S^ '^^

THE HULL

LITERARY A;ND PHILOSOPHICAL

MISCELLANY,

VOL. L

LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.

HULL:

PRINTED & PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL DIBB & CO., 4, MYTON GATE,

AND SOLD BT

W. STBPnENSON, R. T. CU880N8, AND D. KAT, LOWOATE ; J. PCBDON AND

MARY NOBLE, MARKETPLACE; B. GODDABD, 8ILTSB-8TBEET ;

AND J. LENO, 8AV1LE-8TREET.

1844.

ADDRESS TO THE READER.

The conductors of the Hull LyERARY and Philosophical
Miscellany have been induced to bring the first volume of the
work to a close earlier than they intended, in consequence of certain
changes about to take place in the publishing department.

In the volume of the Miscellany which is now before the public,
the conductors have endeavoured to carry out the principles stated
in the prospectus, without introducing anything of a sectarian
character, and from the support their work has received they are
persuaded that their efforts to merit the approving smile of the
reader have not been altogether unsuccessful.

It is their intention to introduce some slight alteration in the
future numbers of the Magazine, in order that more space may be
devoted to articles of an amusing and purely literary character.
Finding that the limits of the Miscellany will not admit of the notices
of lectures, delivered at the Philosophical Society and Mechanics*
Institute, being extended to a sufficient length to give the reader a
correct idea of the principles laid down and views taken by the
lecturers, they intend in future to omit them. The meteorological
table will also be omitted to make room for matter of more general
interest.

Feeling conscious that a periodical of this kind is needed in Hull,
they aie determined, notwithstanding the numerous difficulties Nvith
which they have to contend, to persevere in their undertaking and
rely with confidence on the support of their townsmen.

To their esteemed correspondents and regular subscribers they
present their warmest thanks, and trust the alterations which they
have thought advisable to make in their next volume will meet with
their approbation.

CONTENTS.

PHILOSOPHICAL PAPERS, LECTURES, &c.

PAGE

Botanical Notices 150, 196, 208

Botany. — ^Advantages of the Study of 112

Torpidity of Plants 150

The Crocus and Snow Drop 196

Vegetable Respiration 161

The Hyacinth 230

British Association — ^President's Address 26

Chess, Lecture on 32

Problems and Solutions, 36, 79, 119, 159, 200, 238

Introduction 1

Knowledge, on the Pursuit of 219

Lectures, Notices of 118, 156

— on Chess, H. R. Fbancis, Esq 32

on the Leviathan and Behemoth, T. Thompson, Esq 52, 98

. — on the Influence of certain Popular Errors, Db. Atbb 81, 121

on the Theory of Sensation, Rev. Newman Hall, B. A , . . . . 171

Leviathan and Behemoth, Lecture on 52, 98

■ Remarks on 142

Meteorology. — Lunar and Planetary Influences over the Weather 9, 66, 209

Tables, Registers, &c. .39, 40, 79, 80, 119, 120, 159, 160, 238, 239

Phonography • 73

Rivulet, The 86

Stars, An Evening with the, Mr. J. D. Sollitt % 37

Sensation, On the Theory of 17 1

TALES.

Adventures of Tom Bellamy ,.., 201

Amyntor and Almira 20

Ancient Castles, On the Keeps of 234

Female Sculptor, The 225

My First Voyage 106

VI. CONTENTS.

PAGE

My Uncle and the Sheriffs Officer 133

Ruins of Yorkshire, by J. G.~Mount-Grace Prior)- 235

The last of the Pig Tails in Hull 187

Trevallyan, A Tale of Cornwall 3, 41, 87

POETRY.

Acrostic on Braham 94

Andrew Marvel 167

Capture of Bassano 217

Evening Thoughts 131

Eventide 207

For Ever 31

Humber Wolds 23

Lines on the Statue of Dr. Alderson, Mrs. Opie 141

Our Conntry and her Claims, Dr. Buchanan 19

Poesy and Sleep, Madam Batle Mouillard 237

Seasons, The 224

Spirit of Hope 8

Spirits Everywhere 130

Song 18

Song 51

The Bark 238

The Fields of Waterloo 50

The Wreck 95

Welton Dale 62

Bebata.— Page 236, fifth line, for dish, read disk.

//.

THE HULL

LITERARY AND PHILOSOPHICAL

MISCELLANY

OCTOBER.

CONTENTS :

Introduction
Trevallyan ...
Spirit of Hope
Aleteorology . .

Song is

Our Country and her Claims .... 19
A,,,.-.,.,^,. ^„,i Almira '20

Humbor Wolds 'I'-^t

British Association l^

For Ev,-T 31

Chess 32

Chess Problem 36

An Evening with the Stars 37

Motoorological Tables 39

HULL:
PRINTED &; PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL DIBl.

MYTON-GATE,

TV. 8TBPHBNSO\, B. T. CUSSON'S, AND D. K-W, LOWOATB ; J. PURBON AXD

MART xonir;. maukkt-plact: ; r. cionoARD. silver-street;

THE HULL

LITERARY & PHILOSOPHICAL MISCELLANY.

No. I. OCTOBER. Vol. I.

INTRODUCTION.

The rapidly extending diffusion of a literary taste is one of
the most conspicuous and animating characteristics of our time. It
is clear that our age is not fertile in those gigantic creations of
original thought, that constitute the glory of our national literature,
still it must be conceded, that no prior age ever witnessed literature
assume so wide-spread a dominion over the public mind : " If we have
ceased to produce profound thinkers, we have become more generally
intelligent." The indications of this spirit of our times ai-e to be
discovered in the vast numbers of periodicals of the most dissimilar
nature, that weekly and monthly issue from the press, and are greedily
read by the public, notwithstanding the incalculable amount of matter
daily addressed to them through the newspaj)ers on tlie absorbing
struggles of party politics. Admitting the predilection for productions
of literary skill to be a general one in our day, are we to assume that
Hull is exempted from its influence — that it is a sort of peculium
into which the spirit of authorship has as yet not penetrated ? We
certainly do not discover one of the indications which ordinarily
accompany it ; we have no magazine, review, or other periodical.
Does the feeling itself, then, pervade our town ? It may be answered —

2 INTRODUCTION.

But sucli periodicals did exist — that several literary experiments were
made ; and, whatever their imperfections, they developed some ability,
and they only required the aid of public patronage to stimulate and
mature what latent they exhibited. But this was withheld — they
failed, to the disappointment of their projectors, and the regret of their
contributors. With these inauspicious reminiscences to revert to, the
projector of the present Miscellany has made another effort to furnish
a medium for the literary talents of his townsmen. And did he limit
his undertaking to this object, he might be reasonably diffident of
success ; but when he announces that it is his intention to introduce
into its pages reports of the lectures and addresses delivered at the
Literary and Philosophical Society and the Mechanics* Institute — the
importance and popularity of which is conclusively attested by the
numbers who always listen to them with attention and delight — he
hopes to receive the patronage of the public.

The more detailed enumeration of the objects and design of the
periodical belongs to the prospectus; and how the design and objects
there stated will have been accomplished is to be ascertained from the
periodical itself. Further premise, therefore, would houseless; and
the proprietor commits his publication to the public j udgment, neither
anticipating nor desiring any further favour than a fair appreciation of
its merits, and a just construction of its imperfections.

3
TREVALLYAN :

A TALE OF CORNWALL.

« like the pine, uprooted by the blast, he fell ; and the wailing wind sighed o'er
his grave. Bards wept ; for he left no son. Mourn for him I 0 mourn for him ! —
Oscar was the last of his race !" Ossian .

Chapter I.

On the south-western point of the county of Cornwall, there stood,
in the sixteenth century, a fortress, named Trevallyan Castle. It
was an extremely old fabric, and no vestige thereof now remains.
Its architecture was, for the most part, in the Gothic style, though
frequent additions, made by its successive lords to add to its strength
and capabilities for resisting the attacks of an enemy, did not so strictly
adhere to the ai'chitectural fashion of the rest of the building, as a
fastidious critic would desire. No record remained to shew the exact
date at which the castle was commenced ; but it was the prevailing
belief that it had been erected by one of the nobles of Harold, as a
sort of fastness to which he might convey for safety spoils unscrupu-
lously obtained, either from the ocean, or by inroads upon the lands of
his warlike neighbours. This nobleman, tradition tells us, was slain
on the bloody field of Hastings, by the side of his brave, though
unfortunate piince. Shortly subsequent to tliis fatal strife, by which
the Normans gained possession of England, the castle and its domains
were given to a follower of the Conqueror, by name Evereux, who
added considerably to the extent of the edifice, by building on every
side a massive battlemented wall, and by digging a moat on three sides
of it ; the one remainmg being sufficiently defended by a precipice,
which, though it might, by great courage and perseverance, be
ascended, yet could be maintained by one man against any number
of the most fearless assailants. These fortifications, natm'al and
artificial, contributed to render this fortress one of the strongest in
Cornwall, and its possessor both feared and lespected. The last of
the Evereux family. Sir Ralph d'Evereux, was slain in the Holy

4 TREVALLTAN.

Land during the second cmsade. 13y a grant from the crown, the
castle and estates now j)assed into the hands of Sir Hugh Trevallyan,

05 a reward for good service done in battle, and for wise counsel in
the cabinet. Sir Hugh was created an earl by Richard the Second.
Hitherto tJie fortress had home the name of Le Chateau d'Evereux,
but was changed by him to that of Trevallyan Castle, in honour of
his own family ; he also made some additions to the fortifications of
the place. Of its internal accommodations, it is needless to say more
than that they partook of the general character of those of that period,
little regard being paid to that polish and elegance which distinguishes
later days. The waves of the ocean washed the sands which lay at
the base of the rock on which the fortress was built ; and about two
miles to the southward were seen the white walls of St. Anne's con-
vent, on the apex of St. Michael's Mount. There were several other
monasteries in Cornwall and its neighbouring county, Devonshire, but
none equal to this of St. Anne, which was celebrated not only for the
piety of its nuns, but also for the riches of its treasury.

The name of the last Earl of Trevallyan, the hero of our story, was
Richard. He was a man of tall stature and dark complexion. He
was fierce and intractable m his nature, though long experience had
taught him sometimes to listen to the suggestions of prudence. He
was honourable in his conduct, yet a certain rapacity of disposition did
at times exhibit itself; but this last was a failing of the times. His
features were handsome, but a cast of sternness which they habitually
wore, made him, at first sight, appear a man to be feared rather than
loved.

It was a bright morning in the spring of the year 1538, that a
herald demanded admittance at the carefully-guarded gate of Tre-
vallyan Castle. The seneschal having, with his accustomed caution,
carefully peered forth from a loophole, hidden from the gaze of any
person standing without the entrance, demanded from whom the mes-
senger had come. He replied that he brought letters of importance
from the sovereign himself, which must immediately be submitted to
the inspection of the Earl of Trevallyan, in order that the king might
have his answer with the shortest possible delay. This message
having been communicated to his lord, the seneschal ordered the draw-
bridge to be lowered, and the portcullis raised ; after which the herald
was admitted, and conducted into a spacious and lofty hall, lighted at

TREVALLTAK. 6

each end by large arched wmdows of stained glass, which, combined
with the loftiness of the apartment, threw over it a gloom by no means
unpleasing. At the opposite end of the room to that by which the
herald entered, was seated the possessor of the fortress, in a chair of
dai'k oak, upon which were carved the arms distinguishing the family.
The carl was busily engaged in examining a cross-bow, which a page
who stood near him had brought ; and so intent was he on his occu-
pation, that he had forgotten the message brought to him a few minutes
before by his seneschal. At a short distance on his right was seated
a lady of great personal beauty, working at an embroidery frame ; this
being, at that i)eriod, a favourite employment of ladies of high birth.
The herald had stood, viewing the scene before him, for some time,
and looking occasionally at the tapestry with which the hall was hung.
He was first observed by the lady, who instantly apprised her com-
panion of the presence of the courier. The knight immediately gave
the warlike instrument he had been examining to the page in attend-
ance, and notified to the herald to approach. This he did until he
reached the carl, when, after bending his knee, he presented the letters
of his master, which were enclosed in an envelope of silk, and secured
by a scarlet string of the same material. The string having been
severed by the page's dagger, the Earl of Trevallyan took from the
envelope a letter written by the hand of the king himself.

During its perusal, the lady raised her eyes to the earl's face, and
carefully scrutinised its expression. At first a slight elevation of the
eyebrows discovered that he was surprised at the contents of the royal
epistle; then a smile of pleasure was observed to illuminate his
swarthy features, and exclaiming, " 'Tis well that my counsels are
followed ; and yet I deserve not this sarcasm ! " he re-folded the letter,
and, tuniing to the messenger, he said, " Thou hast been faithful in
fulfilling the commands of our liege the king, and I owe thee thanks;
take this," he continued, handing a purse to him, — " thou wilt not find
it an empty one ; and say not that the Earl of Trevallyan was imgi*ate-
ful to the man who brought him good news. Tracy," he proceeded,
turning to the page, " take tliis faiihful servant of the king, (whom
God long preserve ! ) and see that he be well entertained, until he can
be sped on his journey ; and, haik ye ! tell Walter Fitzalan to hie
him hither forthwitli ! "

The page and his companion had scarcely vanished, when the lady

6 TUEVALLYAN.

lunied to her companion, and said, ** Tell me, Richard, what that
missive can contain to affect you so strongly, and to cause your brow
so to display alternate shade and sunshine ? "

" Why should I reveal to thee, dear Margaret, the secrets of
monarchs ? " retunied the earl ; " suffice it that this letter calls me to
the capital on the king's service ; but my absence will be brief."

" Again ! " said the lady, rising and advancing towards him ; " again
to London, said you ? Surely you have been torn from me enough
already : seek not, dear Richard, to embroil yourself in the many
plots and schemes which so characterise and disgrace these troublous
times ! "

" Fear not," replied the earl ; " no danger is near ; 1 go on
no wai'like mission. Here," continued he, handing her the letter,
" this will explain all : thou art too fearful, Margaret, for the daughter
of a Percy ! "

The lady took the letter in her trembling fingers, and read as
follows : —

" To our trusty and well-beloved Richard, Earl of Trevallyan, and
Member of our Privy Council, Henry, by the grace of God, King of
these realms, sendeth greeting.

" It was not well of thee, Trevallyan, to leave our royal presence
with such lack of respect as thou shewedst when we last gave audience
to thee ; nevertheless, though reverence is especially due to us as the
Lord's anointed and defender of the faith, we grant thee forgiveness*
and the remembrance of thy contumely shall fade from our mind.
The counsel thou didst give in the matter of the monasteries and reli-
gious houses has found favour in our sight ; and that we may further
advise with thee, let us see thee in three days after thou receivest this
letter. And let me tell thee to beware of Norfolk, for he is thine
enemy. — Henry R.

" From our royal house of Whitehall, this tenth day of April, A.D.
fifteen hundred and thirty-eight."

When the lady had concluded her perusal of this epistle, she further
inquired of her husband the import of the several parts of it; for not
being accustomed to know his secret plans and puq)oses, she was much
in the dark about the real meaning of the king. Her husband, con-
trary to his wont, gave her an explanation, the substance of which we
shall here submit to the reader.— In 1536, Henry the Eighth

TREVAlLTiN. 7

destroyed several of the lesser monasteries in England, chiefly by the
advice of the Earl of Trevallyan and Thomas Cromwelb
then at the summit of kingly favour. It was the strenuous advice of
the former that the whole of the monastic establishments should be
destroyed at a blow, and their revenues divided between the crown
and its faithful vassals. This advice was exceedingly grateful to the
monarch; but he, witli some of his privy council, were fearful that it
would be proceeding with too great impetuosity, and therefore he
thought it prudent merely to order commissioners to examine into
and confiscate a few of the lesser convents. At the conference which
resulted in this order, the Earl of Trevallyan was so chagrined and
angered that his advice was not followed, that he actually forgot that
deference which he owed to his sovereign, and, in consequence of this
impolitic and uncourtier-like behaviour, had lost ground in the favour
of Henry. This was the circumstance to which the king's letter
alluded as the " lack of respect shewn in the royal presence." Henry
now found an opportunity for prosecuting those plans which had been
recommended by the earl, who, though he had temporarily disgraced
him, he believed to be one of his most faithful subjects. — That part
of the epistle relating to the Duke of Norfolk, was intended to put
Trevallyan upon his guard against that powerful and wily nobleman,
who had long borne a secret dislike to the earl. This dislike had
been recently discovered by the king, through some unguarded
expressions uttered by Norfolk, which were immediately reported to
him by a person inimical to that nobleman. The hatred of Norfolk,
who was a bigoted papist, partly took its rise from the advice given by
Trevallyan to the king, concerning the destruction of the monasteries,
but more from the following circumstance : — The Duke of Norfolk
had sued for the hand of Margaret Percy, daughter of the Earl of
Northmnberland. He was accepted by the damsel's father, but the
maiden was unwilling to tiiist herself to the protection of
Norfolk because he was a papist, the Percys having been favourable
to the doctrines of the Reformation, ever since they were first promul-
gated ; and, in addition to this, she could not bring herself to like his
person, which was under the middle height of man, and inelegantly
fonned, though his countenance bore the most imquestionable marks
of high birth and breeding. At this crisis, the Earl of Trevallyan, —
who had been with Lord Dacre, the Warden of the Western Marshes,

8 THE SPIRIT OF HOPE.

on a foray into Scotland, — in retuniing into Northumberland, rodo
down to tlie earl's castle to renew an acquaintance, which had com-
menced when Henry the Eighth made his celebrated journey into
France, and held conference with Francis the First on the " Field of
the Cloth of Gold."

(To he continued,)

THE SPIRIT OF HOPE.

From the regions of Fancy I burst into life.

With the pastoral pipe and the bugle of strife ;

My colours are planted, my aide-de-camp. Fame,

Makes the whole human family echo my name.

I'm found in the borders with eglantine drest.

Where Love is attended by all things but rest ;

I enter on shipboard, the sailors to please

By fairj'-wove dreams as they plough the salt seas ;

'Tis the good bark Adventure, and soon she'll be found

Under vertical suns, or where icebergs abound ;

I'm enthroned in their hearts, and with me they disdain

To think of the dangers that lm*k on the main.

I'm found with the statesman — I'm found at the throne-

With Ambition and Glory — and virgins alone ;

I'm found with the Poet 'midst paper and pens, —

Who ne'er had a patron, and very few friends ;

And, low in the pocket, he's used like a Turk, —

But I've lent him my name to commence a new work.

I'm found in the dungeon the patriot to cheer, —

I'm found with the Chief when the battle draws near;

In fine I am pacing for ever and aye.

Where the breathings of life meet the breezes of day ;

I'm the Spirit of Hope ! see, my standaid's unfurl'd.

And I'm coming, I'm coming to light up the world.

Fred. Bryan.

METEOROLOGY.

No. I.
ON LUNAR AND PLANETARY INFLUENCES OVER THE WEATHER.

It may be regarded as a maxim, that the encouragement of a
satisfied un-enquiring credulity is at variance with the spirit of a
genuine pliilosophy, and that tlie general tendency of the latter is to
explain and elucidate. Still, as science advances, in proportion as its
elaborations are unfolded and its combinations resolved, in many
instances, the statement, the satisfactory and continuous chain of proof,
becomes of more intricate and complicate detail. Every step, how-
ever, in such a process abundantly repays the attentive enquirer for a
little of close and it may be of difficult attention. Fresh prospects of
beauty and of wonder aie from time to time disclosed, the mental
stimulus indispensable to the successful pursuit of knowledge is more
and more vigorously excited, until at length the laborious ascent of
the " Hill of Science" is rewarded by a thrilling and enrapturing view
of those unseen and beautiful operations and relations, which are
manifested to untiring diligence alone. In other words, an industrious
accumulation of facts, and the careful and accurate record of phenomena
require to be inductively pursued through their several and varied
connections : we are by this means led to the discovery of first prin-
ciples and simple laws, and to a revelation of the beauties and wonders
of organic and inanimate nature. All past experience assures us of
everything to hope from an assiduous pursuit of the mode of philo-
sophising which in later ages has been thus successfully adopted ; for
however desirable in certain stages of philosophic investigation, theories,
hypotheses, or even empiricism may be, it cannot be questioned
that ultimately they must abide the test of facts, phenomena, and
experience.

Occult or mysterious influences might, in the infancy of science,
seem to comport with phenomena, frequently to appearance para-
doxical and still more often inexplicable ; these however have gradually
weakened their hold on public credence, as the obscurity and diflliculties
connected with the various departments of natural science have been

10 METEOROLOGY.

clearly and satisfactorily removed. Under these circumstances, we are
excited to some degree of surprise, that at the present day, in any
quarter, astrology, (a fiction suited only to the darkness of the middle
ages,) should be seriously entertained and studied : previous to the era
of Bacon, speculations and fancies in which even the profound
mathematician Kepler indulged may easily be excused. " The love
of the marvellous" which furnishes an indulgence to the mind
unaccustomed to rigorous scrutiny and searching investigation, was
then fed by conflicting theories and the great uncertainty regarding
stellar motions and design; the now complete state of physical
astronomy, however, which leaves no planetary or lunar motion unex-
plained or unaccounted for, and which exhibits a perfection of design
at once making provision for every variety of position and distance as
maybe clearly and mathematically shown, and quite irrespective, indeed
contradictory of the fanciful configurations of the astrologer, when pro-
perly viewed, renders absurd any theory merely arbitrary, of a subordi-
nate and mysterious influence whether exerted over the weather, indi-
viduals or nations. Such voluntary theories are dependant chiefly on a
latent predisposition which leads the uninfonned to reverence mysterious,
albeit, often incongruous predictions, and to yield credence to what-
ever savours of that sort of knowledge of futurity which true philo-
sophy rejects, and which, there is abundant evidence to show, the
arrangements of the great Author of nature entirely preclude.

More particularly to notice that branch of astrology which connects
itself with atmospherical phenomena : since the time of Kepler (to
whom allusion has been made, and who, notwithstanding his discovery
of principles which lie near the foundation of all physical astronomy,
wasted much valuable time in fanciful imaginative conjectures) no
name of astronomical eminence is to be found associated with occult
planetary predictions.

It is known that the immediate agency so aflfecting the atmosphere
as to produce changes of weather is a variation in temperature : the
fundamental conditions of the evaporation of moisture from the earth's
surface and its re-condensation in the atmosphere are essentially
dependant on such variations for their fulfilment, and it may be
remarked in passing, that the unseen but beautiful operations of natiu-e
are in no case more interesting than under the circumstances of the
reciprocal aclion of evaporation and condensation. The atmosphere

MKTEOROLOGY. 1 1

of jur above the earth's surface, as is well known, decreases in tem-
perature in a certain ratio to its altitude ; in this atmosphere rises
another of aqueous vapour, exhaled from the earth and ocean in quan-
tities proportionate to the heat prevailing at the surface, and which
also decreases in temperature as it rises in the air : the two atmos-
pheres, it should be noticed, continuing quite distinct and disunited.
Now if both atmospheres cooled in ascending at the same rate, as
much vapour would continually exist, as the atmosphere of air could
sustain — in other words, it would always be saturated with moisture ;
the effect would be that a thin mist would generally obscure the sky,
and the least fall of temperature produce copious depositions of dew.
By a beautiful arrangement, however, the air cools more rapidly
upwards than the vapour, from which it follows that in the higher
regions the vapoiu: mingling with colder air, gives out its latent heat
and is condensed into clouds ; the pressure on the vapour below being
thus removed, more Water rises by evaporation, and when as much
exists in the upper regions as their temperature will sustain in the
form of gas, a fall of rain ensues. In the mean time the lower part of
the atmosphere is kept clear, or unmistified, and considerably above
the point of saturation ; thus instead of obscuring the entire depth of
the atmosphere by thick, palpable, and almost continual mists, the
vapour on condensing is formed into thin strata or layers of clouds,
leaving the great bulk of the atmosphere cleai' and transparent. It may
be noticed that after a warm day, a clear sky at night induces a mpid
radiation of heat from the earth's surface, and by this means a great
fall of its temperature ; on tliese occasions there are copious deposits
of dew, and the vapour becomes visible in condensing, as a thick mist
creeping along the surface; this does not generally rise very high, the
temperature being then always lowest near the earth, the air above
being warmer the vapour there remains uncondensed and invisible :
a fall, however, of several degrees of the thermometer is necessary to
produce these mists and dews, and if an equable decrease of atmos-
pheric and aqueous temperature had occurred in ascending, such mists
and dews would have been continual and pervading the whole depth
of the atmospheie. The general operation of the two atmospheres is
thus simply stated. The atmosphere of air, rarified by heat at the
equator, ascends and proceeds in upper currents towards each pole, a
returning current sets in towaids the equator at the surface filling up

12 METEOROLOGY.

the void created by the ascent. On the contrary, the atmosphere of
Tapour raised at the ecpiator has a continual tendency to proceed to
the poles in the lower strata of the atmosphere : the air tends from
the colder to the warnier parts ; the vaj)our from the warmer to the
colder. From this circinnstance alone it will be seen that the solution
of their actual effects in any locality becomes very difficult, dependent
on the predominance of one current or the other, and which currents
themselves are modified by the varied distribution of land and water
and many other causes.

In the aggregate such a balanced provision exists, that no excess
of min or of drought incompatible with the requirements of animal
and vegetable life is possible. This, however, is entirely dependent
on the sun's action in producing heat varied according to the
different circumstances of the earth's surface afterwards to be noticed :
it must be borne in mind that the important elements of weather,
clouds, mists, fogs, rain, hail, and snow, result from the sole operation
of the two principles before stated viz. -condensation and evaporation :
again, the effect of the presence or absence of the sun,, occasioning
heat or cold is through the media of absorption and radiation. A
reference to actual phenomena will illustrate this : — during the winter
months in this country, a rapid fall of the thennometer, or cold
weather, succeeds a short continuance of a clear and still atmosphere,
a very few days of such a state bringing on a severe frost ; this arises
from the unimpeded radiation of previously absorbed heat from the
earth's surface into open space. In summer, on the contrary, absorption
predominates over radiation, and a consequent higher temperature
results. It may be here noticed as a peculiarity of the climate of
England, that unless with the continuance of a North or East wind,
no frost lasts beyond a few days without intervals of thaw : this arises
from our insular position ; the ocean which surrounds us preserves a
greater uniformity of temperature than large continents, its smface in
summer absorbs less heat and is cooler, and in winter radiates less
and is warmer, the capacities of the two surfaces for absorption and
radiation, and indeed, the mode of the action of the sun's heat on the
two being different : thus at sea the daily range of the thermometer is
rarely more than 4° to 6°, whereas, on the continent of Europe it
often amounts to 20® to 30<> ; when, therefore, by rapid and con-
tinued radiation produced by a cloudless sky, the temperature of this

llEtEOROLOGY 13

island has in winter been reduced 20^ to 30^, there exists a strong
tendency to the restoration of equilibruin with the wanner atmosphere
of the contiguous ocean. The first effects of condensation then, in the
contact of strata of air of differing density and temperature containing
aqueous vapour ensues, and we soon perceive indications of change,
by tlie formation of cirrus, the lightest modification of cloud in the higher
regions of the air; the sky speedily becomes obscured, heat which
before was radiated from the earth and dissipated, is now prevented
from escaping by opaque clouds, and a gradual rise of temperature is
the result, geneially followed by rain : we thus see that it arises from
the insular position of this country that the weather is subject to such
frequent changes in winter. The alternate action of radiation from
the earth, and reflection by the clouds, is often very sensibly evinced
during seasons of severe cold ; a passing cloud will occasion a rise in
the thennometer of a degree or more, the radiated heat being confined
by the cloud near the earth ; when the cloud has passed and the sky
has vertically become clear, the thennometer again falls, the radiation
being uninterrupted and the heat lost in space.

The same principles are effective over the earth's entire surface, each
prevailing in proportion to the predominance of large surfaces of earth
or ocean. Within the tropics the vertical rays of the sun are so
absorbed in continental situations as to occasion intense heat, in islands
and places on the coast nearer to the ocean the heat is mitigated : again,
within the arctic circle, the heat absorbed during the brief summer is
rapidly radiated when the sun approaches the horizon, and during his
long absence the earth's surface is at its lowest temperature. It is
well known that the atmosphere of the sea coast in this country is
cooler during the summer months than the interior of the island ; it is
equally true, though perhaps less generally known, that in winter the
sea coast is warmer than the interior, its annual lange of temperature
being more limited and uniform.

Seeing then that all the elements of weather and its changes aie
essentially dependent on temperature and its variations, it is proper
to enquire whether the moon, planets or stars have been ascertained
to produce thermal action on the earth's surface. That the planets, in
common with the fixed stars, are powerless in exciting heat, may be
regarded as certain by the following fact — their combined effect in
those parts of the globe refrigerated by the long absence of the sim.

14 M£T£OROLOGr>

produces uo more than is supposed to be the temperature of space^
viz. 68® below zero, a degree of cold which prevails in Arctic regions
before the close of their long winter. The nearness of the moon,
and the quantity of reflected light proceeding from it, has led to the
conjecture that when at full, it may occasion a rise in temperature ;
careful experiments, however, have demonstrated, that no perceptible
rise of the thermometer occurs from this cause, even when the moon
is at full, at its greatest altitude, and in perigee, or at its nearest dis-
tance from the earth ; moreover, a record of the weather, at the
quadratures and changes, perigee and apogee of the moon, during a
fifty years course of observation, exhibits such varied results as leaves
no possibility for the construction of even an approximative theory of
the weather dependent on lunar action. From the eccentricity of the
moon's orbit, and its nearness to the earth, its attraction on the earth's
atmosphere is slightly variable : it is, however, ascertained that no
sensible effect is produced in the weight of the atmosphere by these
causes not at all affecting barometic pressure : indeed it is more than
probable that any minute perturbative effects from this source are so
far overruled by the many causes at all times operating in bringing
about atmospheric change, and which may perhaps on a future occa-
sion be stated, as to render the minute fluctuations dependent upon it
quite irreducible to law, and utterly undiscoverable by observation.
All mutual planetary connections with which we are made demonstra-
bly acquainted depend upon the following law, viz. — their influence is
in the inverse ratio of the square of the distance ; that is to say, at
twice any given distance only one fourth of the influence, and in that
inverse proportion for every variation. Now, from the incommensura-
bility of the periods of all the planets, every successive conjunction of
any two takes place in different points of their orbits ; hence the
difference of distance from the earth, say of Saturn, in successive con-
junctions of Jupiter and Saturn, amounts to 700 millions of miles : in
one conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn, Saturn maybe distant from
the earth 800 millions of miles, in the next conjunction of the same
planets he may be distant 1500 millions of miles ; now from the
operation of the law just named, the influence of Saturn on the
earth at a distance of 1500 millions of miles, would only be l-4th
of its influence at a distance of 800 millions, so that the greatest
diversities hi result would accompany every conjunction, — but what

METEOROLOGY. 15

modification, it may be asked, could the remote and comparatively small
body Saturn, although one of the largest planets, induce on the direct
action of the sun distant from the earth not 100 millions of miles,
more voluminous in bulk than Saturn by 1000 times, and by its
physical nature so distinct from that of the planets, evidently intended
to be not only the centre or focus of planetary motion, but the great
and only source of heat, light and vitality. Even the known and
demonstrated perturbative influence of Jupiter, Satuni, Venus, and the
whole of the planets on the earth's motion, is an almost inappreciable
fraction as opposed to the predominating force of the sun ; and with
reference to any other species of their mode of action it has yet to be
discovered.

Again, in disproof of planetary configurations being any thing but
a figment in the brain of the astrologer, it may be stated that their
variations as seen from the earth, being dependent merely in their
synodic periods, or that portion of time which brings them to the
same aspect with respect to the earth, do not exhibit an astronomical
connection, but only an appaient coincidence of place as seen from the
eaith and consequent on the earth's position being eccentric to the
planetary paths of, motion-

If anything depended on the co-operation or conflicting of plan-
etary power denoted by the teims conjunctions, trines, quartiles, sex-
tiles, oppositions, &c., it would not be to their geocentric places, or
such as they appear to occupy when seen from the earth, that we must
refer to detect their real position and influence. Our position is un-
fixed with regard to their paths, and renders every successive aspect,
although bearing the same name variable by our great changes in relative
distances. It is only as viewed from the sun that the real, or as it is
termed the heliocentric place of a planet is accurately defined, and it
cannot fail to be regarded as absurd that relative positions in the
planetary system, which in reality involve no consequent increase or
diminution of distance, should be regarded with superstitious interest.
When a certain amount of meteorological change is considered due
to the influence of two planets because they are in conjimction in
reality they may be wider apart than when viewed from another point
of the earth's orbit they may appear as in opposition ; and similarly
regarding the other aspects, a trine aspect or an angular distance of
120^, may be a real one of no more than 90^ or equal to a quartile

16 METEOROLOGY.

and so for the rest ; in fact if any one study for liimself the effect of all
the planetary configurations connecting the superior and inferior
planets, as viewed from the earth, he cannot fail to recognize the
ahsurdity of attaching any importance to relations so varied and so
little founded on any real mutual state of approach or recess : astronomi-
cally, all these motions and configurations are mathematically deter-
mined, and beautifully harmonise by referring them to the sun, the
centre of the system, and to the mutually pertubating but ultimately
compensating periods among themselves, but astrologically, their places,
configurations, and supposed influences are chaotic and irreconcileable.
But again, the ever varying positions of the planets among themselves
renders it impossible that more than one observation can have been
made when their combined influence on the earth (speaking astrolo-
gically) was the same ; for instance, there has been but one conjunction
of the five principal planets since the christian era, and a long period
has yet to elapse before the whole five will again be in conjunction.
On this incommensurability of periods depends, as might be shown,
the stability of the entire planetary system: any particular aspect then
including all the planets, has existed but once during the long period
before referred to : if each planet then exert an influence modified
by its relation to others manifesting a diflferent or counter agency, it
is evident that the mingled result is, and has been momentarily varying
from century to century, and before the lapse of thousands of years
but one cycle of variation will be complete. The conjunctions of
Jupiter and Saturn, for instance, take place periodically five times in a
century, but every succeeding conjunction is effected under different
aspects to Mars, Venus, and the other planets ; the same will hold
good, concerning any pair of planets which we may select, becoming
of course more complex as we combine them beyond two, three, or
four; it will therefore, beyond doubt, require far more than astrological
skill to determine a priori, the occult nature of planetary combined
influence, of which neither history nor experience can furnish an
example.

We are confessedly but in the infancy of the age of definite
electrical observation and experiment ; its various developements seem
to have sanctioned the conclusion that all the phenomena of electricity,
galvanism, and magnetism, are connected by one original and mutual
principle : we are informed that electricity cannot be elicited in the

METEOROLOGY. 17

absence of calorific and mechanical action unless through the medium
of chemical action : the obvious incapability of the distant planets to
produce any of these effects is conclusive against their asserted share
in affecting the weather through the medimn of electric excitation.
It is true it has been thought that in the analysis of the sun's light,
some of the colours of the spectrum have been more effective than
others in exciting electricity ; whether or not this be correct, and which
appears from recent investigations very doubtful, the most powerful
colours were considered to be indigo, violet, white, and green, whereas
the prevailing planetary colours of yellow, orange, and red, were thought
to be ineffective.

In some future number of this magazine an attempt will be
made^ to explain some of the causes which may and really do
produce changes of the weather ; in the mean time I would conclude
the present article with the following observ^ations : —

Whilst a mean uniformity of distance, and of general influence, ( I
use the tenn with reference to a known and demonstrated power) has
been maintained in the planetary system from the day of Creation,
the investigations of geologists have shewn that this earth has under-
gone mutations of temperature and humidity so extensive as no longer
to be adapted to the exigencies of the same organic nature; entire genera
and species have been swept away, fresh and perfectly distinct
successions of animated nature have been from time to time created,
and in their turn have been destroyed by the varying and important
conditions of the earth and its atmosphere : even the elementary con-
stitution of the atmosphere itself has been apparently reconstructed.
During the deposition of part of the secondary formation of the earth's
surface, it was inhabited by various species of the Saurian or Lizard
tribe; from an anatomical and physiological investigation into their
structure these reptiles differ essentially from birds, and the mammalia, in
the less active performance of the respirator)^ function, and in a lower
and simpler structure of the lungs and heart, whereby they become less
dependent on the oxygen of the atmosphere for existence. From this
and the subsequent extinction of a vast portion of the reptilian class,
the physiologist is led to conjecture that the atmosphere had not then
undergone those changes which a subsequent consolidation and
concentration of certain of its elements may have occasioned. And
again, from considerations of the peculiar featmes of the extinct Flora

c

18 METEOROLOGY.

occuniiig ill the same foniiatioii, the botanist has been led to suspect
that the atmosphere of this globe fonnerly contained more carbon, and
less oxygen, than at present ; yet amidst these important and vital
changes, affecting not merely the well being, but the very existence of
plants and animals, lunar and planetary motions have been going on
in one continuous cycle, their mean distances preserved unaltered,
and their conjunctions, oppositions, and other aspects occumng
periodically as at present, and we may be assured that whatever future
modifications of the atmosphere may be in reserve, whether arising
from astronomical, geological, or magnetic causes, that the same
planetary and lunar configurations will be continued, ineffective how-
ever either to promote or retard the great transition : and that when
pei-verted to the purposes of meteorological, or judicial predictions,
iheir only effect is to astonish the ignorant, and mislead the credulous.

M.

SONG.

Sorrow hath shed
Her sad tears around thee.

Bright joy is fled
And pale giief hath found thee ;
But weep not — oh ! weep not, tho'

Sadness you see.
For Pleasure will yet wreathe her
Garland for thee.

Now Sorrow's flown
And Joy is returning —

Gladness alone
In thy bosom is burning;
Then smile thou — oh ! smile thou, for

Pleasure I see.
With sweet wreaths of flowers just
Woven for thee.

JANE E. PAGLAR.

19

OUR COUNTRY AND HER CLAIMS.

(From the Mines of Wielitezka.^-A Tragedy.)

BY DR. BUCHANAN.

As the Poles are securing the Austrian soldiers — enter Miners
armedf who engage the prisoners, Crasoski throws himself
between the Combatants.

Crasoski. Art thou of Poland ?

Miner. Yes.

Crasoski. Then wherefore stand

You thus in anns anayed, — against our Poland ?

The miners lower their arms.

The mountain stream — the plains — the desert wild.

Or cultured soil — or sterile rock, — all that

To Poland did pertain — is thy Country !

Nor tyrants sceptered, nor their numerous hosts.

Can e'er her sacred, immutable claims efface.

Thy country claims of thee — of all her sons

She claims, their riches — lands — whate'er of life's

Choice blessings they possess — nay, more; their lives !

Their toil, in strife — of battled fields — or blood —

Or treasures of the mind — by night — by day —

Bleak storms or sunshine — still, their sole delight

To guard the freedom of their native land !

And shall our Poland be thus trode ! — despoiled !

Of all her beauty — strength : her daughters — sons —

Her fair possessions — held in servile chains !

And we be men ! whose blood beats high on sound

Of Liberty ! Shall we endure this weight

Of slavery's vile doom ? NO. Rouse, Sarmatians !

Our Poland shall be FREE ! To arms '.—awake !

Freedom calls ! and Victory, leads the van !

The miners join the prisoners mth repeated huzzas.

20

AMYNTOR AND ALMIRA.
(Translated from the Phonographic Journal for March.)

The following most interesting and instructive piece is copied from
an old Magazine entitled the " Aurora," in which it appears as an
" Extract from a well known Author". We should he glad if any of
our readers can refer us to the original, or inform us who is the
author of so beautiful a description of that heaven upon earth — true
marriage, the union of congenial minds " in the Lord". [Ed. P. J.]
AMYNTOR AND ALMIRA.

Having been invited to breakfast with a gentleman and lady who
had been man-ied several years, I was shown by the servant into a
neat little room and told to sit down till he should call his mistress,
who, he said, had that moment stept up stairs; the apparatus for the
breakfast was upon the table, and as my eye glanced over it I observed
a piece of paper carelessly folded up and thrown into one of the
bowls : a i)en and ink standing by, I immediately concluded that the
lady, who was remarkable for being a good economist, had been setting
down some little expences in a hurry, intending, perhaps, to enter
them at leisure into her day book. My curiosity prompted me to
unfold the paper, with a design of rallying her a little, when she
appeared, upon the exactness of her economy ; but judge of my sur-
prise, when instead of a family account, I met with the following
sensible, easy, and unaffecting little essay, which seems to have been
her morning meditation, just poured forth extempore from a heart
deeply touched with a sensibility of its own domestic bliss.

As she did not come down immediately, 1 had leisure to peruse the
whole. I here transcribe it, and doubt not that your honest heart will
thrill with pleasure whilst you read it.

"Almiras Essay on the Marriage State.

"If ever we may be allowed to say that marriages are made in
heaven, it must be when the union is formed upon a disinterested
affection, a love that cannot be described even by those who have felt
it; my own heart tells me that it is beyond all description; sure 1 am

JiMYNTOR AND ALMIRA. 21

that the flame is kindled and cherished too by a superior power. 'Tis
not a pretty face, or an elegant person, — 'tis not a brilliant wit, or a
fine understanding, that can excite or preserve mutual affection, it
springs from a higher source ; it has been known to subsist in its
utmost ardour where these accomplishments have been wanting; there
is a nameless sympathy of congenial souls, even amongst those of the
same sex, which is felt — which cannot be described, — ^but which
lisping mortals have denominated Friendship.

" When this nameless sympathy meets in congenial souls of different
sexes 'tis amazingly heightened, friendship cannot express the
sensation, and we have learnt to call it by the name of Love : a name,
indeed, sadly profaned by the lips of the sensualist, and covetous, and
ambitious, but felt and understood in its true meaning and import by
those alone who seek for happiness in the sweet tranquility of domestic
endeannents, who consider the lover and the husband but as one and
the same character.

" Such an union is indeed devoutly to be wished for, and when once
accomplished the pleasures of life are enjoyed with a double relish,
because each, besides his own, partakes of the beloved partner's sen-
sations. Misfortunes too — and whoever tasted the cup of life without
finding some bitterness in the draft ? — misfortunes too loose half their
weight by being divided, and as each assists the other to bear the load,
so each comforts the other whilst labouring under it.

" Time, that great destroyer of temporal objects and human joys,
perpetuates and increases such a felicity as this, which depends not so
much upon external circumstances as upon the internal feelings of
their own breasts ; in the days of their marriage they may with more
propriety be called lovers than in the days of their courtship.

" Failings no doubt each will discover in the other as long as the angel
is clogged with the fetters of mortality, but even in this they so much
resemble one another, that they soon learn either to overlook them,
or to bear them with a meekness which true love never fails to inspire.

" This sweetness of disposition, mutual forbearance, and unin-
terrupted intercourse of endearing sensibilities must not only secure to
them all the bliss which this world has to give, but must be an
excellent preparative for their future enjoyment of those external
scenes, where love reigns without the least alloy of any sordid passion.

22 AMYNTOR AND ALMIRA.

and to which they will cany with tliem the same affections douhly
purified and darting back from their beatified spirits to that lovely
centre whence they originally came.

'* Great source of love enable me *****

Here stopt her hand, interrupted probably in her pious ejaculations by
some family call, to which she always sacrificed her own private
gratifications.

Scarcely had I read the paper and replaced it in the bowl, before
Almira made her appearance, and welcomed me to her house with that
unaffected sweetness of address which ever attends and indicates a
meek and humble heart. Indeed I have long been of opinion that
true politeness is not indebted solely to art, or what is called good
company, but derives its peculiar charm from a higher original, and
breathes and tastes of heaven.

I immediately confessed, and begged pardon of the good lady for
the liberty I had taken to peep into her manuscript. With a blush
of genuine modesty she excused me, and apologised delicately for the
hasty scrawl, as she called it, and hoped that her sentiments met with
my approbation.

I was just going to express the high satisfaction which those senti-
ments had given me, when Amyntor, the husband and the lover of
Almira, entered in from his morning walk. 1 saw the glance darted
and caught from the eyes of both ; it spoke a thousand feelings,
which all the softness of language could never have expressed.
Amyntoi's friendship for me dictating such a welcome as would have
warmed the coldest heart, it failed not to kindle the flame in mine,
and with these two married lovers I was more highly and rationally
enteitained than ever I had been at a breakfast before.

Just at parting I communicated to Amyntor what had passed, and at
my request he furnished me the next morning with a copy of Almira 's
Essay

23

THE HUMBER WOLDS.

Sweet hills of beauty ! from your toweling brows
What lovely landscapes burst upon the sight
In rich variety ! Afar ! afar !
Our vision stretches o'er a mingled mass
Of hill, dale, water, meadow, com field, wood.
In brightness blending. — At your bases lie
Plains rich in rural elegance, and fraught
With sylvan loveliness. Fair villages.
Cots, hamlets, farms in sweet confusion gleam ;
Here Welton hides beneath her sylvan shades.
And rural E Houghton 'mid towering trees.
And Brantingham with its romantic dale. —
From your first rising nigh the Humber's shore
Where Hessle lifts her village spire on high.
To where, with bolder eminence, ye turn
At Cave, laid hidden in its hollow dell.
And sweep away in undulating line
Far to the north, what beauties ye enclose
Betwixt your summits and the water's marge !
A poet's world ! where his keen eye may find
The whole of nature which his heart could wish.
Save cloud-encircled mountains, craggy rocks.
And ocean more sublime. With pensive step
He here may wander through sweet rm*al lanes.
Whose mazy windings cheat the roving eye
And charm it to delight ! His feet may roam
Along the pathway through the yellow com.
Whose heads bow down with weighty fruitfulness.
Whilst all around most lovely landscapes gleam
In varied beauty, oft seen through the trees.
Or o'er the hedges filled with fragrant flowers. —
The fertile meadow, or the pasture land.
With cattle feeding — oxen, kine or sheep.
In perfect happiness, may glad his eye.

24 tHE HUMBfiR WOLUS.

He then may wander through the spreading wood.

With tangled mazes and perplexing paths

Where darkness dwells eternal, though the sun

Be seated on his noon-tide throne of light.

Here springs gush out and winding weedy brooks

Roll their clear waters o'er smooth-pebbled beds.

And fill the air with pleasant murraurings.

Birds of all notes flit in the sunny air

Or carrol woodland melodies whilst perched

Upon the branches, or amidst the bush

Of elder or of hawthorn. Far on high.

Lost in the splendour of the dazzling rays.

The lark sings joyful, and his quick sharji notes

Fall softly on the ear. He seems a bird

Not bom on earth, but one who oft descends

From some far sphere, so lofty is his flight !

But chief the poet will delight to climb

The breezy summits of the swelling hills.

Whilst the far prospects daze his eye and fill

His heart with exulation. In his breast

Such tumult swells at the enchanting sight.

That scarce his spirit can refrain from song.

His voice from uttering some impassioned strain. —

As he moves on from point to distant pointj

The landscapes vary, and no pen can tell.

Or painter's graphic canvass e'er display

The scenes of crowded beauty. — From the heights

Of upland fields of pasturage, or com.

Whose high-heaved plain is girt ai'ound with woods.

Above the pine-trees purple-pointed tops

At various intervals, on every hand.

The distant country, clad in tints of blue.

Is faintly seen. Sometimes along a vale

Our vision wanders, where steep winding sides

And hills circuitous present a bold

And noble foreground to the far-off scene.

Where Humber's waters, placid, calm and smooth.

THK H UMBER WOLDS. 25

Roll their blight current through the purpled land.
Within the vale of Brantingham, when eve
Turns slowly into night, and sombre shades
Enshroud all objects, making them appear
Of magnitude sublime, the pointed hills.
And rugged steeps with furze or pine trees clad,
'Mid the deceptive gloominess, a scene
Of mountain grandeur cast upon the sight.

Is there a portion of the British isles

Where nature in more rich profusion casts

The choicest of her treasures ! Where she crowds

All her mild beauties in so small a space !

It seems a spot where she has deigned to bind

Her fairest wreath of sight-delighting flowei-s ;

Her richest temple, where she would display

The winning softness of her gentle smile.

And chaui all hearts in admiration's bonds !

Sweet hills of beauty ! be it oft my lot
To wander o'er ye, when the light of morn
With yellow lustre gilds your loveliness ;
When noon-tide radiance pours its silver tide
Of keen refulgence, making all things seem
The brighter visions of a fairy world ; —
But chief when eve with her unnumbered tints.
Her rainbow dyes, her sky-descended hues.
Paints every landscape, and brings out to view
Sweet lights and shades inimitably soft.
Supremely delicate, uitensely fair.

May all your beauties on my spirit cast
Reflection of their beauty, and create
Within my mind those rich illumined thoughts.
Which, linked with numbered language, shall become
Soft songs of soul-entrancing poesy.

««♦

?f>

MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.

Th-k British Association for the advancement of Science has this
year held its Thirteenth Annual Meeting at Cork. In consequence of
the distance from the metropolis, the attendance was not so numerous
as usual. The proceedings commenced on Wednesday, the 1 6th
August, hy the meeting of the General Committee to arrange the
business of the week. The Secretary, Col. Sabine, in the report
which he had read, announced a grant from the Government of
£1,000, foi the puq^ose of publishing a Catalogue of the Stars in
the Histioire Celeste of Lalande, and of Lucaille's Catalogue of the
Stars in the Southern Hemisphere.

The first General Meeting was held on Thursday Evening, in the
Com Exchange, when the Marquis of Northampton (in the room of
Lord Francis Egerton, who was kept away by indisposition) resigned
the presidency to the Earl of Rosse. Mr. John Taylor read the
accounts. The sum received at Manchester, from members, was
£1,737 ; contributions and sale of books, £372 ; ladies and sectional
tickets, £364. The sums paid in grants for prosecuting scientific
pm-poses was £1,565. The property of the Association was, in
Three per Cent. Consols, £5,500; balance of cash, £496 ; unsold
reports, say £1,000; total, £6,700. The receipts at Cork amount
to about £600.

The President (the Earl of Rosse) having taken the chair, after a
short delay, rose to deliver the annual address, of which we can only
present our readers with a very brief extract, and to which we would
innte attention. The observations of the Noble President, applying
as they do equally to other Institutions of a kindred nature, will be
read with interest by all connected with the Literary and Scientific
Institutions of our Town ; after some remarks relative to his appoint-
ment to the oflfice, &c., he observed, " It was impossible not to parti-
cipate in the gratification which all must feel in seeing so many men
of eminence assembled to assist each other in promoting objects of
such deep and general interest. The man of the world who, busied
in the changing scenes of life, watches with fixed attention the actions
of men, while he occasionally perhaps casts a passing glance at science
as it haj>pens to present to him some new wonder — he cannot fail to

BRITISH ASSOCIATION. 27

look with surprise, and, I may add, with gratification, at a meeting so
large, (and in this country too,) from which politics are altogether
excluded. Here he will see no angiy conflict of passions, none of that
feeling of bitterness and animosity, which never fails to attend the
contests between man and man, between different classes in the same
country, or between different nations : all proceeding from the same
cause, or nearly so — a struggle for power ; in other words, a struggle
for dominion over man, and through him over the material things of
this world. But in such a contest, what is gained on one side must be
lost on the other. Here, on the contrary, however much may be
gained, tliere can be no loss to any one. This is no pamdox ; for here
the object of the contest is to increase man's knowledge, and with it
at once his power over the material things of this world. It isplain»
therefore, that in the objects we have in view, all have an equal interest ;
that the contest we are engaged in is one of friendly rivalry, all com-
peting in their efforts to promote that knowledge, that science, which
has been given to us as the reward of industry, and by which the gifts
of a bountiful Providence may be increased and improved, for the
benefit of man, to an extent almost unlimited."

After calling the attention of the meeting ^o the reports and other
documents of the Society, shewing what the Association had already
effected, he said, " However it appears to me that — without presup-
posing any knowledge whatever of these matters, or of the past history
of this Society — without assuming that it has in any one instance
effected, by joint co-operation, important and laborious researches in
the cause of science, still that, even to a person who will not take the
trouble of enquiring and informing himself — an answer to the question.
Does the Association advance science ? may be returned, short but
conclusive. The answer I should give would be this: I appeal to the
experience of every man at all conversant with the history of science,
and with the working of scientific societies, whether it is not an indis-
putable fact, proved by experience, that all such societies, when pro-
perly conducted, are powerfully instrumental in promoting the advance
of science.

" It may, perhaps, be worth while to inquire for a moment in what
way the associations of scientific men promote science. There are
many and very obvious ways in which they do so. I shall mention

28 BRITISH ASSOCIATION.

but one. Tlie love of truth ; the pleasure which the mind feels in
overcoming difficulties ; the satisfaction of contributing to the general
store of knowledge ; Uie engrossing nature of a pursuit so exalted as
that of diving into the wonders of the creation ; all these are very
powerful incentives to exertion ; and under their influence great works
have been undertaken in the cause of science, and carried through to a
successful termination ; but I believe few will be disposed to deny
that further inducements must be highly useful.

" Let it be for a moment recollected, that where any, even the most
trifling, step in advance has been gained, except, perhaps, the acciden-
tal discovery of a simple fact, there has usually been a long and labo-
rious course of previous preparation. It has been necessary, even in
the more popular sciences, to know accurately, first, what had been
done by others ; to see distinctly the boundary line between the known
and the unknown, before there was the least chance of effecting any-
thing; and in the higher departments of science, such is the time to be
expended, so great the toil to be endured in ascending to that eleva-
tion, from which the difficulties to be encountered but just begin to
appear, that the task is one to which the undivided energies of man
exerted for many years are no more than commensurate.

" One disappointment succeeds another, and years of toil pass
away and no result. Under these trying circumstances the Associa-
tions of scientific men afford their friendly aid; they soothe disappoint-
ment, excite hope, and prepare the way to redoubled exertion : they
call into active existence that principle which has been implanted in
our nature for the noblest pur])oses — the legitimate ambition of merit-
ing and receiving the approbation of our friends and associates. In
the ordinary circles of acquaintances, the man engaged in scientific
pursuits will find very few, if any, who can understand and appreciate
his labours ; but in such associations as this, there are always many
who see exactly the object aimed at, the difficulties to be encountered,
and who are ready to acknowledge with gratitude every successful
effort in the cause of science.

** But this Association performs other important seiTices. It ap-
pears to me to diflfuse over scientific inquiry (if I may so express
myself) a salutary influence — a healthy vigour of action. What
more calculated to dispel that feeling of languor and weariness, the

BRITISH ASSOCIATION. 29

consequence of excessive mental labour long continued, than the
freshening excitement of an interchange of ideas with men to whom
the same course of researcli had long been an object of interest ?
What more likely to extinguish any petty jealousy which might arise
and scientific men, like other men, have their weaknesses some-
times—than to bring all the parties together in friendly intercourse,
where they cannot but feel they have a common object, and are work-
ing in a common cause — the discovery of truth ?

" Again : should the mind, pursuing in retirement some single
scientific object, raise up to itself notions exaggerated and unreal, of the
importance of that object, and then, elated and misled by some trifling
success, should it throw off the garb of humility, the characteristic of
science pursued in a proper spirit, what more calculated to dispel
the illusion than these meetings, where the man, however eminent
in that branch of science to which he may have devoted his almost
exclusive attention, will be sure to find others immensely his superior
in every other department of human knowledge ? And it is not
merely for the sake of individuals engaged in the pursuit of science
that these consequences are so valuable ; it is also for the sake of
science itself.

" I will not detain you by enlarging upon the other obvious bene-
ficial consequences of these meetings, such as the opportunities they
afford for the free discussion of questions upon which the concen-
trated knowledge of individuals may be brought to bear with so much
success — the opportunities they afford for the formation of new friend-
ships between scientific men, often fraught with consequences very
important to science, and the necessary tendency of them to encourage
a taste for science. Upon all these I will abstain from offering any
observations. There is, however, one consequence of these meetings,
to which, if you will permit me to detain you a moment longer, I will
just advert.

"It has been remaiked by a modem traveller of considerable depth
of observation, that he had always found in the children of the fields
a more determined tendency to religion and piety, than amongst the
dwellers in towns and cities, and that he conceived the reason to be
obvious — that the inhabitants of the country were less accustomed to
the works of man's hands than to those of God. May not the

30 BRITISH ASSOCIATION.

observation be of more extensive application than at first sight ap-
peares ? and if it be true that where we dwell constantly in large cities
tlie mind is liable to be led astray by the habitual contemplation of the
works of man, forced upon it imperceptibly by the continual suc-
cession of ideas — all of the same character — all originathig in objects
which have been shaped and fashioned by man, may it not also be
true that it is equally liable to be led astray where it concentrates its
whole attention, and exerts its whole energy without relaxation in
the contemplation of the greatest of all human works, that which
the labour of so many centuries has raised up — the structure of the
abstract sciences ? And if that be so, what more calculated to un-
bend the mind, and to divert for a season the current of ideas into
other channels, than these periodical meetings, where, in the proceed-
ings of every section, matter will be found of the deepest interest to
every true philosopher ; and where, however dissimilar the facts, however
varied the inferences, the results will everywhere be still the same — that
of putting forward more prominently in bold relief the wonderful works of
creation ? 1 1 appears to me, if I may presume to offer an opinion on such
a subject, that the continual progress of discovery is destined to answer
objects far more imi)ortant than the mere improvement of the temporal
condition of man. Were there a limit to scientific discovery, and
had we reached that limit, we should be in the condition of a man
who, with the most splendid landscape before hhn, was insensible of
its beauty because the charm of novelty had passed away. Eacli
successive discovery, as it brings us nearer to first principles, opens
out to our view a new and more splendid prospect, and the mind, led
away by its charm, is carried beyond and far above the petty and
ephemeral contests of life : but the more rapid the discoveries are, the
more powerful the charm, and therefore great is the motive for exer-
tion ; and in labouring in this cause there is this gratifying reflection,
that our labours cannot injure our successors, for the region of discovery
is rich beyond the powers of conception ; and however much we may
draw from it we shall not leave its treasures exhausted — no, not even
diminished, because they are infinite."

FOR EVER.

Yes, ill ** for ever" dwells a tone,

A thrilling import all its own.

Say, has not man some seat of bliss.

Some rest more durable than this.

Some home from whence a guiding ray

Cheers the poor pilgrim on his way.

Bids faith with eagle eye aspire.

And hope light up the vestal fire?

Yes, wait the few appointed years,

A scene beyond the tomb appears,

A scene — but ah! what mortal hand

Can sketch the glory of that land ?

Eye hath not seen, nor ear, nor heart.

Heard or conceived a thousandth part.

To death's cold grasp alone 'tis given

To lift the veil that hangs o'er heaven.

Yet though so much lies hid from view.

When truth shines clearly, brightly through.

The glory, whatsoe'er it be.

Is link'd with immortality.

Once reach it, child of love divine.

Once enter, 'tis for ever thine.

No flight of time prescribes a bound.

No mockery now is in that sound.

No change is there, no sad decay.

No shades of night, 'tis one long day ;

No seasons in their circle bring

Winter and storms, 'tis one sweet spring.

Nor weekly cares, nor worldly pains.

The spirit vex, one Sabbath reigns, —

All, all is fix'd on that blest shore.

And fix'd in joy for evermore^

32
A LECTURE ON CHESS.

BY H. R. FEANCIS, ESQ.

lieing an outline of ihat delivered before the Members of the
Philosophical Society , on Tuesday, February 7th, 1843.

A Lecture on " Chess," before such a society as I have the
pleasure of addressing, may be objected to by some as wanting in
dignity ; by others as deficient in interest. To the former class I
would reply, that the game of Chess is raised far above all other
recreations by its high antiquity — by the gieat names which have
been connected with its history — and still more by its highly philso-
phical character. In answer to the latter, I would merely refer to a
small collection of Chess anecdotes which I hold in my hand, pub-
lished early in this century. In one of its chapters, a catalogue is
given of 50 works on Chess theit extant. This number is now in-
creased fully threefold, by treatises of every kind, from the simplest
elementary lessons on Chess to Mons. Alexandre's elaborate and
scientific compilation, " L' Encyclopedic des Echecs." Paris, more-
over, and London, respectively maintain periodicals which enjoy an
extensive circulation, though devoted entirely to Chess. T refer to
the " Palamede," edited by the first of French Chess players, Mons.
St. Amant, and the " Chess Players' Chronicle," conducted by Mr.
Staunton, the first of English professors, excepting the veteran Lewis.
These may, I think, be considered decisive proofs that there is a large
and growing class to whom the subject which I have chosen is highly
interesting. And if that class have but few representatives in Hull,
I have only to hope that my present Essay may recommend the game
to some who have neglected it, not from dislike, but from ignorance
of its real character.

The subject naturally arranges itself under three heads — its history,
its social value as a recreation, and its tactics. Under the first of
these heads, I may naturally be expected to state the country where
Chess originated, the name of its author, and the date of its invention.
I regret, however, to say, that to none of these questions can a satis-
factory answer be rendered. With regard to the first, however, the
evidence appears to me to be strongly in favour of India. Europe

CHESS. 33

certainly has no claim to the honour. The story of Chess having
been the invention of Palamedes is a modem error. No notice of
any game more complicated than Draughts occurs in any ancient
author ; the *' calculi " which were played with on the " tessellae," or
chequered board, having evidently possessed no distinction of ranks.
This will appear from a careful examination of the often-quoted
passage from a poem ascribed to Lucan, " Te si forte juvat," &c.,
and of a similar, though less ample description in Ovid's " Amores.''

The Pes 80 1, or game of pebbles, ascribed to Palamades, was
played (as appears from the first book of the Odyssey, where it is
practised by Penelope's suitors) on the ground in the open air, and
hence was probably not a sedentary game like draughts, but more
resembling the schoolboy's diversion of " hop-scot." The same term
would subsequently be applied to other games played with pebbles.

That the game of Chess was of Eastern origin, is rendered more
than probable by the fact, that, whereas in Europe it is found only in
its perfect state, it still exists in the East in a much ruder form, and
abundantly mingled with chance. Nothing can be less likely than
tliat the game should have sprung at once into being in its present
complete anay, like Minerva from the head of Jove. Many centuries
probably elapsed ere it reached its present most scientific fonn . And this
view of the case is strengthened by the name of the game (in the earliest
fonn to which we can trace it), and those of several of the pieces,
which are of Oriental, and most probably of Indian derivation; while
they are apparently better suited to a form of the game unknown in
Europe. The Persians declare that they derived the game from
Hindostan ; and though the Celestials put forth a rival claim, I can-
not consider them either as trustworthy witnesses in their own case, or
as equal to the Hindoos in antiquity or early civilization. A notice
of Chess in one of the Byzantine historians early in the 11th cen-
tury, leads one to believe that it was probably through Constantinople
that the game was introduced from the East into Europe ; and on the
same principle I should ascribe to the Moors its early prevalence in
Spain.

More modem times have furnished many interesting occurrences
connected with the history of this pastime. Our own Charles the First
was engaged at Chess when he leamt that the Scots had resolved to
betray him — nor did the news prevent his finishing the game.

34 CHESS.

Charles XII., of Sweden (of whose characteristic style of play it is
recorded, " qu'il faisait toujoiirs marcher sonroi") occupied hhnself
with this while awaiting the Russian attack at Bender. And lastly,
with these mimic conflicts did the restless spirit of Napoleon beguile
the wearisome inaction of his " sullen isle."

But ** let bygones be bygones" — let us turn from the Chess players
of other days, and see what benefit we can draw for ourselves, for our
friends, and our firesides, from this most intellectual recreation. We
must (to use old ^ sop's beautiful illustration) unbend the bow some-
times ; and for myself, I confess I am acquainted with no sedentaiy
amusement comparable to Chess. It exercises at once the inventive
faculty, the powers of calculation, the judgment, and the temper*
For a fuller investigation of these its effects, I would refer my hearei*s
to an ingenious paper on the ** Morals of Chess," written by the gi*eat
Dr. Franklin, and deemed worthy of publication by the " Society for
promoting Christian Knowledge." On one particular social advan-
tage of Chess, however, I must for a short time dwell, and the more
because on this point many persons are under a strange misconception.
I allude to the total freedom of this game from any gambling ten-
dency. Under this head, billiards, cards, and even backgammon, are
all objectionable; at Chess alone is the intellectual struggle sufficiently
exciting to need no stake. Indeed, were any one so far infected by
the distemper of play as to be desirous of gambling at Chess, the
very nature of the game would stand in his way to bet against the
stronger player being mere madness. But in truth, no one for a
century past has gambled or dreamed of gambling at Chess — and in
the hundred clubs of Great Britain no stake is allowed beyond a six-
pence, for the benefit of the general fund, imposed here and there as
a sort of fine on the loser.

1 have never heard but one objection to Chess which carried any
resemblance of weight. I refer to the large outlay of time which it
frequently occasions. To argue, however, from the abuse against the
use of anything, is generally a logical fallacy. There is no amuse-
ment which may not be pursued to excess ; and the very word excess
implies evil. Those who are averse to grave occupation will always
find excuses for neglecting it ; and the man who wastes his time with
Chess would probably have been equally idle without it. — (I remem-
ber a man who was considered a martyr to the billiard-room. On one

CHESS. 35

occasion he found himself in a remote comer of England, where
billiards were unknown. He solaced himself for hours together by
the solitary and senseless game of Patience ! ) To this general answer
to the objection above named, I will add, that I have known very few
tolerable Chess players who were of a frivolous turn of mind. To
such, indeed, the intellectual conflict of Chess would scarcely prove a
recreation.

A club, of course, affords the best opportunity both of enjoying the
diversion of Chess, and of improving in the science. But it would
be rendered easily attainable as a domestic recreation if the rudiments
were in the first place generally learnt, and if beginners would resolve
in general to match themselves fairly by giving or taking such odds
as would equalise their strength. For want of this, many have quitted
the chequered field either wearied and dejected by repeated defeats,
or, like the Irish tailor of pugnacious memory, " blue-moulded for
want of a bating."

Ere I quit this part of my subject, I beg to remind my hearers
that Hull possesses a Chess club containing several very promising
players. The meetings are weekly, held in the Public Rooms on
Monday evenings, from seven o'clock to eleven, during the whole
winter season. After eleven o'clock no new game may be commenced*
The numbers as yet are but limited ; but convinced as I am that the
natives of this district are generally gifted with more than average
powers of calculation, I confidently hope to see a Chess-club in Hull
rivalling even those of Leeds or Nottingham.

[The remainder of Mr. Francis's paper would be scarcely intelli-
gible without the apparatus which he employed in illustrating the
tactics of Chess. The openings which he selected for explanation
and comment were the Giuoco Piano and the Evans and Cunningham
Gambits. He likewise explained at length the construction of that
ingenious, though in no fair sense automatic piece of mechanism, the
celebrated " Automaton Chess Player." For a full account of this
figure, we would refer our readers to Vol. 1 of the " Chess Player's
Chronicle," which was repeatedly quoted by the lecturer. At the
conclusion of the paper of which we have furnished a sketch, a short
discussion took place, which elicited some curious and interesting
anecdotes, and also brought into notice the four-handed game, which
all seemed to agree in recommending, with the proviso that the time

36

CHESS.

allowed for moving should be limited. Subsequently, many of the
company adjourned to the Chess-room, where some spirited games
took place. We understand it is Mr. Francis's intention to give during
the season a lecture confined to the tactics of Chess, especially the
most celebrated openings. Boards and men will be set out in suffi-
cient numbers to enable the audience to follow the course of the
games, and one of the large saloons in the Public Rooms will be
employed on the occasion as a lecture-room.]

CHESS PROBLEM

No. 1.

BY H. R. FRANCIS, ESQl

White moves, and forces Check Mate in 4 wore*.

37
AN EVENING WITH THE STARS.

BY J. D. SOLLITT.

The science of Astronomy has in all ages been highly calculated
to produce a powerful influence on the human mind ; and if whilst it
was in its hifancy, it should cause the ancients to say, " Quis est tarn
vecors, qui, cum suspexerit in coelum, non sentiat Deum esse ?" no
wonder that the pursuit of it to a certain extent should be highly
delightful to every thinking mind, when we take into consideration
the expanded views which modem discoveries have given to this science.

The last two or three months have, from the eftect of the extraor-
dinarily fine weather, together with the favourable situation of several
of the planets, been most highly interesting to the practical astronomer.
And for the sake of illustration we will take the evening of the 16th
of September, than on which a finer or more beautiful sky was never
seen. Looking out soon after sunset, we perceived the planet Mars in
the south-west, Saturn near the meridian, and Jupiter in the south-east.
As the evening advanced, the distant Herschel made his appearance
in the east, and then the moon rose majestic as queen of the night in
the north-east. Let us now suppose the telescope to be turned to
each of them in succession ; first Mars, with a power of about 200
times, exhibited a beautiful round disk, larger than the full moon, on
which we observed his surface shaded with continent and ocean,
together with his polar regions wrapped in eternal snow — at once
proving the connexion between the constitution of this j^lanet and our
earth. Passing from Mars to Jupiter, we observed him with his four
attendant moons and surface, diversified with his belts, arising from
the clouds in his atmosphere being thrown into this form by the rapid
motion on his axis ; to see those appearances, a much smaller telescope
and a lower power will suffice than what is required for shewing the
various appearances on the surface of Mars, but his four attendants,
rapid rotation on his axis, and want of obliquity to the plane of his
orbit, at once point out a wide difference in the constitution of this
planet and our earth, and shew that the all-wise Creator at once
delights in beauty and variety, and is capable of fulfilling the intents
of creation by a diversity of means. From Jupiter we turned to
Satmn, and with a similar power to that used for Mars, we perceived

38 AN EVENING WITH THE STARS.

the features of this planet beautifully developed, his body, like that of
Jupiter, diversified with belts, and sunounded with his double ring
and seven moons, forming a constitution of which we as inhabitants
of this earth can fonn no just conceptions ; something so wonder-
fully different to what is connected with our planet, that could we be
for a short time transported to this magnificent world, we should be
lost in wonder at the splendid appearance of their heavens, lighted up
in the evening by the luminous arch of the ring and seven beautiful
moons of different sizes^ making their appearances in various parts of
the sky, and with all the vaiied fonns which our moon puts on from
the homed to the full, and each sailing through the blue ethereal
vault with nearly three times the rapidity of ours. From Saturn we
turned to the Herschel planet, but here our instrument nearly
failed us ; his immense distance, and dim appearance, preclude any-
thing but the largest telescopes from showing his disk and moons in
a satisfactory manner, and with a power of 200 we only succeeded in
seeing two of his moons and a very small disk ; we therefore turned
to our attendant, the moon, which was at that time in a most favorable
situation for viewing with the telescope, being near the quarter; on her
surface we observed that splendid diversity of mountain and valley, rock
and plane, which indicate a globe, something similar to our own, but yet
so wild and romantic, as only the most extensive alpine scenery on
our planet can give an imperfect idea of ; rocks piled on rocks, and
stony mountains, frowning on the wide extended planes, craters of
ancient volcanoes, thirty miles in diameter, and in many places
craters within craters, showing the wide extension of volcanic agency,
many hundred times greater than anything on the surface of our
earth. In some parts perpendicular rocks, rising from the surface to
tlie height of two or three miles, the sides of which no beings such as
live on our planet could scale ; in other parts rocks, almost globular,
and of a mile or more in diameter, resting on little more than a point,
and which, to a spectator placed near them, would almost look like
planets tumbled from their orbits. Such is the constitution of our moon,
and such the telescope of the modem astronomer is capable of revealing;
indeed it brings us in connexion with things which before its
discovery we could have no ideas of, and points out wonders in
creation which without its aid we should never have formed the most
distant conception of. These few hasty, observations show what may

METEOROLOGY. 39

be done in one short evening, when the weather and situation of the
planets are both conducive to practice ; they have been so, for a long
time, during the present season ; another year they will be equally as
favorably situated ; and I sincerely hope these remarks may have a
tendency to cause some of your readers to observe for themselves,
being assured if they do, they will find themselves highly repay ed for
their trouble in the intellectual treat they will receive.

METEOROLOGICAL TABLE

BAROMETER.

Monthly Mean 29-76

Mean at 9 a.m 29 74

Ditto 3 p.m 29-76

Ditto 9 p.m 29 78

Maximum on 12th 30 18

Minimum on 22nd 29 25

Range 0-93

THERMOMETER.

Monthly Mean 58^

Mean of Maxima 66

Ditto Minima 51

Maximum on 18th 79

Minimum on 21st 44

Kange 35

N
NE

E
SE

0 Days S 1

1 „ SW 7
5 „ W 10

2 „ NW 3

RAIN— 2-90 inches.

Days

WEATHER.

Cloudy 7 Days

Showers 10

Continued Rain 2

Lightning 2

Thunder 2

Clear 9

Mist 1

GENERAL RExMARKS.

The weather during this month, so important to the farmer and the country in
general, has been upon the whole genial. The temperature has been but three or
four degrees below the average of the Metropolis for this month. Rain has fallen
on twelve days, but the whole amount has not been very considerable. The harvest,
in this part of the country, just commenced at the end of the month.

EXPLANATION OF THE COLUMN HEADED " FORCE OF WIND.

3

0 A calm.

1 Gentle breeze.

2-= A little stronger.

Brisk wind.

Boisterous wind or hurricane.

40

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THK HULL

LITERARY AND PHILOSOPTITCAL

MISCELLANY.

DECKMBKIl.

CONTENTS :

I'upular llnors Ml 1 My First Voyage . . ., j» . , . . . \0^^

The RiVulf^t HC, ! The Advantage's of Botanical Study 11'2

Trevallj »n 87 ; Notices of Lectures 1 H

Acrostic !».! '■ Chess 1 1 '•

The Wm-.k WD j Meteorological Table 1 1!>

On the Leviathan and Behemoth. . . H8 i Meteorological Register YXO

LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.

HULL:
PRINTED & PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL DIBB & CO., 4, MYTON-GATE,

AND SOLD BY

w. iTEPHBaraoy, b. t. cussoks, and d. kay, towoATE ; j. purdon and

MABY NOBLE, MARKET-PLACE; B. OODDARD, SILVER STREET ;
AND i. LEXO, 8AVILE-8TREET.

1843.
PRICE SIXPENCE.

f

^<?*«-

-5>«>i

NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS.

'^. S — " Evening Thoughts" is unavoidably deferred until our next.

*** — *' Andrew Marvel" is approved.

J. B., Leeds.— "The Pursuit of Knowledge" will be inserted in a
future Number.

Ulo. — " Spirits Everywhere " to be inserted ; the remainder of the
Translations are declined.

C. T. — We must decline " Thou radiant Orb," and are sorry that
we have been obliged to curtail our con'espondent's former com-
munication to so great an extent ; but our space will not admit of
such lengthy articles. We hope our coiTespondents generally
will bear this in mind.

Harry will please accept our thanks for his kind wishes. The
articles he has sent we must, however, declhie inserting.

J. H. — " Vegetable Respiration" is approved, and will be inserted as

soon as possible.
/ The Dying Soldier," " Riggio," and ** Moniing," are declined.

*• The Consultation," " The Wandcrinn; Girl," and the " Legend of
the North Road," are under consideration.

*^^* Papers not adapted to the pages of the " Miscellany," will be

THE HULL

LITERARY & PHILOSOPHICAL MISCELLANY.

No. III. DECEMBER. Vol. I.

INFLUENCE OF CERTAIN POPULAR ERRORS.

ON THE

PHYSICAL CONDITION OF MAN.
BY DR. AYRE.
A Paper read at the Hull Literary and Philosophical Society.

To those acquainted with the history of the physical sciences, it
can be in no degree a matter of surprise, that errors should be current
with mankind, in all the subjects pertaining to science: for it is within
a period of time comparatively recent, and chiefly smce the age of
Lord Bacon, that the acquisition of any thing deserving the name of
science, has been attempted or attained. Previous to his time, philo-
sophers, if such they could be named, instead of observing and
recording facts, and verifying them by experiments, employed them-
selves in inventing theories to explain the operations and laws of
nature; and much of what they then taught and believed, the ignorant
of all countries now believe ; for it is from the errors of ancient times
that those of the present period derive their currency and credit.

In the progress of scientific discovery and reseai-ch, mankind have
had nearly as much to unlearn as to learn ; for in the absence of true
knowledge, no individual, however gifted might be his powers, could
escape the infection of popular errors. It was not for instance until
more than half a centuiy after the time of the immortal Newton,
that the wondei-s of modern chemistry began to be revealed, and he.

82 POPULAR ERRORS.

therefore, in common with liis co temporaries, shared in most of the
errors which then prevailed concerning the objects of that science.
And what is true in regard to the mistakes which the uninstructed
may fall into, in reference to the true natm-e of the objects known to
the chemist, is true also in respect to those errors, which the uninformed
may entertain on other branches of human knowledge. Of these
none are more important, or exert a greater influence on the well-being
of mankind, than those which relate to our physical condition, and to
the agents by which that condition is affected.

Before the time of Harvey and Lord Bacon, and unhappily long
after it, the lessons taught in the schools of medicine, were as foreign
to the science pertaining to medicine, as were the dreams of the
-Alchemists, to the facts and deductions of the modem chemists ; and
though it be true, that many of the errors relating to the objects of
general science, have been greatly coiTected in the public mind, by the
knowledge incidentally acquired through the public press, and the
other multiplied means of instruction, it is not so, or only very par-
tially, in respect to those en-ors which relate to our physical condition,
because the subject lies out of the course of common reading and
enquiry ; and the public mind being unenlightened on the facts which
should coiTect its en*ors, the errors continue to prevail. Hence, like
the illustrious Newton in reference to the facts and deductions of modem
chemistry, men themost enlightened are found to partakeof the errors of
the multitude ; and if some of those errors are unimportant when acted on,
and serve, perhaps, only to excite a smile, there are others of these
errors which exert an injurious influence upon mankind, and materially
tend to multiply and aggravate their sufferings. But whether gen-
erally unimportant or othei*wise, error is still error ; and like darkness
to the traveller, is assistant to other causes in leading its victims astray.
Besides, it is not befiting an enquirer after truth to pause in his pur-
suit, that he may first measure the precise amount of evil incident
to any eiTor ; but as he may justly regard every error as an evil, so he
will consider every fact that can dissipate it as a good, and will cast it
as a mite into the general treasury of knowledge, that he may thereby
assist in promoting the interests of truth, and, by forwarding the pro-
gress of human improvement, increase the happiness of his species.

The enors of a popular kind which relate to our physical condition,
and to the agents affecting it, may be divided into those which are

POPULAR ERRORS. 83

general, and into those which are particular or personal. Those of a
general kind relate to the notions entertained by whole communities,
on the nature of the cause or causes which generate typhus and some
other fonns of fever, and on th& means which are demanded to pre-
vent their occurrence ; and which unhappily consist too often of those
measures by quarantine, and fruitless fumigations, which, as substi-
tutes for the true means of prevention, occasion the neglect of them.
In considering tliis subject it would be my object to shew, that all the
fonns of continued, and remittent fevers, owe their origin to the pre-
sence of a malaria of a specific nature, and derived from the decom-
position of the animal and vegetable matter collected in house drains,
and swamps, &c., and other analogous localities ; and whether it be
the typhus of European countries, or the yellow fever of America, or
the jungle fever of India, or the plague of Egypt, or the malignant
cholera of India — they all owe their origin to the malaria generated
on the spot where they prevail, and can only become infectious by a
multitudinous gathering of the sick into ill-ventilated apartments.
The subject is one of great interest, and involves in it the considera-
tion of those quarantine regulations which are a standing reproach to
the commonwealth of Europe. The subject, however, is too ample
to be treated in connection with others, and I shall leave it for a
future occasion, and shall now proceed to that branch of my subject
of a more personal nature, and perhaps it may be thought more im-
mediately affecting ourselves. Of the errors which we may now pro-
ceed to notice, few have occupied a larger share of the public mind*
or maintained a firmer hold on it, than the opinion that the blood is
subject to impurity — that certain gioss or peccant humours are
generated in it ; and that these supposed conditions of the blood
become the causes of various diseases; and especially of those
accompanied by an eruption on the surface of tlie body. The notion
is one that has descended from antiquity, and down to a comparatively
recent period, was universally taught and believed. It owed, however,
its parentage, as well as its permanency, to ignorance, resting for its
support on tlie loose analogy of vinous fennentation, so familiar to
man in all ages, in which new products are generated with heat, and
where the heat evolved in the process was assumed to be imitated by
the fever, which precedes or accompanies one class of eruptive com-
plaints. These notions, however, with all the incongruities pertaining

84 POPtJLAR ERRORS.

to them, have now yielded to more enlightened views, and are wholly
discarded from the consideration of the scientific physician, although
they still keep their hold upon the public mind, and form the main
instrument of that profitable delusion, by which, the empyric works
upon the credulity of the sick. In exposing the fallacy of the opinion
it may be sufficient to state at present, that whilst it is wholly assumed
as an hypothesis, it is contradicted by every fact which the research of
science has revealed to us. In no disease does the blood when drawn
from the arm, exhibit any material change in the nature and propor-
tion of its constituent principles, as existing in health, nor do the
remedies successfully employed for removing the disease, possess any
power to alter the condition of the blood. Besides the disorder,
which is hypothetically assumed to arise from an impurity of blood,
is often removed by the taking away of only a small quantity of this
fluid, and, at other times, as suddenly by other means, and, without
the possibility of the remedies having any power to subdue the imputed
cause, or relieve the efifect of it. To those who may not have well
considered the subject, it might appear a reasonable conclusion, that
as the solids of the body are made yVom the blood, and maintained by
it, that any disease occurring in the solids must proceed from the blood ;
but the answer to this ig plain ; for although the solids are formed
from the blood, it is hy the solids, that the blood itself is foiined ;
and before, therefore, any impurity can be generated in the blood,
there must be a derangement in the organs engaged in producing that
fluid ; and this derangement is disease ; and as it must precede any
change assumed to occur in the blood, it may exist without it ; and in
the absence of every fact to waiTant the contrary' notion, we may
certainly assume, that disease in all its forms, and through all its
changes, is, as its primary seat essentially limited to the solids.
But akin to this notion of a general impurity of the blood, and
as a material support to it,- is the importance attached by the
multitude to the appearance of the blood which is drawn from a
part by leeches. In some cases the blood disgorged from them
is black, and the conclusion thence deduced is that it is impure^
and was partially stagnant in the part whence it was taken ; and
that the necessity for their use, and the benefit to be derived from
them, are to be measured by the colour of the blood. The notion,
however, with all its vagueness was taught and believed before the

POPULAR ERRORS. 85

circulation of the blood was discovered by Harvey, and is still a
favorite dogma with mankind. The error itself in regard to any
local or limited impurity or stagnation of the blood, is contradicted by
the fact that the blood, which is seen to be black, is often so when
taken from a part confessedly free from all disease, and where leeches
have been applied only to relieve some distant part. Besides, the
blood so drawn and esteemed to be impure, was a few seconds before
mingling with, and forming an integral part of the circulating mass,
and had passed along the great vessels from the heart. If the blood,
therefore, is black from impurity, it is so in common with all the
blood of the body, and this at a [time when the general health is
unimpaired. The truth of the matter is that the blackness is in a mea-
sure accidental, and depends upon the time at which the leeches dis»
gorge their blood, and the depth of the wound they make to extract
it. In the opinion of the nurse, and too often of intelligent friends, the
appearance of the blood forms a material part of the report to be
made of the patient to the physician ; and as might be expected,
instances occur, where, from the influence of this pi-ejudice, a repeti-
tion of the leeching is improperly resisted, or improperly desired, and
the bitterness of the bereavement of some beloved object is sometimes
aggravated by secret reflections gi'ounded on this error, as to the
benefit which a repetition of the leeching might have conferred, or
the injury its repetition had inflicted.

But besides the popular error, just noticed, of impurity of blood as
forming a constituent part of disease, and affording by its colour the
evidence of it, there is another popular error relating to the blood,
and something allied to it, and which has been bequeathed to us by
those, who viewing the body as a machine, regarding all the sevei*al
functions of it to be subject to the laws of mechanics. Among the
errors derived from this source, and which have descended to us, and are
still generally entertained, is that of the greater tendency of persons to
become affected with apoplexy, who have what are called short necks ;
this tendency being caused, it is said, by the greater force which the
heart is thereby enabled to exert upon the shorter column of blood in
short necked persons, agreeably to a well-known law of hydrostatics.

But a fundamental objection to this assumption, and, therefore, one
that is fatal to it, is that there is no truth in the notion that that part
of the vertebral column forming the neck, differs in length in any

86 POPULAR ERRORS. *

material, or even appreciable degree, in individuals whose height i»
the same. The main difference which appears to subsist, arises, from
the relative position of the head, and shoulders, and the varying degree of
plumpness in these persons, and is produced by a greater fulness about
the throat, by which the clear space between the head and shoulders
is curtailed, and a seeming shortness of neck induced. Were it true
that some persons had unusually short necks, and that therefore they
were subjects for apoplexy, tlien those who are of the shortest stature
as having the shortest necks, should of necessity be most subject to that
disease, which is assuredly not found to be the case — neither is it true
that persons who are plump and whose necks, by their plumpness are
rendered apparently short, are in any degree more subject on account
of their obesity to be attacked with apoplexy. The truth is, the appa-
rent shortness of the neck is in a great measure deceptive, and that
individuals of every height, and size, and state of plumpness, are
equally liable to this disease; for it depends upon a chronic ailment of
the brain, analagous to chronic inflamation or congestion in other
parts of the body, and to which the aged, and habitual drinkers of
ardent spirits, are subject, and which by weakening the vessels of that
organ, eventually leads to a rupture of them.

Of the evil which may practically result from the error just noticed
little need be said ; for it is obvious that no one who is of a thin habit,
and partakes of this en-or, and whose neck in appearance, at least, is
long, will believe himself a subject for apoplexy, while perhaps he is
imminently threatened with it, and will be prone to neglect the means
which are demanded to resist its approach, or relieve him from its
presence. Such cases of neglect are common.
(To he continued.)

THE RIVULET.
From Dr. Buchannans unpublished work — Grcemes Dike.
A rivulet of transparent water contributed to the picturesque beauty
of the ravine, as it ran gurgling through that obstruction, and over-
leaping this; like the man of the world, who is gentle or loquacious,
to one part of the creation — his equals ; but rude and imperious, to
those beneath his lordly power ; and thus this little rivulet ran, an
emblem of higher things ; dispensing its favours as some powerful
minister of state, not according to merit, but according to place.

87

TREVALLYAN:
A TALE OF CORNWALL.

CHAPTER IV.

(Continued from page 49.^

How tangled is the web of human life : who has skill sufficient to
unravel it ? This moment man is on the pinnacle of splendour — the
next finds him immersed in gloom and darkness. Now he careers
along like some noble ship with her canvas swelling to the auspicious
breezes of heaven — then, like her when the storm arises and she is
engulphedin the boiling billows, he is over-taken by calamity, and swal-
lowed up in the whirlpool of despair. So with Trevallyan. He had
been beloved by his sovereign — his ambition had been stimulated by
prosperity — high hopes and lofty aspirations had entwined themselves
around his heart — and, for a time, he had seemed to forget that the
tide which had flowed so fast, could ebb as quickly. But now his
sovereign's patronage was withdrawn — his ambition was transmuted to
despair, in the crucible of adversity — the hopes and aspirations which
had warmed his heart had fled, and left it chilled and withered — and
the fatal truth had been revealed to him, that the reflux of his fortune
had not only commenced, but was hmTying him down the dark stream
of hopeless ruin.

But to recommence our narrative. The number of the antagonist
troops were widely dissimilar, the castle contained rather more than a
hundred men-at-arms, and fifty or sixty cross-bow-men.

Mounds were raised around the castle, and barriers were erected,
from behind which the archers might securely send forth their deadly
shafts. No artillery, in the modem sense of the word was used, it not
having come into familiar use at that time, and being of a cumbrous and
unwieldly description ; but several engines for casting large and,
massive stones, to beat in doors, and to make breaches in the walls
were employed.

88 TREVAMTAN.

For more than a month every attempt was baffled, though many
had been made of the most furious nature, and often in the dead of
night, would the fiercestattacks be made upon the lines of the assail-
ants, sometimes with great danger to the duke himself, who fear-
lessly exposed his person wherever peril was to be found. Frequently
was the moat passed, and scaling-ladders fixed to the walls, but to
be thrown down again by the ever-vigilant defenders. At length the
duke, wearied by the length of the seige, and obstinacy of the defence
resolved to make a grand night attack.

The night selected was dark and rainy. Violent gusts of wind tore
among the tents, threatening to drive them into the sea; and nearly
all the camp-fires were extinguished. During two or three days pre-
vious no attack had been made on the fortress, and few soldiers had
shown themselves before the walls, so that the L>eseiged were lulled
into the belief that either the enteiprise was about to be abandoned,
or that fresh instructions had arrived from the monarch to offer terms
of pacification ; at any rate, they did not expect that on so dark and
dismal a night, they should be assailed. Accordingly the duke, in the
dead of the night, had passed the moat in several places, under cover
of the darkness, before he was observed by the sentinels, who were
too intent upon sheltering themselves from the war of the elements, to
perform the duty to which they were appointed. When the important
discovery was made, an alann was instantly given, and as many
soldiers as were able, thronged to the walls and began to pour down
scalding pitch, and boiling water, to cast large masses of rock, and to
shoot cross-bow-shafts among the advancing foe.

To all appearance the attack was directed entirely to one quarter,
which consequently brought the mass of the defenders to that point.
But this was merely a ruse de guerre of the duke's ; for whilst the
other jmrt of the wall was left nearly defenceless, a select band of the
boldest of his men had gained a footing upon the very battlements.
Some were hurled down into the moat, and were drowned, the weight
of their armour rendering it impossible for them to save themselves
by swimming. Others no sooner reached the inside of the battlements,
than they were put to the sword. But owing to the very small num-
ber defending that particular spot, a few men gamed sufficient room
to defend themselves, and drove back those who held the rampart.
This success gave time to more men to mount and come to their succour

TKKVALLYAN. €9

which being done, much more ground was gained from the retainers
of the earl. Opportunity had also been given for the planting of a
greater number of ladders, and streams of fresh men began to gain a
secure stand. Attention was now drawn by the tremendous din caused
by the strife on this part of the walls ; and all the earl's soldiers being
aroused and full armed, the combat began to rage with redoubled
fury.

But no bravery could now avail against the advantage gained
by the king's troops. Trevallyan and Fitzalan seemed to be
almost ubiquitous. Wherever the tumult raged most fiercely, there
were they to be found, encouraging their men and shouting their
war-cry of " Trevallyan — Trevallyan for the honour of Cornwall!"

The incessant battering at the portcullis also began to make
impression, for the chains which secure the draw-bridge had been
shattered into pieces by large fragments of rock thrown at them by a
huge catapult, on the other side of the moat. At last the portcullis, and
great pait of the arch which sustained it, came down with a crash
which was actually deafening. Here the earl hurried. He was amicd
with a battle-axe, so heavy that it would soon have fatigued a less ner-
vous arm than his own, but he seemed to wield it like a sapling, as he
dashed into the very midst of the enemy, levelling some at every blow
and clearing a space around him. Could his fate have depended
upon his own ann, victory had been his ; but numbers prevailed.

" To the hall — back to the large hall !" cried he to his retainers, as
he steadily retreated ; " follow me, soldiers ! Ha, knave ! dost thou
seek thy death ? " and he struck down an adventurous man-at-amis
who pressed too closely upon him. Retreating further, his course
was arrested by a stream of his own men flying from the battlements,
which were now completely in the possession of the enemy, who had
also forced their way into the very heart of the castle. Seeing their
leader calmly acting on the defensive, the fugitives rallied, and again
faced the foe. " Are the battlements taken ?" cried the earl; "are
the enemy in the castle ?"

" 'Tis too true," replied an old warrior, besmeared with blood and
dust, at the same time sinking down at the earl's feet from the effects
of a mortal wound in the throat by an arrow ; " Walter Fitzalan has
i-etired into the inner part of the castle with about twenty men, to pro-
tect the countess."

00

TREVALLYAN.

These were the lust words the man ever uttered ; for the enemy at
that moment made a fierce onset on the eail's pai'ty, and he was tram-
pled to death under their feet.

" Trevallyan and vengeance ! St. Michael for Trevallyan ! God and
St. Michael ! " shouted the earl as lie repelled the enemy's attack.
" What, Norfolk ! is it thou ?" he further exclaimed, as by the flicker-
ing light cast b> a single torch, he distinguished the crest of the duke
in the foremost rank of his soldiers ; ** is it thou ? and thinkest thou
again to escape me ? Have at thee, thou false and craven spirit, thou
treacherous caitiff, thou disgrace to chivaliy ! — God and St. Michael

for Trevallyan ! defiance and dishonour to Norfolk " here he

made a furious blow at the duke with his battle-axe, which was parried
by a similar, though lighter weapon, the shaft of which was shivered
by the blow. Seizing another from a soldier near him, the duke
instantly returned the stroke, saying in his clear, cold voice, " Thy
efforts are vain, proud earl ! Thou hast soared high, but I will clip
thy pinions : once have I failed — now thou art in my power. Think
of Margaret Percy — think of " but the sentence was left un-
finished, the torch being struck to the ground — and all was darkness.

Impossible would it be adequately to describe the horrible din and
tumult which now took place. Men grappled with one another, not
knowing whether it was with friend or foe. Blows were struck upon
the walls or the empty air. The war-cries of " Trevallyan and Corn-
wall ! — God for Trevallyan ! God and St. Michael for the brave earl !"
were mingled with " Norfolk for King Henry ! Destruction to the
traitor ! " while, mixed up in inextricable and dreadful confusion,
oaths and imprecations of revenge and fury, and the groans of the
dying, added to the horrors of the fray. Once did Trevallyan think
he heard the clear voice of Norfolk near him, saying, as he incited
his troops to press their enemies into the castle, " Press on, brave
men : ten bezants to the man who brings me the head of Trevallyan !'

" Dastard — craven — false, perjured villain — have I met thee again ?"
frantically shouted the earl. " Oh, that heaven would place thee
where I could grasp thee in the struggle of death ! Death with re-
venge on THEE would be sweet ! " and he struck furiously forward in
the dark, and his axe went crashing among a mass of men.

The assailants were now gainmg a manifest advantage, and bearing
the defenders of the castle down a succession of naiTow winding

TREVALLYAN. 9|.

passages, which echoed and re-echoed to the screams aud shouts of
battle. At length, the spacious hall, in which the earl had received
the king's messenger in the commencement of our story, was gained,
and the darkness gave way to a light almost brilliant, caused by torches
hung around the walls, or held by the attendants of the countess, who
had betaken herself to this apartment for refuge. She and her waiting-
women stood at the further end, surrounded by some of the earl's
retainers, who with Fitzalan at then* head, were defending her against
the royal soldiery. Trevallyan entering in the throng, saw the state
of affairs at one glance, and bidding his men stand finn against those
who were striving to enter pell-mell with them into the hall, nished
through the band of the enemy who surrounded the defenders of the
countess, and clasping her, all bloody as he was, in his arms, strove
to comfort her in that hour of dire distress. She threw herself upon
his breast, and, like a dove pursued by some bird of prey, seemed to
nestle there and seek protection.

" Margaret," began the warrior, in a voice of dreadful earnestness,
and with a look of deep affection ; " Margaret, beloved, the time has
come when we must part, — and that for ever. Already do our foes
possess the castle. Soon will thy husband lie as the clod of the valley.
God above knows how I grieve for having brought on thee this un-
timely fate. May he pardon me ; — for I shall soon be in his presence !"

The noise of the unchecked strife around now aroused him from
these tender and solemn thoughts, and he was uttering his last fare-
well to the fair being whom he clasped in his anns ; but she clung
to him the more.

" O Richard!" said she, " my first, my only love, — forsake me not :
surely they will not slay thee : they will not hann thee — nor separate
us, Richard !"

This last word was almost inaudible; for overcome by the
paroxysm of separation, she sank insensible in his arms. The knight
raised his visor, and bent down to his wife's lips, — and as he raised
his head, those who gazed upon his fine face, never had erased from
their memory the mingled look of unutterable despair and heart-felt
affection which it displayed. Once more did he bend this look upon
her — once more did he press those bloodless lips — and one solitary,
scalding tear, fell upon her !

At tliis crisis Norfolk pressed into the circle, and seized Trevallyan

92 TRKVALLYAX.

by the arm, crying " Eail, thou art my prisoner : yield thee, in the
king's name — rescue or no rescue !"

Had the whole castle fallen in one mass of crumbling ruins, it
could not have created a more entire change in the earl. An attendant
received his wife as she fell from his embrace. He instantly grappled
with the duke, and being a stronger man than he, fairly lifted him
from the ground, and hurled him into the midst of his own troops ;
and well was it for him that his fall was broken ere he reached the
ground, or he had never returned from the ruin and devastation he
had caused. As it was, he crashed upon the stone pavement with
such violence as to break his arm, and mutilate it by the indentation
of his annour. His men closed round him ; and the earl again
seizing his battle-axe, renewed the conflict. A gigantic man-at-anns
now singled out Trevallyan, hoping to secure the reward promised
for his head by Norfolk. The soldiers on each side ceased from
fighting, as if by common consent, to view the struggle between the
earl and the huge trooper. Both being armed with similar weapons,
the combat became a spectacle of the deepest interest. At one time
the earl seemed to have the advantage, having more agility than his
opponent ; but this was counterbalanced by the coolness of the man-
at-arms, who appeared to wish to tire out his more active adversary.
At length the earl, making a feint to strike his enemy on the left side
of the helmet, suddenly recovering his blow, struck him on the light,
and shivered it into atoms. He struck again at the trooper's head,
and though the blow was parried, it caused him to reel with dizziness;
stepping back a few paces, the next blow of the earl, which otherwise
would have finished the encounter, was met by no resistance, and
before he could strike again, the trooper had closed with him.

The floor being slippery with blood, the steel-clad foot of the
knight slipped, and both fell to the gi'ound, the clash of their armour
resounding through the castle. Here the two rolled. The earl's
weapon being out of his hand, his antagonist had a great advantage
over him, being armed with a misericorde, or dagger of mercy, with
which he struck several times at his foe, wherever an interstice in his
armour permitted. Trevallyan, feeling his death-pang upon him,
with his left hand seized his adversary's throat, which the blow of his
battle-axe which had shivered the helmet, had left exposed. Here he
clutched with the ferocity of a tiger; while with his remaining

TREVALLTAW. 93

Strength he stretched forth his right hand and reached his lost weapon ;
and taking it by the middle of the shaft, he elevated it for an instant
over the bare head of his antagonist — then down it came, resistless
as a thunderbolt, fracturing into pieces the skull of the man-at-arms,
and bespattering himself with his brains. He himself, exhausted by
the fury of the blow, looked for a moment steadily at the Duke of
Norfolk, (who stood at the distance of a few yards, supported by two

soldiers,) and gasped forth slowly and faintly, " Norfolk sully not

thy victory by shedding further blood spare an innocent woman

or may the curse of the last Earl of Trevallyan cleave to thee

and thy house ! Margaret," he added, turning his eyes towards that

part of the hall where he had left her — " farewell we shall meet

again God shield thee, Marg " but the remainder of the

word was lost in the rattle of death ! Thus perished the brave and
high-spirited, though proud and intractable Richard Trevallyan, the
last of a princely house — a sacrifice to the enmity of a malicious and
unprincipled courtier, and the unbridled passions of a brutal tyrant !

It is needless to dwell on the incidents which followed — the sack-
ing and complete demolition of the castle. Suffice it to say, that
these were done so effectually, that nothing was left but a heap of
smoking ruins.

The soldiers who survived the faithful defence of their lord were
permitted to retire, or enter into the army against which tliey had so
recently fought. Fitzalan was also suffered to depart with the Lady
Margaret, who was placed on a litter, and conveyed from the scene of
the recent strife, and put under the protection of her own iamily.

The Duke of Norfolk did not enjoy an unintenupted triumph ; for
soon after the death of Trevallyan, Henry caused his queen, Catherine
Howard, (the duke's niece,) to be beheaded for real or supposed crimes.
Her death was followed by that of his son, the amiable and hand-
some Earl of Surrey, who was brought to the block, having been
unjustly accused of plotting against the king. Surrey was a young
nobleman of the brightest promise : he excelled in every accomplish-
ment which adorns the scholar, the courtier, and the soldier ; he
encouraged the fine arts by his patronage and example ; and was the
first who brought our language in poetry to any degree of refinement.
The duke himself did not escape unscathed ; for not only were his
future days beclouded and embittered by these severe domestic

Ml TREVALLTAN.

calamities, but he himself became so obnoxious to the displeasure of
the king, that he would have been brought to the scaffold, had it not
been for the opportune death of Henry before the warrant for his exe-
cution could be signed.

Of the Countess of Trevallyan we must say a few words. She
had not witnessed the death of the earl, not having recovered from
the fit of insensibility into which she had fallen in his arms. But she
was told that he had died as a soldier ought, with his face towards his
foe ; and that Norfolk, whose hate had been partially appeased by his
death, had laid him in the " sepulchre of his fathers." Long, long,
did the remembrance of that horrible night haunt the dreams of the
bereaved countess. Oft was she awaken from her unquiet slumbers
by the fancied din of arms and bray of battle. She faded like a
flower plucked from the stem which gave it nourishment. " The iron
had entered into her soul." Her affections were blasted in the bud :
and the heart which had so often thrilled with the deepest and purest
affection, soon ceased to vibrate when it was left desolate ! She died
murmuring the name of 'him who had been so rudely torn from her ;
and imploring heaven that she might meet him in that land where
separation is unknown, and where sorrow is a stranger. O woman !
thy love is priceless : what on earth can be compared unto it ? 'Tis
like the asbestos-fire, which, when once lighted, remains uncon-
sumed for ever !

w.

AN ACROSTIC.

B RAH AM ! what magic in the name appears !

R ich is thy voice, though nearly seventy years

A round thy head hath Time, with lenient hand,

H is hour-glass tura'd. In sacred song, how grand !

A ge seems to have mellow 'd more than thinn'd thy tone :

'M id England's tenors, still thou stands alone.

Sylvester.

THE WRECK.

Composed on the loss of the Steam Packet " Pegasus.'^

What pow'r is that which rules the deep.
Whose breath heaves on its tranquil sleep
And sinks a mine, whose in-drawn sigh.
In mountains lifts it to the sky;
What pow'r is that— look on the earth.
See to what wonders it gives birth ;
Mark where the yawning earthquake shakes.
Or mountains vomit fiery flakes ;
One Sov'reign pow r— One Author great-
Performs his own appointing fate :
Waters and land one voice obey —
God is that one ! He has the sway.

Go where the tides wash Scotia's strand.

For o'er it waves grief's sombre wand :

The mourning's sign and sorrow's sigh.

Speak of a tale of ocean's dye.

Oft from that land had sped a bark.

To shores where H umber leaves his mark ;

Safely thro' waters had she dash'd

Which hundred times her prow had washed :

But late she left, gallant as e'er.

Not as before her course to steer.

For foul destruction helm'd her way.

And sank her in the whelming spray.

Bless'd is the veil which from the sight
The future shadows in its night.
Else had "Adieu" less lightly fell.
Friends had less lightly bid " farewell ;"
From many a hand the signal flew.
When words had told Adieu ! Adieu !

96 THE WRECK,

And now tlie land where home has been,
Where lingering friends were lately seen.
The land which bright eyes lately blest,
^Vhere gather 'd kindred sleep at rest.
Fades — then denies a single trace.
Lost in the hovering mist of space.

From oft-told tales of some past day

Hearing, to drive the time away ;

Or from being wrapt in silent thought,

Where, fairy-like, past pleasm-es float ;

Or from being lock'd in slumber's chain

(Waking, alas I to sleep again !)

All start, surmise, and from below

Rush to the deck the worst to know.

How changed each look, in one short stroke

Of time's infonner, stern death broke

In all his terror on the soul.

Which just before owned no controul.

Crying, while on the fear-bent knee,

" Oh God, be mercilul to me !"

But not to all was death so dread ;

Fear saw the cause, and scowling fled.

For there religion breath'd her balm.

And lull'd each rising to a calm.

Yes ! whilst this and the future state

Stay'd to unite, the will of fate.

That heavenly form hung o'er the spot.

Bearing o'er doubts the christian's lot !

First, where her babes a mother press 'd.
She flew, and wrote their names as bless'd.
And when consol'd for them, on high
Pointed to heav'nly blessings nigh ;
With buoyant hope inspired her mind.
And bade in faith to be resign'd :
And then where one — whose lips had mov'd
On land, to praise the God he lov'd

THL- WUECK. 97

Stood, and, anticipating death,

Mus'd on the bliss succeeding breath.

She sprang, and warmed his breast to share

His hope with those around in prayer.

He pray'd — and, as when day's pure light.

Screens the ill shadows of the night.

And arms with confidence the soul.

Which fled the vision's black controul ;

So, 'fore religion's magic sun.

Death's awful garb, of terrors spun,

Roll'd off, and mercy in the blaze,

Smil'd on, and cheer *d each fearful gaze.

Thus calmness stole upon the scene.

While death thro' life was dimly seen ;

But soon his fingers colder press'd.

His dart with life blood soon was dress'd.

Oh ! where shall words, the offspring weak ,

Of feeble thought, the colours seek

Truly to paint that moment dread.

When hope their sinking refuge fled.

* ' * * * *

Tis o'er ! the whirling stream lies still ;

Destruction — death — ^have had their fill.

Life's tenements in that calm deep.

Sought and have found the wakeless sleep j

No more the son of toil may stretch.

The hand of labour forth, and fetch

The glistening sweat upon his brow.

The native charms of rest to know ;

No more the mother's partial eye.

Like a meridian sun-lit sky

May brighten, as it turns with pride

To view the offspring by her side.

No more that voice, which oft hath led.

Shall lead to the creation's head.

The heart-bom worship of the few.

Who taught by grace, give God his due ;

That voice life's barrier has cross'd.

And in the caves of death is lost ! c. t.

98

ON THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH.

BY T. THOMPSON, ESQ.

A Paper read before the Hull Literary and Philosophical Society.
( Continued from page 61.)

As to the Behemoth. — T will now give from the 40th chapter of the
Book of Job, the description of the behemoth : " Behold now behe-
moth, which I made with thee; he eateth grass as an ox. Lo, now, his
strength is in his loins, and his force is in the navel of his belly.
He moveth his tail like a cedar; the sinews of his stones are
wi-apped together. His bones are as strong pieces of brass; his
bones are like bars of iron. He is the chief of the ways of God : he
that hath made him can make his sword 'to approach unto him. Surely
the mountains bring him forth food, where all the beasts of the field
play. He lieth under the shady trees, in the covert of the reed, and
fens. The shady trees cover him with their shadow ; the willows of
the brook compass him about. Behold, he drinketh up a river, and
hasteth not : he trusteth that he can draw up Jordan into his mouth.
He taketh it with his eyes : his nose pierceth through snares."
(Verses 15 to 24.)

The opinion I have fonned as to the particular animal intended by
the Hebrew word " behemoth" is, that it was the now extinct saurian
animal known to geologists by the name of iguanodon, found in a
fossil state in nearly the same situations as the fossil megalosaurus.

As I mean to pursue the same course, in giving my reasons for
this belief, as I did in explaining why I have thought the leviathan
to have been the now extinct megalosaurus, I shall extract a descrip-
tion of the iguanodon from authors who have written on the subject,
and then contrast that description with that of the behemoth mentioned
in the 40th chapter of Job. The following description of the
iguanodon, extracted from Griffith's translation of Cuvier's work.
Fossil Remains, may answer our purpose : —

" The sandstone of Tilgate and the Wealden deposits contain a
quantity of organic remains of various kinds ; amongst others, teeth

THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH. Vif

of an unknown herbiverous reptile (the iguanodon), differing from any
hitherto discovered either in a recent or fossil state." Griffith, in his
translation, says, " So great is the difference between the teeth of
the crocodile, the megalosaurus, and plesiosaurus, and so much do they
difler from other lizard tribes, that it is scarcely possible to commit
an error in their identification. But some other teeth were discovered,
in the Summer of 1832, in the sandstone of Tilgate, which, with an
obvious indication of/t«r6iv^ows characters, exhibited other peculiarities
of so remarkable a kind as to arrest the attention of the most superficial
observer, and announce something of a very novel and interesting
description. Mr. Mantell made a comparison of these teeth with
those of existing lizards in the museum of the Royal College of Sur-
geons. The result of this comparison proved most satisfactory : They
found in the iguana teeth decidedly analogous to the fossil in confor-
mation and structure.

" From the character of the fossil remains which more immediately
surround those relics of the iguanodon, it is concluded that this animal
was amphibious, a native of the fresh water, and not of the ocean :
calculating on the proportions of the living animal, and supposing the
same relative dimensions in the fossil as in the [iguana in relation to
its] teeth, the individual which possessed the teeth we have been de-
scribing must have been upwards of 60 ft. in length. A similar de-
duction has been made by Dr. Buckland respecting the size of the
iguanodon, from a femur and other bones in the possession of Mr.
Mantell."

"It would appear, from the researches of Mr. Mantell, that the
iguanodon bore on its head a remarkable horny appendage, as lai^e
as, and similarly formed to the small horn of the rhinoceros. What
he discovered of this is externally dark bro^vn ; some parts of the
surface are smooth, others furrowed, as if for the passage of vessels.
Its structure is osseous, and there is no external cavity. It does not
appear to have been joined to the skull by a bony process, like some
horns of mammiferous animals. The homed species are by far most
abundant among existing iguanas. The Icjuana cornuta of St.
Domingo is like the common species in magnitude, colours, and general
form ; but upon the point of the head, between tlie eyes and nostrils,
are found four large and bony tubercles ; behind them rises an osseous
and conical horn, which is enveloped by a single scale. The fossil

100 THE LEVIATHAN

horn, of which we have been speaking, was beyond all question a
dependency of this description : there were even found upon its sur-
face impressions of the tegument by which, in all probability, it was
coimected with the cranium." j luib ^huif'r.^.ohgoKi oit . ,

Such is the description we find given of the iguainodon.

I will now give you, for variety's sake, Hanis's translation of that
part of the 40th chapter of Job, where the behemoth is described (it
differs but triflingly from the Scripture one) ; and I may premise
that Harris, being of opinion that the behemoth was the hippopotamus,
cannot be supposed to have humoured his translation at all, so as to
make it fit the description of so totally a dififerent animal as the
iguanodon must have been :

" Behold now behemoth, whom I made with thee. He feedeth on the
grass like the ox. Behold now his strength is in his loins ; his vigour
in the muscles of his belly. He plieth his tail, vyhich is like a cedar ;
the sinews of his thighs are braced together ; his ribs are like unto
pipes of copper ; his back bone like a bar of iron. He is the chief of the
works of God. He that made him hath fastened on his weapon.
The rising lands supply him with food. All the beasts of the field
there are made a mock of. He sheltereth himself under the shady
trees ; in the coverts of the trees and in ooze. The branches tremble
as they cover him ; the willows of the stream while they hang over
him. Behold, the eddy may press, he will not hurry himself ; he
is secure though the river rise against his mouth. Though any one
attempt to take him with a net, through the meshes he will pierce
with his snout."

Here is clearly the description of an immense amphibious animal,
and had not former writers on the subject been under the impression
that the crocodile was the only saurian of sufficient size to answer
the description, and that the leviathan was tlie crocodile, I doubt not
they would have concluded that the behemoth was a sauriananimal,
not the hippopotamus. Assuming it, then, to have been a saurian
or lizard-formed animal, let us see how Job's descriptiont allies;
with the iguanodon. ; ' ;

I have, in discoursing on the leviathan, noticed that the descrip-
tionist, presuming that that common saurian, the crocodile, was well
klOQWB to his Hebrew readers, dwelling so near the Nile, would
naturallyi enoiigh describe the saurian he designated by the name of

IND BEHEMOTH 101

leviathan, by contrasting it with the better known crocodile, pointing
out the most striking differences between the two; and accordingly,
he, alluding to the mode in which crocodiles are ensnared, commences
with showing their futility when applied to the leviathan; thus con-
trasting the size and strength of the crocodile with that of the levia-
than or megalosaurus, and so conveying an idea of the power and
size of the latter animal to his readers' minds. In the same way, 1
think, he proceeds to contrast the behemoth or iguanodon with better
known animals, to convey an idea of it to his readers. And first, its
form being that of an inmiense lizard^ he commences with noticing
a remarkable circumstance in which the behemoth differed from all
the large lizards known to his readers, namely, in the nature of its
food : the crocodile and leviathan were carnivorous saurians ; but the
saurian called belicmoth, on the contrary, was herbivorous. " He
feedetli on grass like the ox." You will have noticed that Mantell
and Cuvier, who seem never to have dreamt of the iguanodon and
behemoth being identical, pursue the veiy^ same course in pointing
out, from the form of the iguanodon's teeth, this remarkable circum-
stance relative to it, as contrasted with other large fossil sauiians„
namely y that it fed on vegetables.

The speaker in Job having pointed out the peculiarity of its food,
and that it was similar to that of the ox, he next describes the great
strength of behemoth. " Behold now his strength is in his loins ;
his vigour in the muscles of his belly." Such, we may fairly pre-
sume, was the case with the iguanodon from what is known of its
anatomy and size.

He next remarks upon the size and pliability of the tail of the
behemoth. '' He plieth his tail, which is like a cedar." The phability
of the iguanodon's tail, if it resembled that of modem iguanas,
would be remarkable, as contrasted with the tail of the crocodile,
which) from being not so easily bent, has given rise to the fable that
the way to ascape his jaws is to turn frequently, as from the stiffness
of his tail he cannot turn so fast as the person pursued. The present
race of iguanas have very flexible tails; we may, therefore, from
similarity of construction in the iguanodon, presume its tail to have
been very free in its motions, and thus in conti'ast with the tails of
most other samians in its pliability. Now, the size and shape of the
behemoth's tail is represented to be like a cedar tree ; and so in size

102 THE LEVIATHAN

and shape must that of the fossil iguanodon have been in every respect.
When we notice this resemblance, we cannot but smile at those
authors who have disputed whether the little tail of the elephant, or
the small one of the hippopotamus, was most like a cedar tree, as they
maintained one or the other animal to have been the behemoth.

Next follows a description of the behemoth's size and strength in
other parts. " The sinews of his thighs are braced together; his ribs are
like unto pipes of copper ; his back bone is like a bar of iron. He
is the chief of the works of God." Nothing can be clearer than that
the above description was applicable to the immense iguanodon.

And now follows an account of a peculiar feature, which seems to
have distinguished the iguanodon from all other saurians with which
the Hebrews were familiar ; it is intimated in these words : " He
that made him hath fastened on his weapon." I entertain no doubt
that allusion is here made to the horn, which, in the description of the
inguanodon that I have recited [in p. 99.], you will remember is
stated to have been placed near the eyes ; and that such was the
situation of the weapon, or horn, of the behemoth, I think, will
appear from the last two lines of the Scripture description of that
animal : " Though any one attempt to take him in a net, through the
meshes he will pierce with his snout." And the iguanodon, or behe-
moth, if anned with a horn upon the snout, would, no doubt, with it
readily tear any net in pieces, even the iron ones used, as Diodorus
says, to capture crocodiles. That the horn of the iguanodon is here
alluded to, under the description of the weapon of behemoth, I can-
not doubt

The remainder of the account of the behemoth in Job is descriptive
of his places of feeding and of rest, and of his size and power, which
enabled him to retain his situation even against the most powerful
streams. Have we not here, also, particulars corresponding with the
account of the iguanodon, both in habit and size? "Hesheltereth himself
under the shady trees; in the coverts of the trees and ooze. The branches
tremble as they cover him ; the willows of the stream while they hang
over him. Behold the eddy may press, he will not hurry himself:
he is secure though the river rise against his mouth." Does not all
this well correspond with the haunts and description of the iguanodon
quoted from Griffith's Cuvier, where he states that the iguanodon
inhabited the mouths of fresh water rivers ?

AND BEHEMOTH. 103

The 17th verse of the 40th chapter of Job seems to me descriptive
of the place of the behemoth's, or iguanodon's, feeding, and also of
the confidence with which the harmless nature of his food inspired
other animals, as contrasted with the terror they felt at the sight of
the crocodile and megalosaurus. " Surely the mountains bring him
forth food, where all the beasts of the field do play." Thus in every
particular do the iguanodon and behemoth tally in description. May
we not, therefore, fairly presume that they were the same animal ?

Geologists tell us that the crust of the earth is composed of a regulai-
succession of strata, lying one over another, like the coats of an onion ;
and that each of these (except a few of the lowest of all) is character-
ised by tlie remnants of animals or vegetables peculiar to itself: those
which are fonned in any particular stratum will not be all found, perhaps
none of them, in the stratum next above it, and so on. Geologists
are enabled, from these animal and vegetable remains, to fonn a
tolerable estimate of the condition of the earth at the successive periods
at which each stratum (however lowly buried now) was the upper
stratum of our eaith.

Nearly the last fonned (perhaps in many parts of this coimtry,
the last formed) of the rocky strata, prior to the diluvium and
alluvium which form the soil we cultivate, was the cretaceous or chalk
formation ; and existent about the same period with this would appear
to be the W ealden deposits of Tilgate Forest.

Many of my hearers will remember that, when that able and
entertaining lecturer. Professor Phillips, last lectured at Hull, on
geology, he told us that there was no appearance before the creta-
ceous formations that in any way indicated that the world had been
previously fitted for the habitation of man.

The chalk itself was a formation in the seas of those days : the
Wealden deposits, according to Mantell, were formed in an estuary,
or the outlets of some immense river ; most probably such river
emptied itself into the said sea. There are, however, indications,
from the vegetable and animal remains of those formations, that the
dry land at that period (wherever it might be) had then become fit
for the habitation of man , though, as no human remains have yet
been found in those strata, it is impossible to say to a certainty that
man had then become an inhabitant of our planet

104 THE IBVliLTHAN

If, however, the earth, at that period of the cretaceous fonnations,
vfusjit for man's residence, it seems to me consistent with the good"
ness and wisdom of Him who makes nothing in vain, that man would
he then created. True it is, that the not finding his remains amongst
the fossils of that period deprives us of positive proof of his then
existence, but furnishes no proof that he did not then exist in the
world. If the chalk indicates the bed of the sea of that period, what
stratum, I ask, then fonned the dry land ? for that is the place to
search for the remains of the human beings of that day, and not in
the bed of the then sea, nor in that of the nearly contemporaneous
Wealden deposit, which was th^ bed ^f an estuary, or arm of the sea.
These, at most, could only include a few of the accidentally drowned ;
and in the midst of the crocodiles and megalosauri of that day, so
tempting a mouthful as a human being would not be allowed, I think,
to rest in peace in the bottom of the waters, there to be found after
many days.

It is not yet known where the diy land of that period is to be
found ; but, probably, when the bed of the then sea was raised, the
dry land became the basin that holds the present seas.

However, in the Wealden deposits it is that the remains of iguan-
odons have been found, and the period of this formation is, we have
seen, the time when man might, and probably did, first appear upon
the earth. Now, is not that probability heightened (if the behemoth
were identical with the iguanodon) by the first words the Almighty
addressed to Job in speaking of the behemoth ? " Behold now behe-
moth, which / made with thee."

Hence it would seem that, whatever was the period of man's first
creation, the same was probably the period of behemoth's creation ; for
speaking to man of behemoth, he says, " Behemoth was created with
thee." Now, the iguanodon, we find from geologists, was first created
about the time of the date of the cretaceous formations, and that at
the same period the earth had become fit for man's existe nee. I
have sho>\Ti that at that period it is probable man was formed, and it
is certain that the iguanodon was then ; so, then, do not these words,
"Beholdnow behemoth, which I made with thee, " strengthen the idea
of the identity of the behemoth and iguanodon ?

But it will be said that these animals, the mcgalosaunis and iguano-
don, have only been found in a fossil stale : how, then, is it probable they

AND BEHEMOTH. 105

would be found existent contemporaneously with Job ? This deserves
our attention. First, then, I observe that the period of Job's existence
is not certain ; but most biblical critics think that he lived long prior
to Moses: possibly, even before the flood. Now, from Mantell's ob-
servations in his Oeology of the South-east Coast of England^ it
seems perfectly clear that the Wealcjen stratum was the bed of an
estuary, or mouth of a large freshwater river : and from the land de-
posits washed down into it, and from its own productions, it is certain
that at that period tliis countiy then enjoyed a temperature very much
higher than is known in these latitudes at the present day. The fossil
remains of elephants, lions, tigers, rhinoceroses, &c., found in England
in the strata above the chalk, show that, for some time afterwards, the
climate continued to be the same. How that clhnate became sub-
sequently cooled down to its present temperature, it would be out of
place here to enquire ; but I think we may safely conclude that that
cooling rendered it no longer fit for the residence of those interti'opical
animals which we are certain once inhabited it, most probably by
destroying those vegetable productions upon which the herbivorous
animals then in this country chiefly subsisted; which animals furnished
in their turn food for the carnivorous ones of that day.

There is, however, great reason to believe that such cooling down
of the temperature of this climate was not a sudden catastrophe, but
at least so gradual, that many animals retreated southward, where,
from the superior warmth of the climate, they still found food suited
to them. In this way, it would be fair to presume that iguanodous
and megalosauri would be able to exist in Syria, Egypt, &c., long
after the climate of England was unfitted for them, and would gra-
dually retreat southward as the northern climates grew too cool for
them. There is reason to believe that even the interuopical climates
now are cooler than the climate of England was during the iguano Jon
period. Egypt is still warm enough to be fitted for the residence of
crocodiles, although no longer fit for that of iguanodons, megalosauri,
and many other animals which were contemporaneous with crocodiles
in England. The intertropical climates would, however, be
fitted for a long period for the residence of iguanodous and mega-
losauri, after those animals had ceased to exist in England ; and
I think that, in that view of the matter, it may be fair to suppose
that a few of the last remnants of the race would be found in the

106 THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH.

southern latitudes which Job inhabited, after they had ceased to be
known in these parts, especially as the more hardy crocodile, their
contemporary here, still exists there, although no longer found here.
Should the climate of Egyj)t grow gadually cooler (as some suppose
it does), most probably the crocodile itself will at some time cease to
inhabit the Nile : certain it is that it is now a rare animal there com-
pared to what it formerly was.

To sum up, then, I trust I have shown you that there is good
ground for supposing that the leviathan of the Scriptures is the same
animal as the now fossil megalosaurus ; and that the behemoth was
identical with the iguanodon.

MY FIRST VOYAGE.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

In the year 180 — , on a fine morning in the month of May, I
found myself on board the good ship Sisters, of Hull, Captain Turner,
lying in the Downs, surrounded by about 200 merchantmen, all like
ourselves about to sail for America under convoy of his Majesty's
frigate Asia of 40 guns, and four smaller vessels. It was indeed a
lovely sight — the sea scarcely ruffled by the breeze, which was barely
sufficient to fill the topsails, already loosened as a signal for the start-
ing of those noble vessels, many of which were destined never to
return to the shores they were about to quit, and whereon their
timbers grew — others to carry their gallant crews many a league,
through many a peril, and to be welcomed back, after months or years
of wandering, by many a happy heart.

The vessels of war were already moving about, occasionally firing
a gun, or hoisting a signal to quicken the movements of some laggard,
while the shore boats, many of which, regardless of the distance from

MY FIUST VOYAGE. 107

land, had brought friends anxious to defer as long as possible the
parting moment, were leaving us one by one, as the boatmen could
persuade their sorrowing freight away. Amid all the excitement of
the scene, I could not forget tlie tearful entreaties of my mother or
the sterner remonstrance of my father, both urging me to alter the
choice I had made, (for it was against the wishes of both that I would
be a sailor) and could they then have been renewed, my obstinacy
might perhaps have been subdued, as it was already half repented of.
However, with the buoyancy of youth I soon dashed the tear from
my eye and went about my duty with at least seeming alacrity. I
must acknowledge, however, that this last phrase is very badly chosen
without it was my duty to be of as little service, and as much hinder-
ance as possible, for after various minor misdemeanours, hearing some
one call out, in a tone which led me to suppose we were all going to
the bottom immediately, ** Let go the starboard fore-topsail braces,"
1 let go the first rope I happened to lay hands on, and this being the
halyards of the said sail, it was a let go with a vengeance, so after
being run over by one man, kicked into the scupper by another, and
very unpolitely execrated, ad aternum, as a young whelp by the mate,
I was glad to get into a tolerably out of the way place, and be con-
tent to watch the proceedings of my shipmates, which I did with
much interest. In a short time we had all sail set, and weie trudging
along at a tolerable rate ; at 12 o'clock we got our dinners, after which
we were divided into watches, and proceeded to put things in order,
the decks being in the state of confusion usual upon quitting harbour.
The ordinary routine of a vessel, and first sensations of a boy
about to become a sailor, have however been so often and so
graphically described that I shall not reiterate the description.

We soon found that the commodore's frigate, under courses merely
could easily have left us far behind, and indeed seemed very much inclined
to do 80 (we had already dropped several slower sailers than even our
ship, and left them to take care of themselves) and on the evening of the
fifth day from leaving tlie Downs we perceived a craft which had been
dodging at a distance all day, and concerning whose character there
could be no doubt, rapidly overhauling us, and as the nearest vessel
of war was all but invisible. Monsieur no doubt thought he would
manage things very nicely. However our captain, a fine tough slip
of oak as ever trod plank, was not disposed to visit France at present.

108 MY riRST VOYAGE.

and his disposition was shared by the crew, most of whom had sailed
with him before, many having been nnder him a long time. We had
four guns on board, which were quietly loaded with grape and canister,
and the two larboard guns brought over to the starboard side, as
Johnny was then about a mile off, on the starboard quarter, and Capt.
Turner was quite aware of the course he would pursue, viz., not fire
at us, as this would only attract the attention of our convoy, but run
alongside and throw a number of men on board, sufficient to render
resistance on our part foolish, as he could sail a yard in less time
than the Sisters could creep a foot. This no doubt seemed to him a
very simple matter, as there was no appearance of our being armed.
In addition to our guns and crew, however, we had on board several
stand of arms and a large quantity of ammunition, with a small
guard of soldiers sent to take care of these, our vessel being then
engaged as a transport. The ports were kept closed, and the soldiers
concealed under cover of the bulwarks, each man being provided with
three loaded muskets. As Captain Turner anticipated, so it turned
out. The Frenchman approached, his rigging filled with men ready
to jump on board ; but just as he got nearly neck and neck with ns,
and was preparing to put his helm down and lay us aboard, the signal
was given, our four guns run out and fired, and the soldiers sprang
from their hiding places, joining the crew in the cheering and firing,
which was continued spite of the colours being hauled down, and the
French captain bellowing out that he had surrendered (for a privateer's-
man gets no law) till they managed to get some ordei restored and
run from under our guns. Before they could do this, however, the
groans and cries told us that they had suffered dreadfully, as, indeed,
must necessarily have been the case from the manner in which they
were exposed to our fire. The last thing we saw of the French captain
he was stamping with rage, exclaiming as he shook his fist at us,
" Sacre ! you English beggar, you no fight fair ; but I will take you in
one tree minute." The last shot was fired by Tom Rayner, my fellow
apprentice, a lad of fifteen, who sprang upon the poop to get a surer
aim, saying (with an apostrophe on his eyes) " We'll soon settle that
devil."

In a short time we had one of the light vessels of the convoy down
to see what the firing was about, and to take us in tow. The com-
jnander had also orders' from the commodore to reprimand our cap-

MY FIRST VOYAGE.

10^

tain for lagging behind, which put the worthy skipper in no small
rage, as well it might, for we had every stitch we could set crowded
on her, and he vowed to serve the commodore out. And so he did,
for when we anived at Quebec, which we did without further adventure
the captains of all the merchantmen which came in with the convoy
(very few compared with the immber which left England) had one by
one to go before Sir Thomas Maitland, who was admiral of the
station. When it came to our skipper's turn, " Well, Mr. Turner,"
said Sir Thomas, " I hear you have had a brush|with a Frenchman."

" Yes, Sir Thomas, and had we not taken a devilish deal better
care of ourselves, than our convoy took of us, I and my crew would
have been in a French prison just now."

" Ha ! how was that ; where was the frigate ?"

'* About eight miles a-head."

•' You should have made more sail."

" We had all our studding sails set."

*' Is this tnie ?" turning to Captain Wilson of the Asia. That
oflScer acknowledged that it was, adding that the Sisters was an exces-
sively slow sailer. ** That is no matter, sir," said Sir Thomas, ** it is
your duty to accommodate your sailing to that of the slowest vessel
in your fleet, and if necessary take her in tow ; had Mr. Turner's
gallantry not saved his vessel I should have held you responsible for
her loss."

In a few days we had got quit of our government stores, and shaken
our worthy shipmates of the red jacket by the hand, (they were good
fellows, tho' I doubt but few, alas ! very few, would tread back the
path from those dreary, greedy forests, into which they plunged to
fight, and perhaps to die for honour and Old England. Requiescant
in pace.

As the Sisters had, previous to the last voyage, always proved her-
self a remarkably fast sailer for a merchantman. Captain Turner
thought that her late slowness must proceed from her bottom being
foul, especially as she had lain a long time in dock before we left
England. He therefore had her hove down, and his supposition
proving correct, well cleaned. We then took in a cargo for our owner
and were ready for sea, waiting the congregation of the convoy which
was to rendezvous at Quebec. Our old acquaintance, the Asia, was to
see us safe across the Atlantic, but under a fresh commander, several

110 MY FIRST VOYAGE.

changes having occurred, and Captain Stewart, a friend of onr skipper*
being posted to her. Two or three days after having got our cargo
completed, the two captains met in the street. " Well, Turner, said
Captain Stewart, I have some good news for you. We sail the day
after to-morrow. You will have to go with us to Cork and wait there
for convoy to Hull." " If I do, the devil cork me." ''What's that you
say," exclaimed Stewart rather astonished ; "you had better not let Sir
Thomas hear you say so." " I shall though," and away posted the
skipper to tell the captains of five other vessels, three of them bound
like ourselves for Hull, the other two for London. The Hull men
agreed to follow the example set by the Sisters. The Londoners
would not take the responsibility, but would obey orders.

The next day the captains had to go one by one to Sir Thomas
to receive sailing orders, and in his turn, enter Captain Turner.
" Well, Mr. Turner, you are for Hull I believe."

" Yes, Sir Thomas."

"You will have to go to Cork, and wait for convoy thence to Hull."

" If I do, the devil cork me."

" What's that you say ?"

" If I do, the devil cork me."

" What do you mean ?"

** I mean that I shall just go with the convoy so far as the convoy
goes my road, and then shall up with my helm and take the nearest
course for Hull, where I shall anive by the time the convoy gets to
Cork. If I went to Cork, I should probably have to wait there a
month for convoy, and perhaps be three weeks on the voyage thence
to Hull."

" If you do so, you will be responsible to the underwriters."

" I do'nt care for that ; and there are three more Hull men of my
mind. We intend to keep together, and consider ourselves more than
a match for any thing French under a frigate."

Sir Thomas got similar answers from the other captains, and the
next day we sailed.

We soon perceived how much the Sisters had benefitted by the
cleaning she had undergone. There was not a merchantman in the
fleet could beat her. After a prosperous voyage, unmarked by any
incident worth naming, we approached the shores of Old England, and
reached the longitude where our path diverged from that of the con-

MT FIRST VOYAGE. Ill

voy. It was a fine day, and the other Hull vessels had gradually
edged away, and were already some distance off, when the skipper
ordered the helm up, and, as soon as we had run down to the Asia,
hailed the captain, who was standing on the poop. " Good bye.
Captain Stewart; can I take any letters for England; I think with
this wind we shall be m Hull before you get to Cork ?"

" Good bye, if you will go," said he, " but I think you are foolish
to leave us."

We soon joined our consorts, and proceeded merrily along together
till we got into the channel, where it came on to blow rather hard
from the westward, and the night being exceedingly thick, we lost
sight of the other vessels, and next morning none of them were
visible. However, as the wind was fair, and scarcely sufficient to
make it dangerous, we did not think much of the matter, calculating
upon being soon at home.

Towards evening we reduced our canvas, and made all snug for
the night, which came on dark and stormy, the gale having rather
increased. About twelve o'clock, one of the crew suddenly called
out " A lugger on the larboard quarter." Captain Turner was standing
near the companion, and a single look sufficing to make him acquainted
with her character, he sprang below to secure the sailing directions,
which were kept under his pillow. By some chance or other, how-
ever, a boatswain's call had come into his possession, and happened to
hang at the head of his bed. Upon seeing this a happy thought
struck him, and seizing the call with one hand and the instructions
with the other, hastened upon deck, and instantly blew the pipe used
on board a man of war to call all hands to quarters, and ordered
the helm hard a starboard. The ruse took admirably, for the French-
man, who seemed just to have discovered us, and was approaching
to board, instantly followed our manoeuvre, and made off as fast as
sails would drag him. We fired our guns after him, and made a
show of following, but as soon as he had got completely out of sight,
we resumed our course, packed on her all the sail she would carry,
put out all the lights, and made the best of our way homewards.
Next morning there was nothing visible, and we congratulated our-
selves, as much as the Frenchman doubtless did, upon the narrow
escape, vowing that the captain was a regular trump, and laughing
heartily at his impudence. Three days afterwards we were in the

U3 MY FIKST VOYAGE.

Humber, and in the course of a week onr consorts arrived without
having met with any adventure, but it was not till another week had
nearly elapsed that the convoy got to Cork, and the two London ships
made the Thames exactly six weeks after our arrival in the Humber.

As soon as our owner heard of the escape and the ready thought
which accomplished it, he made the skipper a present of a handsome
silver call, bearing an appropriate inscription. The captain is now an
old man, and the call is one of his treasures.

In a fortnight we had discharged the cargo, and the vessel was laid
up for the winter, which I proceeded to spend with my friends, per-
fectly detennined that as this had been my first, so it should be my
last voyage. How I kept my determination, shall be told in a future
number.

ON THE ADVANTAGES OF BOTANICAL STUDY.

Of the three kingdoms in nature each possesses an interest peculiar to
itself, so that he who has made any one of them his peculiar study,
is apt to think that the one in which he delights is the most pleasant
and profitable. However this may be, it would be difficult to find a
person who is at all acquainted with scientific objects and pursuits, who
would not allow that there is both pleasure and profit in the study of the
animal kingdom in all its branches, and the same may be said as re-
spects the mineral kingdom ; but it is no uncommon thing to hear
the question asked, with respect to the study of botany, what profit
is there in it ; or, to what purpose can it be applied ?

Such a question insinuates that it is the general impression that
botanical study is not profitable. That this impression is an erroneous
one, it will be our endeavour to prove. It would appear, however,
that the moderns are not peculiar in this idea, from the fact that
botanical science is of but recent origin.

The Greeks, who left us so many splendid productionsin ^nearly

BOTiNY. MB

fevery department of literature and science, have left us little worthy
of notice in this, they have, indeed, left us some works concerning
vegetables, but in these we cannot perceive the least germ of botanical
science. Their deficiency in this respect is more remarkable, because
we know that their attention was much engrossed both in the study of
agriculture and horticulture, and that they encouraged those arts by
Several acts of protective legislation, by which the plough and other
instruments of agriculture were protected from sale and seizure, and
imposing severe penalties on the destruction of olive trees.

It would appear, therefore, that men of the most intellectual cast of
mind, may long enjoy the fruits of the earth in the highest degree of
perfection, without behig excited to the study of vegetable organiza-
tion, or awakened to the utility of reducing to some system the tribes
of plants within their reach.

If we turn to Roman literature we shall be equally disappointed in
our search for any thing approaching to what we mean by botany in
more modern times. So little, indeed, were the true principles of
botanical description knowrr in those times, that the mere denomina-
tion of the particular* plants, treated of by the writers of that age,
has conferred a degree of reputation, for learning and ingenuity, orr
those modem commentators who have succeeded in this troirblesome
undertaking.

Passing over the darkness of the literatm-e of the middle ages, in
which nothing new was recorded, or discovered in the vegetable king-
dom, for it was then an unexplored field, without a labourer to collate
its contents, to discover its beauties, or to reduce it to arr intelligible
system ; we will briefly notice the period when botanical science may
be said to have had its commencemerrt.

It was not until the close of the sixteenth century that Ceesalpinus,
a Florentine, made the first attempt at classification. Jungius followed
in his footsteps, and taking a closer and more extensive viaiv of his
subject, developed those principles upon which the Linnean system
was foimded. Ray arrd Grew iir England, and Malphiqhi on the
continent, put the science in a new light, about the close of the seveB-
teenlh century, by the wonderfirl patience which they exhibited in their
anatomical investigations of vegetable structui-e. About this time
Canrerarius discovered, by obsenation aird experiment, the sex in plants
upon which Linnaeus, in 1737, fomided' his system of classifica-

114 BOTANY.

lion. Since the da}s of Linnaeus, botany has (lis})layed a more
important aspect than it ever did before. The impulse which its study
received from the genius of Linnaeus was continued by numerous
writers of first rate ability, amongst whom cannot be forgotten the
talented, ingenious, and indefatigable Jussicun, whose system of the
natural orders of plants will fonn the basis of all systems of vegetable
classification so long as botany is studied as a science.

I have said, the general impression that the study of botany is
unprofitable, is an error ; this is evident, when we consider the national
importance of only a few items included in the catalogue of the vege-
table kingdom.

Our forest trees, on the existence of which so much of the stability
of our buildings and of our navy depends, are familiar instances of this
kind. For instance, there are two kinds ofoak growing in England,
one of them furnishing wood of the most durable kind, the other com-
paratively w orthless. These are, quercus pedunculata, and quercu s
sessile. No one except a botanical observer would be able to distin-
guish the one from the other, yet on this discrimination depends all
the benefits derivable from the cultivation of the one, and all the dis-
appointments and disadvantages, resulting from the propagation of the
other.

If we turn again to the natural family graminiee, or grasses, we
shall find them of still greater utility to mankind, being in some coun-
tries indispensable to human existence.

To this extensive family belong all the corn plants, such as barley,
oats, rye, wheat, maize and rice, besides all the fodder grasses which
supply nutriment to all graminiverous animals. To this family also
belong the sugar-cane, the produce of which is of such immense com-
mercial and economical value. There is not one, in fact, of the 1800
or 2000 species of which this vast natural group of plants consists, that
is not of interest in the soil and climate where it vegetates. Many
of these, no doubt, much improved by cultivation, so as to be scarcely
like the original, as is the case with the sloe of our edges, compared
with our garden plum.

Much of our raiment, also, is derived, from the vegetable kingdom ;
the cotton plant for instance, which is now an article of use in every
country of the globe. To this may be added the woody fibres of the
hemp and flax plants, which, as articles of domestic and commercial
convenience, could hardly be dispensed with at present.

BOTANY. 115

From the vegetable world, also, are derived our dye stuffs; it is only
necessary to mention indigo, archill, logwood, &c., to excite curiosity
witli respect to the plants from which substances with such singular
properties are derived.

Then again, as regards the medicinal or other properties of plants,
certain rules may be laid down in their classification. To certain
classes belong certain medicinal, poisonous, nutritive, or inoffensive
properties. Take for instance the natural family mnbellifera, such
as carraway, annise, carrot, or hemlock ; all those which grow on dry
ground are aromatic, whilst those of the same natural family, which
grow in watery places are among the most deadly poisons. Again,
take the natural family crucifierce, such as turnips, cabbage, or mus-
tard ; these are aromatic and acrid in their nature, containing essen-
tial oils, which are obtainable by distillation. Again, take the pappi-
lionaca or leguminous tribe of plants, such as the pea, bean, or vetch.
In this family, Linnaeus asserts, there is no deleterious plant to be
found ; this, however, is not exactly true. Some of the individuals in
these natural orders, altho' very nearly related, nevertheless, possess
various qualities. In the leguminous tribe we have the cystilus la-
bumum, the seeds of which are violently emetic, and those oilathyrus
sativus, have been supposed, at Florence, to soften the bones and
cause death. In the sub-divison, even, of a genus, there is often a
remarkable difference in the properties of a species ; there are for
instance, solanums, as potatoe and night-shade ; lettuces, as lactuca
virosa, and lactuca saliva ; cucumbers, as cucumis agristis, or squirt-
ing cucumber, and citcumis sativus or garden cucumber ; and mush-
rooms, both poisonous and esculent. The foxglove {digitalis pur-
purea) and common mullien {verbascum thlapsus) are included in
the same natural family, and yet one is as active as the other is mild
in its effects. But what is more embarrasing, and therefore worth
notice, is that different parts of the same plant will possess different
properties, a fact which is beautifully exemplified in the May apple
{podophyllum peltatum) the leaves of which are poisonous, the root
powerfully cathartic, and the fruit agreeably esculent ; but we need
not go further than the fruit of the lemon, the juice of which is acid,
the seeds bitter, and the rind aromatic, or in the poppy, the seeds of
which are mucilaginous, and the capsule a powerful narcotic. " M.
Berthonet has recorded a remarkable instance of the harmless quality

HO . POT ANY.

of the sap in the interior of a plant, whose bark is filled with a milky
proper juice of a poisonous nature. He describes the natives of
Teneriffe as being in the habit of removing the bark from the euphorbia
canariensis, and then sucking the inner portion of the stem in order
to quench their thirst ; this part containing a quantity of limpid and
not elaborated sap*." Yet, notwithstanding all these difficulties,
botany is capable of furnishing us with an analysis which will lead to
important conclusions with respect to the properties of different
vegetables.

The organization and philosophy of plants, furnish us with subjects of
interest little inferior to those afforded by their economical properties
and uses, constituting an assemblage of beings different from animals,
but agreeing with them in many particulars, they present in a strong
light the wonderful laws of vitality wherever it is found to exist. So
closely indeed do the phenomena of life, and even the material forms
in which they are observed, resemble each other in these two great
departments of nature, that the discrimination of the animal and
vegetable structure is sometimes attended with difficulty. This, how-
ever, only occurs in what the insolence of philosophy chooses to call
the lowest grades in both scales of existence ; for although we easily
distinguish the ox from the oak, yet if we descend the vital channels
in which the divisions of nature run, we meet with living forms
whose apparent identity has as yet been seperated only by the prism
of the imagination.

I conclude then, that the advantages of applying botany to useful
pui'poses are inamense. In medicine it enables the practioner to sub-
stitute for one plant, which may not be obtainable, or attended with in-
convenience in its administration, another, having similar properties,
and which may be naturally allied to it. In horticulture it is not less
important; the propagation or cultivation of one plant is usually appli-
cable to all its kindred ; the habits of one species in an order will
often be those of the rest ; and finally the phenomena of grafting^
that curious operation, which is one of the grand features of distinction
between the vegetable and animal kingdoms, and the success of which
is always controlled by ties of blood, can only be understood by the
attentive botanist.

The adaptation of plants to the soil, the climate, and the necessities
pf animals inhabiting the same region with themselves, is one of those
• Hurtlaw's Botany.

BOTANY, 117

facts which strikes us with admiration when reflecting on the general
hai-mony of the universe. Hence in tropical and warm climates,
innumerable means of satisfying the wants of those places are found
in the variety of fruits and other vegetable productions, not known
in higher latitudes, in which the consumption of animal food being
greater, the plains are spread out into luxurious meadows and pastures
in which numerous flocks supply this necessary of life.

This distribution of plants is a subject worthy of notice and
especially in a district like that of Hull, when, within the space of a
few miles we have a great variety of soil ; as for instance many of the
plants inhabitants of the sea coast, are occasionally found on the shores
of the H umber. In the immediate vicinity of the to^vn, the alluvial
and clayey deposit is in great abundance which has its peculiar vegetable
productions. About three miles west and north West of the town we
have the chalky soil in which are found plants particularly partial to
such a region. And lastly, if we are at the pains of travelling
to Cottingham, we shall find a soil abundant in sand, and therefore
producing those plants which are favourable, from their peculiar forma-
tion and habits, to dry situations. But to the practical botanist
the environs of Beverley ai'e particularly favourable to his pursuits,
on account of the great variety of plants found there.

The above considerations have led the writer to propose a brief
notice of the various plants growing in the neighbourhood of Hull,
with especial reference to their natural order, general conformation,
and peculiar habit and properties of each, with such general physio-
logical and anatomical observations as the above may suggest and
call forth.

J. H. G.

118
LITERARY AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.

The session commenced on Tuesday evening, Nov. 21. The President (Thomas
Thompson, Esq.,) read a paper •' On recent Inventions in Art and Science." Owing
to the unfavourable state of the weather, the attendance was less numerous than is
usually the case, on the opening of the session. Charles Frost, Esq., having been
elected to the chair. The President proceeded to read his paper, which was received
with marked applause. As we intend publishing the lecture in future number of the
Miscellany (Mr. T. having kindly furnished his paper for the purpose,) it is unnece-
sary that we should in this place, give an abstract of it. Messrs. Eobt. Craven,
Oldham, and Dr. Horner, made some observations ou various points, alluded to in
the lecture, which from want of space, we are unable to insert. Mr Shepherd
exhibited a model of a new steam engine, for which a patent has been obtained ; the
principal improvement consists in an immediate reversal of the stroke, which is
obtained simply by moving a lever.

MECHANICS' INSTITUTE.

The Winter Session for the delivery of Lectures, commenced on Thursday evening
10th November; when Mr. J. D. Sollitt, delivered a lecture "on Light," being intro-
ductory to the series, it was very numerously attended, the public being admitted
free ; the lecture was illustrated by a variety of experiments, it is not possible
however, from the nature of the lecture, depending so much upon the illustrations,
to give anything like a report, which would convey a correct idea to our readers,
Mr. S. pointed out the properties of solar and artificial light ; and showed the great
desideratum in artificial illumination, to be the procuring a perfectly white light; the
best light was that which approximated the nearest to this standard. This he
iUustrated by several experiments. He then noticed several modem im-
provements in the construction of lamps, and called especial attention to some
recent improvements in the French lamps, in favour of which he expressed a decided
opinion. The production of gas from the vapour of spirits of turpentine, was also
noticed, and the method by which it is obtained described. Mr. S. considered the
advantages arising from its production in this way to be very great in an economical
point of view, and especially recommended it to the attention of those interested
in the lighting of factories and other large buildings, and concluded a very
interesting and popular lecture, by shewing the immense velocity of light, by an ex-
periment with the electrical machine.

The Secretary (Mr. Richard Webb) announced the following presentations to the
Institution, by Mr. Henry Garbutt, a flying fox, (half quadruped and half biped) a
man of war's bird, and a Chinese arrow, shot during the late war.

November 23rd. Mr. Richard Wells, delivered a very able, and highly interes-
ting lecture "on the influence of feudalism, on the modem institutions, and society, of
England." As we purpose giving the entire lecture in some future number of the
Miscellany, (for which we are indebted to the kindness of Mr, W.,) it is unnecessary
in this place to say more than that we are sorry, from the unfavourable state of th
weather, the Lecture was not more numerously attended.

CHESS PROBLEM.

No. III.

Commonicated from the Metropolis, and we believe never yet in print. In any
case its remarkable ingenuity will be admitted.

White to move, and force Check Mate in 2 moves.

SOLUTION OF CHESS PROBLEM, No. 2.
BY B. JACOBS.

WHITE. BLACK.

I— R. takes K's R. ch. 1— K. takes R.

2 — K's to Q's 6 sq. discovers ch. 2 — K's to Q. B. sq.
3 — Q. takes K. B. and check-mate's.

METEOROLOGICAL TABLE. SUMMARY FOR SEPTEMBER, 1843.

BAROMETER.

Monthly Mean 29-47

Mean at 9 a.m 29 47

Ditto 3 p.m 29-47

Ditto 9 p.m 29 47

Maximum on 29th 30 18

Minimum on 28th 28 59

Range

1-59

WIND.

N

1 Days S

0 Days

NE

2 „ SW

3 „

E

0 „ w

18 „

SE

0 „ NW

8 „

RAIN— 3 84 inches.

THERMOMETER.

Monthly Mean 42«»

Mean of Maxima 47

Ditto Minima 38

Maximum on 1st 62

Minimum on 16th 27

Range 35

WEATHER.

Clear 3 Days

Cloudy 4 „

Showers 9 „

Overcast 2 „

Rain 6 „

Frost 12 „

Hoar frost 1 „

Misty 1 „

Snow 1 „

120

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literarI' and philosophical
MISCELLANY.

JANLARY. \

CONTENTS 1

Poi ' r !. 121

^1 -Ahrro 180

K'.^ PS -.^.ughLs i,n

My Uncle auii the Sheriffs Officer 133

The Torpidity of Plants l'>'(

Notices of Lectures l-*^^'

Chesa l[>f>

Meteorolofrical Table I '••'

L

The Statue of Dr. Alderson 141 I Meteororogieal Register I* "

liemark)) on the Leviathan <Scc 142 J

LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & c (^.
HULL:

PRINTED & PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL DIBB & CO '. ' ' - v. ATE,

AND SOLD BY

W. 8TEPUKN80W, R, T. CU880NS, AND D. KAY, LOWOATE ; J. J-UHDOM AKD

MABT NOBLfi, market-place; B. GODDARD, 81LTSB tTRBST ;

AJID J. L£NQ, BAVILE-ST&BBT.

1844.
PRICE SIXPENCE.

•^^«^'

^

TO OUR READERS.

Qur readers will bear in miii4 that we do not identify ourselves
witli the opinions of our correspondents, on questions admitting of
discussion. It is our wish that the Miscellany should be an available
raediain for the" expression of opinions on Literary and Scientific
subjects.

NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS.

J. P. M. — " The Tournament &c." is under consideration.

W. H. — " Poesy and sleep" will appear in a future number. We

hope to insert his previous commimication in our next.
C. T. — Under consideration.
X. — " The Consultation" we have some doubt as to the propriety of

inserting the Article ; but will take it into consideration. We

tnist the picture he has drawn, is the exception, and not the rule.
*'**! — *' Andrew Marvel" in our next.
We are compelled to postpone several Articles, for want of space, our

Correspondents will accept this as a general apology.
*♦* Pa*^fs not adapted to the pages of the "Miscellany," will be
returned to the authors, where addresses are given.

THE HULL

LITERARY & PHILOSOPHICAL MISCELLANY.

No. IV. JANUABY. Vol. I.

INFLUENCE OF CERTAIN POPULAR ERRORS

ON THE

PHYSICAL CONDITION OF MAN.
BY DR. AYRE.

(Continued from page 86.^

The instances now given of popular errors are chiefly speculative,
and we may next proceed to notice those of a more practical kind,
and where the evil wrought out by them is more wide in its extent,
and more considerable in its degiee. Of these, the first we may con-
sider are those that are entertained and acted on in the matter of dress.

There are two purposes for which clothing is used, and to which I
would now call your attention — namely, first, as a means by which
the body may resist the extenial cold ; and, secondly, to obviate
or repair some imperfection in the development of the fonn.
To render myself more intelligible on the objections which may be
urged against the opinion and practice of the multitude on these points,
I must request your consideration for a moment to an explanation of
the principles which should guide us in the selection and use of
clothing.

First, then — the materials used for clothing, whether it be fur,
or wool, or cotton, or linen, or a mixture of these, have no power to
impart wannth to the body, but only to retain it there when generated,
the power of any given quantity of clothing to retain it there being
greater as the dillerence between the natural temperature of the body
and that of the external air is less ; so that thus the clothing which
is adequate to this purpose in winter, must be more than is needed in

122 rOPULAll ERRORS.

summer ; and ihc body, therefore, that is warm in the winter when the
thcnnometer is at 32, must be Iwt from the same clothing in the summer
when the temperature is at 62. If, therefore, the clothing used in
the whiter be as much in excess above what is needed, as a winter dress
is when worn in the summer, the effect in both cases will be the same,
namely, to cause an excess of heat on the surface, and an undue heat-
ing of the system. Now, the legitimate end of clothing, besides its
other purposes, is to resist the cold of the external air, and not to
raise the heat of the system ; and, therefore, no more clothing should
be used than is needed to attain the first object, and the quantity and
material of the clothing should be regulated by this effect and therefore,
be considerably less in summer than in winter. Of the consequences of
neglecting these rules I have now to speak. In the taking of that most
frequent of all ailments a common cold ; it is by the sudden abstraction
of heat from a limited portion of the body, when the heat of it is in
excess, that this effect is produced. The chilling agent may be a
current of cold air, or any cold substance, as damp or wetted parts of
the dress, as of the stockings, or by the uncovering, and keeping
uncovered, any portion of the person ; and it is not, be it remembered,
necessary to the effect that the chilling agent, whether it be air or water,
should be at a very low temperature; for if the body be much heated by
an excess in the clothing, a moderate degree in the temperature of the
chilling agent will be sufficient : for the heat which the excess in the
clothing will produce, will render the exjiojied parts more susceptible,
and a moderate chill more effective ; and thus the summer breeze,
refreshing as it is, may serve as the chilling agent. When a cold is
taken it is always, as has been just observed, by the chill being received
at alimited portion of the body ; and in proof of this fact that it is by the
partial and not by the general abstraction of heat from the body, that
a cold is taken, I may mention that no one is found to take cold in
rising from his bed on a winter's morning, and going through
the cold processes of ablution and dressing ; nor does the use of a
shower bath or of cold bathing produce this effect, and the reason of
this exemption is that the cold is applied to the whole body, and the
abstraction of the heat is general. On the same principle, a person
may lie a whole night awake through the scantiness of the bed covering,
and rise in the morning almost stiff with cold, and yet without mani-
festing any signs of having caught a cold ; yet, perhaps, on some sue-

POPULAR ERRORS. 123

ceeding night he may take a severe one under a load of covering, by
the accidental circumstance of the door or window being left open, or
the curtain undrawn. By the same rule, a person will travel through a
whiter's day on the outside of a coach, and encounter all its incle-
mency of wind and snow, with his hands and feet benumbed, and a
sense of coldness prevailing his whole frame, and yet take no cold ;
but if the same person, on his return, takes his seat in the inside of
the same coach, and with the same clotliing upon him in which he
before travelled on the outside, and, if thus warm and muffled up, he
exposes himself to a current o{ air admitted through the open windows,
the chance is great indeed that he will take it. In illustration of
the same fact of the exemption of persons from taking cold who are
exposed to the operation of long-continued cold applied to the whole
body as the traveller in a winter's day, I may remind you of the ac-
cident which befel one of our townsmen, Mr. Appelyard, who, some
years ago, was wrecked from a boat hi the H umber, and was only
picked up after being immersed five hours in the water, and though
chilled almost to a degree of insensibility, was able, nevertheless, tosleep
sound through the night, and rise to his breakfast in the morning with-
out an ailment of any kind. His security arose from the whole body
being chilled ; for had he, during that period or any part of it, sat
with his legs only in the water, whilst with clothing and other means
the rest of his person had been kept wann, a cold would have been
taken that in all probability would have proved fatal to him. It is
from this principle that the beggar's child, with its naked feet and its
scanty and tattered gannents, suffers hourly in his feelings from cold,
but takes none, whilst the child of the affluent, with its ample clothing
of wool and fur, is repeatedly the subject of it.

And here let me re-state the fact, that it matters not, as to the
effect produced, whether the person so heated be in a coach with a
current of air passing through it, or standing in a narrow passage through
which a summer breeze is blowing, or stands upon a damp and cold
pavement, or at the open window of a warm apartment, or meets the
cold air of the street after sitting near the fire of a friend on a morning
call, and covered during her visit with a thickly lined cloak and its
appendages of muflfand tippet. In all these cases the cause is the
same, and this cause is the excess in the heat of the body, and the
partial abstraction of it by a chilling agent directed to a part, as to the

124 POPULAR ERRORS.

feet or heaU, and which the general excess in the heat of the system
had rendered very greatly more susceptible to be acted on.

From these facts, tlierefore, which are mideniable, and which the
experience of most persons will confirm, we may assume that cold is
taken from a chilling agent applied to a limited portion of the body
when its heat is in excess. Hence the best preventative against the
habit of taking cold is moderation in the quantity of dress employed,
as the most assured method of creating the habit is indulging in the
use of an excess of it. The error, then, which on this subject prevails
in the public mind, is in favour of excess in the use of clothing ; and
there are few persons who are not chargeable with this error. The
circumstances under which persons generally are placed, necessarily
subject them to the accident of a partial exposure to the action of chilling
agents ; and when covered with clothing in excess, they are precisely
in the situation of the traveller in the coach, or of a person receiving
a current of air at the open window of a wann apartment ; and such is
the tenderness of some persons from superfluous clothing, that the
standing for a moment on a cold floor, or passing along a cold pas-
sage, or even the touching of a cold object, as the brass handle of a
door, is suflScient to inflict a cold upon them.

With a certain class of invalids, whose chief ailments consist
in the frequent taking of cold, it is not unusual, in addition to
their excessive general clothing, for them to wear something especialy
warm on the chest or about the throat, such as a portion of /ur
or fleecy hosiery ; and by this they increase the gross heat of the
body, and with it increase their susceptibility to take cold; and
what is worse, as well as contrary to the popular belief, without in
the least securing the part thus especially covered from the effects
of the cold it assists in producing. Could the parties who use
clothing in excess escape breathing the cold air, or never be exposed
to a current of it, which is impossible, or never tread upon the
wet and cold pavement, which with the great mass of mankind is
likewise so, all the mis-directed care by collars of fur with fleecy
hosiery might be used with a chance of impunity ; but circumstanced,
however, as society is in the natural world, this impunity is impossible.

Before passing from the subject which has now engaged our
attention, there is a point connected with it wliicli I feel unwiling to
leave unnoticed. I mean the plan lately introduced in Gennany of

POPULAR ERRORS. 125

treating — I know not what disoases — by what is called the cold
water system, and which I understand, with certain strict regidations
in diet and exercise, consists in placing patients in bed with their
night dress wetted with cold water. The plan originated with an
ignorant empiric, and I believe is still superintended by him ; and at
the first view of the subject it might be thought to be as hazardous
as it is singular, but the evil which the damp or wet linen would pro-
duce if used in the ordinary way, is fully counteracted by the moun-
tain mass of dov^ii and woollen covering with which the patient is
enveloped, and by which the body speedily becoming heated, and all
evaporation prevented, a wann steam bath is created within the bed,
and a copious pcrsjnration induced. This method, indeed, is but a
clumsy substitute for the modern warm air bath, and only shares
with it the advantage of keeping up the perspiration at pleasure.
There is nothing, however, in the plan, chilly as it may seem, that
has any relation to a cold bath, for the wet linen in which the patient
is incased is ?o profusely surrounded with folds of woollen covering,
that all sense of coldness is prevented, and it thereby becomes a wann
bath. It is, in fact, a copy, under a somewhat different form, of the
notable plan which, about fifty years ago, was pursued by that prince
of em])irics the far-famed Dr. Graham, and which consisted in
having his patients, when stript, buried in the ground with only their
heads above it, and where he kept them during several hours. I was
©y enough at the time, and had enough of curiosity to go with some
of my school companions to see the silly people so buried, and to
hear them afterwards afiinn that they had been comfortably wann
and even perspiring. The modem Gennan method and Graham's
are strictly analogous, both in their operations and efllects; and
whilst the Gennan empirics declares the cold and wet linen to be
useful, purely because they are cold, our countryman Graham pro-
claimed, and with no little eloquence, that his remedy was to be
found in the subtle but life giving energies which the earth was ever
exhaling from her bosom, and which were thus imparted to his
patients whom he infolded in it. But to proceed from this digression.
Besides the use of clothing to protect the body from the cold,
there is another purpose to which it is applied, and which has much
of the public favour in despite of the manifest evils which it occasions
to those by whom it is used. I here allude to that article of female

126 POPULAR EllUORS.

dress which is mis-named stays, and which is liad recourse to during
Uie growing period of childhood, with the view of affording assistance
to nature, and hy its own especial pressure on the yielding hones of
the chest, to mould it, as the staymakeV promises, and the credulous
parent believes, to a more exquisite degree of grace and symmetry
than unassisted nature would produce. As an article of dress, how-
ever, for young females, and employed as it is before they have
attained their growth, and with the design of directing it, no tenns of
condemnation can be too strong.

With a view to show its inutility as a means to an end, and that it
is not only useless, but pernicious, I have only to invite your consider-
ation to the circumstances which must accomjiany the use of such
means, and the effect which must result from it.

The laws which regulate the growth of the human body arc the
same which regulate the growth of every other animal, ant] each animal
grows unaided by art after its o^vn kind, and as an exact copy of its
parents. The long and slender limbs of the foal, from their totteiing
under the weight they sustain, might seem to require some suppoit,
and to need the aid of art to secure them from becoming deformed
during the period of their gi'owth ; but I need not add that no such
aid is used or needed, and that they grow into the beautiful symetry
of form and proportion which belongs to the adult animal. And what
is true of the horse, is true also of every animal ; no mechanical art
being used, and no mechanical art being capable, if used, to effect
any improvement in the form of the growing animal. But here I
must go on to add, that although no improvement can be made
in the fonn, yet a change can be made in it during the development
of its growth; for a large proportion of what becomes bone in
the adult animal, is caililage in the young one, and is easily affected,
therefore, by pressure, and may be altered in its form, and be diverted
from the natural direction of its growth. In the lower animals no
such absurdity is committed as to employ the aid of mechanical art
to improve their fonns. But it is greatly othei-wise with the female
children of this country, with whom the stays are employed to form
the slender waist. I say form — not to preserve — for no art is required
to preserve a beautiful figure, or aid its development ; since, if the
natural growth of the figure is in the natural direction of symmetry,
no aid wiU be needed, any more than in the foal or the greyhound.

POPULAR EUROUS- 127

to promote that tendency; and if, on the contrary, following the
model of the parent, and in conformity with tlie mysterious laws
which regulate its growth, the waist inclines to a less perfect form, no
art can control it without producing more or less of deformity, and
with the risk of producing more or less of disease. The pronenessof
children to mirthful excitement, and the lively activity of their
motions which that disposition induces, are as a law of their nature,
by which the just development of the fonn is best eflbcted ; and all
restraints put upon that activity are opposed to that law, and pro
tanto, injurious to the ends for which that law was given. In the
modem system of fashionable female education, the young pupils are
tasked to such an unreasonable extent as to leave them no leisure for
the sportive and active exercises which children require ; and though
stooping or lolling, as it is reproachfully termed, is the natural and,
therefore, proper position for a weary child long confined to a weary-
ing seat, it is denounced as an improper one, and is, perhaps, exchanged
for the inclined plane, which is not less wearisome, or for the narrow-
seated chair with its pcrpendiculai* back, the well-knoAvn companion
of the piano-forte, and which is still worse than the other two ; and,
I must add, the well adapted instrument to inflict defoimity upon its
occupant. By the aid of these and other analogous means, assisted
greatly by the si^'s, the spine of many growing girls becomes
deflected laterally from its right line, and a slight curvature once
induced in the soft, and therefore yielding vertebrae, soon produces a
slight deflexion in the contrary direction below it, and the parallelism
of the shoulders and of the shoulder blades is destroyed ; one shoulder
becoming lower than the other, and one shoulder blade more projecting
than the other, and a permanent distortion is the result. There is,
strictly speaking, no disease in these cases, nor is any required for such
an eflfect ; for the deflexion from the strait line is simply of a column
made up of a great many bones, whose texture in the young is com-
])aratively soft, and being united together by cartilage, will take any
direction which pressure and the irregular action of the muscles may
occasion. That these are the means, and this the mode, by which,
in ordinary cases, a curvature of the spine is induced, may be safely
aflTinued, and if any doubt be entertained upon it, we have onlv to
appeal to the notorious and striking fact, that whilst the means which
I have pohited out as the cause of such cun-ature are exclusively

128 POPULAE KllUORS.

employed with growing young females, so is curvatme exclusively
limited, to them — their brothers, whose dress is quite loose, being
wholly free from it. " To be out," as it is called, *' in one of the
shouldei-s," is by no means now an unfrequcnt occurrence with young
women, and is a matter of daily remark and regret with their mothers;
and as many of them resist the conviction that it originates from
improper restraints, and injurious mechanical pressure, relief is
sought for in still greater restraints, and in the mechanical resources
of inclined planes, and tighter and stifler lacing, by which they seek
to aid, but by which, unhappily, they greatly mar the development
of the fonn— of that foiin which the painter and the sculptor of every
age have justly set up as the standard in nature for all that is beautiful
in outline, and by whose model of symmetry and beauty, the beauty
of all may be tested.

But, beside the injury occasioned to the spine by an nnnatural
j)rcssure on the growing and expanding chest, there is a further evil
inflicted by the effect which it has upon the organs within it, and by
which a foundation is often laid for a long course of disordered health.
For it is in the order of nature, and in obedience to her laws, that the
organs which lie within the chest shall completely Jill it ; and thus,
following the order of their growth, that they should extend to that
full amplitude of the chest, to which its unchecked development
would cary it. Whatever, therefore, by circular pressure during its
growth, prevents the full expansion of the bones of the chest, pre-
vents, in the same degree, the full and natural expansion of the organs
growing within it ; and these organs are the heart and lungs, not to
mention the stomach and liver and other important viscem, which are
contained within the ribs, and are subject to injury by their com-
pression ; and no one, indeed, reflecting upon the nature of tlieir
structure and office, can doubt for a moment as to the evil that must
result from a pennanent curtailment of their due size, and of their
just and appropriate development.

Before concluding these observations, there is one other subject
connected with the physical education of female children which I am
unwilling to pass by ; namely, the practice of gymnastic exercises
introduced of late into female schools, and which are designed to
counteract, I believe, — (though I pretend not to be certain) — the
mischief of the system we have been reprobating, bnt which is, in

POPULAR ERRORS. 129

reality, an ally of that system, and has the farther ohjection that it is
resorted to on the false assumption that the physical powers, and
feminine grace and figure of a child, may be con-ected or improved
by the forcible movement of her anns, and ^f her person, and that
thus the chest will become expanded, and the mischief done by the
twelve houi-s daily use of stays, and school restraints, be remedied
by the unzoned freedom of an evening's half-hour's gymnastics.
The truth, however, is, that although mechanical means may con-
tract the chest, no mechanical means can expand it ; and least of all
the forcible movement of the arms, which, when practised by yoimg
girls, is capable of becoming not only useless, but pernicious ; for it
is not in accordance with the corporeal stiucture, any more than it is
with the moral attributes and destiny of woman, that she should excel
in physical power; since every thing which unduly increases that
power, and calls it into exercise, takes from her a portion of that
grace and loveliness which are the natural and appropriate elements
of her strength.

And now, in concluding the remarks which T have ventured to make
upon the errors brought under your notice, 1 must not omit to state
that they form only a very inconsiderable portion of these popular
errors relating to our physical economy which are in hourly operation
through the world for diminishing the comfort and increasing the
mortality of its inhabitants ; and while thus U'ansiently glancing at
them, I would emphatically urge upon all who would coiTect them,
that instead of presuming to counteract the course and directions of
nature, we should be the humble followers and students of her ; for
the more we study the woiks of nature as magnificently spread out
before us by their Divine Author, the more shall we be convinced of
the perfection of His plans and the truth of His laws, and of the
great duty we owe to Him, and to our fellow men, to study and obey
them.

130

SPIRITS EVERYWHERE.
FROM THE GEBMAN OF UHLAND.

Oh, many a summer's day is gone.

And in the past is buried.

Since last, a happy gaysome youth

Across this stream I ferried :

And then — as now — all things look'd gay.

And the glorious noon lay bright.

With its silence and its sunshine.

On the strand, the waves, and castl'd height.

Within this same old boat there sat —
Yes, they sat to me the nearest —
Two companions of my youth.
The best, beloved, and dearest.
The one all calmness as the day —
He was a gentle, thoughtful sire ;
The other a happy gaysome youth^
With a soul of generous fire.

They both are gone ; the one out-worn

By corroding care and illness.

Has sought and found a lonely grave —

A grave of the just in stillness.

The other's shroud was of darker hue,

*Twas dyed with the blood's deep stain.

For he fell 'mid the cannon's roar.

Triumphant with the slain.

Yet, still methinks they're oft with me.
For memory's necromancy
Oft calls them from the silent tomb.
And robes the past in hues of fancy.

"^ EVENING THOUGHTS. 131

Then, methinks, communion sweet
I'm holding with the loved twain —
Yes, then I see, and hear them too.
They're living by my side again.

E'en the grave, that dreaded thing.

Is to me a bond of union.

For the spirit here and the spirits gone.

For ever holds communion ;

For seen and heard through conquer *ing faith —

Seen by the spirit's inward eye ;

It is only when laid in the grave.

Departed friends are truly nigh.

Then, ferryman, here is thy fare

This also take I pray thee ;

For to hold such silent converse.

Thrice as much I'd freely pay thee :

For though thou seest them not, old man.

Close by my side in thy boat doth stand.

Two dear strangers unknown to thee.

Loved ones from the Phantom- Land.

Ulo.

EVENING THOUGHTS.

'Tis sweet to gaze upon the evening's sky.
And watch each slowly dying streak of light.

Till sable clouds obscure each lovely dye.
And wrap the Heav'n in one dark shroud from sight

How lovely beams yon crimson -tinted west.
Hung with the golden tapestry of Heaven,

Deck'd in the midst with Heav'ns effulgent crest.
Which God, to light this darksome world hath given.

132 EVENING THOUGHTS.

Oil ! should a seraph wing across yon sky,

Methinks it could not pass the beauteous sight.

But stay awhile, and gaze with laptur'd eye.
Ere it again through Heav'n venew*d its flight.

But see, the Sun fast sinketh down to rest —
The fiery orb from sight hath nearly gone,

1 1 scarcely peeps above yon cloudy vest ;
It now hath sunk, its daily task is done.

Now all the beauty dies, and night draws on
To span the Heaven with sable cloud ;

The lovely tints are fading one by one.

And sinking fast beneath night's blacken'd shroud.

The darkness round me thickens more and more.
And twilight enters, clad in spectral hue.

Across yon dying west its gloom to pour.
And shut the gaudy prospect from my view.

Hark ! Hark ! the sound of yonder village bell.
Borne by the zephyrs as they take their flight.

Now strikes upon the ear with pleasing knell.
And heralds forth the fast approaching night.

And now the evening star resumes her ray.

Cheering the traveller's homeward-leading trod.

And night her sable curtain drops, till day

Shall dawn again o'er earth — the smile of God.

J. s.

133

MY UNCLE AND THE SHERIFFS OFFICER.

My Uncle Charley More was one of those old-fashioned, hard-
headed, roystering Irish gentlemen, that flourished ahout the latter
part of the eighteenth century, fond of love-making, whiskey-drink-
ing, fighting, flirtation, and other little peculiarities which at that
time were not looked upon with the same cold calculating eye that
they are at the present ; in fact, it was then considered that those
qualifications should always helong to one of the old stock. Now
my Uncle Charley possessed all these, and more ; it was therefore
considered a great honour to be one of his acknowledged friends.
Ceitainly he had a queer circle of acquaintance, and used to lead a
jolly sort of life at the period of which I am speaking. My Uncle
had come up to Dublin from Wicklow, intending to spend a short
time in the gay city, but, unfortunately, on his arriving, he forgot to
call on his tailors, boot-makers, &c., &c., of the last season, and just
settle " their small accounts."

Well, he had only been a short time in Dublin when the fact
hecame known, and immediately there was a writ taken out by one of
his creditors, and placed in the hands of the sheriflf^s oflScer, with
orders to attach his body, a process which the sheriflTs officer was
very much attached to.

Now my Uncle heard of this, and so prepared accordingly. He
then resided at a small house, in what was at that time the suburbs of
Dublin, on the road to Enniskell ; consequently he was compelled
to fasten himself up in the house, and receive his parties of pleasure
in at the window, by the basket load. By this time the whole
neighbourhood was in an uproar ; the sheriff^s officers had taken their
post night and day in the garden, at the front of the house, and used
to sit quite unconcerned, with a small table before them, drinking rum
and water, and smoking their short pipes — in fact they seemed deter-
mined to have him, but he was equally so, they should not. Now, on
a party night, which was nearly every night, the scene, as my Uncle
used to say, was pleasing and agieeable in the extreme. He would

1 34 MY UNCLE AND

have his servant Jem stationed in the garden, and the basket lowered,
upon which some councillor or richly-dressed officer would deposit
himself therein, when he was hoisted up amid the cheers of the mob,
who used to assemble in great numbers ; Jem, meanwhile, seeing that
no improper person got stowed in the basket, that it might not be the
means of landing the sheriff's officer on the second floor. My
Uncle's voice used to be heard — " Who is it, Jem, that's coming up
now ?" " Sure, yer honner, its Counsiller Doyle, an' he ever does
get up, for he's a great weight intirely. Capt. Glover, yer honner,
the next, but his legs is sticking thro' the basket which the coun-
sillor's breek." After all the party had thus been hauled up, Jem
used to get into the basket, slightly tap the heads of the sheriff's
officers as he ascended, and joined his master.

My Uncle would then come to the window, tell the sheriffs party
** not to make bastes of themselves by eating and drinking there all
the night," and to be sure, as they valued their lives, not to sing " we
wont go home till morning," as it would disturb his rest, and being
naturally of a very weak constitution might seriously injure his health.
My Uncle standing about six feet in his stockings, and weighing a matter
of fourteen stone, these allusions to his delicate health were received
by the mob with great laughter. After closing all the windows and
making themselves secure, the fun commenced, and generally con-
tinued till four or five o'clock in the morning, when, perhaps, the
party being moderately refreshed, would insist on two going in the
basket at once, which on one occasion caused a sudden downfal. Doyle,
and another councillor called Neale, got into the basket together,
when the bottom came out entirely, so they both slipped down as far
as it was possible, until they were completely jammed tight in the
basket; the rope with the sudden jerk broke, down came the coun-
cillors stuck in the basket, rolling over and over, and wholly unable to
extricate themselves, until assisted by the sheriff's officer and several
watchmen, who cut the basket through before they could be liberated.
Well, my Uncle was suddenly called away to his residence in Wick-
low. How to evade the sheriff's officer was the question ; but Jem
said " nothing could be aiser ; latterly they had given up the practice
of having two watches at night," so Jem was left to arrange the matter
as he liked. On all being ready a farewell party was given the night
before, at which there was more rioting, drinking, and smoking than

THE sheriff's OFFICER. 13d

ever. The night for starting having arrived, my Uncle asked Jem
how he should contrive to get the sheriflf's oflScer out of the way ;
but Jem kept a mysterious silence on the subject, and my Uncle
saying that he was to take care that the man came by no hurt, as he
should not wish that, Jem replied, " hurt him, yer honner, I could'nt
think of sich a thing ; sure, them craythures is only made for our
divarsion." About the middle of the night a man was heard coming
running along, shouting fire ! fire ! but increasing the power of his
voice on getting near our watcher, whose name was Barney Mc'Grath.
" Is id fire?" says Barney. " Sure and you may say that, and a dread-
ful fire it is," said the man ; " Lord have mercy on their poor souls,
for its an awful sight, and one I would'nt wish to see again." "Is
there many lives lost^" says Barney. " One, whole family have
turned their backs on the light of day," said our friend. " Blessed
Mary," says Barney, " where is id?" " Fame-street,'' says he. " Is id
Fame-street," says Barney, his eyes almost starting out of his head.
" Whose family is id that's burnt," says Barney. " I dont remember
exact," says he, " but I believe it was one Barney McGrath's." One
terrific shout, accompanied by the upsetthig of the table and the rum
and water, and Barney was off* and the coast clear. Jem's head was
then observed stealthily peeping out of the window and asking whether
Bamey had gone to see the fire, and collect the remains of his precious
babies ; receiving a satisfactory answer, Jem and the unknown looked
in a very peculiar mamier at each other, nodding and winking, and
seeming to think they were very clever fellows. Jem then called the
masther, and in ten minutes my Uncle was on his road home.

Darting along as though the d — 1 was at their heels, Jem on
the box alongside the driver, cursing and urging him onward, the
party proceeded thus for some time, nothing being heard but Jem's
oaths and my Uncle's laughter, as he related to some of his merry
friends who accompanied him the success of Jem's stratagem. Keep-
ing up the pace until they thought themselves comparatively safe, they
allowed the driver to draw up at a small inn at Enniskella, where
mhie host, making his appearance, saluted my Uncle, who was well
known to him, with what by the natives of those parts, passed for a
polite salutation. " Now, Gorman," said my Uncle, " see after every
thing necessary, for we must be off directly, and let us have some
whiskey punch immediately." " Yes, yer honner." •* And, Gorman,

136 MY UNCLE AND

if, after we are gone, any gentlemen from Dublin should arrive in
great haste, and make any pai'ticular enquiries as to whether I have
passed this way, recollect, will you, that I have not been through here
for a generation back." " Yes, yer honner." " And if he seems
determined despite this to follow on my track, couldn't you (and
my Uncle popped something glittering into the landlord's hand)
manage to stop his gallop for an hour or two." Gonnan peeped up at
my Uncle, winked his eye knowingly, and said — " certainly yer
honner, i'll keep him here for a thrifle of lime." After refreshing
themselves, the party again started, and journeying more slowly,
about daybreak passed through Roundwood, within a few miles of
which lay my Uncle's property, where, on arriving, everything was
made safe, and the party lay down for a nap. Sometime after
leaving Enniskella, a caniage drove up to the inn, containing a gen-
tleman dressed in black and having a suspicious and shrewd look ; he
was accompanied by a shabbier dressed personage, who proved to be
no other than our friend who had gone to see the fire. After entering
and ordering something to drink, the gentleman said carelessly to the
landlord," By the bye, is there not a gentleman called More, who has
a place a few miles from here ?" " More," said the landlord, scratch-
ing his head and looking puzzled, " is id Charley More you mean ?"
" The same," said the stranger " Why" said the landlord, " his place is
some distance from this." " Indeed, how far?" " How far ! now, why
there you puzzle me ; it is a gi'eat distance over the mountains and
near to Roundwood." " Ah, I wanted to see him ; do you know him?"
"Know him, yer honner ? yes, there's very few in Wicklow that does
not know Charley More. He passes through here I should suppose
now and then ?" *' Yes, yer honner, and he always gives me a call."
" Indeed ! how long may it be since he passed through this village."
"How long," said the landlord, "by thepowers I'm bad atgeogrophy,
but I think I can tell by near, —let me see," — and here he looked as
completely mystified as a man can well be supposed to look. After a
variety of short impatient exclamations, counting his fingers and
putting them through his hair, he anived at the conclusive point, that
" it was just three months, all but two days, before the man was found
with his throat cut a mile or two from his house. I don't mean, yer
honner, the man that got his brains knocked out, wheifhe was going
lo distrain on somebody for rent, or to give_ somebody a dirty >\rit;

THE sheriff's OFFICER. 137

because when any of ihem sort of people get put out of the way, we
never count them in this part of the country." The stranger looked
at Barney with a curious and undecided appearance ; Barney not
liking the tone the conversation had taken, looked very frightened,
and so huried as much of his countenance as possible in his glass.
«' Then murders are not unfrequent in this part, seemingly," said
the stranger. " Oh, yes, they are," said Gorman ; " we have not
had above two or three lately, always excepting them that come with
distresses and writs, and we don't call that murder." The stranger
and Barney seemed not thoroughly to understand this sort of reason-
ing, though they were slightly of opinion that it was not much matter
what they called it, so long as they did knock a sheriff's officer on
the head. After several attempts at conversation, the gentleman
observed that the night was not very fine, he thought the roads across
the mountains were not safe to traverse at night, and therefore he
was of opinion they had better stay all night, an opinion in which
Barney perfectly coincided. Gorman said he was very glad to hear
it, though he did not ask them to stay at first, because they might be of
opinion it was for his own interest ; but after what happened a short
time since, he thinks he should have ventured to have done so, if
they had stated their intention of proceeding. The question was
naturally asked what had happened ? when the landlord, in a sorrow-
ful tone, related to them that a gentleman rode up one night, and,
after staying a short time, desiied to be put in the road that would
lead him to the " Vale of Ovoca ;" this was done, and he departed.
The next morning his body was found about six miles from this, with
several severe wounds, and his brains scattered about the road — he
turned out to be an exciseman, one of the superior sort. *• Ah, sir,"
said Gorman, " you would be astonished the hatred the people bear
to excisemen, bailiffs, and policemen ; the Lord deliver us from ever
having anything to do with any of the sort." The looks that passed
between Barney and his mastei were quite ludicrous.

Next moniing my Uncle rose pretty early, considering all things,
awoke his guests, and descended into the breakfast parlour, where he
called for Jem. Jem, on arriving, was asked if any appearance had
been put in of the sheriff's officer, and being answered in the negative,
my Uncle asked Jem how he was to avoid a capture. " Leave it to
me, yer honner," said Jem, " won't I bother him." So, accordmgly, my

138 MY UNCLE AND

Uncle left it to Jem, and leisurely sat down with his guests to enjoy
breakfast. I must here inform you, that within a mile of my Uncle's
dwelt a Col. Morley, a very fiery sort of gentleman, but always clear
of debt ; he could not conceive it possible for a greater insult to be
passed on a gentleman than to ask him for money ; but he wisely
took the j)recaution of not enabling any person to ask him, by always
paying as he went on. Now, Col. Morley was invited to dine at my
Uncle's this day, and the whole party looked forward to passing a
merry evening. Jem having put on a slouched hat, a ragged coat,
taken a stick in his hand, and altogether made himself look as much
as possible like a wanderer, and destitute, took the road to Dublin.
He had not proceeded far before he heard the rattle of wheels, and
looking up, saw a car on which sat a gentleman in black, and the
identical Barney. " Here they are," said Jem ; " now for it." As soon
as the party came close to Jem, the car was drawn up, and the gen-
tleman, in a bland voice, said " My man, can you inform me where-
abouts is the mansion of Mr. More, — Charley More, I mean." " Oh,
ids him you mean, is id ?" said Jem. " Yes, do you know him."
" I have had sufficient cause to know him, the villin," said Jem.
" How so, my man ?" " Why, he has just turned myself, and wife
and children on the wide world, to beg our bread, or steal it, for
ought he cares — the hard-hearted rnffin." *' Could you shew me his
house ; I will give you a trifle for your trouble." " Yes," said Jem,
" I could, but I won't ; I'm not going to shew any of his friends where
he lives. If I could shew the devil where he is to be found, I would
gladly." " You mistake us, my friend, {' friend,' said Jem, to him-
self) we are not known to Mr. More — in fact, far from being his
friends, we are officers of the law, and come to arrest him, and take
him to prison." " What !" said Jem, " say that again ; holy Moses,
has it come to this." " Horoo," said Jem, twirling his stick, and
performing a sort of dance round the car, to the evident astonish-
ment of the gentleman and Barney. " I'll show you the way, come
on," said he, " come on.'*

A smile of satisfaction passed between Barney and his master, and
they followed their guide with cheerful hearts. After some time
had passed, they came to a turn of the road, at the end of which was
situated a neat lodge. " This is the lodge," said Jem, " and now, I
think, I had better not go further, for the porter knows me.'* *' Well,

THE sheriff's OFFICER. 139

my friend, we feel much obliged to you ; and here is something for
your trouble.** Jem drew back. " No,'* said he, " I did id all for love,
ril take no money;** and jumping from the road, was soon lost
in the wood. The gate was opened, and they drove up to the house ;
a jaunty-looking groom came and took care of the horse, and the
sherifT 8 officer and his man proceeded to the house door and were
admitted. " The master is in,'* said one of the servants, " what name
shall I give.** ** Oh, never mind the name,** said the stranger ; " say
a gentleman wants to see him." " Two," mutters Barney. The
visitors were desired to walk into the next room, and there met Col.
Morley. *' Your business, gentlemen," said the Col. " Our busi-
ness, sir," said Barney's master, *' is one which I am sorry to have
to execute, and is nothing less than arresting you ; here is our autho-
rity." " Arresting me," said the Col., " why, what the devil do you
mean." *' You are indebted to a certain Mr. Gregson, tailor, of
Dublin, in the sum of £110," said the officer. " Its a lie," said the
Col. " Well, but," said the stranger, " I have several bills against
you; here is a wine-merchant's bill for £170." "Yes," said
Barney, "for £170." " Why," said the Col., "you are both mad."
" Excuse me, sir," said the stranger, "but is not your name Mr. Mo — ."
" Yes, to be sure it is," said the Col. " and if you are not offin two
minutes, I'll have you thrown into the horse pond, you two infenial
swindling scoundrels." " Then I am to suppose you will resist the
execution of this warrant, and forcibly keep me from anesting you."
" You, shall see," said the Col. " Doyle, Rafferty, Thomas ;" the
servants immediately rushed in. " Do you see those men." " Yes,
yer honner," said they. Thomas took a lengthened survey through
the ring of a bunch of keys, with one eye, and said— " Yes, yer
honner, I see them plain enough." " These men have come to
arrest me." " Oh ! have they," said Doyle. " What's to be done
with them," said the Col. " Crop their ears," said Thomas. *' No,
that's too severe," said the Col. " Make them eat the writs, and
wash them well down with pump water," said Rafferty. Here
Barney fell down on his knees, and was followed by the sheriff's
officer, and both strongly protested that if let off this time, they never
would offer to serve him with another writ to the last day of their
lives. This did not satisfy the scrupulous Thomas, who pleaded
hard for their condign punishment, but was finally persuaded to

140 MY UNCLE AND THE SHERIFF'S OFFICER.

let them off, on their solemnly swearing to avoid such doings in
future. The oath was duly administered to them on an old copy
of the History of England; and they were allowed to depart. The
sheriff's officer congratulating himself, not only on his whole
skin, but stating he would make Charley More smart for all this. I
need not add that the sheriff's officer was glad, on learning how he
had been taken in, to drop all talk about legal proceedings ; and
very anxious to avoid the universal roar of laughter that always
greeted him on the mention of Charley More.

Dinner time came ; all the guests assembled, the Col. among the
number, when the Col. began to relate to the company, the, (to him)
most extraordinary affair. My Uncle could scarce keep himself in
his chair for laughing. At last the Col. says — " Charley, what the
devil are you laughing at ? I believe you ve had some hand in this."
*' No," said my Uncle, " but I think I know who has ;" and imme^
diately called for Jem, who made his appearance, and was desired
to relate his morning's proceedings, which he did in a quiet, sly, dry
way, that almost convulsed his auditors. Jem had a brimming glass
of hot grog given him ; and was desired always to keep a good look
out for sheriff's officers, and then allowed to leave the room. The
Col. much wanted my Uncle to part with Jern, that he might take
him into his own service ; but my Uncle would not hear of such £^
proposition.

141

ON SEEING THE STATUE OF MY LATE UNCLE,
DR. ALDERSON, OF HULL.

BY AMELIA OPIE.

Tis he ! through tears that long lov'd form I trace.
That manly hearing, that expressive face !
Those eager eyes which spoke the vigorous mind.
Intent on toils to benefit mankind !
Yes, every feature in the marble lives.
And all the comfort art can yield, it gives.
But there's a balm for fond survivors' hearts
Beyond what sculpture's utmost power imparts.
Since faithful Memory paints the general woe
On the wide shore where Humber's waters flow.
Where he, the kind physician, father, friend.
In vigorous age was hurried to his end !
She paints the thousands tlironging roimd his bier ;
All ranks, all ages, equal mourners there —
While grateful groups his generous zeal recall'd.
When, by no shrinking selfishness appall'd.
He cross'd the billowy tide at midnight's hour.
To yield the treasures of his healing power.
What, though full oft the chilling wint'ry gale
Blew loud and fearful through the moaning sail.
He could, undaunted, storms and dangers brave.
Whose life's first object — was to soothe, and save !
Then raise the statue ! raise the breathing bust !
Let storied marble guard the sacred dust !
Let Learning's pen record his civic fame.
And on the stone inscribe his honour'd name !
But know, such worth requires no Sculptor's art :
He lives enshrin'd within the grateful heart.

142

REiMARKS ON THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH.

The very able article on the above subject, in the last numbers of
the miscellany, is well calculated, apart from further investigation, to
leave the impression that by these animals, when mentioned in the
Scriptures, are meant the megalosaurus and the iguanodon. Never-
theless, to show that creatures are there represented as actually existing,
which are met with now only in a fossil state, the evidence should be
clear and distinct. The interpretation of the various passages of
Scripture referred to for that purpose may seem, on viewing them
closely, rather arbitrary than convincing. Not a vestige of proof,
apart from the acute observations in the article now noticed, appears
to exist, that since the deluge, to go no further back, the megalo-
saurus and the iguanodon have been inhabitants of the earth or its
waters ; it is therefore desirable to express objections which may
arise to any evidence which is drawn from such an interpretation of
the word of God as may be en-oneous ; and in the course of the
following remarks will be embodied the sentiments and research of
critics of well recognized ability in connexion with this subject.

The description of the leviathan and the behemoth in the book of
Job, with whom these creations must have been coeval, naturally
leads to the attempt to determine his era. In the article under con-
sideration, it is said that " most biblical critics think that he lived
long prior to Moses ; possibly even before the flood." Now a refer-
ence to Job, chap. 22., ver. 15 and 16, will prove that he lived after
the flood ; it is also supposed that the 20th verse refers to the fate of
the cities of the plain of Jordan, which is later than the time of
Abraham. On the other hand, it is clear that he lived before the
time of Moses ; the date must therefore be fixed between these two
periods. Further, Isaiah who lived unquestionably much later,
refers in chap. 27, ver. 1, to the leviathan — " The Lord shall punish
leviathan, &c." From the concluding verses of this chapter, where
Egypt is expressly named, it is obvious that Isaiah refers to an inhabi-
tant of the Egyptian river then existing. These would necessarily be

REMARKS ON THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH. 143

long after the last important convulsion of the earth's surface, involv-
ing important changes of temperature. Indeed, proof need not here be
furnished, that since that time no change in this respect, to an extent
materially affecting the conditions of animal life, has taken place ;
modifications there may and undoubtedly have been, from a variety
of causes, induced in the climate of many places, but no sweeping
change entailing the necessary annihilation of entire genera have,
since the last important general catastrophe occurred.

Now the adaptation of the megalosaurus and the iguanodon to a
hot climate is well known ; it is also known that the remains of these
creatures are met with in more than one formation or deposit in this
island : but, in no formation or deposit where the remains of these
extinct saurians have been found, have those of man been discovered.
It appears then at least probable that, before the earth was fitted for the
habitation of man, it had become no longer suited to the existence of
these mighty and unsightly monsters, and that, therefore, we must
refer to some post diluvian genus, to tally with the descriptions given
in Scripture of the leviathan and the behemoth. Besides, Job says,
** Behold now behemoth which I made with thee ;" and as is stated in
the article now considered, " it would seem that whatever was the
period of man*s first creation, the same was probably the period of
behemoth's creation." True, and the same was the period of the
creation of the mammalia. Now although long before and during the
deposition of the chalk, the sea and land were inhabited by a variety
of large reptiles, and, as geologists tell us, there was a period when
these appalling monsters were lords of the creation, still, in respect
of the mammalia, and which it is expressly revealed were created with
man, their remains are not found but in deposits above the chalk.

In the work of the sixth day, in which, along with man, behemoth
was created, critics tell us that although our translation introduces
" creeping things," viviparous mammalia alone are in the original
intended, the term being " remes" and that a more correct translation
would have rendered this tenn " moving or walking things." More-
over, for oviparous insects, which we more easily recognize as
creeping things, the Hebrew term is " Sheretz ;" these are named
among the beings created not on the sixth but the fifth day, not the
sixth period contemporaneous with man, but the fifth, preceding him.
The term expressing the other ovipara of this period as great whales

144 REMARKS ON THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH.

is also said to be erroneous, the original terms " hathaninim magado-
lin" more properly being rendered " great reptiles ;" so that if we
admit behemoth to have been an oviparous saurian, those even which
are now extant were not created tvith man, but before him ; for these
reasons it would ai)pear that for the type of the behemoth we must
explore the great class mammalia. When we reflect that the megalo-
saurus and the iguanodon are found only in the fossil state, that they
required a hot temperature, that they appear to have been created
long before the mammalia, and consequently not at the same time
with man, the argument drawn from the mere possibility of these
reptiles having existed since the earth was fitted for man's existence
loses much of its weight ; and besides, the Wealdon stratum, perhaps
the uppermost where the iguanodon is foimd, was depo?ited during
an era quite distinct from the one over which, at all events, post
diluvian Scripture history extends, this is evident by the distinctive
characters of its animals and flora.

It is shown in the paper that the than of the Scriptures is the
crocodile of the Nile ; and stated that the leviathan is the megalo-
saurus, and the argument mainly depends on the question, whether
than be specifically, distinctively, and solely applied to the crocodile j
" for," says the author, " already we have seen reason to assert that
the than of the scriptures is the crocodile ; then the leviathan could
not also be the crocodile, for both animals are distinctly mentioned in
the same portions of Scriptures, as in Psalm 74, ver. 13, 14."

Now a perusal of the passages quoted to show that the " than"
refers to the crocodile prove no more than that, and fail to convince that
the term is exclusively so applied ; on the other hand, we are infonned
from other sources that the Hebrews did not apply the word to the
crocodile alone, but that it is applied to poisonous seqients, as well
as to saurians of regions so dry that the crocodile could not be an in-
habitant of them. Thus, in Jer. 9, ver. 11, "I will make Jerusalem
a heap, a den of thanim." " Jer. 10, ver. 22, " To make the cities
of Judah desolate, a den of thanim," and in Malachi, chap. 1, ver. 3,
the than is described as existuig in one of the driest regions of the
earth, and the most destitute of rivers, but which is infested with
small lizard and serpent tribes, " and I hated Esau and laid his
mountains and his heritage waste for the thanoth of the wilderness."

The term than, then, was not a name confined to the crocodile of

REMARKS ON THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH. 145

tbe Nile alone; but that saurian so much surpassed in size all
others known to the Hebrews, and was so distinguished from them
by a strength and ferocity dangerous to man, that we might naturally
expect they would have a specific name for it : this name was most
probably leviathan. Leviathan is strictly joined or coupled than ;
and the name seems to have reference to the manner in which the
scales or mail plates of the crocodile are joined together, described
in Job 41, ver. 15, 16, and 17. There appears to be no evidence
that the megalosaurus possessed similar annour.

The reference to the than and the Itviathan consecutively in a
sentence or verse, has led to the conclusion that they could not be
identical ; it has been, however, shown from the construction and con-
nexion, that in these cases they ai'e pure synonemes, and may be
used interchangeably. It is common in Hebrew poetical writings,
such as Isaiah and the Psalms, when anything is predicated in them
of any subject whatever for which the writers had more than one name,
that two or more names are introduced, and which are equivalent
to each other. In the twenty-seventh chaptei of Isaiah which has
been referred to, the first verse contains the equivalent terms levia-
than and thanin ; the eleventh verse, mercy and favour. In the
twenty-fifth chapter, verse 2, the words heap and ruin are syno-
nymously introduced ; and in the seventh verse, the words covering
and vail ; indeed in Isaiah the examples of this manner of speech are
endless. Again, in Psalm 74, ver, 13, 14, both thanin and leviathan
are used to express the same animal. The poet obviously refers
to the passage of the Red Sea, and the destruction of the Egyptians
there, so that tlianin and leviathan are both types of Egypt. By
attending to the structure of this Psalm from the beginning, it will be
seen that there is frequently a repetition of a thought expressed in
varied terms, as in verse second, verse ninth,'and verse tenth : it then
becomes obvious that ** Thou breakest the heads of the thanin in the
waters," is a thought repeated in the terms which follow — ** Thou
breakest the head of leviathan in j)ieces."

But another olyection is urged to the identity of the crocodile with
the leviathan, arising from the impossibility implied, first, by the
question in Job, chap. 41 — " Canst thou draw out leviathan with a
hook," &c., of capturing or destroying the latter animal ; and
again by other passages in the same book, strikingly indicative of

T

14G KEMAIIKS ON THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH.

his great power and ferocity; whereas reference is made in the book of
Ezekiel to a mode of taking the crocodile practised in ancient times,
as in chap. 28, ver. 4 — " I will put a hook in thy jaws," &c. ;
Herodotus also, and Pliny directly allude to a mode of catching the
crocodile by a hook in the jaws and dragging him forth from the
river; and we know that at the present day, it is spearcd and slain
by the natives of the countries it inhabits.

This objection, however, loses its force when we consider that the
book of Job was written at least nearly a thousand years before the
time of Ezekiel, and twelve hundred before that of Herodotus ; the
art of subduing or capturing one of the most formidable animals
with which we are acquainted, and the best protected against piercing
or cutting weapons, was probably not known in the time of Job.
The argument adopted is, that the impracticability of capturing the
leviathan by a hook, or securing it by a bridle declared in Job, refers
precisely to the means described by Herodotus and Pliny, of cap-
turing the crocodile by a hook or a stick thrust crosswise into its mouth,
like the bit of a bridle; and that, therefore, as Job was aware of
these means, and asserts the leviathan could not be captured by them,
the leviathan must have been some more formidable animal than the
crocodile — such, for instance, as the megalosaurus is supposed to have
been. But we are not entitled to adopt this reasoning; for the men-
tioning of the hook in Job obviously refers to the peaceful and little
hazardous arts of the fisherman, fish spears being especially mentioned
in Job, chap. 41, ver. 7, along with the hook. The reference to the
bridle is no doubt to the implement which secures the horse, an
animal, the training of which, even for war, was well known to the
author, chap. 39, ver. 19 to 25 ; and the bridle itself is mentioned
chap. 30, ver. 2. Besides, the evident antithetical construction of
the passage can leave no doubt that the implements referred to had no
possible relation to the capture of such an animal as the crocodile.
The voluntary explanation that Job " without expressly mentioning
the than or crocodile, relied on the familiarity of his hearers with the
known practices and arts used in their capture," cannot but appear
inconclusive and unsatisfactory.

The qualities which distinguish the leviathan as described in the
book of Job, and those by which the crocodile of the Nile may be
recognised, are staled in the original article now noticed to be similar.

REMARKS ON THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH. 147

the only claim being, that the size, power, and ferocity of the mega-
losaurus may have been more conspicuous, and that therefore he is
the specific animal referred to. After what]has been advanced, how-
ever, it will appear that these peculiarities, as represented in the
passages quoted, are clearly attributes, comparatively, of the cro-
codile; and, moreover, there is no passage from which it can be
gathered, that leviatlian means any other than the crocodile of
the Nile.

IVitk respect to the behemoth, although the same assurance may
not be arrived at, what species of animal is meant by the term in Job :
still, upon the plahicst and fairest principles of critical interpretation,
it is demonstrated that no saurian of any kind is meant, but one of
the larger herbiverous mammalia. These being expressed by the
same tenn, for example Lev. 27, ver. 9, "if it be a beast (behemah)
of which men bring an offering to the Lord;" the Hebrews offered
only beasts that divide the hoof and chew the cud. Again, Genesis 34.
ver. 23, ** Shall not their cattle, and their substance, and all beasts
of theii*s (behemethan) be curs ?"

It has already been noticed that the creation of man and behemoth
was contemporaneous, and that the remains of the iguanodon are met
with in ancient deposits where those of man are never found ; moreover,
that saurians were not created with man, but the mammalia were :
in that class, therefore, we must look for the type according with the
particular description contained in Job 40, ver. 15 to 24. Every
point of the description here seems con'ectly applicable to some large
species of the bovine genus of Linnaeus, and the following is a detail
of the points of agreement, in the order in which they occur in Job,
with reference to the largest unreclaimed species with which we are
acquainted — the buffaloes of India and Africa.

1st. — The buffalo, as we have seen, is included among the animals
made in the sixth period of creation with man.

2nd. — They eat grass as oxen.

3rd. — The whole bovine genus are full and compact in the region
of the loins, when compared with many other races of animals whose
bodies are there relatively slender.

4th. — The second character of beliemoth in the sixteenth verse is
more obviously seen at a glance, in the bovine genus, than in any other
tribe of mammalia.

148 REMARKS ON THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH.

5th. — The tail of this genus, with the bushy tuft of hair at its
exti-emity, and which the animal tosses continually when teased with
insects, or threatening combat, would readily suggest to a poetical
imagination the simile of the bare trunk and branchy top of the
cedar.

6th. — The bovine genus, when threatening combat, place themselves
in contorted attitudes, which inspire fear in those who see them.

7th. — The bones and skeleton are strong and large, as described
by Job in his poetical language.

8th. — To an individual living near the valley of the Jordan, who
might be unacquainted with the elephant, and larger species of
rhinoceros, one of the large bovine species might appear the chief
of the works of God among land animals ; and it is obviously with
them that the comparison is made in the first clause of the 19th ver.;
for the author says nearly the same thing of the leviathan (which
would raise in his mind a different set of comparisons) that he says
here of the behemoth. In Job 41, ver. 33, it is said of the leviathan
" upon the earth there is not his like."

9th.— Of some of the large bovine species it might also be said,
by one who knew not the arts of killing it afterwards invented, *' That
he who made it" could alone make a weapon fit to assail it.

10th. — The bovine genus are inhabitants of the mountains as well
as the plains.

11th. — Even the tame buffaloes of India set at defiance, and beat
off and kill the Bengal tiger, one of the largest predaceous animals.

12th. — The buffaloes, while at times they feed on the motmtains,
delight also in the jungle and shade of trees, and to wallow in the
mud, and even to bury themselves in it up to the eyes.

13th.— They take the water without fear, and it appears, resort
to the streams for pastime or food. Of the Cape buffaloes it is said
" they swim with great force."

14th. — The domesticated oxen and buffaloes are secured in the
East, and have probably been so from the earliest time, by a ring
passed through the gristle of the nose, an effective method of guiding
these animals, common in managing our own bulls and oxen. By the
obvious reference to this practice in respect of the domesticated races
in Job, we may infer that the behemoth was of a similar race ; though,
from his size or ferocity, immanageable by similar means. The case

REMARKS ON THE LEVIATHAN AND BEHEMOTH. 149

is very different here from that in respect of leviathan, who is
represented in Job as not to be captured by a hook ; for there the
allusion is not to any means of capturing a similar animal, but
obviously to the fishennan's hook.

The characters of behemoth ai'e thus in every respect those of the
bovine genus, if among the latter can be found a species of size and
ferocity which render it untameable by man. Such a species exists
in the African buffalo, yet unsubdued by the colonists of the Cape,
after attempts have been made to turn his great strength and swift-
ness to account for the labour of man. A species of wild Indian
buffalo also exists, that for size and ferocity will answer the description
of Job, for in that description, it must be remembered, there is much
of poetic amplification, like that which we find in the description of
the horse, chap. 39, ver, 19 to 25.

The behemoth was an inhabitant of the valley of Jordan, and is it not
more likely that some large species of the buffalo, might in early ages,
have inhabited that limited district, than even the elephant or hippo-
potamus ? each of which has been conjectured to be the behemoth,
although both obviously want some of its characters, and appear to
delight in more southern reigions.

Naturalists are ignorant whether there exists now, any where, the
formidable animal described by Julius Cesar, under the name of the
Urus, little less in size than the elephant, of the figure of a bull, of
great strength, swiftness, and fierceness; the former existence of such
an animal, of the bovine race, is demonstrated by their remains
being frequently found in England, as well as on the continent, in
peat mosses, drained lakes, and marshes, and the most superficial
strata. The remarkable skulls of that race have peculiar specific
characters, and are about one-third larger than the skulls of domes-
ticated oxen. Cuvier has shown that these are the remains of the
Urus of Julius Caesar, whose existence, in a live state, has been
traced to a much later era than his.

I( evidence existed that, like the Indian buffaloes, the Unis some-
times betook itself to the mai-shes and rivers, it would, in addition to
its other characters, coiTespond in all points with the behemoth in
Job.

150

BOTANICAL NOTICE FOR JANUARY,
ON THE TORPIDITY OF PLANTS.

As this is a season of the year when the botanist will wander in
vain in search of flowers, all vegetation laying, as it were, in a passive
condition, the flowers of summer having faded, the leaves having
fallen, and the fruits and seeds remaining in their winter's envelope,
waiting for the genial influence of the vernal sun and showers to rouse
their now toi-pid energies into the activity of the vegetating process,
we cannot better employ our contemplative faculties than in the con-
sideration of the nature of the condition of the vegetable world at this
season of the year, and the causes which induce that condition.
There has been too little attention paid in books of science to the
different circumstances of plants during the several seasons of the
year, and not a few errors have been the consequence. It is, there-
fore, my intention to notice the various conditions of vegetable nature
at the various seasons in their turn.

In these northern latitudes this season may be said to be that of
the torpidity, or dormancy of plants. H ere it will be proper to remark,
that this condition is quite diflferent from that which is called death.
After the spring has departed, and summer heat assails our regions,
the various bulbous plants, such as crocus, snow-drop, hyacinth, and
tulip, are found to fade in beauty of flower, produce their seed, and
the stem withers down to the ground, but the plant is not dead ;
the bulb has within it a rich store of nutriment, which by its vital
processes it has collected from the earth, and treasured up within
itself an energy which resists the process of decay, but which is not
called into action until the commencement of the following annual
period of its vegetative life. In like manner, when the genial influ-
ence of the vernal showers and summer's sun has produced the expan-
sion of the bud and development of the leaf, the blooming of the
flower, and formation of the fruit in our orchard and fruit trees ; these
in their turn fade and fall away. The sap which ascended in spring,
has been elaborated in the expanded leaf, by those beautiful chemical
and vital processes, which, it will be our duty, in their turn, to examine

ON THE TORPIDITY OF PLANTS. 151

and explaiiii and, in its changed condition, descends down the stem,
depositing additional layers of woody fibre, and a sufficient quantity
of nutritious material, so as to protect the individual plant fiom the
depressing and deadening influence of the winter *s blast. This is the
precise condition in which we find the vegetable kingdom at the present
lime, in a state of repose, not of death. Death has been defined to be,
that condition in which all resistance on the part of the vital force
entirely ceases ; therefore, so long as this condition is not established,
the living tissue continues to oflTer resistance.

Certain animals which cease to eat on the setting in of winter,
such as the squirrel, the bat, the snake, the frog, the pnail, and
numerous species of insects, continue to live in a sluggish and nearly
motionless state, which state is very different from sleep in several
circumstances, particularly in the very slow and scarcely observable
circulation of the blood and of breathing, the rapidity of which is not
very greatly affected during ordinary sleep. It is on this account
that the terms torpidity or torpid should rather be chosen in prefer-
ence to the terms donnancy and donnant. Such animals are found
previous to winter to become unusually fat, as indeed is the case
with most other animals, owing, in part, to the loss of substance,
becoming less as perspiration diminishes with the increase of cold.

Now plants, during winter, seem to be in circumstances very similar
to those of torpid animals, the circulation of the sap like that of the
blood, and the changes effected by air and light, like the process of
breathing, being scarcely, if at all, observable. With respect to the
increase of fat, it is said by De Caudolle and others, that a larger
proportion than usual of nutrient pulp accumulates in the root and
pulp wood, or alburnum.

Thus far, then, I think I have succeeded in explaining the nature
of the peculiar condition, or torpidity, of plants during the winter
season. Let us now proceed to enquire into the causes which produce
this condition.

It is of importance here to remark, the almost universal tendency
there is in animated nature to periodicity. The most casual observer
of nature cannot have failed to remark this tendency ; as is evidenced
in the casting off the superficial layer of the covering of insects, the
crust of the crab, the scales of the fish, the plumage of the bird, the
hair and other epidermic appendages in the different races of quad-

162 ON THE TORPIDITY OF PLANTS.

rupeds, and even the hair of the head of man himself; thus we see
in the animal creation an universal tendency to moult. No less in-
controvertible is the fact with respect to the vegetable creation ; hence
there must be a grand and universal cause operating upon all nature,
and this cause, no doubt, is the change of seasons.

But it will be our duty to examine a little more minutely into the
physiological operations causing this vegetable moult.

The effect, which is the most evident, is the fall of the leaf, or
defoliation of the plant. As a general rule this commences with the
decrease in temperature of autumn, and increases with the frost of
winter, although it may not hold good with respect to the plants or
shrubs called evergreens: nevertheless, there is even in these, an annual
moult, though not so evident as in the forest and garden trees, as
in them the fall of leaf most generally occurs in spring, when the
young leaves have began to appear; yet in warm climates there
are many plants that retain their leaves even for several years.

To understand the present subject perfectly, it will be necessary
that we should be acquainted with the anatomical connection the leaf
has with the plant. To do this, it will be sufficient to know that, from
the sheath which surrounds the pith, a bundle of woody tissue is
emerged, accompanied by what are called spiral vessels, from their
assuming the form of a cork-screw; which fact is easily proved by
making a circular cut through the superficial covering of a new shoot
or foot-stalk of a leaf of the vine, and by gently drawing the
cut part asunder, the minute spiral threads will be made evident,
even to a careless observer. This fibre- vascular bundle passes through
the bark, and proceeds at an angle more or less acute to a detennined
distance from the stem, branching oft at intervals, and by numerous
ramifications forming a kind of net-work. This net-work is filled up
by cellular tissue, which gives solidity to the leaf, the cellular tissue
being continuous with that of the bark. After the fibro-vascular tissue
has passed from the origin of the leaf to its circumference, it turns
upon itself, fonning a second layer of fibre under that already men-
tioned, which gradually converges just as the fonner has diverged, and
ultimately is fonned into a single bundle, the same size as that which
emerged, and is finally discharged into the liber, or inner bark.

Thus we perceive that the leaf is continuous with the medullary or
pith sheath by its superior layer of fibres, and with the liber or

ON THE TORPIDITY OF PLANTS. 15JJ

or inner bark by its inferior layer of fibres : tbis double layer of fibro-
vascular tissue will be easily perceived by examining a decayed leaf,
many of wbicb are found in tbe ditches or road sides in the winter
season, in which the cohesion of the upper and lower layers is
destroyed, so as to allow them to be easily separated.

We shall now be prepared to appreciate the explanations of the
cause of the fall of the leaf, which have been given by Du Petit
Thouars and De Candolle.

The opinion of Du Petit Thouara is as follows :—" If you watch
the progress of a tree, of the elder for example, you will perceive that
the lowest leaves upon the branches fall long before those of the
extremities. The cause of this may, perhaps, be explained upon tho
following principle: — In the first instance, the base of every leaf
reposes upon the pith of the branch, to the sheath of which it is
attached. But as the branch increases in diameter by the acquisition
of new wood, the space between the base of the leaf and the pith
becomes sensibly augmented. It has, therefore, been necessary that
the fibres by which the leaf is connected with the pith should lengthen,
in order to admit the deposition of the wood between the bark and the
pith. Now how does this elongation take place ? As the bundles of
fibres which nin from the pith into the leafstalk are at first composed
only of spiral vessels, it is easy to perceive that they may be suscep-
tible of elongation by unrolling. And in this seems to lie the
mystery of the fall of the leaf; for the moment will come when the
spiral vessels are entirely unrolled, and incapable of any further
elongation, they will, therefore, by the force of vegetation, be stretched
until they snap, when the necessary communication between the
branch and the leaf is destroyed, and the latter falls oflT."

De Candolle explains the matter otherwise and better ; he says —
" The increase of leaves, whether in length or in breadth, generally
attains its tenn with sufficient rapidity ; the leaf exercises its functions
for a while and enjoys the plenitude of its existence ; but by degrees,
in consequence of exhaling pure water, and preserving in the tissue
the earthy mattei-s which the sap had carried there, the vessels harden
and their pores are obstructed. This time in general arrives the more
rapidly as evaporation is more active. Thus we find the leaves of
herbaceous plants or of trees which evaporate a great deal, fall before
the end of the year in which they were bom, while those of succulent
plants, or of trees with a hard and leatherv textiure, which from one

154 ON THE TORPIDITY OF PLANTS.

cause or aiiolher evaporate but little, often last for several years. We
may, therefore, in general, say that the duration of life in leaves is in
inverse proportion to the force of their evaporation. When this time
has arrived, the leaf gradually dries up, and finishes by dying ; but
the death of the leaf ought not to be confounded with its fall ; for
these two phenomena, although frequently confounded, are in reality
TGiy different. All leaves die sometime or other, but some are
gradually destroyed by exterior accidents without falling, while others
fall, separating from the stem at their base, and fall at once, either
already dead, or dying, or simply unhealthy."

It is probable that both these explanations are required to under-
stand the phenomena of the fall of the leaf; but that it is not altogether
owing to the rupture of the spiral vessels by the acquisition of new
wood, is proved by the fact, that in some trees which increase in wood
the fastest, the leaves remain upon the branches the longest. Nor
can it invariably be caused by the choking up of other kinds of tissue,
from the fact, that in plants which are known to evaporate their moisture
very rapidly, the process of defoliation may be greatly retarded by plac-
ing them in the green-house, and by that means sheltering them from
the influence ofthe cold and wet weather of autumn. If we examine
a leaf as it is fixed upon the branch of a tree in autumn, we shall find
at the axil of its footstalk, a bud already formed and ready for expan-
sion into leaves and flowers in the ensuing spring. I do not profess
myself to be in position to substantiate the point, but I must confess
that I am strongly impressed with the opinion that the formation and
development of the bud causes pressure to be made upon the vessels
communicating with the leaf of the present year and the medullary
sheath, and that it is here the obstruction of the flow of sap takes place,
thus cutting off the principal supply of nourishment which is neces-
sary for the health and well being of the leaf ; and that it is not as, De
Candolle supposes, in the cellular and other tissues of the blade ofthe
leaf that the obstruction takes place. I say that 1 am not in a posi-
tion to substantiate the truth of such an opinion, but there cannot be
any doubt that the presence of the bud must create some degiee of
pressure upon the spiral vessels of the leaf immediately preceding it,
and thus causing the leaf to fall off at this point ; for where healthy
and natural defoliation takes place, we shall invariably find a scar
immediately under the leaf-bud, which is not the case if a leaf withers
and dies from accidental causes.

ON THE TORPIDITY OF PLANTS. 166

Not only do the seasons effect a change in the leaves and the other
oi-gans of a plant which are above ground, but a change is also effected
in the condition of the roots. As the leaves are the organs which per-
form the functioa of evaporation, they having fallen, evaporation is
DOW almost suspended, with the exception of what little moisture
may exude through the bark ; the function of absorption, therefore,
will cease to be carried on with activity, which function, as is well
known, is performed by the extremities of the roots or spongioles.

In autumn, I have said, the plant is very much in the condition
of the hybernating animal, the root and pulp wood are supplied with
a larger proportion of nutrient pulp than usual, and thus it is that all
the parts are dry and solidified ; the roots themselves are firm and not
liable to be easily broken, but the sjiongioles are absent, their func-
tion being no longer required until the ensuing spring.

These spongioles are the pulpy and bibulous extremities of the fine
fibres of roots, and are so called from their absorbing like little sponges
the moisture of the soil. They are composed of one or more central
ducts or vessels, enveloped by a cellular tissue, but they are not like
other parts of the root covered by an epidermis or skin.

It is in autumn, then, that both theory and practice direct us to
transplant trees. At that season every circumstance concurs to render
the operation practicable; but if we wait until the spring the
spongioles are likely to be destroyed, and many causes may call the
already turgid plant into growth, before the roots have had time to
form new spongioles.

Observation and experience shews us that periods of growth and
repose are essentially necessary to the well being of plants, and that
by placing them in circumstances however favourable to prevent this
change in condition, it is scarcely possible so to do. But if it ever
does occur that this change in condition is prevented, it is never
done without the plant falling a victim to the unnatural position in
which it is placed.

Nor is the repose from the effects of light less necessary for the
well-being of a plant, than from the urmatural stimulation above
alluded to. If plants were kept continually exposed to the rays of
white light, they would be always decomposing carbonic acid, and
would in consequence become so stunted, that there would be no
such thing as a tree, as is actually the case in the polar regions. If,

Itk) NOTICES OF LECTURES.

on the other hand, they were confined in perpetual darkness, they
would become enfeebled, and their tissue so lengthened, that none of
the parts would acquire solidity and vigour, and finally perish ; this
is owing to the inability of plants to decompose carbonic acid gas
in the dark, for a specimen of which the reader has only to refer to
the remains of the winter's stock of potatoes, in spring.

Thus we see that plants grow chiefly by day. Mayer found the
stem of a Belladonna Lily, and plants of wheat and barley grow nearly
twice as fast by day as at night ; and Mulder states that he has arrived
at a similar result in watching the development of other plants.

In my next I purpose to notice the crocus and snow-drop.

J. H. G.

LITERARY AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.

December 12. — The Eev. Newman Hall, BA. delivered a lecture "On tlie
Theory of Sensation." The lecture commenced with a definition of sensation,
which Mr. Hall regarded as a general expression indicative of those states of the
mind, which immediately follow an affection of the organs of sensation, on being
acted upon by external objects. The theory of sensation, he understood to be an
explanation of the mode in which external objects produce those mental states.
Matter is a substance altogether distinct from mind, and possesses entirely different
qualities. Connected with our material organization there is the sensorial organ,
consisting of the brain, the spinal marrow, and the nerves, the external terminations
t)f which, or the organs of sense, are in some manner affected by other material sub-
stances, external to the body. These affections of the organs of sense are the phy-
sical causes, and the immediate precursors of our mental sensations. Thus external
objects affect the immaterial mind through the medium of the bodily organs. The
question arises, how is this effect produced ? Having noticed the several theories
both ancient and modem, by which this phenomenon has been attempted to be
explained, and pointing out the various errors of those theories, Mr. H. proceeded
to state the theory generally adopted in the present day, viz. — " That external
objects, by the medium of light and air, or by apparent contact, produce some change
in the organs of sense, the nature of which change is unknown : that this impres-
sion is conveyed along the nerves in some manner unknown, and that the mental
state called sensation immediately results in some method also unknown." Modest,
however, as this theory was, it probably pretended to too much knowledge ; the pro-
cess of sensation was, perhaps, more simple than this theory represented. Why
may not the mind become conscious of the change produced on the organ of sense
immediately on that change taking place, without the transmission to the brain.
Mr. Hall proceeded to adduce arguments in support of this opinion, which he con-
tended appeared to be the most philosophical, and did not pretend to an assumption

NOTICES OF LECTtJRES. 157

of a knowledge we did not possess, which was the^case with the theory generally
received. Mr. Hall's theory is this :— " External objects produce some unknown
change in the organs of sense, which change is the immediate antecedent, or physical
cause of the state of the mind called sensaUon." We have no positive proof, Mr.
Hall contended, that there is such a transfer as is generally supposed. The sensa-
tion is not felt in the brain, but in the part affected, and experiment has faUed to
detect the supposed transmission. Why might not the brain act as the generator
of influence, analogous to that of galvanism, which would account for all the facts
without shutting us up to the admission of the transfer of impressions. Mr. Hall
concluded by remarking on the wisdom and benficence of the Deity, in the adaptation
of our sensitive organs to external objects and to the perceiving mind, and has
thus drawn aside the thick veil which otherwise would have shrouded His glorious
universe, and offered to His creatures sources of improvement and delight so nxune-
rous and so interesting. A discussion ensued, which we are reluctantly compelled
to omit Mr. Hall, in reply to several questions proposed to him, stated that the
definition he had adopted was the one given by Dr. Thomas Brown and Dr.
Abercrombie. He believed sensation to be an act of the mind entirely, and not of.
the body. He was fully prepared to admit the possession of an immaterial spirit by
some of the lower animals, but not their immortality. A vote of thanks to Mr. Hall
for his very able lecture, was moved by the President, and carried by acclamation.

December 20. — Dr. Horner read a highly interesting paper " On the Influence of
the Mind on the Body," a notice of which we must reserve for a future number,

MECHANICS' INSTITUTE.

November 30. — Mr. F. B. Calvert, B.A., delivered a lecture on Oratory, with
illustrations from Shakespeare, Cliilde-Harold, and others, in the place of Mr.
Francis, who was prevented delivering his lecture on Chess, as announced, in con-
sequence of an attack of erysipelas. Mr. C. is well known in Hull as a popular
and instructive lecturer on this subject. The lecture comprised a general and com-
prehensive view of the principles of the science, and was received with much
applause.

December 7.— Dr. Horner read a paper " On the Pleasures and Advantages of
Contemplating Nature." The lecturer commenced by pointing out the effect of the
study of the beauties of nature on the mind. Nature at once the building and the
book of God extended its lines further than thought could penetrate. Who could
number the inhabitants of the globe, or tell the plants that carpet the earth, or count
the myriads of insects that wanton in the sunbeam ? Yet vast as is their number,
they are but a fragment of created existence. The microscope reveals to us another
world, whose inhabitants are more numerous, and certainly more wonderful in their
structure, than the members of that world which we can see with the naked eye.
The earth too, with all its productions and inhabitants, comprise but a small por-
tion of that which the student of nature has to explore and penetrate. With the
aid of the telescope, the mighty in creation becomes as sublime as the minute is

168 NOTICES OF LECTURES.

wonderful. This instrument discovers to our view system on 85'3tem, worlds on
worlds, beyond the power of the imagination to conceive. The number of the fixed
stars is shewn to be beyond all estimate, and yet the niunber seen, by the aid of the
best instrument, must be but a small fraction of the whole. And as we see that over
the whole of the earth's sm-face nature is continually at work, and nothing created in
vain, how great must be, by analogy, the number of beings with which the rest of
the grand system is peopled, how vast the amount of created existence ! Having
pointed out the soothing and refreshing effect of the study of nature. Dr. H. next
proceeded to show how admirably it was calculated to enlighten, inform, and elevate
the mind. But in order to derive the full advantage, the mind must be prepared
for the pursuit. The effects of scenery on the mind and heart of man was next
dwelt upon most eloquently. The love of magnificent scenery engenders and fosters
alove of liberty, and confirms us in thehabit of virtue, and by its association excites
that ardent love of greatness, in action and sentiment, which characterises a liberal
and heroic spirit. How often the influences of scenery have moved to noble deeds. The
general analogy between the features of a country and the character of its inhabi-
tants, is not entirely supposition. By the charm of combination, scenery, in a
variety of ways, appears to partake of our delights or to sympathise in our sorrows ;
if cheerful and gay, every field, every flower, every bud are objects of delight. Are
our spirits worn down with sorrow, inanimate objects become, as it were, associated
with our grief, and are not unfrequently ministering angels of consolation. The
wisest and best men, poets, historians, moralists, and philosophers have all been
ardent lovers of nature. This point Dr. H. ably illustrated by reference to interesting
passages from the works of the most celebrated of both ancient and modern writers,
and remarked that poetry especially was highly indebted to nature for the most
sublime of her inspirations. Dr. H. summed up the lecture with a high eulogy of
nature, as promoting the peace and happiness of mankind, and especially urged upon
his auditors the advantages to be derived from the contemplation of the wonders of
nature around them.

December 14. — Mr. H. Bubbill delivered a lecture " On Phonography." For an
exposition of the principles of this science, we refer our readers to an article on the
subject, in the Miscellany, page 73.

December 21. — Dr. Gobdon delivered an able lecture "On Structural andPhysio-
logical Botany ." The lecture comprised a comprehensive view of the subject, as far
as could be entered into in one lecture, which is to be followed by another, when we
hope to present our readers with an abstract of the whole, which Dr. G. has kindly
offered us.

Dec. 28. — The Eev. Thos. Stbatten read a paper "On Stone henge," addressed
especially to the young. The audience was unusually large; and the lecture
manifested considerable research. The subject is not, however, one that falls within
the province of our Miscellany, and want of space forbids our giving an abstract of
the paper.

CHESS PROBLEM

No. IV.
BY JAMES WALKER.

White to move, and draw the Game.

SOLUTION OF CHESS PROBLEM, No. 3.
BY W. J. REED.

WHITE. BLACK.

1— Q. to K's Kt. 2nd sq. 1— R. takes Q.

2— Kt. to Q's Kt's 7th sq.
and check-mates.

METEOROLOGICAL TABLE. SUMMARY FOR NOVEMBER, 1843.

BAROMETER.

Monthly Mean 29-58 N 0 Days S 1 Days

Mean at 9 a.m 29-57

Ditto 8 p.m 29-58

Ditto 9 p.m 29 59

Maximum on 29th 30 21

Minimum on 2l8t. 28 98

Range 1-23

WIND.

N

0 Days S

1

NE

3 „ SW

8

E

0 „ w

10

SE

0 „ NW

3

RAIN— 2 86 inches.

WEATHER.

Clear 1 Days

Cloudy 5 „

Overcast 4 „

Showers 16 „

Rain 1 „

Sn)w 1 „

Frost 7 „

Hoar frost 1 „

Misty 4 „

Stormy 2 „

GENERAL REMARKS.

Pure November weather has prevailed during this month. The meteors which
have for some years been observed, about this time of the year, were not noticed here.
A malignant form of Typhus has been very rife in the neighbourhood.

THERMOMETER.

Monthly Mean 38o

Mean of Maxima 41

Ditto Minima 35

Maximum on 4th 50

Minimum on 9th 28

Range 22

ICO

o»a>*'osa»if».cot5h-o<occ-<joiC»tf^C5

^

CO*

^^ io io 65 M cc

p JO <© CO «S O
CO CO «0 CO -1 K-

CO CO c^ a> o ly

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THE HULL

LITERARY AND PHILOSOPHICAL

MISCELLAJSfY,

I i:biiuaky

CONTENTS ;

On Vegetable Respiration 161

Andrew Marvel 1G7

rhe Theory of Sensation 17i

The Last of the Pig-Tails 1 87

The Crocus and Snow Drop 196

Chess ' 200

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THE HULL

LITERARY & PHILOSOPHICAL MISCELLANY.

No. V. FEBRUARY. Vol. I.

ON VEGETABLE RESPIRATION.
TRANSLATED FROM THE LECTURES OF M. MARTINS,

PBOFE8SOB OF BOTAXY, PABIS.

The beautiful verdure whicli every returning year presents to our
view, is not created solely, as some of our readers may suppose, for
the purpose of adorning our meadows, and to afford a cool retreat
from the heat of a summer's day. Independently of its benefits to
man, the green leaf is of great use to the plant itself ; for it serves
as a medium of connection with the atmosphere, by which it is enabled
to elaborate the juices it has extracted from the soil ; in a word, the
leaves are the principal organ of vegetable respiration — they are the
lungs of the plant. Beneath the pure, but scorching sky of tropical
climates, the subjects of the vegetable kingdom are more beautiful and
are produced in richer abundance : this increased vital energy manifests
itself externally, by a more perfect development of the foliaceous
organs, the lungs present a more extended surface to the air, and the
plant attains its highest degree of perfection.

Before commencing an enquiry into the subject of vegetable
respiration, it is necessary clearly to define the signification of the
terms we are about to use. We have, in fact, a most important
distinction to establish. In all vegetables we distinguish the green
from the coloured parts ; and by the coloured parts we mean, in
common with all botanists, every part of the plant which is not
green : thus the flower of the lily we classify as coloured, although
it may be white ; the roots, the old stems, the flowers, their enve-

V

162 ON VEGETABLE RESPIRATION.

lopes, and the fruit, all belong to the coloured division. Having
settled this point, we shall next enquire in what manner these
different parts act on the atmosphere. Atmospheric air, it is well
known, is a mixture of two gases, oxygen and azote. One volume of
atmospheric air contains in the 100 parts, 79 of azote and 21 of
oxygen ; it also contains some traces of carbonic acid. It is sur-
prising, that so small a proportion of the latter gas is capable of per-
fonning so important an office in vegetable respiration, as we shall
hereafter show; but the surprise vanishes when we consider the
immensity of the mass of air by which we are surrounded. In our
analytical experiments we are only able to obtain a very small quan-
tity of carbonic acid, because we operate on a comparatively small
quantity of air ; but, we are assured by calculation, that the entire
atmosphere can contain no less than 1,500 billion kilogrammes of
carbon.

Functions of the coloured parts. — The coloured parts of plants
absorb oxygen, and exhale carbonic acid, at all times, by day as well
as by night.

We see around us innumerable proofs of this fact; thus the
presence of air is indispensable even to roots, which, if they be so
deeply imbedded in the soil that the air cannot reach them, the plant
perishes. The same effect takes place if a tree be so inundated that
a large mass of water is interposed between the atmosphere and the
roots. The growth of a hyacinth may be veiy much hastened by
inverting a phial of oxygen in the vessel of water containing the roots.
Fruits have precisely the same action on atmospheric air, and exhibit
identical phenomena even after they are gathered ; the danger of
remaining long in a close room in which a large quantity of fruit is
stored, is well known. The oxygen of the air being absorbed by the
fruit, its place is supplied by carbonic acid, which is a deadly poison.
The same objection applies to flowers : it would be extremely impru-
dent to pass the night in a green-house, which proves beyond a doubt,
that the disengagement of carbonic acid takes place by night as well
as by day. The coloured parts respire in the manner of animals ;
they absorb oxygen and exhale carbon acid, which vitiates the sur-
rounding atmosphere.

Functions of the green parts. — Here commences a series of phe-
nomena the most important to vegetable life, and in producing these

0\ VEGKTABLE RESPIRATION. 163

the leaves are the principal agents. But here a striking difference
presents itself; the mode of action is not the same by day as, it is
during the night.

In the night, the green parts act precisely as do the coloured parts;
they absorb oxygen and disengage carbonic acid.

In the day, on the contrary, especially under the direct influence
of the solar rays, they decompose carbonic acid, fix the carbon in their
tissues, and exliale the oxygen. It was Bonnet who first observed
this curious phenomenon. He placed a quantity of leaves in a
brook of clear water, penetrated by the rays of the sun ; he soon
perceived small bubbles of gas principally on the inferior surface of
the leaves. Bonnet at first supposed that these were occasioned by
air contained in the water; to be assured of it, he placed the leaves in
distilled water, which, consequently, was deprived of air, and as he could
not then perceive a single bubble of gas, he confinned himself in an
erroneous opinion ; and having neglected to analyse this supposed
air, he turned aside from one of the finest discoveries in vegetable
physiology. Dr. Priestly, some time after, repeated the same
experiment, but like a true chemist, did not fail to make an analysis
of the gas produced, and found to his astonishment that it was
oxygen. The carbonic acid contained in solution in the water had
been decomposed; the leaves had appropriated the carbon and
exhaled the oxygen. Hence the reason why Bonnet could not
obtain this gas in distilled water, because it contained no carbonic
acid for the plant to decompose. But this was not all ; he also failed
to prove, that under the influence of the solar rays the plant decom-
poses the carbonic acid of the atmosphere as it does that which the
water holds in solution. Theodore de Saussure placed this fact
beyond a doubt, by an experiment admirable for its simplicity and
precision. He took twenty-one periwinkles, as nearly alike as
possible; seven of these he analysed, and noted the quantity of
carbon contained in each. Seven others were placed under a
receiver, into which he had introduced seven centimetres of carbonic
acid ; the remaining seven were placed under a second receiver in
which the air had been deprived of its carbonic acid. These fourteen
plants were suffered to vegetate during six days. He then pro-
ceeded to analyse the gas contained under the two receivers. In
the first receiver the carbonic acid had entirely disappeared, and the

164 ON VEGETABLE RESPIRATION.

remaining air contained 24 J^ per cent, of oxygen, in the place of the
21 per cent, which it contained at first. In the second, the quantity
of oxygen was not increased. The periwinkles of the first receiver
were submitted to analysis ; they contained eleven and-a-half centi-
grammes of carbon more than those which had been analysed at the
commencement of the experiment. The quantity of carbon was
not increased in the plants of the second receiver in which the air
had been deprived of every trace of carbonic acid.

This remarkable experiment of Saussure has demonstrated the
great object of vegetable respiration, namely, the decomposition of
carbonic acid, exhalation of its oxygen, and fixation of its carbon.
The essential constituent of all plants is carbon, and it is the gieat
eflfort of vegetable vitality to fix this substance in the composition
of the plant. The surrounding atmosphere is therefore vivifying to
vegetation, just in proportion as it is deleterious to animal life by
the quantity of carbonic acid which it contains.

It is not from the atmosphere alone that plants extract the carbon
so necessary to their existence ; there are two other sources which
aiTord a never-failing supply. By means of their roots they extract
carbonic acid from the soil which they afterwards decompose. In
order to demonstrate this fact, Senebier having procured two nearly
similar branches, placed the stem of one in carbonic acid, while the
other was exposed to common air. The first retained its freshness
and verdure when the other was entirely withered. In fact, vegetables
when forming carbonic acid, combine the oxygen absorbed during
the night with the carbon of the plant itself. Thus, we may say,
that during the night, the plant prepares the materials for the more
important labours of the day ; it absorbs the oxygen and exhales
the carbonic acid, which are to be decomposed, for its own advantage,
under the salutary influence of the solar rays. M. Dumas is of
opinion, that the organs of the plant are entirely passive during the
night ; merely allowing the carbonic, acid borrowed in the day, to
filter spontaneously through its tissues, and difl^use itself around ; and
that it is only active under the stimulus of the solar light.

The green parts of vegetables which possess this admirable
faculty of decomposition, are also endowed with another and not less
mysterious power, which is, tlie retention of the chemical rays pro-
ceeding from the sun. From this we may perceive the weakness

ON VEGETABLE EESPIRATION. 166

of the attempt of M. Daguerre to produce the picture of a landscape
in its natural colours; " for," says M. Dumas, "the chenoiical rays,
essential to the Daguerian phenomena, have disappeared, ; and being
absorbed by the leaf are kept in reserve for .the enormous expenditure
of chemical power necessary to decompose so stubborn a substance as
carbonic acid. "

In addition to carbon, vegetables absorb also hydrogen by decom-
posing the water about their roots ; this has been proved by M. M.
Edwards, Colin, and Boussingault. According to the experiments
of the latter chemist, they also fix a minute quantity of azote.

The following table is a concise recapitulation of the phenomena
of vegetable respiration :—

VEGETABLE RESPIBATION.
Ist coloured f During day'\

parts.

and night.
A. during

Absorb oxygen and exhale carbonic acid.

2nd green

the night.

parts.

B. during
. the day.

Decompose carbonic acid;
exhale oxygen, and retain
carbon. The carbonic (a. The air

acid is produced from

b. The roots.

.three sources.

c. From the combination of

oxygen, absorbed during
the night with the carbon
of the plant.

The essential phenomena of vegetable respiration diffar entirely
from those presented by the respiration of animals : the first diffuse
oxygen, that beneficent supporter of life, whilst the second, on
the contrary, contaminate the atmosphere by the impure mix-
ture of carbonic acid ; thus vegetables are employed in puri-
fying the air which has been vitiated by animal respiration. Some
other observations may also be adduced in support of this principle.
It is well known that a great number of vegetables are produced
under the sea which form by their combination, a sort of verdant
carpet beneath its waters. M. De Humboldt remarks, when the
waters of the sea are penetrated by the solar rays the fish appear
vigorous and full of life ;» on the contrary, they are dull and lan-
guid when these rays are absent, and when the sun remains a long
time clouded they seem as if ready to die. Struck with this fact,
the illustrious observer analysed a little sea water during the sun-

166 ON VEGETABLE RESPIRATION'.

shine, and found that the air which it contained in solution yielded
from 80 to 90 parts of oxygen ; whilst the water of the same sea,
collected in cloudy weather, did not contain more than from 16 to
17 per cent, of this gas. This enoraious difference sufficiently
accounts for the languor of the fish when unable to obtain their
accustomed supply of oxygen, and the increase of this precious
gas on the sunny days, those joyful days for the finny tribe, can
only be attributed to the influence of the marine vegetables, whose
respiration, stimulated by the presence of the sun, purifies the water
by diffusing a larger quantity of oxygen. But this isolated fact,
however curious, is no sufficient ground on which to establish that
constant relation between the animal and vegetable; kingdoms so
much insisted on by physiologists, which places them, as one may say,
in a state of mutual dependence ; giving to the animal kingdom the
function of furnishing the carbonic acid necessary to vegetation, and
chai-ging the plants with the office of ridding the atmosphere of this
impure gas and replacing it with oxygen. This notion, so specious
in appearance, but which has not been confiimed by experiment,
M. Martins endeavours to prevent his auditors from adopting.
Taking a general view of the vegetable kingdom, he observes, that
the green parts of plants are always the most numerous ; and that
during the night, plants vitiate the air instead of purifying it. But
in the winter season, we must observe, the action of plants on the
atmosphere almost entirely ceases, and, finally, in the day time and
in smnmer, the vivifying rays of the sun are frequently prevented by
clouds from reaching the earth. In conclusion, the Professor
observes, that the contrary action of the green and coloured parts of
plants balance each other, and thus the presence of vegetation
exercises, at most, but a very feeble influence on the composition of
the atmosphere. The experiments of Link, (Woodhouse, and
Grish, tend also to confirm this opinion. These experimenters
placed, under a large receiver, plants entirely covered with leaves,
flowers, and fruits ; after a considerable time the air of the receiver
was analysed, and its composition was found to be the same as before
the experiments : there was, in fact, a perfect equillibrium between
the different functions. What the air had gained in oxygen, by the
action of the green parts, was counterbalanced by the absorb-
tion of the coloured parts and their disengagement of carbonic acid ;

ANDREW MARVEL. 167

the air of the receiver was neither vitiated nor improved by the
respiration of the plant.

The science of chemistry also, through the medium of M.
Duma?, lends its aid to support this , opinion. This distinguished
philosopher shows, by calculation, that the vegetable kingdom
exercises no influence whatever on animals. " The circumambient
atmosphere," says he, "presses upon us with a weight equal to
681,000 cubes of ^'copper of a kilometre to each side ; its oxygen
has a specific gravity equal to 134,000 of these cubes. Supposing
the population of the earth to be a thousand millions, and, including
other animals, to be equivalent to three thousand millions of men,
we have found that all these would not, in the course of an age,
consume more oxygen than the weight of 15 or 16 kilometre cubes
of copper, whilst the gravity of the entire atmosphere is equal to
134,000 such cubes. Ten thousand years must elapse before all
these animals could produce on our atmosphere an effect appreciable
by that delicate instrument, the eudiometre of Volta, even supposing
the influence of vegetation annihilated during that period. We
perceive then how, by different routes, M. Martins and M. Dumas
have both arrived at the same conclusion." The chemist, with his
balance at hand, confirms the opinions of the vegetable physiologist,
their results agree ; nor need we be surprised, for the sciences are all
sisters and advance hand in hand.

w. H.

ANDREW MARVEL.

We've gained the village, and our task is done !
Yet, let us take the roadway to the west.
And from the height of this commanding hill
View H umber once again. How far the eye
On each hand stretches o'er the level plain
Spread out beneath ; which to the east is clad
With purple woods, the west with cultured fields.
Farms, hamlets, villages, the rural church.
The solitary cot, the whirling mill.
With mingled beauty animate the scene ;
Through which proud H umber with his rolling tide

169 ANDREW MARVaiA

Stretches gigantic iii a mighty stream
Magnificent and vast ; and gives a crown
Of richer glory to this glorious scene !

Majestic river ! thou art not a stream
*' Unknown to song," for on thy verdant shore
Sweet bards have wandered, and their dulcet harps
Attuned in concert to thy flowing waves.
White, Marvel, Mason, in poetic mood
Have viewed thy beauties with enraptured eye ;
Illustrious Marvel ! though the poet's bay
Thy brow encircle, yet the richer wreath
Of patriot fame, luxuriant and full.
Half hides the honours which thy lyre has won, —
So rich the chaplet woven round thine head.
In changing, venal, and corrupted times
Thy soul was uncon'upted ; and principle
Pure, honest, stedfast, all thine actions ruled.
Thine heart was bent to serve thy fellow men.
And raise the honour of thy native place.
Its wealth, its dignity ; and to fulfil.
By unremitting and unwearied toil.
Keen-eyed attention, well-directed aim.
In Britain's senate, which thou honour 'd long.
Each filial duty which a man can owe
To that dear land, that heart-enchaining soil —
His native country. Is it true thy life
Was taken from thee by the poisoned bowl ?
That all thy service, usefulness, and zeal
Gain'd such requital ? met untimely end ?

Would that all natives of this sea-girt isle.
Where freedom sits upon her highest throne.
Had thine own spirit ruling in their breasts !
Then would loud faction cease her bickering roar.
And all unite in one fraternal aim
To build the nation up in moral strength —
In social virtue, piety, truth, peace.
Till it should stand the pyramid of earth
With base unshaken, and with summit high ;

ANDREW MARVEL. 16^

And all the kingdoms of the world around

With deep astonishment and rapture view

The wond'rous pile political, and own

That Greece and Rome, when in their pride of power.

Were feeble empires when compared with ours.
How softly poesy can sooth the breast

And charm its thoughts to stillness ! When the cares

Of state and business for a time withheld

Their claims upon thee. Marvel, I could deem

Thy tuneful muse gave solace to thy mind.

Oft walking forth on some culm rosy eve

Upon the water's brink, whose rippling waves
Gave music not unlike the deeper sound
Of ocean playing on his pebbled shore.
Whilst their bright surface from the twilight sky
Caught crimson colouring, and all around
Seemed glowing in the sweet soft light of peace,
Thy thought would often catch the poet's flame
And revel in its musings. Such an eve
Had calmed thy mind to softest tenderness
Before thy pen pbui'ed forth its gentlest strain, —
The sweetest offspring of thy varied muse, —
** The nymph lamenting for her murdered fawn."

Methinks I see the gentle maiden laid
Upon a bank amid the meadow-flowers.
The bleeding victim struggling by her side
In death's last agonies. Her gentle hand
With trembling tenderness, in kindly strokes
Moves o'er its glossy coat, and seeks to sooth
Its dying pangs by sweet oflScious love.
Its plaintive moan bespeaks its agonies.
And its dim eye, once radiant and bright
As morning star, now with a feeble glance
Rests on its mistress, and by thankful looks
Reveals deep gratitude. But how appears
The gentle soother of its parting woes ?
In negligent array of purest white
Her limbs are clad, whose softly moulded forms

X

170 ANDREW MARVEt,

Surpass the beauty of those beings bright

That visions oft reveal. Her golden hair

Unbraided, scatters o'er her snowy breast

In wanton wildness, and betrays a heart

Heedless of effort to increase her charms.

As desolate — not having one to please !

Her cheek is pale, but yet the softest blush

Of rosy crimson tinges it, so slight

The eye can scarcely catch it. Thought — sad thought.

Sits deeply printed on her clouded brow ;

And hopeless melancholy casts its veil

On her calm features. Sorrow's moisture swells

Beneath her eyelids, which have been the fount

Whence streams of anguish have profusely flowed

From her bereaved heart, — once blest with love

To sweet confiding exstacy, but soon

" The love of false and cruel man" betrayed

The trusting gentleness of her waim breast ;

And he who wTonged her gave this little fawn.

With silver chain and bell, that its quick play

Might oft amuse her, but when he " grew wild"

And " took his heart" which he had given to her.

It was a solitary link which bound

The sweetest thoughts of former loving hours

Upon her memory. — That link is snapt.

And full desertion rushes on her soul

With its cold winter-blast — its icy storm !

Where now is solace for her bleeding heart.

171

THE THEORY OF SENSATION,

BY THE BEV. NEWMAN HALL, B.A.

A PAPEB READ AT THE HULL LITERARY AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.
DECEMBER 12th, 1849.

Mr. President —

I should be doing violence to my own feelings were I to
enter upon the subject which I have engaged to bring forward to
night, without expressing my high sense of the compliment which
was paid me, when I was requested to lecture before this honourable
Society.

That I have not solicited the honour of being enrolled among its
members, and that I am not a frequent attendant on its conventions,
arises only from the multiplicity of my ministerial engagements,
not from any want of interest or sympathy in, far less from any
disapproval of, those high objects which it seeks to promote. Next
to institutions for the promotion of true religion, I regard societies
which, like this, are constituted expressly for the advancement of
science, and the cultivation of the human intellect, as among the
most valuable which exist. Well persuaded am I, that the more our
minds are imbued with, and the more our lives are regulated by, the
principles of true philosophy, the greater will be our attainments in
happiness — the higher our position in the scale of existence ; and,
although, in the fullest sense of that high eulogy, pronounced on
such studies by the great Roman Orator, I am ever prepared to
maintain, that it can be applicable only to the truths of the Gospel
of Jesus Christ, — still with reference to such branches of knowledge
as are cultivated in this place, I most fully concur in the well-
known but admirable sentiment referred to, — " Haec studia adoles-
centiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res oraant, adversis
profugium ac solatium praebent, delectant domi, non impediimt foris,
pemoctant nobiscum — peregrinantur — rusticantur."

Pledged as I am to the publication and defence of what I regard
the highest philosophy, I am not, on that account, disposed to under-
value other truth in whatsoever path it may be discovered, far less to
sanction the absurd idea, so derogatory to the Scriptures and to God,
that the diligent cultivation of science, in the spirit of true philo-
sophy, can be at all inimical to the interests of religion, or that
between the well ascertained conclusions of reason, and the rightly
interpreted dicta of revelation, there can ever be found any real
antagonism. " Etenim omnes artes quae ad humanitatem pertinent,
habent quoddam commune vinculum, et quasi cognatione quadam

172 THE THEORY OF SENSATION'.

inter se continentur." And if this be the case with different depart-
ments of secular knowledge, so is it between the entire encyclopedia
of such knowledge on the one hand, and the truths of revelation on
the other. Both proceeding from one and the same Author there
never can be variance between them, while the more diligently we
investigate the wonders of the natural world, whether of matter or of
mind, the more prepared shall we be to adore the perfections of the
infinite Creator, and the more capable of appreciating the unspeak-
able value of that boon, which he has given us in His revealed word,
to serve as a friendly beacon to guide us over those troubled waters
which unaided reason cannot safely navigate ; and through that
dark, eternity-concealing gloom which the eye of human science,
however keen its glance, is unable to pierce.

Hoping, Mr. President, that I may be pardoned for these pre-
liminaiy observations, I will proceed, without further preface, to
bring before you that interesting branch of mental science —
Sensation.

In treating this evening on "The Theory of Sensation," it
is my wish to present to you the subject at large, rather than
any particular view of it ; to shew rather how little we know than
how much, and, by referring, for the purj^ose of refutation, to the
various theories which philosophers have propounded in different
ages, to support, in conclusion, that theory which, because it has in it
the least of what is too often mistaken for theory, seems to myself
to be the most philosophical, and the most true.

Sensatio7i I define to be, a general expression for those states of
mind which immediately follow the effects produced by external
objects on the organs of sense.

The explanation of the mode in which external objects produce
these mental states, is what I understand by " The Theory of
Sensation."

Anciently one term alone was applied to the apprehension by the
mind of what is extraneous to itself. In later days the mental process
has been further analized, and the term sensation restricted to what
Abercrombie and others term " the corporeal part of the process,"
while perception is the word employed to denote the reference which
the mind makes to external objects as the cause of its sensations.
With perception, in this sense, I have nothing to do this evening. I
exclude altogether from my inquiry the manner in which the mind
obtains its knowledge of the external world, and its true estimate of
the objects of sensation. I have merely to treat of the effect pro-
duced on the mind by those objects, not the reference of the mind
to them. Still I cannot admit that I have to do only with " the
corporeal part of the process," since the corporeal part is strictly
nothing more than the effect produced oir the bodily organs. There
may be this bodily change unattended with any mental conscious-
ness. The nerves may be affected, and not the sentient mind.
When life is extinct, the landscape may be depicted in miniature
beauty and exactness on the retina, yet there will be no vision, no
mental apprehension of the loveliness. It is the mental conscious-

THK THEORY OF SENSATION*. 173

ness of the body being thus affected, not the bodily affection itself
which I regard as sensation, and which, indeed, the writers referred to
regard it to be, however inaccurate the phraseology they employed.
But to this point we shall have occasion again to revert.

As the definition I have given of sensation is itself in substance the
only theory I have to offer on the subject, I shall in the first place
invite your attention to a consideration of the terms in which it is
couched. In regarding sensations as those states of mind imme-
diately consequent on the effects produced by external objects on the
sensitive organs, we assume the separate existence of mind and of
matter. There have not been wanting among philosophers those
who have denied this. Some on the one hand have been scep-
tical respecting the existence of mind. They would have us believe
that thought and feeling are properties of the same substance of
which we affinn extension and impenetrability. They would persuade
us, not that the mind and body are mysteriously united and wonder-
fully dependent on each other, but that there is no mind at all; that the
body is itself the mind ; or, that man — observing, reflecting, reason-
ing man — is all body. They think they get rid of the difficulties
surrounding the subject of the connexion between the spirit and the
body, by maintaining that all the operations of what we ignorantly
call mind are only the results of a certain condition of the bodily
organs, and that our coqioreal system of bones and blood and
muscles, which can be felt and weighed — and divided — and grow fat —
and become lean, can actually investigate the wonders of science,
and follow the mazes of argument — " and build the lofty rhyme" —
and love — and hate — and be generous — and experience the joys and
the terrors of conscience, and can even worship God. If, then, the
body is able to do these gieater things, how much more those that
are less ? such as hearing, and tasting, and seeing. Sensation then,
according to them, is nothing but the effect of external objects on the
body. There is a constant connexion between the sensation and the
impression on the organ by the extenial object ; the latter, there-
fore, according to them, is the only and the efficient cause of the
former — as if invariable antecedence was any proof of efficiency of
causation ! As well might we say that the winter causes the spring
because it invariably precedes it, or that the day is the cause of night
because their connexion is unifonn, as that a certain condition of the
organs, because it is the precursor, is also the efficient cause of sen-
sation. Such a position is altogether opposed to our consciousness.
The operations of mind are felt to be of a kind unattributable to
matter. To quote the words of Dr. Reid : — " If one should tell me
of a telescope so exactly made as to have the power of seeing ; of a
whispering galleiy that had the power of hearing ; of a cabinet, so
nicely framed, as to have the power of memory ; or of a machine, so
delicate, as to feel pain when it was touched : such absurdities are
80 shocking to common sense that they would not find belief even
among savages, yet it is the same absurdity to think that the impres-
sions of external objects on the machine of our bodies can be the real
efficient cause of thought and perception."

174 THE THEORY OF SENSATION.

But as some philosophers have denied the existence of mind on the
one hand, so have others disputed that of matter on the other.
Among the latter Bishop Berkeley stands distinguished. He assailed
the sceptical philosophy on its own arena. "We have evidence," said
its supporters, " of the existence of matter ; this is proved to us by the
testimony of our senses, hut we have no proof of the existence of any-
thing else." " Nay," rejoins the Bishop, " we have evidence of the
existence of mind from our consciousness of its operations, hut we
have no evidence that there is any such substance as matter. We
have, it is true, certain notions which we call sensations, but how can
we safely go farther and say that there exists anything beyond the
compass of our own minds con-esponding to those feelings ?" Now, we
cannot but confess, that of the two hypotheses, the latter is by far the
most tenable. We, certainly, have stronger evidence of our own
existence than of that of anything besides ; and however absurd,
however contradictory to our instinctive belief both of these notions
may be, we deem that of two indefensible positions, that which
denies the existence of matter is far less open to assault than that
which repudiates the existence of mind.

While, then, one set of sceptical philosophers explain sensation as
being the production of mere matter, and another as being nothing
but various operations of mind unconnected with anything external,
our definition assumes the separate existence of one order of substance
called mind, the distinguishing quality of which is a capacity for
thinking ; and of another totally distinct kind of substance, called
matter, which has for its primary qualities extension and impenetra-
bility. The matter of the body being affected by external objects, the
mind receives certain corresponding mipressions — or, in other words,
certain states of the substance called matter are immediately followed
by certain states of the substance called mind. These mental states
we term sensations.

This leads us again to the phraseology of our definition, which
explains sensation to be a general term expressive of certain states
of mind.

What has just been advanced was intended to shew that we assume
in this discussion the separate existence of mind. We wish now to
shew that sensation is an affection of mind. — " Certain states of
mind" says our definition. This is opposed to the ancient Platonic
dogma, that sensation appertained to the animal soul. Man was, by
this system, divided into the body, the animal soul which was shared
in common with the brutes, and to which our various appetites and
passions were referred, and the spirit or immortal essence which
survived the dissolution of the body. St. Paul adopts this phraseo-
logy in the epistle to the The.ssalonians, where he prays that the
" whole spirit, (the principle of the rational life) — and soul, (the prin-
ciple of the sensitive life) — and body, (the mere animal and material
part) might be preserved blameless to the coming of the Lord Jesus
Christ." In reply to this theory, we may merely observe, that of the
existence of the animal soul distinct from the rational spirit there is
no proof whatever. There is the material substance, the body, of the

THB THEORY OE SENSATION. 175

existence of which we have an irresistible belief ; there is the imma-
terial substance, the mind, of the existence of which we have an
irrepressible consciousness ; and we know, by experience, that this
which we call ourselves, can exist in various states of thought and
feeling, but that there is any third essence we have no evidence, for
the language of the Apostle must not be regarded as such, seeing
that he only aimed at expressing, in the current phraseology of the
day, his desire that the entire nature might be preserved in allegiance
to God. Were his words employed in defence of a philosophical
theory, other expressions might be taken from the Sacred Volume
to overthrow some of the surest discoveries of science ; but it should
ever be borne in mind, that the Bible was given us, not as a revealer
of philosophy, but of morality and godliness, and that the truths it
contains are expressed, not in the strict language of modem science,
but in tenns which would be understood by those among whom the
revelations it contains of the divine will were first promulgated.

Sensation, then, is a state of the one immaterial principle — the
mind, or rational spirit, and not of the animal soul, according to the
ancients.

Our definition is also opposed to the popular notion that it is the
bodily organs which experience sensation. Although for common
use the phraseology may be sufficiently correct, yet, strictly speaking,
it is not the ear which listens, or the eye which sees, or the hand
which feels. If my finger is lacerated, it is not my finger, but
myself, that is, the mind, which feels the pain of the laceration. The
bodily organs are the instniments of, but are not endowed with sen-
sation. When I look at the sun, it is not my eye which sees it, but
the mind, by the means of the eye. It is no more the optical instru-
ment of the body which beholds that luminary than, to use Dr.
Reid's illustration, is it the telescope which sees the satellites of
Jupiter, indiscernible without its aid. And the same argument sup-
ports this position as that by which we contend for the immateriality
of mind, namely, the conscious unsuitability of these aflTections to
mere matter ; for if it be possible for a system of bones and muscles
to experience sensation, there is no reason why it may not perceive,
and remember, and reason. If the body can feel the pain arising
from a dislocation, there seems no reason why it may not be suscep-
tible of the pain of anxiety or remorse. The aflections may be
totally diflferent in some respects, yet in this they seem to be alike,
that neither of them can be conceived as appertaining to that which
is merely material.

As an objection to the position that sensation is a mental state, it
may be urged that, for example, when the wrist is sprained, the
pain is certainly felt in the wrist, and that, therefore, it is the wrist
that feels.

In reply to this objection, some would maintain that it is only by
experience we ascertain the particular part of the body, a diseased
state of which is connected with a particular pain. The pain of tooth-
ache, and the pain of a broken leg, are according to this system felt in
the same plaoe> and it is only by a gradual process that we learn to

176 THE THEORY OF SENSATION.

refer the foniierto the diseased tooth and the latter to the injured limb.
I confess my utter inability to come to such a conclusion ; and I feel
persuaded that if those who maintain it would, as I have done, expe-
riment upon it during a violent attack of tooth-ache, they will find it
perfectly impossible to believe the pain to be anywhere but in the
organ aifected. My reply to the objection would rather be by an
admission of the premises, and a denial of the conclusion — that the
pain is indeed felt in the tooth — but that it is the mind there present
which feels it. For why should the sensitive principle be shut up
into one corner of the sensorium ? B ut more on this subject hereafter.

Let us refer once more to our definition. We have considered the
expression " states of mind ;" let us now notice the qualification given
to those states — theyare the immediate sequences of the afl^ectionof the
organ. This distinguishes them from all those subsequent judgments
which the mind makes respecting external obj ects, and from any intuitive
belief which the mind may possess respecting what Berkeley calls out-
ness, or something external as causing those sensations. What is
tenned perception is hereby excluded from our enquiry, as we have
alieady observed. The only remaining expression requiring remark
is — " the effects produced by external objects on the organs of sense."
We have already assumed the existence of those objects. They in
some manner affect the organs of sense. These organs are the
external terminations of the nerves. The nerves are ramifications of
the medullary substance collected in largest quantity in the cerebrum
and cerebellum, there called the brain ; continued in the medulla
oblongata, and spinal chord, and thence branching out from between
each of the vertebrae in pairs of nerves, the ramifications of which
spread over the entire system. The exterior terminations of these
nerves form the organs of sense, and it is the effect produced on these
organs by foreign substances which we state in our definition to be
the immediate antecedents of sensation.

Briefly summing up what has already been advanced, there is an
immaterial substance called mind, which exists in certain states called
sensations. There is, also, another substance possessing qualities
altogether distinct, called matter. In the matter of the body there
is one connected sensorial organ consisting of the brain, spinal mar-
row, and neiTes, the external terminations of which, or the organs of
sense, are in some manner affected by other material substances
extraneous to the body. These bodily affections are the immediate
precursors, that is, the physical causes of those mental sensations.
Outward material objects, therefore, by medium of the bodily organs,
are capable of affecting the immaterial mind. The question now to
be examined is — " How is this effect produced ?"

It will be interesting to examine some of the various replies which
have been given to this enquiry. To such examination I now in
the second place invite vour attention.

The great diflSculty with the ancients was to account for the gross
objects of matter affecting the spiritual essence, and to meet this they
framed the hypotheses, that shadows or phantasms of substances, not
substances themselves, were the agents in producing sensation. Plato

THK THIdKY 01- !SENSATIOy. 17?

compared the mind to a daik cave in which a man was so placed that
he could look only towards its inner boundary. The light entered
from behind, between which and the man persons passed and re-
passed, their shadows beinu projected on the inner wall of the cavity.
It was these shadows, and not the objects tliemselves, which affected
the mind in producing sensation.

The system of Aristotle and his followers, with Epicurus, was
briefly as follows : All things were supposed to be constituted
according to an original model or idea, which was termed its sub-
stantial fonn, and was supposed to account for all phenomena. From
the surfaces of all bodies were supposed to be continually passing off
shadowy films, detennined in their character by the substantial form.
These shadowy films were an exquisitely refined species of materi-
ality, and did not at all dimhiisli the weight or dimensions of the bodies
from which they were continually passing off. By an innate tendency
to motion they were impelled with inconceivable rapidity to the
organs of sense, and in consequence of the impression they pro-
duced on those organs were called sensible species. These species
or tiluXoc. of bodies, were received by the soul — a subtile eiherial
essence pervading every part of the frame, and were retained by it .
just as wax receives the impression of the seal, without abstracting
any part of its substance. These sensible species being remembered,
or rather the impressions of them on the mind being made the
objects of thought, were called phantasms, and being generalised
constituted the intelligible species. It was thus that the mind
obtained its sensation and thence its knowledge of the external world,
not from any direct agency of matter, but by the intervention of
these semi-spiritual phantasmata.

All this insensible and unintelligible jargon of sensible and
intelligible species, was set aside in the seventeenth century by Des
Cartes, " that illustrious rebel," as Dr. Brown appropriately "terms
him, " who, in overthrowing the authority of Aristoile, seemed to
have acquired, as it were, by right of conquest, a sway in philosophy
as absolute, though not so lasting, as that of the Grecian despot."
Instead of pioceeding from external objects to what is mental he
made ** cogito" the foundation ot his system. Yet while he set out from
consciousness, he drew a strict line of demarcation between body
and spirit, maintaining that our knowledge of each must be derived
from an independent examination of each. He, therefore, abandoned
the ancient theory of sensation being produced by shadowy films and
phantasms, since for the existence of these "species" there was no
evidence either from consciousness or observation. According to the
Cartesian philosophy the soul has its seat in the pineal gland, this
being single in its construction ; and, therefore, suited for the residence
of what is simple and uncompounded. The impressions received by
the organs of sense are conveyed to the mind residing in the pineal
gland, by means of the animal spirits, a fluid which is supposed to
flow through the nerves which are supposed to be tubular. The eflects
thus produced on the brain are, according to Des Cartes, the occa-
sions, not the causes of sensation. This doctrine of occasional causes

y

178 THE THEOKi (Ji sKNSATION.

is more fully developed by some of his followers. The difficnlty
arising from the reciprocal influence of matter and mind is got rid of
by denying that such agency exists at all. We can neither move
our limbs, nor derive sensations from external objects. All this is
done immediately by God. Certain positions of external objects are
only the occasibns on which God acts, so that, therefore, the presence
of light reflected from any substance to the optic nerve, is only the
occasion on which God aflTects the mind with the sensation of vision.

Sir Isaac Newton, to account for the transfer of the brain of impres-
sions on the organs of sense, threw out a conjecture whether this might
be accomplished by a succession of vibrations of a thin elastic fluid,
which he called ether, and which he supposed to pervade the inter-
stices of all bodies. This conjecture was taken up and fulh^ developed
by Hartley, in his celebrated theory of vibrations. According to this
philosopher, the mind is two-fold, that which is percipient and active
being the nobler part, the other being inert and insensible, and only
occupied in funiishing the former with objects of thought, it being
the repository of the mind's ideas, which here are stored up ready for
use. External objects do not aff'ect the mind immediately, but only
by the agency of this inferior principle, the impression being con-
veyed from the organs to this repository, and this, in every case,
infoiming the active principle. " The mind," says he, " sits retired
in kingly state, nothing external, or bodily, being admitted to its
presence ; and though in sensation the notice be received from things
without us, they only deliver their message to the mental organs,
which by them is carried into the royal cabinet." The ether is the
principal agent in conveying this message, for being diffiised through
all the pores of the sensorium, external objects excite vibrations in it
•which act upon and excite corresponding vibrations in the infinitesi-
mal particles of the nervous matter, just as vibrations in the air affect
solid bodies. These vibrations being kept up by the uniform com-
pression of the ether, are transmitted to the brain, the internal parts
of which are instantly set m motion, vibrating in different directions,
according to the different directions of the nerves by which the vibra-
tions enter. The great argument, or rather assumption, by which
this curious speculation is defended, I will give in the theorist's own
words : — " No motion but a vibratory one can reside in any part for
the least moment of time, and exteraal objects being corporeal can
act on the nerves and brain, which are also corporeal, by nothing but
impressing motion on them."

Another celebrated theory is that of Leibnitz, a philosopher of
Leipsic. He, like Des Cartes, endeavoured to avoid the difficulty
involved in the physical action of substances so different as mind and
matter, by denying such agency, though he accounted for the pheno-
mena in a manner ditTerent from that of the French philosopher. He
supposed the entire universe to be composed of monads, which had
all their powers and tendencies bestowed on them at their first
creation. All the events which occur in nature are only the evolution
of these original powers. The body is a collection of such monads,
and all the changes which occur in it, and all the impressions made on

THE THEORY OF SENSATION. 179

its organs of sense, are only the unfolding of its latent tendencies.
The soul is a monad of the highest order ; all the states in which it
exists— its thoughts, and emotions, and determinations being, in like
manner, nothing but the developement of the nature with which it was
at the first endowed. Yet the changes of the bodily monads do not
produce the changes in the spiritual monad. It, indeed, so happens
that there is a constant coirespondence between the two ; certain
states of the mind which seem to be perfectly suitable to certain
states ot the body, do by an extraordinary punctuality, synchronise
with them, so that a certain taste is experienced when a certain
substance is placed on the tongue ; a sensation of touch or of sight
when accordant objects happen to be present to the respective
organs ; but this is by virtue of a pre-established harmony, not from
any mutual agency between matter and mhid. There is perfect
independence, although it has been so ordered that there is exact
correspondence, even as, to use a happy illustration, two clocks may
keep time together without a second's variation, although there is no
connexion between the two. According to this theory, therefore, we
should have experienced all our present sensations, even had there
been no change in the bodily organs to correspond with them.

The same difficulty at which Des Cartes and Leibnitz stumbled,
gave birth to another theory held by many of the early mystics, but
fully developed by Mallebranche, at the close of the seventeenth
century. Adopting some of the ancient Platonic notions, he main-
tained that God must have had originally in himself the ideas of all
things, else He could not have created them ; that the Deity in
always present to our souls ; and that on occasion of the impressions
made on the body. He reveals His own thoughts to us, so that we
perceive not the objects themselves which affect the body, but the
ideas of them in the divine mind. This theory was defended on
the ground of its simplicity, and of its accordance with the dependent
character of man.

Having thus laid before you, as clearly I have been able to do
consistently with brevity, some of the principal theories of other days,
I shall now proceed, in the third place, to offer a few remarks in
refutation of the errors with which they seem to me to be chargeable.
Three sets of difficulties on this subject have perplexed the minds of
philosophers. To these three classes those various systems may be
refeiTed, and under them I shall arrange the observations I have
now to offer. The first difficulty is — how can the influence of the
distant object be conveyed to the sensitive organ. The second —
how can the impression produced on the organ, be conveyed to the
seat of the soul. The third — how can this impression, thus brought
into close contact with the soul, originate the sensation. In the
journey, therefore, supposed to be made from the external object to
the mind there are three different stages.

To explain the progress made by the cause of the sensation in the
first of these stages, Aristotle and his disciples offer us their aid,
telling us that films and phantasms fly with lightning speed from the
object, and impress the organ of sense.

180 THE THEORY OF SENSATION'.

Respecting this system it may be said : —

First. — That in some classes of sensation, the notion of these
phantasms carries with it evident absurdity ; for though we may
imagine the phantasm of an object of touch or of vision, who can
conceive of the phantasm of a smell or of a sound ? But, secondly,
even in the case of sensations of touch and of sight, the existence
of these phantasms is utterly destitute of any kind of proof.

" For these are false, or little else but dreams ;
" Conjectures, fancies, built on nothing firm."

It is a purely gratuitous assumption, and strikingly illustrative of the
extraordinary hold which mere conjectures may, for centuries, retain
on the human mind. We may say, that for ages the existence of
these sensible species was regarded as an indisputable fact, although
there was not a tittle of evidence to substantiate it.

What, then, could have induced philosophers to invent, and so long
to retain such a theory ?

One reason is, the difficulty they felt in accounting for the action
of matter on so dissimilar a substance as mind. They, therefore,
endeavoured to make matter and mind meet, as it were, half-way, by
means of these phantasms, which although material, were so refined,
so subtile, so etherial, as to partake, also, in some degree, of the
nature of spirit, and, therefore, to be capable of producing on it those
impressions which matter in its grosser form was unable to do.
But hereby, the line of demarcation which altogether separates the
two worlds of mind and matter is taken away; and as matter is
spiritualised, so, also, in these phantasms, and the impressions
received from them, is spirit materialised. Mind is thus, in fact,
regarded as matter, highly etherial, and the distinction between the
two worlds is made to be, one not of nature, but degree.

Another reason which may be adduced to account for the support
given to this theory, is found in the notion, that there can be no
agency at a distance. In the case of vision, for example, the object
supposed to be perceived is at a distance ; it cannot, therefore, act
on the eye from which it is absent ; it is, therefore, not the object
itself which aflects the organ, but a shadowy film or species trans-
mitted from it which produces vision by actual contact.

The axiom on which this reasoning is based, namely, that the
presence of the agent to the object acted upon, is in all cases neces-
sary for action, is one, the adoption of which was not restricted to
men of ancient days. This will appear from the following quota-
tions: — M all ebranche says — "I suppose that everyone will grant
that we perceive not the objects that are without us, immediately,
and of themselves. We see the sun, the stars, and an infinity of
objects without us, and it is not at all likely that the soul sallies out
of the body, and, as it were, takes a walk through the heavens to
contemplate those objects." " How body acts upon mind, or mind
upon body," says Dr. Porterfield, " I know not, but this I am very
certain of, that nothing can act, or be acted upon, where it is not ;
so that is not the external sun and moon which are in the heavens

THK THEORY OF SENSATIOX. 181

whicb our mind perceives, but only their images or representations
impressed upon the sensorium." I add, only, the statement of David
Hume. " Xoihiug can operate in a time, or place, which is ever so
little removed from those of its existence." Whatever new difficulties,
therefore, the " sensible species" of Aristotle involved, they, at least,
seemed to do away with that which was deemed insunnountable,
perception, and, therefore, agency at a distance.

On this reasoning let me observe first, that those who have
employed in their argument the assumed axiom referred to, seem
to have had reference primarily to efficient or metaphysical, not to
physical causes. They regarded it as an utter impossibility that
what might be properly regarded as an active cause or efficient
agent, could, by the exercise of its own energies, produce any effisct
whatever upon objects distant from the place in which it might be
said to be essentially present. On this dogma, I can merely say,
that it seems to me to be destitute of proof, although, by others it has
been regarded as self evident. But, then, granting the position, I object
to the arguing from efficient causes to physical, and to the employ-
ing as an axiom in subjects of the latter kind what is true, if true,
only of the foraier. It may be the fact that there is no efficient
causation at a distance, but of efficient causation we know nothing,
as I shall remark presently ; in science we have to do only with
physical causes, that is, with bare antecedents ; and that there can
be no causation of this kind at a distance is contradicted by daily
experience, for example, in all the phenomena of gravitation. The
earth attracts bodies suspended in the atmosphere ; the moon raises
up the waters of ocean; and the sun, without moving from his
throne, binds in faithful allegiance, and continually counteracts the
tangential impulses of worlds, whose distance from the august seat
of empire, defies not the powers of numbers to calculate, but
certainly the powers of thought to realise.

But we need not rely merely on the refutation of the false
maxims, and erroneous application of them, by which the theory
referred to was upheld. We can account for the phenomena it was
framed to explain in some better way, even the sure discoveries of
science. We have found, by the way of induction, what are the
true links between the remote object and the organ of sense. In
cases of vision it is ascertained, not to be the object itself, but rays of
light from it which affect the optic nerve. Thus, were a star anni-
hilated, we should, for a length of time proportioned to its distance,
continue to perceive it, because the light which it had transmitted
before its extinction would not all have reached us ; and were a star
newly created, it might be years before it became visible, as it might
require that period lor the light which affects the organ of sight to
traverse the vast interval. So in cases of sound, it is vibrations of
the air which affect the nerve ; in taste, it is particles of the sapid
body ; in smell, it is particles of the odorous substance ; and in
touch, it is of course the presence of the object itself.

The substance of our reply, then, to the ancient theory, for
accounting for the effect of the distant object on the organ of sense

182 THK THEORY Or SKNSATIOV.

by means of phantasms, is this : — first, that in some cases this is
inconceivable — in all, destitute of proof; secondly, that the axiom
on which the necessity for such a theory was based is questionable,
and if not questionable, illogically applied ; and thirdly, that all the
phenomena can be accounted for in another and a surer way.

We observed that between the remote object of sensation and the
sensitive mind, philosophers seem to have reckoned three stages-*-
according to these we are now classifying their systems. We have
considered the reply of the ancients to the enquiry how can the
influence of the distant body be conveyed to the organ of sense ; let
us now consider the explanations which have been given of the
transfer of the impressions produced on the organ, to the seat of
the soul.

In later times, the brain has been universally regarded as the
residence of the spirit, and various theories have been framed by
which to explain the conveyance thither of the intimations received
from foreign objects by the sensitive organs. Some, with Des
Cartes, have held that this is by means of the animal spirits, through
the tubes of the nerves ; others, with Hartley, that it is by vibra-
tions of the ether ; others, that it is by vibrations of the nei-ves, as
by musical chords.

On these theories we obsen^e: —

First. — That they are destitute of proof. Anatomists have,
hitherto, failed in discovering the Cartesian spirits; of the existence
of the ether and its motions, there is no evidence ; no vibrations of
the nerves have yet been observed, neither are they capable of this,
not being like musical chords in a state of tension. I observe.

Secondly. — That supposing any of these various theories had been
true, the great mystery of the influence of matter on mind, for the
explanation of which they seem in great part to have been framed,
would still remain as inexplicable as ever. However skilfully the
diflferent links in the chain of material causation might be traced,
the connection with that which is immaterial is equally diflJicult
of explanation, at whatever part of the process it be attempted.

To this, then, the third of the stages alluded to in our classifica-
tion of theories, we now direct your attention. How can the effect
produced by the nerves on the brain, the seat of the mind, be con-
veyed to the mind itself, so as to occasion sensation.

We have seen that some philosophers deny any reciprocal agency
whatever. Des Cartes tells us that the bodily impression is only
the occasion on which God produces sensation in the mind ; and
Mallebranche says, that in sensation it is not outward objects, but
the ideas in the mind of the Deity by which we are affected. In
reply to this, I merely observe, first, that it is a mere hypothesis ;
and, secondly, that though the framers of the theories thought other-
wise, it adds neither to the glory of the great Creator and tFpholder
of the universe, nor to our dependence on Him, to suppose that His
operations are independent of one another, and in a sense disjointed,
rather than that they are the operations of general laws,by means of the
great machinery of instrumentality which he has ordained. Leibnitz,

THE THKOUY OF SENSATION*. 183

who also denies that the states of mind in sensation are influenced
by the states of the body, accounts for the phenomena by a pre-
established harmony. It is sufficient to say in reply, that not only
is this theory, like the fonner one, without evidence, but that it con-
tradicts itself; for if my sensations are not caused by external
objects, they would have been just what they are, were there no
external world in existence. What evidence then have I that there t«
an external world, and what becomes of the pre-established har-
mony between it and the world of mind ? Other philosophers,
admitting the connexion to exist, by their industry in accounting
for the transfer of the impression along the nerves till these com-
municate the impulse to the brain, the immediate presence chamber
of the soul, seem as though they regarded it possible to explain the
action of matter on the mind by impulse, and, therefore, by con-
tact, in the same maimer as body acts on body. Sir Isaac
Newton says — " It is inconceivable that mere brute matter
should, without the intervention of something else, operate upon and
affect other matter without mutual contact." Hartley says that
impulse, understanding impulse by contact, is the only way by
which body acts on body ; and on such analogies it seems to have
been supposed (especially by the ancients) that the images of things
must be brought into innnediate contact with, and act by impulse on
the mind. On this I observe —

First. — That the premises are false, it being now pretty well
established that there is no such thing as actual contact in the
universe.

Secondly. — That were the premises true, the conclusion would
not follow, for we are not at liberty, as we have before remarked, to
reason from the laws of matter to those of mind, and to argue that
what is true of the latter, must be true of the fonner also. But,

Thirdly. — Were both premises and conclusion correct, the great
mystery would yet be unexplained in either case. If the action is by
impulse, how is it that impulse produces the effect ? As Dugald
Stewart has well insisted, the communication of motion by impulse
is «p3 unaccountable as any other mystery. If this be the case with
matter, much more so with mind, the phenomena of which the action
of body is adduced to explain.

This leads me to my last remark on these hypotheses, that they
all seem to originate in the idea that the connexion between matter
and mind is very much more inexplicable than any other. We think
we perfectly understand how matter acts on matter, but that the
influence of matter on mind is a great mystery. But are we not
equally ignorant in both cases ? Mankind have ever been anxious
to pry into the secret operations of nature, to discover the hidden
causes of events. "Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas," has
been the sentiment of thinking minds in all ages. Yet after all the
researches of science, of the true efficient causes of things, nothing is
known. That there is some true eflSciency we have an intuitive belief,
but what this is in any case, is beyond the sphere of our observation.
We know nothing but links in the succession of events. The discovery

184 THK THKOHV Of SENSATIOX.

of every intervening link between the phenomena still leaves undis-
covered the connexion of those links with each other. As Dr. Thomas
Brown has profoundly reasoned and beautifully exemplified, invariable
antecedence is all we know of cause, invariable sequence all we know
of effect.

The greatest discovery of modem times, nay, in the entire history
of science, namely, gravitation, is nothing more than this. If I am
told that an apple falls to the ground and that the earth is retained
in its orbit, by gravitation, this is no explanation of the facts, it is
only a vast generalization of them ; and though we were to adopt
the gi*eat discoverer's theory of an invisible ether which was the
agent in attraction, this would be nothing but another link in the
succession. Why the ether possessed the tendency to attract, and how
it exerted it, would still be unexplained.

Leaving now the theories of other days, let us enquire " what is
the explanation afforded of Sensation at present ?" The preceding
enquiry, by teaching us our ignorance and the error of supposing
our knowledge is enlarged by hypotheses, will be seen not to be
irrelevant to this part of the subject, nay, will supersede the neces-
sity of any enlargement upon it. For men have at length, though
it has been by a laborious process, been taught the true method of
philosophising, and have learnt, if nothing else, at least their ignor-
ance. The explanation which Socrates gave of the response of the
Oracle * totycx yow rovrov ye a-fLix-pu Tivi ocvru rovru j-o^unfos sivaci ortac
fAvi oi^a. ov^e otofjixt et^svai', is applicable to this as well as every other
branch of science, for they are the wisest who are the most willing
to confess their ignorance. What, then, is the theory of Sensation
generally adopted now ? That external objects, by the medium of
light and air, or by apparent contact, produce some change in the
orijans of sense, the nature of which change is unknown — that this
impression is conveyed along the nerves in some manner unknown to
the brain, v.hich is affected thereby in some way unknown— and
that the mental state called sensation immediately results in some
method also unknown.

Now, gi'eat as is the wisdom of ignorance contained in this the(uur,
I am disposed to think that even it pretends to too much knowledge.
That there is the external object we have intuitive belief; that it
affects the organ either by light as in vision, or vibrations in the air
as in hearing, or by minute particles emitted as in smell, or by
apparent contact as in touch and taste, we have experimental evidence,
that there is the resulting sensation we have the testimony of con-
sciousness ; so that the first, second, and fourth parts of the theory
are well established, but what sufficient evidence have we of the third?
Or to revert to our former threefold classification, we have the first
stage of the journey accounted for, namely, the impression on the
sensitive organ; and the third stage, namely, the effect produced on
the mind; but what proof have we of the second, namely, the transfer
of the impression from the organ of sense to the brain as the seat
of the soul ?

I anticipate the reply of many present, a reply, in substance.

THE THEORY OF SENSATION. 185

that of Dr. Reid. " Let the connection between the organ and the
brain be cut ofl' by the compression or severance of the nerve, and
no sensation will be felt." From this necessary connection, it is
inferred that the impression is transmitted along the nerve.

Dr. Thomas Brown, in opposing the idea of the brain being the
ultimate material seat of the sensation, has contended that the seve-
rance of the nerve may destroy sensation by preventing its healthy
action, not by impeding the transference to the brain.

To this Dr. Payne has replied, satisfactorily as many consider,
that were Dr. Brown's theory true, the nerve above the point of
severance would be as incapable of receiving the impression of the
object as the part beyond ; and, also, that injury done to the nerves
of one sense would prevent the action of the rest, the connection of
the entire sensorial mass, destroying, in both cases, the healthy state
necessary for action. But this is found not to be the case. The
nerve above the point of severence is as sensitive as before, and injury
done to one set of nerves does not destroy the activity of the rest.
Dr. Payne concludes, therefore, that Dr. Brown's ai'gunient is falla-
cious, and, that in all cases, the impression is conveyed to the brain.
For my own part, I cannot regard this rejoinder as at all conclu-
sive. The healthy state of the nerve below the point of separation
may be destroyed without necessarily interfering with that of the
part above. The state of disease may be induced, not by the mere
application of the knife or the ligature, in which case it would, it is
true, affect the entire nerve, but by the fact of a separation having
taken place between that part of the nerve and the brain. This con-
nexion may, in all cases, be necessary for that healthy state of the
nerves, without which there can be no sensation ; yet it surely does
not follow, that the impression needs to be conveyed to the brain.
It seems to me, therefore, that Dr. Brown's reply to the argument
generally drawn from the facts proving the dependence of the
sensitive nerves on the brain for the exercise of their functions, is
perfectly satisfactory. Those facts prove the necessity of the con-
nection being kept up between the two, but they do not prove the
transmission of impressions.

Why, then, may not the process in sensation be even simpler than
the generally received theory ? Why may not the mind become con-
scious of the change produced on the orgin, immediately on that
change taking place, then and there becoming cognisant of it, and not
after the conveyance of the impression to the brain ? " The mind is
not," supposes Isaac Taylor, "the prisoner of the attic story, but is
the occupant at large of the entire animal organization, acting in each
part of the structure according to the purpose of each — in the skin, the
eye, the ear, the tongue, the nasal membrane, receiving immediately
the impressions of external objects by its inherent susceptibility of
the properties of matter, and, let it be granted, within the cranium,
carrying on the higher processes of thought." To prove that this is
probably the tme state of the case, I shall offer very briefly the
following arguments.

First. — It is recommended by its simplicity* It is unphilosophical

186 THE THEORY OF SENSATION'.

lo account for a phenomenon by a mere hypothesis, which itself
requires explanation ; for ihe difficulty is thus increased instead of
diminished. But the transfer of the impression on the organ along
the sensitive nerves, involves difficulties requiring such explanation.
Unless, therefore, such a transfer is well sustained by evidence to be
matter of fact, a theory from which this supposition is absent, is
simpler, and on that account to be preferred.

Secondly. — The nerves appear from their construction and an-ange-
ment unsuited for such an office as the one supposed. Bearing in
mind the almost infinite number and variety of our sensations, as
well as the extreme minuteness of many of them,-together with the
necessity that for distinct perception the mind should take accurate
and unconfused cognizance of them ; the intricate convolutions and
interfacings of the fibres which enter into the formation of the nervous
plexuses appear to render them altogether unfitted for so accurate,
instantaneous, and minutely discriminating a transfer to the brain,
of the multiplicity of impressions produced by external objects on
the organs of sense.

Thirdly. — There is no positive proof of such a transfer. Con-
sciousness gives no intimation of it. The sensation is not felt in the
bi-ain but in the part affected. Experiment has failed to detect the
supposed transmission, and no change during sensation has been
discovered in the state of the nerve. " Of the whole of the remarka-
ble process of sensation and perception," says Dr. J ohn Abercrombie,
** we know nothing but the facts, that certain impressions made upon
the organs of sense, are followed by certain perceptions in the mind,
and that this takes place in some way through the medium of the
brain and nervous system. We are in the habit of saying that the
impressions are conveyed to the brain, but even in this we probably
advance a step beyond what is warranted. We know that the nerves
derive their influence from their connexion with the brain, or, as
forming along with it, one great medium of sensation ; but we do not
know whether impressions made upon the neiTous fabric connected
with the organs of sense are conveyed to the brain, or whether the
mind perceives them directly as they are made upon the organs of
sense."

It has been, as we admit, well established, that a connexion with
the brain is necessary, but, as we have seen, it does not follow from
this that the impression is transmitted. Why may not the brain act
as the generator of influence analogous to tliat of galvanism which is
thence transfused through all the nerves, both of volition and sensa-
tion, which influence is necessary for their proper action ? Would
not such a supposition account for all the facts without shutting us
up to the admission of the transfer ? And do not some of the recent
facts of science tend to confirm such a supposition, shewing — not,
perhaps, as Dr. Wilson Philip contends, that the nervous influence is
galvanism — but that at least it may be analogous to it. Let it not
be said we are here only substituting one hypothesis in place of
another. We are not attempting to shew what is the nature of the
mutual influence of the brain and nerves, but merely contendhig that

THE THEORY OF SENSATION. 187

while that mutual influence cannot be questioned, the hypothesis of
the transfer of impressions is not the only one which can possibly
account for the necessity of the connexion. We may not be able to
state what is the office of the brain in sensation ; yet, unless it can
be shewn that this cannot be any other than the reception of impres-
sions, and unless it be proved that in no other way than that of
their transmission to the brain can the necessity for its connexion
with the nerves be explained, that necessary connexion, we again
insist, is no disproof of our present position.

We conclude, therefore, as at the commencement we intimated
that we should by a theory, which, because it has in it, the least
assumption of knowledge which we do not possess, appears the most
philosophical and the most true, viz : —

That external objects produce some unknown change on the organs
of sense, which change is the immediate antecedent or physical cause
of the state of mind called sensation.

In conclusion we cannot but remark, that whatever may be the
process in sensation, its phenomena strikingly illustrate the wisdom
and beneficence of the Deity, who has by the adaptation of our sen-
sitive organs to external objects and to the perceiving mind, drawn
aside the thick veil which otherwise would have shrouded his glorious
universe, and has thus opened to his creatures sources of improve-
ment and delight so numerous and so inexhaustible.

LEGENDS OF HULL, (No. I )

THE LAST OF THE PIG TAILS IN HULL,

BY FORCEPS.

Some of our readers may yet remember hearing in their youthful
days, the expression, which at one time was so common in Hull
among all classes — ^"Go to Dickey Sagg," but few of the present
day are aware of its origin.

In the mayoralty of Sir Henry Etherington, in the year 1785,
there dwelt in Hull, a worthy man named Richard Sagg, who con-
trived to obtain no little notoriety, by which he gi'eatly enhanced his
pecuniary circumstances. His education had been liberal in the
extreme, and having been early placed under the care of an eminent
medical practitioner, he, by dint of hard labour and study, made
such proficiency as to rank him high in the estimation of the medical

188 THE LAST OF THE PIG-TAILS.

world. He settled in Hull at the time when pig-tails on the head
were in the height of fashion. Nature had heen extremely bountiful
to him in the outward man. In addition to a fine commanding
person, he had a most luxuriant head of hair; his head seemed
formed for the fashion of queues, and the queue seemed formed alone
to grace such heads as his, and the extreme care he took in setting
off to the greatest advantage, what nature had thus bountifully pro-
\Hded, seemed to occupy most of his spare moments. Coming to
Hull thus recommended by nature, as well as by art, no wonder
that he soon attained a good practice. All men have a hobby — gi-eat
men never can do without one ; it often makes them great.
Richard had his hobby, and that was his pig-tail, and no pains were
spared to render it superior to any in existence ; his whole soul
seemed suspended there; he read everything which could in the
least degree throw any light on their early historj^ and had scraped
together so much infonnation concerning the right wearing, &c., of
queues, from the earliest period to his own time ; and so much did
he consider the future prosperity of England, as a nation, to depend
on what he presumed to be the dignity of a pig-tail, that he actually
wrote and published a voluminous work (a copy of which is now in
the library of the British Museum, and, probably, another copy may
yet be found on that shelf, so particularly dusty, in the Hull Sub-
scription Library) entitled " The Rise, Progress, Present State,
and J^uture Prospects of Queues, or Pig-Tails." This splendid pro-
duction at once stamped him as a literary character, and gave him
the right of admission, as a member of the Royal Antiquarian
Society, into which he was ballotted without one disentient voice.
This work, erudite as it undoubtedly is, enters largely into the
history of individual pig-tails of celebrated characters, ancient and
modem ; and in it he draws the deduction, that if Absalom had only
worn a pig-tail, and, of course, combed his hair well, which he appears
not to have done, he would not have got entangled in the oak tree,
and lost his life in the ignominious manner he did. He, also, proves
that the risk from drowning would be much diminished if the pig-
tails were worn with a portable life-buoy within them, as, in sinking,
a long pig- tail would, from its lightness, be the last thing above
water : and here we may just stop to say, that clever and ingenious
as the invention of our townsman Carte may be, yet his life-buoy

THE LAST OF THE PIG-TAILS. 189

must be infinitely inferior to this of Sagg's, for while Carte's, from
its size, is so bulky as to require to be laid in some convenient place,
this of Sagg's could be carried without any inconvenience — nay,
even might become an ornament to the person ; and the flattering
testimonials which he received from the Admiralty board respecting
his invention and its efficiency, at present in the Sagg family, plainly
shew that at that time, those admiralty wise-acres did not under-rate
its value.

When Richard had finished this work, which gained him so much
celebrity, he felt within himself that his own destiny and that of
mankind generally was connected with pig-tails. When men have
been working up hill for some time, how refreshing it is to turn round
and view the road they have toiled over, and when Richard had done
this, and in his own mind had balanced his accounts and found them
Satisfactory, he urged on his hobby with greater speed, and finding
he was now on the road to fame and fortune, many, very many were
ready to help him on who had at first looked coldly on his projects ;
His business had now increased and the judicious matrons, with
marriageable daughters had already marked him down as a valuable
acquisition to any family. Nothing was more natural than that matrons
should hint to him, that he ought to think about settling himself for
life, by selecting a suitable partner to share his joys, and nothing
more natural, that many of the marriageable ladies should wish to
possess him. Judicious matrons have many ways of making matches,
but the best, the very best is by giving family parties, to suitable
men, and, therefore, invitations to domestic parties, balls, routes, &c„
were poured in upon Richard, and he now, short of being married,
was the happiest mortal alive, his whole time being spent, when his
business allowed him, which in justice to him we must say he never
neglected, between embellishing his queue and the society of the
ladies. The increase of his practice and other things had now
rendered him so popular, that if any fell ill, they were advised to "go
to Richard Sagg." All persons recommended him and he so mono-
polized the practice of the town that he was obliged to take a partner
and the firm of Sagg & Co., was the chief of the neighbourhood and
hence arose the term of " Go to Dickey Sagg."

He now had more time on his hands and this spare time was prin-
cipally devoted to the one absorbing idea, the improving of his head

190 THE LAST OF THE PIG-TAILS.

of hair and he had now become the grand patron of the town, nothing
of consequence could be carried on without consulting him, and
taking his advice upon it ; and whenever and wherever he patronized
it was sure to prosper: all the cry was " Go to Dicky Sagg, and
hear what he has to say about it."

Every man in this good town now tried to imitate him, but there
was a degree of elegance and gentility in the style of his queue
which none could attain to ; and here his profound knowledge had
taught him, not merely to study their history, but also their appear-
ance, and the origin of the name ; and great was the pleasure when
Richard made the discovery, that discovery, which always rendered
him most valuable in the estimation of the Antiquarian Society, that
pig-tails or queues had received their name from being formed and
fixed on the head like the tail of the capital letter Q ; and that they
ought, and must of necessity appear most graceful, if placed on the
head at an angle, like the tail of a Q. Richard made this dicovery
in bed, as appears from his diary, which he regularly kept, and from
which we shall faithfully copy an extract, in order to settle a dispute
which has agitated the fashionable world for some time, as to what
person has the priority of discovery ; and, it will be seen, that the
merit alone rests with Richard, as he made the discovery just one
second before any other person. His diary says — Rose from my
bed — brilliant ideas in my head — lighted a taper — looked at my
watch — just one second to twelve — soon be to-morrow — asked myself
the question why is a pig-tail a pig-tail ? The answer as quickly on
my mind, in good Cantab logic — a pig-tail is a pig-tail, because it is
like a pig-tail, and, therefore, can be nothing but a pig-tail ; and a
queue is a queue, because it is a queue, fixed like the tail of a Q —
and the more its like a Q's tail the more it is a queue, and the more
it looks like a Q the more it must be a queue ; looked atjmyself in
the glass, saw my queue had, by the force of imagination alone,
(query mesmerism) assumed the very form that my dreaming fancy
had pointed out to me to be so elegant. — No more sleep this night —
up soon in the morning, and sent for Tidpole to dress my hair.

Tidpole was one of those who never difiered from Richard ;
regularly every morning he took his cue from his patron, and retailed
it ; but if, on the morrow, Richard, iij his wisdom, found it necessary
to alter his opinion, why then Tidpole as regularly altered his, and

THE LAST OF THE PIG-TAILS. 191

tacked to it, what always beat down all argumenls — that Richard
said so, and, therefore, it must of necessity be true. Richard, sure
of his man, trusted his discovery to him — in fact he could not carry
his hobby out without his assistance, and, therefore, he that morning,
which of all good days was the Sunoay, dressed his hair in the new
style entirely to the satisfaction of Richard, who, as he peered into
the glass, gazed upon himself with delight ; whilst Tidpole thought
within himself also, as he looked on his own handy-work, that
although there might be thousands of barbers, there was but one
Tidpole, perruquier ; and that he and Richard were designed to work
out an important revolution in the world of fashion. Richard was
particularly anxious that this day, at least, he should be smarter than
any other, as he had an affair of love on his mind. Among the
number of ladies who were desirous of possessing his heart, was one,
who, besides haviiig a handsome person, had a heavy purse ; and
although Richard had no more mercenary motives than the rest of
the world, yet he always adopted the prudent idea of his revered
mother, who, on parting with her darling boy had said, that whenever
he entered the marriage state, however gi*eat might be the charms of
the lady, yet if she had thousands in cash, she had so many more
thousand channs. Richard had often wished to unbosom his
thoughts to her, but as often hesitated, deterred by the reflection
that so many suitors had already proffered their bleeding hearts to
her, and been rejected — good man, at that time he little knew what
the lady thought about him ; their hearts had been for some time
like a box of lucifers— they only wanted a rub together, and they
were in a blaze directly. Richard being a good churchman, con-
sidered it indispensible, that once, at least, on Sunday he should
attend the church ; and, therefore, to neglect this day, so important
as it was to him, would have been monstrous. It was one of those
fine Sundays in September, when the weather is waiin, and every
one feels listless and lazy. The sun was pouring out his beams of
light and heat, dispelling that morning mist so peculiar to England,
which foretels a hot day ;— not a breath of wind was stirring — the
smoke from the chimnies ascended perpendicular, and the little
gossamer spider was spinning its web, floating itself along in its
aerial car, and festooning every projection. All nature seemed hushed
on the Sunday, except tlio carol of tlic melodious birds, and the himi

192 THE LAST OF THE PIG-TAILS.

of the industrious bee ; and they, too, seemed to enjoy the pleasures
of life to the utmost ; every countenance seemed ha])py as the parties
lounged listlesly in the streets on their way to church. The bell had
ceased tolling, when Richard, dressed to his hearts content, sporting
his new tie, issued from his house, in that classical spot in Hull —
the Land-of-Green-Ginger, and walked to church. He had always
been remarked as a notable man ; but the extreme care in dressing
this moniing had finished him off as an exquisite, and exclamations
of surprise and admiration fell upon his ear as the passers by noticed
him. Every one seemed struck with his peculiar appearance, and
for some time could not divine what could make him look so remarka-
bly elegant ; but the keen eye of a barber at once detected the cause
and explained the reason. The whole town seemed taken by
surprise ; and the very fanes of the church which that day seemed
also affected by the sultriness of the weather, and were basking in the
sun, and pointing to all quarters of the compass, spun round with
astonishment ; 'as for the clock, why so great was its surprise, that
the third hand was pulled up in a trice, the second's hand in a second,
and in less than a minute, the minute hand was also still with admi-
ration. To this day, 1844, this clock has not recovered from its
shock.

We are soiTy to say that his entry into church had the effect of
drawing off the attention of the audience from their devotional duties
for a time to him, but we ought to excuse the frailties of our fellow
creatures in this instance, as they had all been taken by surprise.
Richard saw none of his fellow-townsmen or women, save one and
that one the girl of his heart, whose eye caught his on his entrance
and earned a healing balm to his heart. The angel on whom he had
fixed his hopes smiled graciously on him as he passed her pew. The
object of his choice had chosen him also, and well might he inwardly
ejaculate as he did, after the manner of the great Julius, — not any
of the modern Julius Caesar's, " I came — she saw — I conquered."
Soon as service was over he joined his lady-love, proposed and was
accepted, indeed, how could she refuse when he was the leading man
in Hull. From that time he and his Q were paramount here, the
new tie had settled the love affair. He married and now thought
that every thing would run smoothly with him. Short sighted man
his good fortune was his downfall, he fancied that he alone, while

THB LAST OF TIIK PIG-TAILS. 193

Tidpole kept the secret, would wear the finest queue. A host of
rivals instantly sprung into existence, who were detennined, if pos-
sible, to outstrip him in the length and beauty of their pig-tails, and
one tail especially, the property of a joiner in Blackfriarsgate, ran so
hard a race with him, that for a long time it was difficult to say
which was the best ; but the profound knowledge of Richard in the
matter of tails, at length enabled him to beat down every antagonist ;
he distanced the joiner, and no other competitor was left of any con-
sequence : bright visions of glory and renown were before him, and
for once, again, his slumbers were peaceful and sound. Time rolled
on. Richard was independent — he retired from business ; but, alas !
for hiunan nature, that fickle goddess Fashion, which he had wooed
and won, was again in the fidgets, and, like many married ladies,
wanted another new dress, although she had already plenty. Her
fiat went forth against the wearing of pig-tails; soon the world
adopted the new fashion, save here and there a remnant of the olden
time persisted in adhering to what soon became of little moment in
the fashionable world ; but Richard was one who held on to the last.
He was the last of the pig-tails in Hull,

All things in this mortal world must have an end, or a change, at
least ; and we now approach the time which marred his happiness,
and caused him to be shorn of his pig-tail. Amongst the host of
defeated rivals, no wonder that some one should be left with revenge
still rankling in his heart, and ready to gratify it on the first oppor-
tunity, this soon offered itself to the rival joiner, of which he
availed himself to the utmost. The annual election of municipal
officers had come on ; the oflSce of sheriff was hotly contested by
the candidates and their friends. The worthy and independent free-
men of that day, as well as the present, were what are tenned rum
customers, and the spirited manner in which they ddvocated the
clauns of each candidate, drew down the applause of the town. So
severe a contest had not taken place for many years, and the
utmost strength of each party was tried. Neck and neck was the
polling of the day, till noon, when one of the parties having gained
a trifling majority, a determined push was made by his opponent,
and, they were again equal. At four o'clock not a man was
left unpolled, save Richard Sagg, who, under other circumstances,
would have declined voting; but the idea of securing the election for

AA

194 THE LAST OF THE PIG-TAILS.

one or the other, seemed, in his mind, to carry with it so much
importance, that he could not resist. Arrived at the polling place,
he found the numbers equal — 'twas a tie — no one remained to vote
but himself; he had to give the casting vote. As soon as he
approached the polling table, the uproar from eaeh party demanding
his vote for their friend, with threats of punishment from each if he
voted contrary to their wishes, almost stunned him, and, inwardly, he
contemplated making his retreat without recording his vote ; but his
mind called up the fact, that one of the candidates had struggled
with him for superiority in a rival tail ; that he had stood next in
order to the hated joiner, and, that moreover, when defeated, he had
had the audacity, more than once, when an opportunity offered, on dark
evenings, to seize Richard's pig-tail, and pull it most unmercifully.
This indignity roused up all his angry feelings, and as he had his
rival completely in his power, he was determined to crush him, if
possible, for ever. He gave his vote against him ; the tie was
loosoned, his old dtitagonist was rejected by him in the face of the
whole town. Little did Richard think that that vote would so soon
cause his own death. His old competitor, the joiner, was on the
side of the defeated candidate, and soon communicated the result of
his vote to his friends outside the polling place. He determined on
satiating his revenge on Richard, that very day, by cutting off his
pig-tail. When Richard showed his face outside, he saw prepara-
tions were making by his opponents to handle him roughly ; their
very countenances shewed they were ripe for mischief; he wanted to
retreat— no escape was there for him, his foes closed around him,
and hurried him on into the midst of the crowd. His friends seeing
his distress, made a desperate effort to rescue him ; a rush was made
by them to secure him, which for a time was effectual ; but the
multitude of opponents soon bore down all his friends, and there was
he, at last, in the midst, and at the mercy of his enemies. There
was one man, who while the struggle was desperate, looked coolly
and calmly on, and quietly opening his clasp knife, and giving the
crown of his hat a hard rap, to fix it firmly on his head, walked
deliberately up to the contending parties, and watching his oppor-
tunity, seized hold of the hated pig-tail, which had made him appear
so insignificant. Richard felt the tug, and turning round his head
as much as he could to see the rude assailant, his eye fell upon the

THE LAST OF THE PIG-TAILS. 195

face of the joiner, who, with open knife was preparing to cut it off.
He felt the doom of his importance sealed. He struggled, and
loosed himself from his grasp, only to be the more forcibly held ;
their eyes again met, the joiner had nearly secured the tail — the
next moment, and all was over ; a cry of joy from the joiner,
followed by a terrific shriek from Richard, announced the fearful
tale that he had been shorn of his triumph. His loud shriek
had the effect of allaying the struggle for a moment, thinking that
he had been seriously hurt, bnt the joiner holding up in triumph
the trophy of his valour, a loud burst of laughter and ridicule
followed, and he was allowed to sneak his way home again.
Richard went home a changed man, he saw that he had lived too long,
in Hjill at least; he must decamp, how could he meet his fellow
townsmen shorn of his tail, the thing was impossible, and then to
lose it in so ignominious a manner, the very idea almost broke his
heart and that very night he made preparations for setting off by the
early coach which used to leave Barton water-side in the morning
for London. No more was seen of Sagg alive in Hull; at length
news arrived of his death, he drooped ever after he lost his pig-tail ;
on his death-bed he wished his bones to repose in Trinity Church,
in Hull, and a neat marble slab close to the centre of the altar rails
marks the spot where his mortal remains lie entombed.

The expression of " Go to Dickey Sagg" was current in Hull
many years after, but the circumstance of its origin having
gradually died away ; it has ceased for some time to be current,
though we yet occasionally hear it, when it always calls up to our
mind the man whose histor}- we have briefly sketched.

But what became of the pig- tail ? Why the joiner kept it lor many
years, left it as a legacy to one of his children, and it is now in the
possession of the joiner's grandchild and we are happy to inform our
readers that he intends presenting it to the Hair Dressers' Society,
which is now being established in Hull, under the title of the "Hull
Latherum Association." In the mean time it is now laid for inspec-
tion in the Museum and the curator, who is a very nice man, is very
courteous in shewing it to all visitors and giving a short sketch of its
history. Be sore you go and see it.

196

BOTANICAL NOTICE FOR FEBRUARY.

THE CROCUS AND SNOW^DROP.

As both the above-named plants possess, what are commonly known
as bulbous roots, it will be a proper time to examine into the nature
of a bulb.

Linnaeus considered a bulb to be the leaf-bud of the root, or the
winter quarters of the future plant. That it could not be the leaf-
bud of the root is certain from the fact, that roots are especially
characterised as having no buds ; yet, according to modern authors,
he was con-ect in stylhig it a leaf-bud.

Until very lately, bulbs were known as being of three kinds,
namely, the scaly, as in the lily ; the tunicated, as. in the onion ;
and the solid, as in the crocus. But modern authors are quite indis-
posed to admit such a thing as a solid bulb. Professor Lindley
says a solid bulb has no existence. The bulb of the crocus, which
has been considered a root, appears to be in reality an underground
stem, to which the name of cormus is given by recent writers,
so that it is distinct from a true bulb it being not an imbricated
scaly bulb, but a solid, pithy, subterraneous stem ; itself emitting
bulbs, which can be seen upon Its surface. In one respect the bulb
differs essentially from a bud ; it is not a perishable part, intended
merely as a protection to the young and tender vital point, from
which new growth is to take place : this, indeed, is a part of its
object, but, as I observed in the botanical notice for January, the
bulb also serves as a copious reservoir of nutritive matter, upon
which the young leaves and flowers feed. On this account, the
scales of the lily bulb are not thin and easily withered up, as in a
common bud, but succulent, and capable of retaining their moisture
through long and severe drought. Thus we find, that in the cultiva-
tion of bulbous plants in this country, they prosper the best in a
light sandy soil, for they are, generally, natives of situations which,
in certain seasons of the year, are quite dried up, and where all
vegetation would perish, if it were not for some such provision as we
find in the bulb j even on the buraing shores of tropical India, beyond

THE CROCUS AND SNOW-DROP. 197

the reach of the tide> and buried in sand, the temperature of which
often rises to 170°, bulbous rooted plants are enabled to live, and
enliven such scenes with their periodical beauty.

There are now only two kinds of bulbs, the tunicated, as the
onion ; and imbricated, as in the lily, which may be, and, indeed,
really are, considered as buds, and not roots ; these contain the
whole of the ascending organs of the plants to which they belong,
in a condensed form, with the real roots proceeding downwards
from a flattened disk below.

There are four varieties or species of crocus known to grow in
Great Britain, namely, the crocus auhimnalis, or saffron crocus, the
stigmata of which constitute the saffron of commerce ; crocus vernus
or spring crocus ; crocus reticulatus, or net rooted crocus ; and
crocus nudifloruSy or naked flowering crocus. The spring crocus,
{^crocus vernus) is of the natural order, Irideee, or iris tribe, which
is well known in this country by the wild species, commonly tenned
corn-flags, which abound in moist and shady places. But, according
to the Linnaean classification, it is of the class Triandria, having
three stamens, or pollen bearers ; and of the order Monogynia,
having one pistil, which is the central organ of the flower, and
receives the pollen when ripe, having burst from the anther, which
is supported by the stamen. These last-named organs are called
the generative organs, an account of which we shall give in our
next article, they being so necessarily and frequently mentioned in
the description of the flower.

The crocus has a roundish conn us, or solid bulb, as large as a
small nutmeg, somewhat compressed, and covered by a coarse brown
reticulated skin. From the bottom of this cormiis, are sent down
into the earth a number of fine fibres, which are the true roots ; and
immediately from the upper part of the bulb proceeds the flower
stalk, which is generally from five to seven inches long, surrounded
by a thin membraneous sheath, open at one side, enclosing the base
of the leaves as well as the flower stalk. The leaves are long and
nanow, botanically called linear, curved, of a dark green colour,
having a white stripe in the centre. The corolla or flower is large,
divided into six equal segments, of a beautiful purple colour. The
stigmata are confined within the flower, and not hanging over the
corolla, as in the autumnal crocus. The flower has no scent, and the

198 THE CROCUS AND SNOW-DROP.

tube is hairy at the mouth. It flowers about February or March,
and is, therefore, the cheerful indicator of departing winter, and the
welcome harbinger of spring.

I have said that the crocus is of the natural order Irideee, it will
not, therefore, be out of place briefly to mention the distinctive
characters of this order. The calyx and corolla are confounded,
that is, it is diflScult to distinguish the one from the other ; they are
sometimes irregular. The stamens are three in number, and arise
from the base of the sepals or calyx leaves, and not the petals or
flower leaves ; and their anthers or pollen bearers, burst externally.
The ovarium, or ovula deposit, is inferior to the calyx and flower,
and the style is single, the stigmas are three in number, and often
expanded, or what is called petaloid. They are all herbaceous plants
or undershrubs, the roots are tuberous or fibrous, the leaves are
e qui tan t, or liding.

The crocus vernus. however, presents us with one or two devia-
tions from the above general rule.

The stigmas do not expand, but are rolled up ; still they are very
large, and in the saflfron crocus hang down on the outside of the
flower, like an orange coloured tassel. The leaves in the crocus are
not equitant, that is, riding the one over the other, as in the iris,
so that there is, in this respect, an assimilation to the amaryllis
tribe.

Besides the above named species of crocus, the following are
cultivated in our gardens, crocus versicolor, or party-coloured crocus,
a kind which requires light loam, while most of the others grow best
in sand ; crocue biflorus, or yellow bottomed ; crocus masiacus, or
great yellow ; crocus susianus, or cloth gold ; crocus sulphureus, or
sulphur coloured ; and crocus serotinus, or late flowered, blossoming
in autumn, the leaves appearing at the same time with the flower.

The Snow-drop, galanthus nivalis, will next occupy our attention,
as being a plant very generally cultivated, and often lound spiinging
up in groups in our meadows and pastures, at this season of the
year. It is now admitted into the catalogue of English plants,
though it was not so by Ray, who was of opinion that it was imported
into England about the reign of Edward III. It is a flower, uni-
versally admired, piercing through the unmelted snow, which it rivals

THE CROCUS AND SNOW-DROP. 199

in whiteness, and remains uninjured byaseason, dining the inclemency
of which, most vegetable productions lie torpid ; just as if,

" Nature's breath by some transforming power,
" Had changed an icicle into a flower."

It belongs to that beautiful tribe of plants the aniaryllidew, or
narcissus tribe, of which the daffodil is another example. It only
differs from the last mentioned tribe, in having six stamens, with
their faces turned inwards towards their pistil, as is generally the
case. In the Irideas it will be remembered they were described as
being turned outwards from the style, which occurrence is very
characteristic of the tribe. The snow-drop is of the Linnaean class
Hexandria, having six stamens, and of the order Monogynia, having
one pistil. As in the crocus, this plant arises from a bulb, but it is
scaly, and consists of a shortened expanded stem, surrounded by
fleshy coloured leaves. The leaves are usually sword-shaped with
the veins running nearly parallel, from one extremity to the other .
This latter circumstance is indicative of this tribe of plants belonging
to that grand division called Monocotyledons or Endogens, of which
we shall treat hereafter:

It is interesting to remark that whilst the external characters of
these two plants, the crocus and snow-drop, are so nearly the same,
the minute differences which I have mentioned should be indicative
of quite opposite properties, this remark applies to the whole of the
two tribes. For whilst nearly all of the Iridece are harmless, and
some nutritious, the amaryllide(B nearly all possess poisonous pro-
perties. The Hottentots are said to dip their arrows in the juice of
the bulbs of the hoemanthus in order to render them poisonous ; and
the narcotic odour as well as the emetic properties of the narcissus
were known to the Greeks and Romans.
The Hyacinth iu our next.

J. H. o.

CHESS PROBLEM

No. V.
BY B. J.

BLACK.

WHITE.
Wliite to move and Check-mate in three moves.

SOLUTION OF CHESS PROBLEM, No. 4.
BY W. G. COLDWELL.

BLACK.

K. to Q. B., 6th sq.

WHITE.

1 Kt. to Q. B. 2nd sq. ch.

2 K. to Q's. sq.

Black has here two modes of playing,
riRST : —

Q. B. P. 2ndsq.

3 Kt. to R. sq. Q. B. P. advances.

4 Kt. to Q. B. 2nd sq. K. to Kt. 7th sq.
6 Kt. to R. sq.

The game is here evidently drawn through Kt's. commanding B's
2nd. sq. If K. takes Kt., white wins by playing K. to B's. sq.
secondly: —

K. to Q's. sq.

3 K. to B's. sq. K. to K's 5th sq.

4 K. to Kt's 2nd sq. K . to B's 5th sq.
6 K. takes P K. to Kt's 6th sq.

6 K. to Kt's 3rd sq. K. takes P.

7 Kt. to K. 3rd sq. arresting the advance of either P.

'%^

'<8

THE CROCUS AND SNOW-DKOP. 199

in whiteness, and remains uninjured by a season, during the inclemency
of which, most vegetable productions lie torpid ; just as if,

" Nature's breath by some transforming power,
" Had changed an icicle into a flower."

It belongs to that beautiful tribe of plants the amarylHdeiB, or
narcissus tribe, of which the daffodil is another example. It only
differs from the last mentioned tribe, in having six stamens, with
their faces turned inwards towards their pistil, as is generally the
case. In the Iridece it will be remembered they were described as
being turned outwards from the style, which occurrence is very
characteristic of the tribe. The snow-drop is of the Linnaean class
Hexandria, having six stamens, and of the order Monogynia, having
one pistil. As in the crocus, this plant arises from a bulb, but it is
scaly, and consists of a shortened expanded stem, surrounded by
fleshy coloured leaves. The leaves are usually sword-shaped with
the veins running nearly parallel, from one extremity to the other.
This latter circumstance is indicative of this tribe of plants belonging
to that grand division called Monocotyledons or» Endogens, of which
we shall treat hereafter.

It is interesting to remark that whilst the external characters of
these two plants, the crocus and snow-drop, are so nearly the same,
the minute differences which I have mentioned should be indicative
of quite opposite properties, this remark applies to the whole of the
two tribes. For whilst nearly all of the Irideoe are harmless, and
some nutritious, the amaryllidea nearly all possess poisonous pro-
perties. The Hottentots are said to dip their arrows in the juice of
the bulbs of the hcemanthus in order to render them poisonous ; and
the narcotic odour as well as the emetic properties of the narcissus
were known to the Greeks and Romans.
The Hyacinth in our next.

J. H. G.

CHESS PROBLEM

No. V.

BY B. J.

BLACK.

WHITE.
Wliite to move and Check-mate in three moves.

SOLUTION OF CHESS PROBLEM, No. 4.
BY W. G. COLDWELL.

BLACK.

K. to Q. B., 6th sq.

WHITE.

1 Kt. to Q. B. 2nd sq. ch.

2 K. to Q's. sq.

Black has here two modes of playing,
FIRST : —

Q. B. P. 2nd sq.

3 Kt. to R. sq. Q. B. P. advances.

4 Kt. to Q. B. 2nd sq. K. to Kt. 7th sq.

5 Kt. to R. sq.

The game is here evidently drawn through Kt's. commanding l^'s
2nd. sq. If K. takes Kt., white wins hy playing K. to B's. sq.
SECONDLY : —

K. to Q's. 6th sq.

3 K. to B's. sq. K. to K's 5th sq.

4 K. to Kt's 2nd sq. K. to B's 5th sq.

5 K. takes P K. to Kt's 5th sq.

6 K. to Kt's 3rd sq. K. takes P.

7 Kt. to K. 3rd sq. arresting the advance of either P.

f

THE HULL

LITERARY AND PHILOSOPHICAL

MISCELLANY,

f

MARCH.

CONTENTS;

The lljaciuth

Keeps of Ancient CustU

Poesy and Sleep

Mount Grace I'liory. . .

The Bavk

Chess

I'M

I)

J'oni HeUunijs Adventure COl The Hyacinth '. -'•"•<*

Kventide 207 Keens of Ancient Castles t '-I'-'ti

Meteorology 20!)

Capture of Bassano 217

Pursuit of Knowledge 21!)

The Seasons 224

The Female Sculptor 220 Meteorological Table & Register 2-{!|, - 1<

LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.

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ovi w'.iich we had no control.

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going to press last month, we beg to ])ros(nit our readers with a
c«)rrected copy of pages 199 and 200.

Suitable bindings for the Miscellany, may be seen at the Publishers,
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TO THE BINDER.

Cancel pages 199 and 200, in No. 5, see above.

THE HULL

LITERARY & PHILOSOPHICAL MISCELLANY.

No. VI. MARCH. Vol. I.

TOM BELLAMY'S ADVENTURE.

" Why, Harry, is it true," exclaimed my friend, Tom Bellamy,
as we sat enjoying our cigars and grog, over a cheerful fire, one
winter's eve, **that you, my poor friend, are going to sacrifice your-
self a victim to matrimony ? Have not the fearful examples which
you have seen, heard, and read of, warned you from such a per-
nicious course ? Oh ! Harry, Harry, * my soul grieves over you.' "
Here Tom made one of the most fearful countenances I had ever
heheld, resembling most of all one of those fancy portraits seen on
door knockers, in violent convulsions. Seeing Tom's visage, I set
up a roar of laughter. " Yes," said he, " you may laugh ; but I
pity you for laughing at your impending fate, knowing not its
horrors ; and reminding me forcibly of a lamb led to the slaughter,
sporting and gambolling on the road. Ah ! I see," said Tom, " I
had better cease moralizing, as your eyes are getting moist."
" Which, being translated," said I, " means, I suppose, tliat I have
a drop in my eye." " No, no," said Tom, " quite wrong there, my
boy ; but have you ever heard of my first attempt to commit matri-
mony. Bless you, I had quite a providential escape. Oh dear !
it nearly gives me the ague to talk of it." " Why Tom," said I,
I never heard of it ; favour me with your early suflferings." " Well,"
said Tom, " I will ; only let us first light another cigar, and get a
fresh glass of grog, or I shall not be able to relate it to you."

B B

202 TOM Bellamy's adventure.

These necessary preliminaries having been attended to, Tom began;
but I will here give the nan'ator's own words, and wish I could
faithfully pourti'ay his manner.

" You must know, then, Harry, that when I was about eighteen
years of age, I was one fine morning abundantly gratified at seeing

my name figuring in the gazette, as ' regiment ; Thomas Bellamy,

gentleman, to be ensign, vice Green promoted.' — Hurrah ! shouted
I, with such vigour, as brought my respected progenitors into the
room, thinking I had suddenly gone mad. When they came in I
was standing up, waving the newspaper over my head, and con-
tinuing to shout. ' What's ihe matter, Tom,' said my father, ' is
your aunt Moody dead ?' — ' Or have you won a prize in the lottery,'
said my mother. ' Neither,' I answered ; ' but look here,' pointing
out with great diligence the astounding paragraph. ' Oh !' said my
father, giving a prolonged whistle, putting his hands in his pockets,
and slightly raising his eyebrows; 'is that all, Tom?' * Yes,'
said I. 'Oh! then, never mind shouting,' said he; 'glory and
five shillings a-day are all very well in their way, Tom, but nothing
much to shout about after all.' On getting a little more settled,
and receiving the official order to join my regiment, then stationed
at (we will give it a name, Harry) Cherwood, I set to work to make
all ready for a start in search of ' the bubble reputation.' All my
afllairs being settled, I bade adieu to my admiring friends, and in
due time arrived at Cherwood, where I met with a kind reception
from my brother oflicers. I must give you some idea of them ;
they had just arrived from India, and having been successful in
several very gallant affairs, came home with a very high opinion of the
regiment in general, and each man of hhnself in particular. They
were making themselves quite popular at Cherwood, when I arrived,
giving balls, races, &c., and completely astonishing the town from its
propriety. After my first kind reception, they amused themselves
mightily with quizzing me, constantly offering to make bets that if I
was placed with a parly of New Zealand savages, I should be picked
out from them as a civilized man. This, others pretended to dispute,
and said I might safely venture to appear as Orson, the wild man of
the woods, without being recognised. Then, after a time, it was
imagined that I began to have some appearance of belonging to the

TOM Bellamy's adventurb. 203

regiment, and eventually they ceased their quizzing. I had

not been with them many months, when I unfortunately fell in with
Miss Julia Springbolt, (she was a sweet creature, Harry !)" " Fie,
Tom, be quiet." " And, after seeing her once, I fell deeply in love,
and sought other opportunities for meeting again ; and, finally, after
some time, obtained her ])romise to be mine. — By-the-bye, Harry,
her father was an eminent merchant, worth £20,000, but having an
astonishing animosity against the red coats. Well, in our regiment
was one Lieut. O'Haggerty, an Irishman, who had fancied himself
fully established in the good opinion of Julia, until he was perfectly
undeceived by her evident partiality for my company in preference
to his or any others. As is usual on such occasions * the course of
true love did not run smooth ;' and it was eventually agreed that we
should elope, and then come back ; and, after established precedents,
appear very penitent — receive her father's blessing, and, on his
death, his £20,000, as she was the only child. This being all
nicely arranged, and a time fixed for carrying it into execution, I
solicited, and obtained leave for a short absence. The day that was
to have seen the result of this plan was also fixed for a sham fight,
when all the regiment were marched out, and duly placed, myself
being in command of a small body of men, (placed under cover)
with certain instructions as to my part in the aflfair. As ill luck
would have it, a maiden aunt of my Julia's, from whom she had
great expectations, and who lived a few miles from Cherwood, was
seized dangerously ill, and sent for Julia immediately, who had
barely time to scribble me a note, putting ofif our intended elope-
ment until either her aunt died, or was sufficiently recovered to
allow of Julia leaving her. This note, by the clumsiness of the
messenger, was delivered to O'Haggerty, who, prompted by the
green-eyed monster, shewed it to others, who joined in forming a plot
to prevent me being disappointed in my intended elopement, by not
having anybody to run away with. Well, as I said before, I had
under my command some men placed in ambush, and shortly after
the fight commenced, hearing the bugle sound ' enemy advancing,'
J gave orders for my men to fire at an advancing body of, as I
supposed, the enemy ; on doing so, I heard from amidst the smoke,
a grulT voice shout out ' what the devil are you doing, Mr. Bellamy.'

204 TOM Bellamy's adventure.

'Firinginto the enemy, sir,' cried I, quite coolly. 'Confound you, sir/
why you are firing into your Colonel's escort.' This I found to be
perfectly true, and overcome with confusion, the remainder of the
events of the sham fight passed without much notice from me. After
the business of the day, on adjourning to the mess room, I was most
awfully badgered by the rest ; the invariable answer to what are you
doing so and so, being, * firing into the enemy, sir.' Imtated by this I
drank more wine than was prudent, and soon had an idea that the
company had very much increased ; we had two presidents where there
had been one, and more majors, captains, and lieutenants, than I
ever knew to belong to one regiment. As it was now getting late, I
tried with a great effort to make out the exact time ; after nearly
raising a blush on the face of the clock, by staring so intently, I made
out that it was time to leave. Not observing the winks and nods that
passed round I took my departure, and hurried to the place of meeting,
there I found everything ready but my fair one. After waiting a short
time I observed a female figure hastening up the road. T rushed
forward exclaiming ' my dearest Julia, I was afraid some accident
had occurred to prevent you coming.' I received no answer to this
address; this rather bothered me, but I was not perfectly clear in my
intellects, so I ventured again, 'Come fly with me on the wings of love,*
(curiously represented by an old chaise and two elderly posters, one
blind^ the other lame) ; not getting any answer to this, and my Julia
taking very unfeminine strides towards the chaise, I was still more
surprised. On getting there, by the light of one of the lamps, I
observed a pair of corduroy trousers peeping out from her petticoats,
and her feet encased in high-lows. Looking with amazement at her,
I said — ' dearest Julia, have you had great difficulty to escape the
vigilance of your father.' What was my surprise on hearing issue
from beneath the folds of her veil, in a rich Irish brogue — ' the divil
a bit.' ' Then why,' said I, ' this uncouth disguise, the corduroys,
the high-lows.' I was cut short, by her hastening off; walking after
I entreated her to return, and the corduroys should be buried in my
bosom for ever.' ' I would'nt do sich a thing,' said she. ' Why,
love, why,' cried I, getting a little more sober, ' allow me to receive
my pardon from those ruby lips.' 'Arrah, be quiet now,' said she.
Continuing to implore her return, she stopped, lifted up her veil.

TOM Bellamy's adventure. 205

and said—* I'll tell you what it is, Misther Bellamy, you have not
been firing into the inimy this time ; but, by the powers, the inimy's
been firing into you.' I must now infonn you that, in accordance
with the plan of O'Haggerty and his friends, Mr. Springbok, my
Julia's father, had been informed of the proposed elopement. It
seems that they had intended to have informed him earlier than he
received their communication, but through some accident their
epistle was delayed until the old gentleman had been some time at
a dinner party, where he had just amved at that comfortable point
of intoxication when a man imagines himself to be the happiest
person in the world ; all his cares softening down into things of little
moment. There sat the old gentleman, at the house of his friend.
Dr. Snookdragon, enjoying the good things of this world, with his
face as rubicund as could possibly be ; his eyes sparkling, the tip of
his nose particularly red, and his whole manner betokening excessive
enjoyment. He had just offered to delight the company with a
song, (it being a gentleman's party) which proposal being highly
approved of, he commenced that charming one of Lord Byron's —
' The Maid of Athens.'

* Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh ! give me back my heturt.'

Here the old gentleman committed a violent assault on his white
waistcoat, about that part where his heart might be supposed to be ;
during this operation a footman silently entered the room, and after
waiting patiently until Mr. Springbok had completely finished all
the numerous shakes and turns which he contrived to introduce into
this song, he handed him a letter. During the clapping of hands and
rattling of glasses, which followed his vocal entertainment, he opened
the letter, and read as follows: — ["Mr. Springbok. — Sir — Knowing
your estimable character as a father and a Christian, (quite right,
murmured the old gentleman) and being possessed of certain facts,
I cannot refrain from informing you, that it is the intention of your

daughter Julia to elope this night with Mr. Bellamy, of the

regiment, now stationed here, — (why curse his impudence, said Mr.
Springbok) ; you will find the carriage waiting for them near the
three oak trees in the ' Ladies' Walk ;' ( the devil I shall, growled

206 TOM Bellamy's adventuue.

he). I am exceedingly distressed at having to impart to you Ihis
infonnation, but consider it my duty, as a parent; the time fixed is
eleven o'clock. Your attention to this, of course, is immediately
necessary. Your friend, and that of your undutiful daughter. — X."]
The old gentleman, during the reading of this epistle, took off his
glasses, rubbed them savagely, gloomily responded to his health
being drank, and then finished the communication. With great
difliculty gathering his thoughts together, he politely informed the
company tliat urgent business required his immediate departure.
After various regrets, requests, and expostulations, he got off; hurried
home, and getting his old sei-vant, Jacob, to attend him, to whom
he explained the matter, he made the best of his way to the three
oaks. Well, just at the time that my Julia had informed me that the
'inimy had been firing into me,' up came old Springbok, her
father, and his servant, Jacob. * So, then, it is true,' exclaimed he,
in tones strongly altered by wine and emotion. * Mr. Bellamy,
this, sir, is not the conduct of a gentleman. Julia ! Julia ! I cannot
believe my eyes ; you, whom I so fondly loved, thus, in my declining
years, to desert me, and seek another home; 'tis base ingratitude !
return immediately with me, arid seek through future obedience to
my commands, to regain my lost love.' Here he gave a very violent
hiccup. Julia, instead of attending to this order, gi*adually got
nearer the chaise. 'Julia,' said he,' 'do you hear; I'll disinherit
you, Julia, if you do not obey me; I'll, I'll, cut you off with a
shilling, you disobedient, base girl.' * Come, don't be j^ersonal, old
gentleman,' said Julia. * What,' said her father; * I tell you, Julia,
you must come with me ;' and upon this the old gentleman advanced,
and attempted to seize her, but Julia retreating, put herself into a
first-rate pugilistic attitude, and said — * I'll tell you what, my old
buffer, unless you keep yourself at a greater distance, I shall be
obliged to bonnet you.' Mr. Springbok, on this demonstration
looked excessively surprised ; but, on advancing to his daughter, was
received with a tremendous blow on the top of the hat, which com-
pletely extinguished him, sending the hat over his eyes, and pre-
venting further proceedings. During the old gentleman's struggles,
my Julia decamped, and I stood thunderstruck, until roused by a loud
laugh from behind an adjoining wall, where O'Haggerty and friends

EVENTIDE. 207

had been waiting for the denouement, just at this time the old gentle-
man contrived, after several violent efforts, to make his appearance
from under his hat; and, having looked at me, and hearing the
laughter, judged we were brother sufferers ; so politely raising his
damaged beaver, he speedily vanished.

**As for me, I quickly jumped into the chaise, and told the man
to drive as far as the before-mentioned quadrupeds could carry us
from the spot, it mattered not in what direction. From the next town,
where, by some providential means we arrived, I hurried up to
London, and shortly after negociated an exchange into another
regiment.

*' I never heard the fate of Julia Springbok ; but O'Haggerty
died abroad." c.

EVENT IDE.

(FROM A FOETHCOMING VOLUME OF " LAYS, LEGENDS, AND LYRICS.")
BY WILLIAM J. BOSOMWORTH,

I love to wander in the silvery eve.

Of some enchanting summer's day.
And watch the golden glimmerings weave

The pensive dirge, and welcome lay.
When all the earth is silent, still.
And music rises from the rill
Like nature's speech, so wild and free.
It charms me with its witchery :
Oh ! then is the time for thought and song.
To watch the merry muses throng.
In the gentle gale and the fluttering breeze.
And list to their notes in the rustling trees.
I'll sit and rest in this silent bower.

Which is shaded by the hill.
And see the stream with its crystal dower.

Become wedded to the rill ;

208 EVENTIDE,

And rU weave a strain for a bridal lay.

Of the beauties of the earth.
For the birds to chaunt as they fly away,

A song of love and mirth.
The flowery world is peeping still,

'Tis a lovely sight to see.
How they bow their heads at their Maker's will.

And close from their reveiy ;
They all are fraught with heaven-born charms.

The violet, and the bright blue-bell.
And sweet they lay in nature's arms.

Like gems to stud her comal ;
There too the daisy, with its simple lore.

Rearing its head in a lonely spot
On the streamlet's side; I love it more

For its home, and humble lot ;
For it takes me back to bye-past years.
And tells of hope and childish fears.
And how I roamed 'neath sunny skies.
To gain it only for a prize ;
I look and gaze on the beauteous scene.

The tall and stately trees.
The blooming meadows clothed in green.

And the swarm of humming bees.
And I list once more to the streamlet's flow.

And watch the last beam fall.
And grey twilight in his mantle glow.

And the birds' last thrilling call.
The moon now peeps o'er yon broad oak tree.
And her rays like a charm go merrily,
And the evening star with its twinkling light.
Is an orient pearl for approaching night.
*Tis a bright, bright spot, and a gay glad scene.
For the care worn man, and the earthly being.
And me thinks 'tis full of such joy and mirth.
As would make a heaven from this beauteous earth.

209

METEOROLOGY.
ON LUNAR AND PLANET ABY INFLUENCES OVER THE WEATHER.

CONCLUDED.

By the remarkable coincidence of magnetic and isothermal lines,
noticed in a former number of this Miscellany, we are led to recog-
nise the beautiful phenomenon of the aurora borealis as connected
with atmospheric changes. It seems highly probable that the
aurora is a reflex of terrestrial magnetism. The following principles
or facts corroborate this: — when in our climate the aurora borealis
is com})lete ; that is, when its permanent curvilinear light pictures on
space a well defined arch, the culminating (or central) point of this
arch is on the magnetic meridian, and its two points of apparent
intersection with the horizon are at equal angular distances from the
same meridian. Again, when it projects luminous and transient
columns from different portions of this arch, their point of intersection
(for they all tend towards one centre) is found to be on the magnetic
meridian, and precisely upon the point towards which the dipping
needle, indefinitely extended, is directed. It may here, incidentally,
be observed, that the aurora, like the rainbow, has no fixed locality,
being dependant entirely on the position of the observer for its
apparent place, as referred to the sidereal heavens ; the magnetic
meridian varying in every locality. Observations, that changes of
weather generally either follow or immediately precede the appear-
ance of a vivid aurora seems to be confirmatory of the theory of a
mutual but hitherto inexplicable association.

The various instincts and habits of plants and animals, and other
indications of organic nature, afford signs by which approaching
changes of weather may be inferred. Some of these effects, espe-
cially in vegetables, are merely mechanical, and produced by different
degiees of saturation in tlie atmosphere ; others, possibly, are che-
mical and physiological ; but that an important class of distuibances
affecting organic nature on these occasions is the result of electric
action, is certain. This branch, then, of meteorological enquiry is
su.sccptiblo of vast acqui.sition from future and sensible re.seaich.

c c

210 METEOROLOGY.

Another important enquiry is — Does the earth possess a heat
proper to itself and independant of solar influence ? This question,
although apparently involving important considerations, is, so far as
it has relation to heat at the earth's surface, speedily answered. The
ideas of Descartes, Leibnitz, and Buflbn respecting the incandescent
state of the interior of the eaith, are by all recent investigations
rendered highly probable. But the conclusions which Buffon would
educe from this fact, are proved to be quite enoneous. According
to this writer, the heat disengaged from the earth is many times
greater than that which, even in summer, is received from the sun.
Fourier has, however, satisfactorily and even mathematically shown
that, although we allow that the earth at the depth of fifteen miles is in
a state of fusion through intense heat, the effect produced on the
surface is not more than one-thirtieth of a centigrade degree. This
cause, then, may be regarded as constant and inappreciable.

From the many data which require to be taken into the account
when estimating meteorological calculations, it will be seen that it
must be one of the most complicated of all the physical sciences; it
is that in which it is necessary to spread our observations over the
greatest extent of the earth's surface, and to note the weather in the
greatest variety of local and geographical position. The accumula-
tion of facts from distant quarters, and a comparison of the affections
of the atmosphere, in the same moment, at different points, and at
the same point, during successive moments, may throw great light
on the comprehensive scheme which regulates the otherwise appa-
rently arbitrary and capricious fluctuations of temperature, humidity,
and atmospheric currents. By this means, within the last few years,
much infoimation has been gained respecting the laws which appear
to influence extraordinary stoims. These may be briefly stated :— It
has been observed, that tornadoes and hurricanes are whirlwinds,
ordinarily generated within the tropics, and possessing, in some cases,
a very limited diameter, say less than 100 miles ; that those fonned
north of the equator move to the north, in a curve which is parabolic.
For instance, storms which agitate the West India islands, proceed
in the first instance to the eastern shores of North America, then
bend north-easward towards Europe. Further, — that as these stonns
proceed in their course, their circumference becomes gradually widened,
so as in some cases to attain a diameter of 1,800 miles; it is also

METEOROLOGY. 211

observed that, as the circle expands, the intensity of the storm dimi-
nishes. I f this be an unifonn law, it enables us to account for the appa-
rent anomalies noticed by Dr. Franklin, although in a mode different
from his own elucidation. He observed that a hurricane from the
north-east, which began at New Orleans, did not arrive until some time
aftei-wards at Charleston, still later at Philadelphia, and last of all at
New York, all apparently in the direction from which the wind blew.
Now, it will at once be seen, according to the circular theory of
storms, that a hurricane of limited diameter proceeding northward at
the usual rate of from ten to twenty miles per hour will, when its
western edge touches the east coast of North America, have the wind
there at north-east, (for it* should be observed, the invariable direction
of the wind round the circle is contrary to the earth's diurnal rota-
tion) and that as it progresses, those places which on its western
side lie in the direction from whence the wind appears to proceed,
will be the last to come within the range of its influence. Now a
certain uniformity prevails in this island in cases of violent stonns
which seems to denote the operation of the foregoing, or an analo-
gous law : for instance, when a falling barometer indicates the pre-
dominance of a south or south-west atmospheric current, followed by
wind and rain, we invariably find that the next change of wind (and
which, by the way, occurs more or less speedily, as the gale may be
violent or moderate) is to the west or north-west ; and in no case
under the circumstances just named, does the first veering of the
wind be to the east. We may then conceive a whirlwind, and
generally, in our latitude, one of large cii'cumference, whose eastern
side, as the whirlwind progresses to the north-east, affects this country ;
its first current will evidently be a wind from the south or south-
west, which as it progresses northward will leave the wind west or
north-west. Again, if the western side of the circumference of the
stonn impinge upon this island, a gale will suddenly rise from the
north-east, followed, as it progresses in its course, by the wind at
north-west. Those who have particularly noticed such phenomena
will recognise this as generally accordant with observed facts. Still,
generalizations in meteorological science where so much seems con-
fused and obscure, are not with undue haste to be indulged in.

Whilst we deny that the planets possess any direct influence over
the weather, it will be proper to consider that modifi :ation which

212 METEOROLOGY.

may be, in the lapse of ages, produced in the mean temperature of
the earth, by virtue of the mutual disturbances of the planets. This
power is indirect, and transmitted through the sun, tending to pro-
duce slight changes in his average distance, &c., &c., and is by no
means an immediate and direct power of planet over planet, so far as
temperature is concerned, that being affected solely through the
varying distances of the sun. The perturbation or disturbance pro-
duced in the motion of the planets round the sun, by their mutual
action on each other, tends to alter the fonn of the orbits in which
they severally move, changing their amount of eccentricity or ellipti-
city. By virtue of this mutual disturbance, the orbits of some
planets are becoming more circular, and "at the same time those of
others more elliptical. Now iha amount of eccentricity to which
any planet may be liable by the deiangement of its orbit is all im-
portant to its inhabitants ; for the amount of mean annual heat
received by any planet from the sun, is inversely, as the length of the
minor axis or shorter diameter of its orbit; so that in an oibit per-
fectly circular, the mean annual heat is the least possible, (the major
axis of course remaining, with the exception of a small and rapidly
periodic inequality invariable, which astronomers know to be a fact,
and an all important one) ; the mean annual heat, by virtue of the
ratio just named, increases as the orbit becomes elliptical, and the
minor axis consequently shortened. Now we may conceive, if the
mutual disturbances of the planets go on indefinitely and uncompen-
sated, that the state of the earth may one day, by the extreme cllipti-
cily of its orbit, and its consequent change of mean annual temperature,
become quite incompatible with the existence of present animal and
vegetable life. By a mathematical theorem, however, of extreme
beauty, it has been proved that this indefinite ellipticity is impossible,
and that the limits of the eccentricity of all the planets are within bounds
so narrow, as to preclude any important changes in their physical con-
dition. At the same time, from the period of the earliest observa-
tions to the present, the eccentricity of the earth's orbit has been
diminishing; and it is thought will thus continue until the earth's
orbit has become a circle, when the other compensating half of the
long cycle which these changes embrace, will take its turn ; the orbit
will again become slowly elliptical until its limit of eccentricity is
attained. From this cause, then, it appears that the mean annual

METEOROLOGY. 213

heat received from the sun is diminishing; the discernible effect, it
is true, may be for ages totally unporceived, as so slow is the change
of eccentricity of the earth's orbit, that if equably continued it will be
upwards of 37,000 years before the orbit has become perfectly
circular, and the earth receives its least annual amount of heat, and
then the minor axis or shorter diameter will not have been lengthened
one-fiftieth of its present amount. WTicther the slow and impercep-
tible rale of this vast cycle produces real effects on the ceaseless
changes of atmospheric phenomena in all localities, we are, perhaps,
not in a condition to determine.

Another effect of planetary disturbances, slightly tending in the
lapse of ages to affect climate, is the following : a variation in the
inclination of the orbits of the planets to the ecliptic, or the sun's
apparent annual path in the heavens, thereby affecting the apparent
annual excursions of the sun on each side of the celestial equator.
The planes of the ellipses in which the planets move ai'e differently in-
clined, and, from their mutual action, their inclination is subject to vari-
ation. In some orbits the inclination is increasing, at the same
time in others it is diminishing. At present the orbit of the earih
is becoming less' inclined to the equator (properly all these motions
should be referred to an imaginary fixed plane, unaffected by secular
variation ; but for the sake of more easy intelligibility the inclination
of the earth's orbit may be referred to the angle which it makes with
the equator). This diminution of inclination is of importance in
its tendency to influence the climates and seasons on the earth's
surface; for were this decrease of obliquity to continue until the
ecliptic, or sun's path, was in the line of the equator, the succession
of seasons would cease, and an unifonnity of temperature, so far as
dependant on constant equality of day and night, would in every
latitude ensue ; for day and night would throughout the year be of
equal duration. \Vlien we consider that all organic nature is
specially adapted to climate as at present constituted, requiring
annual periods of excitation and repose, it is evident that great
change must ensue. Again, were it possible that this varying state of
inclination could be gradually changed the other way, so as to be con-
stantly augmenting, until at length the sun's path lay on a meridian
of longitude, or making aright angle with the equator, the most insup-
portable extremes of heat and cold would in every zone be produced ;

214 METEOROLOGY.

at each polo the following phenomena would result: — Durincf three
months the sun would ascend, apparently, by reason of the diurnal revo-
lution, spirally from the horizon to the zenith ; every diurnal revolution
marking the sun's place when on the meridian at a higher and still
higher altitude, until at length his unmitigated rays, for a long time
vertical, or nearly so, and unrelieved by the cooling shades of night,
would produce a temperature far exceeding that of the most sultry
regions of the torid zone ; during the succeeding three months the sun
would in the same manner decline towards the horizon, and after re-
maining visible uninten-uptedly for six months, would then set; during
the other six months he would never rise, and probably, from the rapid
radiation which would then set in, winter the most intense and pro-
tracted would soon ensue. On the other hand, at the equator, there
would annually prevail two tropical summers and two polar winters.
In our latitude the sun would, in summer, remain for more than two
months constantly above the horizon, for the most part nearly vertical,
and in winter during the same space of time would be constantly
below it. From the great changes which would necessarily result
under such a state of things it is impossible to predicate the effects ;
but from the long continued and intense action in ofie direction, it is
probable that in the hot seasons tremendous deluges of rain, and
unparalleled and devastating tornadoes would sweep the surface,
whilst in winter, the intense radiation would produce a temperature
as low as that of the present polar regions. At all events it is clear,
that man, as now physically constituted, could no longer inhabit this
planet. Now since the earliest recorded ages the inclination of the
ecliptic has been decreasing at the rate of 47'' per century, by this
amount tending to modify the extremes of summer and winter, and
to produce in every climate a smaller annual fluctuation ; the amount
is small, but it is certain that if it go on indefinitely, it must result
in catastrophe ; because, after the inclination has become zero, and
produced equal day and night throughout the year over the earth's
entire surface, it may again increase until it become the greatest
possible — namely, at an angle of 90<^ with the equator. Here again
the profound research of a late eminent astronomer has led to the
demonstration of a theorem, (the expression of which is very similar
to that by which the ultimate stability of the eccentricities is proved.)
which shows that all the changes of inclination will perpetually oscillate

METE0R0L007. 215

within such limits as to prevent changes of temperature or climate
destructive of organic life ; that although for thousands of years slow
and trifling alterations may accumulate, yet when arrived at u
moderate limit, compensation will ensue, and the other half of the
cycle restore every element to its original value. It would he digres-
sive from the purpose of this article, or it might be shown that any
thing more beautiful in mathematical science is not possible than
those theorems which exhibit the wondrous harmony, connection,
stability, and perpetuity of the solar system.

To project a scheme of the weather founded on lunar and planetary
positions is worse than puerile ; these positions, as has before been ob-
served, are connected with widely different relations from those which
are concocted in the brain of th^ astrologer. The planets accomplish
not merely rotary and orbitual revolutions, but cycles of variation and
compensation, and cycles upon cycles, of which the small interval which
has elapsed since the creation of man is barely suflicient to indicate a
narrow segment, and for the completion of which an almost illimita-
ble duration will be required. On the exact relative distances, mag-
nitudes, and periods of all the planets depends the order, uniformity,
ultimate periodicity of all secular variation, and consequent perpe-
tuity of the system ; and from the theorem of forced vibrations it
appears that such a connexion and mutual dependence exists, that if
derangement occurred in any one body of the system, the shock
would be communicated through every other body, whether planet or
satellite throughout the system. Amidst all those temporary and
slowly accumulating secular variations to which the orbits of all the
planets are subject, it is most highly interesting to observe and admire
the wonderful provision which is made for the permanent stabilty of
their major axis or longer diameters. Whilst all the other elements,
comparatively less important, are ceaselessly subject to change, the
major axis on which most depends is undisturbed, or subject only to
a variation rapidly periodic, so that the mutual mean distances
and periods of all the planets are the same now and ever will be as
when their motions were begun.

Not only are the planets and moon deemed by the astrologer the
efficient causes of atmospheric changes, but, by way of filling up the
absurd catalogue, even telescopic comets, invisible to the unassisted
eye, are announced as playing an important part in these occurrences.

216 METKOIIOLOGY.

1 1 will only require us to look at this for one moment, and in one point
of view. Inherently, comets possess neither light nor heat ; that
they are visible by virtue of light derived from the sun, has been
proved by a method pointed out some years ago by M. Arago. He
has shewn that if the light of comets were proper to themselves they
would continue visible so long as they possessed any sensible mag-
nitude, and would not disappear until their distance was so great as
to reduce their apparent bulk below any appreciable value ; whereas,
they become invisible even whilst they have a sensible magnitude, and
some time before their distance alone would render them invisible ;
(the argument of M. Arago would be too long to introduce here
more fully). The light, then, which we receive from comets is no
more calorofic than that which is reflected by the moon, and is, at
the same time, incomparably more feeble. Whoever reflects that
the light received from comets is of the same kind as that reflected
from the moon, will at once perceive, when it is known that the
brilliant light of the moon does not sensibly affect the thermometer,
the impossibility of any influence being exerted by the feeble and
diffused glimmerings from a vapoury and far distant comet. If it
be supposed that the influence be dependant on its quantity of
matter, rather than its light or heat, the absurdity is equally palpable,
for so attenuated are comets, that in the immediate neighbourhood
of the nucleus small stars are distinctly visible through the vapouiy
mass ; and, besides, if comets had really a power over meteorological
phenomena, when we regard the number kno^^ii to belong to the
system, some of them of very short period, and the gi'eat probability
of many more undiscovered, being circulating round us, we cannot
select a moment in which the earth may be supposed to be free
from such agency, and, of course, uncertainty must characterise at
all times, on his own principles, the calculations of the astrologer.

It will have been seen that what has been advanced in these
pages, beyond the attempt to expose en'ors, which materially
damage true philosophy, is intended rather for the purpose of stimu-
lating enquiry, than of explaining a mysterious and involved
science ; for we see from the many physical causes known to be
effective in the earth's atmosphere, as well locally as generally, that
it is not surprising that meteorology should be beset with unsolved
diflficulties. Nevertheless we may regard it as certain, that although

CAPTURE OF BASSANO. 217

complex, perfect arrangement exists ; and that every adaptation of
the atmosphere essential to the wants and enjoyment of organized
nature is pennanently insured. This suggests, in conclusion, the
notion that no reflecting mind can doubt, that on this earth, in all
its physical as well as moml departments, a system prevails of
which every part is adapted to the rest ; and that all the changes,
some of which to our limited and imperfect observance, may appear
parodoxical, have but one ultimate tendency, the happiness of the
creatures of Infinite Benevolence. In the government of our own
planet itself, but a point in the Vast Universe, we are able to recog-
nize, to some ^mall extent, the laws by which its physical changes
are regulated. So far as we can understand the mutual adaptation
of these laws, we everywhere see them working towards the same
end, and we entertain the highest anticipations of the beauty and
harmony which will be revealed, when our imperfect knowledge shall
have been in after ages extended and corrected by the expanding
force of philosophic principle, and the pure light of Eternal Truth.

M.

CAPTURE OF BASSANO.

FKOM " MEMOIRS OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE."

" Amid the deep silence of a beautifully moonlighted night," said the Emperor,
" a dog leaping suddenly from beneath the clothes of his dead master rushed upon
us, and then immediately returned to his hiding place, howling piteously. He
alternately licked his master's hand and ran towards us, as if at once soliciting aid
and seeking revenge."

The pale moon rose in cloudless light.
And threw her radiance silv'ry bright.
On all who fell in honor'd fight.

On glory's field.
With faces tum'd to God s high throne
As praying mercy to bo shewn.
To souls that now from earth had flown.
Their corses lay.

D D

218 CAPTURE OF BAS8AN0.

Now birds and human beasts of pray.
Who'd watch 'd afar the murd'rous fray.
In dev'lish triumph held their sway.

O'er glory's toys ;
But one, whose breast was plough'd by death.
That tore the spirit from its sheath.
And gave in lieu the blood-stain'd wreath.

That Victory wore.
Was left unscath'd by ought beside
The steel which had his pallet dy'd.
With crimson rivers flowing wide.

Around his bed.
A sad and pity-moving yell.
Was borne upon the wind's low swell.
Which e'en a plund'rer's heart could quell.

And bow in shame —
A dog lay by his master's corse.
And nerv'd by friendship's deathless force.
E'er tum'd the savage prowler's course.

On other guest ;
He lick'd his master's hand, that now
Would ne'er again caress bestow.
And then to his dead eyes would throw

Beseeching gaze.
We came, and then his watch was done ;
A gleam of joy an instant shone
In eyes whose brightness now was gone.

And lost in grief.
Once more he look'd ; then downward tum'd
His grief-stor'd eyes, as though he'd leam'd
That heart was cold, for which his burn'd
And moum'd for e'er.
A low sad wail was his last cry ;
It told of mortal agony>
And mournfully did testify,—

A Friend in death.

William Henry Paglar.

219

THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE.

** HominiB mens diacendo alitur, et cogitando, semper aliquid aut anquirit, aut
•git, Tidendiqae et audiendi delectatione ducitur." — Cic. Be. Off.

There is a spirit within us whicli knows no slumber — deathless
and unwearied it is ever on the wing; traversing infinity with a
lightning-like course ; grasping all time, it surveys the past, the
present, and the future. Ever dissatisfied with present attainments, it
pries with eager desire into the phenomena of nature, and sedulously
drags out the secrets of her vast magazines. The extensive disco-
veries which have from age to age rewarded this incessant activity,
so far from exhausting the efforts of the mind, or quenching its
ardent thirst for knowledge, have only opened a vista of deeper and
more extended vision, and have left enough yet shrouded beneath
the pall of darkness, to stimulate to greater exertions to unveil, if
possible, the mystery of life.

Whatever the eagle eye of the understanding has perceived remain
as ideal forms of truth pictured in the chambers of the memory, and
to substantiate these airy phantoms and inspire them with a mimic
life, imagination offers her magician's wand ; calling to her aid those
vast mysterious things which even the piercing eye of truth can but
dimly recognize, she unites the speculative with the real, and gives
them, ere they vanish in the surrounding darkness, " a local habita-
^tion and a name." But it is those alone who take their stand " on
the vantage ground of truth," who can fully appreciate the force of
Lord Bacon's maxim — " knowledge is power ;" and it is those only
who use this knowledge for the good of their fellow creatures who can
know that it has been bestowed upon us by a gracious Providence as
a means of promoting the permanent happiness of the whole human
race. The past experience and future prospects of the world make
us look to knowledge as the only hope of liberty for many a nation
now bewildered in the gloom of superstition and bigotry, or in
cheerless bondage sinking to the earth beneath the galling yoke of
tvTanny.

220 THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE.

Independently of its usefulness, there is undoubtedly a pleasure
in the pursuit of knowledge merely for its own sake. When, in
turning over the classic page we imbibe the profound wisdom of the
dialogues of Socrates, and other Grecian sages, the uncompro-
mising integrity of Cato ; or listen to the thundering appeals of
Demosthenes, or the graceful imagery and flowery diction of Cicero,
which once over-awed the fierce crowds of the Quirites, we seem for
the moment to be in actual converse with the illustrious dead, and
to tread with them the solemn porches of the Athenian Lyceum. It is
the cultivated mind alone that can appreciate the accurate reasoning of
Locke, the profound eloquence of Brown, or the soaring sublimity
of Milton. But if the wisdom of ancient sages, and the elegance of
modem literature are an insufficient incitement, there are still pur-
suits of absorbing interest in the study of man, as the various phases
of his character are unfolded in sacred and profane history ; and in
the unbounded fields of research to which the modem discoveries in
geological, astronomical, and chemical science invite our attention.
By reason of the close analogy which exists between the laws of God
as they relate to the spiritual and material universe, the mind of man,
by the pursuit of natural knowledge, may be more fully opened to a
perception of its true relation to its Creator, and to eternity as revealed
in the Word of God. Who, with such an object in view, and whose
heart is warmed with so holy an aspiration, does not at once resolve
to enlarge his small store of knowledge, and to strengthen his feeble
powers, adopting the beautiful prayer of Milton,

" What in me is dark,
" Illumine I — what is low, raise and support."

It is an indisputable fact that there are such things as premature
births in the world of mind. Gray was not very much mistaken
when he presumed that " some mute inglorious Milton" might have
been interred in an obscure village churchyard. Nature, it is pos-
sible, in her incomprehensible prodigality may allow in some degree
the noblest part of her creation, the intelligent mind of man, to run
waste ; at least, so it may appear to us, who form our opinions rather in
relation to this world and temporal things, than as they are connected
with an immortal existence. How many have we beheld whose
powerful and gigantic intellect seemed just to have attained maturity.

THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE. 221

when they sunk rapidly into the silent grave : but the blasted antici-
pations of those who have watched the early promise of genius and
wisdom are surely not to be regarded as fond illusions. On the con-
trary we may conclude that there is at all times, if we may be allowed
the comparison, a vast capital of inventive intellect floating around
us, which needs only to be directed in proper channels to enable it to
multiply a thousand fold the productions of its otherwise feeble
efforts. " Great occasions," says a talented scholar, " seem always
to call forth great minds," and that great mind which is best adapted
to the necessities of the times is instantly elevated to the
first rank. Whenever any important 'public exigency arises, we
generally observe some daring intellect already prepared to'gi*apple
with it ; and it is this happy coincidence between the commanding
mind, and the urgent necessity of the times, which perfects the
enduring monuments of human genius.

Looking into society in past or present ages, some solitary indi-
vidual may be found — " Whose soul is like a star and dwells apart,"
who may be far in advance of his cotemporaries ; an unintelligible
mystery in his day and generation ; but whose attainments and
actions are to be viewed with astonishment by remote posterity.

How many there are in the various fields of philosophy, literature,
and the arts, who struggle with the difficulties of an adverse lot ; but
who pant after knowledge as "the hart panteth after the water
brooks." How many self-taught geniuses have been dragged through
every gradation of wretchedness and want, but who, by devoting
their little leisure to intellectual pursuits, have finally overcome a
combination of obstacles that seemed united to crush their aspiring
souls.

Our own Goldsmith furnishes us with one among many instances
of a character that made every thing subservient to the ruling
passion for literary pursuits; concerning him Dr. Johnson beautifully
writes — " He left no si)ecies of writing untouched by his pen, nor
touched any that he did not embellish." We could select a host of
these self-taught geniuses who have risen from the humblest station
in life, many of whom, whilst pursuing their studies, have had to
earn their daily bread by the most laborious or the most sedentary
and ungenial occupations. Among these we may notice the names
of Purver, Wild, and Carey. PuiTcr succeeded in translating the

222 THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE.

Scriptures while engaged in the harassing employment of teaching
a village school. Wild, who became Professor of Arabic in the
University of Oxford, attained his accurate knowledge of that language
whilst follo\\-ing the sedentary and drepessing business of a tailor ; the
most unfavourable to the development of mental activity. William
Carey, at an early age, acquired a vast knowledge of European and
Oriental languages, although compelled to earn a scanty subsistence
by following the trade of a shoemaker. He disregarded the old
proverb — looked beyond his last, and ultimately attained one of the
first stations ih the literary world. The diploma of Doctor of
Divinity was but a small part of his honours : he was elected pro-
fessor of languages in Port William College; and before his death
he had translated the sacred Scriptures into a variety of languages
spoken by nearly 400 millions of people. Indeed the shoemaking
business has been remarkably fertile in distinguished characters, and
we should far exceed our limits were we to attempt the slightest
notice of its many contributions to the republic of letters. Mr.
Drew, the metaphysician and intimate friend of Dr. A. Clarke, was a
bright example of this class. Perhaps the employment of a butcher
may be thought the most degrading and repulsive to a refined intel-
lect, and the least likely to produce a valuable literary character, yet
even this occupation has furnished us with the ingenious Akenside,
and the classic and elegant Kirk White, whose early death has left
us but the buddings of his fame; and, probably, some more
examples from this sphere of life mij]fht be cited. Bloomfield, the
matchless farmer's boy, was a shoemaker, but with the disadvantage
of being deprived of sight. Falconer, it is well known, was a sailor
the greater pai't of his life ; and the still more undesirable occupation
of an exciseman was the sole and miserable refuge from abject
poverty that rewarded the genius of Burns.

Thus, briefly, have we noticed a few of those illustrious characters
who, by their arduous perseverance, have become their country'js
honour and their country's pride; and who have lighted the torch of
genius at the altar of learning; that torch which the hand of death
has not been able to extinguish, but which continues to bimi and
must ever bum with increasing lustre so long as truth shall be
esteemed, or beauty obtain admiration.

The illustrious characters who have paved the way for the

THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE. 223

advancement of the human species in literature and the arts, who
themselves have stood on the pinnacle of the temple of science and
of learning, have, with comparatively few exceptions, belonged to
that interesting class, the self-taught. Individuals whose fame has
been acquired by their own unaided exertions, and who seem to have
been deeply imbued with the sentiment of Cicero, where he says —
" In scientia excellere pulchrum putamus ; labi autem, errare,
decipi, et malum et turpe ducimus." Candidates for immortal
honours, who have just commenced the race, take courage from these
examples of persevering patience and unflinching toil so worthy of
your imitation. Science is as yet in her infancy, and those great
minds who have gone before you have left the fields of universal
knowledge still unexplored. They have only, as it were, penetrated
the outer wall of her sanctuary, and lo ! what a radiance has issued
forth ! What will it be when the veil of the temple shall be with-
drawn to illuminate the darkness of the soul of man. Oh ! think, we
beseech you, what an amount of blessedness you may be the means
of bestowing on your fellow men if you are diligent in improving
every opportunity of cultivating your minds; by employing those
hours in study which are generally devoted to idle conversation, you
may take your station in the first rank of these bright examples, as
kindred spirits ; it may even fall to your lot to dispel the twilight
daikness that still obscures the temple of science ; and then how
mightily will the progressive improvement of mankind be accele-
rated ! How will ignorance and superstition, crime and despotism,
bow like a bulrush before the wind ; and be aimihilated by the regene-
rating impulse of physical and mental energy which already begins to
herald the progress of genius, and the dominion of truth.

J. B.

Q24

THE SEASONS.

It is pleasant in Winter to witness, on high,
The sun beaming bright in a clear frosty sky ;
White smoke-staining ether, else stainless and free.
And hoary froast spread over meadow and tree.

It is pleasant in Spring-time to look from the door
Upon fields that are barren and dreary no more ;
On the trees' tender green, and the myriads of flowers
That start into life beneath sunbeams and showers.

It is pleasant in Summer to mark the rich glow.
The blue sky that tinges the waters below ;
The breeze that springs up at the close of the day.
And wafts to the sense the sweet odour of hay.

It is pleasant in Autumn to mark, o'er the plain.
Asleep 'mid the poppies, the heavy brown grain ;
The trees with lithe branches that bend to the ground.
Weigh *d down by the bursting fruit, tinted and round.

All, all have their beauty ; all, have their use !
Without Winter to check. Spring would never produce ;
Without clouds, even sunshine would not appear bright ;
By succession they yield the rich boon of delight.

J. M.

225

THE FEMALE SCULPTOR.
BY DR. EPPS.

AUTHOR or "HORA PHBENOLOOICJB. '

There are some persons whom emulation inflames in a way, so
to speak, spontaneous. There are some privileged souls who, in
situations the most unfavourable, shed forth, nevertheless, the
brightest flashes of genius, and arrive at the most extraordinary
successes. Witness the poor servant of whom Dr. Corona one day
told us the interesting history.

This physician, now dead, was himself a very good scholar. He
had been unfortunate on account of some political events, and was
obliged to leave Italy, the place of his birth. He took refuge at
Paris, where it was known how to appreciate his merit and talents,
which distinguished him in the exercise of his profession. Corona
was particularly remarkable in the pointedness of his anecdotes, and
by the vast erudition he had acquired. Upon any subject whereon
he was interrogated, his steady memory served him so well, that he
enchanted his hearers. This, which he related to us one night,
when met together to enjoy the channs of his conversation, may
serve as an example.

One of the most famous sculptors of Rome had a servant of the
name of Maria. This person, bom in a miserable cottage, of poor
and obscure parents, nevertheless made herself remarkable by the
elegance of her manners and the dignity of her gait. Picture to
yourself a young villager, with a physiognomy more striking than
beautiful, — an extraordinary vivacity in her look, — modest more-
over,;— ardently desirous of instruction, — hearing everything and
forgetting nothing, — busily attending to domestic duties in order
afterwards to give herself to pinsuits more worthy, — always pensive —
and passing from the silence of reverie to the bursts of enthusiasm, —
inaccessible, besides, to all the weaknesses of coquetry and of vanity,
and you \vill have a true idea of this astonishing woman, whose name
was made to be the subject of historj'. It is affinned, that by hearing,

E E

226 THE FEMALE SCULPTOR.

by stealth, tlie gi*eat men who came in the evening to converse with
her master, she was initiated into the mysteries of the art of sculpture.

What is wonderful in her history is, that the love of fame, under
circumstances apparently the least congenial took possession of her
in the lowest rank of human life.* She began at first by conceiving
the most lively admiration for the works of the celebrated man whom
she served : but soon she was tormented with the desire to be one
day ap])lauded by him whom she regarded almost to adoration.
The following was the stratagem to which she had recourse, and
which she confided to a very skilful artist, who frequented the house of
her master. She begged him to give her some lessons secretly, in the
short intervals that her domestic occupations allowed her. The
physician mentioned above was let into this important secret, and
immediately he declared himself her Maecenas. f This learned
philanthrojiist wished to contribute to the expenses of an instruction
as long as it was expensive. On her part, the diligent Maria neg-
lected nothing to render the services rendered to her by her two
benefactors profitable. Never did she relax from that passionate
emulation which was completely her master, and the effects of which
it was impossible for her to diminish. Her activity knew no relaxa-
tion : an unknown impulse seemed to direct all her faculties towards
the honourable goal to which she wished to attain.

Maria had one of those powerful imaginations in which all nature
seems in a certain way to be reflected. One is particularly surprised

♦ Gray, in his beautiful " Elegy |on a Country Churchyard," observes, with the
greatest truth, —

" Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,

The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute, inglorious Milton, here may rest, —
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood."
So it was with poor Maiia. Her mind had been formed in a mould of superior
excellence. Circumstances had been entirely against her : but Nature's dictates
made her disregard these, as will be seen from the sequel of her history. Nothing
is more delightful than to see talent overcome every obstacle. It is like a powerful
man fallen overboard, and manfully struggling with the billows ; now overwhelmed,
now rising, now drawing near the shore, now hurried away, and so on till he at
length reaches it. though perhaps he sinks at his arrival.

t Maecenas was a Eoman knight, who rendered himself celebrated by the encou-
ragement that he gave to men of letters.

THE FEMALE SCULPTOR. 227

to meet with qualities so eminent possessed by a person who had
never received any previous instruction. She herself said, that her
existence was dated only from the day when she dedicated herself to
the study of sculpture. Never was she found inactive. The desire
of success was to her a fixed idea : did she slacken, she ran to the
Vatican, when her inspirations were renewed. She was often found
in the churches at Rome, endeavouring to divine the high thoughts
of the great artists, by studying their master-pieces. She passed
whole hours at the pedestals of the ancient statues ; and that which
others beheld witli coolness, excited in her the deepest emotions.

Maria studied sculpture, not as an art, but as a science. She was
no longer the same, since she had left the country, to inhabit the
classic soil of genius. All truths were fruitful just in the proportion
that they sunk into her soul. Hers was not one of those barren
spirits that could contemplate coolly the ruins of Rome. Everything
is solemn in this city of inspiration : everything there elevates the
soul by the most noble and the most touching remembrances. Those
colonades, those obelisks, those mausoleums, those sarcophaguses, —
nothing is mute to the observing artist ; and from the tomb of so
many illustrious dead, flames as it were issue, wliich impart their
influence to the living.

The will is the most precious gift of genius. It may even be said,
that, it is the guarantee of success. Maria triumphed over every
obstacle, in the study of an art which appeared incompatible with the
weakness of her sex : but she was moved by the most energetic of
moral powers, — that of enthusiasm. Some used to calumniate her :
they pretended that the sentiment of love had peculiar influence
upon her excessive labours, to obtain the approbation of her master :
but Maria was swayed by a more noble desire. There is, besides,
in the study of the fine arts, something exciting feelings of devotion,
which purify the soul, and disengage it from every earthly motive.
Maria was inaccessible to vulgar passions, and it was in the bosom
of virtue, that she obtained all the ardour which ought to immortalize
her.

There are some truths which steal a hold upon our minds in a way
that cannot be explained : they are engraved everlastingly upon our
memories. Maria, who listened, so to say, at every door, heard her
master discourse with his scholars upon the force of moral expression

228 THE FEMALE SCULPTOR.

in the arts of imitation ; and as she greedily sought every impression
which could enable her to airive at great results, she did not lose a
single word. One day, when a banquet was celebrated on the occa
sion of the birth-day of her master, there arose a serious dispute
among the guests, on the subject of the pre-eminence of Sculpture
over Painting. Maria, who served at table, was present at this
interesting discussion, which contributed not a little to her instruc-
tion. Her zeal particularly redoubled, when they spoke in her
presence of the power of study, and of the high qualities which dis-
tinguish the opposite talents of Michael Angelo, and of Raphael.

Some one has said, that genius is only a greater or less aptness
for patience. IVIaria had an uncommon perseverance in that which
she undertook, and all the hours which she could steal from her
occupations were employed in the composition of that beautiful piece
of workmanship, which was about to astonish all connoisseurs. At
length, after two years of concealed but incessant labour, Maria
completed a statue of Minerva, which one might believe to be
animate. This production had not all that art could give, but all
that the soul communicates, — every thing expressive in the ideal
world, — all the majesty of celestial life.

Some time afterwards, the judges assembled in order to pronounce
their judgment, and to decree the palm in the midst of the multitude
of rival artists. A circumstance of particular interest in this anecdote
is, that the master of Maria presided at this memorable jury". All
the suffrages were decreed to this statue of Minerva, which had been
secretly conveyed to the assembly, and which discovered the germ of
me most remarkable talent: but no one had the least idea that it
could be the work of a woman. Maria, under the veil of incognito,
with the modest dress which became her humble condition, had
penetrated just into the gallery, where her master-piece was exposed
to the view of the curious. Astonished at herself, intoxicated with
glory and happiness, she enjoyed in the highest degree the eulogiums
which were lavishly bestowed upon her production. Not even a
critic came to disturb her triumph. All the spectators were charmed :
besides, we allow much to genius that conceals itself.

Let us add, that Maria experienced joy still more sweet, when,
being returned to the house of her master, she heard him, in the
presence of her friends, bestow the highest eulogiums on the crowned

THE FEMALE SCULPTOR. 229

Statue. He busied himself in vain conjectures upon the true author
of this anonymous work. He attributed it to a young artist who
gave the most happy hopes, and who had doubtless feared to make
himself known. But the admiration bestowed produced a nervous
agitation, which is resistless. Maria could not hear this concert of
praises without being moved almost to tears ; and it was thus that
her secret was divulged. Her master, who was far from supposing
that she had ever in the least studied the fine arts, remained some
time immoveable with surprise and compassion. He afterwards
complimented her with dignity upon the success which she had just
obtained, in declaring that he wished no longer to be served by her.
He even desired henceforth to contribute all his means in order to
the completion of her instruction, and assigned to her as the place
for her labours his own work room. Maria, confused, had no words
to express that which passed in her soul. The joy of Corona, her
friend, when she was conducted to the Capitol, was not less lively
than her own.

But, by the most deplorable catastrophe, Maria did not long enjoy
the advantages which so delightful a triumph had procured her.
She shone only for an instant, and was extinguished as a meteor.
Vanquished by labour and painful night watchings, she was seized
with consumption, and a short time afterwards was seen to sink under
the fatigues which she bad undergone. The physician Corona, who
had taken an active part in her success, bestowed upon her all his
attentive cares in this unhappy condition. But he could not prevail
to force death from that noble heart which had never beaten but for
glory ; and soon the laurels of Maria were covered with a funereal
crape. All who had known this interesting person, bewailed her
exceedingly. Corona related this history to show the ascendancy of
an example upon a great geniiis. It is then an innate disposition,
this ardour for the fine arts, this fever of imitation, which subdues us
during waking, which agitates us during sleep, and which makes us
to aim at excellence by the very nature of our faculties. Genius is
the gift of Heaven ; but it is to emulation, the influences which
fertilize it are owiucr.

230

BOTANICAL NOTICE FOR MARCH.
THE HYACINTH.

The common hyacinth, (scilla nutanus) deserves notice on account
of the interest taken in it for the sake of its beautiful flowers, and
the many varieties which cultivation has induced, rather than for
any particular service of which it is capable. The Dutch florists had at
one time upwards of 2,000 varieties of one species of hyacinth.

The hyacinth is of the natural order, asphodelea or asphodel
tribe, which also includes the onion, squil, garlick, &c., and is
remarkable for the extreme simplicity of the structure of all its parts.

The principal points to be attended to in this tribe are the peri-
anth or flower leaves, consisting of six pieces of similar form, size,
and colour, arranged in two rows, the outer one being the calyx and
the inner one the corrolla. There are six stamens, and one pistil ;
the ovarium, or seed deposit, is superior to the calyx, and divided
into three cells ; the seeds are numerous, and covered with a black
brittle skin. The stem arises from scaly bulbs, from the bottom of
which the roots are developed. Although, however, the bulbous
structure and herbaceous vegetation is common to the asphodel tribe,
yet, there are exceptions, especially in some plants which grow
between the tropics, such as the Dracana Draco, of the Canary
Islands, from which the Dragon's Blood of commerce is obtained.

There are points in which the plants belonging to this tribe, and
growing in our own climate, differ. In the onion all the parts of
the perianth are distinct, but in the hyacinth they cohere nearly
to their points; and in other genera they are completely grown
together.

The hyacinth is of the Linnasan class, hexandria, having six
stamens, and of the order monogynia, having one pistil : its leaves
are long and narrow, their veins running parallel. The cluster of
flowers is drooping ; the flowers themselves are pendulous cylindrical-
bell-shaped ; the petals are reflexed at the points, of a blue colour,
emitting a sweet fragrance. It is generally found wild in gi'oves and

THB HYACINTH. 231

thickets, growing very plentiful in Welton-wood and dales, and also
in the neighbourhood of Cottingham. The stalk is generally about
a foot in height.

I have said that this plant has six stamens and one pistil ; and as
I promised to describe these parts or organs, I shall now do so as
briefly as possible. Tl# stamens may be called the fertilizing system,
and have been looked upon, from the time of Linnaeus, as the male
organs of the plant. On the same ground the pistil is called the fruc-
tifying system, and has also been looked upon as the female organ of
the plant.

The stamens are those parts placed immediately within the floral
envelope ; take a hyacinth for the purpose of illustration, or a lily,
where we find there are sLx ; but they diflTer exceedingly in number
in the various orders of plants. It is worthy of remark, that as a
general rule, they are the same in number in the same tribe or class
of plants, and it was upon this that Linnseus formed his classification
of plants, called the Linnaean or artificial classification. In the
ginger and glass-wort tribes, for instance, there is always one
stamen ; in the speedwell, ash, snd sage tribes there always two
stamens ; in the valerian, saflJron, lily, grass, and com tribes there
are elways three stamens ; in the parsley, carrot, nightshade, and flax
tribes there are always five stamens ; ond so we might go on to an
unlimited number. But Linnaeus was only guided by the number
of stamens in his first thirteen classes ; in the eleventh class they
number from twelve to nineteen ; in the twelfth class they consist of
any number above twenty, if they arise from the rim of the calyx,
and in the thirteenth class the stamens are numerous, but arise from
the receptacle, as in the poppy. The next ten classes are regulated
by the relative position of the stamens on the flower, such as having
two long and two short, or four long and two short, or in being com-
bined in two sets or bundles, or so united as to form a tube, as is
seen in what are called the compound flowers as in the dandelion,
thistle, &c., or in being situated on separate flowers from the pistil,
yet on the same plant, as in the oak, beach, &c., or in the pistils
being situate on the flowers of one plant and the stamens on the
flowers of another, as is the case in the willow, poplar, hop, juniper,
&c. ; the last, or twenty-fourth class, consbts of the cryptogamic

232 THE HYACINTH.

plants, such as ferns, lichens, and mosses, in which the stamens and
pistils are either imperfectly or not at all known.

To a person commencing the study of botany, and desirous of
making himself acquainted with the names and characters of tlie
plants he may meet with in his walks, the Linnsean system will be of
the greatest use. To count the number oflktamens and pistils is
generally a very easy process ; this at once establishes the class and
order, and nothing then remains but to determine the genus and
species, which a little practice in the examination of characters will
enable any intelligent person to do, with the aid of books in which
these are laid down.

The stamen consists of two parts, the filament and anther; the
filament is to the anther what the foot-stalk is to the leaf, it is that
on which the anther rests and through which it obtains nutriment for
its growth and support. On the point of the filament is placed the
anther, which, in the lily, is a narrow reddish-brown body, having a
deej) funow passing dowTi its longer diameter, and being thus sepa-
rated into two parallel lobes. In course of time the sides of the lobe
contract and separate at the furrow, which consequently opens and
allows a brownish-orange powder to fall out, or projects it upon the
summit of the pistil, which is always within the inclosure of "the
stamens when both are on the same flower ; the two sides of the lobe
when they thus separate are called valves, and the furrow itself the
suture or line of dehiscence. The pollen, then, is considered the
fertilizing material of the vegetable, and it is only when this is cast
on the stigma, or summit of the pistil, and thence conveyed to the
ova.rium, or ovula deposit, that fecundation can take place, the seed
be produced, and reproduction of the vegetable effected.

The fructifying system, or pistil, or female portion of the plant,
by all of which designations it is known, occupies the centre of the
flower and is the part round which all the other parts are arranged.
It is divided into three portions; the upper portion or stigma, the
middle portion or style, and the lower portion or ovary (germen of
the old writers), which contains the ovules.

The appearance of the stigma is very various in the different tribes
of plants. In the saffron-crocus we have already observed it to be of
a beautiful red colour, of a fragrant odour, and hanging in shreds

THE HYACINTH.

1839

over the sides of the flower ; in the pansy it is a hollow globe, with
a small aperture on one side ; in the grasses it is a tufted hairy body
something like a brush ; in the orchis it is a hollow basin placed at
the summit of the column and besmeared over with a gluey substance
in order to cause adherence of the pollen when cast from the anther.
It is, therefore, an established fact that for the purpose of vegetable
reproduction there must of necessity be, as in animals, a conjunction
of the sexes. This was discovered at a very early period in the cul-
tivation of the date palm and the fig, when it was found that those
flowers of the date in which the beginning of a fruit was discoverable,
would never arrive at maturity unless sprinkled with the powder
secreted in the flowers of other individuals of the same species of
palm, and hence they considered the latter to be males and the
former females, which was true. Wild figs again were found to be
necessary, by coming in contact with it, to enable the fruit of the
cultivated fig to mature ; and hence they also supposed the former
to be males and the latter females, which, however, was not true.
Caprification, as the hanging of wild over the cultivated figs is
tenned, does not depend upon the powder of the wild fig coming in
contact with the fruit of the cultivated fig, but upon a totally diflferent
circumstance, for both figs are in reality perfect in themselves.
What makes the act of caprification necessary is this, — that the
flowers of a fig are inclosed in a fleshy case, which finally becomes
the fruit; and, from some unknown cause, does not readily ripen
unless injured by the puncture of an insect. Now the wild fig
abounds with a little fly called a cynips, and consequently when it is
brought into the vicinity of the cultivated fig, the latter is attacked
by the cynips and thus enabled to mature.

That my assertion is true, viz. that there must be a conjunction
of the sexes, will be proved by a very simple experiment. Take an
apple-blossom, and cut out the anthers before they burst, and no
apple will be formed; or in the cucumber plant, in which some of
the flowers bear stamens, only, and others only pistils; if the
stamens are cut away, the pistils instead of swelling out immediately
after the flower has faded will turn yellow, wither and drop oflT;
so that we are surrounded with proofs of the necessity of the
anthers to fertilize the pistils. When the two are on one flower it is
easy to conceive how the pollen is conveyed to the stigma ; and it is

F F

234 ON THE KEEPS OF ANCIENT CASTLES.

worthy of remark that, as a general rule, in flowers which are erect
the stamens are longer than the pistil ; but in those which are pen-
dulous, as the fuchsia, the pistil is longer than the stamens.

In plants in which the stamens and pistils are on separate flowers,
but on the same plant, or on separate plants, then it is that the vege-
table economy is so much indebted to the rambles of the bee, the
butterfly, or any other insect taking its summer's day airing, either
in search of food or pleasure ; these little insects, "roving about from
flower to flower," convey the pollen from the anther of the one to the
stigma of the other, thus answering the beautiful designs of an all-
wise and beneficent Creator.

J. H. G.

ON THE KEEPS OF ANCIENT CASTLES.

On an eminence in the centre, commonly, though not always,
stood the keep or dungeon of ancient castles ; sometimes, as in the
relation of the seige of Bedford Castle, emphatically called the tower;
it was the citadel, or last retreat of the garrison, often sun'ounded
by a ditch and occasionally with an outer wall garnished with small
towers. In large castles it was generally a square tower of four or
five stories high, having turrets at each angle ; in these turrets were
the staircases, and frequently, as at Dover and Rochester Castles, a
well. If, instead of square, the keep or dungeon happened to be
round, it was called a juUiet, from a vulgar opinion that large round
towers were built by Julius Caesar.

The walls of this edifice were always of an extraordinary thickness,
which has enabled them to outlive the other buildings, and to with-
stand the united injuries of time and weather ; the keeps or dungeons
being almost the only parts remaining of our ancient castles.

235

POESY AND SLEEP.

X PREE TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAM BAYLE MOUILLARD.

"Avenir: mot pxiissantqui charme on desespere
** Que la bouche en tremblant commence sur la terre,
" Que la penssee acheve aux cieuz."

When fervid youth's delicious dreams declin'd

My pensive head, with soft seducing power.
The far-off future rose before my mind,

Imag'd in likeness of a budding flower ;
Closed o'er the charmed dish each petal lay.

But, one by one, expanded to the light.
And deep the bliss that odorous centre bright

Reveal'd, unbosom 'd to the solar ray.
Even such the charm, the depth, the tenderness.
Of those young hearts whose union God doth bless. —
Love heard my sigh, and brought th' auspicious hours ;
Love crown'd my brow with hymeneal flowers ;

A tranquil happiness but full of life. —
Dreaming again, new thoughts my breast inspire,
A brighter future still my soul's desire.

More ardent hopes, with stem ambition rife.
Unlike that purer joy so gentle and serene.

' O let me live to place my name on high,

' With those bright stars whose rays can never die !'

How vain the wish ! — Fame's wreath is never wrought

For woman's brow. — Begone deluding dream ! —
But, oh ! 'twas passing sweet ! — that glorious thought !

W. H.

236

RUINS IN YORKSHIRE.

BY J. G.
MOUNT-GRACE PRIORY.

In the parish of East Harlsey, wapentake of Birdsforth, North
Riding, seven miles from Northallerton, nine from Stokesley, and
eleven from Thirsk, are situated the romantic ruins of Mount-Grace
Priory, which was founded and endowed in the reign of Richard the
second, who at the special instance of Thomas de Holland, duke of
Surrey, granted to Edmund, Prior of the House of Mount-Grace
and the monks thereof (who were of the Carthusian order) certain
lands and possessions in the county of Leicester and Southampton-
shire, for its support.

The vale in which these remarkable ruins are situated is shut in
on the south-east by a lofty hill clothed with wood, which adds a
solemn grandeur to the scene, and the ruins of the monastery, though
at no great distance from the road, being sheltered from public view
"embosomed high in tufted trees," escapes the general notice of
strangers.

The building is approached on the west by a narrow lane, leading
from the main road into the quadrangle of the monastery, the outer
walls of which enclose about three acres of ground and are still
standing thickly mantled with ivy.

The church, which stood on the north-side of the first court, and
is now in ruins, was in the form of a cross, with the tower, which is
still perfect, rising in the centre, supported by four light gothic
arches. Besides the eastern window (which, as well as the walls of
the chancel, is now levelled with the gi'ound) the church was lighted
on the west by a door under a pointed arch, and from the nave, on
the north, was an arched doorway, for the admittance of the religious
from the cloisters. The entrance into the chancel was through the
arches supporting the tower. The vestry room appears to have been
on the north-side of the chan:el, which, like every other part of the
building, is now roofless.

The second or inner court is surrounded by double walls, and

MOUNT-GRACE PRIORY. 237

contained the cells of those solitary monks, the doors of which, though
now walled up, may be distinctly traced, there being four on the east,
five on the west, and five on the north ; on the side of each door
there is'a small zigzag opening in the wall, communicating with the
apartment, which has no doubt been made in order that food might
be conveyed into the cell without the person being seen.

Around this court, which measures eighty paces from north to
south, and seventy-three from east to west, there appears to have
been a shade or covering to shelter the religious in their processions;
and in the west wall, imder an arched recess, is the cistern where a
pump seems to have been fixed, and resembles one in a vaulted
vestiy at York Minster ; this was probably for the priest to perform
his ablutions in previous to commencing divine service.

From the north-east comer of this court there is a small stream
of clear water, which at present runs in an open channel till it
reaches the centre of the court, from whence it is arched over and
conveyed beneath the building until it comes in front of the farm-
house, where it breaks out and terminates in a fine flowing well. On
the south of the first court or quadrangle the faint vestiges of many
buildings appear.

At some distance, on the summit of the mountain that shelters the
monastery on the east, are the ruins of an ancient building called
the Ladys Chapel, which was founded A.D. 1515; the edifice has
been but of small dimensions, and from the present remains appears
to have contained nothing remarkable in point of architecture ; the
road from the monastery to this chapel which leads up the steep
brow of a lofty mountain is rugged, and by the growth of trees
rendered at present a painful and difficult ascent.

Nimierous miracles are reported to have been performed at this
chapel, such as the sudden recovery to life of a child that had been
for some hours dead ; the immediate cure of many who were afflicted
with painful maladies, but these storis wear so much the appearance
of superstition that 1 forbear entering further into them.

Such are the prominent features of these venerable ruins, every
part of which, even the loose fragments that lie scattered about, are
luxuriantly covered with ivy, and conspire with the surrounding
scenery to impress the mind with that calm composure and pleasing
melancholy which arises from visiting the sacred ruins of time.

238

THE BARK.

I watch'd a bark one summer's day

Go forth all deck'd with colours gay ;

Her masts were tall, and her sails were white ;

The sky was clear, and the sun shone bright ;

And as o'er the waters she glided along

Merrily sounded the mariner's song.

I thought, then, as she left the shore.
How many barks had gone before
With streamers as gay, and sails as white.
And crews with hearts as meriy and light.
That had never retum'd to glide again
Over the calm bay she was leaving then.

Such was her fate ! — the sun sank down.
That night was dark, a threat'ning frown ;
Lower 'd o'er the main, the wild winds blew.
And the waves dash'd o'er that gallant crew,
"Who scarcely had bidden their friends farewell
Ere the north wind howl'd their funeral knell.

Her tall masts rent, her beauty fled.
Her crew were number'd with the dead.
She was dash'd to atoms, and drift away, — •
The sport of the ocean's angry spray ;
And her crew left to rest in their briny bed
'Til the deep, deep sea shall give up its dead.

CHESS PROBLEM.

No. VI.

BY Mr. W. G. COLDWELL.

BLACK.

WHITE.

WTiite to move and win.

METEOROLOGICAL TABLE. SUMMARY FOR JANUARY, 1844.

BAROMETER.

Monthly Mean 29-78

Mean at 9 a.m 29-78

Ditto 3 p.m 29-78

Ditto 9 p.m 29-77

Maximum on 15th 30 25

Minimum on 6th 28-94

Range 1-32

THERMOMETER.

Monthly Mean 36o

Mean of Maxima 40

Ditto Minima 33

Maximum on 5th 50

Minimum on 3rd 20

Range 30

WIND.

N

0 Days S

1

NE

0 „ SW

5

E

1 „ W

18

SE

1 » NW

3

Days

RAIN— 1-59 inches.

WEATHER

Clear

Cloudy

Overcast 0

Showers 9

Rain 3

Snow 4

Frost 11

Hoar frost 1

Misty I

Stormy 1

5 Day*

GENERAL REMARKS.

The temperature of this month has been about the mean for a number of years,
and the weather very changeable. There have been no long continued storms.
On the evening of the 29th occurred a vioient storm of wind from the south west
which has occsioned some damage to buildings.

Infantine diseases continue to prevail.

240

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THE HULL

LITERAllY AND PHILOSOPHICAL

MISCELLANY.

APRIL.

CONTENTS ;

Simon Flat's Courtship 1

< >n Feudalism !)

Faths of Por V 13

Hand yF.yet.. .15

Tlu' Muid.-ns Grave .17

'I'hd' Two Monmuents ... . ."21

The Primrose 'i"!

Situation of Women in Society 29

Wressle Castle 32

The Man who sold liis Shadow 8')

Chess '

f.ONDON; SLMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.

liLl^Slll,iJ 15\ ^•AMIIAj JL'llil.

ANO SOLD 1!Y

W. 8X£PBEKSO^ PURDON ASJD

MARY NOnLK, MAIiKF.T-I'LACi: ; It. (KJDDARD, SI LVLIl STREET ;

AND J. LEXO, SAVILK-STREET.

J8I 1.

II 1 ( • 1 ; s 1 X P 1

::^g^'

--m^

TO OUR HEADERS.

Our readers will bear in mind that we do not identify ourselves
with the opinions of our con-espondents, on questions admitting of
discussion. It is our wish that the Miscellany should he an available
medium for the expression of opinions on Literary and Scientific
subjects.

NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS/

Arthur — Under consideration

M. J. — " The Monk" in our next.

Communications from A. F., L., f ., and ***., have been received

and will meet with early attention.

*^* Papers not adapted to the pages of the " Miscellany,'' wil!
be returned to the author?, where addresses are ^iven.

THE HULL

LITERARY & PHILOSOPHICAL MISCELLANY.

No. Vir. APRIL. Vol. II.

SIMON FLAT'S COURTSHIP.

BY SLIM SLAM SLUM, ESQ.

Yes, in no other place than Yorkshire, where all the people are
considered sharps, lived Simon Flat the tailor, an individual of no
hi«;h standing in society — being in height from five feet three to that
of five feet four, with a body rather larger in proportion to the pair
of understandings which supported it; and as to his physiognomy,
why I only lament that Lavater himself had never seen it, for
being no proficient in the science myself, I cannot describe him to
advantage ; but what I know is, that it is not unlike a child's fiddle,
with a coui)le of garret windows in. Nevertheless, this said Simon
was possessed of that big bump of majesty (or, phrenological ly speak-
ing), self-esteem — for he ever considered himself a man of import-
ance in the sphere in which he moved.

Well now, gentle reader, would you be astonished or surjnised
that such an individual should, to use die common-place j)hrase,
" fall hi love." Be your decision as it may, his penetrating day-
lights were once so fixed upon tlie features of a buxom maid, full

2 SIMON FLATS COURTSHIP.

MX UK iii\s luller Uuui himself, that it opened his heart to tlie sensi-
bilities of love, and made such an impression upon her feelings, that
her affections were set on fire immediately by the electricity of poor
Shnon's peepers. #

Weeks and months passed away, and found these lovers enjoyiug
their houi*s of bliss in perfect tranquillity, with but one exception,
namely, that from his poj)ularity among the children of the ])lace, he
was often shouted after, which rather affected his pride; and many
are the times that he has bid his fair one

" Lead on, lead on,
While these youngsters have gone"

And then would he make an attack upon the miniature troops, and
make them scamper in all directions.

But these comforts were not of long continuance. His betrothed,
from some circumstance or other, removed to a distance of twelve
miles. Some say it was to escape the brawlings of schoolboys ;
others, that it was for the benefit of her health, it being her native
place : she went, however, and left a mighty impression upon poor
snip's feelings : he felt deserted and alone, whilst all around looked
happy ; and as the gloom of melancholy settled upon him, he wept,
because the only individual who admired him had " left him alone
in his glory."

In the present stage of the story, Simon often meditated, and
wished to biing his thoughts to an anchor, in order to decide upon
what course to adopt. To give her up was the wreck of his feelings;
to walk twelve miles was a penance of no joke ; and in connection
with the latter were many things which seemed to bear against him —
the ^ta'e of the weather, snowing and blowing — the roughness
of the road — and again, the anticipation of what kind of a
reception he would have, as he had heard that her friends had issued
a proclamation that no lovers would be admitted ; nevertheless he
determined to go. The day fixed was the approaching Saturday ;
the hour, immediately he had made his draw ; and the conveyance,
his own patent shanks. In the interim, Simon did as all others do —
lived upon hope, and, like a child expecting Sunday, counting how
many times he had to go to bed, and how often to get up ; until at
length the long looked for day arrived, clothed in a dark and dreaiy

SIMON FLAT S COORTSHIP. 3

mantle, and wearing a grim and threatening look. This was a watery
prospect ; yet he would go, and go he did.

The old church clock was just striking nine as Simon had finished
shaking hands and bidding adieu to his fellow workmen, with all the
parting expressions of an individual who might be going a voyage to
the Antipodes. His garments were the best his wardrobe could
furnish (though no doubt altered some dozen times to accommodate
as many different fashions), and his heart as light as the treasures of
his pockets. He sallied off with the smile of hope beaming upon
his face ; and the expectation of a warm reception seemed to have an
effect upon his legs — for the rapidity of his steps might be taken for
those of a metropolitan fireman.

For one single mile he kept on that part of the highway which is
allotted to beasts of burden ; but, thinking to shorten the length of his
jouniey, he struck across some pathless fields, steering at the same
time in the direction which he thought would bring him out at the
spot where he intended to take in a cargo of provisions. But " true*
love never did run smooth," says the adage. Neither did Simon
Flat on this occasion ; for the night being dark, and having no com-
pass, he was like a luckles-s bark upon the trackless sea ; for on
hurrying across the second field, with his head downwards to escape
the pelting of the rain, he came in contact with a tall oak which stood
in the middle. This stunned him for a moment ; but gaining his
self-possession, he bawletk out, " Oh ! I beg your pardon, sir ; but
would you be kind enough to inform me in what latitude I am ?"
The insulted personage breathed not a word, and the night being
dark, Simon could not see him ; so after waiting a moment for the
pardon of his offence, he retraced his steps until he gained a footing
upon the free highway.

Half-past ten arrived, and found Simon comfortably seated by the
fireside of the " Traveller's Rest," relating his adventures and
examirting his' dinged beavdr. A'fler taking in a considerable share
of eatables and drinkables, and a due caution from the Host to beware
of robbers, who sometimes frequented this part of the road, he pur-
sued his journey with many fears.

Imagination is undoubtedly one of the most extraordinary prin-
ciples of man. Simon's imagination begun to work before he had

4 SIMON FLAT S COURTSHIP.

proceeded far, and he thought he heard a robber — no, a band of
robbers, and their instruments of destruction rattling one against
another ! They approached nearer ! more distinctly did the rattling
gi*ate upon his ear ! An escape, if possible, was now necessary ; and
in a moment Simon was crouching in the hedge bottom, and waiting
the exit of those blood-thirsty villains. Moments passed on, and
seemed to take their time as if they were hours. The noise sounded
nearer and nearer, and poor snip shut his eyes, thinking they could
not see him ! At length they came so near that he felt their touch,
and in that critical moment he grasped the supposed thief, when lo !
the being he grasped was nothing more than a poor donkey, with a
chain and clog to his leg, straying from his own fold I On making
this discovery, Simon's heart throbbed with less violence, and he
went his way with thankfulness.

The solemn hour of midnight had passed, and the birth of mom
had just been celebrated, when he arrived at the little village of
*****. He dreamed no more of fears, and thought of nothing but a
hearty welcome ; and with the importance of a ivhole man he, knocked
at the door of his fair one's dwelling, and anxiously looked through the
window (shutters were not used) ; when bye and bye he beheld the
glimmering of a light, and in another moment saw two tall figures
coming towards the door — one with an old rusty sword, the other
with a cai'bine, said to have been used in the civil wai's. Now these
men-at-arms were no others than his intended brothers-in-law ; but
he knew it not, and off he went and waited until he had gained suffi-
cient courage to make another attempt, which was done at the back
of the establishment ; for seeing a light in a small window, and the
form of his fair one pass to and fro, he determined to reach it by
mounting an old tub which served as the depository for pigs' meat,
and then to the top of a small building which served as a dairy, but
his mind was again roused by hearing his own footsteps, which he
mistook for those of his pursuers. He made up his mind for another
retreat. He leaped ; but alas ! that awful leap ! It was into the tub
of pigs' meat ; and when he came out he was like a drowned dog.
He ran down the garden, but his escape was procrastinated by several
falls over cabbage stumps ; however, he cleared the wall, and ran —
and for anything I know he is running yet.

ON THE INFLUENCE OF F E U D A L T S :\r

OK THE

MODEBN INSTITUTIONS & SOCIETY OF ENGLAND.

BY ROBT. WELLS, ESQ.

A I'njirr read before the Hull Literary and Philosophical Society,
Tuesday, 0th April, 1842.

To every lover of England's history, the word feudalism must
excite recollections of the deepest interest. To trace the develop-
ment of that system of political and civil power which for centuries
ruled Europe with an arm of might, which raised the spirit of
military prowess that shone conspicuous in our annals, and transmitted
it through every successive age — which, if it gave not birth to,
nurtured and matured the genius of chivalry, though long extinct in
name, yet survives in spirit — which, though once the stem ruler of a
crowd of slaves, yet at last the instrument of a nation's freedom, —
must indeed be attractive to every reflecting Briton.

0\ir earliest recollections teem with the traditions of feudal
grandeur ; and the ruins of every castle on which we gaze, excite
a train of reminiscences dear to us in the days of our youth. One
cannot pace those deserted halls, or look on those dismantled walls
where once the stalwart Baron of England's feudal glory kept his
court (almost a sovereign within his domain) \\ithout desiring to linger
on a spot, the scene of many a season of festivity, — of knightly
courtesy or political strife. Sorrow for departed gieatness may for a
moment shade the brow, but will soon be dispelled by the sober
thought that a nation's welfare might perhaps have required the
destruction of what was once so noble and imposing ; and the calm
consideration of the elements of that system — of the vices it
nourished — of the injustice it created and upheld, great indeed in
comparison with the civil advantages it unfolded, will lead to the
conviction that Britain's greatness was best ensured by feudalism's

C ON TlIK INl'UKNCK OF TliUDALISM,

fall, — and that fall, gradual as it was, could not be accomplished
without leaving behind it some traces of the system deeply engiaven
upon the habits or manners of our people, and stamped in almost
every institution of our country.

The system of feudalism, was a system of gradual subordination
and dependance, originating in beneficiary grants of land by the
northern conquerors of Europe to their officers and soldiers upon the
express condition of protection on the one hand, and service on the
other; and that condition with v\l the fruitful incidents of power or
convenience, was ultimately ramified in all the relations of life, — and
when the Norman Conqueror introduced it fully into England, (for
it was not unknown even in the times of the Saxons) his division of
the land, excbisive of his royal demesnes, into sixty thousand
knights' fees implanted it irrevocably there.

In this partition William exhibited his usual sagacity, in thereby
gratifying and rewarding his companions in conquest, and embodying
a militia for the national defence. The creation of the order of
the greater barons and other the immediate tenants of the crown,
the lesser knights' fees carved by them out of their extensive original
grants, and the subinfeudation by these latter among inferior vassals;
each tenant as he was called rendering homage, suit and sei-vice to
the lord of whom he directly held, who in his turn was under the
same conditions to the sovereign as paramount lord, all combined
to fonn a gradation of classes mutually dependant on each other for
protection and reciprocal semce, but all subservient and under
fealty to that sovereign, the creator and head of that compact, the
fountain of honour, the protector, leader, and ruler of them all. By
the tenns of that compact, the sovereign could summon these his
military tenants into the field at a moment's notice ; each lord in
capite or mesne, each tenant mediate or immediate being bound to
attend at the hazard of forfeiting his estate in defauft.

The ransom of the lord's person When needed ; the feudal incidents
of aids to him in war, or on the knighting of his son, or the marriage
of his eldest daughter ; of payment of reliefs on the assumption of
an inheritance ; of yielding the primer seisins or first fruits of the
inheritance ; of the lord's right to the wardship of an heir and the
receipt of his income during his minority, and of giving the hand in

ON THE INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM. 7

jnaiTiage of his female ward ; of fines on the alienation of a fief or
fee ; of escheats to the lord on the death of the tenant without heirs,
and forfeiture of the fee to him on the felony or default of a tenant ;
of the lord's right to hold his courts of justice, and to compel the
attendance of his tenants therein ; — these and many other enactments
of the institution, though once in full vigour and long since declined
have left their traces in the modem institutions and customs of the
land.

No order of the state was exempt from this system, all were under
its subjection from the highest baron to the poorest serf — churchmen
or laymen — freemen or bondmen, that system held all within its
sphere and defined the rights and liabilities of all. The effects of
such a system were both beneficial and injurious ; beneficial in matur-
ing and upholding that martial spirit for which our ancestors were so
illustrious, and in maintaining if not creating that sjiirit of chivalry
which prompted them to deeds of entei-prize and renown; and inju-
rious in raising one body of men who seemed by theii' actions but to
live for themselves, a chosen class, the imperious rulers of a popula-
tion of dependants or slaves. These latter effects have long since
vanished under the force of political circumstances, which freed from
t]pir thraldom the stout peasantry of our Isle, and placed them in
that position to which they were naturally entitled ; but the fonner
effects have survived the death of the institutions which excited them,
and are infused into the elements of our modem society.

This brief sketch of the nature of our feudal institutions is neces-
sary as a preface to the consideration of the subject of this Essay.

Although it will be necessary for me in this paper to allude to
both political and religious institutions in this country so far as
they have any connection with feudalism, yet in alluding to them I
shall simply state what I believe to be facts, without venturing to offer
or desiring to elicit any remarks upon the propriety or impropriety
of our present political or religious government ; being ever mind-
ful of the wisdom which dictates this society's law, prohibiting
the discussion of religious or political subjects. I shall therefore
divide this essay into three heads, by considering the influence of
of feudalism upon the political, religious, and civil stale of our
country.

8 ON Till- INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM.

Fh*st. — Its political state. — Under this division, the nature of the
High Court of Parliament ]n-iniarily presents itself to our view. In
the earlier ages of feudalism the third estate of the realm did not
exist; the parliament then consisting of the sovereign and the barons,
who composed the King's gi*eat council. The present House of Lords,
spiritual and temporal, must deduce its origin from the feudal system ;
whereby every baron and every owner cf a knight's fee being tenant
in capite to the crown, was bound to attend and had the privilege of
attendance as a right, in his sovereign's court to consult upon the
national affairs. It was a peculiarity of that system, a principle of
the antient northern freedom that secured this privilege to every
military tenant. The usual services of every tenant of the crown,
were knights service, or the necessity of serving the sovereign for
forty days annually, in civil or foreign war, with the seven other
incidents of aids, reliefs, primer seisins, wardship, marriage, Jincs
or alienation of the estate or fief, and escheat ; and any services
required beyond these, whether payable, or to be rendered by the
barons, or their vassals ; in short, whatever extraordinary measures
were necessary for the common weal could only be imposed by their
lord the king, by their advice and with their consent. And for nearly
eight hundred years this principle has existed and still suiTives 9k
full force, not exclusively however, since the erection of the House
of Commons; for every act of parliament bears still the expressions,
" Be it enacted by the King's most excellent Majesty, by and with
the advice and consent of the lords spiritual and temporal, &c."

The lay peers held their seats by virtue of their baronies, and the
archbishops, bishops, and mitred abbots, also held theirs by the same
title. Summoned to parliament in right of the temporal baronies which
they hold or are supposed to hold, the prelates now take their scats
as lords of parliament and not as peers of the realm.

The most striking feature in the political system of England, and
indeed of Europe, was the feudal constitution of the landed aristoc-
racy possessing peculiar privileges, exclusive immunities, and many
of them almost sovereign power; for the nobles of this countiy, at one
period, both awed their king and ruled his peoi)le. As the feudal
companions of their chief they had a right to sit along with him on
all trials, whether civil or criminal, occuring within the limits of their

ON THE INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM. V

jurisdiction, aiid the only legal mode of punishing ihem for crime
was upon conviction in their own court, by their own equals or peers
(pares). And such is still the case; a lord of parliament, as has
been most recently shewn (in the case of the Earl of Cardigan) must
be tried by the House of Peers, who decide his guilt or innocence
upon their honour,— thus preserving that chivalric feeling which in
the days of feudalism was declared, or assumed to be, the only test
of their actions. And here I may notice that the titles of nobility,
such as duke, marquis, eari, &c., &c., are all of feudal origin ; these
titles of honour, being fiefs in themselves, granted at first for life and
subsequently like the knights fees, in inheritance, have still an-
nejied to them some of the feudal incidents, viz. — homage and
fealty, forfeiture on attainder and descent by primogeoiluie, generally
amongst heirs male.

However well calculated this system might originally have been for
the formation of a national militia, yet in the course of two centuries
after the conquest, the sovereign found it inadequate to meet the
exigencies of the state. The number of military tenants had much
decreased, the practice of compounding for personal service by
pecuniary payments or scutages (so called from the derivative of
scutum, a shield) which was too frequently withheld on the plea of
prescriptive exemption, the very limited period during which this
military aid could be compelled, and even when compelled, the dis-
organized and undisciplined state of the forces thus raised, shewed
the expediency of having inoi-e plentiful means of embodying and
])aying a national army. This state and other necessities induced
the king to look elsewhere than to his nobles for assistance. The
crown demesnes were beginning to be limited by too frequent grants to
favourites, the towns in tlie royal jurisdiction were assuming increased
importance by the advantages of commerce, and after that the lesser
barons and landed gentry, by their representatives for the counties,
had been summoned to the Great Council, the burgesses were ulti-
mately considered of sufficient importance to be taxed by a parlia-
ment to which they by their representatives were invited. The king
was glad indeed to have the opportunity of enlisting the lower classes
on his side against the increasing power of the nobles, and these
classes in return felt. the advantage of their now position in parlly
freeing them from baronial oppression. Thus the evils of feudalism

B

10 ON THE INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM.

contributed to their own eradication, and the burgesses^under the care
of the sovereign, were enabled to take some share in the legislation
of their country.

Still more firmly to attach them to the interests of the crown
against the aristocratical presumption/ Charters of Incorporation
were granted to the principal boroughs vesting the election of the
municipal body in the burgesses themselves ; a stroke of policy,
admirably adapted at that time to aid the royal design, which might
more readily be supported by the corporations, who, by their influ-
ence, might secure the return of such members for the borough as
would be required. We are proud to remember that Kingston-upon-
Hull was the first chosen spot for this new element of regeneration ;
its charter by Henry VI. separating it completely from the county
of York, and giving it privileges utterly incompatible with the feudal
subjection. By the effect of this charter and prior charters (not of
incoiporation) the barons' court could no longer affect its burgesses,
and the right of pleading and being impleaded in their own jurisdic-
tion, created the Court of Record of our Mayor and Sheriff, which
still exists with advantage to our townsmen.

One curious badge of feudalism yet remains in the privilege
granted by the carta deforesta in the reign of Henry III. in favour
of every lord spiritual and temporal summoned to parliament, who
passing through the king's forests " may both in going and returning
kill one or two of the king's deer, without warrant, in view of the
forester, if he be present, or on blowing a horn if he be absent, that
he may not seem to take the king's venison by stealth." Absurd as
such a privilege may now seem, yet on its reservation, when the
forest laws of the Normans were so rigorously and oppressively
maintained, such license was considered as a high mark of favour.

The mode in which the royal assent is given to any bill in parlia-
ment also exhibits an instance of feudal usage ; in the words of
Blackstone, " The king's answer is declared by the clerk of the par-
liament in Norman French, a badge it must be owned (now the only
one remaining) of conquest, and which one would wdsh to see fall
into total oblivion, unless it be reserved as a solemn memento to
remind us that our liberties are mortal, having once been destroyed
by a foreign force. If the king consents to a public bill the clerk
usually declares " le ray le veut," (the king wills it) : if to a private

ON THE INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM. Ji 1

bill " soitfait comme il est desire ; " .when a bill of supply is passed
it is carried up and presented to the king by the speaker of the House
of Commons, and the royal assent is thus expressed " le roy renter cie
ses loyal subjects, accepte lour benevolence et aussi le veut" And
here it may bo remarked (though somewhat in digression) that the
Norman French language might once ( if the conqueror's wish could have
been gratified) have been imposed upon this land, it was the language
of the court, of judicial proceedings, and until the reign of Richard
III. the statutes were generally written in it This will conclude my
observations upon the political institutions of England.

Second. — The remnants of feudal associations relative to the
Clergy of this country must next claim our attention. As I have
before generally stated, most of the tenitory of England was subject
to the feudal law. William first knew well how firmly the clergy
could cement his newly acquired power, and the grant to them of
more than one-third of the fiefs proves how much he valued their ad-
herence and how well he repaid them for it. But yet they held their
domains under no peculiar or privileged tenure, and the church
could claim no exemption from the feudal services, other than the
non-liability to personal military service which was commuted by
pecuniary payments. Prior to the conquest the clergy had no sepa-
rate ecclesiastical jurisdiction 3 spiritual as well as temporal causes
being- tried in the county courts, when the bishop of the diocese and
the alderman or earl jointly presided ; but the Conqueror's charter at
the instance of his foreign clergy separated the jurisdictions and pro-
. hibiting spiritual causes from being tried in secular courts, com-
manded the suitors to appear before the bishop only, whose decisions
were to be conformable to the canon law.

This was the foundation of the Courts Christian as they were called,
which pursuant to the principles on which'they were first founded now
exercise jurisdiction not merely in matters purely eclesiastical but in
many which are simply civil ; for example, in causes testamentary,
and affecting slander, brawling, marriage, and divorce. What these
Courts Christian were in Bishop Burnet's time may be best gathered
from his own words, " As to the ecclesiastical jurisdiction, it has been
the burthen of my life to see how it was administered ; our courts are
managed under the rules of the canon law, dilatory and expensive^
and as their constitution is bad^ so the business of them is small ',

12 ON THE INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM.

and tlierefore all possibk contrivances are used to make the most of
these causes that come before them ; so they are universally dreaded
and hated." Whether any material improvement has taken place in
these courts since the honest Bishop wrote, I shall not here enquire ;
if any of my hearers have had the opportunity of using them, they
can best decide.

It may be asked, what has this to do with feudalism ? Nothing, if
results be simply regarded, but much if the origin of the power be
considered. William had to maintain his position not only by the
prowess of his knights, but also by the influence of his clergy ; that
influence he acquired and preserved by vesting in them immense
possessions of which they were his feudal tenants, and in
return for their devoted adherance to his interests he separated
them as an ecclesiastical body from the rest of his subjects, by giving
them exclusive jurisdiction in matters relating to themselves, which
were afteiwards enlarged by forced constructions on the nature of
many affiiirs purely civil. The crown, however, as the feudal lord
paramount, did not relinquish its right to be the ultimate court of
appeal against the decision of the ecclesiastical tribunals, a right
which was expressed by the constitutions of Clarendon (Henry 2nd)
declared at the Reformation to be the antient law of the realm, and
at this present time exercised by the Queen in Her Judicial Privy
Council, in lieu of the court of Delegates which has been recently
abolished.

The appointment of our bishops has from the most antient times
been a royal prerogative, although frequently claimed and exercised
by the clergy as their privilege of election ; and that privilege
received confirmation as a right by a charter of King John, who was
induced to grant it in order to obtain the protection of the Pope against
his discontented barons, and which provided that he should giant
to the Monasteries and Cathedrals his license to elect an abbot or
bishop on each vacancy. This license was called the Conge d' elire
and is still used as a form on the appointment of a new prelate by
the Crown in whom the antient right has been revived ever since the
Refonnation.

But in every age of the system, from the period of the Conquest to
the abolition of military tenm'es in the reign of Charles the Second,
the clergj' had been bound to perform their feudal services as fully

PATHS OF POESY. 13

as the laity, and very frequently tlie rapacity of the reigning prince
made them especially feel the rigorous power of their feudal lord.
In imitation of the laity the hierarchy did homage to their
prince for their temporalities before they could receive investiture of
them, and as upon every accession by descent to lay fiefs in capite,
(that is, held immediately from the crown,) the king was entitled to
take the primer seisins, or first fruits of the estate for a year, so at
the present day upon every appointment of a bishop, the crown is
entitled to the perception of the first fruits of his diocese, payable by
four annual instalments ; and by the same rule all the inferior clergy
are^ bound to tender the first fruits of their benefices also.

PATHS OF POESY.
BY WILLIAM J. BOSOMWORTH.

I love the bright and smiling earth.
The notes of feathered minstrels' mirth,
The shady trees, the towering hills.
The winding ways of pensive rills ;
The biiili of mom, the twilight hour.
The wide, wide earth, the quiet bower ;
For these were made by God's decree.
To be sweet paths of poesy.

Over the ocean's unfetter'd sweep.
Where the great waters never sleep.
But troubled, roar their thunders aloft.
In bursts of passion, often and oft ;
Or like a stream pass gently o'er.
To shake their hands with the quiet shore ;
Whether a calm or rolling sea,
They all are paths of poesy.

14 PATHS OF POESY.

The unknown place where winds are bom,
And nurtured to a mighty storm ;
The trackless ways they speed along.
Sounding like some discordant song ;
The infant zephyrs caressing way.
Cheering and dying within a day ;
Whether they play^on wave or tree.
They are bright paths of poesy.

The humble dwellings on every shore,
Homes of the much neglected poor.
Who groan beneath oppression's hand.
And strangers seem in their fatherland ;
Where sires and sons toil hard with care.
And hopeless live in a world so fair.
Languishing daily to be free ;
These too are paths of poesy.

The bright and everlasting sun.
The moon which rose when time begun.
The million stars that light the sky.
The spangled floor of heaven on high.
Bright and sublime have ever been ;
And dazzling paths of silvery sheen.
The sea, the earth, and canopy.
Are all sweet paths of poesy.

16
HAND VERSDs EYES.

On theories, electrical or magnetic, the whole mental and physical
creation seems to be animated, upon this basis the natural philosopher
seems to build his theories of cause and effect ; it is the fulcrum
whereby the mental philosopher seeks to dispel the hitherto crude
and unsatisfactory notions entertained by mistyfied metaphysicians.
Every schoolboy of budding genius must manufacture an electrifying
machine, and every person who has witnessed magnetic influence feels
competent to produce similar effects, mental or physical.

Beneath the light of this dawning mental analyzing philosophy, the
subtle and all pervading power of Love becomes a matter of natural
existence, accounted for as scientifically as the evaporations of ether,
or the fusion of metal by galvanic agency. To place this fact in its
most prominent position, one simple instance will suffice.

Who has not heard of, or felt, the power, the influence, the never-
dying remembrance, the hope-creating ecstacy occasioned by the
pressure of the hand P an action though simple in itself, yet fraught
with mighty and lasting influence, conveying volumes of meaning,
speaking a language that the tongue itself, directed by a Romeo's
impassioned feelings, would fail to utter. We have heard of the
boasted language of the eye — the languishing, the imploring, the
penetrating, and the bewitching eye ; the flash of ire, and the
sparkle of joy. But what of that ? its influence is limited and
partial. Besides, all eyes cannot look at you ; and yet some senti-
ment is wished to be expressed. It might so happen that their
services were required in some shady lane by evening's sombre gloom,
or within some curtained boudoir, where the last glimpse of t^vilight
rendered " darkness visible ;" of what use then would be the " silent
language of the eye ?" when you could not behold the soft, enchant-
ing look of confirmation, or the piercing glance of keen displeasure ;
when the long elegant lashes that fringed the beautiful orbs might
be turned towards your own, or, Madona like, drooping over the
pensive eye, or perhaps glistening with moisture like the mustache
of a Parisian beau after taking soupc a la julienne ; where would be
the ocular telegraphic communicator under such circumstances ? why
rendered entirely unavailable, like the guillotine at the Pilot-office in
%gy weather. Bui it is fai* otherwise with the pressure of the hand.

16 HAND V. eyes;

Either in the full hliize of laughing day, the dazzle and splendour
of the ball-room, beneath the jealous or scrutinising eyes of those
around, or amid the sombre shadows of stilly night, the pressure of
the hand is equally ready and efficient. It is the mental-electro-
animal-magnetic telegraphic communicator. Besides its superiority
over the eyes is not confined to the immediate vicinity; the
chairing of a member of parliament, to wit. He beholds the charm-
ing belles hanging from the windows, or standing on the balconies,
displaying some coloured ribbons, the glory of his triumph, and he
presses his hand to his lips and throws them individually a salute,
like a knight-eiTant to his lady-love. Why, if he had to do the same
execution with his eyes, right and left, he would run the hazard of
having an obliquity of vision ere his procession was ended.

We will not stay to speculate on the supposed mystery contained
in a Freemason's shake of the hand, for their recognition can take
place without any such operation ; nor will we endeavour to substan-
tiate the assertion that there exists among some of the popular secta-
rians of the day a mode of recGntre, prcticed to the members
of their flocks by a gentle " pressure of the hand," followed by a
slight rising of the forefinger into the palm of the embracod one ; but
proceed in conclusion to point out the method in which the operation
is carried on, and the cause of the phenomena, which cannot be
accounted for satisfactorily except by the science of Animal Mag-
netism, or the Mesmeric influence of one person over another accord-
ing to the susceptible or non-susceptible powers of the magnetiser
or magnetised.

Nothing can be more simple than the experiment ; but remember
that animal magnetism, like electricity, being an elementary fluid,
requires a respectful caution in its a^^plication. The effect is pro-
duced by gently pressing the hand (of course choosing a favourable
opportunity), allowing your own mind to revel in all the poetic wild-
ness of " Love's imagery ;" then slightly relaxing youi hold, allow
the beautiful and tapenng fingers to glide a little way through your
own ; then quickly increase the pressure, and remain so until you
have received the conviction that the patient is not impervious to its
influence, and should you receive a corresponding pressure in retuni,
you may rest assured that magnetic influence exists. But here the
experiment, like your philos(}i)hy, ends. — Verdict for the Hand !

B. E.

17

THE MAIDEN'S GRAVE.

The sun had set ; but rosy light

Was blooming o'er the sky ;
And tinting nature fair and bright

With evening's richest dye.

A mingled music fiU'd the air ;

The vesper-song of birds —
The music of the flowing stream —

The low of distant herds.

A village on a rising knoll

Gleam'd white between the trees,

O'er which an ancient church arose,
With spire amid the breeze.

I sought the sacred plot around

This temple of the dead,
And seated on a mossy mound

Mused over times long fled.

Dear, cherish 'd friends were sleeping there.

The wealthy and the poor ;
Who'd dwelt within the lordly hall.

Or humble cottage door.

Of all the varied tombs around

To cause the painful sigh.
One gleaming white amidst the shade

Most won tlie tearful eye.

A verdant willow o'er it hung,

With low dependant boughs ;
And at the sculptured marble's base

There bloom 'd a pale white rose.

18 THE maiden's grave.

An emblem beautiful and pure.

Meet for a maiden fair ;
Yet not so pure and beautiful

As she who slumber'd there.

Sweet, gentle Kate ! I knew thee young,
A bright and laughing child.

With azure eye, and golden hair.
So joyful — playful— wild !

The deer upon the mountain's side.

The wild bird on the tree.
The dolphin sporting in the tide.

Were not so blithe as thee.

Thou didst not know a father's love, —
He died ere thou couldst sigh ;

But doubly did a mother's care
The mournful loss supply.

Oft have I seen her lead thee forth.

And guide thy gentle feet.
And teach thine infant lips to speak

In accents pure and sweet.

Yet scarce nine flowery springs had wreathed
Their chaplets round thy brow.

When she, the fountain of thy joy.
In earth was sleeping low.

The heart may feel sufficed with love

When leaning all on one ;
But oh ! how sad, how desolate.

When it's last stay is gone.

An orphan ! in this chilling world

Where can her spirit rest ?
Where can she find a voice to soothe.

Or seek a kindred breast ?

THE maiden's grave. 19

With tearful eye and pallid cheek

Kate wander'd oft alone ;
And never was she heard to speak

But in a mournful tone.

The earth had lost its charm for her ;

And now with steadfast eye
She sought to fix her hopes and joys

In brighter worlds on high.

Next this, it was her chief delight.

Her solace and content.
To number o'er the happy hours

She'd with her mother spent.

The words she spoke, the prayers she taught.

The precepts she had given.
Were cherish'd in each secret thought.

To guide her feet to heaven.

Oh, ne'er was sainted relic kept

Within its sacred shrine.
As was thy mother's memory •

In that true heart of thine !

Years roll'd along ; Kate's beauties bloom 'd.

And numbers sought her hand ;
And though she view'd them with esteem.

None could her heart command.

A mother's love was in her breast-
She could no other own ;

And that to keep unstain'd and pure.
She still would dwell alone.

Her soul was framed of gentleness.

So kind, so pure, so good ;
She sought the poor in their distress.

And by the dying stood.

20 THE MAIDEN S GRAVE.

^ ,, Well could she speak tlie words of peace.

For peace was in her breast ;
And whilst she walk'd on earth, she seem'd
A spirit of the blest.

Oft have I watch'd the morning star

Diffuse a lucid ray.
Till all its lovely beams were lost

Before the rising day.

Thus did she gently leave the earth.
And vanish from our sight.

When her immortal spirit pass'd
Into a world of light.

'Tis sweet to muse beside the grave.
And press the flowery sod.

Where rests in hope the fonn of one
Whose spirit dwells with God.

Such thoughts a healing balm impart.
Earth's deejjest wounds to cure.

And waken feelings in the heart.
Most gentle, calm, and pure.

Death seems destroy 'd — the very flowers
Which clothe the peaceful tomb.

Seem radiant with a heavenly light.
Illumining their bloom.

Thus I, in memory of Kate,

A fitting emblem chose.
And planted on her happy grave

That meek and pallid rose.

21

THE TWO MONUMEMS.

I was visiting at the seat of my friend C 's a few years ago,

during the shooting season, at the same time as my old college chum
Harry Mordant, and during our stay a hall was to he given at the
neighbouring town, all the elite of the county were expected to
attend and many were the hearts that heat quickly when the con-
versation turned upon the coming assembly ; great was the request
for milliners, dress-makers, tailors, and the many other important
personages usually in demand on such occasions. The time drew
near— it wanted but a week ; yet some tliought even that a long
time to wait ; those were such as had little or no preparation to
make. Others thought it sadly too near; those, of course, had all
to provide. Time, however, passed on. The eventful night
arrived ; and I, with two or three friends, by ten o'clock were
entering the ball-room. It was a large and lofty building, bril-
liantly lighted by many chandeliers, whose sparkling brightness
dazzled the eyes on first entering, which, together with the gay and
waving plumes of the ladies, produced a scene far more animating
than I expected to find, while the spirit-stirring music made it still
more exciting. All seemed gay in that large assembly. The com-
pany were variously employed ; some promenading, some collected
in groups in various parts of the room ; others going through the
ceremony of introduction ; the second was the case with us. We,
like many more solitary bachelors, were collected in a comer
examming the company as they came in. Various were the com-
ments made on parties as they passed in review before us.

"Now for the belle of the evening," said C , as an elderly

gentleman entered, having J)y his side a young lady of about three
and twenty years of age.

" Which ? which ?" cried Harry Mordant ; " the lady in blue
with dark hair ?

" Yes," returned C , ***that is her ; it is the Lady Caroline

Vane, of whom you have often heard, I dare say."

" So I have," said Harry ; " and as I am wife-hunting, you must

introduce me at any rate." What reply C made I did not

hear; for at that moment the M.C. came up to announce the first
quadrille, and each went his wayio seek his partner for the dance.

22 THE TWO MONUMENTS.

It was soon over, and Hany Mordant was again at my side. We
had walked once or twice round tlic room, when we heard a buzz
near the door, and, on turning round, found all eyes fixed that way.
We soon perceived they were looking at a young lady who had just
entered, accompanied by one whose likeness at once told it was her
mother.

" By all that's good, Hany, but there's a rival belle for you," said I.

" And my partner for the next dance," replied he, " Who ever

saw such ? But come ; let's go and ask C who she is ; he

knows all in this part of the country." And away we proceeded to
find out C ; but he was no wiser on the subject than ourselves.

" Then here goes to find it out," said Mordant, walking away.

Again the dance was proclaimed, and I, not caring to join, strolled
into the card room. After a short stay, I again entered the ball
room. I had not gone far before I found Mordant standing alone,
with his eyes steadfastly fixed on some object opposite, which object
I soon found to be the strange lady.

" What ho ! Harry," said I, " how is this ? not dancing ! I am
surprised that such a gallant youth as you should stand like a statue
while so many fair dames are waiting for partners."

" Never mind," answered he ; " I've been disappointed myself;
why should not others be so ? I am waiting for the next change ;
they must do the same."

" Disappointed ! how ? Have you not succeeded in your
errand ?"

" Yes ; I have found out she is the daughter of a late officer in
the anny, who died some time ago in India, leaving his only child
and widow nearly dependent on the bounty of his country. But I
was disappointed in obtaining her as my partner, through Sir
William being too quick for me ; so you^see I am waiting for the
next chance."

"Well, you will not have to wait long; for see, they are con-
cluding this set already. Good luck to you, and mind introduce me,
do you hear ?" and off I went, leaving the love-struck Harry, hawk-
like, prepared to pounce upon his prey.

Half the night passed away. I had lost sight of Mordant and the
stranger. Supper was announced ; and as I walked up to the room,
I felt some one's hand upon my shoulder. On turning round I
beheld Harry and his fair partner.

THB TWO MONUMENTS. 23

" I have found you at last," said he ; "I thought you must have
gone, but allow me to introduce to you my partner, Mis« Harcourt.

Miss Harcourt, my most particular friend, Sir James T ." The

lady bowed; ditto myself; and the introduction was complete. O !
how lovely she looked, and how proud Harry appeared to be of her ;
he felt himself the successful rival of all. I watched them the
remainder of the evening. I saw what was taking place by the
countenance of my friend. I saw they were happy ; and I would
not have intruded upon them for worlds. But it could not last for
ever : they must part, alas ! too soon ! The lady's carriage was
called ; Harry handed her to it, and at the same time obtained per-
mission to call upon them the next day. He returned to us, but
his mirthful looks had left him. His first words were — " Come, let
us go ; I am tired. I can dance no more to night." Poor Harry !
We left that dazzling scene, and were soon drawing towards our
home.

The next day Hany contrived to give us the slip, and we saw
nothing of him till night. His spirits were then higher, if possible,
than ever ; and all guessed some lucky incident had taken place.
I, alone, knew of the appointment with Miss Harcourt. He after-
wards told me he called at the lodgings of the oflficer's widow; what
passed need not be told now. Sufficient will be said when I men-
tion that Harry left the accepted lover of Emily Harcourt, with
these conditions on her mother's part — that he obtained the consent
of his father. Emily and her lover had a most happy parting ; but,
alas ! her happiness was of short duration. He looked upon it as
ajmere matter of form : he never thought of a denial from him. He
had always received whatever he asked ; and he was sure he would
grant him this request. In a day or two a letter came; Harry
hastened to open it ; he read its contents. It contained a cold and
determined refusal ; and he was desired to think no more of the
soldier's daughter.

Six months or more elapsed, during which time I had been
abroad. On returning home, I found several letters from HaiTy
waiting me, the last of which was dated a week before ; it requested
me to join him at a village in Norfolk, where he had for the present
taken up his abode. The letter also stated he was unwell, and he
wished to have my advice on a particular subject. Two days after
I entered my friend's lodging ; it was near noon, but he was not up.

Q\ 'tHE TWO MONUMENTS.

His landlady apologised by saying he was very unwell; but she
would at once infonn him of my arrival. After waiting about a
quarter of an hour, I heard a step in the passage ; the door opened,
and in walked my friend Harry. But oh, how altered ! His once
fine manly form was withered, and shrunk to nothing ; his eyes,
which once used to sparkle with delight, were now dull and spirit-
less ; his countenance was sad ; and disease had plainly stamped
his hand upon his brow. On my rising to receive him, he held out

his hand and said — "Thanks, dear T- for this visit; I have

long been wishing for you."

" You would have had me sooner, my dear Harry, had I known
you had been ill ; but I only arrived home two days ago, and finding,
among other con'espondence, letters from you hastened down here
as your last letter requested "

" For which you have my thanks. But let us have some break-
fast, when you shall hear my short but melancholy history."

Breakfast was ordered in, and we sat down ; I with a traveller's
appetite, Harry with that of an invalid. After a few moment's
silence my friend began.

"You will, perhaps, remember T , the ball we attended

while staying with our friend C , about six months ago."

" Yes, and the fair stranger too."

" Well, of her I have to speak. I need not explain to you what
passed between Miss Harcourt and myself up to the time I wrote
to my father : you know all that, and his reply. But you do not
know what has occurred since ; I will tell you. After receiving that
cursed letter, you will remember I left C Hall, and imme-
diately proceeded to Emily's lodgings. She was in and alone. In
a short time, with the usual quick perception of her sex, she saw
something was wrong ; hi a few minutes she wrung from me the
contents of that letter— nay, the letter itself. She scanned over its
harsh sentences, each word of which was a dagger to her heart ; she
wept, oh! how the dear girl wept! while I, I who loved her so
much,— whose very existence was wi'apt up in the being before me,
stood silent. Silent! but why? — not for want of words — not
because I did not feel ; but fearing, had I spoken, it would have
been to curse the writer of that fatal letter — aye to curse my father !
While thus occupied," continued Mordant, after a long pause,
" Emily's mother entered, and seeing her daughter in such distress.

THE TWO MONUMENTS. 25

enquired the cause. All was soon explained. She listened to all I
had to say— to all the excuses I made for the hasty reply of. my
father, to all my entreaties for her consent to our union, relying upon
obtaming my parent's forgiveness after; and then expressed her
determination that I should never wed her daughter without his
permission; and further, begged I would not see Emily again unless
I had better prospects of obtaining it."

" And have you heard of them since," asked I.

" Yes," replied he, " they reside at present in this village, where
I find they have removed for the sake of Emily's health. I have
sent to enquire after her ; she is very ill."

" But have you not seen her," said I.

" No."

" And have you not tried to see her ?"

*' No. I, too, have been ill; but I have sent for you, as I wish you

to visit her."

It was then arranged that I should do so ; and during the after-
noon I called at Mrs. Harcourt's lodgings. I sent in my card, and
at Emily's request, was conducted to her room. I found her reclin-
ing on a sofa ; and if she looked lovely in the ball room, when I
first saw her, how much more so did she look now. Her delicate
features were pale as marble ; her fair shoulders were covered over
with her rich black hair; her long transparent fingers almost
rivalled her dressing-gown in whiteness. I sat with her about an
hour. I told her of Harry's residence in the village — of his illness —
of his anxiety for her, and of my intention to use my influence with
his father to induce him to withdraw his refusal to their union.

" Ah ! sir," said she, " it will be of no use ; beforq then I shall
be beyond the reach of your kindness, but tell Harry we shall meet
again ; and though we are not to be happy in this world, let us hope
for the future." I left her, promising to call on the moiTow, a day
which, alas ! poor girl, she was never to behold."

On entering Harry's room, I found him anxiously waiting my
return. I told him what had passed ; he was much excited, and it
was long before I could persuade him to retire to his room. It was
about ten o'clock when I left him, feverish and unsettled. I threw
myself on my bed without undressing, that I might be ready to go
to him if he wanted anything. I was awoke from a somid sleep by

D

26 THE TWO MONUMENTS.

hearing a noise in Mordant's room. I took the liglit, wliich was
still burning, and hastened there. I found him sitting up in bed ;
his eyes staring vacantly before him ; his hands held out to their
full ej^tent, as if to clutch something within his reach. — " See ! see l"
cried he, at the utmost pitch of his voice, — "there — there — 'tis
Emily ! she calls me ! Father, let me go ! she shall be mine —
mine in spite of all ;" and exhausted by the effort, his hands fell by
his side, and he sank hack on his pillows in a swoon. I instantly
sent for assistance. I looked at my watch ; it was just two o'clock.
The physician soon came. After examining his patient, he -shook
his head. " Your friend," said he, " will revive ; but his reason has
fled." He was right ; Mordant recovered in about an hour ; but he
awoke an idiot.

As early as I could I called at the lodgings of Emily, and was
sui'prised to find the windows closed. I was admitted into the draw-
ing-room, where Emily's mother was sitting. She arose on, my
entrance j for some time she could not speak ; at last she said,
" O, sir, my Emily is dead !" she could say no more ; her heart
was full. I called an attendant, and left the room. I enquired
before I left the house the tim.e of Emily's death ; it was two o'clock,
the very iiour I had been awoke by my friend. Thus did the spirits
of two beings, who loved each other best on earth, commune
together before one took its flight to heaven. A plain white marble
monument marks the spot where Emily is buried; and though
years have passed away since its erection, the remembrance of the
fair girl whose death it records still draws me to the spot. I pass
on a few paces to another of the same fonn, but in black marble — it
points out the grave of Harry Mordant.

27

BOTANICAL NOTICE FOR APRIL.
THE PRIMROSE.

This class of plants are remarkable for nothing but their beauty
and their general cultivation in our gardens.

The primrose, cowslip, ox-slip, and polyanthus are found growing
abundantly in the neighbourhood of Hull, the earliest specimens of
which appear on the banks of Sculcoates lane and at Newland. The
natural oixier to which they belong (Primulaceoe) are characterised
by having a monopetalous corolla, divided into five segments, the
calyx is 4-5 cleft ; the stamens are five in number, and inserted
upon the corolla, oi)posite to its segments ; the ovary is one-celled,
containing a large number of ovules ; the stigma single and capitate,
that is, having a rounded head.

The great uniformity of these characters occasions the largest
part of the order to be included in the Linnaean class pentandria,
and order, monogynia ; this class and order contains a numerous
family of plants growing in this neighbourhood, and among which
may be mentioned the Anagallis or Pimpernel, commonly termed the
poor man's weather glass, from its property of closing on the approach
of a stonn ; and the Lysimachia, or Loose-strife, inhabiting moist
places. The group is eiitensively diffused over the glot)e, but Is more
abundant in northern and in mountainous countries.

It may be scarcely suspected, that those prettiest of spring
flowers are in any way related to the venomous family of plants the
solanew, or deadly nightshade tribe, yet such is the fact. Like the
nightshade tribe they have regular monopetalous flowers, with five
stamens and a superior ovary ; they are sometimes similar in habit,
as in the case of the mandrake, which resembles a gigantic primrose
with white flowers, marked by purple veins ; and they also possess
slight narcotic properties. There is but one essential circumstance
by which they are distinguished, their stamens are not placed
between the lobes of the corolla, as in the nightshade tribe, but are
opposite to them; a very curious aftd permanent diflference. If the
corolla has fallen off and some mark is sought to distinguish the
two tribes, we shall find in the nightshade tribe two cells in the ovary,
but that of the primrose contains only one cell.

28 THE PRIMROSE.

" Interesting as are the British species of this natural order, they are
fax inferior in beauty to tlieir relations who live on the mountains of
other countries; for the primrose tribe most frequently prefers
Alpine stations to all others. It is in the higher regions of the
mountains of Switzerland and Germany, or the Pyrenees, and upon
those stupendous ridges, from which the traveller beholds the vast
plains of India, stretching at his feet in a boundless panorama, that
the primrose tribe acquires its greatest beauty. Living unarmed
beneath a bed of snow during the cold weather, where it is protected
alike from light and from drying winds, as soon as the snow is
melted it springs forth bedecked with the gayest tints imaginable ;
yellow, white, pui-ple, violet, lilac, and sky-blue are the
usual colours of its flowers ; while its leaves, nursed by the food
descending from a thousand rills of purest water, and expanded
beneath an ever-genial and cloudless sky, acquire a green which no
gem can excel in depth or brightness. It is in those regions only
that the primrose tribe can be studied to the greatest advantage."*

The ovary is a portion of the plant which is often named, and
necessary to be examined in systematic botany, a few words, there-
fore, may be said with benefit in the description of this organ. The
ovary is a hollow case, placed at the base of the pistil, or central
organ of the flower ; it incloses the ovules, and always contains one
or more cells or cavities. It is the part which ultimately becomes
the fruit ; and, consequently, whatever may be the situation of the
ovary, such must necessarily be that of the fruit ; allowance being
made for the changes that may occur during the progress of the
ovary to maturity.

The ovary is said to be superior or inferior, as it may be related
to the calyx, that is, if the calyx of the flower is placed above the
ovary or seed-box, the ovary is termed inferior, as is the case in the
rose. If the calyx is below the ovary, the ovary is termed superior,
as in the tulip, mallow, and primrose. But, in reality, the inferior
ovary is only so in consequence of the tube of the calyx contracting
an adhesion with its sides ; and such being the case, the exactness
of the description of the constant place of the pistil and ovary, as
being the occupants of the centre of the flower, around which all the

♦ Lindley'8 Botany.

SITUATION OF WOMBN IN SOCIETY. 29

Other parts are arranged, is unshaken, although some authors would
wish to make it appear otherwise. If an ovary is opened, it will
be seen that at one particular part there is an attachment for the
ovules, or young seeds ; this is called the placenta, and generally
occupies the whole or a portion of one angle of each cell.

According to the writings of De Candolle, Turpin, and Du Petit
Thenars, the pistil is either a modification of a single leaf, or of one
or more whorls of such leaves, which are technically called carpels.
Each carpel has its own ovary, style, and stigma, and is formed by
a folded leaf, the upper surface of which is turned inwards, the lower
outwards, and the two margins of which develope one or a greater
number of buds which arc in a rudimentary state, and are called the
ovules. Pistils containing but one carpel are simple; if several,
are compound.

There has been great dispute among vegetable physiologists as to
the part in which the placenta and ovule originate, some maintaining
that the margins of the carpels produce the ovule buds, for which
opinion Dr. Lindley is a staunch advocate ; others maintaining,
(among whom stands Dr. Schleiden,) that they are produced by the
axis of the carpel, and not by the edges ; however this may be it is
not of much practical import, but merely interesting in a physiological
point of view. j. h. g.

THE SITUATION OF WOMEN IN SOCIETY.
(From the French of If. Segur.)

Women are (if I may use the expression) another soul of our
being, though enveloped in a separate covering. They accord most
uniformly with all our sentiments, which they inspire ; with all our
desires, which they excite and in which they participate ; with all
our weaknesses, which they can commiserate without yielding to
their influence. If man be unhappy, he requires of his soul an
energy to enable him to support the load of physical sufferings, and
of moral evils, still more difficult to sustain. But as this assistance
must originate within himself, it necessarily partakes of the dejection
which pervades his whole being. Should he resort to his other

30 SITUATION OF WOMEN IN SOCIETY.

soul, he then feels how much the women deserve his admiration ;
they approach him in enchanting forms, and administer an unex-
pected balm to his sorrows, making him sensible in every particle
of his being that, although they appear distinct from himself, yet
they are himself nevertheless. He observes these sweet partici-
pators of his joys and his son*ows unceasingly near him, who make
him anticipate consolation, even before it is offered; to whom he
assents at once, without waiting for any arguments of persuasion, and
who appear an asylum against all misfortunes.

But because we are endowed with corporeal strength, is it to follow
that the fair sex are born to slavery or submission ? that they are to
be dependant on our passions and caprices ? awaiting the arbitrary
decrees dictated to them by the forms of government and the pre-
judices of men ? Here, adored as divinities — there, esteemed as
companions and equals ; and again we may see them condemned to
servitude and contempt.

Yet under all these conflicting circumstances, we see them still
retaining their characteristic distinctions, sucmitting with inexhaustible
patience, and enduring with inconceivable fortitude. Their faults
are not augmented under the pressure of humiliation and distress.
And which of our good qualities do they not possess ? One alone,
Anacreon says, has been denied them ; and that is prudence. But
as they are everywhere led themselves, and never (unless by a teiii-
porary usurpation) are able to assume the lead of others, they have
less inducement to the exercise of foresight than men. Their extreme
sensibility, too, pleads their apology in this respect. Alive as they
are to every impression that can excite their feelhigs, their situation
is little calculated for the calm exertion of foresight; but being too
apt to yield themselves up to the suggestions of the moment, they
not unfrequently pass their lives in alternate action and repentance.

Various have been the opinions of celebrated writers respecting
the fair sex. Some have considered them as equal in eveiy respect
to the opposite sex ; while others have condemned them to perpetual
frivolities. And no doubt examples might be quoted in support and
refutation of both these modes of judgment; yet I must observe,
that the number of those who have written in their praise is much
greater than that of their calumniators. Some have denied them
any share of political talents ; yet how much address and intelligence

SITUATION OF WOMEN IN SOCIETY; IH

have they not evinced in important intrigues, and even in negocia-
tions ? How many treaties and unhoped for alliances have they
conducted, of which the men received the honour, hut the merit of
which belonged to the women ! How many great actions and great
resolutions have been suggested and accomplished by them ! What
admirable enthusiasm have they not been able to excite to lead on
heroes to the brilliant exploits whtch tlley themselves were incapable
of executing, anTt^^hfer^ they could 'only ccfhsold themselves for
standing idle spectators by the flattering right of binding the laurels
on the temples of the brave !

I f the men can boast of more prudence, the women have less
egotism ; and so entirely do ihey devote themselves to others, that
they have at length given reason to believe that nature ordained the
sacrifice ; and hence all oiur laws oppress them, and of them are all
privation* required. Among no people, even the most savage,' hftve
we seen the men obliged to offer themselves up as sacrifices on the
tombs of their wive^, as the women have been on the funeral piles of
their husbands. A<id the history of men affords us no instance of an
illustrious and voluntary victim of love, such as Dido, and many
others that might be mentioned.

Ever disposed to commiserate our distresses, to participate in our
joys, and to offer every addition to our happiness, evincing only the
fear of poverty in the means of assisting us ; and if slighted or neg-
lected in our prosperity, how readily they return to our call if fresh
misfortunes oppress us. Such are the generality of women.

In this view, how can we help but love them ? in other respects,
how can we cease to pity them ? Withheld from the pursuit of any
occupation — scarcely allowed to regulate the concerns of their own
family — bringing us wealth which they never command — and pre-
senting us with children who are seldom committed to their power ;
such is their condition. Yet it cannot be denied, that if the one
seems to be endowed with peculiar qualities, the other possesses
advantages equally valuable ; that where corporeal strength is wanted,
they possess qualities to make up the deficiency ; that in moments
of transient equality, they have evinced ability equal to ours ; and
that, with the exception of inventive genius, their intellectual facul-
^i'^'5 arc not inferior to our own.

32

RUINS IN YORKSHIRE.

BY J. O.

WRESSLE CASTLE.

On a gently rising ground near the east bank of the river Der-
went, and about four miles north-west from Howden, stands this
relic of feudalism.

" The mouldering walls
Black with the rust of age, and all within
Silence and waste, while not a sound in heard
But the wind mourning ; not a form beheld
Save one, that fancy images to the mind ;
The spirit of Destruction !"

From the Hull and Selby Railway, which passes within three
hundred yards of it, a clear unobstructed view may be had of what
originally formed the south front of the building, and which is the
only part that the democratical miscreants, acting by the commands
of Cromwell, had the grace to spare, of that once stately and mag-
nificent Castle.

The exact date of its erection is not precisely ascertained ; but
Leland, in his Itinerary, ascribes its foundation to Thomas Percy,
Earl of Worcester, in the time of Richard II., in which opinion
Mr. Savage coincides, and thinks that its date must be fixed to
some part of the period between the years 1380 and 1390, when that
nobleman was in great favour with the king, and filled several high
offices of the state. This earl rebelling against King Henry IV.,
was taken prisoner at the battle of Shrewsbury, on the 22nd July,
1403, and beheaded at that place the following day, in consequence
of which the lordship of Wressle, along with his other estates,
became confiscated to the king, who retained possession of it for some
time, and at length gave it to his son, John, Duke of Bedford, who,
at his decease, which took place in 1434, left it to Henry VI., his
nephew and heir.

Its next possessor appears to have been Thomas Percy, knight,
son of Henry Percy, second Earl of Northumberland, who, in 1457,
obtained a grant of the Castle and lordship of Wressle, for the term

WRESSLE CASTLE* 33

of hivS life; and from this period until the death of Josceline,
eleventh Earl of Northumberland ; which took place on the 21st of
May, 1670, it appears to have remained in the Percy family ; but
in consequence of that nobleman dying without male issue, it
descended to his daughter. Lady Elizabeth Percy, and was trans-
mitted into the Seymour family through her marriage with his
grace Charles Seymour, Duke of Somei*set; and at his death, in
1750, it passed into the possession of his grace's nephew. Sir Charles
Windham, who succeeded to the title of Earl Egremont, and in
whose family it still remains.

From Leland's description of Wressle Castle it appears to have
been of a quadrangular fonn, and built of large squared stones,
i^hich some suppose were brought from France. It was moated
round on three sides, the fourth, in which was the entrance,
being left dry ; in it were five square towers, one at each comer,
the gatehouse foiming the fifth; they were all about the same
height, and were again mounted by circular turrets of a smaller size ;
upon the top of one of these was fixed the iron pan of the beacon,
which in cases of danger was used to alarm the country.

In the east tower, above the chapel, was a library, called Paiadise,
and iririMJIis spoken of in very high terms by Leland. The whole
edifif^^Hpf the finest masoniy ; and the interior decorated witli
a profusion of ancient sculpture executed in wood, representing the
ancient beai'ing, crests, &c., of the Percy family, and other
ornaments of the most costly description.

The household establishment of the Earl of Northumberland, at
this castle, was on the same plan, and little inferior in point of
magnificence to that of his sovereign ; it consisted of two hundred
and twenty-nine persons, and was supported at an annual cost of
£1118 17s. 8d., which, according to the present value of money,
would be near £10,000. His head officers were all gentlemen by
birth and office ; the table were they sat being called " the Knights'
Board." They bore the same titles, and their warrants ran in the
same style as tliose of the khig.

The chapel establishment was almost equal to that of Caidinal
Wolsey. Eleven priests were kept in this large household, over
whom presided a doctor or bachelor of divinity, as dean of the
< hapel ; there was also a complete set of choristers, singing men, &c.

34 WRESSLE CASTLE

Wresslc Caslle continued in all its pomp and splendour until
the civil wars of Charles I., when the earl espousing the cause of
the Parliament, it was garrisoned with soldiers ; and the losses
he suffered from his own party between 1641 and 1646, by his
tenants being unable to pay their rents, in consequence of the heavy
contributions levied upon them, and the damage done to his buildings
by the soldiers, amounted to £42,554, a sum more than equivalent
to £200,000 at the present day.

Notwithstanding the zeal which the earl manifested for the cause
of the Parliamentarians, an order was issued a.d., 1650, for the
demolishing of Wressle Castle ; and, in consequence, a number of
Cromwell's soldiers, after destroying Howden Church, proceeded to
this building, and threw down the battlements, and demolished three
sides of the quadrangle, destroying the materials in the most wanton
manner. At the close of this scene of destruction nothing was left
standing but the south front, in the west tower of which was the
dining-room, and in the east the chapel, the space between the
towers being occupied with the antichamber and withdrawing-
chamber, which were very magnificent.

For a short time after this demolition the remaining portion was
used as a manor-house, and was then occupied as a farm-house, and
contmued to be so until an accidental fire, which broke jMJk^ t^®
19th February, 1794, completed its destruction, and left nothing
but the blackened walls, which now

" Stand up against the injuries of time
And brave unmoved the fury of the storm."

They are partly overgrown with ivy, and in a pretty good state of
preservation.

On beholding the interesting remains of Wressle Castle, as

" Now in ruin'd majesty they lie,
The fading relics of departed day."

The mind is led to contemplate the vast change that has taken place
during the three centuries which have elapsed since its noble posses-
sors sat in all their pomp and splendour within its walls ; but the
evils of feudalism, which at that period reigned supreme, and which
system called into existence this once majestic edifice, forbids us to
shed a tear over its fallen greatness.

3d

THE MAN WHO SOLD HIS SHADOW.

Hbre is a lamentable history '.—the history of a man who had
the misery to sell his shadow ! Reader, do not smile ; you may not,
perhaps, imagine that a shadow can be anything but a shadow, and
that it matters not much to trace an outline on the road as we walk
in the sun. Very well ; there are people in the world at the present
day, perhaps, so ill advised, that they do not hesitate to deny the
utility of the shadow, and imagine it signifies nothing in the con-
formation of their nature, and are ready to believe they should lose
nothing by getting rid of it. Alas! this is a great error, as the
history of Peter Schlemiht will shew. Our limits will not allow us to
go into his remarkable adventures at length, we therefore confine our-
selves to the most striking facts, which our hero shall relate for himself.

" I arrived after a very dangerous voyage at the port of •»***.
After some delay I landed, and, taking my luggage on my shoulder,
advanced through the crowd to the first hotel that attracted my
eye. I requested to be shewn into a chamber ; and a servant whom
I addressed conducted me unto a gaiTet. I immediately inquired
for the residence of Mr. Thomas Johns. ' Out of the North-gate,'
he replied ; ' the first house in the country to the right— a large new
building, with red and white marble, and a great number of colon-
nades in the front.'

" As it was yet early in the day, I opened my portmanteau and
took out my best surtout, pantaloons, and waistcoat, with my lettei*s of
introduction, and directed my steps towards the house of the man on
whom I reposed my modest hopes. After having traversed a long
street, I saw the colonnades of red marble, sunounded by trees ; and
having wiped the dust from my feet with my handlcerchief, and
arranged my cravat, I pulled the bell and commended myself to
providence. The door opened ; but before I was allowed to proceed
further, I wa^ obliged to submit to sundry interrogations as to my
business, &c. At last the porter, having satisfied himself on these
points, announced me, and I had the honour of being introduced to
Mr. Johns, who was walking in the park with a party of friends. He
received me as the rich generally receive those who are likely to
require their assistance, and turned himself to the side where I was

36 THE MAN WHO SOLD HIS SHADOW.

Standing — without, however, leaving his friends — and took the letter
which I presented from my hand.

" ' Ah, ah ! from my brother !' said he ; ' it is a long time since I
had any news from hhn; is he very well ?' and without attending to
my response — ' there,' said he, turning to those who accompanied
him, pointing with my letter to a hill in the distance — * there is the
place where I intend to make a new erection.' At length he broke
the seal, and proceeded to read the letter I had given him, making
occasional remarks as he passed over its contents. When he came
to the part setting forth my need — ' Ah !' said he, ' this is only one
of the million of poor beggars, I suppose.' * Yes,' said I ; ' 'tis true.'

" * My dear fellow, said he, laughing, * stay here awhile ; I shall
perhaps have time soon to attend to you, and talk over the contents
of this letter.' Upon this he offered his arm to a lady ; the other
persons followed, and they began to ascend a hill which was covered
with roses. They were all dressed very gaily, and appeared much
amused. I walked after them, but they took no notice of me.
On arriving at the top of the hill, a young lady, in attempting to
break a branch off a tree, wounded her fingers ; this accident directed
the attention of the others towards her, and appeared somewhat to
disconcert the party. A man — tall and thin, who walked near to me,
and who had for some time sm-veyed me attentively — put his hand
into the pocket cf his gi'ey surtout, and took out a small pocket-
book, containing adhesive plaster, which he presented to the young
lady without speaking, who accepted it, but, as I remarked, without
offering the least thanks,

" The country around was very pleasant, and a remarkably fine
landscape presented itself to our view ; the horizon also wore a most
beautiful aspect — so that I quite enjoyed the scene which was spread
out before me.

" ' A telescope !' cried Mr. Johns ; and before the servants had
time to move, the man in the grey surtout put his hand into his
pocket and brought out one of immense sifee, which he handed to
Mr. Johns with a modest salute. The instrument passed from hand
to hand ; for my part I looked on with astonishment, and I could
not for my life comj^rehend how so large an instrument could be
stowed away in so small a space ; but I was the only one of the
party who appeared to experience this surprise, for they took no
more notice of the man than of me.

THE MAN WHO SOLD HIS SHADOW. 37

" ' We must not remain long on the top of the hill/ said one, ' on
account of the damp from the ground.' ' It would be a delightful
thing,' cried another, * if we could have a carpet here.* Scarcely
was this said, when the man in grey put his hand into his pocket,
and brought out a magnificent Turkey carpet, bordered with gold,
which the servant received from him, and spread it upon the ground ;
but still no one took the least notice, or appealed at all surprised,
whilst I looked on with increased wonder and astonishment. The
carpet must have been full eight feet long, and I could not help
rubbing my eyes to see if I was really awake. Bye and bye the
sun burst upon the party with great intensity, by which the ladies
were much inconvenienced ; one of them turned to the man in grey,
and asked him if he would provide a tent. He answered by a pro-
found bow, as though it was an honour he did not anticipate. In
an instant he dived into his never-ending pocket, and brought out a
quantity of poles, cords, cloth, &c., with, which he erected a most
magnificient tent. On witnessing this prodigy, I began to feel a
coldness creep over me ; but judge of my astonishment when he took
out of his pocket three horses, saddled and bridled ! In truth, I
was not certain whether the whole was not a dream : I doubted
whether what I saw with my eyes was in truth a reality.

" I now began to be apprehensive lest this mysterious being — the
man with the grey surtout — should exercise a power of fascination
over me, and I detennined at once to return if possible without
being observed. This appeared to be not difficult, as I had not
been observed by the party. I therefore resolved to return to the
town, and come again the following day, when I hoped to learn
something more of the man in grey.

" I had already reached the plot of grass at the bottom of the hill,
when I looked back to see if I was observed ; what was my horror
when I beheld the man in grey close by my side ! He took off his
hat, and saluted me with more respect than he had shewn to any
other person. I returned his salute with equal respect, for I had
become like the bird fascinated by the eye of a serpent ; he appeared,
however, embarassed, and seemed as though he did not dare to lift
his eyes to mine. Several times he stept back ; at length he spoke,
but with an uncertain, tremulous voice — * Sir, pardon me this bold-
ness, if, without having the honour of knowing you, I dare to address

38

THE MAN WHO SOLD HIS SHADOW.

to you my prayers.' * In the name of heaven !' cried 1, ' what can

I do for a man who ' for a moment both remained silent, and,

as it appeared to me, we blushed; at length he continued—* During
the short time I have had the honour of being in your company, 1
have contemplated with great delight the beautiful shadow which
projects before you. I feel a very strong desire to possess it : have
you any objection to part with it ?' He paused, and I felt I knew
not how. It was such a strange request to make — the man must be
a fool, thought I ; and adopting a tone and manner suited to this
idea, I said, * Go, go, my dear fellow ; have you not your own
shadow ? is not that enough to satisfy you without envying me of
mine ?' * I have in my pocket,' he replied, ' treasures which it is
impossible to overrate, and these I will give you rf you will only
part with that beautiful shadow, which I survey with so much
admiration.* When I heard of the terrible pocket being opened for
me I shuddered, and the blood seemed to iiin cold within my veins.
I knew not how to reply ; at length I stammered out, * Pardon me,
sir, but I do not understand you.' ' I merely ask the permission,*
he replied, ' to raise this noble shadow from the ground, and put it
into my pocket.* * But how can I bring it to you ?' * That is my
affair — leave that to me ; only let me have your consent, and you
shall have the choice of my jewels; and more than this — you shall
have the hat of fortune, and the enchanted purse.' * What !' cried I,
* the purse of fortune !' The thought bewildered me, and I saw in
imagination gold — gold in abundance. I was awoke from the reverie
into which I had been thrown by my companion saying to me, * Have
the goodness to take this little bag,' which he at the same time pre-
sented. I took it ; it was a purse, thick and solid, and tied with two
strings, which I unloosed. I then plunged my hand into the purse,
and drew out six pieces of gold — again six more — and again six
more. ' This is well,' said I ; ' the bargain is concluded. I take
this purse, and you take my shadow.' He bowed in silence, and
seized his bargain with marvellous eagerness; he then took my
shadow from the ground, and, rolling it up, placed it in his pocket,
when, with another low bow, he immediately disappeared among the
trees. I remember well that I held the purse in my hand with a
firm grasp ; but a strange feeling came over me — I cannot describe
it — I felt I know not how.

THE MAN WHO SOLD HIS SHADOW. 39

" I now hastened to quit the place, which 1 had no desire to visit
again ; and as I retired from the park 1 hegan filHng my pockets
with gold. I got on to the road and walked towards the town, on
approaching which I heard a voice crying after me, * Sir, listen !
listen !'

" I turned and looked behind me, when an old woman came run-
ning up, and, addressing me, said, * Sir, you have lost your shadow !'
* Mercy, good mother,' said I, and, throwing a piece of gold towards
her, I pursued my course. Having proceeded a little further, I
heard the sentinel say to his comrade, " Where has this gentleman
left his shadow ?' I hastened on, but had proceeded only a little
distance before a crowd of women, who were in consultation
at the comer of a street I was passing, cried out, ' Holy Mary !
that poor man has lost his shadow ! ' My annoyances increased ;
and I resolved to avoid the side upon which the sun shone. At length I
arrived in a street in which it was impossible to avoid the sun's rays,
and unhappily for me, just at this moment a number of children
who were returning frdin school came up ; a wicked little fellow,
observing that I had no shadow, communicated it to his comrades,
who set up a tremendous shout. I tried to nm from them, when
they set at me with their whole force, pelted and hooted me, and left
me rolling in the street, covered with dirt and filth. Some humane
persons came up to the place where I lay, and, raising me up, con-
veyed me to a carriage. I was now alone, and I wept bitterly.
Having arrived at the inn, I threw down a piece of gold, which, the
servant took up and immediately conducted me into the best room
in the house. Being once more left alone, I began to turn over in
my mind the events of the last few hours. In my hand was the
purse— the price of my miseiy ; and with a rage that grew upon me,
I began to throw out its contents of gold. Thus did I throw on the
floor gold — gold — always gold, imtil it formed a large heap. The
brightness of the mettle spread out before me dazzled my eyesight,
and I began to comfort myself. At length I laid myself down upon
this bed of gold, and slept."

( To be concluded an our next.)

40

CHESS.

CHESS PROBLEM.

No. VII.

BY L'ONONIMO.

BLACK.

a

iJLlI ■ ML
'<m. fm 'mm,.

.{^^

P

in

WHITE.

IF^ife to Mate in five moves.

SOLUTION OF CHESS PROBLEM, No. 6.

BY L'ONONIMO.

WHITE. BLACK.

1 Kt. to Q. B., 5tli sq. eh. 1 K. to Q. B., 7th sq.

2 K. B. to Q. Kt.'s. 3rd sq. eh. 2 K. to Q. Kt., 8th sq.

3 Castles and Mates.

SOLUTION Of CHESS

PROBLEM No. 6

BY A. G.

WHITE.

BLACK.

1 K to K. B. 2

P. takes Kt.

2 K. B. P. 1

K. B. P. 1

3 K. to K. B. sq.

Q. R. P. 1

4 P. takes P.

Kt.'s P. 1

P. on

P. on

P. on

P. on

P. Queens and Mates.

|-9«>.

THE HULL

LITERARY AND PHILOSOPHICAL

MISCELLANY.

MAY.

CONTENTS :

^'n it'uiialism 41

Fairy Vision .*!!.*!5a

The Man who sold his Shadow '.M

The Sea Sons Ditty 6*2

Immortality of the Spirit .[qI

Song

The Monk

Education

Faded Flowers.,
Chess

. 7")
7'.)

LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.
HULL:

FEINTED & PUBr--. - BY SAMUEL DIBB & CO., i, MYTON-GATE

AND SOLD BT

W. 8TEPHBN80K, B. T. CU880S8, AlfD D. KAY, LOWOATB ; J. PBBDOK AKD

MARY NOBLB, MARKET-PLACB ; B. OODDABD, 8ILTBB-8TBBBT;

AND J. L£NO, 8ATILB-8TBSXT.

1844.
PRICE SIXPENCE.

0^Si%^

THE HULL

LITERARY & PHILOSOPHICAL MISCELLANY.

No. VIII. MAY. Vol. II.

ON THK INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM

ON THE

MODERN INSTITUTIONS & SOCIETY OF ENGLAND.
BY ROBT. WELLS, ESQ.

A Paper read before the Hull Literary and Philosophical Society, Tuesday,
bth Ayril 1844.

Continued from page 13.

Thirdly.— I proceed now to a consideration of the most important
part of my subject, the influence of feudalism upon the Civil condU
Hon of this country.

The necessary consequence of the possession of wealth is a ten-
dency to give power to it«» owner, and no species of wealth is so well
calculated to raise and secure pennanent power as that of landed
property ; for in no other kind of wealth are to be found the same
elements of durability ; the experience of ages has established the
truth of this position, and no form of government was better calcu-
lated to guarantee this pennanence than the feudal system, and so
long as the original principles of that system were adhered to and
maintained, the civil power of the landed proprietary must have been
permanent.

I-

42 ON THE INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM.

The decay of the feudal institutions terminated in their abolition
by Charles the second, but their constituent principles are still dis-
tinguishable in one order of society, the landed aristocracy.

I have said that feudalism was a jjradation of subordination, a sub-
ordination in its entire progress, both coercive and oppressive. It
doubtless had redeeming qualities and more ameliorating properties,
the reciprocities of protection and assistance, by which the lord and
tenant were respectively attached to each other ; the harsher features
are happily eflaced and the redeeming qualities may still be traced
in the modern relation of landlord and tenant. I know well that we
may seek in vain, both in commercial and manufacturing towns, for
any symjjtoms of the antient reciprocal feeling, for our boroughs
have immemorially been the bulwarks of the people against the en-
croachments of feudal power. There is something in the nature of
commerce so conducive to independence of thought and action, both
in its transactions and in the wealth consequent upon its successful
pursuit, that we need not be surprised at the constant and ultimately
effectual resistance of our boroughs to the restrictions of feudal
polity ; and this spirit is in fact still exhibited in their present utter
independence of, and indifference to, the modem representatives of
that system ; but in the agricultural districts and especially in those
where the antient baronial domains have long remained the inheri-
tance of one family, there still exists the last remnant of the feudal
relation in the attachment of the tenants to that family, which is as
proud of tracing on a rent-roll an hereditary tenantry as these are
glad to count upon an hereditary connection with their landlords.
These instances I know are not rare, and where the principle is
established, on the death of a tenant the nearest or perhaps the best
member of his family may surely expect the retention of what may
be called his family fann.

These are the more pleasing remnants of the system ; but there
are others which although now deemed necessary by our modem
legislators have really their origin in the most oppressive rigour of
feudalism. I allude to the game laws, the last remnant of the odious
forest laws of Norman oppression, laws which were then decreed for
the gratification of the Monarch and his gi-eater barons at the ex-

OV TRB INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM. 43

pence of the people's liberties and happiness, and which were both
feared and hated by our ancestors, (to use the words of Blackstone)
" for ihe most horrid tyrannies and oppvessions exercised under
colour thereof, for the sake of preserving the beasts of the chase, to
kill any of which within the limits of the forest was as penal as the death
of a man, and that these evils were of the most fearful magnitude
may be gathered from the fact that the Conqueror had no less than
sixty eight forests, thirteen chases and seventy eight parks in England
for the royal sport." I wish not to be understood as intimating that
the present game laws should be reviewed in connection with their
detestable originals, for I kn;)w well that the preservation of private
property and the discouragement of idleness, vagrancy, and noc-
turnal crime have been the declared statutory reasons for their enact-
ment ; and I mention them merely as another memento of the exist-
ence of the feudal system in this country-. Similar instances might
be quoted, as the rights oifree warren and free-fishery y which yet
remain and trace their commencement to the royal grants prior to
Magna Charta.

But although we do not expect to discover in Boroughs such
evidences of aristocratic connection as those before stated, we may
still distinctly find strong maiks of their feudal relation to the
K Sovereign. Most of the Boroughs were parts of the royal demesnes
and in these the sovereign power was unsparingly exercised in the
raising of money by toUage and impositions. Our modern tolls on
goods coming into and sold in market were originally raised and levied
by the Crown, which exercised similar rights in compellhig payment
of tolls for the crossinj? of ferries and bridges ; these still remain,
and are now principally the property of the town, or of private in-
dividuals to whom they were either farmed, or granted by charter, or
bestowed by favour, and the great national impost of the Customs
was originally a tax paid to the monarch by his towns, for the
privilege of importation and commerce, and not merely as a prohibit-
ory duty for the protection of particular national interests. No
town exhibits stronger evidences of tho truth of these statements
than our own, and the reference to its charters and usages will shew
clearly the original sjurce of them to be derivable from the power
of feudal sovereigns.

44 ON THE INFLtTENCE OF FEUDALISM.

"We will now glance at our Courts of Law and endeavour to ascertain
liow far either in their original constitution, or their present practice,
they exhibit any memorials of the feudal system.

The most inferior court in the kingdom is now the Court Baron,
(annexed to every manor) which in its name imports the authority
by which it is holden ; namely, the Court of the Baron or Lord of
the Manor. One of the incidents of the system was the right of
every baron or military tenant in capite to hold a court within the
limits of his fief, for the dispensation of justice between his tenants
and the freeholders of the manor ; and in this respect it must be dis-
tinguished from another court whereof mention will be made, namely
the Customary Court appertaining entirely to copyholders. This
court still remains annexed to every freehold manor, and although in
many it has fallen into disuse, yet in: others the lord, by his Steward,
holds his periodical courts for the settlement of actions under Forty
Shillings, triable by a juiy of the lord's tenants or freeholders of the
manor. This and the Copyhold Court are the only tribunals of
inferior jurisdiction remaining in this country which have been handed
down to us direct by our Norman ancestors, almost unimpaired and
unaltered in their fonn and proceedings. The origin of the High
Court of Chancery, and the three superior Courts of Common Law
at Westminster may also be traced to the same source. The supreme ,
tribimal of the Conqueror was his Aula Regis or Kings Court,
where he oftentimes personally presided ; or in his absence, his Chief
Justiciar, assisted by the Lord Chancellor, High Steward, Mareschall,
the greater Barons of Parliament, and the Barons of the Exctiequer,
and other great officers, fonning notm.erely several divisional Courts
for the transaction of the particular civil or criminal business in their
respective vocations, but also a High Court of law and equity in
matters of moment, and a supreme court of appeal from its several
sections and all inferior tribunals. The immense power of the chief
Justiciary (the 2nd person in the realm) and other state reasons re-
quired the abolition of this court, and the division of its labour
amongst others composed of the several judges of the former one,
according to their respective duties therein. This was efl'ected by
Edward the first who raised out of the ruins of the Aula Regia

ON THK INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM. 4-^

several other courts, iiamely the Court of Chancery under Ihe Lord
High Chancellor now posesshig certain high political duties as well as
the sole jurisdiction in Equity; the Court of Common Pleas for the
trial of all civil causes at law between private subjects ; the Court of
Exchequer for the management of the Crown revenues, and recovery
of the regal dues and debts; and the Court of King's Bench (so
called because originally held before the King in person) retaining
all the criminal jurisdiction and so much of the civil as was not given
to the other courts. These three common law courts now, however,
possess equal and concurrent authority in all matters except Pleas of
the Crown (criminal cases j which belong exclusively to the King's
Bench, and revenue cases which still lie within the separate jurisdic-
tion of the Exchequer. The Court of Exchequer is indeed as old
as the Aula Regia itself, of which it originally formed apart, it being
then held before certain of the militaiy barons of the kingdom. Thus
although all the other Judges of the common law courts have always
been styled and still are called Justices, this court alone preserves
the evidences of its original feudal constitution by continuing to its
judges the same name as that they at first bore, (independently of
their judicial functions,) namely. Barons. This court derives its
name from Scaccharium, the chequered cloth with which its table is
covered, and wherein by means of counters scored thereon the royal
accounts used to be made up. It is divided into two branches,
namely, that for the receipt and management of the Exchequer, and
secondly the administration of civil justice. The business of the
former, in point of fact, is arranged elsewhere, the Chancellor of the
Exchequer being a financial minister of the Crown, exclusive of any
legal functions ; but yet on the commencement of each of the four
annual law terms, that oflicer with another one called the Cursitor
Baron (not a law^'er necessarily) and the chief Puisne Barons of the
judicial court open the court in olden foim and pei-petuate the memo-
rial of its feudal origin.

The modern practice of these courts does not now exhibit many
mementos of the institutions of which I am treating : the old forms
of action for recovery of landed property, and which in their nature
and language at once reminded us of the feudal ages, having either

46 ON THE INFLUENCE OV FEUDALISM,

fallen into disuse or been recently abolished : for instance, the right
of trial by wager oi battle, or personal duel, having only been abolish-
ed by statute in 1819, and the writ of right — the antiquated mode of
proving a tille to landed property, and wherein the jury consisted of
four knights, spurred and armed, along with the other recognitors,
having been tried last year for the last time.

The Court of Common Pleas still retains a badge of ancient feudal
spirit, where in imitation of the old chivalric code that none but a
knight should fi^i^ht with a knight, so here, in this arena of legal
contest, none buta serjeant at law is allowed to cope with a Serjeant;
none b\it an advocate of the coif being permitted there to plead.
This may perhaps be deemed by some of you as a straining to dis-
cover feudal originals in our modern institutions ; be that as it may,
my assertion is fortified by that of a noble and learned peer, who in
the judicial privy council lately assigned this as the true original
cause of the Serjeants' privilege.

On the dissolution of the Aula Regia the Barons of Parliament
who were constituent members of that high court, did not forget their
dignity nor part with all jurisdiction as a superior court; for they
with the Lord High Steward as their president were then constituted,
and now remain, the only tribunal for the trial of peers accused of
crime ; and the barons also reserved to themselves, sitting in parlia-
ment, the right of reviewing, in the last resort, the sentences or judg-
ments of other courts. This is the feudal origin of the present
jurisdiction of the House of Lords as a court of Appeal.

I have thus spoken of the superior Courts of Record; but there
was one other court carved out of the Aula Regia, which bore more
peculiar marks of the feudal ages than any other, namely the Court
of Chivalry, a court of honour, over which the High Constable and
Lord Marshall presided. The statute 13 Richard IL, chap. 2,
declared this to be the jurisdiction of this court, '* That it had cog-
nizance of contracts touching deeds of arms or of war, within the
realm, which cannot be determined by the common law, tog ther
with other usages and customs to the same matters appertaining,"
under which latter words, its civil jurisdiction extended to two points,
tbe redressing of injuries of honour, and the encroachments in

ON THE INFUBKCK OF FKODAUsM. 47

tnattersof coat armour, precedency, and other distinctions of families.
As a court of honour it has long fallen into disuse, as it possessed
no power of enforcing its decrees, but to which in the palmiest days
of chivalry, (and in those days only) obedience would be rendered
by the spirit of the age ; and its heraldric business, according to Sir
Mathew Hale, was " to adjust the right of armorial ensigns, bearings,
crests, supporters, pennons, &c., and also the right of place and pre-
cedence when the king's patent or act of parliament had not already
determined it." This portion of its jurisdiction has also declined and
is transacted entirely in the Herald's Office of ihe College of Heialds
of the present day, which (in his time) was thus sarcastically
described by the antiquarian Pennant, (in his "Some account of
London" p. 530) " in which the records are kept of all the old blood
in the kingdom. In the warlike times of our Henries and Edwards,
the heralds were in full employ, and often sent upon most dangerous
services to hurl defiance into the teeth of infuriated enemies, or to bring
to their duty profligate rebels. Sometimes it has cost them their
nose and ears, and sometimes their heads. At present they rest
from all harm, are often of gi'eat use in proving consanguinity, and
helping people to supply legal claims to estates ; and still more
frequently are of infinite service to our numerous children of fortune
by furnishing them with a quantum sufficient of good blood and en-
nobling them to strut in the motlsy procession of quality" The
latter observations shew clearly the influence of feudal institutions
even in the present age. Men may aflect to despise the distinctions
of blood and of family honours as much as they like ; but let them
once be placed in a position to derive credit from an alliance or con-
nection with them, they begin suddenly to perceive the influence of
a new light, and they may perhaps bring themselves to agree with
Burke, that there is a solid satisfaction in being able to deduce
a genealogy from those who long ago have been of distinguished or
elevated character, nay, less, pride themselves, on their intimacy
or acquaintance with those, whose only famih honour is their descent
from some great noble, whose character, perhaps if exposed, might
exhibit some of the worst vices of our nature. The feeling of
Englishmen in this respect is truly aristocratic ; in a political view.

48 ON THE INFLUENCE 01-' FEUDALISM.

the bulk of the community may be, and doubtless are, perfectly in-
different to, independent of, and often opposed to the nobility ; but
in the civil relations of life the pride of personal distinction is an inci-
dent of human nature, and never is it more strongly developed than
in the respect tacitly paid to the aristocracy. The man who to day
in his humble sphere, unconnected with, careless of, and unknown
to the nobles of our land, perhaps may esteem a long deduced
pedigree as trash, titles of honour as useless and valueless, or a proof
of feudal descent as sheer nonsense ; but let him rise in his business
let him become gradually connected with a class superior to his own,
let his wealth rapidly increase, and let him retire from his occupation
a millionaire ; and his example may not with many others be want-
ing to prove with what avidity personal aggrandizement is sought as
a becoming adjunct to opulence — the college of heralds is troubled
to invent him a coat of arms, and puzzled to suggest its motto,
whereof he possibly knows not the origin, and on which the secret
influence of his new station and the lurking seeds of ambition may
suggest, that a noble's quartering would be the most prized embla-
zonry. This I believe to be the national spirit. We are under the
guidance of certain influences, or act according to certain usages
which have been interwoven with our civil constitution, and transmit-
ted (impaired and modified as they may now be) through each suc-
ceeding generation. We know not often how they arise ; we act
under their influence ; yet we may trace them, if we will, to that
complete spirit of feudalism which (as I have before said) has been
necessarily infused into most of our institutions. And nothing has
more contributed to effect this than the nature of our landed tenures.
I have already shewn that the greater part of the lands in this
country was held by the military tenure of knights' service, to which
certain incidents were annexed. These were entirely abolished at
the Restoration by the statute 12 Charles II., which enacts that the
courts of wards and liveries, and all wardships, liveries, primer seisins
and ousterlemains, values and forfeitures of man'iage, by reason
of any tenure of the king, be totally taken away; and that
all fines for alienations, tenures by homage, knightseiTice, and
escuage, and also aids for marrying the daughter or knighting the

ON THS XMyLUBNCB OF FEUDALISM. 49

son, and all the tenures of the king in capite, he likewise taken
away, and that all sorts of tenures held of the king or others be
turned into free or common socage, save only tenures in frankalmoign*
copyholds, and the honorary services (without the slavish part) of
grand seijeanty ; from which it will be perceived thatall land was then
to be held (and it has ever since been held) as of free and common
socage tenure, and the three excepted tenures. Socage was an
ancient free tenure, of feudal origin, even in the time of the Saxons,
whereby lands were holden of a lord (without military service), but
under certain free and honourable services — such as render of
homage, fealty, or small money payments ; in short, it is the tenure
by which every freeholder now holds his lands. But time has dis-
pensed with the necessity for any real services at all. Similar feudal
incidents were annexed to this species of tenure as to those of knights'
service, but all of them are by the statute of Charles abolished, ex-
cept the following — the holding of the land either of the king as lord
paramount, or sometimes in manors of a mesne or mediate lord ; the
implied render o{ fealty to that lord, even at this day ; the payment
of a relief or sum of money on the assumption of an inheritance when
a rent is due to the lord ; wardship, or the devolution of the custody
of the person and estate of an infant heir to his next of kin (not his
or her heir-at-law) until he or she attain the age of fourteen; and
escheats, or the absolute forfeiture or resumption of the estate (pur-
suant to the original, or supposed original, nature of that estate) to the
king or lord, on the corruption of the blood of the tenant (a free-
holder) by attainder for high treason, petit treason, or murder.
But these are not the only peculiarities of freeholds which remind
us of their feudal origin — in legal phrase, the freeholder is said to be
seised (i.e. possessed in estate after investiture, actual or presumed)
of the land or tenements in his demesne as of fee ; this word " fee "
being synonimous with " fief," a beneficiary grant of land, such as
it originally was. Until within a ver}^ modem period (and perhaps
even now, in some cases) a conveyance or purchase is made
" to him to hold of the chief lord of the fee;" and these words, chief
lord, are in express pursuance of the statute of Quia Emp tores 18
Edw. I. c. 1. The old mode of conveyance of freeholds is now often

50 ON THK INFLUENCE Of FEUDALISM.

used, \'iz. feoffment — a name equally indicative of the same source*
The law oi primogeniture, or descent to the eldest son or male next-
of-kin in exclusion of all the rest of the family, is likewise attrihutable
to the feudal system, under which was continued the mode of inhe-
ritance by entails or estates tail (by the statute de donis 13 Edw. I.),
and by which tenure, or law, the domains of our old nobility and the
gentry have been so long transmitted unimpaired to their present
possessors ; the right of the husband, as tenant by the curtesy for
his life to his deceased wife, and of the assignment or setting out of
the widow's dower by the heir of her deceased husband's freeholds.
These, and a number of other incidents, might be quoted, all leading
further to confirm the truth of my assertion — that the influence of
feudalism is still discernible in most of the institutions of the
country.

And our copyhold tenures do even more strongly confirm this.
Copyhold land is the remnant of the old tenure hy [villeinage — a
species of tenure not strictly and exclusively feudal, but partly so,
and so called from the state of villeinage or slavery in which many
of the people, both under the Saxons and Normans, were held.
Manumitted in process of time, their lands held originally at the
will of the Lord of the manor, and ultimately by them absolutely, but
apparently at his will, according to the custom of the manor, and
most of them vested in inheritance — these poor serfs have trans-
mitted to us the tenure of copyhold, or land held by copy of court
roll, whereby many of the estates in this kingdom are now held.
These are called either copyhold free, or in bondage ; free — that is
of inheritance, with merely nominal fines annexed to their transfer
or descent; or in bondage (i.e. subject to heavy fines or manorial
pajnneuts upon their alienation or descent, and subject, also, to
heavy disadvantages in the legal disability to fell timber, excavate
minerals, pull down buildings, or commit waste — burdens which in
some manors are exceedingly onerous.) They all are held by the
custom of a manor, are transferred or conveyed in the court baron
or customary court of the manor, before a jury of copyholders or
tenants, called the homage jury ; and this transfer is effected by a
surrender into the hands of the lord to the use of the purchaser, who

ON THE INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM. 51

prays to be admitted tenant, and to whom the lord grants seisin (or
possession) of the estate, " to hold of him according to the custom
of the manor; and the new tenant rendering homage and fealty is
admitted tenant upon payment of the Jines and render of the ancient
tervices ; so that it will be perceived that every one of these words,
homage, surrender, tenant, fealty, fines, services, indicates in itself
the feudal nature of the tenure. And in case of the death of the
tenant without heirs, or his attainder for crime, the lord ascertains
the fact by the finding of the homage jury, and the estate con-
sequently escheating, he resumes the possession of it by his original
feudal rights.

The other tenures excepted by the statute of Charles II., viz.,
grand serjeanty, or fiefs of office, may be also described in the
words of Littleton. " This tenure," says he, " is when a man holds
*' his lands or tenements of our sovereign lord the king, by such
" services as he ought to do in his own proper person for the king,
" as to carry the banner of the king, or his lance, or to be his ma-
" reschal, or to carry his sword before him at his coronation, or to
" be his carver, or his butler, or to be one of his chamberlains at
" the receipt of his exchequer, or do other like services." And to
this day many of our nobles' estates are held by this tenure. For
example — Worksop manor is, I believe, held by the fief of office, of
supporting the sovereign's hand when crowned and sceptred ; and
as grand serjeanty consists of the performance of some honourable
sen'ice, so petty serjeanty also is a tenure of lands of the king by
the annual render of some implement of war, as a bow, a sword, or
a lance, an arrow, or the like. I believe the Duke of Wellington's
tenure of Strathfieldsaye is an instance of this kind.

I have thus endeavoured to detail most of the remains of Feudal-
ism directly discernible in the institutions and customs of this coun-
try ; but if time permitted, I might further enlarge upon the subject
by shewing how we are indirectly benefitted in almost every condi-
tion of life by this system. Rigorous and oppressive as it was in its
own nature, yet its continuance and decline were attended with con-
sequences conductive to the best interests of our land. It fostered
that spirit of martial ardour in its formation and preservation of the

52 ON THE INFLUENCE OF FEUDALISM.

class of tenants by knight's service, which, if not productive of, at
least contributed mainly to, the establishment of the system of
chivalry which tended to the most important results in Europe.
Yes ; it was that spirit which, responding to the cry of the Hermit,
led forth its millions to war for the Holy Sepulchre, and which, in
the name of the Crusades (so disastrous in themselves) was the pre-
cursor and promoter of the regeneration and civilization of Europe :
for it brought the valiant yet semi-barons' hosts of Christendom in
contact with nations superior to themselves in arts, learning, and re-
finement ; and in intercourse with the East, the West received those
rudiments of enlightenment and courtesy which have softened and
harmonized our species. Aye, whilst Europe despised the Saracen
and cursed the Infidel, she little thought that she was warring with
nations infinitely superior to her own, in almost every worldly attain-
ment from whom she might, and must, derive the most incalculable
benefits ; and the descendants of myriads of warriors whose bones
were bleached on the sands of Africa or the plains of Syria, may
now really bless the day on which a furious fanatic roused Feudalism
in its power to rescue the Pilgrim of the Cross from the thraldom of
the oppressor; and those who have been led to view this system
solely as a national evil, as an institution adapted only to a state of
barbarism, or as a mere engine of power for a despot or his princely
few, may trace in its existence, or deduce from its continuance,
some of the highest tempoial privileges and blessings which the
many are now enabled to enjoy.

63

A FAIRY VISION.

Now should the moon with clear unclouded orb
Rule from her highest throne, and shed on earth
Her silver beams of visionary light.
The magic rays create a softer scene
Of mild and shaded beauty. One so calm.
So pure, so lovely, that it seems a world
Where beings brighter, and of finer mould.
Than earth's inhabitants might love to dwell. —
The verdure shining in the pearly light.
Each hanging blade with dew-gems richly hung.
The purple trees whose wide-extended boughs
Cast a sweet shadow on the freshened turf.
The deep dark nooks amid the spreading wood.
The shady arbours or illumined knolls
Presents a thousand exquisite retreats.
Where such might haunt enamoured, nor regret
Their fairer dwellings in celestial climes.

Imagination and poetic thought.
In Ancient Greece, each woodland, tree, and spring
Peopled with deities whose plastic hands
Wrought all to special beauty. Not a tree
Shot forth its spring-tide verdure, or displayed
Its golden fruitage to the ripening beams
Of fertile autumn, but 'twas deemed the work
Of some fair dryad ruling o'er its form.
Each crystal fountain bursting from the rock
With trickling music, and thence gushing on
Through mossy channel, flower-enwoven banks ;
Now keenly glancing in the blaze of noon.
And now deep -shaded by impending boughs.
Whose verdant branches dip amidst its stream ;
All nature pictured on its spotless glass ;
Or curled in dimpling eddies till anon

64 A FAIRY VISION.

It leaps impetuous from some jutting rock

And foams and flashes in the gulph below :

Possessed its nymph whose sweet presiding care.

Unlocked its source, and bade its waters flow

In mazy cun*ent guided by her hand.

Her task was all delight, and oft at noon

When fervid rays oppressed the tender flowers.

Her fragrant limbs amidst the crystal pool

She'd lave with ecstacy, and revel there

Till rosy evening brought the cooling breeze.-—

Oft would she sit upon the mossy bank

And bind the golden tresses of her hair,

With water lillies or empurpled bells.

Whose beauties blushed around, and then would gaze.

In gentle pensiveness at her bright form.

Thus fair adorned, as in reflection clear

It shone resplendent in her native fount;

The while her voice with silver melody.

More soft and gentle than the woodland choir,

Chaunted some sonnet to its murmuring flow.

Oh ! bright creations of the longing mind.
In love with beauty such as never blessed
The waking sight. Oh ! beings, who of old
Were deemed to people all the classic shores
Of Greece unrivalled, will ye never dwell
Amidst our woodlands, haunt our forest shades.
Our flowery plains, and mossy-bordered brooks.
Gilding their beauties with the richer light
Of legendary lore ? Yet British land
Is not untenanted by such as ye.
Her fairy-people whose enchanting forms
And peerless beauty ye cannot surpass !

Tradition tells that oft the rustic swain
When late returning from some village feast,

1 VAIRT VISIOK. 66

Or joyful visit to the maid he loved,

Has watched their revels o'er the dewy lawn.

Amid the moon-beam's pure unsullied light.

When midnight silence ruled the breathless world.

Struck with enchantment at the gorgeous scene

Of such celestial beauty, he has stood

In fixed astonishment till morning's dawn

Displayed its yellow beam ; then all at once

The sight eluded his enraptured eye

Dissolved in air ! Beneath an ancient oak

Whose rugged trunk, huge, antiquated, vast.

Like some strong pillar rearing high the roof

Of fane or temple, bore aloft a dome

Of stretching boughs, with verdure thickly clad.

That cast a shadow on the dewy turf

In circuit round immense, the fairy scene

Burst brightly on his view. In mazy dance

These gentle people of etherial form.

Delighted revelled in the moon-light glance

As in bright gleams at intervals it shot

Betwixt the parting branches. Some were sat

Amid the flowers that cloathed the high-heaved root

Inhaling fragrance, whilst with looks intent

They watched the circling throng. Some sought the beds

Where purple bells, with evening dew-drops bright.

In graceful cun'es hung their declining heads

Stooping to earth, and in ecstatic bliss

Extended lay beneath the balmy shade.

Others on instruments of softest tone.

Whose melody descended on the ear

Like the far cadence of angelic harps.

Or songs of seraphim, with band exact

The dancers guided in their sportive joy.

And thrill their bosoms with inciting sounds.

What pen can tell, what words describe their forms
So delicate and fine ? No hues of earth

66 A FAIRY VISION.

Can paint their beauty, and no things of sight

Display their matchless elegance of shape

The purest cloud that gems the summer sky

When slightly tinged with sunset's softest rose

To their bright features has the grossest hue.

All flowers of earth which rear their heads on high

In healthful sprightliness, or pensive hang

Their tinted loveliness in modest guise

Compared with them no comliness possess.

Soft Zephyr wantoning amidst the meads

In gentle gambols, whilst the playful grass

Scarce bends beneath his foot, stirs not so light

Nor in his rapid gliding step betrays

Such lovely grace of motion. Twilight skies

Transparent with their fervid glow of light.

Like rosy crystal arching o'er the earth.

Seems likest to the fine etherial mould.

Of which their delicate proportioned limbs

Are softly framed. Their high expanded brows

Bear locks of golden gleam, in curling waves

Descending o'er their shoulders. Rays of light.

Like glory circling round the setting sun,

Shine o'er their radiant foreheads. Vestures gemmed

With starry lights beyond the glow-worm lamp.

Of texture finer than the gossamer.

Gird round their lucid waists and waving flow

In twining folds, with flutterings more light

Than rosebuds dancing in the morning's breeze.

Rich pearly crowns, inlaid with flowery gold.

Invest their brows ; and their pure, peerless hands

Bear sceptres white, indicative of sway.

These tiny people so refined of fiume
In sportive revels wile their joyful hours;
Yet is their life of glad festivity.
Oft varied with some sweet delightful task.

▲ FAlUt VISION. 57

Their ready hands rear up the drooping flowers,

Exhausted by the fervent heats of day,

And sprinkle dew-drops on their beauteous heads,

Till sweet refreshment, diunk through every pore,

Gives vernal brightness to their hues again.

With gentle fingers they the buds unbind.

And set them from their clasping leaflets free.

That when bright morning comes with rosy smile.

Their quick unfolding, or expanded charms

May gladsome welcome give. They oft, when falls

The sparkling moonlight shower, the bright drops catch

And hide the globules in the purple cups

Of thirsty bells or azure violets ;

Or with nice touch unlock their nectared stores

Of balmy essences to breathe abroad

In lavish fragrance on the moistened air.

Works delicate as these employ their hands.

And give their sportive revels higher zest.

Whene'er the moon, in silver majesty.

Serenely rules the midnight's purple realm.

A truce to fictions, beautiful and bright 1

And let imagination stoop to truth

From her high flight, and view the scenes around.

69

THE MAN WHO SOLD HIS SHADOW,
{Continued from page 39.)

The next day Schlemiht went among the merchants to purchase
every luxury he could possibly think of, resolving to make himself
happy ; but wherever he went, everybody came out to see " the Man
without a Shadow," the women especially annoyed him by their
sarcastic pity. On his return home he burst into tears, his agony
of mind was more than he could bear, he repented bitterly of
his bargain and was resolved to undo it if possible. He sent his
valet to the house of Mr. John, to enquire about the Man in Grey,
but to no purpose for he returned without having learnt any thing
of him.

At last an idea came into his mind that he might get a painter to
paint him a shadow, with this impression, he sent for an Artist of
eminence, who resided in the town. On his waiting upon him, he
told him he had had the misfortune to loose his shadow, which had
been frozen in Russia one very severe frost, and he had sent for him
in tho hope that he might be able to provide him with a substitute
for the one he had lost. The artist imagining he was being made a
fool of, threw upon him a look of contempt and left him. What was
now to be done ? After much anxious thought and deliberation he
resolved never to go out alone, but always to have his servant
by his side, so that the man's shadow might be taken for his
own. This plan, like the other, was, however, a failure, and he now
determined to keep himself shut up in the house during the day, and
to go out only during the night, but the moon-light nights always
discovered to him his misery. The circumstance of his having no
shadow had now become so notorious and was now in everybody's
mouth, that he was compelled to leave the place : he departed and

went to a town some distance from and here his splendid

equipage, and the gold that he squandered in every direction, got
him a great name and the people got it up that he was a prince ; he
had not been here long before he met with a beautiful young lady

THE MAN WBO SOLD HIS SHADOW.

6i

wliose personal attractions and amiable manners soon made an im-
pression on his heart, — he became enamoured of her, and resolved
to make an effort to obtain her affections. The young lady accepted
bis proposals, and her parents looking at the match, as every way
suitable, at once consented to it, and every preparation was made for
their wedding, which was to be celebrated on a most magnificent
scale ; every thing was now ready, the day was fixed — when,— Oh,
shame, — oh desolation — a horrid valet let out the secret, he informed
the father of the young lady that this rich stranger, whom they took
for a prince durst not shew himself in the day time, because he had
no shadow. Schlemiht entered the house, the family were in deep
distress, the father had just communicated the intelligence to his wife
and daughter; there was the father stamping with rage — the mother
in tears, and the daughter inconsolable. He was rejected — in an
agony he flew from the apartment and ran into the fields. He had
now got a considerable distance from the town, when all at once there
appeared before him the man in the grey surtout. " I will return
thy shadow," said he, " thou shalt be rich, and marry the young
lady thou lovest if thou wilt sign me this paper," holding out before
him a paper which Schlemiht read, when he had perused it he re-
coiled back with horror. " No, no," said he, "I will not — I dare not,
no, I will not loose my immortal soul for a shadow. The mysterious
being in grey, here made a beautiful shadow float in the air for
Schlemiht to look at, but he resisted ttie temptation and fled in a
state of dreadful agitation ; he ran over mountain and hill, not know-
ing where he was going ; on the fourth day he found himself in a
desert and suddenly there appeared before him a shadow, and he
began to run after it, the shadow passed on, but the desire to
possess it gave him almost supernatural strength, and he ran
with immense swiftness, the shadow, however, entered a forest and
he had the unhappiness to see that it had escaped him. As he
walked on the road, in a state of wretchedness, almost indescribable,
he was overtaken by a person who asked permission to accompany him,
and they walked with immense strides along the earth. That night
he perceived the unknown was no other than the man in grey. They
ooniinued walking together until they arrived at the edge of an abys^

60 THE MAN WHO SOLD HIS SHADOW.

which opened its frightful jaws before them, here they stopped — here
again the devil presented the contract of damnation. And to induce
Schlemiht to sign it, he made his shadow float in the air. *' Unhappy
wretch that I am," cried Schlemiht, " thus you have made Mr. John
rich, and so would you ruin me; hut listen to the words

of the Saviour " and as he said this he threw the purse of gold

into the abyss. No sooner had these words escaped his lips than
the devil disappeared and Schlemiht continued his route, always
trembling when he came into the light.

His days, however, he passed concealed in the woods and lanes,
and only pursued his journey in the night. His boots being now
nearly worn out, he chanced one day to come up to the stall of a
cobler, of whom he bought a new pair, and then continued his course
being deeply absorbed in thought, he walked on not knowing where
he was travelling to, or in what direction he was going, when he awoke
out of his reverie he found himself in the midst of a forest, and the
next moment he was walking upon ground barren and drear, he was
now in a desert, without a sign or vestige of life — still advancing, he
found himself surrounded by mountains of ice and snow ; the cold
was excessive, he could discern no trace of a human habitation.
Stepping for a moment or two on the other side, he was overjoyed
to find himself under a beautiful and serene sky, the air charged
with fragrance, proceeding from the lime and orange trees which
were scattered about here and there along the plain in which he found
himself situated. Here he sat him down to enjoy the luxury of the
scene spread out before him ; and now the idea flashed through his
mind, the boots he had so luckily purchased were the boots of twenty
miles, or the enchanted boots, ofthe existence of which he had read,
and now he was happy to find himself the fortunate owner of so
valuable an acquisition. This discovery as may well be imagined
caused him inexpressible joy and with a heart overpowered with
emotion, he fell on his knees and thanked God for the good fortune
which had befallen him, in the purchase of those wonderful boots.

From his youth he had always had an intenvse desire to acquire a
knowledge of natural science ; the study of animated nature had
always been his favourite pursuit ; but the misfortunes which had

THB MAN WHO SOLD HIS SHADOW. 61

come upon him had retarded the attainment of this his highest
object ; and now these were all removed — for he luckily hit upon
the following mode of regulating his progress as he wished. When
he wanted to go slowly, he covered his boots with a pair of trousers;
but when he wanted to go faster, he took them off. And this he
found to succeed most effectively ; then he could stride over hill
and mountain. Distance seemed to be almost annihilated. And
thus he visited every portion of the globe. One day, however, he
found himself in the uninhabited regions of the north, where the
cold being so intense and severe, he was so bitten by the frost, that
he had like to have lost his life before he could regain the civilized
country ; on gaining which, he found himself in a dreadful fever, and,
almost in despair of his life, he entered the first hospital he could
find. But judge of his astonishment when he found that this
hospital bore his own name !

The faithful youug lady to whom he was to have been married,
on his leaving the place, as we have already related, fell into a low
way, and died some time after of a broken heart, and her friends
according to her dying request, had founded this hospital in memory
of him to whom she had committed her dearest hopes and warmest
affections. Here he remained until his health was restored, every
attention being paid to his wants, and more especially on its becom-
ing known that he was the man to whom the institution was founded.
His health being now established he resolved still to prosecute his
investigations, and having obtained an immense collection of speci-
mens of plants and other remarkable productions of nature, from the
four quarters of the earth, he returned to Gennany, to his own
native hearth, where he commenced the publication of an universal
system of botany ; the work was justly celebrated at the period in
which it was written, whether there is a copy of it now extant our
informant cannot say, it is doubtful whether there is one in this
country. He also prepared a history of his voyages and travels,
lifom which the foregoing narrative has been extracted.

62

THE SEA-SON'S DITTY.

The sons of the tame Earth,

Pale children of care !
Sneering, ask me what sea-mirth

Can with their's compare ?
Blind hats he Earth's ninnies!

Dull clods he they all !
Whose joy hut akin is

To insects that crawl.
Their mirth is mere prattle ;

Their joy but a laugh.
Which a straw may occasion —
A stupid oration —
A nincompoop's hluster —

Or queer epitaph :
Vile Earthling ! I scorn thee.

Vain hooby ! does music

Possess thy weak mind ?
Can Earth boast such air

As the mighty Sea- Wind ?
When ensconced in the womb

Of the big-swelling sail.
With high-sounding revel

He pipes in the gale !
Ay, ay ! well may Ocean

Bound high in his glee.
For music more thrilling
Dull Earth has no skill in.
Nor aught can compare,

Mighty Sea- Wind ! with thee :
Von Weber ! I scorn thee.

THB sea-son's dittt. 63

Or do the bright flashes

Of false woman's eye
Engage thy weak fancy

In dr earnings of joy ?
A flash far more dazzling —

A faith none upbraid —
Lurks in the bright steel

Of my trusty keen blade ;
And the soul-stirring mirth

Of the glorious mellde.
When brand kisses brand,
'Mid the vile Paynira band.
To brim fills the cup

Of the Sea- Son's glee.
Dull Wooer ! I scorn thee.

And yet, truckling slave.

There is sweeter untold
Which the Sea-Son inherits

Who dares to be bold ;
Tis the spell that entrances —

The luminous glow
That irradiates our track

And encircles our prow;
Ay ! Freedom, the birthright

And pride of tlie sea.
On the proud wave upcurled
Her flag has unfurled.
While the Sea-Sons exclaim

" We are free ! we are free !"
Vile Earthlinq ! I scorn thee.

■OlM.

64

ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT.

It is a verity of the highest* order, and one that admits of no ques-
tion, that every department of God's creation take a deep and
thrilling interest in the concernments of human destiny. Magnifi-
cent as are the arrangements of nature, splendid the combinations of
scenery that fonns the glowing panorama around ; yet it all fades
into cloud and crumbles into dust, when contrasted with the respon-
sibililies and awardments of moral and intellectual existence. Take
even the youngest infant in your anns, and ponder over it in deep
and solemn reflection; you feel as if you were present at some
dramatic exhibition of great interest, in silence awaiting the rising
of the curtain, in anxiety to witness its mighty action — its stiiTing
incidents — its gi*eat catastrophe, — to deduce its lofty moral, what
shall we behold ? a human spirit dedicated to God, and the love and
service of his fellow mortals, rising higher and higher in the realms
of benevolence and duty, until fixed an unfading flower at God's
right hand for ever; or shall we behold the converse a life of selfish-
ness and sin, leading to a final heritage of shame aud everlasting
contempt. What have we here — poet, patriot, or parricide ? shall he
sink into disgrace — into oblivion — into shame ? shall he rise into
eminence, soar into fame, or rise into glory ? By the immortality of
the soul, we mean that immortality is its natural state, that the soul
cannot die. Splendid aphorism, transcendent verity, it gilds virtu-
ous and humble poverty, however lowly with, a beautiful halo. It is
the fringe of light on the edge of the darkened cloud that tells us of
the sweet and lovely region of light beyond. We deduce this great
fact from the law of metaphysics, and from the voice of revelation.
We know that thought has a real existence as well as matter. Intel-
lect impresses, controls, and moulds matter into agencies, which it
subjects to its will in accordance with the laws of reason.

The steam engine, which is in fact a new element in nature, was
originally but an idea in the mind of Watt. 1 1 is now the noble ex-
hibition of power in every department of manufacture; it is the great
creator of commercial dispatch, the great producer of national wealth.

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT. 65

©very steam engine that we see in motion is therefore but the realiza-
tion of an idea — is but a proof of the immortality of the soul. We
have in truth no such proof as this to offer on behalf of the existence
of matter ; matter cannot impress any power upon a single atom
independent of mind, and we cannot by any means produce actual
contact between any body ; what we know of the qualities of matter
is not what we learn from contact, only from theories ; and although
it were absurd to argue with Berkley that we have no proof at all of
the existence of an external physical universe, it is quite true that
we have no such evidence to adduce in favour of the existence of
matter, as we are able to produce in favour of the existence of mind.
The mind cannot expire, but the body can die. Destructive agencies
cannot injure the soul ; you cannot bayonet a sentiment, stab an
idea, or murder an opinion. The first proof of the doctrine of the
immortality of the soul being true that we will mention, arises from
the attraction which the mind always feels in the contemplation of this
subject. It requires its attention to he forced to other themes, such
as logic, astronomy, or mathematics. No such compulsion is needed
for this : the mind is at home here : it is really its native air. With
each draught the soul is felt to be nourished. Like the peasant upon
his native hills, life is found to be inhaled with every breeze, till the
immortal spirit bounds again, and fancy and imagination finding free
scope, like the eagle, are enabled to soar to a lofty height, and gaze
upon the parent soul of the universe, as the bird of Jove with un-
dimmed vision is enabled boldly to gaze upon the sun.

Another proof of the doctrine of the immortality of the soul being
true arises from the fact that the mind finds consolation in such
thoughts during seasons of privation and suffering, especially when
undergoing the anguish arising from the bereavement of friends
removed by death. It is from a consideration that the soul is im-
mortal that we derive the pleasing thought that we shall meet again
to part no more. It was this truly sublime consideration that com-
forted the mind of Cicero, when sorrowing for the removal by death
of a tenderly beloved daughter. He argued that no combination of
matter could produce thought, or emotion, or sentiment; conse-
quently he inferred that these principles were not material, but spi-

I

bo THE IMMORTALITY OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT.

ritual ; that the soul was therefore deathless — immortal ; that it
could not die.

Such thoughts reconciled Cicero, a heathen, to his bereavement.
These sweet inferences reconciled his mind to the removal of his
beloved child He found solace in the heart-reviving consideration
that they should meet again. These thoughts supported Socrates, we
are informed by Plato, when condemned unjustly to death by the
cruelty of his countrymen ; and upheld the great soul of Cato, about
to take refuge in the tomb from the corruptions and calamities of
his country.

The great proofs of this subject, independent of these we have
adduced, are drawn from the laws of metaphysics, or as we might
say, from the nature of the case. And these are, 1st, its immate-
riality ; 2ndly, the fact that it possesses in itself no destructive qua-
lities ; 3rdly, from the nature of its powers and faculties ; and,
lastly, from the fact that it developes its nature by phrases and not
by additions. Upon these points we will not dilate, more than to
notice two contradictions. The understanding is capable of con-
sidering ; all classes of topics, whether they be material or immate-
rial. It can comprehend and explain all the physical laws and their
relations to every department of nature, animate and inanimate, as
has been done by Sir I. Newton, Marquis La Place, and by Linneeus.
It can contemplate subjects metaphysical with equal ease, and
analyse the most subtle elements of thought, as has been effected by
Condillac, D'Aleinbert, Reid, Locke, Dugald Stewart, and Thomas
Brown. It can contemplate eternity — eteniity that is to come, and
eternity that is past ; but the fact of assurance as to the actuality of
the event is more certain in the assurance that the mind feels with
reference to a past eternity than to a future. But the great proof of
the soul's immortality arises, in the opinion of the writer of this
essay, from the fact that the immortal mind developes itself by phases
and not by additions.

In youth the imagination is active ; it is the period of genius, and
poetry, and romance ; it is the time for the dance and the song.
Novel thoughts, rich and fragrant, gush from the soul as water from
a fountain ; the tree is garlanded with blossom. After awhile, this

THE IMMORTALITY Ol' THE HUMAN SPIRIT. 67

season passes away : a new period arrives, when the mind no longer
revels in imagination, but becomes thoughtful, enquiring, earnest,
practical ; the age of vigorous acquirements and active duty has
arrived. Another period comes ; the mind becomes tenacious, grasp-
ing, takes firm and rigorous hold of what it has found to be truth,
and knows to be good. Another period arrives — the period of wis-
dom ; the mind is then either cautious or acutely discerning. Every
sentiment it utters is then sterling — its every drop is gold ; it generally
becomes pious and adoring, and seems then fitted for a new and
better state of existence than that of earth. The inference we would
draw from this part of the subject is this: If the mind grew simply
by addition, either an increase in the intensity of powers first deve-
loped, or by new additions consequent upon the increase of its stores
of knowledge, we ought to infer that these must have limitation, and
conseqnently that this being, though distinguished greatly by its
longevity, might not yet be eternal. But when we see one state of
being rising out of another, phase after phase, and trace this to the
very end of life, we may infer, and justly, that such a state of being,
having in itself no destructive qualities, is destined to endure.

" The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years :
Bat thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds."

This spirit, then, has a home — a haven of rest; it pants to be
there, like the captive who gazes through his prison bars towards
his native valley ; it feels it has a home. He can see no other than
the outskirts of the blue horizon ; but he knows there is beyond a
valley where is hid his father's house ; it may be an humble cot,
but it is his ; that there he last received a father's blessmg — there
listened to a mother's voice — there heard the cheerful laugh of his
sisters* girlhood. It is graven on his heart; eternity cannot erase
it. Nor can it be erased from his spirit that his home is the skies,
and that his destiny is immortal.

T. T. L.

68

SONG.

BY WILLIAM J. BOSOMWORTH.

I lov'd her in my childish dreams.

When sad I ne'er had been.
And flowers I cull'd into a wreath.

For her, my youthful queen ;
My heart was full of lightsome mirth.

When musing on my lot.
And silent words spoke in my soul —

My love, forget me not.

We tripp'd along o'er nature's floor.

At even's pensive hour.
And stars would rise to light our way.

To some sequestered bower ;
We spoke of love, of future days.

Of some secluded cot.
And all her words echoed my wish,

I will forget thee not.

I lived to see the world grow dark.

And a dimness o'er the past.
My brightest hopes seemed fled and gone.

By the fierceness of the blast ;
Yet, then I found within her heart,

A shield, and resting spot.
And heard its faithful beatings speak.

Still thou art not forgot.

69

THE MONK.

During my residence at Oporto, one summer's evening I felt more
than usually disposed for a stroll on the delightful banks of the Douro.
The sky was clear, scarcely a breeze was felt ; the horizon was
beautifully tinged with the setting sun, which was brilliantly reflected
on the watttM^ giving them the appearance of refined gold, and
foiming a strong yet lovely contrast with nature's variegated carpet.
I insensibly fell into a reverie, and was contemplating the varied
beauties by which I was surrounded ; on stooping to pluck that
simple flower (oft passed by unheeded), namely, the " Forget-me-
not," my attention was suddenly aroused by a inistling noise amid
the foliage of a shrubbery close by. I had proceeded only a few
paces towards the spot from whence the noise issued, when I ob-
served a person in the habit of a monk. He appeared to be about
the age of forty, and in his features there were evident traces of what
might have been termed handsome : his aspect was mild and in-
genuous, but a soft shade of melancholy seemed to veil the whole,
and to my mind excited a prepossession in his favour. Near him sat
a young female, who seemed scaicely to have numbered sixteen
summers. She held in her hand a book, and from her manner ap-
peared to be receiving instructions from her spiritual preceptor. Her
delicate figure, moulded in sylph-like form — her beauteous eye,
sparkling with a diamond's ray — her luxuriant auburn tresses — all
seemed to proclaim in silent eloquence —

" She was passing fair :
And boonteous nature o'er that maiden threw
All charms man loves, and all he honours too."

On my approaching nearer, the monk saluted me, and inquired if I
was journeying to the neighbouring town. I answered in the
affirmative. " Then, sir," said he, " as you appear to be a stranger,
and as there is no beaten track between this and the town, you
may be some time ere you reach it alone ; in a few moments I

70 THK ^iONK.

shall be going that way, and shall have pleasure in accompanying
you." I acknowledged his kindness, and, retiring to a short
distance, waited until his instructions to the young lady were brought
to a conclusion.

The lesson was soon ended. The monk, who had taken his seat
by his young pupil, arose, and said, " You may now return homo —
be with me to-morrow at sunrise. Go, my child ; and the blessing
of heaven protect you." The young girl courtesied and departed — the
monk accompanying her with his eyes until the distance hid her from
his view ; when, rousing himself as from a dream, h^^jjologised for
his inattention, and we proceeded on our journey. He observed a
profound silence until we reached the town, when I respectfully and
earnestly requested him to sup with me ; he then informed me thai
for twelve years he had not partaken of animal food, and no drink
stronger than water. " Nevertheless, sir," he added, " your con-
versation is a repast which, by 3^our pennission, I will not deny my-
self." Still he appeared abstracted ; his very soul seemed absorbed
and almost to have quitted him with Clarissa — for that was the
name of his young and lovely pupil.

At first sight I was struck with the dignity of my new acquaint-
ance ; his every word and action inspired me with awe and esteem.
I projected many schemes to draw from him the particulars of his
life, yet had not resolution enough to put any of them in execution,
though perhaps no woman, however great her curiosity, longed more
to divulge a secret than I to obtain this.

The embarassment I felt at the dejection of this poor Franciscan
prompted me at length to remark that I thought he bore a strong
resemblance to his pupil, at the same time adding, " But probably,
sir, she is a relation under your care." "A relation!" exclaimed
the monk, his cheek suffused with crimson, and his utterance of the

words being given with unguarded wannth ; " she is " But

immediately recollecting himself, his agitation became almost in-
supportable. I felt as if I could have walked a pilgrimage to Rome
rather than have hurt his feelings for a moment.

On observing my distress at the thought of being the cause of
his anguish, he eagerly grasped my hand between his, and

THK MON'^. 71

ad soon as he had overcome his emotion, said, " Sir, I am more
distressed for the pain I have occasioned you than at the memory
of my own misfortunes. I feel fully convinced that you possess a
heart that can sympathise with the distresses of another ; and as a
testimony of my opinion, I will acquaint you with the cause of my
agitation, and why I became a victim to the austerities of a cloister.
But again," added he, after a slight pause, " why should I unlock
the secret chamber, and cause trouble to a friend ? ' the heart knoweth
its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not therewith.* "
" Stay, worthy sir," said I ; think not of my feelings, for the same
book you have quoted says, * As iron sharpeneth iron, so does the
face of a man his friend ' ; if, therefore, it would not grieve you too
much, I entreat you to proceed."

" That girl," said the monk, " whose absence but now gave so
sudden a shock to my feelings, is my own child. She knows not
that I am her father ; and I am to lose her to-morrow, perhaps for
ever ! I think, sir, you remarked that my daughter resembled me ;
but I can ti*ace another likeness in her countenance — a likeness of
one who, when 1 was in the bloom of youth, filled my young heart
with ardour and attachment ; in her countenance I trace a likeness
that gives me anguish and pleasure — that revives the memory of one
who was dear as fatal to me ; — she is the image of her mother."
Here his feelings were so excited that tears flowed copiously, and
some moments' silence ensued ere he resumed his narrative.

" I am named Father Bernard, and am a younger son of an
ancient and honourable family residing in Italy, the garden of
Europe. My boyish days I pass over. At the age of seventeen I
entered the royal service ; and ere I had reached the age of twenty-
four I was appointed to a company of infantry. During a skirmish
with a foraging party, through some unforeseen circumstance I saved
the life of Count de Linwood, a wealthy French nobleman. The
Count and my father were on strict terms of intimacy, cuid he had
ofttimes shewn me great marks of esteem.

" As soon as the war tenninated, the Count insisted on my passing
a month with him ; accordingly, instead of my returning to Italy, I
accompanied him to the castle. His family was but small, consisting of

72 THE MONK.

his sister and an only daugbiter. I was present at Laura's interview
with the Count, her father.

" She was a very queen of grace, whose skill

Play'd with the heart, and wielded it at will.

The story of her beauty, like a breeze

That bears perfume, spread through the provinces —

Spread o'er the land ; and many a raptured youth

Laid at her feet the vows of love and truth."

" And from the moment of my introduction, I resigned her a heart
which is now buried with her ashes.

" Some charm or magic made me delay my departure. Three
months had passed with lightning's fleetness ere I thought the pe-
riod of my visit was half expired. Still I lingered; until at length,
by hope inspired, I prevailed upon the Count to listen to my pro-
posals for the hand of his beauteous daughter. He consented.

" Laura listened to my addresses; and many were the enchanting
walks we've had beneath the umbrageous foliage of perfumed trees,
or amid the groves where fountains poured their silvery streams, and
the aeolian harp sent forth its wild and plaintive melody upon the
gentle bieeze.

•" Four months had elapsed, when our union was solemnised with
the greatest pomp and magnificence.

" We resided for some time after our marriage at the castle, liv-
ing, as it were, spirits of another land — breathing an atmosphere of
perfect love and purest bliss, during which time my daughter Clarissa
was bom — a lovely, smiling innocent ;— shortly after which, affairs of
a very pressing character summoned the Count to Paris. We
accompanied him, and from that hour I date my misfortunes. Yes,
Paris — the seat of fashion, the birth-place of vice — became the tomb
of her who was once so dear, so lovely, and so chaste, that angels
might smile upon her as she trod the paths of life.

" I had not remained long in Paris, when I discovered an extraor-
dinary change in Laura. She appeared to lose all relish for the
pleasures of a domestic life, and would frequently rally me for wish-
ing to relinquish these scenes of gaiety and sequester ourselves in
our peaceful castle, where at one time she was the chief ornament.

tHE MOVK. 73

'' The first open rupture I had with her was for complying with
a custom I always detested, and which if anything can justify, it
must be wrinkles and nj^liness. Laura had the finest complexion of
any woman I had seen in Pai'is ; her skin was transparent white-
ness, and health had tinged her cheek with a bloom which mingled
with the lily on her countenance. To improve so much beauty was
impossible ; but to hide it under a mask of rouge was little short
of madness.

" Laura would be a woman of fashion, and it was impossible to
obtain that distinction without complying with its injunctions in
eveiy particular. This, together with other circumstances, tended
to make me very unhappy ; but still I did not entertain a doubt of
her honour, till one day as I was sitting in my study, a sen^ant
brought me a letter, wliich I inadvertently opened without examining
the address. It was an assignation from a villain, who, having
wheedled Laura into play, and having won of her a large sum which
she found herself unable to pay, had made proposals on her chastity
as a means of repa>nnent. I trembled with rage ; but my passion
being a little subdued, I determined, for once in my life, to employ
artifice. I sealed up the letter, and forwarded it to Laura by a
trusty messenger, whom I told to wait for an answer. Her reply
was brief, but to me it spoke daggers; it contained but these words:
' I will certainly meet thee.'

'* Here my worst suspicions were most awfully verified. I was
paralysed with rage ; every faculty seemed suspended. Did she
ever love ? I inwardly inquired — had those bright eyes ever beamed
with fond affection, as she met me from my morning's walk, when
I first hailed her as my own and lovely wife ? — had all the pleasures
I had enjoyed with her been a dream ? — could such words be the
requital of sincere love ? No ; it could not be ! But then the
;\nswer — * I will certainly meet thee !'

'* I sank into* a detennined, gloomy desperation, more, terrible
tlian the wildest transport of passion. From that moment Laura
was doomed to die !" Here rising from his chair in a paroxysm of
wildness, he exclaimed — " And that night I executed my bloody
purpose ! for I thought it a duty, though a savage one, to sacrifice

K

74 THE MONK.

her before she was polluted, and so save her and mine own honour.
I immediately sent a challenge to the villain that wuold have
so vitally injured me, which he accepted. Next morning the meet-
ing took place, when my antagonist fell. I fled to a friend's house,
where I remained until the rumoured murder of Laura had sub-
sided. * I then procured a disguise, with which I contrived to leave
Paris unobserved. Having arrived in this country, I procured
through the interest of my friend a recommendatory letter to a con-
vent of Franciscans, where I have spent about ten years in prayer
and penitence.

''It is but recently that I have obtained the privilege of seeing
my daughter, who was sent by the count her grandfather to the con-
vent of Franciscans to receive her education. Had I not received
information from my friend (whose acquaintance with the count had
given him an opportunity to suggest this convent for her education)
of the approach of my daughter, her likeness to her frail but lovely
mother would at once have declared our affinity. And now, sir, she is
about to be removed from me for ever, which will be another pang
to my lacerated heart."

Here the unfortunate monk ended his melancholy narrative, when
a short silence ensued, during which he wept bitterly. After he had
recovered himself from his excitement, he arose, gave me his benedic-
tion, and took his leave.

M.

76

EDUCATION OF THE WORKING CLASSES.

Being tke tubstance of a Lecture delivered at the Hull Mechanics' TnstUuU,
February l$t, 1844.

BT MR. WILLIAM DEN180N.

The consideration of the subject announced, namely, " The
Education of the Working Classes" — to say nothing of its peculiar
claims to our attention as members of mechanics' institutions,—
must be to all who wish for the onward march aftd universal spread
of civilization highly acceptable. That this is the case, and must of
necessity be so at this period of our history, it will not, I think, require
any large expenditure of time to prove. To that class who may be
justly termed the pioneers oi every work, having for its object the
improvement in the mental culture and condition of all, those I
mean who make the bible their rule of action, however their atten-
tion may have been called to the facts which it is partly the design
of this address to bring before them, the investigation of a subject
of this nature at any time, inseparably connected as it is with the
truths they are desirous of establishing, must under any form meet
with a gp*acious reception ; for the more the mind is made acquainted
and familiarised with the ignorance and vice at present found to
exist, the more firmly will this truth be established, that it is in vain
to look forward for any great diminution of crime, or a steady and
systematic pursuance of morality and virtue, by which peace to the
country and a strict adherence to truth will be established, unless the
mind shall in early years have become fully alive to the misery
consequent upon the one coiu'se, and the blessings necessarily attend-
ant upon the other.

To that numerous class who, it is hoped, in addition to the higher
motive just alluded to, are eager that the mass of the people should
possess a true knowledge of their political condition, must look upoa
an extension of educational means- as the only lever by whose power
the mountain mass of ignorance, at present existing, can be removed

/() EDUCATION OF THE WORKING CLASSES.

to make room for those improvements which tlie progress thus far
made imperatively demands. In short, to every one who may with
justice be called the lover of his species, the investigation of a subject
of this nature must present in-esistihle claims to his attention, for
the result must tend more and more to convince him that under the
banner of education are found piety, truth, and obedience to the laws;
where education is wanting, vice, profligacy, and theft must of
necessity abound.

In order to be properly introduced to the subject, as well as to
form an idea of the progress made, I ])ropose to take a glance at the
state of education at diiferent periods, commencing at the time of the
Refoi-mation. All Who have made history their study must have
formed a general idea of the state of education at that period. It
may be considered the starting point of civilization, in the most
enlarged acceptation of the word. Previous to this period knowledge
had been almost entirely confined to the religious orders ; being
studiously kept from the mass of the people, in order, if an opinion
may be given, that they might the better exert an undue influence
over the national mind. At this period, however, something had
been done — commerce with its civilizing influence had acquired an
importance to which it had never before arrived ; colonization upon
a large scale had taken place — much had been done to shew of what
mind is composed — for man had commenced thinking for himself.

At this period, Mons. Guizot, in his " History of Civilization,"
says, " The activity of the human mind displayed itself in every
way — in the relations of men with each other ; in their relations with
the governing powers ; in the relations with states ; and the intel-
lectual labours with individuals ; — in short, it was the age of great
men and of great things. The events were more numerous, varied,
and important than in any of the preceding ages. A vast cflbrt was
now made b)^ the human mind to achieve its freedom ; it was a new-
born desire which it felt to think and judge freely and independently
of facts and opinions, which till then Europe received, or was con-
sidered bound to receive, from the hands of authority. It was a
gi-eat endeavour to emancipate human reason, and to call things by
their right names ; it was an insurrection of the human mind against

EDUCATION or THE WORKING CLASSES. 77

the absolute power of the spiritual order." From the time of the
Refoi-mation to the commencement of the nineteenth century, not
much had been done to educate the masses ; now and then, it is
true, the power of a cultivated mind became known — proving what
the mind could accomplish when properly trained. But these were
as meteors shooting across the horizon ; the effect produced was of
small amount. The mind of adults, in its then uncultivated state,
could not understand the value, much less appreciate and apply,
the gift thus placed within its reach. Mankind were dazzled, but not
instructed ; with the few where an impression was made, it was at
best but transient. The seed thus cast into ground not previously
prepared for its reception, required the subsequent diligent care of
the husbandman, in order that it might produce fruit ; and for lack
of this assistance it perished.

At the middle of the eighteenth century, it will be found that the
middle classes at that period had made some progress in tlie culti-
vation of the mind ; and although the contrast between that period
and the present is very great — so gieat that we are apt to think the
amount of knowledge possessed at that period to have been very
trifling and of little value — yet it would be found, did we possess
the same facilities, enabling us to judge as we have between that
period and the present, that the knowledge possessed at that period
was not only spread over a larger field, and its advantages tested by
a gi'eater number than at any previous period, but the advance
made was very considerable, and a strong desire existed that its
benefits should be imparted to the classes immediately beneath
them. From that time up to the period of the French Revolution,
this had made rapid strides. Men became sensible of the respon-
sibility, in a moral point of view, resting upon them, when the talents
entrusted to their keeping had been allowed to lie useless. This
had not been jireviously considered or understood; but now that the
value of a cultivated mind became known, and the importance
attached to all that were removed, however little, from the ignorant
mass, the work was set about with alacrity, the progress made being
suflScient to give a spur to the exertions of those who had shewn but
little interest in the matter, although their attention must have been
alive to a part of the advantages following its adoption.

78 EDUCATION OF THE WORKING CLASSES.

At this period, the state of society in France and England was
about the same. The mind, roused from its slumber of ages, was
intoxicated by the power it felt within its reach. A sense of injuries
inflicted was the first incentive, as all might expect, to action ; and
man thus became the willing dupe of all who held out bright promises
of advancement or reward. Not possessing sufficient discrimination to
know the distinction which must always exist in society, they believed
the political demagogue when he proclaimed that "might was right.'
A century previous, and the oration which could now call into fierce
action the mental and physical powers of the people, would have had
no effect; they were then too ignorant to understand what were really
grievances. During this period, and for many years subsequent, when
this country was involved in continual war, but little progress was
made in the education of the rising generation. The state of society
was of too feverish a nature to allow of much being done ; but no
sooner had the sword been laid aside, and man had assumed his
proper duties, than the attention of all became, as if by common
consent, turned to this subject. Societies were rapidly formed for
erecting and forming schools ; schools in connection with places of
worship of all denominations were established ; men of great intel-
lectual attainments and enlarged powers of mind cheerfully volun-
teered their services in this great cause ; and a proper direction and
impetus was thus given to the cun*ent which before had been per-
mitted to flow into improper channels, and had been productive of
harm. "We find such men as Lord Brougham and Dr. Birkbeck
using the force of their eloquence and the weight of their influence
in support of mechanics' institutions; and in their train followed a
host, since known to the world by their learning, who have most
successfully carried out the brilliant idea thus conceived ; and
although the foundation stone was laid amidst much uncertainty and
doubt, they were enabled by their joint exertions to erect a fabric
worthy of being dedicated to science, the contemplation of which,
although still capable of great improvement, must be a source of
pride to those who have done their share towards its erection.

At this period, it may be said that the friends of humanity may at
length begin to congratulate themselves that the all important sub-
ject of education has at length acquired that strong interest in the

EDUCATION OF THE WORKING CLASSES. 79

public mind they have so long been labouring to implant. So great
indeed has been the interest manifested by nearly all classes of
people in this country within the last few years, that no doubt can
exist in the minds of any, that have at all turned their attention to this
subject, but that we are on the eve of a great and radical change in
the means provided for the education of the children of the poor.
Through the darkness in which the mental horizon has been so long
enveloped — through the mists of ignorance and superstition in which
mankind have been too long contented to exist, rays of light have
at length begim to penetrate, faint and feeble at present though they
be, yet sufficient to point out more clearly than we have hitherto
been able to see, the confusion of things around, and give a spur
and incentive to the exertions of those good men through whose
instiumentality we have been enabled to march thus far and lead the
mind to hope for, nay more, to predict the time when the sun of
education shall have arisen with all the effulgence of noon-day
splendour; when its cheering rays shall have penetrated and illumined
every obscure cot. As the natural sun at its rising doth dispel the
mists of morning, diffusing life through the animal and vegetable
kingdoms, calling into existence energies and powers which for awhile
have laid dormant, so we may predict that a like kindly and benign in-
fluence will be exerted upon the minds of many who either from preju-
dice or ignorance of facts at present stand aloof, and by tlieir very non-
identification with this movement present an obstruction to the
otherwise rapid progress which education would make.

I propose first to call your attention to the state of crime and
ignorance at present existing in a few of our principal towns, and
from the returns I have obtained to show the very intimate connection
existing between the two, deducing from this the necessity of some
general system of education being adopted. I do this having refer-
ence more particularly to that class just alluded to, whose mihds,
notwithstanding the mass of facts which have of late years been
presented to them at every turn, refuse to acknowledge the want of
any great extension of education being provided for the poorer
classes. Although we must hope this class is small in number, yet
I fear it is sufficiently numerous to warrant a brief investigation into

BO

CHESS.

this part of our subject, for in addition, to those men whose minds
have long been made up as to the existence of these facts, for the
more frequently they are brought before them, a greater and more
powerful interest must be excited and lead us to hope will have a
coiTesponding effect in hastening the time when some national plan
of education will be adopted.

CHESS PROBLEM.

No. IX.

BY L'ONONIMO.

BLACK.

WHITE.

White to Mate in three moves.

SOLUTION OF CHESS PROBLEM, No. 8.

BY B. J.
WHITE BLACK.

1 Q. to K. 6th sq. ch. 1 K. to K. R., sq.

2 Kt. to K. B 7th sq. ch. 2 K. to Kt's., sq.

3 Kt. to K. R. 6th sq. ch. 3 K. to K. R. sq.

4 Q. to K. Kt's. 8th sq. ch. 4 R. takes Q.
6 Kt. to K. B. 7th sq. and Mates.

IS JUN29 )

^-»«>-

THE HULL

LITERARY AND PHILOSOPHICAL

MISCELLANY.

JUXI

CONTENTS :

■riu- Lif. : _ ]5uir 81

I tome Treasures 92

1- (liicatiou of the Working Classes. . 03

'ih.- Sfii o>)

Siuu/.iis 100

Pounds, Shillings, and Vonce 101

Lines on a Portrait lO-t

Subterranean Recesses lO,')

Faded Flowers 11.^

Botanical Notice 110

LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.
HULL:

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AND SOLD BY

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^

THE HULL
LITERARY & PHILOSOPHICAL MISCELLANY.

No. IX. JUNE. Vol. II.

THE LIFE OF PETER BUFF.

Dear Reader ! — I am now about describing to you some of the
many misfortunes that have befallen me through life. I am afraid
you will smile ; sometimes I am inclined to be merry at them myself,
but that's not often. I started very early in life with misfortune.
I had a peculiar way of throwing myself or falling out of my nurse's
anns, and was occasionally found with my heels uppennost, and my
head in a bucket of water ; sometimes varying it by tumbling into a
dirty ditch behind the house. I was no doubt bom for misfortunes,
or I should have been finished in my early days. I should suppose
there never was a boy that had swallowed so much mud ; if it had
been solid, there must have been sufficient to have qualified me as a
voter for the county, on account of being a landed proprietor.

After putting sundry ugly marks on my face by falling, and getting
several nurser}' maids discharged for letting me fall, with numerous
other accidents and occurrences of the like natme, I was by some
extraordmary and unheard of means preserved until I arrived at an
age when it was thought expedient to send me to a preparatory day
school, before leaving home as a boarder. This was very pleasant
news to me, as T had some vague and indistinct notion that school
was a sort of earthly paradise ; perhaps it may be to some boys, but
I did not always find it so. My father not being able to go with

L

0*d THE LIFE OF PETER BUFF.

me, I was sent off alone, to the school of a gentleman who was fami-
liarly known as " Old Scruff." On aiTiving at his door, I knocked
timidly several times; but no one coming, I began to be of
opinion that it must be a holiday. Just as I had made up my mind
to this comfortable conclusion (for I did not much like going to
school for the first time alone), I was accosted by a butcher's boy
with ** Now, youngster ! do you want to be in at old Scruff's ?"
" Yes, sir," said I. " Stand clear, then," says the butcher, " and
here goes," giving two or three tremendous kicks at the door, almost
enough to knock in the panels, after which he speedily vanished.
Scarcely had the butcher disappeared, before out rushed old Scruff,
who, collaring me, marched me in a sort of triumphal manner into
the school-room, to the great delight of the boys then and there
assembled. On getting me in. Scruff, acting up to the apothecary's
direction, " when taken to be well shaken," shook me violently,
though a remarkably good tempered man. " So, sir," said he, " I
have caught you at last, eh ? you are often at this game." I was so
horribly frightened, I could only groan. " Well, sir, we will see
what the constable can make of you, eh ?" " Please, sir," said I,
mustering a little courage, " I'm the new boy." " New boy!" cried
old Scruff, looking quite amazed ; " well, if you do this when you
are a new boy, pray, sir, what will you do when you are an old one ?
perhaps try your hand at housebreaking, eh ? What's your name ?"
" Peter Buff, sir," said I, crying; "and I'm sure I didn't kick at
the door, sir ;" and amidst the laughter of the boys, I related the
assistance volunteered by the butcher's boy. On the old gentleman
hearing my statement, he patted me on the head, told me always to
speak truth, and, leading me to my seat amongst the other boys, he
set me to work. Work ! I sometimes think now of that which at
school we used to call work — a little summing, a great deal of laugh-
ing and talking, and no flogging. During my stay at old Scruff's, I
got into a little scrape, the penalty of which I fortunately managed
to escape. An urchin had thrown a snow-ball at me ; I of course
returned the compliment ; but luckless Peter ! I missed the boy,
and sent the snow-ball through a tradesman's window, who soon had
me in safe custody, and asked my name. " John Brown," said I.

THE LIFE OF PETER BUPP. 83

*' Where do you live ?" " Grafton-street, sir." " What is your
father ?" " A gentleman," I replied. " Very well," said he ; ** you
may go." I this time contrived to shift the consequences of my ill
luck on to John Brown, who was a school-fellow, and who got a
double beating from his father — first, for breaking the window, and,
secondly, for stoutly denying that he had done so ; for the tradesman
on going to Grafton-street, and finding on seeing the boy that he had
been hoaxed, thought the only chance of being paid was by stating
he believed that to be the boy.

I did not stay very long with good old Scruff, but was sent to the
academy of the Rev. Jonas Thrashemwell, whom I soon found out
was a very different person to old Scruff.

Mr. Thrashemwell was near in everything but flogging ; in that
he was one of the most liberal men on the face of the earth. I con-
tinued at this school for several years, during which time I wrote, by
direction of the master, glowing accounts home of my treatment ;
but at the holidays, on arriving home, shewing that these were only
pretty romances, invented for the satisfaction of disconsolate fathers
and mothers when bereaved for a time of their sons.

One night there arrived by coach a long, lanky, simple sort of lad,
who rejoiced in the cognomen of John Nokes. He seemed very shy,
and much frightened at being left with such a horde of young savages.
The next morning, before school began, and when we were all assem-
bled in the school-room, I went up to him and said, " Nokes, my
boy, how are you ? I'm very glad to see you," holding out my hand.
** Thank you," said he, just taking one of my fingers; " but I'm
sure I do not know you." " Not know me, Peter Buff! why you
remember us being at Green's school together." " I never was at
Green's school," said Master Nokes. " O, come, none of that ; why
you know you were turned out for helping yourself to the other boys*
cakes that came from home." " I'm sure I was not," said he, be-
ginning to whimper. " Why you have now the marks on'your back
of the flogging you got for stealing Harry Johnson's figs." '* I have
not," said Nokes. Turning round to the boys, I said, " Off with
his jacket and waistcoat, you'll soon see for yourselves." This was
soon accomplished, Nokes being too frightened to offer any resist-

84 THE LIFE OF PETER BUFF.

ance. On coining to his shirt, Nokes faltered out, " I'm sure I'm
not the boy." "I'll soon shew you ;" and drawing his shirt over
his head, his bare back was made a target for a couple of buckets of
water which were conveniently at hand. Nokes yelled out exces-
sively, which brought Mr. Thrashemwell into the room, who, having
found out the chief conspirator, the unfortunate Peter, I was forthwith
flogged, and then boarded on bread and water for a week— a favorite
mode of punishment here, as it saved our master something in the
culinary department.

Our respected tutor had a ver}'^ curious way, when going to beat a
boy, of quoting, " as Soloman said, * spare the rod and spoil the
child ;' " through which I got myself into more difficulties. One
morning, his son and heir. Master Thrashemwell, who was a youth
of great promise — at least so thought his father, — stole, or as boys
say, " cribbed " a lot of marbles from another boy, which being duly
reported to the reverend Jonas, he called up the hopeful youth, and
after lecturing him on the enormity of the offence, and compelling
restitution of the stolen property, finished with — " You may now go
to your seat, and recollect that " " As Solomon says," inter-
rupted I, "* spare the rod and spoil the child.' " "That's right,
Peter," said Mr. Thrashemwell, " you're a clever boy; and for fear
you should be spoilt, just come here, will you ?" I approached him
rather hesitatingly — for although his words seemed to convey encou-
ragement, yet there seemed to be a mischievous expression in his
eye ; however, I went to him, and received a practical illustration
of Solomon's prescription.

Soon after this I left school, previously cutting my autograph in
huge capitals on Mr. Thrashemwell's mahogany desk ; — this I left
as an affectionate memorial.

On my arriving at home, it was thought high time for me to be
sent to some business or profession ; and after due inquiry, I was
introduced to the office of Mr. Tight, solicitor, where I was to learn
the art and mystery of the law.

I did not remain long with Mr. Tight ; but during my stay, I was
sent by my employer to serve some sort of a paper (which I after-
wards found was a subpoena) on a gentleman ; no difficulty being

THB LIFE OF PETER BUFF. 86

expected, I was merely sent with directions to give him a shilling
at the same time. On reaching his house, and being shewn into the
room, I told him from whom I came. Guessing my errand, he said,
" O, tell Mr. Tight I shall not want that paper." " And the shilling,
sir ?" inquired I ; ** shall you want that ?" " No ; you may keep
that yourself, my boy." Thanking him, I made my best bow, and
departed. On getting to the office, the other boy and myself agreed
to spend the shilling ; so getting a couple of bottles of porter, by
the time Mr. Tight came in we were in what may be termed a state
of oblivion. " Well, Peter," said he, " did you see Mr. Toddle and
give him the paper ?" " Yes, sir, I saw him, and he said he should
not want the paper." " Well, then, where is it ?" " Here, sir,"
cried I, pulling it out of my pocket, quite delighted to think I should
obtain great praise for my sagacity. " Ah, I dare say we can do
without him ; and where's the shilling, Peter ?" "He gave it me
to spend, sir," said I. " You're a comical fellow, Peter," said Mr.
Tight, laughing ; " but you'll never mgke a lawyer." " Why not,
sir ?" said I, attempting to cover an empty porter bottle with some
loose papers ; " do comical fellows never make lawyers ?" ** Never,
Peter, never; they are only fit forjudges." " Judges, sir !" said I,
with a stare. "Yes, judges, Peter; they are all comical fellows,
are judges ; you would be sui*prised, Peter, how they make the junior
barristers laugh." What should sui-prise me at this I could not tell;
whether it was the porter that had confused my intellect, or whether
it was totally past my comprehension, I cannot say ; and before I
had time to ask Mr. Tight for an explanation, he had entered his
own office.

On leaving this gentleman, I went into the office of Mr. Blue-
nose, a merchant. I shall always remember him with affection ; he
was a kind, good soul — good to his men, his clerks, and to everybody
and everything. In his office I passed a very happy time. The
other boy and myself used to go through a sort of melodrama every
day, as opportunity served ; my fellow-clerk used to pei*sonate Count
Ticklerib, and I the virtuous peasant We used to have some terrinc
combats, and hundreds of times I have been ordered to be doubly
ironed and cast into the dreadful dimgeons of Ticklerib castle ; but

86 THE LIFE OF PETER BUFF.

Still there I was, as an Irishman would say, always " to the fore,"
going through the same combats, and eventually slaying the count
himself, chasing him several times round the office, and giving him
divers deadly thrusts with a long ruler. One day the count and I
were in the most fearful part of a dreadful combat ; I had chased
him three times round the office, and having got him on his knees ,
I prepared to give him the finishing stroke, and rushing forward,
crying " Die, base tyrant !" I tripped over him and fell headlong
into the pit of the governor's stomach (who was just entering the
office), flooring him completely; and there we all lay, fomiing quite
a proper conclusion (three dead men) to a melodrama. " Holloa !
Peter! what are you after ?" shouted the governor. "Slaying the
tyrant, Ticklerib," said I. " Which is him ?" said he, on gaining
his perpendicular." " This is the base tyrant," said I, bringing for-
ward the other boy. " Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the governor; " I
dare say it served him right. And now, boys, to work."

On another occasion, the count and I were playing a game at
" hide and seek," when I got into a large book-case ; he was on the
point of starting on his look-out expedition, when in walked the
governor. I was in what the Yankees call a " fix ;" I dare not come
out, and I did not like to stay in. Immediately on Mr. Bluenose's
entering, the count was busily employed in mending a pen, which,
by some fatality, always wanted mending on the governor coming
suddenly into the office. I had not been long boxed up before the
count was sent out on business, and Mr. Bluenose commenced writ-
ing a letter. I lay as still as possible, but something — perhaps the
dust — got up my nose, and I was suddenly attacked with a violent
fit of sneezing. The eflfect was electric ! Up jumped the governor
with an emphatic ** What the devil's that ?" I could hear him pok-
ing about the office, and at last settle down to write again. I lay
quite still for some time after this ; but feeling very uncomfortable,
and wishing to beguile time by peeping through the key-hole, I
screwed myself up into some very disagreeable positions, until I
slipped, and, falling against the door, rolled out with a lot of old
books. "Holloa!" shouted old Bluenose; "thieves! robbery!
mmder ! Oh, oh, Peter ! why is that you ? What do you mean.

THB LIFE or PETER BUFF* 87

you confounded young rascal, by frightening me in this manner ?
I'm all of a tremble," said he. " And I'm all of a heap, sir," said
I, from among the books. " I hope you are not hurt, Peter," said
the governor. " No, sir," I said ; " but it is not at all pleasant to
be put on the shelf for so long a time in a book-case, and on a warm
day, too." " I dare say you are right, Peter ; but how came you
there ?" So I told him, and also informed him that when I was in
the book-case, I began to think of the " black hole" at Calcutta, and
by degrees, what with the place and what with the imagination, I
gi'ew so warm that I expected notliing less than becoming a spon-
taneous combustible, when fortunately I was relieved of these appre-
hensions by rolling out." He laughed heartily at my mishap, and
sent me with a letter to the office of another merchant. During the
time I was absent the count returned, and Mr Blueskin, calling
him into his office, said he had a few questions to put to him, and
began by asking him if he believed in ghosts. This was rather a
poser to the count, for he did not like to say he did not believe in
them for fear he should see one to convince him ; and he did not like
to say he did believe in them, because he thought that would look
unmanly. The governor, not noticing his hesitation, continued.
" Now I am not in the habit of giving credence to stories of the
supernatural, but I have this afternoon, as I sat in this office, been
perfectly convinced of the existence of what are generally termed
ghosts." The count now began to look rather pale, and to remember
with fear and misgiving that his father's mother's brother was said to
have once seen one ; and now he wished he had spoken out boldly,
and declared his entire and firm belief in ghosts, for then, he thought
to himself, they might have behaved handsomely to him, and not
trouble him at all ; but now he had some doubt as to what might be
done. " Yes," said the governor, " this office must be haunted.
Did you ever hear any strange noise in it, Thomas ?" — (this was the
count's christian name.) " No, sir, never," said Thomas— not
thinking it at all necessary to mention the horrible noises that he
had assisted me in making at various times. " Well, I certainly
heard a most unaccountable noise this afternoon ; it seemed to me
to come out of that book-case. Ha !" continued Mr. Bluenose, start-

88 THE LIFE OF PETER BUFF.

ing up, " 1 hear it again !'* The count, immediately on the mention of
the book-case, found a chie to the mystery ; so thinking in his dilFi-
culties that lionesty was the best policy, he made a clean breast.
" O, is that all, Thomas ?" said the governor, at the conclusion ;
then you had better let him out; he must be tired by this time."
So the count stepped nimbly up to the book-case, and gently open-
ing the door, said, " You can come out now, Peter ;" but peeping in,
he saw I was not there. This rather puzzled him ; just at this
moment I entered, when, finding the governor laughing, and the
count still kneeling against the book-case, I supposed he had been
tricked by Mr. Bluenose, which I found to be the case on returning
to our own office, where the count told me the particulars.

During my stay at Mr. Blueskin's I joined a literary society, and
became quite popular with the members, from my first-rate essay
(though I say it myself) on " The intimate connection between the
roast beef of old England and its national glory." Among the mem-
bers were some extraordinary characters, but the limits of this aiticle
do not allow my giving any account of them.

I had now been some years with Mr. Bluenose, when a heavy
misfortune befel me — us, I may say, for the count was also a suflferer.
Our dear; dear master was taken ill, and soon after breathed his last.
This was a serious blow to all concerned, not only because we sin-
cerely respected our kind employer, but further, our daily bread was
dependent on him ; for I had for some time before this (through the
death of my parents) had to shift for myself. When the day arrived
on which our master was to be buried, our once pleasant little office
bore a very sad appearance. Shutters half closed— books unopened,
and we in low whispered tones reminding each other of some of his
many acts of kindness to us. After the funeral, it was intimated to
us that we should have to find other situations, as soon as ever the
accounts could be closed, the business then ceasing. The affairs
were shortly after wound up, and we took our departure.

We found it a very hard task indeed to empty our little drawers,
and bid farewell to our old companions ; — they were but old desks
and worm-eaten stools, yet still they seemed like parting with our
dear friends. There was my old office stool, and there was also the

TflE IIPE Ot PETER BUFP. 89

count*s, both worn bright with constant use ; and there were our
names carved thereon, in most grotesque letters, done at the time of
our taking possession. There were other names besides ours on
these stools ; they had been a sort of chronicle of the oflSce, for there
were the names of many of our predecessors, some of whom were
now merchants, and others half-starved clerks, as we expected to be
before long. The count took a lingering look at that famous weapon,
the long ruler, and with a melancholy shake of the head as he laid it
down for the last time, said—" You're going into other hands now,
and you'll never more slay the tyrant Ticklerib. * * * *

For a long time after this I had nothing to do but walk up and
down the streets, until I became nearly barefoot. This was dreary
work ; none but those who have felt what it is to be willing and able
to work, and yet be compelled to submit to idleness and starvation,
can imagine the sufferings of a man so placed ; what it can be to a
man with a wife and three or four children, for whom he suffers and
cares more than for himself, God only knows — it seemed to me, who
had myself only to think of, to be a most dreadful suflfering. Com-
pelled by the very nature of the employment I sought to keep up as
genteel an appearance as possible, I had to do it often with an empty
stomach. Sometimes I got a few days' employment in arranging the
books of small tradesmen ; sometimes other trifling jobs, neither
profitable nor lasting, but still welcome. One day, a person who
knew me asked if I should have any objection to earn a sovereign.
I replied that it was so long since I had had the chance that I could
not positively say, but to the best of my belief and judgment, I should
have no objection. On my hearing of the manner in which it was to
be earned, I almost regretted that I had got to know any such mode
of earning money. It was after much persuasion that I at last con-
sented, and then it was only through hunger pleading so hard, that
it beat conscience out of the field.

Having received part payment in advance, I proceeded to get
something to eat, which was no sooner done than conscience got up
a regular row; but I was too far advanced now — I must needs go on,
for I could not possibly pay back what I had received from them
and already expended.

90 THE LIFE OF PETER BUFF.

The night fixed upon for our expedition was very stormy, which
was more favourable to us than otherwise, and we thanked our stars
that the job was likely to be done in safety. There were only two
of us ; a third was to meet us on the road and carry away the prize,
while we remained to clear away anything that might lead to our
detection.

On arriving at the place of assignation, we set to work, and were
very busily employed, when I felt something tightly grasp my arm ;
tlie suddenness of this, at such a time and place (a cemetery), quite
startled me for the moment, and filled me with a superstitious terror.
A light of a most unearthly hue was now reflected full upon my
companion, when to my astonishment I perceived he was in as great
trepidation as myself. The light, however, was not so supernatural
as I at first imagined, but simply the light from a bull's-eye lantern,
the owner of which was one of those ambiguous and now obsolete
characters, called watchmen, and who had caused me so much terror
by seizing hold of my arm. I and my companion (who was similarly
accompanied) were marched across the church-yard with slow and
measured steps, until we reached a wall over which we had to climb
(a rather awkward affair for the watchmen, encumbered with their
coats and lanterns, and having us to take care of). Our conductors
paused, sighed, shook their heads, and, having looked aflfectionately
in each other's face for some minutes, and not finding any other safe
mode of proceeding, the one who felt so much interest in my affairs
advanced gloomily, and by dint of great exertion placed himself
across the wall, and began to drag me up ; but I made no resistance,
and quickly was seated alongside of him. He seemed fatigued with
his exertions ; so watching my opportunity, I suddenly raised my
foot, by which movement the lantern was propelled a distance of
several yards. This unexpected manoeuvre so disconcerted my old
guardian, that he unconsciously loosed his hold of my collar, when,
being desirous of cutting the connection, I dropped from the wall,
and scampered off as fast as possible.

Some few months after this affair (when through the kindness of
a friend I had got into a situation), I went accompanied by some
others to a tavern in the neighbourhood, where, meeting with some

THB UPE or PETER BUPP. 91

very agreeable company, we were passing the time very pleasantly,
when a man of a very seedy and broken down appearance came into
the room, and, after eyeing me for some time, came up, and, seizing
my hand, said, *' Why, Peter, old chap ! how are you ?" I was
ready to drop into the earth at this rencontre, for I recognised in the
seedy-togged stranger my church-yard companion ; I managed, how-
ever, to look at him with an air of astonishment. " What !" said he,
" you know Jack Sly !" " No, I don't," I replied, pretending to
look very thoughtful. " Yes, you do," said the seedy stranger in a
persuasive tone ; " you recollect the body." " Body !" repeated 1 ;

" what body ?" " Why, churchyard," said the rejected Mr.

Sly — and then he went through a regular pantomime exhibition of
digging a grave, and running away with something on his back.
Mortified at this exposure, I said, " Sir, I do not move in your
sphere of action." " My ^pear of action ! you be blowed," retorted
Mr. Sly. " Ain't you Peter Buff ? — and didn't you go with me to
rob a churchyard ? — and wasn't I caught ? — and didn't the magistrates
kindly recommend me to try my luck for six mouths at the wheel
of fortune ? (which is continually making a man get up in the world)
— and didn't I get out yesterday ? — and ain't I here, Peter Buff ?"
The latter fact was indeed indisputable ; so seizing my hat, I rushed
out amidst the laughter of the company; but it was no joke to me, as I
lost my situation through it. And here I am again, in want of one.

If any gentleman wants a clerk, whose principle duty would be to
look out of the window, and who would be allowed to pass half an
hour in a morning over a refreshing pot of porter, I can confidently
recommend myself as likely to suit, and fully capable of performing
these onerous duties.

Begging the Public to bear in mind that I am (as the free and
independent burgess says to the candidate) open to an offer, I remain.

Theirs sincerely,

Peter Buff.

92

HOME TREASURES.

BY WILLIAM J. BOSOMWORTH.

My home, though 'tis humble, 'tis happy and free.
Like a casket it holds many jewels for me ;
When old Winter comes in with his mantle of white.
And the heir of his dower grim darkness of night, —
When mighty winds rustle, and tempests ride high.
And the thousand bright stars never light up the sky, —
Yet I can rejoice, with mirth and with glee.
For the home that 1 love is a treasure to me.

Dark care may come o'er me, and friends may depart.
And leave me to sorrow, and anguish of heart;
Their bosoms of friendship, or smile on the face.
May die without leaving a vestige or trace ;
Thus friends may depart, and coming of years
May blight my bright hopes, and cherish my fears ;
Yet then I'll repine not, or murmuring be.
For my own fire-side seems a solace to me.

There are some bright stars in my few chosen books.
Which light up my soul with their riches and looks ;
The breathings of Shakspeare, the sweetness of Moore,
And the splendour of Milton doth grace the rich store ;
I feast on their beauties, and my longing soul yearns
When I read the heart's language in Byron and Bums ;
Then my soul is uplifted with sweet poesy.
For the Bards of our land are a treasure to me.

Though care is my boon, and grief is my dower,
And held me for years with their prevalent power —
Though the tyrant would press me to anguish of soul.
And the hand of oppression hold me in contiol —
Though my path may be clouded with many dark fears,-
Yet I hope for the sunshine in changing of years;
And still I am happy, as all men should be,
" For the wife of my youth is a treasure to me."

93

EDUCATION OF THE WORKING CLASSES.

Being the substance of a Lecture delivered at the Hull Mechanics' Institute,
February 1st, 1844.

BT MB. WILLIAM DENISON.

{Continued from page 80.)

[ Mr. D. then brought forward valuable statistical documents from
the police reports of Hull, Manchester, Liverpool, Bradford, Leeds,
and other places, shewing in each case the intimate connection of
ignorance and crime. Other documents, many of which were of a
startling nature, were brought forward at great length, from the
reports of the British and Foreign School Society, the " Journal of
Education," Hill's work on " National Education," &c. &c., proving
that not only in various parts of the country, but in the city of Lon-
don, the grossest ignorance and demoralization is foimd to exist.
Mr. D. continued.]

Did time allow, I could present you with a great number of simi-
lar accounts, all proving the ignorance of the population. It may
be said, in conclusion, that they are ignorant of the most simple
facts, being very superstitious, believing in the existence of ghosts,
&c. &c., and are readily made the dupes of the designing.

The political demagogue, no matter how extravagant and inappli-
cable his schemes, readily finds those who are willing listeners at
his beck. Machines are destroyed, and the torch of the incendiary
lays waste in one hour the hopes of years. The itinerant quack
finds a ready market for his nostrums; the farther he keeps from
towns the more profitable his calling.

The religious fanatic, no matter how wild and infuriated his
language, finds ready listeners. Let him preach the gospel in the
hot-tempered language of the puritan — let him even proclaim he is
charged with a direct commission from heaven, and possesses a
knowledge of the affairs of all — and hundreds will believe him.

94 EDUCATION OF THE WORKING CLASSES.

Having called your attention, at as great a length as the limits of
a single lecture will allow, to the state of ignorance and crime
existing in some of our principal towns, and taking this in conjunc-
tion with the glance we have had of the ignorance found in the
country, coupled as this also is found to be with crime, it is proved,
I think, that the connection of the two is of so close and intimate a
nature, that when we speak of one, our remarks may with equal pro-
priety be applied to the other ; and further, that this is a state of
things the existence of which in any country we must deplore, more
particularly in our own, which claims to rank high in the scale of the
civilized nations of the world. I wish — ^before making any general
remarks upon the means at present in existence to suppress or check
this mass of wickedness, or of the advantages which would follow the
adoption of an extensive system of education for those who are una-
ble or unwilling to provide it for themselves — to call your attention,
which I do with great pleasure, to the means provided by the govern-
ments of Prussia and America to supply this desideratum. I do
this more particularly that a case, as it were, may be made out upon
which we may be justified in founding our claims for the adoption
of similar means, in order that corresponding results may be obtained.

[Want of space compels us to pass over entirely this part of the
lecture, Tvhich we do with regret ; the accounts furnished from various
authorities of the means provided by the governments of Prussia
and America being highly interesting, and calculated to do away
with any doubt, if any existed, of the efficacy of government inter-
ference with the education of the people. Mr. D. continued.]

I am aware that the foregoing remarks do not treat of the systems
of education in Prussia and America at the length it is desirable they
should, in order that a just conclusion of the merits of each may be
arrived at; but this in one brief address was out of the question.
Sufficient has, T trust, been shewn to prove not only that they are
suited to the wants of the people in both countries, more particularly
in Prussia, but that they are much superior to the combined systems
in operation at the present time in this country.

That much has been done, say within the last fifteen or twenty
years, no one I think will doubt; the result of which onward move-

EDUCATION OP THE WORKING CLASSES. 95

ment is full of encouragement and hope. Recent events must have
proved to all that, independent of any national plan of education
being adopted, much will be done by religious societies towards what
the majority believe to be necessary — viz., imparting to all a sound
and useful education.

Time will not allow me to make any remarks in reference to the
means of education for the poorer classes, except that I consider
they are inefficient to accomplish the end in view ; they have only
been able to present an obstacle to the current of vice and ignorance
which had rushed onward with increased velocity as the vices of one
generation were added to those they inherited from the generation
which preceded it ; and further, that any system or systems depend-
ant upon subscriptions and other casual resoiurces — in short, any
plan which is not truly national, both in its nature and extent — must
fall short of accomplishing what education is capable of and destined to
accomplish. To the shame be it said of the government of this
country, scarcely anything has been done by it to educate the poor ;
trifling grants to societies is the sum total of their assistance. It is
imperative, in my humble opinion, upon the government providing
means of education for those who are unable to provide such for
themselves. Laws are made to punish crime and vagabondizing, and
to afford protection to the honest and industrious ; then why, the
question may fairly be asked, should they at all hesitate to erect
schools and provide teachers, that all may be educated upon sound
moral principles, without favour to sect or party, when incontroverti-
ble facts from all parts of the comitry can be furnished, proving that
ignorance and crime are so intimately connected, that it may with
truth be said, where ignorance is found, crime to a greater or less
extent has its abode. The government of a country may be looked
upon in the same light as the fathei of a family — as the one is the
head of the household, so is the other the head of a nation ; the
latter not only punishes the guilty, but it provides suitable accom-
modation for the aged and destitute, taxing the community for the
support (to carry out the idea) of the household in every depart-
ment. After doing this, why, the question may again be asked, is
the education of the poor unprovided for ? The larger half of the

96 KDtJCAtlON OF THE WORKING CLASSES.

sums now paid for the support of goals, police, criminal prosecutions,
poor-houses, &c., would undoubtedly be saved. Whether the sup-
port of these are provided for by the government, or paid by the
people as county rates or poor i*ates, the question remains the same ;
it comes from the industrious classes, and ought, if any means can
be devised, to be saved them. Any state of society we can conceive
vnW present its darker as well as its brighter parts ; goals and peniten-
tiaries will be found necessary, but upon a much smaller scale than
at present. The poor will at all times require the assistance of the
wealthy ; age and natural infirmities will to the end of time be sup-
plicants for charity ; but when the fact is ascertained that crowds
may be seen daily seeking relief, the remote cause for the major part
being compelled to do so would be found to be the indulgence of
some vice, which early moral training would have remedied. Much
might be said of the saving to the community in the decreased
amount of money which would be required for the support of our
infirmaries, dispensaries, and other similar charitable institutions,
much of the disease and misery being clearly ascribable to ignorance.
Sickness, from living in close, ill- ventilated appartments, want of
proper clothing, and proper attention not being paid to cleanliness,
are among the number, nearly all which might have been prevented
had they been instructed in youth. That it is the province of a
government to take upon itself the education of the people, may be
proved further, that it alone is in possession of the requisite ma-
chinery to carry out any plan of such an extensive nature ; the money
by taxing those only who are able to pay is thus properly raised.
That the poor have a right to look for this assistance I think ought
not to be questioned ; the gi'eater number of the poorer classes are
only able (when employment can easily be obtained) to provide
food and clothing for themselves and families, and thus are prevented
(even did the desire generally exist) from giving their offspring that
amount of instruction it is desirable they should obtain. Nature is
taxed to the utmost possible extent; twelve and fifteen hours' labour
and toil are cheerfully given for the public service, and it is not, in
my opinion, making any unreasonable or extravagant demand, that
their children should be raised from that dark state of ignorance in

AliDCATlON OF THE WORKIKO CLASSES. ^

which it has been their lot unfortunately to exist. Let us hope that
ere many years shall have passed adequate means will be in operation
to fully meet this demand. But in every means that may hereafter
be devised to accomplish this end, it must (in my opinion), in order
that the entire amount of benefit may be derived, be compulsory upon
parents sending their children to school. This may at first fall strange
upon the ear, accustomed as we are to be told of our national liberty—
that an Englishman's house is his castle, and so forth ; but these ideas
will speedily pass away when the subject is fairly investigated. Proofs
sufficient have been shewn that this plan works admirably in Prussia ;
indeed the system would be ineffective without its operation. The
ignorance of parents, with its allies of bigotry and superstition, would
have to be combated ; for it is impossible to convince them, unless by
experience, of the barriers which these present to the improvement of
their condition in any way. They are not in this case the proper
judges ; content, from many years of habit, to be encrusted with the
vice and misery in which they were reared, they in fact believe that
their state is the happiest that can be found, and they must be looked
upon in the same light as lunatics, who, when confined, consider
themselves aggrieved, as being incapable of exercising a right judg-
ment upon what most intimately concerns them. The most effectual
plan to teach the children of this depraved class would be to make it
compulsory upon the parents, by fines and imprisonment where neces-
sary, to compel the regular attendance of their children at school ;
this regulation would by its own working do away in time with its
necessity. The mind being thus roused from its state of torj)or,
would revel in its awakened vigour. Proud of what by diligent cul-
tivation it had attained — conscious of the superiority at which by its
means it had arrived — no external appliances would be required to
compel the parent to send his offspring to school ; but, as we have
seen is the case in Prussia, they would be wishful to send them
even before the time the law made it compulsory. Every
possible inducement should be held out to the children ; in-
teresting and instructive lectures should be given — say on astronomy,
geography, chemistry, history, the arts, &c., illustrated where possi-
ble by diagrams and experiments. In a case, I am informed, where

N

98 BDtJCATlON OF THE WORKING CLASSES.

this admirable mode of teaching is in operation in this town, no in-
ducement is strong enough to keep the scholars from school on that
day, and it is looked forward to with the greatest pleasure. The best
works in poetry as well as in prose should be placed in their hands ;
a study of the beautiful in nature and in art should be induced ; the
beauties of creation should in early years be pointed out. They
should be taught to look upon the stany heavens — the wide-spread-
ing sea — the foaming cataract — the green-clad mountain — the un-
folding blossom, in a far different manner than their fathers had.
Each sense would then contribute to their delight, from habitual
converse with the beautiful in nature ; the wild rose and the dew-drop
would possess an interest in their minds, the contemplation of which
would be a source of pure delight; and as its awakened faculties
were brought into exercise, the sunlight of Mind would burst upon
them ; they would be led to trace effect to cause — to look, in the
beautiful words of the poet, *' from nature up to nature's God " — and
would feel conscious, that when surrounded by the works of nature,
they stood, as has been beautifully expressed, " in the immediate
presence of their Creator."

In connection with these means in towns like Hull, galleries for
paintings, statuary, and works of art, should be provided, with free
admission to all ; courses of lectures, in all the branches of science
should be given by men qualified by their learning to do so, with
the least possible charge for admission. Thus the minds of all would
not only be cultivated, but refined ; even in adults of the present
day, much might be done if this was set about immediately. The
duties of domestic life would be discharged in a very different man-
ner from what is the case in the present day ; the education of all
would be carried on at home as well as at school ; the better feelings
of our nature would be constantly in exercise. The force of example,
all know, acts most powerfully upon youth. The mother, it has
been stated, teaches more than the schoolmaster. If, then, the
parent is properly qualified for her important task, a race would
speedily spring up, totally different from what had two generatioE .
before preceded it.

To conclude, it is no stretch of imagination to say — for what has
been accomplished fully warrants the inference — that instead of it

EDUCATION OF THB WORKING CLASSES. 99

being painful to have intercourse with the poor of our country, from
the scenes of profligacy, vice, and misery to which we must be wit-
nesses, a new order of things would speedily arise ; self-respect being
called into operation, their conversation and dwellings would be the
very opposite of what they now are. To mingle with them — to
alleviate the sufferings of the afflicted and the destitute — ^would be a
work of love. As members of a Christian community — as lovers of
your fellow-creatures — I would say to all who posses^ any influence
(and there are but few who do not possess some) — unite and use
every means in your power to forward this great work ; for you may
be assured a rich and plentiful harvest awaits your exertions, and by
so doing, you are best shewing your gratitude for the advantages you
yourselves possess.

THE SEA.

Time rolls on, year on year, and age on age

Accumulating ; ruin and decay

Destroy relentlessly all human works.

Yet the wide Sea no signs of coming age

Presents to man. The murmur of its waves

Has ceaselessly for fifty centuries

And more continued ; tide has follow'd tide

Without an intermission ; storms have howl'd.

And fearfully — consigning, deep in brine.

To rest the weather-beaten sailor's corpse.

Alas ! what fleets have sunk to rise no more !

The flags of every nation rotting lie

In deep sea-caves ; and here in awful depths.

Miles, miles beneath tlie place where plummets reach.

Burns the marine volcano— water mix'd

With flame sulphureous. What mystery

To human minds ! But all is mystery there.

The world of waters is a world unknown.

And still will be, till th' last trump shall sound.

Whose awful pealings nought may disregard.

Arthur.

100

STANZAS.

The human heart was never framed

In solitude to dwell.
Though monks have sought the cloister shade.

And hermits sought the cell.

Alone, a thousand feelings bum

Within its narrow bound.
And throb with agonising pain.

More keenly than a wound.

In kind companionship, they flow
As some bright mountain spring.

And scatter round exulting joy.
And rich refreshments bring.

But nought can deeper pleasure yield —

All earth's delights above —
Than kindred hearts together link'd

By pure exalted love.

How sweet to share each lively joy.

Fresh as it springs to birth ;
And sweet to mingle sorrow, too.

For sorrow dwells on earth !

Man in his wretchedness and care

Would lean on woman's breast ;
And woman, in her feebleness.

Upon his strength would rest ;

And with united aid, amid

The pangs to mortals given.
Upheld by faith and hope and peare.

Walk hand in hand to heaven.

101
" POUNDS, SHILLINGS, AND PENGE.-

BT SLIM SLAM SLUM, ESQ.

*' Ways and Means" is a sentence which at once establishes its
weight, and carries with it peculiar feelings. To the man in diffi-
culties, it sounds like the benevolent strains of some kind philan-
thropist ; to the wretched ffeni whose livings are in other people's
pockets, it comes like unexpected advice ; and the poor soul who has
had the misfortune to retire from a bad trade to a worse place, hears
it with feelings fragrant with deliverance. This self- same piece of
intelligence appears to be a mighty lump of kindness, and may be
defined in a variety of ways. We may look upon it as a " new way
to pay old debts" — an easy way of acquiring a fortune, or a 6ne dis-
covery as a preventative from insolvency or bankruptcy. These are
all very good in their places ; but " ways and means " means as
often " silver and gold " as anything else.

Money is nearly an exception to any other article ; to-day it is a
virtue — to-morrow a vice; sometimes "the root of all evil" — at
other times the source of all good ; worshipped by the rich, loved by
the poor, hoarded by the miser, made cun-ent by the profligate, and
universally esteemed by all. It is also the cause of mighty eflfects —
the promoter of diligence, the soother of care, and the rewarder of
peril. With what joy does the young urchin commit to memory his
usually unpleasant task, when he knows a penny is to reward him for
his labour ! The tradesman toils in paths of care and anxiety with
a smile of gladness when he thinks it is for precious gold ; and the
adventurer exposes himself to death, with the idea that an inde-
pendency will be the result.

I have often amused myself in great cities and bustling towns
with studying the mugoJogy of the passers by, and have read in
wrinkled faces and hurried steps one continued pursuit of wealth.
Only perambulate the streets of a city which finds employment,
amusement, and starvation for more than half a million living souls ;
ibserve them as they pass, like one continued cloud — hundreds in

102 POUNDS, SHlLLlNCfS, AND PENCE.

pain — thousands in care — and all in anxiety ! . A stranger, who had
never seen more than the few individuals who constituted the inha-
bitants of his own village, would wonder what was their object, or
whither they could be going. These crowds of young and old, rich
and poor, lord and beggar, are all in one mind, pursuing one object —
after money, and going to find it.

The ways and means of acquiring money are nearly as numerous
as the persons who practice them ; and when once acquired to ad-
vantage, the money is half coined. Were we to enumerate the plans
and plots, with their various peculiarities, we might make as many
books as would erect a structure equal in magnitude to the great
wall of China ; nevertheless there are a few instances and things,
which are every day occurrences, which we cannot pass over without
relating as the predominant love of " pounds, shillings, and pence."

Old Jacob Timpley (or as he was universally called in the neigh-
bourhood. Master Jacob Timpley, senior,) was landlord of a dirty-
looking public-house, in a back street in the smokey town of — ;

notwithstanding the locality, it was regularly " licensed to sell British ■
and foreign spirits by retail." This said Jacob had acquired a con-
siderable fortune by ten thousand " ways and means," and had at
times exhibited a great deal of benevolence to the poor creatures
who rented the first floor below stairs, in gifts of small beer in cases
of illness, and a few halfpence when something stronger was required.
Sometimes these miserable creatures, who made most of their cash
payable at the bar of Master Jacob, would borrow small loans ; and
if they only had the manners to return them, all went on right ; —
their "ways and means" of moving Jacob's sympathy were by
pleasing his pride, that they might the easier slip into his pocket.

One morning, while he was (with all due deference to him as a
domestic economist) washing his glasses, a little ragged youngster,
whose chin rested on the counter, kindly accosted the old gentleman
with " If you please. Master Jacob Timpley, senior, mother wishes
to know how you are this morning, and if those pills did you any
good."

" Who is your mother ?" asked Jacob.

" P-p-please, sir, my mother is my mother."

IPOUNDS, SHILLINGS, AND PENCE* 100

'* What's her name ?" inquired the man of malt.

" She's called Mrs. Catherine Scruff."

" O, I know," said Jacob; " tell her I'm pretty well.'*

" Yes sir ; and would you have the kindness to lend her a four-
penny bit ?" asked young Scruff in a persuasive tone.

After such inquiries and civilities, old Jacob could not reasonably
object to this modest request, and he threw down four penny pieces,
assuring the young gentleman they would do equally as well as a
fourpenny bit.

The little rogue had not been gone more than fifteen minutes,
when in came Mrs. Catherine herself — a tall, stout woman, a native
of the Emerald Isle — accosting the old fellow with, " Plase, Misther
Timpley, I'll throuble you for the loan of a shilling till Sathurday."

" Then indeed you won't," said the landlord, sharply; " it's only
just this moment you sent your son for fourpence, which I gave him.'*

" Then indeed I never did that same thing. It's a plot — a plot
of the child's father. I'm not responsible at all at all ; and I'll go
and search for the rogue, and if I find him, 111 either screw the
money from him or the nose from his face."

We need not say what is likely to follow when " Greek meets
Greek ;" however, the child's father, as the wife termed him, adopted
this plan as his only •' ways and means," or as he termed it himself,
the " artful dodge."

Reader ! — imagine yourself in the midst of a large and populous
town, placed as an observer of " men and manners ;" commence
with the poorest, and end with the richest ; note minutely the tricks
and stratagems of gaining the needful; — the beggar studies his
eloquence in order to move the passer by ; the working classes toil
like slaves ; the tradesman tries fifty methods, such as " selling off
under prime cost," &c.; and the gentleman gains his money by — his
money.

The great difference that exists in society between the grades of
pounds, shillings, and pence, is wonderful. The man of pounds
comes under the appellation of a great man ; the man of shillings is
considered to go through the world with ease ; and the millions who
are men of pence and no pence are too often the oppressed of those
who are richer than themselves.

104 LIKES.

Money is the grand thing which secures you universal respect.
Shew people that you have money, and they'll shew you kindness ;
give it to the unpolished, and he will bring into play the whole of
his etiquette. Yet pounds, shillings, and pence are too often taken
as the standard of the man, because it is universally admired from
the man of ledgers to the school-boy, who is early initiated into the
mysteries of *' £, s. rf."

LINES

ON A PORTRAIT " THE SHADE OF SADNESS."

Oh ! lovely maiden ! why upon thy brow

Hath pass'd a shade of sadness ? Thou art young :

Thy cheek is in its bloom — thine eye is bright—

And thy sweet lips are form'd for dimpled smiles.

The chill of age — the piercing cares of earth —

Have not swept o'er thee with their deadly blast.

Then why this sadness ? Need I ask again ?

That mournful look reveals the secret tale.

Thine heart hath loved ; and now the first dark doubt

Of him whose vows were whisper'd in thine ear.

Soft as the breezes of the flowery spring.

Hath siezed upon thee, and within thy breast

Works like a poison. Be that bitter doubt

A vain imagining — a baseless thought !

Or soon thy beauty will consume away.

Like sunset hues beneath the veil of night ;

And thy warm heart — affection's living fount —

Will gush with streams of agony. Oh, love !

The winter's tempest cannot blight like thee.

For spring repairs its ravages. No spring

Revives affection's flowers within the breast.

When cold deseition, with its icy frost.

Hath wither'd all their sunny loveliness.

l05

A PAGE

tROU

THE HISTORY OF tHE SUBTERRANEAN RECESSEdv

The hour of midnight hai struck, when a young man was ohserved
descending an immense flight of steps, which led to a door overhung
by a small lamp, which enabled him to read — and, his heart beat
high as he deciphered the characters — ** Subterranean Recesses."
Before he took up the hammer, which lay at the foot of the door for
the purpose of knocking for admission, he paused, and thought — Am
I willing to submit to the rules of this place ? — can I forego the
society of all whom I bave hitherto known ? — can I find anything
congenial to my soul among the stern spirits that dwell here ? A
recollection, however, that the first quarter after twelve was alone
allotted for admittance, put an end to his hesitation. Lifting and
applying the hammer, three heavy knocks resounded on the massive
door; after wailing a few minutes, he imagined he heard footsteps—^
6tep after step, gi'adually increasing in loudness, apprised him of the
approach of one of the inmates. " Follow me," was the laconic
reply of the individual \^ho opened the door to the statement which
the young man had made. Turning round, he watched the operation
of rebarring the door, when he became fully alive to the ciicum-
stances in which he had placed himself in seeking admission to this
mysterious abode. Like lightning the thought struck him — What
have I done !— what madness has possessed me I And have I really
Bhut myself out from the hght of the sun, and all that it shines upon,
for at least twenty years ! O madness ! " What !" he exclaimed
aloud ; and before he could finish the sentence, fell heavily on the
<lamp pavement in a fddnting fit.

106 SUBTERRANEAN RECESSES.

Three individuals were seated in one of the private rooms of tha
SuhteiTanean Recesses, conversing ; one had been connected with it
twenty-five years, another three, and the other was the youncf man
already introduced, one year of the twenty which he must stay hav-
ing expired. Within that period, many a time had he execrated xhe
fatal day whose sun rose on him a free and haj)py citizen of Hercu-
laneum, and set — while he was on his way to enjoy the pleasures of
social intercourse with some chosen companions — to rise no more on
him, perhaps for ever ! Those lovely female countenances, which
the latter end of that day enchanted him, rose before his imagination
but to mock him. Time, however, had began its office; the paroxysms
of melancholy were not quite so strong as at first, but that was all
that could be said of them. In one of his most, cheerful moods, he
listened to the conversation of his two elder brethren, and at distant
intervals advanced an opinion himself. The conversatation ran thus,
Zeno addressing Theseus :

" What are your views respecting a resort to Single Combat in
settling a dispute ?"

" That it is an act of insanity."

" Do you charge all who have resorted to it in all ages thus ?"

" All, without an exception ; and were I to return to society, I
would treat an individual who challenged me accordingly- — either
giving him no reply, or answering Jiim thus : * I refuse to act as
you desire — we do not condescend to give insanity full and detailed
reasons.* "

" How would you treat the imputations of cowardice to which you
Would" subject yourself by such refusal ?"

" With contempt. Contempt can seldom be manifested inno-
cently ; but in this rase it might."

" How would you shew it ?"

" By noticing such remarks in the same tone of voice, and in the
same manner as I should answer any other remark indicating
insanity."

" You would not transgress the rules of politeness ?"

" I should not scruple to turn my back immediately, after having
given as condensed a reply as possible."

lUBTERBANEAN BSCES8ES. 107

" Have you any plan to suggest for the suppression of these
comVa s ?'

" None ; unless it were a total neglect of persons engaging in
them — an utter disregard of all their words and actions (excepting
injurious ones) during the remainder of their life— a virtual exclu«
sion from society."

" Your plan is harsh ; and even if men were convinced that it was
their duty to adopt it, they would find it exceedingly difficult to
perform."

**. I had a friend, however, who did perform it. A citizen with
whom he was very familiar — often visiting and receiving visits in
return, to whom, in fact, his daughter was ahout to be married-
fought; but my friend never countenanced him afterwards. You
have suffered from similar encounters; perhaps you would relate to
our young friend the circumstances."

*' I have no objection, if he is disposed to listen to them."

" Certainly, I am, sir."

'* I lost my father when in my sixth year, who fell by the hand of
one who always passed for his intimate friend. The attachment
manifested towards each other was indeed extraordinary, and generally
challenged observation, insomuch that they were sometimes styled
brothers. They never quarrelled but once, and that quai'rel was a
fatal one. What was the astonishment of the families of each — and
indeed of the whole city-^to observe, after a certain festival, on the
arm of each the signal always worn during the seven days preceding
a private conflict ! What could have happened ? These bosom
companions wearing the well known ribbon ! Astonishment knew
no bounds ; and I remember well seeing groups in various parts of
the town lifting their hands, and declaring in loud tones their utter
inability to solve the startling problem. Young as I was, I very soon
comprehended the import of what was passing ; indeed the meaning
of the signal already refeired to was known te every child in the city.
I cannot describe the paroxysm of grief into which my mother was
thrown on being made aware of the mournful truth. If the human
features are capable of assuming an expression of anguish, — if the
tones of the voice can communicate unutterable (imutterable in

1108 subterHanean recessss.'

words') distress,— if convulsions, fierce and demon-like, can indicate
a teiTible agitation in the soul, — then the feelings of my mother, on
hearing that he whom she loved as her own life was about to be
engaged in deadly combat, might be correctly read by those who
were near her. 1 never saw such a spectacle : when a worse catas-
trophe occurred — when her foreboding fears were confirmed, and she
was made a widow — there were no such outward indications, although
severe sufl!erings really were hers. You talk of insanity as the
prompter of those who engage in single combat : whether you are
correct or not, no doubt the fiend hovers near, for he took possession
of my mother. She raved fearfully after the fatal issue, and three
weeks after destroyed herself. The beginning and end of one month
formed a parenthesis, within which was included a succession of occur*
yences which blighted our hitherto happy family ; the parents were
consigned prematurely to the grave — the children were scattered,
floating smoothty as we had all been down what was to us a pleasant
stream, we suddenly were hunied down a cataract. Fiercely boiled
the foaming waters ; and had not the irrepressible buoyancy of youth
been on the side of my brothers and sisters and myself, all would
have been overwhelmed. On the day appointed for the combat, all
Herculaneum was in motion. Without the city, a large plain was
always the theatre of action. Here were assembled ten thousand
people, fonning a ring. In the centre stood my father and his
former friend, each armed with a dirk. The day was oppressively
hot, scaicely a breath of air stirring, and each wore an exceeding!}'
light garment. The graceful motions of my father, which I was
viewing for the last time, attracted particular attention. I say /, for
I was the only one of the family present, as no females are permitted
to attend. None know what I suffered on that dreadful morning. I
recollected my mother, and the terrible fit in which I had seen her.
I recollected the tender love which my father had shewn to all of us.
In the childishness of my heart, 1 said to my companion — * I think
I had better ask the man not to hurt poor father much : will you go
too ?' We attempted to approach them, but were driven back. My
tieart now overflowed ; — I burst into tears and loud lamentations,
exclaiming, ' Oh ! my poor father !' and similar expressions*.

•UBTERRANBAN KECESSB9.

I0»

Although those around sjrxnpathised with me, they gave me to under-
stand I must either cease my lamentations or he taken away. The
signal for the combat was the great bell of the city striking the hour
of noon. Tiie din of voices gradually hushed as that time approached.
The tallest of the spectators arranged themselves behind those of
lower stature, and all were breathlessly awaiting the combat between
two men who had each been chief magistrate, and whose mysterious
friendship and quarrel were so remarkable. The combatants had
assumed the proper attitude — the immense multitude theirs; when
the solemn sound of the first stroke of the enormous bell interrupted
the stillness prevailing. Deep and dreadful sounded the note; two,
three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve followed,
the last stroke still sounding when the t#o dirks dazzled the eye
with their rapid movements as they glittered in the meridian sim.
In two seconds my father fell ;— before the minute had elapsed he
had ceased to breathe. I cannot describe what followed — only that
a frantic desire to be avenged on the murderer of my father seized
me. Subsequent circumstances altered my desire to a detennination,
which I wrote in blood, that my life should be devoted to the abolish-
ment of the fiend-like custom which had ruined our once happy
family. My vow became known ; all Her'ulaneum knew of it.
They recognised in the lad of ten years of age as he passed through
the streets, not merely the features of theii fonner citizen, but a de-
termined exyjression which would have challenged observation had his
vow not been known. Their consciences told them that I was right ;
and before I was able to take a single active measure, combats began
sensibly to decrease. I was a living warning to them. From that
hour to this I have been a harrier against this horrid custom, and
shall continue to be so until death shall oblige me to relax my
endeavours ; and even then, the results of the literary labours of my
life will remain. The world shall have my thoughts solemnly and
(if there is any strength in language) strongly laid before them. I
have collected together accounts of combats, with their results, cal-
culated to make the blood nm chill ; and I will not hold anything
back for the purpose of sparing feelings. Men's minds shall be
harrowed up ; accounts of domestic woe, containing passages wherein

no SUBTERRANEAN RECESSES.

the broken heart of th^ foflom widow and the blighted prospects of
the poor orphan are faithfully d ineated, shall be freely given ; and
I will clench the nail by appeals iterated and reiterated to their
consciences to cherish a hatred for the infernal cause of all this mis-
chief. Thus will I do ; but if I could, mark me, such is my malig-
nancy (if you think it should be so called), that I would blast with
eternal infamy the * polite murderer ' and all his descendants. An
immense scroll should contain the names of all as occupying a rank
lower than that part of mankind who have manifested the sympathies
of humanity without any contact with blood — that ominous word,
Blood ! But I am growing warm. In my sober moments, I do
not waste my time in thus plotting impossibilities, but with what I
may tefrm a truly matter-of-fact spirit, prosecute my purpose, taking
duly into consideration the state of society as it is, and tempering
with mercy the plans which I suggest in the volumes which I am
preparing. You would doubtless observe the objection which I
raised against the plan proposed by our friend; you might attribute
that objection to indifference, but you was under a mistake if you
did. I live only to uproot that sanguinary custom which turned me
aside from the ways of men — which, when it deprived me of my
father, drove me to form a vow, in the keeping of which I have
thought myself bound to avoid entangling myself in matrimony —
and finally have found it expedient to enter these Recesses, where
nothing can interrupt me in prosecuting the gi'eat business of my
life."

The young man had listened attentively, and now felt disposed (a
disposition which he had not had before) to make known the cause
of his appearance in the SubteiTanean Recesses.

'* My motive in coming here," said he, *' was to avoid a combat
of this nature ; and although I have a thousand times cursed the
hour when I so detennined, I might have either been killed or have
killed one who might be said to be a companion — — "
" Or of making up the quarrel, I suppose ?"
" That was impossible. I was grossly insulted."
"You use the word 'impossible;' — now I object to the almost
constant use of this word in affairs of this sort. When an amicable

8UBTERRANBAN RBCE8SB8. Ill

settlement of a dispute is suggested, the words, * O, that is impossi-
ble,* are uttered without thought. If the phrase * O, that is impos-
sible,' were used when a resort to single combat was hinted at, it
might be tolerated ; although then the laws of language would be
infringed. It is impossible for man to arrest the course of a comet,
but it is not impossible for him either to fight or to "make peace,
Men have done both, and that which has been done may be
repeated."

" My courage would have been impeached had I made any over-
tures towards reconciliation.

" To introduce the word * courage,' as you have now done, is to
prostitute it. Courage is that which scorns in the day of battle to
shrink from taking its share of the danger. To s^reen itself at the
expense of comrades, being altogether unjust, is abominable. Cou-
rage would (as history records it has done) .prompt two leaders of
armies to engage in single combat, instead of engaging both annies —
thereby preventing the effusion of rivers of blood. Courage inter-
poses to rescue a traveller from a highwayman, a drowning man from
a watery grave, or a fellow-creature from a flaming dwelling. In
the heat of wine, a miserable brawl arises in a company. What has
courage to do with it ? — what imminent danger does any one need
to be rescued from ? — what is necessary beyond a little every-day,
common-place tact ? Has philosophy advanced so little, that men
are ignorant about the commotions into which the mind can be
thrown by the most trivial event ? and that the remarks made at such
times are far different from those made when the mind is calm and
undisturbed ? My. friend, you perceive, can account for the serving
a challenge after a pitiful brawl, on jio q^er principle than that
insanity results from the passion to which the individual is subject."

" May not his seclusion from society for twenty-fiye years have
incapacitated him flhom judging f** - - '

*' My young friend, — my lengthened seclusion from soeiety enables
me to judge more impartially. I am unini passioned — unbiassed-^
when I give it as my deliberate opini(m that the mists of insanitj
envelope the mind at such a period. This is an opinion which I caB
never relinquish j my reason, calmly and copUy exercised, will not
allow me."

lis BUBTERRAKEAN RECESSBSk

" At all events, I do not come under your class of insane, as t
^id not fight, but came here instead."

** You do not."

" Young man, you have heard that I have bound myself by a vow
to oppose this custom vviih all my energy. Now it is therefore my
duty to solicit your co-operation when you return to society. Nearly
half of life will then still remain to you, as you will only be forty
years of age ; if I cannot prevail upon you now to promise to do S0|
I must take advantage of the time which you have to remain here in
advancing arguments, the ultimate effect of which will no doubt con-
vince you as to what will be your duty."

■** I am no friend to the custom, sir."

" But my object will be to make you an active and relentless
enemy to it. If any individual leaves the Recesses without giving
me a solemn assurance that he will be such, the fault does not rest
with me ; there is no remissness on my part in urging with all possi-
ble earnestness the arguments with which I am furnished. I have
the satisfaction of knowing that one hundred men, in the prime of
life, are solemnly pledged to wage constant war with my sworn
enemy, in whatever part of the world they are found."

" I admire your zeal, sir."

** And I admire your apathy; but am not surprised that my argu*
ments do not make more impression. I am accustomed to progress
very slowly in my attempts to influence the mind. From what I
have said, you will know that I have had many differently consti*
tuted minds to deal with. In almost every instance the progress was
clow, bnt perseverance always insured me the victory."

" Your experience will have rendered you expert."

" Your remarks amuse me ; you continue the conversation, but
neither acknowledge or question the validity of my arguments. Here
again experience befriends me, or I should imagine myself to be
beating the air. Hours of conversation have I spent with individuals,
and have received none but unmeaning replies ; yet, barren as these
replies were, 1 was confiraied in the opinion that truth in my handa
has made advances. Let the advocates of truth take courage ; truth
cannot be brought in contact perseveringly with the liuman mind
without having its beneficial resulta."

SUttTKRRANKAN RECERSBS. !{$

" Brother, you are right ; I have often remiuded you of this. Our
business as professed philosoplicrs is calmly to advance naked truth,
sending it forth to the world in the utmost simplicity of style ; and
then witliout wasting our time in watching too solicitously the result.
to set about the discovery of further truth to be given to the world
in a similar way. I wish to do all the good which is by any means
possible ; and when one thing has received the benefit of my utmost
efforts, I must instantly withdraw myself from it, and direct my
attention elsewhere. "

" Would you favour me with a page or two of your powerful com-
position, by way of preface to my volume ?"

The hoary-headed sage sat down, and submitted to me the follow-
ing preface ; much of its strength, however, has been lost in the
hands of the translator.

" Reader ! — did you ever read a book recommending you to com-
mit suicide ? What opinion would you form of the author of the
following pages were you to find them filled with serious arguments
urging the commission of this act ? I care not a straw what you
think of uie ; my intention is forthwith to furnish you with explana-
tions and points of the most approved methods of committing suicide,
not merely in the usual mode, but in company. Addressing you as
a member of polished society, my advice is — Quarrel; whatever you
do quarrel. But I ought to point out the class of persons to be
quaiTelled with. Now, I strongly advise you to select fools— young
fools, if you can fall in with them. Old fools are generally obtuse ;
but young fools would be satisfactorily quick of apprehension. To
a man of strong mind, the intervening hours between the aiTanging
of a combat and the ac'ual encounter are maddening. But the fools
are spell-bound ; each believes retreat impossible — each believes it
incumbent upon him to maintain the farce with indifference. Poor*
shaJlowt-patod mortals ! What loss will it be to the world if they
sliould Ijappen to kill each other ? Who will retrench the slightest
portion of a single meal through sorrow ? Who will sleep half a
minuta less ? The offices of hoiK>ur or emolument filled by theip
will be greedily snatched up by men whose common sense will
probably intimate to them the folly of quitting the world thirty or

p

114 SUBTERRANEAN RECESSES.

forty years before the call of nature The man who in his youth
was the school-mate of one, and who, returning after an absence of
twenty years from his native land, thinks of paying a visit to his
companion in boyhood ; he calls, and by a stranger is told the fate
of the former inhabitant. ' Twelve years ago, sir, he fell, in vindi-
cating his honour.' ' Vindicating his honour !' repeats the astonished
man, as he thoughtfully walks away. * Dead twelve years ! humph !
fool, at bottom, after all.' The travelled and experienced man had
heard of such affairs transpiring, perhaps at gi-eat distances, with but
little reflection about them ; but in this instance, the consideration
of their merits being suddenly thrust upon him, his instant and
decided verdict is * Folly, folly.' Reader ! my verdict is not merely
folly, but Madness — Insanity. In the ensuing pages you will have
the subject discussed at great length. Its history will be given.
Read for yourself, and decide. I shall be in a condition at a very
early period to present the volumes to the world. Whatever may be
their success, I have not been remiss in using my very utmost exer-
tions. Let them be read as the production of one who has sternly
denied himself of the pleasures of life ; the soft music of the female
voice he has felt was not fitting for him. Study, daily — nightly —
has been his ; with sickness has he had to struggle with a fainting of
heart known only to himself; when human nature has begged hard
for a little mercy, a solemn, in-evocable vow has arisen before him ;
and as none know the fearful terms in which that vow was couched —
terms at which his blood freezes when he recalls them to mind—none
can credit how its cruel details have through absolute terror been ful-
filled almost to the letter. I have kept it. My repose has varied
from four to five hours nightly, and my lamp of study has burned
. diumally almost twenty hours. I was aware when I made my vow
• that my constitution would suffer ; and so it has. Surely, however,
if men think themselves at liberty to curtail their lives some scores
of years, I am not to be censured too strongly for having shortened
my days a little in endeavouring to persevere, nay, to conjure, men
not to sacrifice so extravagantly as they have done (or I should say,
not to sacrifice at all) their lives to so barbarous a custom."
The three friends then separated for the night.

115

FADED FLOWERS.

The flowers now are faded

That you twined amongst my hair
You said that they were lovely.

But that I was twice as fair.

You said my brow was fairer
Than the " lily of the vale ;"

And that when placed beside mine eye.
The " blue bell " e'en look'd pale.

'Mong the lilies and the roses.
You had placed " Forget-me-not;"

And I believed you, when you said
I ne'er should be forgot

You press'd unto your lips my hand.
And said 'twould soon be thine;

And when I smiled, you said

No smile was half so sweet as mine.

But soon those flowers faded

That you placed around my brow ;

But ere the first had perish 'd.
You forgot your solemn vow.

For another you have left me
To mourn o'er happier hours.

And to think upon your falsehood
When I see these faded flowers.

116

BOTANICAL NOTICE FOR MAY.

{Omitted in our last for" want of space.)

The most conspicuous objects which present themselves to the eye
of the Botanist during this month, " the merry month of May," are
the butter-cup and daisy. These will be the subjects of a few re-
marks, a's they are the representatives of two very numerous classes of
plants, the ranunculacce and composite.

There are no less than seventeen different species of the ranun-
culus or crowfoot growing in the meadows and ditches in the neigh-
bourhood of Hull ; that which is the most conspicuous in our fields
is the ranunculus bulbosus, but nearly two hundred species are now
known as growing in various parts of the globe.

The ranunculus belongs to the Linnean class and order, poly andria
polygynia, that is having many stamens and many pistils, the
stamens arising from the receptacle.

The ranunculacse are characterised by having three, four, or five
leaves to both calyx and flower, the stamens are numerous, the anther
valves straight, carpels (that is the seed vessels) more or less distinct.
But to speak now particularly of the construction of the buttercup of
our meadows. Beneath the yellow petals there may be seen five
small greenish-yellow leaflets ; these are the sepals of the calyx ,
they fall ofif soon after the flower opens ; within these are five other
organs of a bright yellow colour on both sides ; they stand up and
fojm a little cup, in the bottom of which the other parts of the flower
are curiously arranged ; these are the petals of the corolla. At the
base of each will be seen a little scale fi om which honey exudes; this
was called by Linnajus, a nectary. Within the corolla are found a
large number of stamens with short filaments, which are all separately
implanted on the receptacle. Almost buried within the stamens
and occupying the centre of the flower, are a tiumber of little green
grains; these are too small to be seen readily without a magnifying
glass ; each of these is a single carpel, they each bear a horn-like

BOTANICAL NOTICE. 117

projection, which is the style, and the tip of this, which is now shining
and wider than the style, is the stigma. Each one of these carpels
contains a single ovula or young seed, which occupies hut a small
part of the cavity of the carpel at first, but in time the ovula in-
creases in size so as to fill the cavity of the carpel completely. After
the calyx, corolla, and stamens have fallen off, the cluster of carpels
do not materially change in form, but increase in size and ripen into
the fruit of the plant.

On looking at the other parts of the plant, it will be observed
that the leaves are dark green, and that they are very much divided
by deep indentations, and the form of the leaf is more simple as we
ascend from the root to the summit of the plant.

The juices of this tribe of plants are invariably acrid, especially
those of the ranunculus acris, or burning crowfoot of our meadows,
and the ranunculus scleratus or wicked crowfoot of our ditches and
ponds. The juices of these plants excoriate the skin, and even form
ulcers that are diflScult to heal ; and simply carrying specimens in
the hand for a short thne will sometimes inflame its surface.

The ranunculus aquatilis or water crowfoot is not in possession of
these acrid properties in such a high degree as the rest, indeed so
mild is it, that in some parts of the country it is made use of as
fodder for cows and even horses. There is one peculiarity respecting
it which is worth naming, that is, the diflference in form of the leaves
which are submersed from those which are floating upon the surface
of the water ; the fonner are subdivided into a number of hair-like
filaments, whilst the latter are but little separated into lobes. Some
foreign species of ranunculus are much cultivated in gardens, on
account of the beauty of their flowers, which have a tendency to
become double.

To the group ranunculaca also belong the anemonies, whose
flowers are so attractive with their white, blue, or purple petals on
wooded banks. These have the calyx and corolla mixed together so
that we cannot distinguish the one from the other ; and when their
flowers are gone they bear little tufts of feathery tails, or oval, woolly
heads in the place of the clusters of grains which we observed in the
ranunculus. If wc observe the leaves, or stamens, or young carpels.

118 BOTANICAL NOTICE.

or the ripe seed of the anemone, we shall find all those parts con-
structed in every essential respect like the crowfoot. In this group
may also be classed hepaticas, globe-flowers, marsh marigolds, christ-
mas-roses, and winter aconites, each differing in one respect or other
but possessing the essential characters already explained. The lark-
spur, aconite, aid peonies are also plants which come under the same
class with the above ; they are, it is true, somewhat more removed in
some parts of their conformation, but they have the two essential
marks of distinction in their carpels and stamens.

The last subdivision of this order which we shall enumerate is that
which contains the clematisy a genus of climbing plants, of which the
species, native to Britain, is known under the name of traveller's joy;
and another, which is much cultivated in gardens is commonly called
virgin's bower. These are almost the only plants of the order which
form woody stems ; they gi'ow in hedges and against walls, their
petioles, or leaf stalks, being prolonged as tendrils ; and in spite of
the acidity of their juices, their flowers are mostly fragrant.

The daisy {bellis perennis) may be looked upon as the type of
plants, composite, having compound flowers. They belong to the
Linnaean class and order syngenesia polygamia, having the anthers
united into a tube.

Rousseau says, *' Take one of those flowers which cover all the
pastures, and which every body knows by the name of daisy. Look
at it well, for I am sure you would never have guessed from its
appearance that this flower, which is so small and delicate, is really
composed of between two and three hundred other flowers, all of
these perfect — that is, each of them having its corolla, stamens,
pistil, and fruit; in a word, as perfect in its species as a flower of
the hyacinth or lily. Every one of thase leaves, which are white
above and red underneath, and form a kind of crown round the flower,
appearing to be nothing more than little petals, are in reality so
many true flowers ; and every one of these tiny yellow things also,
which you see in the centre, and which at first, perhaps, you have
taken for nothing but stamens, are real flowers."

These are monopotalous corolla, which expand, and a glass will
easily discover in them the pistil, and even the anthers with which it

BOTANICAL NOTICE. 119

is surrounded. Commonly the yellow florets towards the centre
are still rounded and closed. These, however, are flowers like the
others, but not yet open ; for they expand successively from the edge
inwards. This is enough to show the possibility of all these small
affairs, both white and yellow, being so many distinct flowers ; and
this is a constant fact.

The daisy has the defect, as a means of illustration, of a com-
pound flower, that its parts are so very similar as to be distinguished
with difliculty. For this reason it will be better to take the common
dandelion {leonfodon taraxacum) for our pattern and guide. Be-
sides what has already been described, we shall find at the bottom of
the tube of the corolla a few little hairy scubs which stand on the
top of the ovary, in the place of the calyx ; botanists call them the
pappus — (the pappus is absent in the daisy). This sometimes
fonns a beautiful plume of feathers, which catches the wind and
enables the seed to soar into the air, and to scatter itself to a distance.

The delicate feathery balls of the dandelion, which children amuse
themselves with blowing them away into the air, are the fruit of that
plant crowned by the pappus. Below the pappus is the ovary, con-
taining one single ovule ; it terminates in a slender style, which
passes through the tube of the corolla, and forks at the top into two
stigmas.

The most casual observer cannot have failed to remark to what a
gieat extent this order of plants prevails even in Brittain. It would
seem that they predominate rather in temperate regions, especially
of the northern hemisphere, where they are considered as forming
about one-sixth of the whole vegetation. In Britain, about 140
species of them may be reckoned, constituting about one-tenth of
the whole number of native flowering plants. In France, they are
estimated at about one-seventh, and in Germany at one-eighth;
whilst in Lapland they are only one-fifteenth. In Sicily they are
said to constitute more than half; and nearly the same proportion is
found in some parts of North America,

The whole order is divided into three subdivisions, viz., the dehor-
ae(B, from the common cichory or succory, with which they all agree
in possessing a milky juice; this subdivision is characterized by

120 BOTANICAL NOtlCK.

the head of the flower being composed of ligulate or strap-shaped
florets, to the utter exclusion of the tubular florets, as in the
dandelion. The cinarocephale, or thistle-headed plants, have, like
the thistle, a head of flowers, composed entirely of tubular florets,
that have also hard and spiny leaves ; the artichoke belongs to this
subdivision. And the corymbifrce, which contain both sort of flo-
rets, the ligulate ones at the ray or circumference, and the tubular
ones at the centre or disk ; they are therefore also called composite
plants. To this belong the sun-flower, chamomile, daisy, marigold,
groundsel, wonnwood, and many others.

In considering the properties of the order, it will be necessary to
advert separately to each subdivision. The cichoracae possess a
milky juice, which is bitter and astringent, as well as narcotic or
stupifying. These properties are strongly manifested in the lacluca
virosa, or strong-scented lettuce. By proper cultivation, however,
the injurious properties may be so far removed from several species
of this group, such as the lettuce, endive, and succory, that they become
wholesome articles of food. The roots of the dandelion are much
used in this country for medicinal purposes, the extract prepared
from them being considered by many as an useful tonic, promoting
also the various secretions. In the cinarocephalce bitterness predomi-
nates, and the principle to which it is due is generally mixed with gum.

In the corymbifsra, the bitterness common to all the compositse
is combined with a resinous principle of stimulating character. Few
supply articles of food ; almost the only species of which any part is
eaten being a species of sun-flower, of which the root is known under
the name of Jerusalem artichoke. The seeds of the common sun-
flower are a nutritious food for poultry, and they are made into cakes
bv the North American Indians. The chamomile is often made use
of for its bitter qualities, and is in repute as a tonic and stomachic ;
but there are many species in which the bitter, the resinous, or the
astringent properties are more predominant, and which have, there-
fore, their respective peculiar uses. — J. H. G.

TO OUR READERS.

In consequence of the Publishers of the "Hull Literary
AND Philosophical Miscellany'* being about to declhie
business, the preset Number will be the last of that work.