u2019s shore,\n            This could not be.\n    On Derry\u2019s plains--in rich Drumclieff--\n      Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned\n            In olden years,\n    No day could pass but Woman\u2019s grief\n      Would rain upon the burial-ground\n            Fresh floods of tears!\n\n    O, no!--from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,\n      From high Dunluce\u2019s castle-walls,\n            From Lissadill,\n    Would flock alike both rich and poor,\n      One wail would rise from Cruachan\u2019s halls\n            To Tara\u2019s hill;\n    And some would come from Barrow-side,\n      And many a maid would leave her home\n            On Leitrim\u2019s plains,\n    And by melodious Banna\u2019s tide,\n      And by the Mourne and Erne, to come\n            And swell thy strains!\n\n    O, horses\u2019 hoofs would trample down\n      The Mount whereon the martyr-saint[1]\n            Was crucified.\n    From glen and hill, from plain and town,\n      One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,\n            Would echo wide.\n    There would not soon be found, I ween,\n      One foot of ground among those bands\n            For museful thought,\n    So many shriekers of the _keen_[2]\n      Would cry aloud, and clap their hands,\n            All woe-distraught!\n\n    Two princes of the line of Conn\n      Sleep in their cells of clay beside\n            O\u2019Donnell Roe:\n    Three royal youths, alas! are gone,\n      Who lived for Erin\u2019s weal, but died\n            For Erin\u2019s woe!\n    Ah! could the men of Ireland read\n      The names these noteless burial-stones\n            Display to view\n    Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed.\n      Their tears gush forth again, their groans\n            Resound anew!\n\n    The youths whose relics moulder here\n      Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord\n            Of Aileach\u2019s lands;\n    Thy noble brothers, justly dear,\n      Thy nephew, long to be deplored\n            By Ulster\u2019s bands.\n    Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time\n      Could domicile Decay or house\n            Decrepitude!\n    They passed from Earth ere Manhood\u2019s prime,\n      Ere years had power to dim their brows\n            Or chill their blood.\n\n    And who can marvel o\u2019er thy grief,\n      Or who can blame thy flowing tears,\n            That knows their source?\n    O\u2019Donnell, Dunnasava\u2019s chief,\n      Cut off amid his vernal years,\n            Lies here a corse\n    Beside his brother Cathbar, whom\n      Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns\n            In deep despair--\n    For valour, truth, and comely bloom,\n      For all that greatens and adorns,\n            A peerless pair.\n\n    O, had these twain, and he, the third,\n      The Lord of Mourne, O\u2019Niall\u2019s son,\n            Their mate in death--\n    A prince in look, in deed, and word--\n      Had these three heroes yielded on\n            The field their breath,\n    O, had they fallen on Criffan\u2019s plain,\n      There would not be a town or clan\n            From shore to sea,\n    But would with shrieks bewail the Slain,\n      Or chant aloud the exulting _rann_[3]\n            Of jubilee!\n\n    When high the shout of battle rose,\n      On fields where Freedom\u2019s torch still burned\n            Through Erin\u2019s gloom,\n    If one, if barely one of those\n      Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned\n            The hero\u2019s doom!\n    If at Athboy, where hosts of brave\n      Ulidian horsemen sank beneath\n            The shock of spears,\n    Young Hugh O\u2019Neill had found a grave,\n      Long must the North have wept his death\n            With heart-wrung tears!\n\n    If on the day of Ballach-myre\n      The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young,\n            A warrior\u2019s fate,\n    In vain would such as thou desire\n      To mourn, alone, the champion sprung\n            From Niall the Great!\n    No marvel this--for all the Dead,\n      Heaped on the field, pile over pile,\n            At Mullach-brack,\n    Were scarce an _eric_[4] for his head,\n      If Death had stayed his footsteps while\n            On victory\u2019s track!\n\n    If on the Day of Hostages\n      The fruit had from the parent bough\n            Been rudely torn\n    In sight of Munster\u2019s bands--Mac-Nee\u2019s\n      Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,\n            Could ill have borne.\n    If on the day of Ballach-boy\n      Some arm had laid, by foul surprise,\n            The chieftain low,\n    Even our victorious shout of joy\n      Would soon give place to rueful cries\n            And groans of woe!\n\n    If on the day the Saxon host\n      Were forced to fly--a day so great\n            For Ashanee[5]--\n    The Chief had been untimely lost,\n      Our conquering troops should moderate\n            Their mirthful glee.\n    There would not lack on Lifford\u2019s day,\n      From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,\n            From Limerick\u2019s towers,\n    A marshalled file, a long array.\n      Of mourners to bedew the soil\n            With tears in showers!\n\n    If on the day a sterner fate\n      Compelled his flight from Athenree,\n            His blood had flowed,\n    What numbers all disconsolate\n      Would come unasked, and share with thee\n            Affliction\u2019s load!\n    If Derry\u2019s crimson field had seen\n      His life-blood offered up, though \u2019twere\n            On Victory\u2019s shrine,\n    A thousand cries would swell the _keen_,\n      A thousand voices of despair\n            Would echo thine!\n\n    O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm\n      That bloody night on Fergus\u2019 banks,\n            But slain our Chief,\n    When rose his camp in wild alarm--\n      How would the triumph of his ranks\n            Be dashed with grief!\n    How would the troops of Murbach mourn\n      If on the Curlew Mountains\u2019 day,\n            Which England rued,\n    Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,\n      By shedding there, amid the fray,\n            Their prince\u2019s blood!\n\n    Red would have been our warriors\u2019 eyes\n      Had Roderick found on Sligo\u2019s field\n            A gory grave,\n    No Northern Chief would soon arise\n      So sage to guide, so strong to shield,\n            So swift to save.\n    Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept, if Hugh\n      Had met the death he oft had dealt\n            Among the foe;\n    But, had our Roderick fallen too,\n      All Erin must, alas! have felt\n            The deadly blow!\n\n    What do I say? Ah, woe is me!\n      Already we bewail in vain\n            Their fatal fall:\n    And Erin, once the Great and Free,\n      Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,\n            And iron thrall!\n    Then, daughter of O\u2019Donnell! dry\n      Thine overflowing eyes, and turn\n            Thy heart aside!\n    For Adam\u2019s race is born to die,\n      And sternly the sepulchral urn\n            Mocks human pride!\n\n    Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,\n      Nor place thy trust in arm of clay--\n            But on thy knees\n    Uplift thy soul to GOD alone,\n      For all things go their destined way\n            As He decrees.\n    Embrace the faithful Crucifix,\n      And seek the path of pain and prayer\n            Thy Saviour trod;\n    Nor let thy spirit intermix\n      With earthly hope and worldly care\n            Its groans to GOD!\n\n    And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways\n      Are far above our feeble minds\n            To understand,\n    Sustain us in these doleful days,\n      And render light the chain that binds\n            Our fallen land!\n    Look down upon our dreary state,\n      And through the ages that may still\n            Roll sadly on,\n    Watch Thou o\u2019er hapless Erin\u2019s fate,\n      And shield at least from darker ill\n            The blood of Conn!\n\n    M.\n\n[1] St Peter. This passage is not exactly a blunder, though at first it\nmay seem one: the poet supposes the grave itself transferred to Ireland,\nand he naturally includes in the transference the whole of the immediate\nlocality around the grave.--TR.\n\n[2] _Caoine._\n\n[3] Song.\n\n[4] A compensation or fine.\n\n[5] Ballyshannon.\n\n\n\n\nBOB PENTLAND, OR THE GAUGER OUTWITTED.\n\nBY WILLIAM CARLETON.\n\n\nThat the Irish are a ready-witted people, is a fact to the truth of which\ntestimony has been amply borne both by their friends and enemies. Many\ncauses might be brought forward to account for this questionable gift,\nif it were our intention to be philosophical; but as the matter has been\nso generally conceded, it would be but a waste of logic to prove to the\nworld that which the world cares not about, beyond the mere fact that\nit is so. On this or any other topic one illustration is worth twenty\narguments, and, accordingly, instead of broaching a theory we shall\nrelate a story.\n\nBehind the hill or rather mountain of Altnaveenan lies one of those deep\nand almost precipitous vallies, on which the practised eye of an illicit\ndistiller would dwell with delight, as a topography not likely to be\ninvaded by the unhallowed feet of the gauger and his red-coats. In point\nof fact, the spot we speak of was from its peculiarly isolated situation\nnearly invisible, unless to such as came very close to it. Being so\ncompletely hemmed in and concealed by the round and angular projections\nof the mountain hills, you could never dream of its existence at all,\nuntil you came upon the very verge of the little precipitous gorge which\nled into it. This advantage of position was not, however, its only one.\nIt is true indeed that the moment you had entered it, all possibility of\nits being applied to the purposes of distillation at once vanished, and\nyou consequently could not help exclaiming, \u201cwhat a pity that so safe\nand beautiful a nook should have not a single spot on which to erect a\nstill-house, or rather on which to raise a sufficient stream of water\nto the elevation necessary for the process of distilling.\u201d If a gauger\nactually came to the little chasm, and cast his scrutinizing eye over it,\nhe would immediately perceive that the erection of a private still in\nsuch a place was a piece of folly not generally to be found in the plans\nof those who have recourse to such practices.\n\nThis absence, however, of the requisite conveniences was only apparent,\nnot real. To the right, about one hundred yards above the entrance to\nit, ran a ledge of rocks, some fifty feet high, or so. Along their lower\nbrows, near the ground, grew thick matted masses of long heath, which\ncovered the entrance to a cave about as large and as high as an ordinary\nfarm-house. Through a series of small fissures in the rocks which formed\nits roof, descended a stream of clear soft water, precisely in body and\nvolume such as was actually required by the distiller; but, unless by\nlifting up this mass of heath, no human being could for a moment imagine\nthat there existed any such grotto, or so unexpected and easy an entrance\nto it. Here there was a private still-house made by the hand of nature\nherself, such as no art or ingenuity of man could equal.\n\nNow it so happened that about the period we write of, there lived in our\nparish two individuals so antithetical to each other in their pursuits of\nlife, that we question whether throughout all the instinctive antipathies\nof nature we could find any two animals more destructive of each other\nthan the two we mean--to wit, Bob Pentland the gauger, and little George\nSteen the illicit distiller. Pentland was an old, stanch, well-trained\nfellow, of about fifty years or more, steady and sure, and with all the\ncharacteristic points of the high-bred gauger about him. He was a tallish\nman, thin but lathy, with a hooked nose that could scent the tread of a\ndistiller with the keenness of a slew-hound; his dark eye was deep-set,\ncircumspect, and roguish in its expression, and his shaggy brow seemed\nalways to be engaged in calculating whereabouts his inveterate foe,\nlittle George Steen, that eternally blinked him, when almost in his very\nfangs, might then be distilling. To be brief, Pentland was proverbial for\nhis sagacity and adroitness in detecting distillers, and little George\nwas equally proverbial for having always baffled him, and that, too,\nsometimes under circumstances where escape seemed hopeless.\n\nThe incidents which we are about to detail occurred at that period of\ntime when the collective wisdom of our legislators thought it advisable\nto impose a fine upon the whole townland in which the still head and\nworm might be found; thus opening a door for knavery and fraud, and,\nas it proved in most cases, rendering the innocent as liable to suffer\nfor an offence they never contemplated as the guilty who planned and\nperpetrated it. The consequence of such a law was, that still-houses were\nalways certain to be erected either at the very verge of the neighbouring\ndistricts, or as near them as the circumstances of convenience and\nsituation would permit. The moment of course that the hue-and-cry of the\ngauger and his myrmidons was heard upon the wind, the whole apparatus was\nimmediately heaved over the _mering_ to the next townland, from which\nthe fine imposed by parliament was necessarily raised, whilst the crafty\nand offending district actually escaped. The state of society generated\nby such a blundering and barbarous statute as this, was dreadful. In\nthe course of a short time, reprisals, law-suits, battles, murders, and\nmassacres, multiplied to such an extent throughout the whole country,\nthat the sapient senators who occasioned such commotion were compelled\nto repeal their own act as soon as they found how it worked. Necessity,\ntogether with being the mother of invention, is also the cause of many an\naccidental discovery. Pentland had been so frequently defeated by little\nGeorge, that he vowed never to rest until he had secured him; and George\non the other hand frequently told him--for they were otherwise on the\nbest terms--that he defied him, or as he himself more quaintly expressed\nit, \u201cthat he defied the devil, the world, and Bob Pentland.\u201d The latter,\nhowever, was a very sore thorn in his side, and drove him from place to\nplace, and from one haunt to another, until he began to despair of being\nable any longer to outwit him, or to find within the parish any spot at\nall suitable for distillation with which Pentland was not acquainted. In\nthis state stood matters between them, when George fortunately discovered\nat the hip of Altnaveenan hill the natural grotto we have just sketched\nso briefly. Now, George was a man, as we have already hinted, of great\nfertility of resources; but there existed in the same parish another\ndistiller who outstripped him in that farsighted cunning which is so\nnecessary in misleading or circumventing such a sharp-scented old hound\nas Pentland. This was little Mickey M\u2019Quade, a short-necked squat little\nfellow with bow legs, who might be said rather to creep in his motion\nthan to walk. George and Mickey were intimate friends, independently of\ntheir joint antipathy against the gauger, and, truth to tell, much of\nthe mortification and many of the defeats which Pentland experienced at\nGeorge\u2019s hands, were, _sub rosa_, to be attributed to Mickey. George was\na distiller from none of the motives which generally actuate others of\nthat class. He was in truth an analytic philosopher--a natural chemist\nnever out of some new experiment--and we have reason to think might have\nbeen the Kane or Faraday or Dalton of his day, had he only received a\nscientific education. Not so honest Mickey, who never troubled his head\nabout an experiment, but only thought of making a good running, and\ndefeating the gauger. The first thing of course that George did, was to\nconsult Mickey, and both accordingly took a walk up to the scene of their\nfuture operations. On examining it, and fully perceiving its advantages,\nit might well be said that the look of exultation and triumph which\npassed between them was not unworthy of their respective characters.\n\n\u201cThis will do,\u201d said George. \u201cEh--don\u2019t you think we\u2019ll put our finger in\nPentland\u2019s eye yet?\u201d Mickey spat sagaciously over his beard, and after a\nsecond glance gave one grave grin which spoke volumes. \u201cIt\u2019ll do,\u201d said\nhe; \u201cbut there\u2019s one point to be got over that maybe you didn\u2019t think of;\nan\u2019 you know that half a blink, half a point, is enough for Pentland.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you intend to do with the smoke when the fire\u2019s lit? There\u2019ll\nbe no keepin\u2019 _that_ down. Let but Pentland see as much smoke risin\u2019 as\nwould come out of an ould woman\u2019s dudeen, an\u2019 he\u2019d have us.\u201d\n\nGeorge started, and it was clear by the vexation and disappointment which\nwere visible on his brow that unless this untoward circumstance could be\nmanaged, their whole plan was deranged, and the cave of no value.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s to be done?\u201d he inquired of his cooler companion. \u201cIf we can\u2019t\nget over this, we may bid good bye to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind,\u201d said Mickey; \u201cI\u2019ll manage it, and _do_ Pentland still.\u201d\n\u201cAy, but how?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s no matter. Let us not lose a minute in settin\u2019 to work. Lave\nthe other thing to me; an\u2019 if I don\u2019t account for the smoke without\ndiscoverin\u2019 the entrance to the still, I\u2019ll give you lave to crop the\nears off my head.\u201d\n\nGeorge knew the cool but steady self-confidence for which Mickey was\nremarkable, and accordingly, without any further interrogatory, they both\nproceeded to follow up their plan of operations.\n\nIn those times when distillation might be truly considered as almost\nuniversal, it was customary for farmers to build their out-houses with\nsecret chambers and other requisite partitions necessary for carrying it\non. Several of them had private stores built between false walls, the\nentrance to which was only known to a few, and many of them had what\nwere called _Malt-steeps_ sunk in hidden recesses and hollow gables, for\nthe purpose of steeping the barley, and afterwards of turning and airing\nit, until it was sufficiently hard to be kiln-dried and ground. From the\nmill it was usually conveyed to the still-house upon what were termed\n_Slipes_, a kind of car that was made without wheels, in order the more\neasily to pass through morasses and bogs which no wheeled vehicle could\nencounter.\n\nIn the course of a month or so, George and Mickey, aided by their\nfriends, had all the apparatus of keeve, hogshead, &c., together with\nstill head and worm, set up and in full work.\n\n\u201cAnd now, Mickey,\u201d inquired his companion, \u201chow will you manage about\nthe smoke? for you know that the two worst informers against a private\ndistiller, barrin\u2019 a _stag_, is a smoke by day an\u2019 a fire by night.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know that,\u201d replied Mickey; \u201can\u2019 a rousin\u2019 smoke we\u2019ll have, for fraid\na little puff wouldn\u2019t do us. Come, now, an\u2019 I\u2019ll show you.\u201d\n\nThey both ascended to the top, where Mickey had closed all the open\nfissures of the roof with the exception of that which was directly over\nthe fire of the still. This was at best not more than six inches in\nbreadth and about twelve long. Over it he placed a piece of strong plate\niron perforated with holes, and on this he had a fire of turf, beside\nwhich sat a little boy who acted as a vidette. The thing was simple but\neffective. Clamps of turf were at every side of them, and the boy was\ninstructed, if the gauger, whom he well knew, ever appeared, to heap on\nfresh fuel, so as to increase the smoke in such a manner as to induce\nhim to suppose that _all_ he saw of it proceeded merely from the fire\nbefore him. In fact, the smoke from the cave below was so completely\nidentified with and lost in that which was emitted from the fire above,\nthat no human being could penetrate the mystery, if not made previously\nacquainted with it. The writer of this saw it during the hottest process\nof distillation, and failed to make the discovery, although told that\nthe still-house was within a circle of three hundred yards, the point\nhe stood on being considered the centre. On more than one occasion has\nhe absconded from home, and spent a whole night in the place, seized\nwith that indescribable fascination which such a scene holds forth to\nyoungsters, as well as from his irrepressible anxiety to hear the old\nstories and legends with the recital of which they generally pass the\nnight.\n\nIn this way, well provided against the gauger--indeed much better than\nour readers are yet aware of, as they shall understand by and bye--did\nGeorge, Mickey, and their friends, proceed for the greater part of a\nwinter without a single visit from Pentland. Several successful runnings\nhad come off, which had of course turned out highly profitable, and\nthey were just now preparing to commence their last, not only for the\nseason, but the last they should ever work together, as George was\nmaking preparations to go early in the spring to America. Even this\nrunning was going on to their satisfaction, and the singlings had been\nthrown again into the still, from the worm of which projected the strong\nmedicinal _first-shot_ as the doubling commenced--this last term meaning\nthe spirit in its pure and finished state. On this occasion the two\nworthies were more than ordinarily anxious, and certainly doubled their\nusual precautions against a surprise, for they knew that Pentland\u2019s\nvisits resembled the pounces of a hawk or the springs of a tiger more\nthan any thing else to which they could compare them. In this they were\nnot disappointed. When the doubling was about half finished, he made\nhis appearance, attended by a strong party of reluctant soldiers--for\nindeed it is due to the military to state that they never took delight\nin harassing the country people at the command of a keg-hunter, as they\ngenerally nicknamed the gauger. It had been arranged that the vidette\nat the iron plate should whistle a particular tune the moment that\nthe gauger or a red-coat, or in fact any person whom he did not know,\nshould appear. Accordingly, about eight o\u2019clock in the morning they\nheard the little fellow in his highest key whistling up that well-known\nand very significant old Irish air called \u201cGo to the devil an\u2019 shake\nyourself\u201d--which in this case was applied to the gauger in any thing but\nan allegorical sense.\n\n\u201cBe the pins,\u201d which was George\u2019s usual oath, \u201cbe the pins, Mickey, it\u2019s\nover with us--Pentland\u2019s here, for there\u2019s the sign.\u201d\n\nMickey paused for a moment and listened very gravely; then squirting out\na tobacco spittle, \u201cTake it aisy,\u201d said he; \u201cI have half a dozen fires\nabout the hills, any one as like this as your right hand is to your left.\nI didn\u2019t spare trouble, for I knew that if we\u2019d get over this day, we\u2019d\nbe out of his power.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, my good lad,\u201d said Pentland, addressing the vidette, \u201cwhat\u2019s this\nfire for?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it for, is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; if you don\u2019t let me know instantly, I\u2019ll blow your brains out,\nand get you hanged and transported afterwards.\u201d This he said with a\nthundering voice, cocking a large horse pistol at the same time.\n\n\u201cWhy, sir,\u201d said the boy, \u201cit\u2019s watchin\u2019 a still I am; but be the hole o\u2019\nmy coat if you tell upon me, it\u2019s broilin\u2019 upon these coals I\u2019ll be soon.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere is the still then? An\u2019 the still-house, where is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, begorra, as to where the still or still-house is, they wouldn\u2019t tell\n_me_ that.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, sirra, didn\u2019t you say this moment you were watching a still?\u201d\n\n\u201cI meant, sir,\u201d replied the lad with a face that spoke of pure idiocy,\n\u201cthat it was the gauger I was watchin\u2019, an\u2019 I was to whistle upon my\nfingers to let the boy at that fire on the hill there above know that he\nwas comin\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho told you to do so?\u201d\n\n\u201cLittle George, sir, an\u2019 Mickey M\u2019Quade.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, ay, right enough there, my lad--two of the most notorious schemers\nunhanged they are both. But now, like a good boy, tell me the truth, an\u2019\nI\u2019ll give you the price of a pair of shoes. Do you know where the still\nor still-house is? Because if you do, an\u2019 won\u2019t tell me, here are the\nsoldiers at hand to make a prisoner of you; an\u2019 if they do, all the world\ncan\u2019t prevent you from being hanged, drawn, and quartered.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, bad cess may seize the morsel o\u2019 me knows that; but if you\u2019ll give\nme the money, sir, I\u2019ll tell you who can bring you to it, for he tould\nme yestherday mornin\u2019 that he knew, an\u2019 offered to bring me there last\nnight, if I\u2019d steal him a bottle that my mother keeps the holy water in\nat home, tal he\u2019d put whisky in it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, my lad, who is this boy?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know Harry Neil, or Mankind, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do, my good boy.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it\u2019s a son of his, sir; an\u2019 look, sir; do you see the smoke\nfarthest up to the right, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo the right? Yes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, \u2019tis there, sir, that Darby Neil is watchin\u2019; and he _says_ he\nknows.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow long have you been watching here?\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is only the third day, sir, for _me_; but the rest, them boys\nabove, has been here a good while.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you seen nobody stirring about the hills since you came?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly once, sir, yesterday, I seen two men having an empty sack or two,\nrunnin\u2019 across the hill there above.\u201d\n\nAt this moment the military came up, for he had himself run forward in\nadvance of them, and he repeated the substance of his conversation with\nour friend the vidette. Upon examining the stolidity of his countenance,\nin which there certainly was a woful deficiency of meaning, they agreed\namong themselves that his appearance justified the truth of the story\nwhich he told the gauger, and upon being still further interrogated, they\nwere confirmed that none but a stupid lout like himself would entrust to\nhis keeping any secret worth knowing. They now separated themselves into\nas many detached parties as there were fires burning on the hills about\nthem, the gauger himself resolving to make for that which Darby Neil had\nin his keeping, for he could not help thinking that the vidette\u2019s story\nwas too natural to be false. They were just in the act of separating\nthemselves to pursue their different routes, when the lad said,\n\n\u201cLook, sir! look, sir! bad scran be from me but there\u2019s a still any way.\nSure I often seen a still; that\u2019s jist like the one that Philip Hogan the\ntinker mended in George Steen\u2019s barn.\u201d\n\n\u201cHollo, boys,\u201d exclaimed Pentland, \u201cstoop! stoop! they are coming this\nway, and don\u2019t see us: no, hang them, no! they have discovered us now,\nand are off towards Mossfield. By Jove this will be a bitter trick if\nthey succeed; confound them, they are bent for Ballagh, which is my own\nproperty; and may I be hanged if we do not intercept them; but it is I\nmyself who will have to pay the fine.\u201d\n\nThe pursuit instantly commenced with a speed and vigour equal to the\ningenuity of this singular act of retaliation on the gauger. Pentland\nhimself being long-winded from much practice in this way, and being\nfurther stimulated by the prospective loss which he dreaded, made as\nbeautiful a run of it as any man of his years could do. It was all in\nvain, however. He merely got far enough to see the still head and worm\nheaved across the march ditch into his own property, and to reflect after\nseeing it that he was certain to have the double consolation of being\nmade a standing joke of for life, and of paying heavily for the jest out\nof his own pocket. In the mean time, he was bound of course to seize the\nstill, and report the caption; and as he himself farmed the townland in\nquestion, the fine was levied to the last shilling, upon the very natural\nprinciple that if he had been sufficiently active and vigilant, no man\nwould have attempted to set up a still so convenient to his own residence\nand property.\n\nThis man\u0153uvre of keeping in reserve an old or second set of apparatus,\nfor the purpose of acting the lapwing and misleading the gauger, was\nafterwards often practised with success; but the first discoverer of\nit was undoubtedly Mickey M\u2019Quade, although the honour of the discovery\nis attributed to his friend George Steen. The matter, however, did not\nactually end here, for in a few days afterwards some malicious wag--in\nother words, George himself--had correct information sent to Pentland\ntouching the locality of the cavern and the secret of its entrance. On\nthis occasion the latter brought a larger military party than usual along\nwith him, but it was only to make him feel that he stood in a position\nif possible more ridiculous than the first. He found indeed the marks\nof recent distillation in the place, but nothing else. Every vessel and\nimplement connected with the process had been removed, with the exception\nof one bottle of whisky, to which was attached by a bit of twine the\nfollowing friendly note:--\n\n    \u201cMR PENTLAND, SIR--Take this bottle home and drink your own\n    health. You can\u2019t do less. It was distilled _under your nose_\n    the first day you came to look for us, and bottled for you\n    while you were speaking to the little boy that made a hare of\n    you. Being distilled then under your nose, let it be drunk in\n    the same place, and don\u2019t forget while doing so to drink the\n    health of\n\n                                                           G. S.\u201d\n\nThe incident went abroad like wildfire, and was known everywhere. Indeed\nfor a long time it was the standing topic of the parish; and so sharply\nwas it felt by Pentland that he could never keep his temper if asked, \u201cMr\nPentland, when did you see little George Steen?\u201d--a question to which he\nwas never known to give a civil reply.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GLOBE OF THE EARTH.\n\n\nWe were surprised very much some time ago at considering how much of\nthe surface of the globe is covered by the waters of the lakes and\noceans, and took the opportunity then of adverting to the importance\nof water in the general economy of nature. When, however, we pass to\nthe consideration of the magnitude of the earth itself, the relative\nproportion of water appears to be much less considerable.\n\nAlthough there are many places in the great Atlantic and Pacific Oceans\nwhere the depth of water is very great, yet it has been deduced from\nprinciples that are not liable to much error, that the general or average\ndepth does not exceed three miles. It may appear very strange that we\ncan assert any thing positive about the depth of water in those seas,\nthat are to the lines used for sounding quite unfathomable; but it is\neffected very simply. Every person has seen a wave advancing along the\nlevel surface of a canal, and by observing with a watch, it could easily\nbe found to move more quickly at some times than at others. The deeper\nany part of the canal is, the more rapidly does the wave move along; and\npartly by experiment, and partly by reasoning, the connection between the\ndepth of the water and velocity of the wave has been discovered. Now,\nthe tide which comes to Dublin every twelve hours is produced by the\ninfluence of the sun and moon on the vast body of water in the Southern\nPacific Ocean; and the great wave there formed turns round Cape Horn,\nand passes up the Atlantic Ocean, to arrive at the coasts of Europe and\nNorth America. The time occupied by this great wave in passing from one\nend to the other of the Atlantic can thus be known, and, precisely as in\na canal, the depth of water thus calculated.\n\nThe circumference of the earth at its widest part is about 25,000, and\nits diameter 8000 miles. Hence the sheet of water which constitutes\nthe ocean forms but 3-4000ths of its thickness, or nearly the same\nproportion as if we took an eighteen inch globe, and having spilled\nwater on its surface, allowed all the excess of water to drain off. The\nremaining wetness would represent pretty nearly the condition of the\nwaters of the ocean on the surface of the earth. By this means we can\nform, though obscurely, to our minds, an idea of the great magnitude of\nthe earth itself. This magnitude renders also very inconsiderable those\ninequalities on the surface of the earth which constitute our highest\nridges of mountains. A true model of Mont Blanc, the highest of European\nmountains, if constructed on the eighteen inch globe before referred to,\nwould be unfelt by a finger drawn along its surface, and it would be\nonly some of the highest peaks of the Andes and Himalayah that could be\ndistinctly felt. Where man also employs his most gigantic energies and\ngreatest efforts of skill to penetrate below the surface, forming mines\nby which the supplies of coal, of iron, of copper, and other minerals,\nhave been obtained from the earliest times, the cavities that he makes\ncan only be compared with the trace given by the point of a pin that had\nlightly touched the globe, and which would require a favourable incidence\nof light to see.\n\nThe earth is therefore almost perfectly a smooth and solid ball. It is,\nhowever, almost certain that it was not always solid. It is, on the\ncontrary, almost certain that at a period far exceeding in remoteness\nany time of which mere human indications can be found, the globe of the\nearth was one mass of liquid matter, heated to a degree exceeding our\nmost intense fires, and wherein were melted all together the various\nelements which have since arranged themselves into their present forms.\nFrom having been thus liquid, the earth, which, revolving on its axis,\nproduces by the side it turns to the sun the alternating day and night,\nhas bulged out where the rotation of the surface is most rapid, at the\nequator, and has become flattened at the extremities of its axis, at the\npoles, just as a thin hoop which we spin round becomes compressed. The\namount of this flattening is however very small. The equatorial diameter\nof the earth being accurately 7925, and the polar diameter being 7898,\nthe compression is 27 miles.\n\nTo account for the existence of this compression, the earth must have\nbeen originally liquid, for otherwise the rotation on its axis could not\nhave generated this regular form. If it had been solid when it began to\nrevolve, it should either have retained its original form, or it should\nhave broken in pieces; but certainly unless it had been liquid, it could\nnot have arrived at the exact degree of flattening which its velocity of\nrotation should have produced in a liquid mass.\n\nThe intensely heated and liquid earth, revolving in the cold and empty\nspaces of the planetary system, gradually must have lost its excess\nof heat. Cooling most rapidly at the surface, it there solidified,\nand generated the first rocks. The loss of heat still going on, the\nsolidification proceeded to a greater and greater depth, and should\nultimately have reduced the earth to the same temperature as the empty\nspace among the stars. The temperature of space has been calculated\nto be almost the same as that in the winter at Melville Island, in\nnorthernmost America, that is, 56 deg. below zero, or as far below the\nfreezing point of water as the temperature of the hottest water that the\nhand can bear is above it. The earth is, however, not allowed to cool to\nthat degree. It receives from the sun by radiation a quantity of heat\nwhich counteracts its tendency to cool, and hence the mean temperature\nof the surface of the earth has remained the same from the earliest\nhistorical epochs. In fact, at the surface we can find no trace of that\noriginal and internal great heat, the temperature of the surface of the\nearth being regulated altogether by the effect of the sun\u2019s rays; but\nif we dig down to a moderate depth, about 45 feet, the influence of the\nsun becomes insensible. Within that space also we can detect a very\ncurious and important arrangement of the heat. It is not that the whole\nsurface becomes warmed in summer and cold in winter, but the heat which\nis received from the sun in one summer travels by conduction beneath the\nsurface, and is succeeded by the heat of the next summer, an intervening\nand cooler layer corresponding to the winter time, so that at a depth of\n20 feet we may detect the heat which had fallen upon the surface four or\nfive years before, this space of 45 feet being formed of numerous layers\nlike the coatings of an onion, one for each year, until becoming less and\nless distinct, according as the depth increases, they join together in\nforming the layer of invariable temperature in which all the effect of\nthe sun\u2019s heat is lost.\n\nIf we dig down still farther, the earth, though having lost the heating\npower of the sun, becomes sensibly warmer. The greater the depth to\nwhich we descend, the higher is the temperature found to be. Thus, where\ndeep sinkings have been made for mines or wells, the air or water at the\nbottom is found to be much higher in temperature than at the invariable\nlayer which gives the mean temperature of the place. This observation was\nfirst made in the case of the deep mines in Cornwall, and, although for\nsome time ascribed to the presence of the workmen and the burning lamps,\nhas since been verified by observations in all parts of Europe, and such\nagreement found, that the law connecting the temperature with the depth\nhas been at least approximately determined.\n\nIt is found, counting from the invariable layer, that the temperature\nincreases about one degree of Fahrenheit\u2019s scale for every fifty feet in\ndepth. Thus, a well having been sunk at Rudersdorff to a depth of 630\nfeet, the water at the bottom was found to be 67 degrees, while the mean\ntemperature was 50 degrees. In a coal mine at Newcastle, which reaches\nto a depth of 1584 feet, the mean temperature of the surface being 48\ndegrees, the thermometer was found to stand at 73 degrees in the lowest\npart of the mine, and hence the elevation of temperature was 25 degrees.\nObservations elsewhere vary between these limits; but the general result\nis, that the rise is one degree for about every fifty feet, as above\nstated.\n\nWhen we consider the great magnitude of the earth, and observe the\nrapidity with which the increase of temperature occurs, it will strike\nevery person that we in reality inhabit a mere pellicle or skin, which\nhas formed by cooling upon the surface, whilst all the internal mass of\nour globe may still be in the same state of igneous fusion and tumultuous\naction of elements, from which its present mineral constitution on the\nsurface has resulted. For although it has cooled so far that at the\nsurface all traces of its central fires have disappeared, yet at a mile\nand a half below the surface the temperature is such as should boil\nwater: at a depth of five miles, lead would melt. Thirty miles below the\nsurface, cast iron, and all those rocks which are generally the product\nof volcanoes in action, as trap and basalt, would fuse; and hence we may\nconsider those terrific phenomena which have so frequently desolated some\nof the most beautiful districts of the earth, as being minute apertures\nor cracks in the thin coating of our planet, and giving vent from time to\ntime to some small portions of the internal fires which work beneath.\n\nAdditional evidence of the existence of this central heat may be derived\nfrom the peculiarity of springs. Those springs which carry off and are\nsupplied with water from the surface, change their temperature with the\nseason, being in winter cold, but in summer warm. Others, deriving their\nwaters from a deeper layer of soil, as from the stratum of constant heat,\nare always the same, and, possessing the mean temperature of the place,\nfeel warm in winter and cold in summer. Such springs exist in every\ncountry, and are very useful in ascertaining the mean temperature, for\nin place of watching a thermometer for a year, and taking averages, it\nis only necessary to select with proper caution such a deeply supplied\nspring, and by observing the temperature of its waters, the mean\ntemperature of the place is found.\n\nA certain quantity of the water which is absorbed by the ground after\nrain must penetrate to a great depth, must descend, in fact, until at 1\u00bd\nmiles it is boiled and driven up again to find some outlet as a spring.\nIn rising up, however, it is for the most part cooled; but having charged\nitself with various saline and metallic bodies, under the most favourable\ncircumstances of high temperature and pressure, it issues as a hot\nmineral spring or spa. On getting into the air, it generally abandons a\ngreat part of what it had dissolved, and forms in many cases enormous\ndepositions of solid rock.\n\nA company in Paris have formed the idea of using the water thus heated by\nthe powers below, for the purposes of public baths. The neighbourhood of\nParis is peculiarly fitted for what are termed Artesian wells, in which\nthe water often rises considerably above the surface of the ground. Under\nthe auspices of this company, a well has been sunk already to the depth\nof 1600 feet, and water obtained at 77 degrees; but to obtain natural\nhot water at a temperature of 100 degrees, which would be required for\nbathing purposes, an additional depth of probably as much more will be\nrequired. It is said the projectors are not now sanguine of its pecuniary\nsuccess.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE SECRET OF SUCCESS IN LIFE.--In no department of life do men rise\nto eminence who have not undergone a long and diligent preparation;\nfor whatever be the difference in the mental power of individuals, it\nis the cultivation of the mind alone that leads to distinction. John\nHunter was as remarkable for his industry as for his talents, of which\nhis museum alone forms a most extraordinary proof; and if we look around\nand contemplate the history of those men whose talents and acquirements\nwe must esteem, we find that their superiority of knowledge has been\nthe result of great labour and diligence. It is an ill-founded notion\nto say that merit in the long-run is neglected. It is sometimes joined\nto circumstances that may have a little influence in counteracting it,\nas an unfortunate manner and temper; but generally it meets with its\ndue reward. The world are not fools--every person of merit has the best\nchance of success; and who would be ambitious of public approbation, if\nit had not the power of discriminating?--_Physic and Physicians._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Printed and Published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at\n    the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane,\n    College Green, Dublin; and sold by all Booksellers.","title":"The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 16, October 17, 1840","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":10690}