{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54722/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54722","id":"gutenberg_54722","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54722","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - Other","Category: Journals","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Ireland -- Periodicals"],"text":"THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.\n\n       NUMBER 31.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 1841.      VOLUME I.\n\n[Illustration: DUN-GARBRY CASTLE, COUNTY OF LEITRIM.]\n\nThe Castle of Dun-garbry, or properly Dun-cairbr\u00e9, signifying the Dun or\nFort of Cairbre, is situated on a hill, on the south side, and not far\nfrom the mouth, of the Drowis, or _Drobhaois_--a river very celebrated\nin Irish history--and the estuary of the beautiful Lough Melvin, in the\nlower part of the county of Leitrim, bordering on the county of Sligo.\nThough marked on the maps made in the reign of Elizabeth as an important\nfortress, its ruins are now but inconsiderable, and consist only of a\nside wall perforated by an arched doorway. But trivial as these vestiges\nare, they impart some historic interest to scenery of the most delightful\ncharacter by which it is surrounded, and are valuable as a memorial of\nan ancient Irish family, once of great rank in the county, though now\nreduced to utter decay, at least in their original locality.\n\nDun-garbry Castle was erected by the chief of the Mac-Clanchys, or\ncorrectly _Mac-Fhlannchadha_, a sept or clan who possessed the ancient\ndistrict called Dartree, the present barony of Rossclogher, and of\nwhich the Castle of Rossclogher, situated on an island in Lough Melvin,\nwas their chief residence. The name of its founder and the date of its\nerection are not preserved; but the latter may with probability be\nreferred to a period anterior to the reign of Henry VIII., as the Annals\nof the Four Masters record at the year 1538, that \u201cCahir (the son of\nFeradach, the son of William), the son of Mac Clanchy, heir-apparent to\nthe chieftainship of Dartree, died in that year in Dun-cairbre.\u201d\n\nIt may be proper to state that there are in Ireland two perfectly\ndistinct families of the name Mac Clanchy, or, as it is now more usually\nwritten, Clancey; first, the family of Thomond or Clare, some of whom\nwere hereditary Brehons or judges to the O\u2019Briens, and who were a branch\nof the Macnamaras; and, secondly, the family of Dartree, who were\nhereditary chiefs of that district from a very remote period.\n\nThe notices of the chiefs of this family, as preserved in the Irish\nAnnals from the twelfth till the seventeenth century, will serve to\nconvey a very vivid impression of the insecurity of life resulting from\nthe unsettled state of society, and its retrogression towards absolute\nbarbarism during this unhappy period of our history, and will teach\nus also to appreciate the blessings we derive from the progress which\ncivilization has made within the last century.\n\n1241. Donnell Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, died.\n\n1274. Cathal Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, died.\n\n1278. Gillchreest Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, _was slain_.\n\n1301. William (the son of Cathal) Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, _was\nslain_.\n\n1303. Murtogh Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, _was slain_.\n\n1337. Teige (the son of William) Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, _was\nslain_ by O\u2019Conor.\n\n1349. Hugh Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, and Gillchreest Mac Clanchy,\n_were slain_.\n\n1366. Cathal (the son of Teige) Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, _was\nslain_.\n\n1418. Teige (the son of Cathal) Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, died in a\nmonastery.\n\n1420. Cathal (the son of Teige) Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, and Hugh\nboy (or the yellow) Mac Clanchy, _were slain_ in their own house, about\nthe festival of St Bridget, by their own kinsmen Teige, Maurice, and\nHenry.\n\n1421. Cathal O\u2019Rourke and his sons made a nocturnal attack on Mac Clanchy\non Iniskeen, an island of Lough Melvin, and the guards of the lake\ndelivered up the boats of the lake to them. They took young Mac Clanchy\nprisoner, and possessed themselves of Lough Melvin and its castle. Five\nof the sons of Mac Clanchy, and a great number of the men of Dartree,\nwere slain by them, and the remainder of the sons of Mac Clanchy went\nafter that into Carbury.\n\n1532. Turlogh, the son of Mac Clanchy, was slain by his own two brothers\nin the doorway of the mansion of Mac Clanchy. In revenge of this murder,\nBrien O\u2019Rourke destroyed a great portion of Dartree.\n\n1536. Mac Clanchy (Feradach, the son of William, the son of Teige), chief\nof Dartree, died. He was a charitable and humane man.\n\n1578. Mac Clanchy (Cathal Duff, the son of Feradach), chief of Dartree,\ndied, and his son Cathal Oge assumed his place.\n\n1582. Mac Clanchy (Cathal Oge), chief of Dartree, _was slain_ by his own\nkinsman Teige Oge.\n\nIt appears from an inquisition taken at the Abbey of Creevelea, on the\n24th September 1603, that Cathal Oge Mac Clanchy died on the 3d of\nJanuary 1582, seized of the castle and manor of Dun-carbry, and of the\nwhole country called Mac Clanchy\u2019s country, leaving a son and heir,\nCathal Duff, then aged twenty-eight years.\n\nIt appears, however, that in accordance with the Brehon law, the\nchieftainship of Dartree passed at his death not to his son, but to the\neldest surviving representative of the name, as an inquisition taken at\nRossclogher on the 3d of October in the same year, finds that the greater\npart of the country, including the Castle of Dun-carbry, and the castle\nand chief town of Rossclogher, &c., were in the possession of Malaghlin\nMac Clanchy, who died so seized on the 13th of August 1603, leaving a\nson and heir, Cahir Mac Clanchy, three years and ten months old at the\ntime of his father\u2019s death; and it is stated that all these castles,\nlands, &c., were held of the king by knights\u2019 service _in capite_, but\nthe quantity of the service was not ascertained by the inquisitors. By\nthe will of this Malaghlin Mac Clanchy he bequeathed to his son and heir,\nCahir, all his lands except such as were nominated wife\u2019s jointure;\nand to his wife, Katherine Ny Rourke, who was found to have been his\nlegitimate consort, he bequeathed his Castle of Dun-garbry, as also his\nchief town called Rossclogher, in pawn of her marriage goods, until his\nheir should redeem it.\n\nThe property of the Mac Clanchys was confiscated after the rebellion of\n1641, but their name is the prevailing one in the barony of Dartree, or\nRossclogher, to the present day.\n\n                                                                       P.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GIG RACE, OR A PULL FOR THE SILVER CUP.\n\n\nIn the prettily situated village of Ring, within the beautiful harbour\nof Cove, lived an old man named Jeremiah Sullivan, who was by profession\na boat-builder, and who, being unrivalled in that art, justly regarded\nhimself as one of the most important personages in the said village, if\nnot in the county of Cork itself. It was indeed the conviction of Jerry\nthat the man who, if any such man there were, could surpass him in the\nplan, the construction, or the finish of a race-gig, must be a wonder,\nand far above the general standard of human excellence. After his divine\nart, and the equally divine productions of that art, his daughter Sally\nSullivan was next best loved by the enthusiastic and honest old man.\nSally had the reputation of a snug little fortune and of an infinite deal\nof beauty, the latter founded, no doubt, on the possession of a pair of\nroguish black eyes, a blooming cheek, and a rosy pair of lips, that half\ndisclosed two rows of the prettiest and whitest teeth in the world.\n\nJerry had one favourite apprentice, to whom he had already imparted some\nof the most important secrets in his profession, and to whom, at some\ndistant period, he intended to confide the entire, as a legacy richer\nthan the hoarded treasures of a miser; nay, more valuable than even\nthe philosopher\u2019s stone. William Collins (for such was his name) was a\nfine-looking young fellow, standing about five feet ten inches in height,\nand possessed of a light, active, muscular, and admirably proportioned\nfigure; indeed, Sally was known to have told her female friend in the\nstrictest confidence that William had the brightest pair of eyes, and the\nhandsomest brown curls, that young man could well be vain of. William,\non the other hand, could find no language sufficiently comprehensive to\nexpress his ideas of Sally\u2019s beauty; and as for her good qualities, her\ntemper, her cheerfulness, her sweet-toned merry laugh--to describe them\nwas quite an impossibility. The fact was, they were both young, both\namiable, both warm-hearted, and very naturally both lovers! Yet poor old\nJerry never dreamed what the real state of the case was. Wonderful as was\nhis penetration, deep as was his knowledge, and great as was his skill\nin all matters appertaining to the building of a boat, in affairs of the\nheart he was blind and stupid as a mole. He, honest simpleton, could\nnever dream that Sally\u2019s frequent intrusions into the work-yard could\nbe attributed to aught else than that most natural spirit of curiosity\ncommon to young people who desired to witness the interesting process of\na delightful and important art! Besides, Jerry never wore his spectacles\nwithin doors; and, therefore, it must be presumed he never saw the\neloquent flushing of his daughter\u2019s cheek, or the additional brilliancy\nof her dark eye, when he spoke of the young man\u2019s attention to his duty,\nand of his surprising advancement in the nicer labours of the profession.\n\nEarly in the month of May, a gentleman ordered a race-gig from Sullivan,\nand from time to time sent his man Duggin to see after the progress of\nthe work. This Duggin was held to be the crack oarsman of the harbour,\nand consequently prided himself not a little on his reputation. He was\na powerfully made though not a tall man, and his features were rather\ngood than otherwise, but rendered displeasing from a peculiar expression\nof cunning about the eyes, and a perpetual sneer on his lip. Duggin had\nheard of Sally Sullivan\u2019s fame as a beauty; and being quite of a gallant\ntemperament, he conceived the very natural design of rendering himself\nagreeable to the old boat-builder\u2019s daughter. The moulds were laid down,\nand soon the outline of the future race-gig began to be formed more\ndistinctly, when Mr Curly Duggin one day entered the work-yard to pass\nhis opinion on what had been already done, and to offer any suggestions\nas to the future, that his scientific judgment might deem necessary.\nOn his entrance he found the peerless Sally seated on a chair, and\napparently employed at some feminine labour--_apparently_ so, for in\nreality her eyes were fixed on every movement of William Collins, who\nwas busily engaged in the building of this future wonder of the race-gig\nclass. Sally, observing the stranger enter, and not relishing the\nfamiliar stare of a pair of wicked-looking optics, nor the too evident\nadmiration they expressed on their master\u2019s part, immediately left the\nyard, and retired to the neatly painted cottage of her father. As for\nCollins, looking up from his work at that very instant, he saw, with the\nquickness of jealousy, the manner of Duggin and the retreat of Sally;\nand from that hour he felt an unconquerable aversion to the bold looking\noarsman.\n\n\u201cCome, now, I\u2019m blessed,\u201d said Duggin, \u201cthat\u2019s a nate tidy craft, if\nI\u2019m a judge in the laste! I say, Mister what\u2019s-your-name, isn\u2019t that\npurty girl the ould fellow\u2019s daughter?\u201d \u201cYes, she is,\u201d replied William,\nwith a growl; \u201cthat young woman is _Miss_ Sullivan.\u201d \u201cSartinly she is a\nbeauty without paint! Has she a heap of fine strapping fellows, that\u2019s\nsweethearts, following of her--has she, my hearty?\u201d \u201cHow the devil should\nI know! What have I to do with any one\u2019s business but my own?--and that\ngives me enough to mind.\u201d \u201cWhy, my fine fellow,\u201d said Duggin, rather\nannoyed at the reply, \u201cI tell you what, that same ain\u2019t over partiklar\ncivil.\u201d \u201cIsn\u2019t it?--then if you don\u2019t like my civility, I can\u2019t help your\nliking; so that\u2019s all I care about the matter.\u201d\n\nDuggin made no reply, but marching round and round the half-built boat,\nhe made several slighting observations signifying his utter contempt for\nthe plan, as well as its execution. \u201cWhy, blow it!\u201d said he, \u201clook at\nthat. I tell you there\u2019s no living use for that infernally outlandish\nkeel. You might as well turn a lighter, as such a tub as that, in the\nwater!\u201d\n\nPoor William\u2019s feelings were almost too great for words, so indignant\nwas he at this coarse and vulgar attack on the object of his zealous\nlabours. He, however, merely said, \u201cShe\u2019s very unlike a tub, for the\nmatter of that; and as for the keel, that will give her a sure grip of\nthe water, and make her hold her way.\u201d \u201cWho\u2019s the out-and-out judge that\nsaid them wise things, I\u2019d like to know?\u201d asked Duggin, with a mocking\nsneer on his lip. \u201cThem that\u2019s as fine judges as any in the harbour,\u201d\nreplied Collins; \u201cthere\u2019s Dan Magrath, and Ned Desmond, and Mark Brien,\ndown at the ferry; and there aren\u2019t better men to be found at handling an\noar.\u201d \u201cBother!\u201d said Duggin, \u201clittle I\u2019d give for a score of \u2019em; and as\nfor that fellow Magrath, he\u2019s a regular _lubber_, that isn\u2019t no more fit\nin a race than I\u2019m fit to bite a piece out of this anchor at my feet!\u201d\n\u201cI know nothing about biting the anchor,\u201d said Collins; \u201cbut I tell you\nwhat: the four of us will try you at the regatta for the ten-pound cup!\u201d\n\u201cDone! done! my hearty: mind ye don\u2019t go back, and be forgetting yer\npromise!\u201d said Duggin, with the air of one already certain of the prize.\n\u201cDon\u2019t be afraid of me,\u201d Collins replied; \u201cI never broke my word yet,\nand I don\u2019t intend to begin now.\u201d Again did Duggin criticise the boat,\nand declare himself dissatisfied with nearly every point about her. The\ntemper of the young builder was severely tried; but rather than turn\naway a customer from his master\u2019s yard, he with difficulty succeeded\nin curbing his rising passion. Scarcely had Duggin, however, left the\nyard, when a piercing shriek rang from the house, through which lay the\ngeneral passage. William heard it, and flinging aside the plane he was\nthen using, he rushed in to ascertain its cause. What was his amazement\nat beholding Sally struggling violently to release herself from the arms\nof the gallant Duggin, who was endeavouring in vain to snatch a kiss\nfrom the maiden\u2019s rosy mouth! \u201cHa! you villain!--there, take that!\u201d said\nCollins, as with one fierce spring he gripped him by the throat, and\nflung him headlong on the floor.\n\nDuggin was for a moment nearly stunned by the fall, but when in a measure\nrecovered from its effects, he rose from the ground, and eyeing the pair\nwith a fiendish expression of malice and revenge, he said, \u201cCollins, mark\nmy word for it, if I was to go to hell for it, I\u2019ll be into you for that\nfall! Mind you keep a look-out, my tidy fellow! Good morning to you,\nSally--good morning, purty Sally! Don\u2019t forget the race, unless you\u2019re\nafraid, Collins!\u201d So saying, Duggin left the house; and no sooner had he\ngone, than Sally, frightened by his brutal insolence, burst into a flood\nof tears; but she at length allowed herself to be consoled by William,\nwho used the most persuasive and powerful arguments in order to soothe\nher ruffled spirits.\n\nAs might be anticipated, the gig was disliked, and left on old Sullivan\u2019s\nhands. Jerry was a little peevish on the subject, and was continually\nregretting his unfortunate attack of the gout, which prevented himself\nfrom superintending the work, and of a consequence rendering it a model\nof perfection. But poor William bore up manfully against all, and even\nhad the audacity to prophesy, for the old man\u2019s comfort, that in two days\nafter the coming regatta, he would procure for the gig no less a sum than\ntwo-and-twenty guineas! The boat was finished, launched, and christened\n\u201cthe Darling Sally;\u201d her fair namesake worked with her own pretty fingers\na white silken flag, that was intended to adorn the beautifully-moulded\nbow.\n\nIt was summer, and the sun was in his meridian glory, pouring a flood of\nlight and beauty over one of the loveliest combinations of landscape--the\ntree-clad hill, the many-coloured rock, and the widely-extended\nwater--that can by possibility be found within the limits of the British\nempire. The month was glorious July, and the scene was the far-famed Cove\nof Cork. How beautiful did all appear on the last day of the regatta,\nas a fleet of fairy-like yachts, yielding to the light breeze that just\nbroke the surface of the sea into tiny waves, dashed aside from their\nbows the silver spray, and skimmed like sea-birds over the bosom of\nthe Cove. The sea actually blazed with light, and the islands seemed\nlike emeralds set in gold. Green were the hills that encircled in their\nembrace the beauteous sheet of water, and cloudless was the heaven that\noverhung the loveliness of earth. A stately man-of-war rode at anchor\nnearly opposite the town of Cove, and gay were the flags and streamers\nthat enlivened by their hues the dark maze of rigging rising from the\nnobly proportioned hull. Several merchantmen were also there, and decked\nin like manner as the floating citadel--the seaman\u2019s pride. The marine\npicture was finished by myriads of boats of all sizes and shapes, from\nthe one-oared punt and the light wherry, to the family whaler or the\nwell-manned race-gig, that were ever gliding to and fro, imparting life\nand animation to the beautiful scene.\n\nOn the Regatta Quay might be observed hundreds of elegantly dressed\nfemales, with their attentive cavaliers; some of the latter arrayed in\ndivers fantastic styles of costume, intended to resemble the garb of the\nsailor, and resembling it about as much as their affectation and the\nswagger of their gait resembled his manner. Naval and military officers\nadded by their brilliant uniforms to the liveliness of the picture.\nOn an erected platform was stationed a brass band, that from time to\ntime played some fine pieces of music and exhilarating airs--a fitting\naccompaniment to the soft murmur of the wave, the harmony of nature.\n\nOutside the gate of the privileged yard were ranged tents of every\nvariety--some few in the form of an oblong square, with a slanting\nroof--others like an Indian wigwam--some covered with bleached, and some\nwith dirty canvass, while in each of them a piper or a fiddler might be\nheard discoursing most peculiar music, responded to by the clatter of\nsome score of feet, whose movements would puzzle the eccentric genius of\nFanny Elsler herself. Outside these temples, erected equally to Bacchus\nand the lively Terpsichore, more intellectual food was offered to the\nyouthful mind in the antics of Punch and Judy; and there was, besides,\na magnificent theatre, the approach to which was by a _ladder_, and on\na platform before which the distinguished company--Turkish warriors and\nChristian knights, princesses and Columbine, assassin and clown--were\nthreading the intricacies of a fashionable dance, to the sound of three\ntrumpets and a drum. Fun, frolic, and delight, reigned within as well\nas without. In fine, it was the last day of the regatta, and \u201c_now or\nnever_\u201d was the universal motto.\n\nIn obedience to the warning gun, the twenty-ton yachts had drawn up in\nline near their starting buoys. For a moment their mainsails flapped\nidly in the breeze as they wore gracefully round. Another gun, and up\nwent jibs and gaff-top-sails, as they began to move in one cluster\nof snowy canvass. At first they seemed scarcely to stir through the\nwater that lazily rippled around their bows; but as the breeze began\nto be felt, they got under weigh, and the waves were broken into foam\nby the dividing stem. Sally was seated in the well-cushioned stern of\nher father\u2019s four-oared family gig, which was steered by that worthy\nindividual himself; she wore a Leghorn bonnet with smart pink ribbons;\nand as she sat near her bluff, broad-shouldered, honest old parent,\nshe looked as handsome a maiden as ever lent willing ear to a lover\u2019s\nvows. She was now all anxiety, as the time for William\u2019s race was near\nat hand. Duggin\u2019s crew were on the course; and if one might judge from\nthe perfect appointment of the gig, the lively strokes pulled on her,\nand the rapidity with which she was turned, one should seem to run no\nrisk in betting on her certain success. The Norah Creenah--for such was\nher name--was painted on the outside a delicate buff, and on the inside\npink. One of the best and most fortunate cockswains in the harbour\nsteered her; and as he glanced on the powerful limbs and the muscular\nchests of his men, and saw the exquisite regularity with which the blades\nwere dipped into the wave, his heart swelled with anticipated triumph.\n\u201cSally, my dear,\u201d said old Jerry Sullivan to his daughter, \u201ctake the\n_ropes_ for a minute, and mind what you\u2019re about, child.\u201d Jerry stood\nup in the boat to have a peep at the preparations for the race; but\nhardly had he time to satisfy his curiosity, when the bow of the gig\ncame slap against the side of a large yawl, and he was laid sprawling in\nthe bottom from the concussion; and to mend the matter, Sally began to\nscream most energetically at the mischief she herself had occasioned.\nThe truth was, she had mechanically obeyed her father\u2019s directions, by\ntaking the tiller-ropes, but that was all, for her thoughts were far\notherwise engaged. \u201cBack water, ye infarnal ould lubber! Do you want to\nstave the side of us in? Where\u2019s yer eyes, ye ould fool?\u201d Such were the\npleasing queries which the parties in the assaulted boat levelled at the\ninnocent Jerry. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you look out yourselves, and be hanged to\nye!\u201d said the choleric builder, as he replied in the true Irish fashion\nby putting another question. After plentifully heaping the choicest\nepithets on each other, the belligerent parties at last separated, the\nvictory being equally divided. \u201cCome, boys,\u201d said Jerry to his crew,\n\u201cheave ahead, and let us see are they getting all ready for the start.\u201d\nIn a few moments the boat reached that part of the strand where William\nCollins and his companions were busily employed in rubbing black lead on\nthe bottom of the new gig. \u201cWell, Bill, my hearty, how\u2019re you coming\non? What do you think of her now? don\u2019t she look handsome?\u201d \u201cShe does,\nsir, look very beautiful,\u201d answered William in reply to his master\u2019s\nlast remark, as he gazed with admiration on Sally. \u201cIs the paint hard on\nher, Bill?\u201d asked Jerry. \u201cPaint! paint on her, sir!\u201d exclaimed William,\nstill looking at Sally. \u201cWhy, what ails you, boy? I said paint; is the\npaint dry?\u201d \u201cAll right, sir; hard as a bone.\u201d \u201cVery good--now see are\nthe stretchers the regular length and well lashed down.\u201d But though\nhe received an affirmative answer, he was not satisfied till he had\nconvinced himself by examination that all the arrangements had been\nattended to by William. \u201cI\u2019m aisy in mind now, any how. I hope she\u2019ll\ndo; eh, Bill?\u201d \u201cNever fear, sir; we\u2019ll do our best; and if we don\u2019t\ncome in first, it won\u2019t be our own fault. Did you hear the news, sir?\nA gentleman--the same that was in the yard over on Friday--came up to\nme and said if the boat won the race, he\u2019d give five-and-twenty guineas\ndown on the nail.\u201d \u201cBless my soul!\u201d exclaimed old Sullivan, charmed at\nthe offer. \u201cBut what good is a man offering of such a price when there\nisn\u2019t any great chance of her winning?--oh, if I wasn\u2019t laid up in my bed\nwhen she was building! Well, it can\u2019t be helped now; more\u2019s the pity!\u201d\n\u201cWell, sir, we must do our best; won\u2019t we, boys?\u201d said William, turning\nto his crew. \u201cWe\u2019ll try, any how,\u201d was the reply, as they raised the\nlight gig carefully from off the stones on which she rested, and gently\nfloated her on the water. \u201cWilliam, here\u2019s the flag,\u201d said Sally. \u201cHa!\nthere\u2019s the gun!\u201d \u201c\u2019Tis the gun, sure enough. I\u2019ll bring you the cup,\nSally, I hope. Come, lads,\u201d he continued, \u201ctake your places. There--step\ngently! Magrath, tread on the kelson, and don\u2019t stand that way on the\nribs!\u201d \u201cRun down a bit,\u201d said Jerry, \u201cand lave me see your trim. Give\nthe long steady stroke, for the breeze is freshening. Now start away;\nand, Bill, my boy, mind you win!\u201d Away they pulled from the strand; and\nas they shot quickly out, Jerry could not help exclaiming with delight,\nas he noticed how evenly the gig went under the stroke, and how regular\nwas the time kept with their oars; but his former misgivings returned,\nas he remarked the great difficulty with which she was brought round.\nDuggin, in the meantime, was dashing about, attracting all eyes by the\nbeauty of the Norah. \u201cClear the course!--clear the course--pull out of\nthe way!\u201d So bawled the racing steward, as by entreaty or by threat he\nsucceeded in clearing a space sufficient for the rival boats. \u201cTake your\nplaces!\u201d again shouted he. Oh! how Sally\u2019s heart beat as she saw the gigs\ndrawn up opposite the quay where the fashionables were assembled, and on\nwhich was placed a small signal-battery. She leaned against her father\nfor support, as she observed the crews gently \u201cbacking water\u201d to keep on\na line till the word was given. \u201cWhich side will you take?\u201d asked the\ncockswain of the Sally. \u201cAll the same, my hearty; stay where you are,\u201d\nanswered Duggin with a voice as if confident of success. \u201cReady!\u201d shouted\nthe steward. All oars were thrown forward, as the men bent ready for the\nfirst dash. \u201cFire!\u201d Scarce had the gun boomed over the water when the\nblades were dipped together. \u201cPull, boys, pull!\u201d cried the cockswain\nof the Norah. \u201cHeave away, my lads, heave! now for the start!\u201d cried\nthe other. After about five strokes the buff shot right ahead, clearing\ncompletely the bow of her sable rival. A sneer of bitter triumph might be\nseen on Duggin\u2019s lip as he darted past his hated opponent. In a very few\nminutes more, however, the buff ceased to gain, as the black, under the\npowerful and steady stroke of her crew, began to more gallantly through\nthe water. As they came alongside the ruined barracks below the town\nof Cove, the Sally had come up to the Norah, and for a short distance\nthey went stem and stem together. From that point they had to shoot over\ntowards a large buoy, round which they must turn. The cockswains now\nurged on their men, who answered by a cheer, as the wave foamed under\ntheir strokes. Duggin\u2019s crew pulled with desperate vigour in order to\ngain the turn, but the black continued the same even regular pull that\nwas evidently telling well. \u201cLook now, father; is the white flag first?\nis it ahead, father?\u201d asked Sally. \u201cNo, child; the Norah is---- No! she\nis not! Bravo, Bill! there they go for the buoy! That\u2019s it. More power to\nyou, Bill! Don\u2019t they walk out of the saucy buff!\u201d It was true for Jerry;\nthe black boat was now fairly six lengths ahead, and was gaining more at\nevery stroke. They reached the buoy; and now began the difficulty. \u201cBack\nwater, larboard side; pull--pull on the starboard,\u201d said the cockswain.\n\u201cMagrath, heave! Brien, that\u2019s the go!\u201d shouted William, as he backed\nwith all his might. \u201cHurra for the honour of Passage! Pull, my lads,\npull!--rattle into \u2019em. Hurra!\u201d bawled the Norah\u2019s helmsman, with a voice\nhoarse from exertion. Before the Sally could be well got under weigh\nafter the turn, the Norah had darted round the buoy, and was in a moment\nthree lengths beyond her. \u201cOh, heavens, they\u2019re beat!\u201d said Jerry, as\nhe sank back on the cushion in utter despair. \u201cDon\u2019t say that, father!\nLook again!\u201d entreated Sally. \u201cThere!\u201d cried the old man, as he ventured\nanother glance, \u201cshe\u2019s clane out of her again! Bravo, Bill! Give it to\nher! There she clips, the beauty! I always said there wasn\u2019t your equal\nexcept myself at building a gig! Now, boys,\u201d continued he, addressing\nhis own crew, \u201cpull a rattling touch over, and we\u2019ll give them such a\ncheer! Heave, my lads--that\u2019s it; bend your lazy backs!\u201d The course was\nabout two or three miles in length from the buoy to the old convict-hulk,\nround whose dark mass the boats must pull before they made for the quay\nfrom which they had started, and which was also the winning-place. The\nstruggle up along the bank was indeed a beautiful sight, as from time\nto time the chances seemed to vary in favour of each, and as the crews\nappeared to gain new vigour from the cheering that came from the numerous\nboats which met them on the course. Gallantly did the long stroke tell\non the Sally, as she shot far out of the rakish buff. She was dashing on\nin noble style for the convict-ship, when, smash! away went the bowman\u2019s\noar! All was in confusion. On came the Norah! At that very moment Jerry\nSullivan arrived; and seeing the terrible disaster, he caught at the\noar next his hand, and flung it within reach of the bowman. \u201cYou have\nit now, my boys. Now, Bill, pull, my darling fellow, hurrah!\u201d shouted\nJerry, as the crew gave back the cheer, and the Sally bounded after the\nlively Norah. Thirty strokes more, and the Sally was stem and stem with\nher well-manned rival. They passed the man-of-war, and the sailors who\ncrowded the side of the noble vessel gave them a cheer. Before them rose\nthe hull of the old convict-ship, and now the struggle was, who should\nround her first. Still was the same quick stroke pulled on the buff, and\nstill did the other crew continue to keep the same powerful one on the\nblack. The stern of the hulk was neared; the Sally was five boats ahead,\nbut the Norah dashed on gallantly in her wake. \u201cPull, boys, pull!\u201d was\nthe word in both boats. \u201cBack water hard! Pull on the bow! Hurra! Back\nher well! Hurra!\u201d shouted both cockswains. The Sally had not well rounded\nthe bow of the convict-ship, when the Norah had turned, as if on a pivot,\nand again was stem and stem with her opponent. Now, indeed, was the true\ntime for testing the capabilities both of the men and the boats, for a\nbreeze was blowing from the west, and as the tide was making fast out\nof the harbour, there was a swell as both met in opposition. Shouts now\ngreeted the gigs as they dashed on to the winning-place. Again did old\nJerry meet them, and cheer aloud! Duggin literally foamed at the mouth,\nas he plied his oar with the energy of desperation, while William shouted\nto his crew to pull; and pull they did. In spite of all the exertions\nof Duggin, the Norah dropped back, as the Sally bounded on to the goal.\nDuggin cursed and raved, but all to no purpose; for the high-pointed bow\nof his gig caught the wind, and she had not the same power of keeping her\nway as the other, owing to her want of keel. \u201cStand by with the match!\u201d\ncried the steward. \u201cThere they come; the black boat is long ahead! Fire!\u201d\nNo sooner had the loud report followed the quick flash, than the oars\nwere tossed on high, and the Sally rode triumphant! Loud were the shouts\nthat rang from land and sea, as the victors dropped their blades into the\nwave, and shot into the landing-place to receive their well-earned prize.\nWho can describe the pride and joy of the old man, or the deep rapture of\nhis daughter, as they saw the steward present the silver cup to William,\nflushed as he was from the exertion and triumph of the moment! As it\nwould be quite impossible to do justice to their feelings, the attempt\nmust be modestly refrained from.\n\nThe gig was immediately purchased for twenty-five guineas, and orders\nwere given to Jerry for the building of two more on an exactly similar\nplan. As for Duggin, he was so subdued in spirit by the loss of his\nreputation as a crack oarsman, that he never after that day was known\nto try his fortune on the course, and neither visited Ring to woo Miss\nSullivan, nor to make good his threat on the body of the victorious\nWilliam. It has been since whispered among the gossips of the village\nthat old Jerry Sullivan, though much surprised at hearing of the mutual\nlove of William and Sally, finally gave his blessing and consent to their\nunion. Need it be told that the well-won silver cup was ever looked on as\nan honoured vessel, and that Sally prized it nearly as much as William\nhimself did?\n\n                                                                 J. F. M.\n\n\n\n\nA RIDE WITH DEATH.\n\n\n    I saw him pass by, while the east-wind blew,\n    And the vernal blooms from the branches flew;\n    Lo! there he speeds, that old skeleton-man,\n    With his frame all bleached, all withered and wan;\n    His eye-balls are gone, and his cheek-bones bare,\n    And he rides a pale horse through the cold humid air!\n\n    Now he resteth himself \u2019neath an old dry tree,\n    Where the moss hath grown for a century:\n    He feeds his steed with grass that grew rank\n    On the field where warriors in battle sank;\n    Bedabbled with blood, it thick grew, and strong,\n    And to Death\u2019s pale horse doth of right belong!\n\n    Gone is the beauty from violet blue,\n    For the look of Death hath pierced it through;\n    And the crocus that bloomed near the old dry tree,\n    Hath faded away, such a sight to see;\n    And the grass where he sat, that was bright and green,\n    Turned pale as the blades where a stone hath been.\n\n    Ha! ha! old pilgrim! may I go with thee,\n    Thy doings fearful and strange to see?\n    He nodded his head; not a word said Death,\n    For he had little need to waste his breath:\n    A man of short speech, he speaks in his brow;\n    He looks what he means, when he says \u201cCome thou!\u201d\n\n    We paused near a maiden with rosy cheek,\n    A lovely maiden, with blue eye meek;\n    But her youthful bloom, how it faded away!\n    Her heart was in heaven, she might not stay:\n    And we looked at an infant that lay on the breast,\n    A mother\u2019s pride, and it sank to rest!\n\n    We stood by the cot of a widowed dame;\n    Life\u2019s feeble embers gave out their last flame:\n    At the hut of a slave we stepped gently in;\n    With pity Death looked on his frame so thin,\n    And his face, as he watched at the old man\u2019s bed,\n    Said \u201cPeacefully let him be one with the dead!\u201d\n\n    At a palace we tarried, and there one lay\n    On his last sad couch, at the close of day;\n    He struggled hard, but Death\u2019s face said \u201cNo!\n    Duty is mine, wheresoever I go:\n    Peasant or king, it is all the same,\n    Mine must thou be--I have here thy name!\u201d\n\n    We hovered around where a Christian sire\n    Lay waiting to join the eternal choir;\n    Peaceful and calm was his holy repose;\n    He sank as the sun on a May-day\u2019s close:\n    He rose as the sun with beams tricked anew,\n    When flowers bend with beauty, and leaves with dew.\n\n    We crossed the path of a beautiful bark,\n    How many the corses, all stiff and stark!\n    Down sank the vessel beneath the wild wave,\n    No hand was near one poor soul to save!\n    We glanced at a ship by an iceberg crushed,\n    We gazed but a moment--then all was hushed.\n\n    We asked of a miser to yield up his gold,\n    But he loosed not his clutch when his hands were cold.\n    We entered a town, as it shook to and fro,\n    An earthquake was raging in fury below;\n    Dwellings were rocking like trees when storm-tost,\n    Crashing and sinking--till all were lost!\n\n    We stayed our flight o\u2019er a funeral pile,\n    Where the Ganges roll\u2019d swift through a deep defile;\n    Where Brahmin priests rent with cries the air,\n    While the victim lay burning and crackling there;\n    And the devotees of dark Jaggernath\n    We saw mangled and torn in its bloody path.\n\n    We paused a while where a family stood,\n    Partaking the sacred \u201cbody and blood;\u201d\n    And we saw their mother unfaltering pray,\n    When life\u2019s mellow evening way failing away;\n    And as she sighed out her last tremulous breath,\n    Was ended my first wild ride with Death.\n\n                                              --_From the Knickerbocker._\n\n\n\n\nANCIENT SEAL OF THE ISLAND OF SAINT COLMOC.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe prefixed woodcut of an impression of an ancient monastic seal\nhitherto unpublished, will, we think, interest some of our readers both\nin Scotland and Ireland, as, though it is certainly not Irish, it is\nintimately connected with that bright period of our history when Ireland\nsent forth her crowds of learned ecclesiastics to preach the gospel\nand instruct the people, not only to Scotland and England, but also to\nGermany, France, Switzerland, Belgium, Mecklenburg, and even distant\nIceland, in all which their memories are still venerated as patron\nsaints--that period to which Spenser alludes in the lines:\n\n    \u201cWhylome, when Ireland flourished in fame\n    Of wealth and goodness, far above the rest\n    Of all that bear the British island\u2019s name.\u201d\n\nThe matrix, which is of bronze or brass, was discovered among old brass\nat a foundry in London some three or four years ago, and is now in the\npossession of Mr Thomas, a merchant of that city, who has the largest\ncollection of remains of this kind ever formed in the British empire.\n\nThe legend, which is in the semi-Saxon character of the twelfth century,\nreads--\n\n             SI . COMMUNE . DE . INSULA . SANCTI . COLMOCI:\n                                   or,\n             THE COMMON SEAL OF THE ISLAND OF SAINT COLMOC.\n\nThe locality of this seal has been hitherto referred to the celebrated\nIrish monastery of Iona, or Hy-Columbkille, and such we ourselves deemed\nit when the impression was first sent to us. But on maturer reflection\nwe are now disposed to consider this conclusion erroneous, and that the\nseal should with greater probability be referred to the monastery of\nInch-Colm, a small island in the Frith of Forth, lying between Edinburgh\nand Inverkeithing, and which was anciently called Emonia, or Y-mona, _i.\ne._ the Island of Mona. On this island the Scottish King Alexander I., in\ngratitude for his escape from a violent storm, by which he was driven on\nthe island in 1123, founded a monastery dedicated to its patron saint,\nand of which there are still considerable remains. It was plundered by\nthe English in the reign of Edward III., who, as it is said, suffered\nshipwreck for their sacrilege; and if we might hazard a conjecture, it\nwould be, that the seal may have been carried into England at that time.\nBut be this as it may, the seal perfectly agrees in style with similar\nremains of the twelfth century, and we have little doubt, that this is\nits true locality, as the name in the legend will not with correctness or\npropriety apply to any other known to exist. For, in the first place,\nthe monastery of Iona, the only other religious house to which it could\nbe referred, is invariably called Insula Columb\u00e6, or I-Columbkille, in\nall ancient documents, and it would be against all probability that it\nshould bear a different appellation on its seal. In the second place,\nthe name of the patron saint of Iona is never written COLMOC, which is\nan Irish diminutive form of the name COLUM, and which, as in the Latin,\nmeans a dove. But this name COLMOC was applied by the ancient Irish and\nScotch indifferently to persons bearing the name of COLMAN, both being\nbut synonymous and convertible diminutives of the name _Colum_--and hence\nit would follow that this seal must have belonged to some monastery\nwhich was dedicated not to St Columb, but to St Colman or Colmoc. It may\nhowever be objected that the island called Inch-Colm was dedicated to\nthe celebrated apostle of Scotland, St Columbkille; and it is true that\nColgan, on the authority of Fordun, does place it among the list of his\nfoundations. But Fordun is a weak authority to rely on in such matters;\nand from the greater contiguity of this island to Lindesfarn, of which\nthe Irish St Colman was the third bishop, it would seem more rational\nto attribute the origin of its name to him than to the saint of Iona.\nIn either case, however, the seal is one of great interest to Scottish\ntopography and Irish history.\n\n                                                                       P.\n\n\n\n\nSTREET CIGAR-SMOKERS.\n\n\nReader, are you given to cigar-smoking? The reason we put the question\nis, that we should not like to offend you by any thing you might find\nin our pages indicating a contempt on our part for this silly, and,\nas we think, vulgar practice. If you be, then, pass over this short\narticle, or as our old Irish schoolmaster used to tell us when we came\nto a passage which we could not construe, nor he neither, \u201cskip and go\non.\u201d But we feel tolerably certain you are not a smoker, or at least a\ncigar-smoker or exhibiting-street-performer, for we are satisfied that\namong the lovers of this now fashionable amusement we can count but few\nas supporters of our little work, or of any other of a mental or literary\ncharacter--that renowned periodical called Paddy Kelly\u2019s Budget, if it\nbe still in existence, excepted. It is the practice of unidea\u2019d men\nwith unidea\u2019d faces, who puff, not whistle--as the latter is no longer\na fashionable amusement--as they go, for want of thought, and as they\nthink to make them look manly and genteel! Well, heaven help their little\nwit! You think, reader, perhaps, as we ourselves were till lately foolish\nenough to suppose, that there must be a pleasure in this practice on its\nown account, like that which madmen feel in being insane. But no such\nthing. We have discovered that it is anything but an agreeable pastime,\nand that it is indulged in solely from the love of distinction, which\nis one of the peculiar characteristics of the human race, and which is\nso strong in these cigar-smokers, that they actually, in the spirit of\nmartyrs, surrender both their minds, such as they are, and their bodies\nalso, to its influence. Such a desire is not only natural to us, but\npraiseworthy: it is only the choice of means of gratifying it that is\nunworthy and even contemptible. It will bear no comparison in point of\nintellectuality with that of the fashionable dandies of our youthful\ndays, who used to promenade the streets and public places, playing\nquizzes, that is, flat circular pieces of boxwood suspended on a string\nby a kind of pulley, and which they kept in a sort of perpetual motion\nwith one or both hands, and sometimes even (great performers) with their\nmouths; their arms see-sawing up and down, and their heads shaking like\nthose of the Chinese mandarins in the tea shops. This, though perhaps a\nlittle grotesque, was a comical mode of attracting notice and obtaining\ndistinction. It was a healthy folly too, and required some human\nintellect to practise it adroitly. A monkey or a dog, both of whom we\nhave seen expert smokers, could not, we are persuaded, be taught this; it\nwould be beyond their intelligence; and it had a touch of the odd, the\ngay, and the ridiculous about it, that seemed to harmonize naturally with\nour national character--and we are not ashamed to confess it, we were\nourselves great quizzers in our youth. But the cigar-smoking folly--it\nis a dull, lifeless, stupid, silent, moping mania, wholly unbecoming an\nIrishman, and inconsistent with the spirit, life, and animation that\nshould be characteristic of youth. Old as we are, we think of taking to\nquizzing again, but we shall never fall into such a solemn absurdity as\nsmoking for applause. It would not suit our temperament.\n\nBut we have said that we had made the discovery that the practice of\ncigar-smoking is any thing but a pleasant one in itself, and that it\nis indulged in solely from ambitious motives, and an amiable love of\napplause. Yes, reader, and we shall induct you into our knowledge of the\nmatter, by a true and faithful narrative of the incident which enabled us\nto ascertain the fact.\n\nWe were lately coming along that favourite lounge of the cigar-smokers,\nSackville Street, when, arriving near Mitchell\u2019s, two young well-dressed,\nmoustached, and imperialled dandies, stept out from that intellectual\nemporium, each with a Havannah in his mouth, his hands in his \u201cDorsay\u201d\npockets, and looking as grave as possible, evidently impressed with the\npleasing idea that they were the admiration and envy of all passers. They\nproceeded before us in solemn slinge in the direction of the Rotunda,\nwe following in their wake, observant yet not observed; and before they\nreached Earl Street, they were met by a mutual friend, with whom they\nlinked, putting him between them, to allow them the greater facility to\nspit out, when the following colloquy ensued:--\n\n_Friend._ Well, Tom, how goes the world with you? and, Dick, my boy, how\nis every bit of you?\n\n_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- Well.\n\n_Friend._ Are you long in town--eh?\n\n_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- No.\n\n_Friend._ How did you leave them all in the country?--how is the old\nfellow?\n\n_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- Puff---- Well.\n\n_Friend._ Oh, damn ye! there\u2019s no getting a word out of you but a\nmonosyllable.\n\n_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- (And then each of them spat out.)\n\n_Friend._ Why, Tom, you\u2019ve become a great smoker.\n\n_Tom._ Puff---- Puff---- Yaws.\n\n_Friend._ And you too, Dick?\n\n_Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- Ees. (The imperfect vocable being squeezed out\nthrough his teeth at the left corner of his mouth.)\n\n_Friend._ And do you find it agree with you, Tom--is it pleasant?\n\nTom here, after a few puffs, slowly draws one hand out of his pocket, and\ntaking the cigar out of his mouth, spits out, draws his breath, and after\na minute replies:\n\n\u201cNo, _blast_ it; it always makes me sick.\u201d\n\nHe then restores the cigar to his mouth and his hand to his pocket, while\nhis friend puts a similar interrogatory to Dick.\n\n\u201cAnd does it always make you sick too?\u201d\n\nHere Dick, having in like manner indulged in a few puffs, takes the cigar\nout of his mouth, spits out at the other side, and drawing breath and\nlooking very pale, answers:\n\n\u201cInfernally!\u201d\n\n_Friend._ In the name of heaven, then, what do you both smoke for?\n\nThis, as one would have supposed, not an unnatural query, produced a\nsimultaneous stare of astonishment, mingled with contempt, from both the\nsmokers, as much as to say, \u201cWhat an ass you must be!\u201d and Dick, slowly\nremoving his cigar once more, and spitting out, answers,\n\n\u201cWhy, how the devil can you ask such a stupid question--what do you\nsuppose?\u201d\n\n_Friend._ Suppose! why hang me if I can guess.\n\nHere Tom took hold of his Havannah, and after spitting out on a lady\nwho was passing--but this was only an accident--replied for himself and\nfellow puffer---- But let us pause a moment. Guess, reader, what it was.\nDo you give it up? Well, then, here it is,\n\n\u201cWhy, for the GAG, to be sure!\u201d\n\nThis was enough for us. Our mind was enlightened by a new idea; and\nleaving the gentlemen to follow their gaggery, we hurried home to dinner,\na wiser if not a better man.\n\n                                                          AN OLD QUIZZER.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNOT A FABLE.--A boy three years of age was asked who made him? With his\nlittle hand and foot upon the floor, he artlessly replied--\u201cGod made me a\nlittle baby, so high, and I _grew the rest_.\u201d--_Mirror._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPUBLIC.--We have a reading, a talking, and a writing public. _When_ shall\nwe have a _thinking_ public?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe mind is a field, in which, so sure as man sows not wheat, so sure\nwill the devil be to sow tares.--_Bentham._\n\n\n\n\nTHE HERRING.\n\nCLUPEA HARENGUS.\n\nFirst Article.\n\n\nOf all the branches of study into which natural history has been divided,\nthe most interesting, from its extensiveness, its variety, and the\nalmost insurmountable difficulties which it presents to the student,\nis Ichthyology. To acquire a thorough knowledge of zoology requires\nmuch labour, study, travel, and considerable risk; in like manner with\nornithology, in the prosecution of which the difficulties are greater,\nfrom the mixture of elements; but still the inhabitants of the air have\nthus much in common with us, that they live in the same atmospheric\nmedium, derive their sustenance from the same earth, and although the\ndifficulties of following their motions, and observing (unseen by\nthem) their habits and natures, are considerable, yet still, thanks to\nthe extension of science, they have not proved unconquerable, and the\ntelescope, in that form called the ornithoscope, has enabled man to\nacquire a large store of information on this interesting subject. But\nwith ichthyology how widely different! Here the preliminary obstacle\nwhich presents itself is an element fatal to the existence of man within\nit, and out of which the creatures with whose nature he would fain\nbe acquainted cannot exist. His very powers of observation are thus\nrendered useless, except in a very limited degree. They are bounded by a\nglass vase, or a small clear pond at the utmost, and confined to a few\nspecimens of the smaller fishes, and even then it is doubtful whether\ncircumstances may not have altered their really natural habits. Yet\nabove these obstacles the mind of man has risen, and by the union of\nanalogy with laborious and constant observation, he has succeeded in\nclassing a large amount of the tenants of the mighty deep. But before he\ncan ascertain what proportion, or write the history of any one of them\nfully, he must discover some substitute for gills which will enable him\nto extract the necessary air for his existence from the water, and thus\nenable him to search the depths of ocean, and seek its inhabitants in\ntheir haunts. That such may yet be discovered by the ingenuity of man,\nlet no one deem impossible.\n\nAmongst the fishes hitherto discovered and classed, the herring (_Clupea\nharengus_) is one of the most universally known, most generally useful,\nand one of the greatest boons of an all-bounteous Providence to the\ninhabitants of these countries. Abundance, the universal producer of\ncontempt, has caused this beautiful creature to be despised; but to\nthe naturalist\u2019s eye few creatures are possessed of greater charms.\nWhen first taken out of the water, it is of a dark-bluish and green\ncolour on the back, lightening down the sides to a silvery blue, which\nshades to white on the belly. The scales have a clear lustrous golden\ncolour, which changes in various shades of light after the manner of\nmother-of-pearl; they lie over one another in regular lines, with the\nconvex edges pointing towards the tail. The termination of the body is\nremarkable for the beautiful dark-green colour which it exhibits when\nheld before the light. The fins are seven in number--one dorsal, of\neighteen or nineteen rays; two ventral, of nine rays each; one anal, of\nseventeen rays; two pectoral, of eighteen or nineteen rays each; and the\ncaudal, or tail fin, of eighteen or nineteen rays. The eyes are placed\nin the middle of the sides of the head; the iris is of a silvery white\ncolour, and the pupil black. The spine consists of fifty-six vertebr\u00e6.\nThe ribs are thirty-five or six in number on each side, and there are\nseveral minute bones below the ribs, which terminate in soft elastic\nmuscles at the anal fin, and serve to give it strength and elasticity.\nFifty-two bones compose the head. The bronchi\u00e6 or gills are four on each\nside, each gill being supported by an arched cartilage; and there are two\nimperfect gills without the arch, which join the gill lid, and appear\nto regulate its motions. The convex side of the gills is furnished with\nfringed fleshy fibres, of a strong red colour when the fish is healthy;\nthe concave side, which is next the mouth, is furnished with long\nserrated spines. The heart is placed in a cavity near the gills, above\nthe stomach; it is three sided, and consists of a single auricle and\nventricle. The \u0153sophagus, or gullet, is remarkably short in proportion\nto the size of the fish; the stomach is thin, membranous, and capable\nof great distension. The gut is of uniform size throughout. The gall\nbladder is small, and of a dark-green colour; the liquid is of a light\nclaret hue, having a sweetish pungent taste. The air bag, or _vesica\nnatatoria_, is of a silvery white colour, round, of nearly the length of\nthe stomach, and pointed and narrow at both ends; it is connected with\nthe funnel-shaped posterior part of the stomach by a duct. The use of\nthe _vesica natatoria_, or, as it is commonly called, the _swim_, is to\nenable the fish, by inflating or expelling the air from it, to rise or\nsink, for if the air-bag of a living fish be pierced, the creature sinks\nat once to the bottom. The under jaw of the herring projects beyond\nthe upper. The form and consistency of its nose proves its use for the\npurpose of feeling, in the absence of the cirri or feelers possessed by\nother fishes. The skin not being provided with the _corpus papill\u00e6_, and\nbeing besides covered with scales, it is supposed that the sensation of\ntouch is either very limited or wholly wanting. The herring is provided\nwith two nostrils; and from the perfection of the olfactory organ, it is\npresumed that its sense of smell is very acute. It has no external organs\nof hearing but a fringed orifice below the eye on the inner side of that\npart of the head which covers the gills. Fishermen affirm that their\nsense of hearing is very acute, and state instances of their immediately\nceasing the peculiar pattering noise which they are accustomed to make on\ncalm evenings, if a loud sound is made on any part of the interior of the\nboat.\n\nThe Swedes attribute the departure of the herrings from the neighbourhood\nof Gothenburg to the frequent firing of the British ships of war which\nwere stationed there for convoys; and so great is the influence which\nfishermen have been accustomed to attribute to sound, that we are told\nin Chambers\u2019s Picture of Scotland that the bell of St Monance in Fife,\nwhich was suspended from a tree in the churchyard, was removed every year\nduring the herring season, lest the noise should scare the fish from the\ncoast.\n\nThe mouth of the herring is furnished with a few teeth in the upper and\nlower jaws, and four rows in the tongue. These pointing inwards, enable\nit the more readily to secure and swallow its slippery prey, which\nchiefly consists of extremely minute animals, such as small medus\u00e6, the\n_Oniscus marinus_, and small cancri and animalcula. The herrings on the\ncoast of Norway sometimes feed upon a small red worm called the Ro\u00e9-aal,\nwhich renders them unfit for curing; but there is probably no fish so\nindiscriminate in its food. The herring is often caught with flies, at\nwhich it leaps readily, and frequently with naked unbaited hooks. Mr\nMitchell, in his article on the herring in the Quarterly Journal of\nAgriculture, mentions that in the stomachs of several herrings which he\nexamined, he found numbers of young sand-eels, and he adds a very curious\nobservation, namely, that in the stomachs of such herrings as had the\nmilt or roe small and immature, the sand-eels were numerous; whereas in\nthose which had the milt or roe full grown, there were none whatsoever;\nbut he offers no suggestion to account for this remarkable circumstance.\nThey also frequently feed on their own ova and young.\n\nThe herring propels itself through the water by rapidly moving the\ntail from side to side, the other fins being employed in steadying and\nprobably aiding its movement, and it is this rapid waving of the tail\nwhich causes the rippling or pattering sound which announces the presence\nof a shoal when swimming near the surface. On a calm night their course\nmay be traced by a brilliant phosphorescent light, which illuminates the\nsurface of the water, and is emitted partly from the fish themselves, and\npartly from the minute marine animals with which the ocean swarms.\n\nSometimes herrings do not approach the surface, and fine healthy shoals\nare often apt to swim deep; hence fishermen, through their ignorance in\ntrusting too much to appearances, are frequently misled, they being apt\nto suppose that when they see no gulls or large fishes of prey exhibiting\ntheir gluttonous gambols, there are no herrings present, whilst the\nfinest and choicest may be at the moment in millions beneath them; in\nfact, those which swim near the surface are usually the young, the\ngorged, and the sickly. Mr Mitchell informs us that several experienced\nmasters of Dutch herring busses assured him that the only appearances\nthey ever sought for were the colour of the sea, which should be a dark\ngreen, and its consistence apparently muddy. There is an additional fact\nworthy of observation, which is, that in clear dry weather the fish keep\ndown at the bottom, and do not ascend until the moon rises.\n\nThe migration of the herring has been long a disputed point, and from\nthe difficulties to which we have alluded in the commencement of this\narticle, of observing minutely or accurately the movements or nature of\nfishes, it is likely to remain unsettled much longer. The old and long\nreceived opinion has been, that the winter habitation of the herring is\nunder the vast fields of ice which surround the North Pole within the\nArctic Circle; that they there deposit their spawn and advance southwards\nwith the opening year, making their appearance off the Zetland islands\nabout the month of April, and coming upon the coasts of Ireland and\nScotland in June. Off Thurso they are sometimes taken as early as May,\nbut June, July, and August, are the months in which the fishing is most\nactively commenced off the west Highlands of Scotland. Off the east\ncoast of Ireland, near Arklow, the fishery used to commence in June, but\nlatterly it has been postponed till October. The fluctuations in the\ntime of commencing the herring fishery at various places, and the fact\nof a winter fishery being successfully carried on in some parts--as for\ninstance at Killybegs, where they are taken from December till March, and\nalong the whole coast of Ireland south of Galway Bay, where there are\nsufficient indications that the fishery might be successfully carried\non the whole year--have at length caused the hitherto received opinion\nof their migration from the Arctic Circle to be questioned, and Mr\nMitchell has given many sound arguments in refutation of it. He divides\nthe theories upon the subject into three:--first, that the herrings come\nfrom the North Pole in great shoals of many leagues in extent, dividing\ninto lesser shoals on coming towards the north point of Scotland;\nsecond, that they do not come from the Arctic regions, but from a less\nnortherly direction, still, however, very far north of Shetland; and,\nthird, that they are spawned on the coasts near which they are caught,\nand are consequently natives; that after spawning, they retire out to\nsea, and continue so until their spawning season comes round again, when\nthey return to their accustomed shore. The latter he considers to be the\nmost reasonable theory, and adduces in support of it the well-known fact\nthat the herrings at every fishing station are of a peculiar quality\nuniformly the same, and always different from those at other even very\nnearly adjoining stations; and so well has this fact been established,\nthat practical men can at once pronounce from the size, appearance,\nand quality of the fish, where it was taken. For example, the herrings\ntaken off the coast of Stadtland in Norway are almost twice the size of\nthose taken near Shetland, and these are twice the size of those caught\nnear Thurso, whilst the Dublin Bay herrings have long been famous for\ntheir superior flavour, which is unmatched by those of any other bay or\nharbour. Again, a size of herrings similar to those of Yarmouth visited\ntill lately the coast of Lumfiord in Denmark, whilst on the Mecklenburg\ncoast higher up the Baltic, the herrings are one-third larger than those\nof Lumfiord; and proceeding up the Baltic above Mecklenburg to the\nPomeranian and part of the Prussian coasts, they are fully one-third\n_smaller_; and again still farther up they are larger. In quality and\ncondition they differ as much as in size, those off the coast of Holland\nbeing so inferior as not to be worth pickling, and the Dutch fishermen\nconsequently seek the coasts of Scotland and England.\n\nAs to the time of appearance at the several fishing stations, their\nirregularity goes far to prove their constant propinquity, the take\ncommencing at some of the more southern stations before the northern\nones; whereas, if they migrated regularly from the north, it is evident\nthat the fishing should commence at the various stations in regular\norder, from the most northern where the shoals would first make their\nappearance, to the next, and so on to the most southward, which should be\ndeserted by them at some certain season, in order that they might return.\n\nBut there is no well-authenticated instance of those prodigious shoals of\nherrings having been met with approaching the south in any high northern\nlatitude; and so far from their abounding in the Arctic regions, none\nhave been found in the Greenland seas, nor have any been discovered in\nthe stomachs of the whales killed there. Egede, who resided in Greenland\nfor fifteen years, and compiled the natural history of it, after\nenumerating the fishes, adds, \u201cNo herrings are to be seen;\u201d whilst on the\ncontrary, the whales which feed principally on herrings, frequent our own\ncoasts. These arguments appear to be fatal to the theory of the Arctic\nmigration, and to support most powerfully that of the mere retirement\nof the herring to the deep. But Mr Mitchell goes farther, and asserts,\nupon the evidence of the celebrated naturalists Bloch and Lacepede, that\n\u201cfishes of a similar size even in fresh water cannot go above half a\nmile a-day, and that therefore herrings could not make, even from spring\nto autumn, the long voyage attributed to them.\u201d Now, this appears to be\ngoing too far, and we would prefer that the argument should rest on the\nformer grounds, excluding this, which seems to be a weak assertion,\nfounded upon the observation that fishes do not proceed far from their\nhaunts, whilst the fact is, that they merely move about in search of\nfood; but who that has seen the rapid movement of a trout, or of the very\nfish we are treating of, could for a moment entertain the idea of their\nprogress being confined to a rate that the crawling snail might equal?\nMr Mitchell himself mentions a fact that alone is sufficient to rebut\nsuch an assertion, namely, that shortly after the union between England\nand Scotland, an immense shoal of herrings ran ashore near Cromarty, and\ncovered the beach to the depth of several feet; and he adds, \u201cStrange to\nsay, however, the shoal left the Frith in a single night, and no shoals\nmade their appearance again for more than half a century.\u201d\n\nNow, if they could make but half a mile a-day, how could they have\nreturned several miles in a single night? But this argument was\nunnecessary, and it would be well for many persons to know that an\nill-sustained argument is not merely a bad prop to a cause, but a wedge\ninserted for the advantage of an adversary, placed ready for his use in\noverturning it.\n\nBut the most powerful argument against the theory of migration seems to\nhave escaped Mr Mitchell\u2019s observation; it is--that the herrings do not\nretire to spawn, as was asserted, but actually spawn near the fishing\nstations, and retire after it. Their spawn is taken up in abundance, and\nthe nets are always found to contain large quantities of it, whilst the\nassertion that no young herrings are found near our shores, is altogether\nabsurd, the contrary being the fact. The fecundated roe has the power,\nafter having been deposited, of attaching itself firmly to the stones,\nrocks, or sea-weed, and in about three weeks after deposition, the young\nfry come forth from the eggs, and are seen in millions near the shore; in\nsix or seven weeks they are about three inches in length, and arrive at\nmaturity in about eighteen months.\n\nLacepede tells that in North America the inhabitants carry the\nherring-spawn from the spawning ground to the mouths of rivers and\nother places not before frequented by the fish, and those places become\nforthwith regular resorts for them; and the same authority mentions the\nfact of a similar custom in Sweden.\n\nThus the theory of the herring being a native of the place which it is\naccustomed to frequent annually, seems to be satisfactorily established;\nand having thus presented our readers with such information upon the\nsubject of the natural history of the herring as our space permits, we\nshall close this article, reserving some account of the various modes of\nfishing and methods of curing, for another paper.\n\n                                                                       N.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSENTIMENT.--How much fine sentiment there is wasted in our strange world!\nI have seen a young lady in raptures of admiration over a flower which\nwas to deck her hair in the ball-room, who would turn away with a look of\nloathing from the proffered kiss of her baby brother; and I have heard\nlovely lips, all wreathed in smiles, and breathing tones of joy over a\npretty shell, a shining insect, or even a gay ribbon, say cold and cruel\nwords to the best friend, ay, the _mother_, who was wearing her life out\nto promote the happiness of her ungrateful daughter.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMARRIAGE.--When a man of sense comes to marry, it is a companion whom\nhe wants, and not an artist. It is not merely a creature who can paint,\nplay, dress, and dance--it is a being who can comfort and console him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBLUSHING.--Blushing in the male sex is too frequently and constantly\nregarded as a proof of guiltiness: it is a proof of sensibility and\nfear of disrepute, by whatever incident called forth; but except in so\nfar as fear of being thought guilty is proof, it affords no proof of\nthe existence of the object by the idea of which the apprehension is\nexcited.--_Bentham._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPride destroys all symmetry and grace, and affectation is a more terrible\nenemy to fine faces than the small pox.--_Hughes._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt twenty years of ago the will reigns, at thirty the wit, at forty the\njudgment.--_Grattan._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAuthors in France seldom speak ill of each other, unless they have a\npersonal pique. Authors in England seldom speak well of each other,\nunless they have a personal friendship.--_Pope._\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.--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley,\n    Paternoster Row, London; SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street,\n    Manchester; C. DAVIES, North John Street, Liverpool; J. DRAKE,\n    Birmingham; SLOCOMBE and SIMMS, Leeds; FRASER and CRAWFORD,\n    George Street, Edinburgh; and DAVID ROBERTSON, Trongate,\n    Glasgow.","title":"The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 31, January 30, 1841","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":11450}