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Chairman— The Right Hon. LORD BROUGHAM. F.R.S., Member of the National Iuililale of Prance. 

rtc+Ctoirman-ThB Right Hon. EARL SPENCER. 

rrwuerer— JOHN WOOD, Esq. 

William Alien, Esq., F.R. tad R.A.S. 

Captain Beaufort, R.N., F.R, and R.A.S. 

George Burrows, M.D. 

Peter Stafford Carey. Esq.. A.M. 

The Right Hon. Lord Congleton. 

John Cooolly. M.D. 

William Coulaon, Biq. 

R. 1). Crsijr, Esq. 

The Right Rev. the Bishop of St Da?id'*,D.D. 

J. P. Davis, Esq., P.R.S. 

H. T. Dela Beche. Esq., F.R.S. 

The Right Hon. Lord Denman. 

Samuel Duckworth, Raq. 

The Right Rev. the Bishop of Durham, D.D. 

Sir Henry Ellis. Prin. Lib. Brit. Mas. 

T. F. Ellis. Ksq„ A.M., F.R.A.8. 

John Elllotson, M.D., F.R.8. 

George Evans, Esq. 

Thomas Falconer, Esq. 


A. T. Blalkin. E«q. A.M. 

Mr. Sergeant Manning. 

R. I. Murchison, Esq.. F.R.S* F.CS.X. 

The Rleht Hon. Lonl Nugent. 

W.S. O'Brien, Esq.. M.P. 

Richard Qualn. Eaq. 

P. M. Roget. M.D. Sec. R.3., F. R.A.S. 

R. W. Rothman, Esq.. A.M. 

Sir Martin Archer Shee, P.R. A . F.R.S. 

Sir George T. Staunton, Bart.. M.P. 

John Taylor. Esq F.R.S. 

A.T. Thomson, M.D. K.L.S. 

Thomas Vardon, Esq. 

J as. Walker. Esq.. F.R.S., Pr. lnsi.,C(t. Kng. 

H. Weymouth, E«q. 

Thos. Webster, Esq.. A.M. 

Right Hon. Lord Wrottesley, A.M., F.R, A. 3. 

J. A. Yates, Esq., M.P. 

Atton, Slaforaeksre—Jier. J. P. Jones. 
.«nf/**M— Rev. E. Williams. 

Rer. W. Johnson. 

— Miller, Esq. 
Barnstaple. Ben era ft, Esq. 

William Cribble. Esq. 
Belfast— J**. L. Drummond, M.D. 
flirmiay/inm— Paul Moon James, Esq., Trsa- 

BHdport—Jmmtt Wllllama, Esq. 

Bristol— J.N.Ssndert, Esq., F.O.S. Chairman. 

J. Reynolds, Esq., Treasurer. 

J. B. EstUn, Esq., F.L.S., Secretary. 
Calcutta— Jamet Yonng. Esq. 

C. H. Cameron. Esq. 
Cambridge— Re v. Leonard Jenyns, M.A.,F.L.3. 

Rer. John Lodge, M.A. 

Rer. Prof. Sedgwick. M.A., F.R.S. H 0.8. 
Vauterhury — John Brent, Esq., Alderman. 

William Masters. Esq. 
Carlisle— Thomas Barnes, M.D M F.R.S. E. 
Carnarvon — R. A. Poole, Esq. 

William Roberts, Eaq. 
Chtstsr— Henry Potts, P.*q. 
VMcketter—C. C. Dendy, Ksq. 
Cockermomth—Ker. J. Whltridge. 
Corfu— John Crawford, Esq. 

Plato Petrldea 
Coventry— C. Bray. Esq. 
Denbigh— Thomas Evans. Esq. 
Derby— Joseph Strait. Esq. 

Edward Htrutt, Esq.. M.P. 
Deuonport and Stouehonse— John Cole. Esq. 

John Norman, Ksq. 

Lt.Col. C. Hamilton Smith, F.R.S. 
Durham— The Very Rer. the Dean. 
Bdmbwyh— Sir C. Belt, F.R.S.L. and E. 

J. S. Traill, M.D. 


S rrarta— Josiah Wedgwood, Esq. 
E titer— J. Tyrrell, Esq. 

John Mllford, Esq. (Coaesr.) 
Glamorganshire- Dr. Malkin, Cowbrldge. 

W. Williams, Esq., Aberpergwm. 
Glasgow— R. Finlay, Eaq. 

Alexander McGrlgor, Esq. 

Jamea Couper, Esq. 

A. J. D. D'Orsey. Esq. 
Ouomsey—V. C. Lukis, Esq. 
Hitcham, Smooth— Re*. Professor Henslow, 

M.A., F.L.S. icO.S. 
tfetf-Jas. Bowden, Ksq. 
Leeds— 3. Marahall, Esq. 
Lewes— J. W. Woollgar, Esq. 

Henry Browne. Esq. 
Liverpool I.oe. As. — J. Mullenenx, Esq. 

Rer. Wm. Shepherd, L.L.D. 
Maidenhead— R, Gooldeo, Esq., F.L.S. 
Maidstone— Clement T. Smyth, Esq. 

John Case, Esq. 
Manchester Loc. Ae.—Q. W. Wood. Esq., 
M.P* CA. 

Sir Benjamin Hey wood, Bt, Treasurer. 

Sir George Philips, Bart.. M.P. 

T. N. Winstaoley, Esq. Hon. Sec. 
Merthyr Tydvit— Sir J. J. Guest. BarW M.P. 
Minehtnhampton— John G. Ball, Esq. 
Neath— John Rowland, Esq. 
Newcastle— Rev. W. Turner. 

T. Sopwith, E«q., F.G.S. 
Newport, Isle of Wight— Ab. Clarke, Esq. 

T. Cooke. Jun., Esq. 

R. G. Kirkpatrick, Esq. 
Newport PagneU-J. Millar. Esq. 
Norwich — Richard Bacon, Esq. 

Wm. Forster. Esq. 
Orsett. Esse*— Corbelt. M.D. 

0«/b*4— Ch.Daubeny.MD.F.R.S.Pro/.Chem. 

Rev. Baden Powell. Sar. Pof. 

Rev. John Jordan, B.A. 
Pesth, Hungary— Count Ssechenyl. 
Plymouth— H.Woollcombe,Bsq.,P.A.8„(/A, 

Wm. Snow Harris. Esq., F.R.S. 

E. Moore, M.D., V.L.$. t Secretary. 

G. Wlghtwick, Esq. 

Dr. Traill. 
Presteign—RL Hon. Sir H. Brydgee, Bart. 

A. W. Darm. M.D. 
J?ip<m— Rev. H. P. Hamllton,M.A,F.ll.><,(J.S. 

Rev. P. Kwart. M.A. 
Ruthin— Rer. the Warden of 

Humphreys Jones, Esq. 
Rude, 1. of fVlgkt-$\t Rd. Simeon. IK 
Salisbury— Rer. J. Barfltt. 
Sheffield— J. H. Abraham. Esq. 
Shepton Mallei— G. F. Burroughs. Esq, 
Shreutbury-R. A.SIaney, Esq.. M.P. 
South Petherton— John Nlcholetts, Esq. 
Stockport— H. Mar si and, Kaq., Treasurer. 

Henry Coppock, Esq., Secretary. 
Sydney, New S.fraies-W.M. Manning, Esq. 
Swansea — Matthew Moggridge, Eaq. 
Tavistock— Rev. W. Evan*. 

John Rundle, Esq, M.P. 
Truro— Henry Sewell Stokes, Esq. 
Tunbridge Wells— Yeats. M.D. 
Uttoxeter— Robert Blurton. Esq. 
Virginia. U. 8.— Profeisor Tucker. 
Worcester— ChtLS. Hastings, M.D. 

C. H. H ebb, Esq. 
Wrexham— ThomaN Edgworlh, Eaq. 

Major Sir William Moyd. 
Yarmouth— C. E. Rumbold. Esq. 

Daumon Turner, Eaq 
York— Rev. J. Kenxick. M.A. 

John Phillips, Esq., F.R.S., F.O.S. 

THOMAS v COATES, Esq., Secretary, No. 59, Lincoln's Ion Fields, 

London t Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Stamford SUmI. 

Digitized by 



A pel Aim Gallery, the, 190. 
Aerolites, fall of. at Milan, 51. 
Agriculture, improvers of, 475. 
Aleppo, 141. 
Algebra, moral, 59. 
America, the iron trade of, 440. 
Anemometer, or wind-gauge, the, 462. 
Artesian well at Grenelle, 441. 
Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, sight of 
the, 41}. 

Babykoussa, the, 321. 

Backgammon, 100. 

Bacon, Lord. 60. 

Barometer, the. 194. 

Bewick, the engraver, life of, 260. 268. 

Birds, gallinaceous (game), 401, 414. 

Birds' nests, edible, of the Eastern 

Islands, 367. 
Black lead and black-lead pencils, 394. 
Bodleian Library, the, 228. 
Bone, the. value of a, 218. 
Bosworth Field, the battle of, 433. 
Bouquets at night, 307. 
Brewery, London, a day at a, 121. 
Britton, Thomas, the musical small - 

coal man, 70. 
Burke, Edmund. 129. 
Bums. Robert. 353, 389. 

Camel, the, 29. 

Canada, forests of, 264 ; post-office in, 

Cauoubury. recollections of, 410. 

Cattle. 273, 281. 

Cavalry. Indian, charge of, 148. 

Caxton, I. 

Chaucer's Portrait Gallery : the host, 
65; the cook. 79; the knight, 93; 
the squire, 101; the fraukliu. 145; 
the merchant, 171 ; the sergeant at- 
law, 185 ; the doctor of physic, 230 ; 
the parson. 245; the clerk of Oxen- 
ford. 271 ; the monk, 293 ; the friar, 
322; the sumpnour. 34 >; the par- 
doner, 375 ; the ploughman, 393 ; 
the shipman, 442; the haberdasher, 
&c, 449 ; the miller and the reve. 
460; the manciple. 481 ; the prioress, 
482 ; the wife of Bath, 495. 

Chemistry, Domestic: milk. 11. 

Coachmaker's, a day at a, 501. 

Cochineal insect, the, and its produce. 

Commerce, influence of the Oriental 
character on. 19 ; advantages of, 92; 
foreign, moral influence or, 464. 

Contrasts : Lunatic Asylums, 22. 

Corn, mode of threshing, in the East, 

Corneille, 369. 

Cottages in Bengal. 155. 

Cowper, William, 149. 

i 'roydou church and palace, 317. 

Cruden, Alexander, 31. 

Dairy. London, a day at a, 297. 

Danube, the. 333. 349. 365. 

Death, Chinese ideas of, 448. 

Deer of the British Islands. 103, 133. 

Dibdin. Charles, the songs of. 372. 

Discourse, 408. 

Diseases, endemic and epidemic, 291, 

311,314 316. 
Dogs, wild and domestic, 7, 56, 77. 
Drinks, the artificial cooling of, 319. 
Drummond of Hawthornden, 169. 
Dulwich Gallery, the. 137. 193, 217, 

241. 265, 289. 
Dun barton Castle, 36. 

East India Company's museum, 207. 

Economy, 132. 

Education. 112. 

Emigrants in Canada, 200. 

England : what it has done, and what 
it has yet to do, 92; and the United 
States of America, mutual interests 
of. 152 ; Public Records of, 308 ; the 
Islands of, 398, 405. 415, 420 ; the 
language of* 448} fruits in, in the 

13th and 15th centuries, 480; Census 

of 1841,487, 488. 
Esthonians, domestic economy of, 403. 
Etruscan tomb, an, 208. 
Events, great, local memories of: 

Battle ot Hastings. 17 ; Magna Chart*, 

117 ; Battle ofWorcester.233 ; Battle 

of Bosworth Field, 433. 

Fa mm in India, 108. 

Fans. 480. 

Fame Islands, the. 198. 

Feathers, their nature and uses, 357, 

Female labour in Arabia, 140. 
Field-flowers. 312. 
Fiulaud form -house, 116. 
Fish used as food in North America, 

Flint-glass factory, a day at a, 81, 
Food, abstinence from, 83, 
Football, game of, in Holborn or the 

Strand, 155. 

Gardens of Hindoostan. 403. 
Gent. Thomas, of York, printer, 142. 
Gla*s-manufacUire. perfection of. 

amon£ the Egyptians, 352. 
Greatrakes. Valentine, 421. 
Greece, Modern, agriculture of, 72; 

modo of preparing wine in, 7G. 
Greenland, atmospherical phenomenon 

in, 59; habits of ihe people of, 116 ; 

fisliing- boats of. 120. 
Grouse, American, 186, 

Hamptom Court, the Cartoons at, 377, 

Hare and Rabbit, the. 417. 

Hastings, the battle of, 17. 

Hat-factory, a day at a, 41. 

Hedgehogs. 392. 

Hindoostan, life of the husbandman in, 

Hip-joint, diseases of the, 35. 

Hog, the, 237. 

Honey of the Hymettus. 80. 

Horses. British. 225, 

Hungary, the plains of, 132 ; a gentle- 
man's establishment in, 140; the 
Spring fair at Pesth, 154. 

Hyde Park a century since, 272. 

Hygrometer, the, 246. . 

Icebkbo, gigantic, 112, 

J Icelanders,' dwellings of the, 392. 

'Indians, the medicine-bag of the, 440. 

Ingenuity wasted, 267. 

Insanity, success and economy of early 

treatment in, 92. 
Inundations, in Holland, in 1825, 437, 

Iron and coal, 288. 
Irrigation in the East, 190. " 

Japav. town-gardens in, 112; one su- 
preme power in. 116; the Mikado 
in. 140 ; uses of the fan in, 148. 

Kashmir, the valley of, 326, 420. 
Kew, the ! botanic garden and arbore- 
tum at, 263, 266.- _ 

Labour, physical and mental. 316. 
Lac insect and its produce* 423. 
Ladakh, the province of, 480. 
Land (poor sandy), improvement of, 

Land and water, relative quantities of, 

Law and interest, 204. 
Lichens, phosphoric. 424. 
Literary sociality of the time of James 

I., 326. 
Lithography, progress and history of, 

Liveries, 474. 
London : in the time of the Britons, 

224; St. John's Sate, Clcrkenwell, 

452; London-stone, 204 ( the Tower, 

473; the Sewers, 495, 491; public 

improvements in, 497. 
Louis XIV., a day of, 33. 
Love of country, 312, 
Lunatic Asylums, 22. 

Maoha Charta, 117. 

Man, stature and weight at different 
ages, 396. 

Manna, 464. 

Manners, among a scattered population, 
248; in Asia Minor, 360. 

Mantis, the. 435. 

Marble- works, London, a day at the, 

Mechanics' Institutes, exhibitions of, 

Mechanism and manufactures, exhibi- 
tions of— Society of Arts, 138; Poly- 
technic Institution, 178; Adelaide 
Gallery, 190. 

Men, Great, local memories of: — Cax- 
ton. 1; Bacon. 60; Milton, 97; Burke, 
129; Cowper. 149; Drummond of 
Hawthornden, 169; Petrarch, 205. 
222 ; Moliere, 305 ; Burns, 389; Cor- 
neille, 369. 

Mental delusions, 409. 

Milion, John, 97. 

Mole-catchers aud mole -catching, 371 • 
moles, their uses, 456. 

Moliere, 305. 

Mud-turtles, 71. 

Musical knife, 144. 

Mustard-tree. the. 288. 

Mutual support, 240. 

NAiT^manufacture, the. 359. 
Napoleon column at Boulogne, 404. 
National Gallery, the, 11. 21, 52,68.89. 
Newspapers, American, their appear* 

ance, character, &c, 243. 
Nile, great cataract of Alata, on the, 

Norway, the bonder or small landowner 

of, 459 ; scenery of a liord in, 464. 
Nuremberg, 227. 

Occult Sciences, the, 110, 119, 131. 

Opinion the true prop ot good govern- 
ment, 140. 

Opossum and racoon hunting. 39. 

Oranges, mode of packing at St. Mi- 
chael's, 307; peculiarity of the 
orange-tree, 202. 

Oxford, the Martyrs' Memorial at, 37. 

Paiktino in fresco, 450. 

Paraguay, hunting ostriches and wild 
horses in, 20. 

Peasantry of the Pyrenees, 416. 

Peat-gatherer, the, 388. 

Penny postage, anticipations and re- 
sults, 283. 

Peru, the Balsas of, 424. 

Petrarch. 205. 222. 

Philosophy, Natural. 72. 

Piccadilly, 280. 

Pictures, gratuitous exhibitions of:— 
The National Gallery. 11, 21, 52,68, 
89; Dulwich College, 137. 193. 217, 
241. 265, 289; Hampton Court, 377, 

Piety and the love of nature. 443. 

Pigeons, domestic, 361. 

Planetary System, the, 72. 

Plants, the death of, 294 ; noxious ones 
useful. 332. 

Pluviometer, the, 445. 

Population of Great Britain— Census of 
1841. 487, 488. 

Portrait, antique, 387. 

Polyps, the, 67. 

Polytechnic Institution, the, 178. 

Post-office despatch in 1717 and 1841 ; 
the railway post-office. 158. 

Potash, manufacture of, in Upper Ca- 
nada, 95. 

Poultry, domestic, 329. 

Prudence, 443. 

Purrah, the, in Africa, 407« 

Rattaelle, sculpture by, 277; the Car- 
toons by, 377, 425. 

Railway rambles:— the Ravensbourne 
river, 156, 188 ; Crovdon Church and 
Palace. Beddington.'&c, 317 ; Stoke, 
412, 444. 

Railway-train, how propelled. 54. 

Ram, fossil. 67. 

Rain-gauge, or Pluviometer. 445. 

Ravensbourno river, the, 156, 188. 

Reading-rooms, village, 64. 

Reaping, 296. 

Recreation, 248. 

Roads and travelling in the olden time, 

Rome, the climate of, 160. 

Rook, utility of the, 475. 

Roses. Indian, and attar (otto) of, 438. 

Royal Asiatic Society's museum, 324, 

Salt-minx at Tux Koi, Kurdistan, 253. 

Savage, picture of a, 116. 

Sea, the, luminous and phosphorescent 
appearance of, 478. 

Seeds of plants, dissemination of, 235. 

Seeing without sight, 1 16. 

Shakspere and his will, 14 ; his de- 
lineations of female friendship, lot); 
not a horsebov, 411. 

Sheep, British, i75, 177, 196. 

Shells, beauty of, 236. 

Ship-yard, a day at a, 209, 249. 

Siberia, woollen manufacture in, 1G. 

Sirocco of the Mediterranean, the, 404. 

Slavonian village, 160. 

Spain, the romances of: — The Cid. 4, 
25, 49. 73, 113, 153, 173, 201, 257. 
284, 313, 327. 

Stalactites and stalagmites, 262. 

Steam-boat, how propelled, 7 6 ; made 
of iron, 320. 

Steam-engine, 27. 

Stoke, Buckinghamshire, 412. 444. 

Sugar-refinery, a day at a, 161. 

Sunrise on Mount Etna-, 408. 

Superstition in Asia Minor, 264. 

Tablxs d'hote, influence of, on the 
Continent, 184. 

Taylor, the water-poet, 476 ; his Penny- 
less Pilgrimage, 483, 489. 

Texas, the cross-timber district of, 240 ; 
simplicity of agricultural operation* 
in the weed prairies of, 272 ; the wild 
horse of. 39^. 

Thames, a Parson's impression of the, 

Thermometer, the, 232, 239. 

ThiefUkers, Indian, 140. 

Thread, value of, fur lace, 155. 

Tobacco-manufactory, a day at a, 465. 

Towns and their population, imptove- 
ment of, 91. 

Ukkaiwx, the steppes of the, 424. 
Unitea Service Museum, 273, 266. 

Vehiclxs, metropolitan, 240. 
Vellcia, the fate of, 240. 
Veracity. English, 464. 
Veronese peasantry, 348. 
Virgin earth, 351. 

Waits, the, 15. 

Weasel tribe, the, of the British Island*. 

Water, the use of, to vegetation, 453. 
Waterfowl, domestic, 385. 395. 
Wicklifle. John ; two of this name. 348. 
Wilkic. Sir David. 278. 
Women, American and English, com* 

pared, 440. 
Wonder, 155. 

Worcester, the battle of, 233. 
Workhouse, Union, two hours at a, 397. 

Zialak d, New, the natives of, 440* 



Digitized by 




Caxton and his localities. 1. 

William the Conqueror, Harold, and 
the localities of the Battle of Hatt- 
ing. 17. 

Dunbarton Rock, 36. 

Lord Bacon and his localities, 60. 

Milton and his localities, 97. 

Magna Charta and its localities, 117. 

Burke and his localities, 129. 

Cowper and his localities, 149. 

Ravensbourne River, Source of, 156. 

Keston Common, and Mill, 157. 

Hayes Churchyard, and Yew-tree, 157. 

Drummond of Hawthornden and his 
localities, 169. 

Bromley Church, 188. 

„ Water-Kate at. 189. 

„ the Lady-well, near, 189. 

Beckenham, Lich-gate at, 189. 

Deptford Creek, 190. 

London Stone. 204. 

Bodleian Library, the interior, 228. 

Battle of Worcester and its localities, 

Cherry-barn, Northumberland ; house 
in which Bewick was born, 260. 

Ovingham Parsonage, banks of theTyne, 

Newcastle on-Tyne, Workshop of Be- 
wick, the engraver, 268. 

Waterintt-house at Knightsbridge in 

Public Records of England: rolls, 
pouches, hanapers, and signs, 308, 
809. 310. 

Croydon Church, 317. 

Croydon Palace, staircase of the cha- 
pel, with Queen Elisabeth's pew, 

Mill near Wad don, 318. 

Beddiugton Church, 319. 

Burns, the poet, and his localities, 

Windsor Union Workhouse, 397. 
Stoke Church. 412. 

, , Monumeut to Gray, 413. 

, , Manor-house, remains of. 444. 

,, , , old kitchen in, 


, . Gray's summer-house. 445. 
Richard III., the Battle of Bosworth 

Field, and localities. 434. 
Plan of Bosworth Field, 435. 
St. John's Gate, Clerkenwell. 1841, 

The Tower of London: the Great 

Storehouse, as it appeared on fire on 

the night of Oct. 30. 1841. 473. 
Palace-y«rd Stairs, in 1641. 477. 
Edinburgh in the beginning of the 17th 

century, 484. 
St. George's Hall and New Assise 

Courts, Liverpool, 497. 
Liverpool Collegiate Institution. 498. 
St. Mary's Church. Southwark, 500. 

Aleppo, 141. 
Petrarch and his localities, 205. 

Moliere and his localities. 805. 
Scene on the Danube, 333, 349, 365. 
Corncille and his localities, 369. 
Napoleon Column at Boulogne, 404. 
Artesian well at Crenelle, Paris. 441. 


The Romances of Spain :— Taa Cm: — 
Rodrigo ot Bivar, the Cid, 4. 
Tho Cid receiving his father's sword, 

Rodrigo and Count Losaao, 25. 
The Cid on his war horse. 27. 
Zimena Gomex suing for justice, 49. 
The Cid and the Leper, 73. 
Parting of Rodrigo and Zimena, ?5. 
The Cid rescuing the King Don 

Sancho, 113. 
Rodrigo pursuing Bellido Dolfos. 

Death of the King Don Sancho, 153. 
The Cid before Zamora, 153. 
Rodrigo administering the oath to 

KihgAlplionso. 173. 
The Cid going into exile. 172. 
The Cid, Zimena, and her daugh- 

ten, 201. 
Rodrigo defeating the Moors before 

Valencia, 201. 
The Cid and the crouching Lion, 

Rodrigo departing for Toledo, 284. 
St. Peter and the Cid, 313. 
Tomb of the Cid. in the couvent of 
San Pedro de Cardena, 328. 
Chaucer's Portrait Gallery : -— T»a 
Canterbury Talrs:— 
The Host aud the Cook, 65. 
The Knight and the Squire, 93. 
The Franklin and the Merchant, 145. 
The Sergeant at-law and the Doctor 

of Medicine, 185. 
The Parson and the Clerk of Oxen- 

ford. 245. 
The Monk and the Friar, 293. 
The Sumpnour and the Pardoner, 

The Ploughman and the Shipman, 

The Haberdasher, the Carpenter, the 
Weaver, the Dyer, and the Tapis- 
trer. 449. 
The Miller, the Manciple, and the 

Reve, 460. 
The Prioress and the Wife of Bath, 

Portrait of Chaucer, 496. 
The National Gallery :— 
The Infant St. John, by Murillo, 13. 
The Dutch Housewife, by Maes. 21. 
The Nativity, by Rembrandt, 52. 
The Market-cart, by Gainsborough, 

The Holy Family, by Sir Joshua 
Reynolds. 89. 
Dulwich Gallery : — 
Spanish Beggar-boys, by Murillo, 

Landscape and Cattle, by Cuyp, 193. 
Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, by 

The Virgin and Child, by Vandyke, 

Boors merrymaking, by Ostade, 265. 

Landscape with Cattle and Figures, 
by Wouvermans. 289. 
Hampton Court:— Thx Cabtooks of 

The Miraculous Draught of Fishes, 

Christ's Charge to Peter, 381. 

Peter and John healing the Cripple. 

Death of Ananias, 425. 

Elymas struck Blind. 428. 

Sacrifice at Lystra, 429. 

Paul preaching at Athens, 432. 
Trictrac, from a painting by Teniers, 

Hermia and Helena, from a drawing 

by Severn, 109. 
The Huntsman and Old Hound, after 

Bewick, 261.'. 
Man and Horse, after Bewick, 269. 
Ruined Cottage and Sheep, after Be 

wick, 269. 
Sculpture—" Dolphin and Child," by 

RafTaelle, 277. 
Sailors singing, after a drawing by Wil 

liam Lee, &3. 
Bursting of St. Anthony's Dyke, Hol- 
land, from an etching by P. Nolpe, 


Dogs, 9, 37, 77. 

Camels, 29. 

Deer of the British Islands. 105, 133. 

British Sheep, 177, 196. 

British Hones, 225. 

Hogs. 237. 

Woodcock, 270. 

British Cattle, 273. 281. 

The Babiroussa (Sus Babt/nusa, Linni), 

Domestic Poultry, 329. 
Domestic Pigeons. 361. 
Domestic Water-fowl. 385. 
Gallinaceous Birds (game), 401. 
Hares and Rabbits, 417. 
Weasels of the British Islands, 457. 


Hat-making :— Hat battery or kettle, 
41 ; cutting-machine, 43 ; blowing- 
en gine, 43; 'blowing,' 44; mi- 
croscopic view of fibre or beaver fur, 
44; section of the cap, 45; 'ruff- 
ing,' 46 ; * blocking,' 46 ; dyeing- 
caldron, 46; stages of shaping, 47. 

Flint-glass manufacture : — Glass-blow- 
ing furnace, 81 ; glass-melting pots, 
83; section of melting pan, 83; 
ground-plan of melting- furnace, 84 ; 
blowing moulded bottle, 85 ; mould 
for casting glass, 85; rolling glass 
on marver, 85 ; blowing glass 
through the working-tube, 85 
shaping and blowing a glass jug, 85 

claret-jug, 86; re-heating glass at 
the furnace, 86 ; glass-cutter at work, 
87 ; glass-engraver at work. 88. 

A London Brewery : Entrance to Bar- 
clay's brewery, 121 : maltman and 
malt-bin. 122: malt-crushing ma- 
chine, 123: buckets of the ' Jacob's 
ladder,' 123; sectional view of the 
principal vessels and apparatus, 124 ; 
cleansing in the rounds, 126; large 
vat, 126; drawing off, 127. 

Sugar Refinery :— Interior, 161 ; boil- 
ing sugar in vacuo, 165 ; sugar in the 
heater, 165 ; filling the moulds with 
liquid sugar, 166; « brushing-off,' 
* turning-off,' and papering the 
lump-sugar, 167, 168. 

Ship-building Yard:— Ship on the 
stocks building and ship in dock fur 
repairs; 209; boys spinning oakum, 
211; making treenails, 212; steam 
ing-house for ships' planks, 214; 
frame-timbers of a West India trader, 
216; interior of a mast-house, 249; 
boring for treenails, 251 ; caulking, 
251 ; serving of rope with spun yarn, 
255 ; sailnialter at work, 256. 

A London Dairy :— Milking-ahed at 
twelve o'clock, 297; aide view and 
section of a Dutch cow-house, 300 ; 
cattle-layers at Islington, 304. 

London Marble-works:— Show-room. 
337 1 sawing-machine, 340 ; ripping 
bed. 341 ; small circular cutter. 341 ; 
moulding-bed, 342 ; square grinding- 
bed, 343; circular grinding-bed, 
343; polishing-bed, 344. 

TobaccoManufactory :— Tobacco-ware- 
house, London Docks. 465 ; tobacco 
kiln, 468; cutting- machine, 4€9; 
making pigtail, 470; stripping the 
leaf. 471 ; making cigars, 4/1 ; snuff- 
grinding machines, 4<2. 
Coach Making :— Interior of coach- 
making loft; speeching or spoking 
a coach-wheel ; tiring a coach-wheel ; 
turning an iron axle ; smith's shop, 
making a coach C-spring ; drawing 
metal coach-beading in plater'a shot* 
601-8. P 


Louis XIV. in his bedchamber, 33. 

Initial letter (S), 156. 

Modern Shadoofs for irrigation in the 

East. 180. 
The Sackiveh. or Persian wheel, isi. 
Threshing by the Sledge. 220. 
Threshing by the Drag. 221. 
Threshing by Horses, 221. 
Bewick's Funeral. 270. 
Sir John Dinely. portrait, 35G. 
The Peat-gatherer. 388. 
John Kelsey. portrait, 409. 
Valentine Greatrakes, portrait. 421. 
Geological section of the Basin of 

Paris, 441. 
John Taylor, the water- poet, 47G. 
Deer-hunting iu the Highlands. 489, 
London Sewers, throe section*, 491. 

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Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. 

♦k^u° v,0V T s . con8,u of— the Weald of Kent, above the Portrait : old Westminster Abbey aud the Almonrv. on its sides; ntid the old Hall of 
tin- Mtwrs Company, henfath. The minor illustrations compriae tlie Initial Letters'in the upper part" of the Engraving, which show the 
only two ornaments of that kind used by Caxtoo; in the lower part is the Monogram which formed his device ; the scr .ll-work ornament 
i* sfl^cted from the w<*h1 cuts of his Golden Legend ; and the curious figures, &c. which occupy the corners ivud different part* of the picture, 
are illustrative of Caxtou's pupenmarks.1 

No. 562. Vol. X.— B 

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The interest we feel in seeing — or in listening to 
the accounts of those who have seen — the locality 
of any highly important event, is perhaps one of 
the most curious as it certainly is one of the most 
universal and unvarying of the mental characteristics. 
What long and painful pilgrimages have not been 
made to see the place where a great poet, patriot, or 
philosopher was born or buried; where an empire 
was lost and won ; the liberties of a people overthrown 
or established ! What countless books too have not 
been written describing for the hundredth time that 
which still the public are most heartily willing to 
read of! And, whatever may be the origin of this 
interest, the experience of all men attests its utility. 
Who, we may asic, has ever stood upon a spot rendered 
sacred to a great memory without finding that the 
event itself, with all its consequences, became there 
clearer to his apprehension than before ; without feel- 
ing his love and veneration for all that was great and 
good— or his contempt and abhorrence for all that was 
sordid and bad in that event, there confirmed and 
deepened, we might say rendered ineffaceable for ever ? 
But, compared with the interest which all educated 
persons feel in standing upon such spots — in cherish- 
ing the thoughts which Dr. Johnson has beautifully 
described as associated with Marathon or Bannock- 
burn — the perfection of such feelings can be enjoyed 
only by a few. The printing-press and the graver 
mate such scenes, in a certain sense, accessible to all. 
We propose to employ these instruments in bringing 
such scenes and associations home to the understand- 
ing and hearts of readers. Rich, beyond every other 
country, as our own undoubtedly is in its great men 
and great events, it has appeared to us that a series 
of papers in which their local memories should form 
the peculiar and distinguishing feature, would be ge- 
nerally acceptable. Such a series therefore we com- 
mence with the life of Caxton, the first English 
printer ; he who first made knowledge generally ac- 
cessible to the English people. This is a tribute of 
gratitude which is due to nis memory from the • Penny 

From the fifteenth century is commonly and justly 
dated the revival of learning in Europe. The destruc- 
tion of the Greek empire by the taking of Constan- 
tinople, and the consequent dispersion of a host of its 
most illustrious men through Italy — the enlightened 
munificence of the then reigning pope, Nicholas V., 
and of the noble prince merchant ot Florence, Cosmo 
de' Medici, all united to give 8 fresh impulse to the 
diffusion and cultivation of a tasU for Greet literature, 
and; through its medium, for lettf rs generally. France, 
Germany, and England speedily felt the invigorating 
influence ; everywhere the concentrated gloom of cen- 
turies appeared to be slowly rolling off. Precisely at 
this period, so important, but also so critical for the 
interests of literature and the universa well-bein^ of 
man, was discovered in Germany the a rt of printing. 
What a discovery ! and at what a time 1 The fitness of 
the one alone could have enhanced the value of the 
other. Into that eventful history we are not here 
about to enter ; we wish merely to remark, that almost 
from the first moment that the knowledge of the new 
power (the most sublime that man has ever evoked 
from material agencies) began to be bruited abroad, 
among the most attentive and eager of the listeners 
was an Englishman, then residing in the Low Coun- 
tries ; and who, when he found that it was no chimera 
of the inventor's brain, but a solid, substantial, albeit a 
most wonderful thing, set himself in earnest to ac- 
quire the necessary skill to direct its manifestations. 

After the expenditure of a considerable amount of 
money, some years of the prime of his life, and, we 
may safely conclude, a world of anxious cares in over- 
coming the difficulties that he must have met with, he 
succeeded ; and having made two or three preliminary 
experiments of the art abroad, he returned to England, 
inspired doubtless with a noble exultation at the 
thought of the precious blessing he was about to be 
the means of conferring upon his beloved countrymen. 
That Englishman was William Caxton. 

Of the particulars of Caxton's life we unfortunately 
know very little ; and but for the incidental remarks 
found occasionally interspersed through the prologues 
or prefaces with which he commenced his publications, 
that little would be reduced to almost nothing. He 
" was born," to use his own words, " and learnt his 
English in Kent in the weald;"* the date is sup- 
posed to be about 1412. His family is said to have 
teen of great repute of old, and " gentle like." In an 
age when ignorance was general even among the 
higher classes, for Caxton to have received the educa- 
tion he undoubtedly did, would seem to imply that his 
parents were no ordinary persons. " I am bounden," 
ne gratefully acknowledges, " to pray for my fathers 
and mother's souls, that m my youth sent me to school, 
by which, by the sufferance ot God, I get my living, 
I hope truly." He was most probably sent to London 
at an early age to receive a superior instruction to 
that obtainable in his native place, for he calls the city 
his "mother, of whom he had received his nurture 
and living ;" at all events, he was apprenticed there 
to one Robert Large, an eminent mercer or mer- 
chant, who filled the offices of sheriff and lord mayor. 
It is in accordance with all we know of Caxton's cha- 
racter to find his master, who died in 1441, marking 
the estimation in which he held him by a bequest of 
twenty marks. The same year Caxton went abroad ; 
according to some writers, as a factor or general agent 
of the Mercers' Company, which was then one of the 
wealthiest and most influential of the metropolitan 
corporations ; according to others, for private members 
of tne company, or on his own account. He continued 
abroad for at least thirty years, as he himself informs 
us, residing for the most jpart in " Brabant, Flanders, 
Holland, and Zealand." Of his position and character 
during a part at least of this time, we have an un- 
doubted testimony. In 1444 we find him and one 
Robert Whitehall, Esq. commissioned as ambassadors 
and special deputies to continue and confirm a treaty 
then existing, or to create a new one, between Ed- 
ward IV. and Philip, duke of Burgundy. The manner 
in which he acquitted himself of this duty led, in all 
probability, to the next event in Caxton's life, his en- 
tering the household of Margaret, duchess of Bur- 
gundy, and sister of the English king. Of his duties 
and rank in this new situation we are utterly ignorant ; 
some writers have spoken of his holding a merely 
menial office, an idea too absurd for serious refuta- 
tion. We have seen the nature of his previous public 
employment ; we shall presently find an indication, 
equally satisfactory, of the confidential and honourable 
nature of the private delations existing between him 
and his noble mistress. 

But we have now reached, and must therefore first 
mention, one of the great events of Caxton's life. 
This was the printing of his first work, the ' Recueil 
des Histoires ae Troyes,' composed by Raoul le Fevre, 
chaplain to the duke of Burgundy, and which there is 
every reason to conclude was the first book ever 
printed in the French language. None of the biogra • 
phers of Caxton allude to this circumstance, and we 
are indebted for our knowledge of it to Mr. Hallam, 

• Weald, from a Saxon word signifying a forest or unculti • 
vated tract. 

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who states * that the earliest works printed in France 
bear the date of 1470 and 1471, whilst there is little 
doubt that the ' Recueir was printed during the life 
of the duke of Burgundy, and therefore in or before 
1467 ; at all events, it must have been finished before 
March, 1468, for then Caxton began the translation of 
the same work into the English, and printed it as he 
translated ; and certainly he would not at that period 
have had two works in hand at once. Mr. Hallam 
speaks of the omission of this fact by the French 
biographers as " hardly excusable ;" but surely it 
would De too much to expect them to prove Caxton's 
claim to an honour that his own countrymen had 
neglected, and, by neglecting, might be supposed to 
disbelieve. The second work printed by Caxton was 
a Latin oration ; and the third was the translation of the 
4 Recueir before mentioned. This was, as we have seen, 
commenced at Bruges, in 1468; it was finished at Co- 
logne, in 1471. By printing these three works, Caxton 
had doubtless obtained considerable proficiency, and 
perhaps at the same" time had instructed persons to act 
as his future assistants. Within the next two or three 
years he returned to England, and commenced print- 
ing in the precincts ol Westminster Abbey. We 
transcribe the following passage from Stow : — " St. 
Anns, in the parish of St. Maigaret There was an 
old chapel, over against which the Lady Margaret, 
mother to King HeniyVIL, erected an alms-house for 
poor women, which is now turned into lodgings for 
the. singing-men of the college. The place wherein 
this chapel and alms-house stood was called Eleemo- 
synary or Almonry, now corruptly the Armbry, for that 
the alms of the abbey were there distributed to the 
poor, and therein Islip [this is a mistake, Milling, and 
not Islip, was then at the head of the abbey], abbot 
of Westminster, erected the first press of book-print- 
ing that ever was in England, about 1471, where 
William. Caxton, citizen and mercer of London, who 
first brought it into England, practised it." The 
figures in the monogram used by Caxton (see the 
engraving at the head of this article) form the reverse 
impression of 74, which are supposed to mark the date 
of Caxton's commencing his art in this country, 
namely 1474. His first edition of 'The Book of 
Chess' is dated that year, and if that was printed 
abroad, as Dr. Dibdin supposes, there is no doubt 
that the second edition of tne same work, dated 1475, 
was printed at Westminster. The religious house 
mentioned by Stow stood near the entrance to the 
abbey, a little to the west of the sanctuary ; and as 
Caxton was under the abbot's protection, there would 
be nothing remarkable in his alluding, as he has done, 
to his printing •• in the abbey at Westminster," even 
though there were no other foundation for the allu- 
sion than the circumstances we have mentioned : at all 
events, it is not certain that his press was ever erected 
anywhere but in the Almonry. The following is a 
copy of a very curious placard printed by Caxton, 
and now at Oxford : — " It it please any man spiritual 
or temporal to buy any pyes [or pies] of two and three 
commemorations of Salisbury, as enprinted after the 
form of this present letter, which be well and truly 
correct, let trim come to Westminster, into the 
Ahnonesrye, at the reed pale, and he shall have them 
good cheap. Supplico stet cedula." 

On his arrival, Caxton met with warm encourage- 
ment and effective assistance from various influential 
persons, in carrying out his good and great object of 
encouraging learning and genius by providing an 
effective means of disseminating their fruits, and of 
furnishing books, to use his own words, " capable of 
instructing the ignorant in wisdom and virtue." The 

• ' Introduction to the HUtory of Literature in Europe in the 
Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Centuries.' 

Abbot of Westminster, Milling, took him, as we have 
stated, under his immediate protection, a courageous 
as well as an enlightened act, for so divided in opinion 
as to the effects of the new wonder were the clergy, 
that one of their number, a bishop of London, is said 
to have uttered the remarkable expression, " If we do 
not destroy that dangerous invention, it will destroy 
us." The earls of Worcester and Rivers, the two 
brightest ornaments of the nobility at that period, both 
distinguished for their learning and intellectual ac- 
complishments, as well as for their military and poli- 
tical abilities, and, it is melancholy to add, both also 
perishing by the axe of the executioner during the 
wars of the Hoses, (speaking of the former, Caxton 
finely says, " at which death every man that was there 
might learn to die"), these noblemen were also patrons 
of the great printer, and assisted him by translating 
works lor his press. Lastly, Caxton says he u i»:ted 
under the shadow of the king's noble protection ;" and 
a drawing in a manuscript in Lambeth Palace records 
his presentation at court by Lord Rivers. Of the pro- 
gress of the art in Caxton's hands, both as to the me- 
chanical difficulties to be surmounted, and the public 
approbation that it was indispensable to obtain in the 
shape of pecuniary encouragement, we can form a 
tolerably good idea by examining the dates of Caxton's 
publications. We thus find that one publication only 
appeared in each of the years 1474, 1475, 1477, and 
1478, and none in the two intervening years, or in 
1479 ; but in 1480 three works were issued from 
the press, in 1481 four, and in the next ten years 
nearly fifty. These books were generally well 
adapted to the taste of the reading public of the day. 
Warton, in his 'History of Poetry, bears emphatic 
testimony to the literary results ot Caxton's labours, 
"who," ne says, "by translating and procuring to 
be translated a great number of books from the 
French, greatly contributed to promote the state of 
literature in England." Caxton had the gratification 
of seeing the art he had so worthily begun, in a fair 
way to be as worthily continued. Before his death, 
his eminent successor, Wynkyn de Worde, and four 
others, were all busily engaged in the same pursuit. 
Three of these were foreigners, as was also De^Yorde, 
all probably brought over by Caxton as his assistants. 
Caxton's death took place in 1491 or 1492, as we find 
from the parish accounts of St Margarets, Westmin- 
ster, whicn, in connection with one of these two years, 
have the following passage :—" Item, at burying of 
William Caxton, for four torches, 6*. Sd. Item, for 
the bell at same burying, 6rf." 

In the • Lives of the Fathers,' translated by Caxton, 
but published after his death by Wynkyn de Worde, 
it is stated by the latter that Caxton finished the trans- 
lation " the last day of his life ;" a significant, and, to 
our mind, a delightful evidence of the peaceful and 
appropriate end of the good old man, enjoying to the 
last the perfect possession of his faculties (he must 
now have been about eighty years old), and using them 
to the last in forwarding the business of his art, and 
the consequent good of his fellow-men. His remains 
were interred in the church of St. Margaret, where 
a monument to his memory has been erected by the 
Roxburgh Club. 

We add a few words on Caxton's typography. He 
appears to have made use of five distinct sets or 
founts of type, all of the kind now denominated black- 
letter. Among his other merits, Dr. Dibdin attributes 
to him the first employment of British artists to illus- 
trate printed books; the wood-cuts in the 'Canter- 
bury Tales ' are considered by him to be of native 
origin. We may also state that the earliest known 
specimens of English engraving on wood are the 
figures in Caxton's 4 Mirror of the World.' 

B 2 

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THE CID.— No. 1. 

" Vm Rodrigo of Bivar, 
A Castillian good and true." 

Romances of the Cid, 

In a low state of social advancement, poetry, unlike 
every other art, may attain a very high degree of ex- 
cellence, if not in delicacy and refinement of expres- 
sion, at least in elevation of thought and vigour of 
imagination. One of the greatest bards the world has 
known was 

" The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle." 

This is explained by the ancient adage that "a 
man is born, not made, a poet ;" and though peculiar 
natural powers are indispensable for the attainment of 
excellence in every art, the superior simplicity of the 
machinery requisite for the expression of poetry, at least 
under certain forms, leaves room for a more free de- 
velopment of genius. 

Metre being the form best adapted to the oral trans- 
mission of events, poetry, in the literary history of 
every nation, has had an origin antecedent to prose. 
Homer and Hesiod sung centuries before Herodotus 
wrote. Ages before the prose chronicles of modern 
Europe were indited, the deeds of heroes and other 
striking events were recorded and handed down from 
generation to generation in the form of ballads, which 
in many instances constitute the foundation of the earlier 
histories in prose. Every nation in Europe possesses 
its stock of poetical traditionary lore ; the phlegmatic 
and meditative Scandinavian and German, and the 
fervid, mercurial child of the South, have alike in the 
earliest periods of their history chosen poetry as the 
medium of recording the glorious deeds of their he- 
roes, or whatever occurrences were to them fraught 
with interest. 

No nation, however, can boast of so large a body 
of ancient popular poems as Spain. Several circum- 
stances combine to explain this unrivalled wealth 
in ballad literature. Tne almost unceasing contest 
which the Christian Spaniards maintained for eight 
centuries with the Arab invaders of their soil, afforded 
a long series of brilliant achievements and stirring 
events to be recorded ; the intercourse which, notwith- 
standing this warfare, existed between the two nations, 
sufficed to imbue the Christians with that peculiar love 
of song which characterised their Mohammedan foes. 
But the principal cause of the great prevalence of 
ballad poetry among the Spaniards is to be found in 
the extraordinary facility with which it could be con- 
structed, owing to the flexibility of the language and 
the simplicity of the metre and rhyme employed — a 
simplicity so remarkable that a bard might witn little 
difficulty pour forth in song his thoughts as they arose. 
*' The most rude and illiterate man," says Duran, a 
modern native collector of Spanish romances,* " might 
compose these loosely formed narrations. Even at 
the present day, though the romance has now acquired 
such perfection as to render it adaptable to every class 
of compositions, it continues as subject to the con- 
trol of the vulgar as of the learned. All alike com- 
pose romances, .... and there is probably not 
to be found a single Spaniard, even among those who 
despise the romance tor its facility of construction, 
who has not sung of love, war, heroic deeds, or ficti- 
tious events in this species of metrical composition." 

It is impossible to determine with accuracy the date 
of anonymous poems orally transmitted \hrough many 

• It may perhaps be superfluous to mention that this word 
takes its origin from the Romance language, the corrupt" Latin 
spoken in the southern countries of Europe after the overthrow 
of the Western Empire, — the language in which the Trouba- 
dours sung their lays and fabliaux, their tales of love and chi- 

ages. It is evident, however, that much of the ballad 
poetry of Spain which has come down to us is of great 
antiquity, claiming an origin anterior to the most an- 
cient English, ballads extant. Duran is of opinion 
that the earliest poetry of the Peninsula was m the 
romance form ; yet long poems in Alexandrine metre 
have been preserved, which are on all hands admitted 
to have been written in the middle of the twelfth cen- 
tury. We cannot here enter into a lengthened dis- 
quisition on this subject ; it is enough for us to state 
the probability that Duran is correct. " Although," 
says he, " none of the romances extant are in every 
part anterior to the fourteenth century, I think I can 
discern in them fragments of others and proverbial 
stanzas of a much more remote antiquity. ' As the 
earlier romances of Spain were the productions of 
unknown and obscure individuals, they were never 
committed to writing, but were handed down orally 
through many generations ; and being remodelled and 
modernised by each in succession, they have retained 
so little of their original character, as to render it im- 
possible to determine with precision the century to 
which they belong. Like ola coins, they have gained 
a polish by passing through many hands, but their 
original stamp is effaced, and the date of their issue 
is no longer distinguishable. 

The romances of Spain are of several kinds ; — those 
which are considered to be strictly historical — those of 
chivalry, which may be regarded as more or less 
founded on facts — those decidedly fictitious, the sub- 
jects of which are taken from the prose chivalrous 
romances or the epics of the Italian poets — those re- 
lating to love and pastoral subjects — and last, though 
not least in number or beauty, those commonly classed 
separately, as the Moorish romances. Some of these, 
it is believed, are actually the productions of Spanish 
Moors, but the greater part were written by Christians 
of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and refer 
chiefly to the romantic but unavailing struggle of the 
high-souled Moors of Granada with the forces of Fer- 
dinand and Isabella. As poetical compositions these 
rank above all the other romances (for at this period 
ballad literature was not confined to the lower classes, 
being taken into favour by the noble and the learned), 
but as historical records they obtain little credit, save 
in as far as they are confirmed by the prose chronicles. 
It is to the first-mentioned class of romances, those 
viewed as historical, that we shall now confine our 

To the historian and antiquarian these narrative 
romances are full of interest. In the early periods of 
Spanish history far more political liberty was enjojed, 
and much freer expression of opinion was allowed 
than in later days, when Spain was held in the iron 
grasp of an intolerant ana inquisitorial priesthood ; 
and the popular poems of those early times, being 
* wholly disregarded and uninfluenced by the upper 
ranks, may consequently be considered as exhibiting 
a more correct representation of facts than the poetry, 
or even professed history, which springs up in tne sun- 
shine of courtly favour. It is not, however, pretended 
that these romances are to be implicitly relied on as 
historical or antiquarian authorities. The fact of their 
having been transmitted orally through many succes- 
sive ages must invalidate their testimony to a certain 
extent; ^et there is no reason to doubt tnat the repre- 
sentations made by them of the general state of society 
in those early ages are accurate ; and that they have 
not in every instance undergone great alterations is 
evident from the language of some being scarcely less 
antiquated than that of the earliest Gastilian poem 
extant, written in the middle of the twelfth century. 
Greater credence is due to these ballads on the ground 
that, though the productions of the middle ages — 

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those days of wild romance — they very rarely overstep 
the bounds of possibility : they are free from those 
absurd extravagancies which disfigure the prose ro- 
mances of chivalry. What little of the marvellous 
they contain is of a religious character — a few saintly 
legends sprinkled here and there throughout a vast 
body of poetry,, only in sufficient quantity to tincture 
it with the peculiar character of the national reli- 
gion ; — such legends in fact as a Romanist of our own 
enlightened a^e and country would have little diffi- 
culty in crediting. No enchanters to whisk their 
victims away a thousand miles in the twinkling of an 
eye to the foul dungeons of some subterranean pa- 
lace — no dragons to devour their monthly tribute of 
denuded virgins — no spell- bound knights — no maidens 
escaping their pursuers, and preserving their honour 
by rendering themselves invisible with magic rings. 
All is truth, nature, and simplicity in the Spanish 
romances. They are in fact little more than simple 
metrical narrations of events. " The authors of these 
romances," says the German critic Bouterwek, " never 
ventured to embellish with fictitious circumstances 
stories which were in themselves interesting, lest they 
should deprive their productions of historical credit. 
.... They paid little attention to ingenuity of 
invention, and still less to correctness of execution. 
When an impressive story of poetical character was 
found, the subject and the interest belonging to it 
were seized with so much truth and feeling, that the 
parts of the little piece, the brief labour of untutored 
art, linked themselves together, as it were, spontane- 
ously, and the imagination of the bard had no higher 
office than to give to the situations a suitable colouring 
and effect These antique racy effusions are nature's 
genuine offspring. To recount their easily recognised 
defects is as superfluous as it would be impossible, by 
any critical study, to imitate a single trait of that 
noble simplicity which constitutes their highest 

These romances may be said to fonn a connecting 
link between poetry and prose ; scarcely rising above 
the latter in the display ot fancy and imagination, and 
yet retaining the form and in some respects the dis- 
tinctive character of the former. Some critics have 
altogether denied their claim to the title of poetry. 
" There is as wide a difference," says Juan del Encina, 
" between a poet and a romance-maker as between a 
composer of music and a mere singer, as between* a 
geometrician and a stone-cutter." Without entirely 
concurring in this opinion, we will admit that never 
does the Spanish popular muse aspire to bold poetical 
soarings. She is content with a lowly flight. She 
loves to dwell on even the unimportant actions of her 
favourite heroes, and to sing of their countenances, 
their costume, their weapons, their attendants. This 
minuteness of description, trivial as it may be deemed 
by those who despise all but the highest efforts of the 
poetical art, is at least a presumptive evidence of 
truth, and renders these narrative romances valuable 
as pictures of the manners and costumes, and as records 
of the popular opinions of the Spaniards of the middle 
aijes — points on which the sober page of history is too 
often silent. But they are not utterly devoid of poetic 
merit ; for the narration, however simple, of events in 
themselves often highly poetic, cannot be wholly 
prosaic ; and this same simplicity of style has a charm 
to some minds indescribable, and far beyond what 
could be produced by a more highly wrought or fan- 
ciful diction. Moreover the simplicity of the Spanish 
narrative romances occasionally rises into majesty and 
even sublimity ; and at times they evince a Homeric 
power of condensing a world of thought into a simple 
sentence or word. Then the noble and elevated sen- 
timents, the depth and freshness of feeling, the tender- 

ness, the pathos, and the all-pervading nature and 
truthfulness, ever awakening the sympathies of the 
reader, make amends for the absence of higher poetical 

We are aware that Southey has decried the merits 
of the heroic ballads of the Spaniards, and pronounced 
them to be much inferior to our own. To what au- 
thority this opinion is entitled we leave those who are 
acquainted with the Spanish to judge for themselves. 
But waiving the question of comparative literary 
merit, there is one point of view in wnich the Spanish 
romances have indisputably the advantage, — it is the 
elevated tone of morality which pervades them, and 
this is a feature which essentially distinguishes them 
from those of England and other northern nations. 
These latter abound in evidences of being the produc- 
tions of a state of society scarcely emerged from bar- 
barism. Atrocious murders, inhuman cruelties, daring 
outrages on person and property, in short every species 
of vice and crime which belongs to a rude state of 
society, are dwelt upon in the early ballads of our own 
country, not only without disapprobation or disgust, 
but with manifest delight. But even the earliest 
Spanish romances savour of a society that has made 
considerable advances in civilization and moral excel- 
lence. Their morality is not, it is true, that which 
commands the smitten to turn his cheek to the smite r ; 
it does not comprehend extraordinary meekness and 
humility, for martial valour is in this, as in the ancient 
classic code, esteemed the highest of human virtues. 
But these romances are redolent of all the virtues and 
graces which characterise the age of chivalry. To 
the enthusiastic admiration of valour is united a hu- 
mane and kindly generosity toward the weak or van- 
quished, and a pervading gentleness and courtesy ; an 
indomitable pnde and self-respect is blended with a 
noble scorn of whatever is fraudulent, base, and dis- 
honourable, an ardent love of truth, a fervour of 
loyalty to the sovereign and of devotion to the fair sex 
equalled only by the depth of religious feeling. There 
is that union ot stern and gentle qualities, which is 
set forth in a ballad describing a Moorish knight of 
Granada, who is represented to De 

" Like steel amid the din of arms, 
Like wax when with the fair." 

Deeds of crime are often narrated by these romances 
as historical facts, but instead of being dwelt upon 
with zest, they are in general depicted with so much 
pathos that abhorrence of the crime is heightened by 
the sympathy excited for the victim. Female frailty, 
however, appears from these romances to have been 
as common in Spain in the olden time as in our own 
day, and to have been regarded with eyes no less 
lenient; yet even in this respect the ballads of Spain 
are well matched by those of our own country. 

In giving our readers some specimens of Spanish 
ballads, we select those relating to the Cid. The Cid 
is the great hero of Spanish history, whose glorious 
deeds have for eight centuries been the theme of song, 
and doubtless tended to fire the courage of a Gonsalo . 
and a Cortes, and perhaps in our own times to stir up 
many a Spanish hero to resist the yoke of a conqueror 
greater than they. He is thus addressed in one of the 
ballads which recount his history : — 

'* Mighty victor, never vanquished, 

Bulwark of our native land, 
Shield of Spain, her boast and glory, 

Knight of the far-dreaded brand, 
Yenging scourge of Moors and traitors, 

Mighty thunderbolt of war, 
Mirror bright of chivalry, 

Ruy, my Cid Campeador '."' 

"Campeador" is a term hardly translatable into 

Digitized by 




English, for our word " champion," to which it most 
nearly answers, excites little of that proud triumphant 
feeling which thrills the Spanish hosom at the mention 
of the '* Campeador." It is a name which none living 
has a right to claim hut our own hero of a hundred 

All the chivalrous virtues are concentrated in the 
person of the Cid. He was in truth a chevalier sans 
peur et sans reproche, the beau-ideal of a knight- 
errant, yet not the mere creation of fancy. His ex- 
istence has indeed been called into question by Masdeu 
and some few others, on the ground that, as depicted 
by the romances, he is too extraordinary and perfect a 
character to be real. But though it be very possible 
that the popular voice has arrayed its darling in colours 
not his own, has sung his praises only and concealed 
his defects, there is, independently of the romances, 
such a mass of evidence to prove his real existence as 
must put the fact beyond all doubt to the mind of 
every candid reader, and assure him that the Cid was 
something more than a mere imaginary embodiment 
of the chivalrous virtues. Not only are his deeds re- 
corded by a lengthy poem written within half a century 
of his death, as well as by the earliest prose chronicles, 
but he is mentioned by the Arab historians of Spain, 
who, while admitting his victories, depict him in those 
shadowy hues in which the vanquished are ever in- 
clined to regard their conqueror. The Cid then, as 
we gather his history from the numerous romances 
which have come down to us, we propose to introduce 
to our readers, translating such portions of those poems 
as will suffice to impart a knowledge of his history 
and give an insight into the peculiar character of 
Spanish romances. 

It may be as well to remark that all the romances 
of the Cid cannot lay claim to an equal antiquity ; 
some, as is evident from their language, being among 
the most ancient Spanish romances extant, while others 
are known to have been written as late as the sixteenth 

For the chronological arrangement of these detached 
poems, and to supply gaps in the history occasioned by 
the deficiencies ol certain romances and the loss of 
others, we shall have recourse for guidance to the 
* Poem of the Cid,' already mentioned, which Southey 
thinks the work of a contemporary, and says is " un- 
questionably the oldest poem in the Spanish lan- 
guage ;" and also to two prose * Chronicles of the Cid/ 
supposed to have been -written about the thirteenth 
century, but first printed in black letter in the years 
1541 and 1552 respectively. The latter embodies all 
the substance of the former, with much additional 
matter; and claims to be a translation from the Arabic, 
though it is more probably a compilation partly from 
Arabic sources. 

We must say a few words on the structure of these 
ballads. They are in lines of seven or eight syllables, 
or rather of three and a half or four feet, generally 
trochaic; but correctness of quantity was little re- 
garded by the artless writers of these romances, who 
for the most part moulded their lines as best suited 
their convenience. But it is the rhyme which constitutes 
the peculiar feature in the structure of these ballads, 
and gives them their unique character. It is what is 
called by the Spaniards the assonant rhyme", to distin- 
guish it from the consonant rhyme, or such as is in use 
among us. The assonant demands that the last vowel, 
when the line ends in a single syllable, or that the last 
two vowels, when it ends in a trochee, should corre- 
spond in every alternate line, be the consonants what 
tney may. Thus vox, seftor, jurb, son, dos, are asso- 
nant rhymes of the first sort ; and a\\do, ma/o$, diMo, 
ca;io, SancAo, are instances of trochaic assonant. The 

same rhyme is continued in alternate lines throughout 
a romance ; but the poem itself is divided into coplas 
or stanzas of four lines, occasionally lengthened to six 
when this form is better suited to the convenience of 
the writer. In our translations we shall not attempt 
to preserve the peculiar rhyme, which is altogether 
foreign to the genius of the English language; for 
though the Spaniards are from habitude capable of 
thoroughly comprehending and enjoying the harmonies 
of the assonant, it would to an English ear cease to be 
rhyme At all. Nor shall we imitate the monorhymic 
verse, which is scarcely attainable in our inflexible 
language. We shall nevertheless adhere to the tro- 
chaic measure, endeavouring to represent in English 
not only the sentiments and expressions, but as nearly 
as possible the style and dress ol the Spanish romances. 
The engravings which accompany tnis series of arti- 
cles are original designs by Mr. Harvey, who has, 
whilst following the imaginative course of the story, 
adhered to the costume and character of the age of 
the Cid. 


As of all animals (we of course except man) the dog 
is that which has its mental constitution the most sus- 
ceptible of impression, and therefore the most readily 
influenced by education, so of all animals the dog is 
that the physical constitution of which is the most ex- 
tensively modified by the agencies of climate and the 
culture of man. The ♦almost innumerable varieties 
into which the dog has ramified, — the distinctions 
which these varieties display in habits, instinct, form, 
and size, are so perplexing, and render it so difficu It 
to conceive that all are the lineal descendants of one 
common origin, that some naturalists have been dis- 
posed to assign to each of the well-marked breeds a 
distinct primitive source. 

Without advocating the opinion that the dog is dc 
rived from the intermixture of distinct primitive 
races, or contending on the other hand that its nu- 
merous varieties are all referrible to one origin, let us 
endeavour to ascertain whether among the wild spe- 
cies of the genus Canis there be one to which we can 
refer as the type of the domesticated dog, and which 
of the numerous varieties of the latter approaches to 
the primitive stock. 

" Those species," observes Button, " which man has 
greatly cultivated, whether belonging to the animal or 
the vegetable world, are beyond all those which are the 
most altered; and as the alteration is sometimes to 
such a degree that we cannot recognise in them any- 
thing of their primitive form (such being the case with 
wheat, which nas no resemblance to the plant from 
which it is supposed to have derived its origin), it 
is not impossible that among the numerous varieties 
of the dog, which we see in the present day, there is 
not one which bears a resemblance to the original 
type, or rather, to the first animal of this species." 

Let us then, by way of facilitating our object, take a 
cursory review of the principal varieties into which 
the domestic dog has ramified, and attempt to throw 
them into sections, grouping together those which the 
most nearly resemble each other in leading physical 
peculiarities, and compare them with those of certain 
wild species of the genus Canis, which naturalists have 
regarded as the primitive source of the dog. 

Dogs vary so much in size, and in the length and 
quality of the hair, that we discard these points at 
once, — and this, the rather, as we know such modifica- 
tions to be greatly dependent upon food and climate. 
If. however, we attend to the form of the head, we shall 
disjeern a marked difference in this respect among the 

Digitized by 




[January 2, 

varieties around us, and easily distinguish a pro up 
characterised by the elongation of the muzzle, which 
end3 more or less acutely, by the erect or semi-erect 
position of the ears, and by a somewhat oblique direc- 
tion of the eye, giving an air of cunning wildness and 
distrust to the countenance. This latter trait never- 
theless is not an invariable accompaniment to the 
others ; it is the diagnostic of a low degree of cultiva- 
tion, and is never seen in what are termed «• high-bred 
races," however produced may be the muzzle. 

To this group belongs the Esquimaux Dog (Canis 
fa miliaria, var. oorealis). 

In its general aspect this animal so closely resembles 
the wolf of its native wilds, that it is not easy to dis- 
tinguish betweeti them, when seen at a little distance. 
Indeed, any person visiting the museum of the Zoolo- 
gical Society of London, and looking at a fine specimen 
of the Esquimaux dog (212, d, of Cat Mamm., 1838), 
which is placed near a grey wolf from the high northern 
parts of America (214, Cat. Mamm., 1838), might leave 
with the impression that both were of the same species, 
unless informed to the contrary. In both the fur is 
deep and thick, both have the same erect ears, the same 
breadth of skull between them, and the same sharp- 
ness of muzzle ; and in addition we may state that, in 
its native wilds at least, the voice of the Esquimaux 
dog is not a bark, but a long melancholy howl. From 
this similarity between the wolf of the Esquimaux 
country, and the variety of dog in question, many na- 
turalists have considered the latter as nothing more 
than a domesticated race of the former, which at some 
period man urged by necessity reclaimed, and which, 
losing in course of time its natural wildness and fero- 
city, has devoted its honest and faithful services to his 
welfare. It is however to be remarked, that the anti- 
pathy of the Esquimaux dog to the wolf is inveterate : 
these animals not only regard the wolf as an enemy, 
but fear it, and though they attack the bear with un- 
daunted energy, they never, unless impelled by neces- 
sity, venture to assault the wolf. 

iThe wolf-dog (chien-loup) and the Siberian dog 
(chien de Sibcrie) of BufFon appear to be closely re- 
lated to the Esquimaux dog ; BufFon regards them as 
immediate varieties of the shepherd's dog (' Chien de 
Berger/ fol. 4), which he considers to be that which of 
all is the nearest to the primitive type, since, as he 
observes, " in all inhabited countries, whether men be 
savage or partially civilised, dogs resembling this more 
than any other are spread." In the civilised states of 
Europe, where other breeds are encouraged, the pre- 
servation of this he supposes to arise only from its 
utility, and from its being, because less attractive than 
other varieties, despised and abandoned to the pea- 
santry charged with the care of flocks. 

Strong as is the resemblance of the Esquimaux dog 
to the wolf, it is not more so than that of several other 
varieties of dog to other wild species of the genus Canu. 

We may instance the Hare-Indian's dog (Canis 
familiaris, var. lagopus), characterised by a narrow 
elongated and pointed muzzle, by erect sharp ears, 
and Dy a bushy tail not carried erect, but only slightly 
curved upwards, and by the general slenderness of the 
form. Tne hair is fine and silky, thickening in winter, 
when it becomes white or nearly so. but in summer it 
is marked with patches of greyish black, or slate-grey 
intermingled with shades of brown. So nearly does 
this dog resemble the arctic fox of the regions where 
it is found (namely, the banks of the Mackenzie River 
and of the Great Bear Lake, traversed by the arctic 
circle), that they have been considered merely as va- 
rieties of each other, one being of the wild, the other 
of the domesticated race. The Hare-Indian's dog is 
never known to bark in its native country, and the 

beautiful pair brought to England by Sir John Franklin 
and Dr. Richardson, and presented to the Zoological 
Society, never acquired this canine language ; but one 
born in the Zoological Gardens readily learned it, and 
made his voice Bound as loudly as any European dog 
of his size and age. 

This variety is of great value to the natives of the 
bleak and dreary realms where the elk and the rein- 
deer are objects of the chace; though it has not 
strength fitting it for pulling down such game, yet 
" its broad feet and iignt make enable it to run over 
the snow without sinking, if the slightest crust be 
formed on it, and thus easily to overtake the moose or 
reindeer, and keep them at bay until the hunters come 
up." Now it cannot be supposed, nay, it is highly 
improbable that this active intelligent dog is specifi- 
cally identical with the arctic fox. Is it then sprung 
from the same source as the Esquimaux dog ? The 
question involves many difficulties. In these two dogs 
wefsee animals closely resemblinp certain wild species 
of the genus Canis which inhabit the same regions ; 
now if we turn to another part of the world, we shall 
find parallel eases. In Australia we find a race of 
dogs, termed Dingo, which are so wolf-like in form, 
that the first navigators who touched at New Holland 
scarcely recognised them as dogs. Dam pier, in the 
account of his voyage performed in 1699, states that 
his " man saw two or three beasts like hungry wolves,*' 
and the similarity is evident. These dogs are occa- 
sionally domesticated, if we may use such a term, by 
the natives of Australia, but they exist wild in the re- 
moter districts, hunt in packs, and are the scourge of 
the grazing districts, making sad havoc among the 
cattle and sheep. The Dingo is about as large as a 
harrier; its body is firmly built, its limbs peculiarly 
muscular ; its head is broad between the ears, and its 
muzzle is acute; its ears are short, pointed, and erect; 
its tail, which is rather long and somewhat bushy, is 
pendulous, or at most only raised horizontally. The 
general colour is sandy red. The eyes are rather 
small and oblique, and have a very sinister expression. 

The agility and muscular powers of the Dingo are 
extraordinary, and its cunning and ferocity are as 
much so; it never barks, but howls loudly ; with other 
dogs it is unsocial, and evidently regards them as 
enemies. This animal is generally believed by natu- 
ralists to have been imported by man into Australia, 
and therefore not to be truly indigenous in that 
country. It is not found in Van Diemen's Land. 

The bingo, wild and untractablc in its native regions, 
is capable of being only partially domesticated, not 
more so, indeed, than a wolf. A few years since, we 
obtained the possession of a young Dingo, bred in this 
country, which at the age of about six weeks was le- 
moved from the mother ; and our endeavour was to 
render it docile and attached. On putting it into a 
room, it immediately skulked into the darkest corner, 
and there crouching, eyed us with looks of great dis- 
trust ; as soon as left to itself, it commenced the most 
melancholy howling, which, however, it ceased on 
our return ; this for some days was its constant prac- 
tice, and, when placed in a kennel, the greater part of 
the day was thus employed. It grew up strong and 
healthy, and gradually became reconciled to those from 
whom it was accustomed to receive food, but was shy 
towards others, retreating into its kennel at their ap- 
proach. It never barked, nor, like the domestic dog, 
gave notice of the approach of strangers, and as a guard 
it was perfectly useless. A great part of the day was 
spent in howling, and that so loudly as to be heard at 
tne distance of half a mile. When the moon shone 
brightly, it would sit and utter for hours its lamenta • 
tions, not a little to the annoyance of the neighbourhood. 

Digitized by 




V North American dog; o, Australian dog ; c. Sooth American dog; d, Scotch greyhound ; e. English greyhound; /, African dogs g, Thibet raaslLf.J 

The Dingo, whose habits, in a state of domes- 
ticity, were such as we have described, with all its 
shyness, was at the same time ferocious, but would 
never make an open attack ; several times, however, 
it snapped at persons who happened to be walking 
within its reach, but only when their backs were turned, 
and it immediately retreated again into its kennel. 
Its aspect, manner, and voice were so wolf-like, that 
most persons supposed it to be a wolf, and we ourselves 
felt convinced that it would never emulate the ordi- 
nary dog, either in affection to its keepers, in docility, 
intelligence, or voice. 

Closely allied to the Dingo, if not the same animal, 
it a wild dog inhabiting the interior of Sumatra (Cants 

no. 563. 

Sumatrensis), which hunts in packs, and resembles a 
wolf in aspect ; its colour is the same, its nose is sharp, 
its ears erect and hairy, its limbs strong, its tail pendent 
and bushy, especially about the middle, whence it be- 
comes more slender to the tip. 

Besides the Sumatra wild dog, India produces an- 
other wild dog, common in the Dukhun, and called 
Kolsun by the Mahrattas. Colonel Sykes describes it 
as having the head compressed and elongated, but the 
nose not very sharp. The eyes are oblique. " The 
expression of the countenance is that of a coarse ill- 
natured Persian greyhound, without any resemblance 
to the jackal, the fox, or the wolf, and, in consequence, 
essentially different from the Canis Quao or Sumatrensis 

Digitized by 

Vol X.— C 




[January 9, 

of General Hardwieke. The ears arc long, erect, and 
somewhat rounded at the top. The limbs arc remark- 
ably large and strong in relation to the bulk of the 
animal, its size being intermediate between the wolf 
and jackal/' 

This animal, which is termed Cam's Dukhunensis, is 
regarded by Colonel Sykes as identical with the wild 
dog of NepSl, the Cam's prinuevus of Mr. Hodgson, 
the skulls in both being the same in general form, and 
the posterior tuberculous tooth of the lower jaw being 
alike deficient. The only difference between them 
appears to consist in the quality and colour of the fur, 
that of the Dukhun animal being paler and less dense 
than that of the dog from Nepal. 

Mr. Hodgson rejects, with most modem zoologists, 
the claim of the wolf, the jackal, and the fox to rank 
as the prototype of the familiar dog. Ho argues 
ajrainst regarding as such the half-reclaimed Dingo of 
Australia. He thinks that he has detected this original 
race in the Buansu of Nepfil, the eastern and western 
limits of whose ranges appear to be the Sutlege and 
the Burhampootra, and wnich seems to extend, with 
some immaterial differences, into the Vindvia, the 
Ghauts, the Nilgiris, the Casiah Hills, and in the chain 
passing brokenly from Mirzapore, through South 
Bahar and Orissa, to the Coromandel coast. 

But the question here reverts, is the Kolsun, Buansu, 
or Dhale (supposing these names to belong to the same 
species) the origin of our domestic races ? Has the 
wolf-like Esquimaux dog, or the fox-like Hare In- 
dian's dog, descended from it, or the huge Thibet mas- 
tiff, which guards the sheep in the very country which 
the Bi'iansu inhabits ? We know not on what grounds 
Mr. Hodgson assumes the Buansu or Dhale to be the 
origin of the domestic dog, from which it differs in the 
number of the teeth ; but to this point we shall have 
occasion to revert hereafter. As all reclaimed animals 
exhibit a tendency to return, if uninfluenced by man, 
and beyond his jurisdiction, to their primitive state, it 
would be interesting to ascertain, if possible, what 
races of dogs are thus emancipated, and what are their 

The Spaniards introduced the dog into South Ame- 
rica and the West Indian Islands, the breed being a 
kind of hound, and their object was to hunt down, by 
means of these animals, the defenceless natives : the 
brutal work being completed, many cf these dogs 
were driven to rely upon their own resources, and be- 
came wild, and spread a wild race. Azara states that 
these dogs are called Yagoua (a name also given to 
the Jaguar) in Paraguay, where they are very com- 
mon, inhabiting caves. They formerly abounded in 
Hayti, Cuba, and all the Caribbean Islands, but are 
now extirpated there, or nearly so. According to 
Oexmelin and others, these wild descendants of a re- 
claimed race resemble the greyhound ; others describe 
them as having the head flat and elongated, the muz- 
zle sharp, and the general aspect wild and savage. 
The body is slender and fleshless. They are strong 
and active, and chace their prey in packs. When 
taken young, they are easily domesticated, differing in 
this respect from the Dingo of New Holland. Some 
years since we knew a dog said by its owner to be the 
offspring of the wild race of Cuba or St. Domingo — 
we forget which. It was of a red colour, with black- 
ish lips. The muzzle was long and somewhat 
pointed ; the ears were semipendent, the limbs long 
out powerful, the chest deep, and the loins slender : 
it was intelligent, but fierce, and its scent was in great 
perfection. It had no resemblance in aspect or habits 
to the wolf or to the Dingo, and its nose was broader 
and less elongated than that of the greyhound, to 
which, in the figure of the body, it bore some resem- 

This dog must not be confounded with a species of 
wolf inhabiting South America, called Agouara-gou- 
aza, or Guara (Cams jubatus), and which is of a cin- 
namon-red colour. This animal, according to Noseda 
(see Azara, i., p. 309), so closely resembles a dog, that 
any person seeing it in the plains, and not really 
knowing it, would take it for one. It was probably 
this or some allied species which Columbus is said to 
have found at the island of St. Martha, and which 
Herrera describes as •' dogs which did not bark.'' 

Wild dogs, or dogs become wild, exist also in va- 
rious parts of Africa, as Congo, &c., and arc said to 
have a meagre figure and a long head and sharp muz- 
zle, and to hunt in packs. They are perhaps the wild 
descendants of a fine race of bloodhounds, of which a 
pair were brought to England by Major Denham, who 
Lad employed thein for the chace of the gazelle ; they 
followed the game not only by their scent, but also 
by the eye : their speed is stated to have been extraor- 
dinary. In this latter respect they resembled the grey- 
hound, and also in their habits ot following the game 
by the eye : but they differed from the greyhound in 
possessing a fine scent. 

It appears, then, that the wild dogs of India, the 
Canis Sumatrensis excepted, and the wild descendants 
of tame dogs, as we see them in South America and 
Africa, have less of the wolf in their appearance than 
the half-reclaimed Dingo of the intelligent but surly 
Esquimaux dog; and it is not impossible that the 
Dingo and the Sumatran wild dog may be specifically 
the same. In none, however, of the true wild dogs is 
the head precisely of the same form as we see in the 
greyhound, although Colonel Sykes notices a resem- 
blance in this point between the wild dog of the 
Dukhun and the Persian greyhound. The greyhound 
and its varieties arc characterised by the extent to 
which the elongation of the head is carried ; the ears 
are small and semipendent, and the eyes, contrary to 
what we observe in the wild races and in the wolf-like 
breeds, are full, animated, and expressive — the index 
of a high state of cultivation. 

Buffon regards the French Matin and the great 
Danish dog as the main stock of the greyhound raco : 
but this is not clear. In Scotland and Ireland there 
existed in very ancient times a noble breed of grey- 
hounds used for the chase of the wolf and the deer, 
and these are, we contend, the pure source of the 
common greyhound, which in warm climates degene- 
rates. In Ireland few of this fine race are now to be 
found. With the extirpation of the wolf, the necessity 
for keeping up the breed in perfection ceased, and it 
gradually merged into the ordinary kind used for the 
hare. In the Highlands, however, where the wild 
deer yet wanders over extensive hilly ranges, this dog 
is still found, if not in Buch perfection as formerly, 
still greatly superior to the common greyhound in 
strength, size, and courage. Its hair is rough and 
wiry, its chest is remarkable for volume, and its limbs 
are long and muscular. A similar breed existed and- 
still continues to exist in Albania : it was celebrated 
by the ancients for its prowess. No breed of dogs is 
more distinct than that of the greyhound (including 
the common race and the Highland,. Irish, and Alba- 
nian). Their form and characters are too well known 
to need a particular detail. They are remarkable for 
following their game not by the scent, but by the eye : 
the sense of smell, indeed, appears to be less acute in 
them than in most other dogs ; but in quickness of 
eye and speed they excel all. From the antiquity of 
tnis breed, we might be induced to suppose that in it 
is to be seen the nearest approach to the primitive 
source, or to one of the primitive sources of the re- 
claimed race ; and perhaps the Irish greyhound or 
wolf-dog does present us with some characters in 

Digitized by 





common with the primitive type whence it took its 
origin. Granting this, however, we are still as far off 
as ever from the object of our search ; — we have no 
reason to believe such a type to exist in the Canis pii- 
maevus, or Buansii, for though there may be points of 
resemblance between this animal and the JBiiansii, 
there are points of difference, and especially as re- 
spects the number of the teeth ; and the resemblance 
rather leads us to infer that the greyhound, of all do- 
mestic dogs, retains the most distinctly the general 
characters of its primitive origin, than tnat this origin 
is to be found in the Buansu. We may yet discover a 
wild dog still more closely related than this to the 
greyhound. We have only attended so far to dogs 
with elongated or acute muzzles; but other groups 
yet remain for our survey, and to these we shall pro- 
ceed in a future number. 

The spirited engraving, drawn by Mr. T. Landseer, 
represents the Esquimaux dog, the Dingo, the South 
American dog, the Highland greyhound, the com- 
mon greyhound, the African hound, and the Thibet 


MILK. « 

Thk abundant supply of milk in most countries — 
indeed in all countries where domestic animals of cer- 
tain kinds are kept, the extensive use of milk as food, 
and the nutritious qualities which it possesses, render 
it such an important article of domestic economy, that 
a few details respecting its chemical nature will not 
be destitute of interest. It is one of the most beautiful 
provisions of nature, that organised beings adapt, as 
articles of food, substances lower in the scale of organi- 
zation than themselves ; or which, if not originally 
lower, become so in some measure by certain sponta- 
neous changes which they undergo. From the vege- 
table kingdom up to man, who occupies the highest 
rank in the animal kingdom, we may trace the opera- 
tion of this law ; subject, it is true, to certain excep- 
tions, or — as we should rather call them — accidents ; 
for although a man may afford a meal to a wild beast, 
yet the usual prey of the wild beast is found among ani- 
mals of inferior size or organization. Carbonic acid and 
water, both inorganic compounds, constitute to a great 
extent the food of plants : plants become the aliment, 
and, by assimilation, a part of the substance of many 
animals ; and these animals again supply food to other 
animals ; and so on in an ascending series. 

We have in former papers explained that organic 
matter is for the most part composed of three or four 
simple substances or ultimate elements, which, having 
a strong tendency to unite in twos, form certain 
proximate principles, which (as far as the article food 
is concerned) are to a considerable extent identical 
with those composing the bodies of the animals them- 
selves. Thus many animals have not to form these 
proximate principles from their elements, but simply 
to take them as they are already formed by inferior 
animals or plants. By this provision the assimilating 
organs become less extensive and complicated; as 
may be seen by comparing the structure of carnivo- 
rous and graminivqrous animals, — i.e. those which 
feed respectively on flesh and on grain ; while at the 
same time many animals have the power, in a minor 
degree, of assimilating substances Delow as well as 
above themselves in the scale of organic being. 

The close relation which exists between many ap- 
parently very different substances, has led to several 
extensive generalizations. Thus sugar, or the saccha- 
rine principle, may be considered characteristic of the 
vegetable kingdom : the oleaginous, or oily principle, 
exists both in vegetables and animals ; and although 
different in appearance and form, yet the peculiar pro- 

perties of oleaginous bodies are strongly marked, and 
are quite distinct from the saccharine. Another prin- 
ciple is the albuminous, which, under the name of 
albumen, forms the white of an egg, and exists exten- 
sively in most animal substances. Now these three 
principles, — the saccharine, the oleaginous, and the 
album inous,-^-are capable of assuming an infinite va- 
riety of forms, without altering their essential com- 
position. They can also pass readily into each other, 
and combine with each otner, or at least these changes 
can be effected by organic agents. 

The conclusion to which these remarks lead is, 
that as organised beings derive their food from other 
organised beings, such food must necessarily consist 
of one or more of the three great principles wc have 
named ; and such is indeed the case in every alimen- 
tary compound which has been proved to be well 
adapted to the wants of the animal. 

These remarks are^ well illustrated and supported 
by the composition of milk, — the only specimen of food 
prepared by nature expressly as sucn. All other arti- 
cles of food exist, as it were, for themselves, or in order 
to minister to the organic body of which they form 
a part : — they are appropriated by animals, it is true ; 
but they have a separate existence of their own, and 
certain offices to perfonn in the economy of nature, 
apart from their more important one of supplying 
food. Milk, on the contrary, except as an article of 
food, seems to perform no office in the animal eco- 
nomy ; and we shall probably not err if we suppose 
milk to stand as the great and perfect model to which 
all nutritious substances must be referred. In every 
description of milk is found a mixture of the three 
principles noticed above : — the saccharine principle 
manifests itself- in what is familiarly termed " sugar 
of milk ;" the oleaginous principle leads to the pro- 
duction of " butter ;" and the albuminous to that of 
" cheese." 

Although the three principles just mentioned are 
variously modified, ana combined in different pro- 
portions in the milk of different animals, yet there 
is no instance known in which any one of the three 
is altogether absent. Dr. Prout has remarked: — 
*' Perhaps it is impossible to name a substance con- 
stituting the food of the more perfect animals, which 
i3 not essentially a natural compound of at least two, 
if not of all the three great principles of aliment. 
But it is in the artificial food of man that we see this 
great principle of mixture most strongly exemplified. 
He, dissatisfied with the spontaneous productions of 
nature, culls from every source ; and by the force of 
his reason, or rather of his instinct, forms in every 
possible manner, and under every disguise, the same 
great alimentary compound. This, after all his cook- 
ing and his art, now much soever he may be disinclined 
to believe it, is the sole object of his laoour ; and the 
more nearly his results approach to this object, the 
more nearly do they approach perfection. Even in 
the utmost refinements of his luxury, and in his 
choicest delicacies, the same great principle is attended 
to ; and his sugar and flour, his eggs ana butter, in all 
their various forms and combinations, are nothing 
more or less than disguised imitations of the great ali- 
mentary prototype milk, as furnished to him by na- 

We have said that " sugar of milk " is derived from 
the saccharine principle of that liquid. It may be 
obtained from skimmed milk, or still better from the 
whey which remains after the separation of the curd 
in making cheese. Su^ar of milk is sometimes used 
in medicine, and the chief supply is from those parts 
of Switzerland where cheese is extensively made. 
The whey is evaporated by heat to the consistence of 
honey, poured into moulds, and left to dry in the sun. 


Digitized by 




[January 9 

In this crude state it is prepared for pharmaceutical 
purposes by being dissolved in water, clarified with 
white of egg, and evaporated to a syrupy consistence, 
when white crystals ot sugar are obtained. These are 
soluble in water, and have a faint sweet taste. 

The term "sugar of milk" was objected to by 
Thenard, on the ground that it is not susceptible of 
the vinous fermentation, and therefore coula not be 
a real sugar. On this account some persons have 
denied that ardent spirits could be procured from 
milk ; but the united testimony of travellers respect- 
ing the koumiss or arki of the Tartars and Calmucks, 
the ieban of the Arabs, and the yaourt of the Turks- 
all intoxicating drinks prepared from milk, induced 
the Russian chemist Oseretskowsky to institute an 
inquiry on the subject. His conclusions were, that 
milk does not undergo the vinous fermentation when 
the butter and cheese are removed from it : that whey, 
although containing all the sugar of milk, does not 
enter into the vinous fermentation, even though yeast 
be added. It appears, however, that " sugar ot milk," 
or lactine, as it is chemically termed, is convertible 
into real su^ar by being boiled in water acidulated 
with sulphuric acid. 

The oleaginous principle of milk is separated in 
the familiar process of churning. When milk is 
allowed to stand for some time, the cream rises to the 
surface, and being skimmed off and kept a few days, 
a peculiar acid contained in milk, called lactic acid, 
increases in quantity. By agitation the particles of 
butter unite into a mass, and buttermilk remains. 

The albuminous portion of milk may be sepa- 
rated by the action ot an acid, which coagulates it and 
forms curd ; this, by pressure, becomes cheese ; and 
the fluid which remains after the curd is separated is 
called whey. The chemistry of butter and cheese 
making may occupy our attention hereafter. 

A curious discovery respecting the preservation 
of milk has been made by a Russian cnemjst He 
reduces milk to a dry mass by gentle evaporation, and 
the powder thus obtained can be preserved in well- 
corked bottles for any length of time. On adding to 
this powder the requisite proportion of water, milk is 
produced which is said to be scarcely distinguishable 
from fresh cows'-milk. Many a traveller and voyager 
would welcome such " portable milk " as a valuable 
addition to his store of provisions. 

Another method of preserving milk is to bottle it, 
to secure the cork with wire, and then to place the 
bottles in cold water, which must be brought gradually 
to the boiling point. Milk thus treated is said to keep 
fresh for a year or two. 

The enormous consumption of milk in large towns 
is a sufficient temptation to the dealers in that article 
to adulterate it extensively. In London we believe 
the chief source of adulteration is water, although 
many persons fancy that chalk, flour, or starch are 
among the adulterants employed. A moment's consi- 
deration will show that challt cannot be employed to 
adulterate milk, because it is insoluble therein. But 
flour may with more probability be employed : thus, 
the milk is largely diluted with water ; a little brown 
sugar or treacle is added to restore the sweetness ; the 
flour is mixed with water, and boiled ; and the paste 
thus produced is soluble in the milk and water. M. 
Barreul, in his memoir on milk, published a few 
years ago, states this was one of the modes in which 
the Parisian milkmen adulterated milk, and on conti- 
nuing a searching analysis into the fraud thus prac- 
tised, it was found that they sometimes employed an 
emulsion of sweet almonds, with which, for the cost 
of about one franc, they were able to convert thirty 
pints of water into milk ; but finding a cheaper arti- 
cle in hemp-seed, that became employed instead of 

almonds, and thus was milk, until the fraud was disco- 
vered, manufactured from a small quantity of cows* 
milk mixed with these adulterants. Some of the Pa- 
risian milkmen resorted to a practice which acquit ed 
for them the reputation of selling milk that never 
turned sour. This was done by adding a small quan- 
tity of subcarbonate of potash or soda to their artificial 
milk, which, saturating the lactic acid as fast as it 
formed, prevented the coagulation of the curd. 

The flavour of milk is so peculiar, that these or any 
other adulterations might soon be detected if the use 
of them became prevalent. 


There are now three places in the Metropolis and its 
neighbourhood where the taste of every man, from the 
weaver of Spitalfields to the peer of Beigrave Square, 
may be cultivated by the inspection of the works of 
the great painters, and this without any charge to the 
individual. These places are, the National Gallery, 
Hampton Court Palace, and Dulwich College. It is 
our intention, from time to time, to present our readers 
with copies of some of the master-pieces of these col- 
lections, carefully drawn on the spot by competent 
artists, and engraved with every possible excellence 
attainable by wood-engraving. The subject of the 
present number is the Infant Saint John of Murillo, 
drawn by Mr. Fussell, and engraved by Mr. Jackson. 
-At the time of the opening of the National Gallery 
in Trafalgar Square, we gave a view of the building 
(see vol. v., No. 299), and explained the purposes of 
its erection, taking the opportunity to offer some re- 
marks on the collection of pictures, as well as some 
notices on the National Galleries on the Continent. 

A brief recital of the principal features in the 
history of the National Gallery will, therefore, be 
sufficient on the present occasion, as we may refer 
to the previous account for a more particular detail. 

The first step towards the foundation of a public 
collection of pictures was made by the purchase of 
the Angerstein Gallery ; for this the sum of 57,000/. 
was given, which, although a large was not an ex- 
travagant price, since for one picture alone, the 
Sebastian del Piombo, 20,000/. had been previously 
offered (by Mr. Beckford) and refused, and it is 
probable that were the collection to be now offered fox 
sale, a larger sum would be obtained for it. 

The original collection consisted of about forty pic- 
tures, chiefly Italian ; but Sir George Beaumont's noble 
gift of his collection, in 1826, and the bequest of the 
Rev. William Holwell Carr, shortly after, enriched the 
gallery with some fine specimens of other schools. The 
collection has also been increased by several other gifts, 
and lately by the bequests of Lord Farnborough and 
Lieutenant-Colonel Harvey Ollney. Several fine pic- 
tures have also been purchased for the nation, at differ- 
ent times, of which we may particularly mention 
Titian's Bacchus and Ariadne, purchased for 5000/. ; 
the Virgin au Panier, by Coreggio, 3800/. ; the Ecce 
Homo, and the Education of Cupid, by the same mas- 
ter, 11,500/. the two ; the St Catherine, by Raffaelle, 
4000/. ; the Holy Family, by Murillo (together with 
the Brazen Serpent, by Rubens), 7000/. ; and, lastly, 
the St John, by Murillo, for 2100/. 

Most of these are recent additions to the Gallery, 
and the last has only just been submitted to the in- 
spection of the public. Some critical remarks have 
appeared in former numbers of this Magazine on 
several of the pictures in the Gallery (see Nos. 8, 12, 
24, 47, &c.), and we hope not without some effect in 
directing the attention of visitors to some of the more 
important objects in the collection, as well as tending 
to make the taste for the fine arts more popular. 
Since the building in Trafalgar Square was erected, 

Digitized by 






[The Infant Saint John.— Murillo ) 

and the pictures seen to more advantage, the visitors 
have gradually been becoming more numerous, and 
appear better to appreciate the beauties with which 
tnev are surrounded. 

The Infant St. John, by Murillo, has only recently 
been added to the Gallery, and must be unknown to 
a great majority of our readers. This has partly in- 
fluenced us in giving it priority, but it is deserving 
of it in other respects ; the subject is an interesting 
one. and as a picture it deservedly ranks high. 

The composition, colour, and expression are good, 
and the whole effect is very impressive. The tender and 
innocent expression in the features of the " disciple 
whom Jesus loved," of him who was selected to take 
so great a share in the propagation of the mild precepts 
of Christianity, is finely depicted ; and the happy effect 
with which the painter has repeated this expression in 
the face of the lamb is deserving of particular com- 
mendation. Though there is a delightful simplicity 
in the whole composition, as well as in the particular 
features of the young saint and his companion, it is 
managed with so much art (though it is only per- 
ceptible in its effects) that the artist has been enabled to 
elevate the composition to a degree of sublimity suffi- 
cient to inform us that the figure of the young 
shepherd is that of one destined to become an actor 

in events of a great and holy character. Though 
it should seem that John was about twenty-five or 
twenty-six years of age when he was called 'to follow 
Christ, painters have delighted to imagine him as the 
early associate of his Master, and in almost every pic- 
ture of the Holy Family, so favourite a subject with 
the old painters, be is represented as partaking of the 
joys of childhood in the companionship of him to 
whom in after-life he expressed such devotion, whose 
precepts he was indefatigable in propagating, and by 
whom he was regarded with peculiar favour and affec- 
tion. Murillo seems to have been imbued with the 
same spirit as his immediate predecessors; and in this 
picture he appears to have intended to represent 
the idea that, even in his early days, the mild and 
affectionate disciple cherished the * Lamb of God* 
with the fond devotion for which he was distinguished 
in his after-years. 

This picture was purchased for 2100/., at Sir Simon 
Clarke's sale last year, at which sale also the com- 
panion picture, the Good Shepheid (certainly su- 
perior, and better known by the engravings of it), was 
knocked down to Mr. Rothschild for the sum of 3045/. 
It is stated to have been in the Robit collection. It is 
the last picture added to the Gallery up to the present 
time (1841), and makes the total number in the collec- 

Digitized by VjOOQLC 


tion 177. These we have classed (taking the names 
from the Gallery Catalogue) according to the schools ; 
but it should be observed, that with respect to some 
few of the pictures, opinions differ as to the name of 
the artists. 

The plan of the following numerical synopsis has 
been taken from one which appeared in the 4 Penny 
Cyclopaedia,' vol. xvi., p. 103, but the dates of the 
births and the deaths, of the artists, when known, have 
been added, and the enumeration brought up to the 
present time (January, 1841) : — 

Italian School. 
Baroccio, b. 1528, d. 1612 
J. Bassano, b. 1510, d. 1592 
L. Bassano, b. 1559, d. 1623 
Bronzino, b. 1577, d. 1621 
Buonarotti Michael Angelo, b. 1474, d, 

A. Caraeci, b. 1560, d. 1609 
L. Caraeci, b. 1555, d. 1619 
Caravaggio, b. 1569, d. 1609 
Correggio, b. 1494, d. 1534 
Canaletto, b. 1697, d. 1768 
Doinenichino, b. 1581, d. 1641 
Ercole da Ferrara 
Mazzolino da Ferrara, b. 1481, d. 1530 
Garofalo, b. 1481, d. 1559 
Giorgione, b. 1477, d. 1511 
Guercino, b. 1590, d. 1666 
Guido, b. 1574, d. 1642 
C. Maratti, b. 1652, d. 1713 
Mola, b. 1609, d. 1665 . 
Paduanino, b. 1552, d. 1617 
Parmcgiano, b. 1503, d. 1540 
Paunini. b. 16Jl, d. 1758 
S. del Piombo, b. 1485, d. 1547 

B. Peruzzi, b. 1481, d. 1536 
Ratfaelle, b. 1483, d. 1520 . 
Giulio Romano, b. 14^2, d. 1546 
Salvator Rosa, b. 1614. d. 1673 
A. del Sarto b. 1488, d. 1530 
Titian, b. 1480, d. 1576 
Tintoretto, b. 1512, d. 1594 . 
A. Veronese, b. 1600, d. 1670 
P. Veronese, b. 1530, d. 15S8 
L. da Vinci, b. 1445, d. 1520 

Spanish School. 
Murillo, b. 1613, d. 1685 
Velasquez, b. 1594, d. 1660 . 

Flemish and Dutch. 

J. Both, b. 1610, d. 1650 
Cuyp, b. 1606 

Decker . . . . 
Van Goyen, b. 1536, d/l656 
Vander Heist, b. 1613, d. 1070 
Jordaens, b. 15 94, d. 1678 . 
Maes, b. 1632, d. 1693 . 
Vander Neer, b. 1619, d. 1683 
Vander Plaas, b. 1647, d. 1704 
Rembrandt, b. 1606, d. 1674 
Rubens, b. 1577, d. 1640 . . 
Stork, d. 1708 . 
Steinwyck, b. 1550, d. 1603 . 
Teniers, b. 1610, d. 16J4 
Vander Vclde, b. 1633, d. 1707 
Vandyck, b. 15J8-9, d. 1641 . 
























[January 9, 


S. Bourdon, b. 1616, d. 1671 

. 1 

Claude, b. 1600, d. 1682 

. 10 

Lancret, b. 1690, d. 1743 

. 4 

N. Poussin, b. 1594, d. 1665 . 

. 8 

G. Poussin, b. 1600, d. 1663 . 

. 6 



Beaumont .... 


Bcechy .... 

! T 

Constable .... 

. i 

Copley, b. 1737. d. 1815 

. i 

Gainsborough, b. 1727, d. 1788 


Hogarth, b. 1698, d. 1764 . 

'. 7 

Hoppner, b. 1759, d. 1810 . 
Housman,w Huysman, b. 1656, 

. 1 

d. 1696 1 

Jackson, b. 1778, d. 1831 


A. Kauflinan.b. 1742, d. 1807 

! . I 

Lawrence, b. 1769, d. 1830 . 

. 4 

Pether .... 

. 1 

Reynolds, b. 1723, d. 1792 . 

. 8 


. 4 

Wilkie .... 

. 2 

Wilson, b. 1714, d. 1782 




Among the many idle representations of the private 
life of our great dramatist, one of the most current 
has been, peihaps, that of his having lived on ill terms 
with his wife. This has received the chief grounds 
of support from the manner in which she is men- 
tioned in his will. In the recently published part of 
the * Pictorial Shakspcre ' the received interpretation 
of the will has been successfully combated, and the 
reputation of one who in all likelihood was as truly 
a good as he was a great man completely relieved 
from this reproach. The Editor says : — " We felt de- 
sirous, upon the earliest possible occasion after the 
subject had fully presented itself to us, to vindicate 
Shakspere from a calumny which, through the long 
continuance of a misapprehension, has constantly pre- 
sented itself to the thoughts even of those who were 
most anxious to believe that the poet of universal 
benevolence — the gentlest, the most tolerant spirit 
that ever came to win men to charity and love by 
other than the lessons of inspiration — was incapable 
of a deliberate act of cruelty and contempt towards 
the wife of his bosom. 

44 The theory that Shakspere's married life was one 
of unhappiness has, like many other more recent 
stories of the same kind, been somewhat too easily- 
credited. Mr. de Quincey thinks that it made him 
resolve, after 4 four years of conjugal discord/ upon 
his plan of 'solitary emigration to the metropolis.* 
Mr. Moore thinks tnat it is proved by his assumed 
non-residence at Stratford, having regard to the time 
of the births of his children, and by his last bequest to 
her. There was one who knew Shakspere well. — 
who, illustrious as he was by birth and station, does 
not hesitate to call him, one of the poor players of the 
Blackfriars, 4 my especial friend ' — who testifies deci- 
dedly enough to the public estimation of his domestic 
conduct. Lord Southampton, speaking of Burbage 
and Shakspcre, thus writes to Lord Ellesmere, the 
lord chancellor, in 1608, in a letter by which he in- 
troduced them to him to plead their own cause against 
an act of oppression of the lord mayor and aldermen 
of London : — * Their trust and suit now is, not to be 

Digitized by 





molested in their way of life whereby they maintain 
themselves and their wives and families, being both 
married and of good reputation.'* It is to the pro- 
priety of the domestic conduct of Burbage and 
Shakspere that Lord Southampton alludes in the 
words * good reputation.' He had already, speaking 
of one as 4 our English Roscius,' and of the other as 
'writer of some of our best English plays/ described 
them as * right famous in their qualities. Yet one of 
these, according to the received interpretation of his 
will, compromises his ' good reputation,' not six years 
afterwards, by executing a document, signed by five 
witnesses, his friends and neighbours, in whi^h he 
treats his wife with neglect and * bitter sarcasm,' for 
which estranged affections would have been no war- 
ranty ; and consigns her, with this solemn avowal of 
contempt and hatrol to a miserable dependence, not 
even recommended or implied, upon the bounty of 
their common children. According to the dictum of 
Malone, who first dragged this offensive bequest into 
notice sixty years ago, * His wife had not wnolly es- 
caped his memory ; he had forgot her, — he had recol- 
lected her, — but so recollected her, as more strongly 
to mark how little he esteemed her ; he had already 
(as it is vulgarly expressed) cut her off, not indeed 
with a shilling, but with an old bed.' 

44 The ' forgetfulness ' and the 4 neglect ' by Shak- 
spere of the partner of his fortunes for more than 
thirty years is good-naturedly imputed by Steevens 
to * the indisposed and sickly fit.' Malone will not 
have it so : — ' The various regulations and provisions 
of our author's will show that at the time of making 
it he had the entire use of his faculties.' We tho- 
roughly agree with Malone in this particular. Shak- 
spere bequeaths to his second daughter three hundred 
pounds, under certain conditions ; to his sister, money, 
wearing apparel, and a life-interest in the house where 
she lives ; to his nephews, five pounds each ; to his 
grand-daughter, his plate ; to the poor, ten pounds ; 
to various friends, money, rings, his sword. The chief 
bequest is that of his real property to his eldest 
daughter, Susanna Hall, for her lite, and then entailed 
upon her heirs male ; and in default of such issue, 
upon his grand-daughter and heirs male ; and in de- 
fault of such issue, upon his daughter Judith and her 
heirs male. Immediately after this comes the clause 
relating to his wife : — 

' Item; I give unto my wife my second-best bed, with the 

44 It was the object of Shakspere by his will to perpe- 
tuate a family estate. In doing so, did he neglect the 
duty and affection which he owed to his wife ? lie 
did not. 

44 Shakspere knew the law of England better than 
his legal commentators. His estates, with the excep- 
tion of a copyhold tenement, expressly mentioned in 
his will, were freehold. His wife Mas entitled to 
dower. She was provided for amply, by the clear and 
undeniable operation of the English law. Of the 
houses and gardens which Shakspere inherited from 
his father, she was assured of the life-interest of a third, 
should she survive her husband, the instant that old 
John Shakspere died. Of the capital messuage called 
New Place, the best house in Stratford, which Shak- 
spere purchased in 1597, she was assured of the same 
life-interest from the moment of the conveyance, pro- 
vided it was a direct conveyance to her husoand. That 
it was so conveyed we may infer from the terms of the 
conveyance of the lands in Old Stratford and other 
places, which were purchased by Shakspere in 1602, 
and were then conveyed 4 to the onlye proper use and 
behoofe of the saide William Shakspere, his heires 

• ' New Facts regarding the Life of Shakipeare,' p. 33. 

and assignes for ever.' Of a life-interest in a third of 
these lands also was she assured. The tenement in 
Blackfriars, purchased in 1614, was conveyed to 
Shakspere and three other persons ; and, after his 
death, was re-conveyed by those persons to the uses of 
his will, 4 for and in performance of the confidence 
and trust in them reposed by William Shakspere 
deceased.' In this estate, certainly, the widow of our 
poet had not dower. 

44 It is unnecessary for us, in this place, at least, 
more minutely to enter into the question before us. 
It is sufficient for us at present to have the satisfac- 
tion of having first pointed out the absolute cer- 
tainty that the wife of Shakspere was provided for by 
the natural operation of the law of England. She 
could not have been deprived of this provision except 
by the legal process of Fine — the voluntary renuncia- 
tion of her own right. If her husband had alienated 
his real estates, she might still have held her right, 
even against a purchaser. In the event, which we be- 
lieve to be improbable, that she and the 4 gentle Shak- 
spere' lived on terms of mutual unkindness, she would 
have refused to renounce the right which the law gave 
her. In the more probable case, that, surrounded 
with mutual friends and relations, they lived at least 
amicably, she could not have been asked to resign 
it. In the most probable case, that they lived affec- 
tionately, the legal provision of dower would have 
been regarded as the natural and proper arrange- 
ment, — so natural and usual as not to be referred 
to in a will. By reference to other wills of the same 
period it may be seen how unusual it was to make any 
other provision for a wife than by dower. Such a pro- 
vision in those days, when the bulk of property was 
real, was a matter of course. The solution which we 
have here offered to this long-disputed question super- 
sedes the necessity for any conjecture as to the nature 
of the provision which those who reverence the memory 
of Shakspere must hold he made for his wife." 


We have seen 4 * the latter end of a sea-coal fire" — 
Dame Quickly's notion of the perfection of enjoyment. 
The snow lieshard upon the ground — icy. The noise 
of the streets is almost hushed, save that the cabman's 
whip is occasionally heard urging his jaded horse over 
the slippery causeway. We creep to bed, and, looking 
out into the cold, as if to give us a greater feeling of 
comfort in the warmth within, see the gas-lights shining 
upon the bright pavement, and, perhaps, give one sigh 
for poor wretched humanity as some shivering wan- 
derer creeps along to no home, or some one of the most 
wretched nestles in a sheltering doorway to be ques- 
tioned or disturbed by the inflexible police watcher. 
It is long past midnight. We are soon in our first 
sleep ; and the dream" comes which is to throw its veil 
over the realities of the day struggle through which 
we have passed. The dream gradually slides into a 
vague sense of delight. We lie in a pleasant sun- 
shine, by some gushing spring ; or the never-ceasing 
murmur of leafy woods is around us ; or there is a 
harmony of birds in the air, a chorus, and not a song ; 
or some sound of instrumental melody is in the dis- 
tance, some faintly remembered air of our childhood 
that comes unbidden into the mind, more lovely in its 
indistinctness. Gradually the plash of dripping waters, 
and the whispering of the breeze among the leaves, 
and the song of birds, and the hum of many instru- 
ments, blend into one more definite harmony, and we 
recognise the tune, which is familiar to us, — for we are 
waking. And then we hear real music, soft and 
distant : and we listen, and the notes can be followed ; 

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[January 9, 

and presently the sound is almost under our window ; 
and we fancy we never heard sweeter strains ; and we 
recollect, during these tender, and, perhaps, solemn 
chords, the honied words, themselves music, — 

" Soft stillness, and the night, 
Become the touches of sweet harmony/' 

But anon, interposes some discordant jig ; and then 
we knew that we have heen awakened by the Waits. 
In the times when minstrelsy was not quite so much 
a matter of sixpences as in these days, there were en- 
thusiastic people who made the watches of the night 
melodious, even though snow was upon the ground ; 
and there were good prosaic people who abused them 
then as much as the poor Waits sometimes get abused 
now. These were the days of serenaders, and Eng- 
land, despite of its climate, was once a serenading 
country. Old Alexander Barclay, in his 'Ship of 
Fools,' published in 1508, describes to us " the vaga- 
bonds " whose enormity is so great, 

* That by no means can they abide, ne dwell, 
Withiu their houses, but out they need must go ; 
More wildly wandering than either buck or doe,— 
Some with their harps, another with their lute, 
Another with his bagpipe, or a foolish flute." 

But he is especially wrath against the winter min- 
strels : — 

" But yet moreover these fools are so unwise, 
That in cold winter they use the same madness ; 
When all the houses are lade with snow and ice, 
O, madmen amased, unstable, and witless 1 
What pleasure take you in this your foolishness I 
What joy hare ye to wander thus by night, 
Save that iU doers alway hate the light?" 

The " fools " had the uncommon folly'to do all this 
for nothing. But in a century the aspect of things 
was changed. The " madmen w divided themselves 
into sects — those who paid, and those who received 
pay ; and the more sensible class came to be called 
H aits — literally, . Watchers. If we may judge from 
the following passage in Beaumont and Fletcher 
(* The Captain, Act ii., Sc. 2), the performances of 
the unpaid were not entirely welcome to delicate 
ears: — 

" Fab. The touch is excellent ; let s be attentive. 
Jar.. Hark! are the Waits abroad? 
Fab. Be softer, prithee ; 

Tis private music. 
Jac. What a din it makes ! 

I'd rather hear a Jew's trump than these lutes ; 

They cry like school-boys." 

The Waits, according to the same authority, had 
their dwellings in the land of play-houses and bear- 
gardens, and other nuisances of the sober citizens ; and 
they were not more remarkable than the "private 
music " for the charms of their serenadings : — 

" Citizen. Ay, Ned, but this is scurvy music ! I think he has 
got me the Wait* of Southwark." 

The Waits had, however, been long before a part of 
city pageantry. But as the age grew more literal and 
mechanical, — as music went out with poetry, when the 
cultivation of what was somewhat too emphatically 
called the useful became the fashion, — the Waits lost 
their metropolitan honours and abiding-place; and 
came at last to be only heard at Christmas. They re- 
tired into the country. The last trace we can find of 
them, as folks for all weathers, is at Nottingham, in 
1710. The • Tatler ' (No. 222) thus writes :— 

•'Whereas, by letters from Nottingham, we have 
advice that the young ladies of that place complain 
for want of sleep, by reason of certain riotous lovers, 

who for this last summer have very much infested the 
streets of that eminent city with violins and bass-viols, 
between the hours of twelve and four in the morning.* 
Isaac Bickerstaff adds, that the same evil has been com- 
plained of " in most of the polite towns of this island.'* 
The cause of the nuisance ne ascribes to the influence 
of the tender passion. •• For as the custom prevails at 
present, there is scarce a young man of any fashion in 
a corporation who does not make love with the Town 
Music. The Waits often help him through his court- 
ship." The censor concludes, •• that a man might as 
well serenade in Greenland as in our region." But 
he gives a more sensible reason for the actual decay 
of serenading, and its unsuitableness to England. " In 
Italy," he says, " nothing is more frequent than to hear 
a cobler working to an opera tune ; but, on the con- 
trary, our honest countrymen have so little an incli- 
nation to music, that they seldom begin to sing till they 
are drunk." It is strange that a century Bhould have 
made such a difference in the manners of England. 
In Elizabeth's reign we were a musical people ; in 
Anne's, a drunken people. Moralists and legislators 
had chased away the lute, but they left the gin ; and 
so madrigals were thrust out by tipsy dcrry-downs, 
and the serenader became a midnight bully. 

The Waits are a relic of the old musical times of 
England ; and let us cherish them, as the frosted bud 
of a beautiful flower that has yet life in it. 

Woollen Manufacture in Siberia. — In the middle of one of 
these newly arisen birch-woods is situated the manufacturing 
town of Tel ma, consisting of two rows of log houses, erected on 
the sides of a log road covered with smooth planks. A hand- 
some stone church in the Italian style, and spacious barrack*, 
give the place an air of importance. But the workhouse of Telmu 
is the wonder of Siberia. It is with constantly increasing ad- 
miration (says M. Ermann) that one approaches the workhouse, 
a fabric of two stories, and which is, no doubt, the largest ami 
finest specimen of architecture in North Aaia. The front of it 
has a length of three hundred and sixty-four feet, and is adorned 
with massive columns, between which, in two rows, uie th*» 
windows, of the purest plate glass. The lower story is divided 
into three apartments, in which are carried ou the manufac- 
ture of cloth. Above dwell the officers who manage the in<ii- 
tution on the account of the crown. Stone warehouses, and 
mills of different kinds, are situated along the bank* of the 
stream which drives the machinery of the workhouse. The ad- 
vantages of the locality were discovered a century ago, by private 
speculators, since which time Telma has been famoits far it* 
cloth manufactory. More recently, glass, paper, and linen 
have been added to its productions. The inhabitants of 
Telma are about two thousand in number, of whom eight 
hundred find employment in the manufactories. They are 
persons exiled for crimes, but whose manners, nevertheless, are 
irreproachable in their new and more fortunate situation, in 
which they are neither pressed by want nor goaded by despair. 
They are supplied gratuitously with meal, and receive, besides, 
an amount of wages proportioned in each instance to the value 
of the labour. The wool required for the manufactory at Telma 
is procured chiefly from the Buraets and Tunguses, who wander 
with their flocks over the southern borders of Siberia. The 
machinery for combing and spinning the wool was originally 
procured from England, and was afterwards made in Siberia, ac- 
cording to the English model, at one-fifth of the cost of the latter. 
Telma produces annually about fif'y thousand yards of woollen 
cloth, and half that quantity of li en. The former is sold at a 
price not exceeding half-a-crown a yard. Among the causes 
operating to depreciate it, one of the most influential is fashion. 
So decided a preference is given to European cloth, thtft nothing 
short of a very great saving in the price can reconcile the 
Siberian to the manufacture of his own country. Pains are 
taken, notwithstanding this discouragement, to improve the 
wool, and in 1830 a flock of four hundred and eighty Spanish 
sheep were driven from Moscow to IrkuUk; and, notwithstand- 
ing the length of the journey and the plagues of the Barahinskian 
steppes, three hundred of them reached their destination in safety. 
— Trovelt in Siberia* by a German. 

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I '" 

The Portrait of William (at the top of tne Engraving) is fr«»m a MS. History, written by William of Jnmieges, in the eleventh coutury. and now \a 
the BibliotliMiue at Houen ; the other Portrait is of Harold. from an Englith M*. entitled * Liber Venedictionum,' preserved iu the Bibliotlteque 
at Paris Boih Portraits, it is believed, are uow for the tin* lime engraved in this country. The other Illustrations comprise the Seal or Battle AbUev.— 

r Caste.-— md a design exhibiting the Costume of the Warriors engaged in Uio Battle. Tho 

a View ofihc Coast where the Norm »ns lauded,— Peveiisey ( 
scroll-work ornaments are taken from Ma. Illuminations of the period.] 



Whatever our individual opinions may be as to the 
object or necessity of any particular battle, or even of 
battles and warfare generally, there are few, we con- 
ceive, who can look upon the scene of a " well-foughten 
field" without finding themselves drawn, as it were, 
into its influences, or, as memory brings before them 

no. 564. 

the chief features of that dread struggle, without par- 
ticipating more or less in all its wild commotion and 
excitement. The fate of the combatants, also, must 
necessarily arouse our attention and solicitude; the 
courage and fortitude of the soldier, the intellectual 
skill and power of the commander, who, amidst all tho 
horrors of the time, calmly orders, watches over, fore- 
sees, and provides for everything, are in themselves, 
apart from the purposes for which they are exerted. 

Vol. X.— D 

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[January 16, 

qualities that appeal irresistibly to our sympathy and 
admiration. But let the safety of a kingdom, the hap- 
piness and liberty of a people, hang at the same time 
trembling in the balance, and the struggle assumes a 
positively sublime aspect : whatever its issue, we can 
never afterwards look upon that field without emotions 
of a powerful and solemn nature. Such a struggle was 
the battle of Hastings, the subject of the present paper ; 
in which we propose to notice some of the more inte- 
resting details of that tremendous conflict in connection 
with the localities to which they have been referred.* 

The aspect of the field is now very different from 
what it was on Harold's birth-day, the fatal 14th of 
October, 1066 ; a change produced by the erection of 
the magnificent abbey, the walls of which embraced 
the whole of the hill forming the centre of Harold's 
position. Prior to this period there is no reason to 
suppose that any buildings stood in the neighbour- 
hood, with the exception of a church, dedicated to 
St. Mary, for the use of the peasants scattered about 
the surrounding forests. On the summit of the hill in 
question, and on the left of the road from Hastings to 
London, about eight miles from the former place, the 
Saxon king planted his standard, and immediately op- 
posite, on a similar hill, waved the flag of the Norman 
invader. Between the hills, a beautiful valley of 
green meadows and luxuriant woods winds away, in 
a northern direction, towards Hastings, where it meets 
the sea. The village of Battle, which owes its ex- 
istence entirely to the building of the abbey, extends 
principally along the sides of the road beyond the 
spot wnere we turn off to reach the ruins of the latter. 
Whilst yet at a distance these present no very striking 
coup dceil. A large barn-like outline meets the eye, 
mixed with broken walls and buttresses, and the whole 
encompassed with trees ; but on near examination we 
find the undoubted remains of a once rich and noble 
structure. Little however of the original architecture 
now exists, the principal portions having been rebuilt 
during the time of the later Henries. The abbey at 
present consists of three sides of a large quadrangle, 
of which the middle has been converted into a dwell- 
ing-house, and the others are ruinous. On the front 
of the dwelling-house we find nine elegant arches 
filled up ; these are the only remaining portions of the 
church. It is very probable, though we do not find the 
opinion anywhere put forth, that the abbey seal (of 
which a representation is given in the engraving at 
the head of this paper) presents us with a faithful view 
of that edifice. Its ground-plan is no longer traceable 
throughout, but a dark pool is said to mark the place 
where the foundations of the choir were dug up, and in 
this choir stood the high altar, erected at the spot on or 
near which some of the most important and interesting 
events of the battle occurred. Here Harold planted 
his standard, with the solemn determination to conquer 
or to die beneath it. Here, when after so many hours 
of conflict the strategy of William accomplished what 
neither the valour nor superior numbers of his troops 
could accomplish for him (we allude to the manoeuvres 
by which the too impetuous Saxons were drawn from 
their position and disorganised), and the battle was 
evidently going in favour of the Normans, here, we 
repeat, then took place the last struggle. Here the 
arrow, on the flight of which such momentous conse- 
quences hung, penetrated Harold's brain, and deprived 
his followers of all hope of success. Here the brothers 
of the fallen monarch, Gurth and Leofwin, and other 
brave men, still gathered round the standard as their 
last rallying point, and were immediately hemmed in 
by the Normans, who made the most desperate efforts 
to seize it. Robert Fitz-Ernest had almost grasped 

• For a general account of the battle and of the abbey, see 
vol. ii., p. 211, of the * Penny Magazine.' 

it, when a battle-axe laid him low. Twenty Norman 
knights then undertook the task, and, with the loss of 
ten of their number, succeeded in lowering the English 
standard, and planting in its stead the conscciatcd 
banner sent from Rome, in token of victory. Here 
lastly, when all was over, and the exulting Normans 
were caracolling their horses over the dead bodies, 
in their riotous joy at having won such a battle, and 
at the prospect of the plunder that lay before them 
in the rich towns and broad fertile meads of Eng- 
land, William ordered a space to be cleared of the 
slain, and there, on that dreadful snot, with sixty 
thousand dead or dying men stretcned all around, 
feasted his principal officers ! In connection with this 
spot, every writer we have consulted, following Mr. 
Gilpin,* supposes that the accident of Harold's stan- 
dard being fixed here could scarcely have determined 
the choice of the site for the erection of the church, 
as the whole neighbourhood does not afford any other 
place equally eligible ; and therefore concludes the 
former statement to have been a mistake. But surely 
the very reasons given for the choice of the spot in 
one case, apply with at least equal reason to the other. 
Where should Harold have nxed the rallying mark 
for his men, but on the highest and most conspicuous 
place he could find ? 

Leaving the abbey, we proceed to notice some of the 
other localities connected with the battle, foremost 
among which in interest is that part of the coast where 
the Conqueror landed. Between the lofty foreland of 
Beechey Head and Hastings, a direct distance of about 
ten miles, the coast forms a kind of bay comprising a 
magnificent sweep of romantic and beautiful scenery. 
About the centre of this is Pevensey with its ancient 
castle, and between Pevensey and Hastings, at or near 
a place called Bulverhithe, landed the Norman expe- 
dition. The precise spot is not improbably marked 
out by a tradition preserved in the neighbourhood. 
At a short distance westward from Hastings are the? 
ruins of an ancient chapel, supposed to have been dedi- 
cated to St. Leonard, and about a quarter of a mile 
beyond, at a place called the "Old Woman's Tap," wo 
find a flat rock, overhanging a pool, known as the 
Conqueror's Table, and the tradition is that he dined 
here immediately after the disembarkation. The ex- 
pedition had quitted St. Valery, near Dieppe, on the 
morning of the 26th of September, 10GG. " William 
led the van in a vessel which had been presented to 
him for the occasion by his wife Matilda, and which 
was distinguished by its splendid decorations in the 
day, and in the darkness of night by a brilliant light at 

its mast's head This ship sailed faster than all the 

rest, and in his impatience William neglected to order 
the taking in of sail to lessen its speed. In the course 
of the night he left the whole fleet far astern. Early 
in the morning he ordered a sailor to the mast-head to 
see if the other ships were coining up. * I can see 
nothing but the sea and sky,* said the mariner, and 
then they lay-to. To keep the crew in good heart, 
William ordered them a sumptuous breakfast, with 
wines strongly spiced. The sailor was again sent aloft, 
and this time he said he could make out four vessels 
in the distance ; but mounting a third time shortly 
after, he shouted * Now I see a forest of masts and 
sails!* A few hours after this, the united Norman 
fleet came to anchor on the Sussex coast, without 
meeting with any resistance ; for Harold's ships, which 
had so long cruised upon that coast, had been called 
elsewhere, or had returned into port through want of 
pay and provisions/' t An interesting incident marked 
the landing. William himself was the last man who 
quitted the ships, and as his foot touched ground he 

• * Ohser nations on the Coasts of Hampshire, Sussex/ &c. 

f « Pictorial History of England,' vol. i., p. 210. 

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made a false step, and fell upon his face. The mishap 
caused a general feeling of apprehension among the 
superstitious soldiery, who cried out " God keep us ! 
but here's a bad sign !" The Conqueror, however, 
leaping gaily to his feet, and showing them his hand 
full of English earth, cried " What now ? what asto- 
nishes your I have taken seizin of this land with my 
hands, and by the splendour of God, as far as it ex- 
tends, it is mine — it is your's !" Another version of 
this story is to the effect that William saved himself 
from falling, but sank to some depth in the sand, and 
could hardly extricate himself ; on which one of his 
followers remarked, " You had almost fallen, my lord, 
but you have well maintained your standing, and have 
now taken deep and firm footing in the soil of Eng- 
land : the presage is good, and hereupon I salute you 
king!" From the coast William marched to Hastings, 
near which he formed a camp, and set up two wooden 
towers or castles, which he had brought with him (in 
pieces) from Normandy, and placed in them his pro- 
visions, stores, &c. He now endeavoured to make 
himself well acquainted with the surrounding country 
by means of exploring parties, which he occasionally 
accompanied in person. At one of these times, he set 
out from the camp attended by only fifteen horsemen, 
and was absent for several hours. The roads were 
very bad, and after a long ramble, to make matters 
worse, they lost their way, and before they could re- 
cover it, their horses were so jaded, that all the party 
were compelled to dismount, and return on foot, en- 
cumbered as they were with their heavy armour. 
William Fitz-Osbourne, one of their number, became 
so exhausted with fatigue, that the duke, to relieve 
him, took his helmet, and carried it himself all the 
way to the camp. The castle of Pevensey was at this 
time occupied by a detachment of Norman soldiers. 
This is an edifice of great antiquity, built, it is sup- 
posed, by the Romans, and probably restored by 
William at or soon after the period of the Conquest. 
The Roman themelii, or layers of brick disposed in the 
Saxon herring-bone fashion, are still visible in the 
Malls. The castle stands upon an eminence, the east 
side of which was formerly washed by the sea, though 
now at some distance from it. It is of a triangular 
form, with the comers rounded off. The walls average 
about ten feet in thickness, and are tolerably entire to 
the height of twenty or twenty-five feet; they are 
strengthened by solid towers. The buildings in the 
area of the interior consist of a keep and six large 
hollow towers or bastions. The principal entrance 
was between two round towers. The castle was ori- 
ginally defended on all sides by water ; namely, by a 
moat on the east, west, and south, and by the sea on 
the north. The great strength of Pevensey has been 
attested on more than one occasion : we may particu- 
larly mention, its defence in 1080, by Odo, bishop of 
Baycux, then in rebellion against William Rufus, and 
who held out for six weeks in spite of the determined 
assaults of the latter : famine at last compelled a sur- 
render. It is worthy of note that the earliest portions 
of Pevensey are in the best preservation. 

It is generally considered by the English historians 
that Harolds body was given up to his mother, and 
deposited in Waltham abbey;* but there is a story 
mentioned by some of the old chroniclers to the effect 
that Harold escaped from the battle, and lived for 
some years afterwards as an anchorite in a cell near 
St. John's church, Chester ; a fiction truly ridiculous 
taken in connection with the character and position of 
the Saxon king. Subsequent events proved with what 
difficulty the sturdy Saxon spirit was subdued even 
after the battle of Hastings, and without Haroid or 
any leader who could unite all the strength of the 
• See vol. ix., p. 201, of this publication. 

country : what might not have been done with him ? 
Whilst on the other hand, William losing, as he did, 
in that very battle one-fourth of his army, must have 
been ruined by two or three more of such victories ! 
A much more probable relation as to the disposal of 
Harold's body is given by William of Poictiers, a 
trustworthy writer. He states that although the 
weight of the corpse in gold was offered (a sum that 
has been calculated at eleven thousand guineas), the 
Conqueror gave a stern refusal, and ordered it to be 
buried on the beach, adding with a sneer, that must 
indeed have been bitter to every English ear, as sati- 
rising but too justly the neglect that had led to all 
their misfortunes, "He guarded the coast while he 
was alive ; let him continue to guard it after death!" 


[From Dr. Bowring*s • Report on the Commercial Statiatica of Syria.*] 

There is in the inertness of Oriental character a 
great impediment to commercial development. The 
habits ot the people are opposed to activity, and the 
motives which elsewhere lead to the gradual, how- 
ever slow, accumulation of property, are faint and in- 
sufficient ; for the rights of property are but vaguely 
recognised, and a continuity of effort, in any case 
whatever, is of very rare occurrence. The examples 
are few in which opulence is reached by a continuous 
dedication of energy and attention to a given end. 
Most of the wealth possessed by the Mussulmans has 
been the result of conquest — of the power of oppres- 
sion, or of some fortuitous and accidental circum- 
stances. It rarely happens that either agriculture or 
manufacture or commerce is the source of a Mo- 
hammedan's opulence. Slow and careful accumula- 
tion is a rare virtue in the East. Where fortune 
visits, her visits are sudden and liberal ; but as every- 
thing is held by a slight and uncertain tenure, the 
possession of one day is succeeded by the poverty of 
the next ; and if there be, as there almost universally 
is, a want of those untired exertions by which, in 
Christian nations, men so frequently amass riches, still 
more is there a want of that prudence and foresight 
which check the march of destruction. No element in 
the Mussulman character is more opposed to the sound 
commercial principle than their indifference to the pro- 
gress of decay, their unwillingness to repair the ravages 
of time. If an edifice be shaken by an earthquake, 
it is abandoned — it is seldom or never raised again on 
its foundations — that which is overthrown is never res- 
cued or renovated. A ruined building, like a felled 
oak, remains in the dust for ever. Even in the popu- 
lous parts of some of the great cities of Syria, the 
heaps of ruins which have been left in the pathways 
by successive earthquakes have not been removed. 
A few hours' labour would clear the wrecks away ; 
but the passengers prefer to clamber up and down 
the piles of stones and fragments rather than to dis- 
place them. So little disposition is there to alter or to 
interfere with what has been, that we found the apart- 
ments of the castle of Aleppo in precisely the state in 
which they were abandoned to the conquerors ; the 
halls strewed with armour, covered with broken bows, 
quivers, and arrows, in tens of thousands, and num- 
berless dispatches with the sultan's signet still scat- 
tered about the floor. Added to these obstacles, and 
operating in the same direction, the unchangeableness 
ot the Mohammedan usages and institutions is an 
almost invariable impediment to the development of 
commercial prosperity. The merchant is rarely an 
honoured being. Those who wield the power ot the 
sword and the authority of the Book, the warrior and 


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[Januahy 16, 

the ulema, are the two really distinguished races of 
society. All productive labour, all usefully employed 
capital, is regarded as belonging to something mean 
and secondary. In the ports of Syria, the presence of 
Europeans has modified to some extent the commer- 
cial usages of the country ; but in the towns of the 
interior, in the great depots, the bazaars represent the 
same system of commerce which existed many hundred 
years ago. Huge khans receive the foreign mer- 
chants who come with caravans from remote regions, 
and carry on their trades, both of sale and purchase, 
precisely as it was conducted by their forefathers. The 
bazaars are divided into different regions, such as 
thdse of the druggists, of spice-men, of the woollen- 
drapers, of the silk-merchants, of the traders in 
cotton goods, the shoemaker, the garment-seller, the 
ironmongers, and a variety of others. Each generally 
has a separate street for its particular department, and 
the sale and purchase of goods are carried on with con- 
siderable formality. The buyer goes to the shop of 
the seller, is treated to coffee and a pipe, and he then 
discusses the merits and the price of the merchandise 
in which he trades. The bargain is generally of slow 
arrangement. Independently of the bazaars, there 
are certain days on which auctions are held, and all 
sorts of goods are paraded up and down for public 
sale. But notwithstanding all impediments and diffi- 
culties, wherever repose and peace have allowed the 
capabilities of Syria to develop themselves, pro- 
duction and commerce have taken rapid strides. 
One of the immediate consequences of Ibrahim 
Pasha's conmiest was a sense of security, the esta- 
blishment or an improved police, and an immediate 
extension of trading relations, principally due to 
the presence of Europeans. When the policy of peace 
was interrupted, commercial intercourse was de- 
ranged, the amount of imports and exports dimi- 
nished, the number of mercnants from foreign coun- 
tries sensibly lessened, and the hopes of progressive 
improvement were all checked and aisappomted. But 
both for agriculture and manufactures Syria has great 
capabilities. Were fiscal exactions checked and regu- 
lated — could labour pursue its peaceful vocations — 
were the aptitudes which the country and its inhabit- 
ants present for the development of industry called 
into play — the whole face of the land would soon be 
changed. It appeared to me that there was a great 
disposition to activity among large bodies of the pea- 
santry, and much skill among the manufacturing 
labourers of the towns. There would, if properly 
encouraged, be no want of demand for European 
articles, nor of the means of paying for them ; and 
among the articles most required:, those furnished by 
British industry are particularly prominent. But the 
articles for which the sale would be most likely to 
extend are such as, having undergone a process of 
manufacture as raw materials, lend themselves to fur- 
ther and final manufacture, such as iron, copper, and 
tin plates, for the making of sundry vessels, threads 
and yarns of silk, flax, woollen, and cotton, &c. These 
and other such would be suited by Oriental skill to 
Oriental tastes better than English ignorance of those 
tastes could possibly fashion them, f noticed a reflux 
of opinion favourable to the manufactures of the 
country, they having already greatly benefited by the 
import of the half- wrought materials to which I have 
been referring ; for in the finishing of most articles 
the Syrians are not wanting in dexterity or experience ; 
they have, like all Orientals, a pretty accurate sense 
of the beauty and arrangement of forms and colours ; 
the patterns they work, though not very varied, are 
generally graceful; their dyeing is excellent; their 
artisans arc dexterous and intelligent. They use, for the 
most part, a rude machinery, but their wages are high 

enough to keep them in tolerable condition ; and were 
some of the modern improvements, such as the Jac- 
quard loom, introduced, there would be a revival of 
manufacturing prosperity. 

Hunting Oitrichet and Wild Hortet. — We had taken threa 
brace of birds, when, an ostrich starting before us, Candioti, 
Jim., gave the war-whoop of pursuit to his Gaucho followers, 
and to me the well-known intimation of " Vamos, Senor Don 
Juan/* Off went, or rather flew, the Gauchos; my steed 
bounded away in their company, and we were now, instead of 
tracking an invisible bird through tufted grass, in full cry after 
the nimble, conspicuous, and athletic ostrich. With crest erect, 
and angry eye, towering above all herbage, our game flew from 
us, by the combined aid of wings and limbs, at the rate of sixteen 
miles an hour. The chase lasted half that time ; when an In- 
dian peon, starting a-head of the close phalanx of his mounted 
competitors, whirled his bale*, with admirable grace and dex- 
terity, around his head, and with deadly aim flung them ovet 
the half-running, half-flying, but now devoted ostrich. Irre- 
trievably entangled, down came the giant bird, rolling, fluttering 
panting ; and being in an instant dispatched, the company ot 
the field stripped him of his feathers, stuck them in their girdles, 
and left the plucked and mangled carcass in the plain, a prey 
to the vultures, which were already hovering around us. We 
now came upon an immense herd of wild horses, and Candioti, 
Jun., said, " Now Senor Don Juan, I must show you how we 
tame a colt/' So saying, the word was (riven for the pursuit of 
the herd, and off, once more, like lightning started the Gaucho 
horsemen, Candioti and myself keeping up with them. The 
herd consisted of about two thousand horses, neighing and 
snorting, with ears erect and flowing tails, their manes outspread 
to the wind, affrighted the moment they were conscious of pur- 
suit The Gauchos set up their usual cry ; the dogs were left 
in the distance, and it was not till we had followed the flock at 
full speed, and without a check, for five miles, that the two 
headmost peons launched their bolas at the horse which each had 
respectively singled out of the herd. Down to the ground, with 
frightful somersets, came two gallant colts. The herd con- 
tinued its headlong flight, leaving behind their two prostrate com- 
panions. Upon these the whole band of Gauchos now ran in ; 
iasos were applied to tie their legs; one man held down the 
head of each horse, and another the hind quarters, while with 
singular rapidity and dexterity other two Gauchos put the 
saddles and bridles on their fallen, trembling, and nearly frantic 
victims. This done, the two men who had brought down 
the colts bestrode them as they still lay on the ground. In a 
moment the lazos which bound their legs were loosed, and at 
the same time a shout from the field so frightened the pottos, 
that up they started on all-fours, but, to their astonishment, 
each with a rider on his back, riveted, as it were, to the saddle, 
and controlling them by means of a never-before-dreamed-of 
bit in his mouth. The animals made a simultaneous and most 
surprising vault ; they reared, plunged, and kicked ; now they 
started off at full gallop, and anon stopped short in their career, 
with their heads between their legs, endeavouring to throw their 
riders. " Que esperanza !" " vain hope, indeed !" Immoveable 
sat the two Tape Indians : they smiled at the unavailing efforts 
of the turbulent and outrageous animals to unseat them ; and in 
less than an hour from the time of their mounting, it was very 
evident who were to be the masters. The horses did their 
very worst, the Indians never lost either the security or the grace 
of their seats ; till, after two hours of the most violent efforts 
to rid themselves of their burden, the horses were so exhausted, 
that, drenched in sweat, with gored and palpitating sides, and 
hanging down their heads, they stood for five minutes together, 
panting and confounded, but they made not a single effort to 
more. Then came the Gaucho s turn to exercise his more 
positive authority. Hitherto he had been entirely upon the 
defensive. His object was simply to keep his seat and tire out 
his horse. He now wanted to move it in a given direction, way- 
ward, zigzag ; often interrupted was his course at first, still the 
Gaucho made for a given point ; and they advanced towards ir, 
till at the end of about three hours the now mastered animals 
moved in nearly a direct line, and, in company with the other 
horses, to the questo, or small subordinate establishment on the 
estate to which we were repairing. When we got mere, the two 
horses, which so shortly before had been free as the wind, they 
tied to a stake of the corral, the slaves of lordly man, and all 
hope of emancipation was at an end. — Robertson t Paraguay. 

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[The Dutch IIouMwifc— Maes.] 



The pictures of the Dutch and Flemish painters in the 
National Gallery are neither so numerous nor so im- 
portant as those of the Italian school ; although, to 
judge from the greater attention given to them by the 
generality of the visitors, they appear to be considered 
more interesting. Scenes of familiar life are things 
which everybody can understand, and people who can- 
not judge whether a picture is well or badly painted, 
are interested by the subject and the manner in which 
the artist has treated it. 

The rural merrymaking, the social converse by the 
fireside, the household employments of the females, 
and the industrial pursuits of the men, were the sub- 
jects generally chosen by Teniers, Ostade, and the 
gTeater portion of the Dutch painters ; those who at- 
tempted the higher flights of Rubens, Vandyck, and 
Rembrandt being comparatively few. 

The imaginative minds of the Italian painters, 
warmed by the remembrance of the great events re- 
corded in the early history of their country, — by the 
glorious scenery by whicn they were surrounded, — 
and by the imposing ceremonies of the religion in 
which they were educated, attempted the illustration 
of the holy writings, or endeavoured to represent with 
the pencil the stories of the great poets which Italy 
and the neighbouring shores of Greece had given 
birth to. With their enthusiasm and with such sub- 
jects for their pencil, they could not stoop to perpetuate 
the scenes of every-day life which the Dutch delighted 
to transfer to their canvas. Of a cold and apathetic 
temperament, little conversant with the languages or 
literature of other countries, and having no tales of 
antiquity or of the deeds of warlike ancestors to prompt 
them to higher works, they merely looked out of 
their doors for subjects for their pencil, or availed 
themselves of the scenes enacted in their own habita- 
tions, These they worked up with an industry suitable 

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[January 16, 

to the national character, and succeeded, in most cases, 
in achieving elaborate representations of such scenes, 
of the faithfulness of which their patrons could weil 

Nicholas Maes may be reckoned among the more 
successful of these laborious artists. He was born at 
Port, in the year 1632. After studying for some time 
under Rembrandt, he employed himself in painting 
small pictures, similar to the one in the National 
Gallery which we have engraved on the occasion ; but 
not finding such works very profitable, he became a 
portrait-painter, in which department of art he found 
considerable encouragement, as his pictures, with much 
of the force which his study of Rembrandt's manage- 
ment of light and shade enabled him to give, possessed 
the agreeable quality of softness, the absence of which, 
in most of his distinguished master's productions, was 
a cause of much annoyance to the ladies and gentlemen 
of Holland. 

After practising some time in Amsterdam, he paid a 
visit to Antwerp, for the purpose of studying the works 
of Rubens and Vandyck. While there ne became ac- 
quainted with Jordacns, whose pictures he much ad- 
mired, and whose manner he attempted to imitate. 
Even in his small cabinet pictures tne effect of this 
.imitation may be observed, and in his larger pictures 
it is more apparent. It is recorded of this artist, that 
on his first visit to Jordaens, in order to view his 
pictures, on expressing himself much struck with 
their beauty, Jordaens, addressing himself to Maes, 
asked him what were the subjects to which he particu- 
larly devoted himself. Maes, in a little confusion, 
answered, " he was a painter of portraits." To which 
the other replied, " I pity vou most sincerely for being 
a martyr to that style of painting, where, let your 
merit be ever so great, you are condemned to suffer 
the whim, the folly, the impertinence, and the igno- 
rance of such a number of both sexes." 

Whether it was this speech which influenced him, or 
that his own inclinations prompted him to a different 
line of art, it is certain that we afterwards find him 
attempting large pictures of domestic scenes, for which, 
having already achieved a reputation, he found more 
patronage than at first. 

On his return to Amsterdam he was continually 
employed, and his works considered so estimable, that 
it was deemed a favour to procure a picture from him. 
He passed the remainder of his life in Amsterdam, 
and died at the age of sixty-one, in the year 1693. 

The picture we have engraved was painted in the 
year 1654. It is on wood, and measures thirteen inches 
and a half high, by eleven inches and a half in width. 
There is another picture by this master, styled the 
Cradle, in the Gallcrv, of about the same size. The 
subject of the Dutch housewife needs no explanation, 
but we may direct attention to the powerful manner 
in which the bright lights on the figures are made to 
bring them forward from the dark background, which, 
although of a very deep colour, is not at all heavy, 
nor so opaque as the colour used might lead one to 
expect it would be. 



I.v the history of most great truths calculated to pro- 
mote the happiness and welfare of society, there are 
two natural periods—often, unfortunately, widely se- 
vered from each other — their discovery, and their prac- 
tical application ; and the character of an aera may, in 
a great measure, be estimated by the advances made 
in it through either or both of these stages. The 
observation, therefore, frequently made, that the pre- 

sent period exhibits a marked deficiency of great 
men, — who are the discoverers, — may be true (although 
contemporary opinions on such a matter are but of 
doubtful value), and still the period itself be a great 
one from the extraordinary energy displayed in it in 
the carrying out of truths and principles which, though 
not new, are now for the first time made familiar to 
the minds of men by their powerful influence on the 
business and enjoyments of life: this characteristic 
at least our own acra exhibits in the most unmistake- 
able manner. A single glance at the state of society 
at present, in comparison with its state at any former 
time, will satisfy us how much has been recently 
done in widening its basis and perfecting its structure 
as the great -instrument of human welfare. To illus- 
trate the particular direction and extent of these im- 
provements is the object of the following series of 
papers ; in which we propose to show, by a few striking 
examples of contrast between what we were and what 
we are, how generally beneficial those improvements 
have been, how rapid has been their progress of late 
years, and, judging of the future by the past, how cheer- 
ing are the prospects before us. 

Various particulars connected with the treatment of 
lunatics in this country two or three hundred years 
ago, mav be obtained from the incidental remarks 
scattered over the writings of the authors of the period. 
In Shakspere there are many allusions of this kind. 
Thus we find that when Antipholus, in the ' Comedy of 
Errors,' is supposed to be mad, he is "bound "and 
thrown into " a dark and dankish vault." In 4 As you 
like it,'* again, Rosaline says to her lover, " Love is 
merely a madness, and deserves as well a dark liouse- 
and a whip as madmen do." So that at this period 
bonds, darkness, and flagellation were the matter-of- 
course remedies for lunatjes! We learn also that 
lunatics whose malady was found to be unattended 
with danger to those around them, were permitted to 
leave the hospital with an iron ring soldered about 
their left arm, as a mark of their condition, and the 
permission accorded to /them to beg. Of the wretched 
moral and physical condition of these outcasts, Shak- 
spere has put a striking description in the mouth of 
Edgar,* who, threatened with certain danger, says : — 

41 While I may scape 
I will preserve myself; and am bethought 
To take the basest and most poorest sha]>e, 
That ever penury, in contempt of man, 
Brought near to beast : my face I'll grime with filth ; 
Blanket my loins ; elf all my hair in knots ; 
And with presented nakedness outface 
The winds and persecutions of the sky. 
The country gives me proof and precedent 
Of Bed/am beggars* who, with roaring voices, 
Strike in their numb'd and mortified bare arms 
Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary ; 
And with this horrible object, from low farms, 
Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes and mills, 
Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, 
Enforce their charity." 

At a later period, Hogarth's print, the last of the 
famous series of the * Rake's Progress,' shows us that 
no particular amelioration had taken place : more or 
less of nakedness, dark cells, chains, straw, and an 
utter recklessness as to the fitness of the patients for 
each other's society, appear as the chief characteristics 
of the mode of treatment then in force. Quiet, me- 
lancholy, violent, and frenzied patients, there appear 
mingled together ; a circumstance enough of itself to 
make a sane man insane, were he thrown into such 
horrible companionship: is it probable that to those 
already mad the consequence would be less injurious ? 

But although we have thought that these" isolated 

' Act iii., sc. 3. 

t * Lear,' act •';._ sc. 3. 

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indications of the former method of managing luna- 
tics would not be without interest for our readers, and 
have consequently included them in our paper, they 
are not at all necessary for the filling up of the con- 
trasts we have alluded to: unfortunately the same 
state of things existed down to the present century ! 
la 1807, Sir G. O. Paul, writing to the Secretary of 
Suite on the subject of pauper-lunatics in the country, 
remarks : " I believe there is hardly a parish of any 
considerable extent in which there may not be found 
some unfortunate creature of this description, who, if 
his ill treatment has made him phrenetic, is chained in 
the cellar or garret of a workhouse, fastened to the leg; 
of a table, tied to a post in an outhouse, or perhaps 
shut up in an uninhabited ruin [the writer adds in a 
note, he had witnessed each of these methods], or if his 
lunacy be inoffensive, left to ramble half naked or half 
starved through the streets or highways, teased by the 
scoff and jest of all that is vulgar, ignorant, ana un- 
feeling." But, it may be observed, these unhappy crea- 
tures were not in any of the public asylums, and that 
the treatment there would be very different. Let us 
see. Eight or nine years later, a magistrate gave the 
following evidence, Wore a parliamentary committee, 
respecting York Asylum : — " Having suspicions in 
my mind that there were some parts of that Asylum 
which had not been seen, I went early in the morning 
determined to examine every place ; after ordering a 
great number of doors to be opened, I came to one 
which was in a retired situation in the kitchen apart- 
ments, and which was almost hid by the opening of a 
door in the passage ; I ordered this door to be opened ; 
the keepers nesitated, and said the apartment belonged 
to the women, and they had not the key ; I ordered 
them to get the key, but it was said to be mislaid, and 
not to be found at the moment ; upon this I grew an- 
gry, and told them I insisted upon its being found, and 
that if they would not find it, I could find a key at the 
kitchen fire-side, namely the poker ; upon that the key 
was immediately brought, when the door was opened, 
I went into the passage, and I found four cells, I think, 
of about eight feet square, in a very horrid and filthy 

situation " &c, &c. :* the particulars 

are too disgusting for further detail. Up stairs he 
found a room twelve feet by seven feet ten inches, 
containing thirteen women, who at night had no other 
habitation than the cells described. That the respon- 
sible parties may have all the benefit of their defence, 
we may add that the "arrangements" were stated to 
have been only temporary, and necessitated by a re- 
cent fire. It was also stated in evidence, that in the 
sameAsylum patients had beea whipped, kept gene- 
rally in a filthy state, treated with every kind ot per- 
sonal indignity, shut up naked in dark cells, and 
money obtained by the keepers for necessary clothing. 
There appeared also but too much reason to suppose 
that patients had died from neglect or ill treatment. 
There was one statement made in connection with this 
institution, which alone suffices to explain all these 
evils ; — the physician was in effect " the sole physician, 
sole visitor, and sole committee, — and had the whole 
management of the institution for many years." Of 
course we here refer to the system, not to any particu- 
lar individual. 

We now turn to the Metropolitan institutions ; and 
at St. Luke's Hospital, certainly, at the same period, 
some improvement was visible ; though the institu- 
tion was far, very far from being what it might have 
been even then. But at Bedlam, again, it was proved 
before the committee that a great number of trie pa- 
tients were closely chained to the wall, and occasionally 
handcuffed besides; that they were left in that state 

• Statement made by Godfrey Higg'ms, Esq., to the Select 
Committee of 1811-15. 

with no other covering than an unfastened blanket ; 
that the patients in the cells were obliged in winter to 
shut out what little light the narrow window afforded, 
on account of the cold — the windows being unglazed, 
&c. But there is one case which shows, as well as 
a thousand could do, the spirit of the system pursued at 
Bedlam up to 1815 ! In consequence of attempting 
to defend himself from what he conceived to be unjust 
treatment on the part of the keeper, William N orris, 
a patient, was fastened by a long chain, which, passing 
through a partition, the keeper by going into an ad- 
joining cell could draw him close to the wall at his 
pleasure. Norris, however, managed to muffle the 
chain with straw from the bed on which he lay, so as 
to prevent it being drawn through the partition. Then, 
with the concurrence of the medical authorities, the 
following proceedings took place : — a stout iron ring 
wjws riveted round his neck, from which a short chain, 
about twelve inches long, passed to a ring made to 
slide up and down an upright massy iron bar, six feet 
high, fixed in the wall. Round his body a strong iron 
bar, about two inches wide, was riveted ; on each side 
of this bar or hoop was a circular projection, which, 
being fashioned to and enclosing each of his arms, 
pinioned them close to his sides. From this waist-bar 
two others passed over his shoulders, and were riveted 
to the first, both before and behind. The iron ring 
round his shoulders was connected by a double link 
with the shoulder-bars. From each of these bars passed 
another small chain to the sliding ring on the iron 
bar. This complicated machinery being upon the un- 
fortunate man, he could only lie on his back in bed, 
or, keeping close to the wall, raise himself to an erect 

Eosture : not a step forwards could he make, nor could 
e lie on either side on account of the projections en- 
closing his arms. In this state was Norris found on 
the 2nd of May, 1815, by several gentlemen, and in 
this state had he lived for nine years ! He was released, 
but lived only to the following year ; though that was 
long enough to show the falsity or error of the allega- 
tions as to his ferocious violence made to excuse such 

This is -one side of the picture — a dark and melan- 
choly one indeed. Turn we now to the other. 

Passing with brief but grateful mention the labours 
of Pinel in France and o? the Quakers (at their Re- 
treat near York) in England, who appear to have been 
the first in their respective countries to set the exam- 
ple of a more humane and enlightened mode of 
treatment, we proceed to see what is the system now 
in operation, for which purpose we take the Pauper 
Lunatic Asylum at Hanwell ; not that the institu- 
tions before mentioned would not of themselves pre- 
sent a satisfactory contrast to their former state, but 
that on the whole the principles of the new system 
appear to have been carried farther in Hanwell than 
in them. 

We will suppose a patient is about to enter Hanwell 
full of the alarm which the idea of confinement ex- 
cites in lunatics as well as in other people. On his 
approach he sees a large and cheerful-looking house, 
standing on the slope of an eminence in the midst of 
its own pleasant grounds. In passing through the 
latter, he sees various persons in the same condition 
as himself busily employed in digging or raking the 
soil, trimming the plants, &c. On entering the 
building, the Principal questions both the patient and 
his friends as to his malady, conduct, tendencies, &c, 
in order that he may place him in the ward occupied 
by persons whose state assimilates most nearly to his 
own. He is then stripped, thoroughly cleaned, and 
the comfortable dress of the asylum is put on. He is 
now examined by the house surgeon, and, if necessary, 
by the physician, with a view to medical treatment. 

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[January 16, 

If the lunacy be of recent origin, the cure is generally 
speedy, and tolerably certain ; (90 out of 100 of sucn 
persons, for instance, are cured at Hanwell ;) but if 
the disease has been of long duration, so also will be 
the cure. The patient is next invited to set himself 
at work, and become in every respect a member of 
the family. He is shown the bricklayers, joiners, 
tinners, blacksmiths, shoemakers, tailors, brush, twine, 
pottle, and basket makers, coopers, &c., all. busy in 
their workshops. If he can render no assistance to 
any of these, there are the gardens and the farm, 
where he is sure to be found useful. Perhaps he is 
idle or perverse, and will not work : well, there is no 
preventing such things ; and it must be frankly owned, 
that at Hanwell, Dr. Ellis, its late manager, himself 
confesses it is necessary sometimes to resort to the 
extreme measure of — violence ? oh, no ! — but the 
bribe of a little tobacco, beer, or tea, or some other 
much-thought-of luxury, and that soon induces a 
change of resolution. And thus it is, we may ob- 
serve by the way, that out of 612 patients at Hanwell 
in a recent year, 452 were daily employed, and the 
remainder were mostly fatuous, or too feeble for any 
occupation. Well, the patient finds himself in a new 
and strange scene ; but the attention paid to his com- 
forts soon reconciles him to it. The rooms in which 
he sleeps, eats, or works are light, airy, warm, and 
comfortable ; he sees the surgeon and physician of the 
institution making their daily rounds to inquire into 
the health and comfort of him and his companions ; if 
he is at work out of doors, a draught of beer is brought 
to him between breakfast and dinner, and again be- 
tween dinner and supper ; he is invariably spoken to 
kindly ; his self-respect is never heedlessly, much 
less intentionally wounded ; in his leisure hours there 
are chess, draughts, &c. for his amusement, also a 
library,* with its Penny and Saturday Magazines, its 
books of voyages and travels and of interesting biogra- 
phy : a concert, assisted by an excellent organ (pur- 
chased from the funds of the bazaar established by Mrs. 
Ellis among the female patients with the happiest 
results), takes place once a week, and he assists in the 
preliminary arrangements as to the choice of tunes, &c. ; 
and even on Sunday, the day on which the patients are 
most uncomfortable and difficult to manage, from the 
absence of the usual employment, there is the afternoon 
singing meeting, where all the inmates of the asylum 
learn, or at least endeavour to do so, the hymns and 
psalms that are to form part of the evening service : 
and lastly, there is that service itself, which is most 
anxiously anticipated ; " indeed, there is as much 
anxiety, says Dr. Ellis, in his work on insanity, 
" amongst the patients to be permitted to attend and to 
come in their best dresses, as there is amongst the sane, 
previous to an attendance on the most fashionable 
congregation in London, and it would be difficult 
to find in the metropolis one more orderly or devout." 
But supposing our patient to exhibit a savage vio- 
lence of temper or mood, must not the old mode of 
confinement, darkness and chains, be then resorted to? 
Let Miss Martineau, who visited Hanwell in 1834, 
answer. She states, that out of 566 patients then in 
the house, 10 only were restrained, and the restraint 
was simply the confinement of their arms as they 
walked about among the other patients. But we must 
not suppose there are no other modes of restraint, 
though tnat we are about to mention will not injure 
the reputation of Hanwell for humanity. " ' Oh, do 
let me out, do let me go to my dinner !' wailed one in 
her chamber who had been sent there because she was 
not 'well enough' for society in the morning. The 

* For which the institution is mainly indebted to Mr. 
J. Gurney. 

dinner-bell had made her wish herself back again 
among her companions. • Let me out, and I will be 
quiet and gentle.' * Will you ?* was the only answer 
when her doors were thrown open. In an instant she 
dispersed her tears, composed her face, and walked 
away like a chidden child."* Mr. Hill, late of the 
Lincoln Lunatic Asylum, recommending treatment of 
a similar kind in cases of violence, says, " a maniac is 
seldom known to break his word." "Our patient has 
thus perhaps ultimately recovered ; on quitting the 
Asylum its parting care for his welfare is manifested 
in the pecuniary assistance rendered to him (from a 
fund specially provided, called " the Adelaide Fund") 
to continue nim a little longer in the enjoyment of 
the comforts he cannot yet be safely without, and keep 
his mind easy whilst he seeks employment or resumes 
his natural position. 

Since the retirement of Sir W. Ellis, Dr. Conolly has 
been the resident physician ; and under that gentle- 
man's management still further advances have been 
made. Thus, during the past year, in which 1108 
patients have been treated, there nas not been a single 
instance of personal restraint. Even severity of tone 
has almost ceased to be employed in the repression of 
violence, except in very peculiar cases. Among the 
minor improvements that have taken place within the 
same period are a more generous system of diet, more 
comfortable clothing, better ventilation, the throwing 
down of some of the gloomy walls dividing the airing* 
courts and erecting open railings in their place, the 
laying out of the courts as gardens, &c. 

As it is rather the spirit than the practical details of 
the past and present modes of treating lunatics that we 
deem important, it does not appear necessary to add 
anything to the foregoing remarks on Hanwell to show 
its contrast with the state of things that prevailed only 
five-and-twenty years ago. But with respect to the 
important matter of restraint, we cannot avoid noticing 
that Mr. Hill was the first to contend that no personal 
restraint, such as that implied by the use of bands, belts, 
&c, was necessary ; and, startling as the opinion was, 
he unquestionably reduced his theory to practice in the 
Lincoln Asylum for the space of two or three years 
without a single accident. "It may be demanded," 
he remarks, " what mode of treatment do you adopt in 

Slace of restraint? How do you guard against acci- 
ents? How do you provide for the safety of the 
attendants ? In short, what is the substitute for coer- 
cion ? The answer may be summed up in few words, 
viz.— classification, watchfulness, vigilant and unceas- 
ing attendance by day and night, kindness, occupation 
and attention to health, cleanliness and comfort, and 
the total absence of every description of other occu- 
pation of the attendants."t 

In conclusion then, we have in the one case dark- 
ness, chains, and whips, cold, nakedness, and filth, con- 
tempt, neglect, utter solitude, or a still more mis- 
chievous society, and all generally ending; in a deeper, 
and more confirmed, and more dread ful phase of the 
disease, if the unfortunates are not in the mean time 
cut off by a premature death ; in the other we have 
the opposites of all these : the first faithfully depicts 
the characteristics of asylums as they were ; the second 
as faithfully what the best of them now are, and what 
the others, we may safely prophesy, will Boon become. 

We are often infinitely mistaken, and take the falsest mea- 
sures, when we envy the happiness of rich and great men : we 
know not the inward canker that eats out all their joy and 
delight, and makes them really much more miserable than 
ourselves. — Bishop Hall. 

* Miss Martineau's account of Hanwell. — Tait's Magazine. 
1834. ^ ' 

\ Hill on Lunatic Asylums. 

Digitized by 

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No. 565. Vol. X.-E 

Digitized by VjOOQIC 



[January 23, 

great age, despaired of obtaining vengeance of his 
powerful foe, and sat gloomily brooding over his dis- 

" Sleep was hnnish'd from hit eyelids; 
Not a mouthful could he taste ; 
There he sat with downcast visage,— 
Direly had he been disgrae'd. 

Nerer stirr'd he from his chamber; 

With no friends would he conrerse, 
Lest the breath of his dishonour 

Should pollute them with its curse/' 

At length he called together his sons, and seizing 
their tender hands — tender, the romance seems to im- 
ply, as much on account of their high birth, as of their 
age — he grasped them so rudely tnat they cried him 
mercy. But the hot blood of Rodrigo nred at this 
treatment, and he fiercely exclaimed — 

" Loose me, sire ! and ill betide thee t 
Curse upon thee ! — let me go I 
Wert thou other than my father, 
Heavens ! I would smite thee low ! 

With this hand thou wring'st I'd tear thee — 
Tear thy heart from out thy breast l" 

The lad's fury, instead of enraging, cheers and de- 
lights the old man, who, with tears of joy, calls him 
" the son of his soul !" acquaints him with the indig- 
nity done him, gives him his blessing and sword, and 
entrusts him with the execution of his vengeance, as 
the only one of his kindred worthy of such an emprise. 
The youth joyfully accepts it, and takes leave of his 
father, praying him to " heed not the wrong, for when 
the Count insulted him, be* knew not of his son." 

No light undertaking, however, was this, and so 
thought Rodrigo, when he called to mind his tender 
years, and the power of his adversary, whose arm was 
ever mightiest in the field, whose vote ever first in the 
councils of the king, and at whose call a thousand 
brands would flash from the Asturian mountains. Yet 
all this seemed little in comparison with his father's 
indignity, the first ever offered to the house of Lain 
Calvo ; and he resolved to risk his life for honour's 
sake, as became a valiant hidalgo.* Down he takes 
an old sword, with which, in times past, M udarra, the 
bold bastard, had taken deadly vengeance on Rodrigo 
de Lara, who had murdered the seven Infantes his 
brothers. This sword the young Rodrigo apostro- 
phises ere he girds it on : " Take heed, thou valiant 
sword, that the arm that wields thee is that of M udarra. 
Firm as thine own steel shalt thou behold me in the 
fight ; yea, thy second lord will prove as valiant as thy 
first. Shouldst thou be overcome through my cow- 
ardice, then will I sheathe thee in my bosom up to the 
cross of thy hilt.t Let us hasten to vengeance — lo ! 
this is the nour to give the Count Lozano the punish- 
ment he meriteth." 

Having thus exalted his courage, he goes forth and 
meets the Count ; and accuses him of unknightly and 
cowardly conduct in striking an old man in the face, 
and that man an hidalgo ; reminding him that those 
who have noble escutcheons cannot brook wrongs : 

• Hidalgo is a contraction of hijo de a/go — literally, son of 

t It was the custom in the middle ages to make swords with 
hilts of this form, in order that they might answer the purposes 
of religion as well as of destruction. When a knight fell on 
the field of battle, the hilt of his sword was held to his lips in- 
stead of a crucifix, and in his last moments he was comforted 
and cheered by this emblem of his faith. We have seen in the 
Royal Armoury at Madrid a number of swords purporting to 
bare belonged to the earliest heroes of Christian Spain, most of 
which have cruciform hilts. 

" How durst thou to smite my father ? 
Craven caitiff! know that none 
Unto him shall do dishonour, 
While I live, save God alone. 

For this wrong I must have vengeance — 

Traitor, here I thee defy ! 
With thy blood alone my^sire 

Can wash out his iufamjKi** 

The Count, despising his youth, replies with a 

" Go, rash boy ! go, lest I scourge thee — 
Scourge thee like an idle page." 

Rodrigo, burning with wrath, draws his sword and 
cries — ** Villain, come on ! Right and nobility on my 
side arc worth a dozen comrades.'' They fight — Rod- 
rigo prevails, slays the Count, cuts off nis head, and 
returns with it in triumph to his fathers house. 

Don Diego was sitting at his board, weeping sorely 
for his shame, when Rodrigo entered, bearing the 
bleeding head of the Count by the forelock; Seizing 
his father's arm, he shook him from his reverie, and 
said — 

" See ! I've brought the poisonous weed— 
Peed upon it with delight. 
Raise thy face, oh, father mine ! 
Ope thin* eyes upon this sight. 

Lay asideitiis grievous sorrow— 

Lo ! tbfne honour is secure ; 
Vengeance hast thou now obtained, 

Frptn all stain of shame art pure. 

Ne'er again thy foe can harm thee ; 
•' All his pride is now laid low ; 
Vain his hand is now to smite thee, 
And this tongue is silent now. 

Well have I aveng'd thee, father ! 

Well have sped me in the fight. 
For to him is vengeance certain 

Who doth arm himself with right.*' 

The old man answered not, so that his son fancied 
he was dreaming, but after awhile he raised his head, 
and with eyes full of tears thus spake : — 

" Son of my soul, my brave Rodrigo, 
Hide that visage from my sight ; 
God ! my feeble heart is bursting, 
So full is it of delight. 

Ah! thou caitiff count Lozano! 

Heaven hath well aveng'd my wrong ; 
Right hath nerv'd thine arm, Rodrigo— 

Right hath made the feeble strong. 

At the chief place of my table, 

Sit thee henceforth in my stead ; 
He who such a head hath brought me, 

Of my house shall be the head." 

Forth rode Diego Lainez to kiss the hand of " the 
good king" Ferdinand, with three hundred hidalgos in 
his train, and among them rode " Rodrigo, the proud 

" All these knights on mules are mounted — 
Ruy a war-horse doth bestride ; 
All wear gold and silken raiment — 
Ruy in mailed steel doth ride ; 

All are girt with jewell'd faulchions — 

Ruy wilh a gold-hilted brand ; 
All a pair of wands come bearing— 

Ruy a glittering lance in liand ; 

All wear gloves with perfume scented — 

Ruy a mailed gauntlet rude ; 
All wear caps of gorgeous colours — 

Ruy a casque of temper good." 

As they ride on towards Burgos, they see the king 
approaching. His attendants tell him that yonder 


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band is led by him who Blew the Count Lozano. 
When Rodrigo drew near, and heard them thus con- 
versing, he fixed his eyes steadfastly upon them, and 
exclaimed with a loud and haughty voice— 

" Is there 'mong ye of his kindred 

One to whom the Count was dear, 
Who doth for his death seek vengeauce ? 

Lo '. I wait his challenge here. 
Let him come, on foot— on horseback ; 

Here I stand — his enemy." 

The courtiers, however, were awed by the youth's 
boldness and impetuosity, and 

" With one voice they all exclaimed, 
Let the foul fiend challenge thee '." 

Diego Lainez and all his followers then dismounted 
to kiss the king's hand ; Rodrigo alone sat still on his 
steed. His father, vexed at this, called to him — 

11 Come, my son, dismount, I pray thee ; 
Kneel, the king's right hand to kiss; 
Thou his vassal art, Rodrigo, — 
He thy lord and master is." 

The proud spirit of the youth could not brook to be 
thus reminded of his inferiority ; " he felt nimself 
much aggrieved," and fiercely cried — 

11 Had another such words utter'd, 
Sorely had he rued the day ; 
But sith it is thou, my father, 
I thy bidding will obey." 

As he knelt accordingly to do homage to the king, 
his sword flew half out of its scabbard, ivhich so 
alarmed the monarch, who knew the fierceness of the 
young hero, that he cried — " Out with thee ! stand 
back, Rodrigo ! away from me, thou devil ! Thou hast 
the shape of a man, but the air of a furious lion." 
Rodrigo sprang to his feet; called for his horse, and 
angrily replied — 

*• Troth ! no honour do I count it, 
Thus to stcop ami kiss thy hand ; 
And my sire, in that he kiss'd it, 
Hath disgrace! me in the land." 

With these words he leaped into the saddle, and rode 
away with his three hundred followers. 

[- Troth 1 no honour do I count it." J 


It is a natural result of the complexity in the construc- 
tion of most steam-engines, that wheels and axles, 
cranks and levers appear, to uninitiated persons, as in- 
separable or indispensable portions of the machine, and 
that the principles of the steam-engine are necessarily 
complicated. Such, however, is not exactly the case : 
the principle by which the steam-engine becomes a 
moving force is beautifully simple; and the com- 
plexity arises chiefly in the mode of applying that 
torce to any particular purpose. A steam -boat pas- 
senger, seeing and hearing the paddle-wheels re- 
volve, may imagine that the steam drives them round, 
and may then wonder what purpose all the compli- 
cated machinery beneath the deck is intended to an- 
swer. So in like manner may a railroad passenger have 

an indistinct notion that steam acts upon the wheels 
of the locomotive engines, so as to cause them to re- 
volve, but is unable to dive into the mystery of Franks, 
pistons, and valves, or to divine in what way they "are 
connected with the action of the steam. Without 
venturing to enter at any considerable length upon 
so extensive a subject as the variety and application 
of the steam-engine, we will endeavour so far to 
disentangle the principle from the details as to 
show what really constitutes a steam-engine, apart 
from any particular purpose to whicn it may 
be applied. When this is done, we shall be in a 
condition to answer the questions, — " How does a 
steam-vessel move?" and "Howdoesa steam-carriage 
move ?" 

That ice, water, and steam are convertible sub- 
stances, every one knows, and it is also pretty generally 

E 2 

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[January 23, 

known that heat is the agent by which the conversion 
from one state to another is effected. But it is not so 
well known that the difference of bulk between a 
given weight of water and of steam is the true cause 
of the power of the steam-engine. A cubic inch of 
water, weighing about two hundred and fifty-two 
grains, may be converted into an equal weight of 
steam, but in the act of transformation it increases in 
bulk more than seventeen hundred times, whereby a 
cubic inch of water becomes nearly a cubic foot of 
steam. How this extensive increase of bulk, is brought 
about, we are but little able to say ; all which is posi- 
tively known in the matter being, that a large amount 
of heat is taken up or absorbed during the process. 
A cubic inch of water at 212° may be converted into a 
cubic foot of steam at 212° ; yet, although the thermo- 
meter indicates the same temperature in both, so large 
a quantity of heat has been absorbed by the steam as 
would suffice to raise one thousand inches of water one 
degree in temperature. As this large amount of ab- 
sorbed heat is not perceptible by the usual test (the 
thermometer), it is called latent or hidden heat. 

But the expansion of an inch of water into a foot of 
steam would be of little use to the engineer, unless 
there were means of effecting the subsequent reduc- 
tion of the steam, and thereby producing a reaction. 
This reduction is effected by cold, which robs the 
steam of so much latent heat as to render it incapable 
of maintaining the vapor ic form, and it thence re- 
ansumes the form of water. 

These properties of steam, and many others of equal 
importance, were developed in successive ages, am) by 
different philosophers ; and the manner in which they 
made available as mechanical agents will, 

be understood from the following notice of 

may be 

Ncwcomen's steam-engine, one of the early forms if 
engine : — A metallic boiler is half-full of water, antfjjP 
placed over a furnace or fire, the heat of which con- 
verts the water in the boiler into steam. The boiler 
is closed in on all sides, but it has a little aperture, 
covered with a valve or plug, which is opened by the 
force of the steam when its expansive power exceeds 
the pressure of the valve. A pipe conveys the steam 
from the boiler to an upright cylinder or barrel, in 
which a solid piston or plug works up and down. 
The top of the piston is exposed to the open air, while 
the bottom is wholly excluded from atmospheric 
action. Now the air presses on all bodies at the 
earth's surface with a force of about fifteen pounds per 
square inch, and the piston is pressed downwards in 
the cylinder by this force. In order, therefore, to 
drive the piston upwards, steam is admitted beneath 
it ; and this steam must be raised to a high tempe- 
rature—greater that 212°, — in order that its pressing, 
expanding, or elastic force may be more than a balance 
for that of the atmosphere. The steam, then, drives 
up the piston ; but how is it again to descend, so long 
as the steam remains beneath it ? To effect this a jet 
of cold water is thrown into the cylinder beneath the 
piston, and robs the steam of so much heat as to render 
it incapable of maintaining the vaporic form : it con- 
denses into drops of water, which, occupying only 
one seventeen-hundredth of their former bulk, leave 
an extensive vacuum in the cylinder. The external 
air has now power to act unresisted, and it depresses 
the piston. A new admission of steam into the cylinder 
again forces up the piston ; and a new injection of water 
condenses the steam, produces a partial vacuum, and 
causes the descent of the piston. 

Now it is easy to see what constitutes the principle 
of such an engine as this, and what are merely sub- 
sidiary details. The external air tends to press down 
the piston in the cylinder, and we have to employ an 
antagonist force which shall be alternately greater 

and smaller than this pressure. This antagonist force 
is steam at a temperature greater than 212°, and the 
same steam converted into water, thereby leaving a 
vacuum beneath the piston. The arrangement of the 
fire-grate and flues, so as to impart the greatest amount 
of heat, the shape of the boiler, and the introduction 
into it of a safety-valve and of gauge-pipes, to indi- 
cate the quantity of water and the temperature of the 
steam, the arrangement of the pipe and valves which 
admit steam from the boiler to the cylinder, the mode 
of injecting the water beneath the piston and of car- 
rying away the injected water before new steam is ad- 
mitted, and the mode in which the vertical motion of 
the piston is, by the aid of rods, beams, levers, wheels, 
&c, made available as a mechanical agent, are matters 
of detail which do not touch upon the great principle 
of the machine. 

James Watt, besides practically demonstrating many 
of the properties of steam indicated above, introduced 
a vast number of improvements in every part of the 
machine ; and we may now briefly show how the great 
principle of the steam-engine has been brought into 
play by these improvements. The furnace and boiler 
are so admirably arranged, that when the fire U too 
strong, a damper is, by the action of the engine itself, 
drawn across the flue, to lower the draught ; and 
when the water in the boiler is too low, a valve opens, 
and more water flows in. Steam being produced, it 
is carried along a pipe to the cylinder, and in so doing 
it passes through a valve so contrived as to regulate 
the quantity of steam admitted according to the amount 
of power required. The cylinder is not open at the 
top, as Newcomen's, but is enclosed on all sides, having 
an internal piston, wholly shielded from the external 
air. The downward pressure of the air is therefore 
Hpt lost, but, in lieu of it, steam is admitted above 
jthe piston as well as below, but not at the same time. 
Jfewppmen** cylinder was partially cooled before each 
downward stroke of the piston by the jet of cold 
water; trut Watt's cylinder must be kept constantly 
warm, and the condensation of the steam is effected, 
therefore, in a separate cylinder, kept in a cistern of 
cold water. Let us suppose that steam admitted above 
the piston presses it down ; a valve is then opened, by 
which the steam is conducted to the condenser, and in- 
stantly cooled, by which a vacuum is formed above 
the piston. Meanwhile steam is being admitted below 
the piston, and as the latter has now a vacuum above 
it, it is forced upwards by the pressure from beneath. 
The communication between the condenser and the 
upper part of the cylinder is then cut off, and another 
opened with the lower part, whereby another series of 
changes occur, the steam driving the piston upwards 
and downwards alternately. 

We are now in a condition to understand a point 
which frequently occasions much perplexity ; viz., how 
a steam-engine can do so many different sorts of work : 
drain a mine, or spin a skein of thread, or stamp the 
device on a coin, or make a pin's head. The explana- 
tion lies within a small compass. To the piston of 
every steam-engine is attached a metallic rod, which 
shares the reciprocating motion given to the piston. 
The " stroke," or distance traversed by the piston, fre- 
quently amounts to several feet ; and any machinery at- 
tached to the remote end of the piston-rod is thus moved 
to and fro through an equal space with great rapidity. 
This motion being produced, there are abundant means 
of giving a circular direction to it : let any one witness 
the mode in which the itinerant knife-grinder produces 
a circular motion of the wheel by the vertical motion 
of the treadle and strap, and he will have a more dis- 
tinct idea than words can give of one such means. 
The circular motion is, in most applications of the 
steam-engine, first given to a large heavy " fly-wheel ;'• 

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and this fly-wheel may be considered as occupying the 
point of connection between the production and the 
consumption of steam-power. All the complex ar- 
rangements relating to the production and manage- 
ment of the steam have performed their wonted part 
when the fly-wheel is set in motion; and we may 
dismiss the steam-engine from this point, and regard 

the fly-wheel as a mighty workman, whose labours 
may be directed to the roughest as well as to the most 
delicate operations, — to the production of a cotton 
gown, a shilling, a Penny Magazine ; a workman to 
whom small things cease to be small, and great things 
cease to be great. 

£To t* continued.] 



In the second volume of the * Penny Magazine ' is a 
general account of the Arabian camel. Since that 
article was published, many interesting particulars of 
this most useful animal have been furnished by recent 
travellers ; and many erroneous impressions have thus 
been removed. A very complete account of the camel, 
with reference to its frequent mention in the Scrip- 
tures, and its use by the inhabitants of the Holy Land, 
is given in the * Pictorial History of Palestine,' by 
Mr. Kitto, whose original contributions to our little 
publication have often added greatly to its interest and 
value. From this source we abridge a few particulars 
of the habits of " the ship of the desert." 

The country most rich and abundant in camel's is 
undoubtedly thejprovince of Nejed in Arabia, entitled 
on that account Om el Bel, or Mother of Camels. It 
furnishes Syria, Hedjaz, and Yemen with camels, 
which in those countries become worth double the 
price originally paid for them in Nejed. The Turk- 
mans and Kourds of Anatolia purchase yearly from 
8000 to 10,000 camels in the Syrian deserts, of which 
the greater number are brought there from Nejed. 
But it is the camel of Oman which is celebrated in the 
songs of Arabia, as the fleetest and most beautiful ; 
and, in fact, the legs of the Oman camels are more 
slender and straight, their eyes more prominent and 
sparkling, and their whole appearance denotes them 
of higher lineage than the ordinary breeds of this 
animal. In mountainous countries camels are scarce 
certainly : but it is a mistaken impression that camels 

are not capable of ascending hills ; for, provided they 
are rough, they can ascend the steepest and most 
rugged paths with as much facility as mules. The 
feet are large and spreading, and covered at the lower 
part with a rough flexible skin. It is an erroneous 
opinion that the camel delights in sandy ground. It 
is true that he crosses it with less difficulty than any 
other animal : but wherever the sands are deep, the 
weight of himself and his load makes his feet sink 
into the sand at every step, and he groans and often 
sinks under his burden. Hence the skeletons of 
camels are found in the greatest numbers where the 
sands are the deepest. The soil best adapted to their 
feet, and which they traverse with the most facility, is 
that of which the desert is usually composed, a dry and 
hard but fine gravelly plain. 

In years of scarcity the camel is always barren. If 
the birth of a camel, as is often the case, happens on a 
journey, the Bedouin receives it in his arms, and places 
it for a few hours on the back of its mother. But at 
the first halting-place the little stranger is put down 
to receive the parent's caresses, and always after it con- 
tinues to follow her footsteps unassisted. At the be- 
ginning of the second year the young camels are 
weaned ; in the fourth year they begin to breed. 

Accustomed even from its birth to long and toilsome 
journeys, little training is necessary, beyond propor- 
tioning the weight to its tender age, to inure them to 
the carrying of burdens ; and they voluntarily kneel 
when about to be loaded for a journey, a position which 
their great height renders necessary. Kneeling is their 
natural state of rest, but when heavily laden on flinty 

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[January 23, 

or stony ground, it cannot be accomplished without 
pain. They then drop at once on both front knees, 
and, in order to establish room for their hinder legs, 
are compelled, in that condition and whilst encum- 
bered with the whole weight of the burden, to plough 
them forward. The callosities on their joints, although 
nearly of a horny nature in the ajjed camels, seem in- 
sufficient to defend them, and it is impossible for the 
European to view the act without commiseration. In 
consequence of this the Bedouins never make them 
kneel to mount themselves, but either cause the animal 
to drop his neck to receive their foot, and on their 
raising it the rider is enabled to gain his seat, or they 
climb up behind ; it pleases them much when a stranger 
can accomplish either of these feats. 

The distinction between the Camel and the Drome- 
dary is not that the former has two humps and the 
latter but one, as very frequently has been stated, and 
very generally believed. Both have but one hump, 
and the dromedary is distinguished from the camel 
only by its higher breed and finer qualities — as the 
high blood race-horse is distinguished from the cart- 
horse. Whenever an Arab perceives in one of his 
camels any indication of its being small and active, he 
trains it for the purpose of riding ; and if it be a 
female, he takes care to match her with a fine high- 
bred male, whereby the fine dromedary races are im- 
proved and perpetuated. These animals, destined 
exclusively for riding, are called hedjein in Egypt, 
and deloul in Arabia. The two-humped camel is the 
northern or Bactrian camel, — the camel of Central 
Asia, — and found, by migration with man, in the 
Crimea, and in the other countries which border the 
Caucasian Mountains. In South- Western Asia this 
camel is scarcely known. Stephens* assures us that 
on the starting of the Mecca caravan he had seen to- 
gether as many as, perhaps, twenty thousand camels and 
dromedaries, and had not seen among them more than 
half a dozen with two humps. Burckhardt also says 
the Arabs have no dromedaries with two humps, nor 
did he ever see or hear of any in Syria. It is true that 
in Anatolia there is a two-humped breed, produced 
between the two-humped male dromedary brought 
from the Crimea and a Turkman she-camel. But one 
of the two small humps which the progeny exhibits is 
cut off immediately after birth, to render it more fit 
for bearing a load. The single hump of the Arabian 
and Syrian camels continues round and fleshy, while 
the animal is in good condition ; but, by a remarkable 
provision of nature, this excrescence by its gradual 
absorption supplies the place of other nourishment 
under circumstances of privation. Few creatures ex- 
hibit so rapid a conversion of food into fat as camels. 
A few days of rest and ample nourishment produce a 
visible augmentation of flcsli ; while, on the contrary, 
a few days employed in travelling without food, reduce 
the creature almost immediately to little more than a 
skeleton, excepting the hump, which much longer 
resists the effects of fatigue. 

The first thing, therefore, about which an Arab is 
solicitous, on commencing a lon^ journey, is the state 
of his camel's hump. If this is in good condition, he 
knows that the animal is in a state to endure much 
fatigue on a very moderate allowance of food, believing 
that, according to the Arabic saying, " the camel feeds 
on its own hump." The fact is, that as soon as the 
hump subsides, the animal begins to desist from exer- 
tion, and gradually yield to fatigue. After the creature 
has in this manner lost its hump, it requires three 
or four months of repose and copious nourishment 
to restore it, which, nowever, does not take place 
until long after the other parts of the body have been 
fully replenished with flesh. It is in these facta, which 
• < Incid<jnts of Travel/ p. 2iS. 

exhibit the hump as a provision of food (so to speak) 
for the exigencies of protracted travel across the 
deserts, that we discover the adaptative use of this 
curious, and, as might seem to the cursory observer, 
needless excrescence. 

The great length of the camels neck enables the 
animal, without stopping, to nip the thorny shrubs 
which everywhere abound on the desert, and, although 
the spines on some are sufficiently formidable to pierce 
a thick shoe, the cartilaginous formation of their mouth 
enables them to feed without difficulty. The Bedouin, 
also, when walking, devotes a considerable portion of 
his time in collecting and feeding his camel wiih the 
succulent plants and herbs which cross his path. These, 
on a journey, with a few handfuls of dates or beans, 
form its ordinary food ; but while encamped, he is fed 
on the green stalk of the jowree, and the leaves and 
tender branches of the tamarisk, heaped on circular 
mats, and placed before the camel, who kneels while 
he is partaking of them. In Southern Arabia they are 
fed on salt and even fresh fish. 

During a journey it is customary to halt about four 
o'clock, remove the loads, and permit the camels to 
praze around ; if the Arabs are desirous of prevent- 
ing them from straying too far, they tie their fore 
legs together, or bind the fetlock to the upper joint 
by a cord. The head is never secured, excepting 
whilst travelling, when the Arabs unite them in single 
file, by fastening the head of one to the tail of his 
predecessor. Towards evening they are called in for 
their evening meal, and placed, in a kneeling posture, 
round the baggage. They do not browse after dark, 
and seldom attempt to rise, but continue to chew the 
cud throughout the greater part of the night. If left to 
themselves, they usually plant their hind-quarters to 
the wind. 

Authorities differ with respect to the camels capa- 
bility of enduring thirst. From the data collected by 
Burckhardt, it appears that the power varies much in 
the different races of the camel, or rather, according 
to the habits respecting the exercise of this faculty 
which have been rbrmed or exacted by the heat or cold, 
the abundance or paucity of water, and the state of 
vegetation in the country in which they have been 
brought up. Thus the camels of Anatolia, during a 
summer journey, require water every second day, 
while the camels of Arabia can dispense with it until 
the fourth, or even the fifth. But then again much 
depends on the season. In spring, when the herbage 
is green and succulent, it supplies as much moisture 
as the animal's stomach requires ; at that season, there- 
fore, the journey across the great Syrian desert from 
Damascus to Baghdad (twenty-five days) may be per- 
formed without any water being required by or given 
to the camels ; at that time of the year only, therefore, 
a route destitute of water can be taken. In summer 
the route by Palmyra is followed, in which wells of 
water can be found at certain distances. Burckhardt 
reckons that, all over Arabia, four entire days consti- 
tute the utmost extent to which the camel is capable 
of enduring thirst in summer. In case of absolute 
necessity, an Arabian camel may go five days without 
drinking, but the traveller must never reckon on such 
an extraordinary circumstance. The animal shows 
manifest signs of distress after three days of abstinence. 
The traveller last named throws much discredit on the 
popular story of the reserved supply of water in the 
camel's stomach, for the sake of which the animal is 
said to be often slain by his thirsty master. 

Notwithstanding its patience and other admirable 
qualities, the camel is gifted with but little sagacity ; 
nor does it appear to be capable of forming any strong 
attachment to its master, although it frequently does 
so to one of its own kind with which it has long been 

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accustomed to travel. In protracted desert journeys 
the camel appears fully sensible that his safety consists 
in keeping close to the caravan, for if detained behind, 
he never ceases making strenuous efforts to regain it. 

It is a pity to contradict the pleasing picture which 
Ali Bey draws of the peaceful dispositions of camels ; 
but the truth must be told, which is, that they are 
among the most quarrelsome beasts in existence. 
After the hardest day's journey, no sooner is the 
baggage removed than the attention of the driver is 
required to keep them from fighting, as they are prone 
to give the most ferocious bites and to lacerate each 
other's ears. 

The desert camels, less accustomed to walls and 
houses than those of Anatolia and Syria, are with diffi- 
culty led through the streets of towns when they arrive 
in caravans ; and it being impossible to prevail upon 
some of the more unruly to enter the gates, it is otten 
found necessary to unload them outside and to trans- 
port the bales into the town on asses. 

There have been various estimates of the speed of 
the camel. A sufficient number of authorities are 
agreed in estimating its ordinary pace at two and a 
half miles an hour. Calculations made in Syria, 
Egypt, Arabia, and Turkistan agree in this. This is 
to be understood as the ordinary pace in long caravan 
journeys, when the animal only walks. The saddle- 
dromedaries are capable of other things, although it 
may be noted that tne long journeys which it can per- 
form in a comparatively short time, are in general 
effected less by positive speed than by its very extra- 
ordinary powers of sustained exertion, day after day, 
through a time and space which would ruin any other 
quadruped. For short distances, the swiftness of a 
camel makes no approach to that of even a common 
horse. A forced exertion in galloping the animal can- 
not sustain above half an hour, and it never produces 
a degree of speed equal to that of the common horse. 

If a camel happens to break a leg, it is immediately 
killed, as such a fracture is deemed incurable. The 
camel is laden as it kneels, and although the load is 
often laid on recent wounds and sores, no degree of 
pain or want ever induces the generous animal to 
refuse the load or attempt to cast it off. But it can- 
not be forced to rise, it from hunger or excessive 
fatigue its strength has failed ; it will not then do this, 
even without the load. Under such circumstances 
camels are abandoned to their fate. It is seldom they 
get on their legs again, although instances have been 
known where they have done so, and completed a 
journey of several days. Wellsted tells us he had 
often passed them when thus abandoned, and remarked 
the mournful looks with which they gazed on the re- 
ceding caravan. When the Arab is upbraided with 
inhumanity, because he does not at once put a period 
to the animal's sufferings, he answers that the law 
forbids the taking away of life save for food ; and even 
then, pardon is to be implored for the necessity which 
compels the act. When death approaches the poor 
solitary, vultures and other rapacious birds, which espy 
or scent their prey at an incredible distance, assemble 
in flocks, and, darting upon the body, commence their 
repast even before life is extinct. The traveller con- 
tinually sees remains of this faithful servant of man, 
exhibiting sometimes the perfect skeleton, covered 
with a shrunk shrivelled hide, sometimes the bones 
only, altogether deprived of flesh, and bleached to 
dazzling whiteness by the scorching rays of a desert 

In this quaint and somewhat ambitious designation 
few of our readers, we presume, will recognise the 
author of a work widely and honourably known — a 

work distinguished for its accuracy, comprehensive- 
ness, and for the immense amount of labour and 
energy expended upon its preparation — we allude to 
Alexander Cruden, to whom the public is indebted 
for the best Concordance of the Scriptures it possesses 
in the English language. It may excite some surprise 
also in the minds of many who know the reputa- 
tion of that elaborate and valuable work to hear that 
its author was to a certain extent, through the greater 
part of his life, subject to the visitations of the mo*t 
fearful malady that can afflict mankind — insanity, and 
of which the title he assumed as above is but one ot 
many indications. In the principal collections of bio- 
graphy, encyclopaedias, «c., the life of Cruden is 
either but very briefly mentioned or altogether passed 
over ; but if from that circumstance it be assumed 
that there is nothing noticeable or interesting in the 
life, the striking fact we have just mentioned, and 
still more the particulars we are about to give, must, 
we think, effectually remove the impression. 

Cruden was born at Aberdeen in 1701, and was the 
son of a respectable tradesman, or " merchant," as he 
was styled, m accordance with the Scottish custom, 
who had served the office of baillie in that town. 
Scotland has been long distinguished for its educa- 
tional facilities, and Aberdeen was more than ordi- 
narily favoured in this respect. Young Alexander 
was sent first to the grammar-school, and afterwards 
entered as a student of Marischal College. He had 
scarcely finished his studies when the first evidences 
of his malady appeared. To make the matter worse, 
he at the same time fell in love^ with a young lady, 
who of course repelled his advances ; but his importu- 
nities became so great, that ultimately Cruden was 
committed to the town gaol. Soon after his liberation, 
he had to suffer the exquisite mortification of hearing 
that the lady of his heart had proved as frail as she was 
fair, and had only been saved from the humiliation of 
the " cutty-stool " by a precipitate departure. Cru- 
den's love, however, can scarcely have lonjj outlived 
such a discovery. It was most probably this incident 
which led to his removal from Aberdeen to London, 
where for some years he employed himself in teaching 
the classics as a private tutor. After a brief visit to 
the Isle of Man, spent in the same manner, he opened 
a bookseller's shop under the Royal Exchange ; at the 
same time he filled up his leisure and increased his 
scanty income by correcting the press for various 
printers, an occupation in which he was soon distin- 
guished for his accuracy, punctuality, and for the depth 
and variety of the knowledge he brought to bear 
upon it. Whilst thus peacefully and usefully engaged, 
his feelings were again shocked by an unexpected 
meeting with the object of his early love. Somewhere 
about this period he assumed the title of *the Cor- 
rector/ not simply as an evidence of the nature of his 
private duties, hut also of his asserting before the 
world his idea of the vocation to which he was called 
as a reformer of the public morals. About this period 
also he began his great work, the 'Concordance.' To 
those who have examined it, no remark as to the 
amount of labour and energy it required will be neces- 
sary ; to those who have not, it will be sufficient to ask 
them to remember what a Concordance is — a work 
which indicates every passage in the Bible containing 
a word of any note — and to add, that of all English Con- 
cordances, Cruden's is the most accurate and complete. 
The completion of the Concordance proved, for some 
time at least, an unhappy circumstance for its author. 
The sudden cessation from his accustomed labour is 
supposed to have brought on the violent recurrence of 
his infirmity, which now seized him, and in consequence 
of which he was confined in a private madhouse at 
Bethnal Green, kept by one Matthew Wright. The 

Digitized by 




[January 23, 

following quotation is merely the title of the pamphlet 
Cruden published on his escape from this place : — 

" The London Citizen exceedingly injured, giving 
an account of his adventures during the time of his 
severe and long campaign at Bethnal Green, for nine 
weeks and six days, the citizen being sent thither in 
March, 1738, by Robert Wightman, a notoriously con- 
ceited whimsical man, where he was chained, hand- 
cuffed, strait-waistcoated, and imprisoned; and he 
would probably have been continued and died under 
his confinement, had he not most providentially made 
his escape by cutting with a knife the bedstead to 
which he was chained. With a History of Wightmaivs 
Blind Bench, which was a sort of court that sat in 
Wightman's room at the Rose and Crown in the 
Poultry, and unaccountably pretended to pass decrees 
in relation to the London Citizen; particularly this 
blundering and illegal Blind Bench decreed that the 
London Citizen should be removed from Bethnal 
Green to Bethlehem Hospital, the audacious men 
thinking by that means to screen Wightman and the 
criminals from punishment for confining the Citizen j 
but Providence frustrated their designs." The " pu- 
nishment" here alluded to was to arise from the anti- 
cipated verdicts in the actions for damages which 
Cruden had instituted against Wightman and Dr. 
Munro, the parties he looked on as the chief offenders. 
Of the first trial, that against Dr. Munro, he gives an 
account too long for quotation; it concludes thus; — 
" The chief bencher is not an ignorant man, and wanted 
the Corrector to consent that the jury should withdraw, 
and give no verdict ; but he refused it with indigna- 
tion, being fully convinced that he had a right to a 
verdict, and therefore he would not approve of their 
unjust proceedings. The bencher afterwards directed 
or rather commanded the jury, by saying, * You are to 
bring a verdict for the defendants,' which they did. 
The Corrector made a speech in court before the ver- 
dict ; and after the verdict, meekly said, * I trust in 
GodV The chief bencher replied, «I wish you had 
trusted more in God, and not have come hither.' " . A 
new pamphlet now appeared, commencing " Mr. Cru- 
den exceedingly injured," &c. And really he seems 
to have been right in his sense of injury, if, as he 
states, such harshness was used towards him ; for how- 
ever eccentric or even annoying his conduct to parti- 
cular individuals occasionally may have been, not the 
slightest tendency to mischief as regards any of his 
fellow-creatures ever appeared. Neither does it ap- 
pear possible that his insanity could ever have been 
very violent, for even now, immediately after he had 
thus made his escape from confinement, ne returned to 
his old avocations, and, according to competent au- 
thorities, pursued them in the most satisfactory manner 
to all concerned. 

In 1753 he again fell in love; the object of his 
addresses was, on this occasion, a rich widow lady, 
whom he speaks of under the fictitious name of 
Whitaker. His malady now recurred to such a de- 
gree, that he was once more placed in confinement. 
No sooner was he freed than ne commenced, as be- 
fore, an action against the parties; but the counsel 
threw up their briefs before the trial, and the verdict 
was of course again in favour of the defendants. Still 
unsatisfied, Cruden moved the court of King's Bench 
for a new trial ; that, too, was refused ; upon which, 
in the presence of the judges, he immediately cried out, 
with a loud voice, " I appeal to the king in council, or 
to the House of Lords. He reconsidered this deter- 
mination, however, and issued another pamphlet in- 
stead, which he determined to present to the king per- 
sonally. His applications for admittance were treated 
with contempt, with but one exception. He had 
hoped, it appears, to have attained the honour of 

knighthood in these court visits ; explaining, that '* if 
it should be asked why the Corrector was so desirous 
of the honour of being a knight, he answers, that 
thinking men often seek after titles rather to please 
others than themselves." Disappointed in this view, he 
next offered himself as a parliamentary candidate for 
the city of London, in 1734, and was actually put in 
nomination. He appealed to the citizens "whether 
there were not just grounds to think that God would 
be pleased to make him an instrument to reform the na- 
tion, and to bring the citizens of London to a more reli- 
gious temper and conduct." He was treated with great 
good humour by the other candidates and their friends, 
and although he lost the election, he consoled himself 
with the thought that he had won the people's hearts. 

Having thus failed, for the present at least, in his pre- 
liminary steps towards the reform of the whole nation, 
he did not in the meanwhile think an unworthy part 
thereof beneath his notice. Hearing of the dissipation 
prevalent in the university of Oxford, he went down, and 
boldly exercised the duties he had imposed upon himself 
He frequented the public walks, reproving whatever 
levity or indecorum met his eye, and on the Sabbath 
bade the wanderers go home and employ their minds 
on sacred subjects. So little was his success after all, 
that he shook off the dust of his feet against the de- 
voted city, and returned to London. Jn 1761 we find 
him engaged, by Woodfall, as a corrector of his cele- 
brated journal, the * Public Advertiser ;' and, in 1762, 
he published a second edition of his ' Concordance,' 
with a dedication to the Earl of Halifax. The object 
of this dedication was to obtain pardon for one Richard 
Potter, a seaman, condemned to death for forging a 
brother sailor's will, and who, from a state of deep 
insensibility and ignorance, was roused, by Cruden a 
instructions and spiritual ministrations, into a penitent 
and better condition. The application was successful, 
and thus ended an affair which was highly creditable 
to Cruden's humanity and perseverance. Nothing 
less than a general reform of the criminals in Newgate 
would do after this, which was accordingly attempted 
— we need scarcely add, in vain. 

Cruden was a loyal subject of the house of Hanover, 
and took an active part in the politics of the day. He 
launched a spirited pamphlet at Wilkes, and, not con- 
tent with that, took the trouble to walk through the 
streets, erasing the objectionable " No. 45 "* from the 
walls : indeed, whilst wc are upon this latter subject, 
we may remark, that he seldom went out without a 
sponge for the purpose of rubbing off the walls any in- 
decent or otherwise offensive expression he might 
find. In 1769 he visited Aberdeen, but it was only to 
find the truth of the old proverb, " a prophet hath no 
honour in his own country." The extravagance of his 
views, or the ludicrous manner he used in enforcing 
them, excited the laughter of his audiences, and put 
his placidity of temper to a severe trial. One of the 
quizzers was a conceited young clergyman, on whom 
Cruden most effectually turned the ridicule, hitherto 
directed towards himself, by formally and gravely 

§ resenting him with a little manual then popular in 
cotland, entitled 'The Mother's Catechism, dedi- 
cated to the young and the ignorant !' But the end 
of poor Cruden's life, with all its simple follies and 
valuable and enduring labours, was approaching ; he 
returned to London in a few months, and on the 1st of 
November, 1770, was found dead in his chamber at 
his lodgings in Camden Street, Islington. He had 
been in perfect health the preceding evening, and at 
the moment of death must nave been praying, as was 
evident from the attitude in which he was found. 

• The number of the ' North Briton ! in which appeared 
Wilkes's famous article. 

Digitized by 






L Louis XIV. in hit Beilchamber. - Adapted from Labord«'s « VtfTMillet." 


During the reign of Louis XIV., which embraced 
the long period of seventy-two years, from 1643 to 
1715, France was changed from a feudal monarchy 
into an absolute one. Under the previous reign 
Richelieu had successfully commenced the policy of 
weakening the feudal nobility, and thus paved the 
way for the absolute government of Louis XIV., 
under whom this work was completed. The nobility 
were drawn from their chateaux to court, employed 
about the person of the monarch, and rendered aepen- 
dent on his favour. They soon lost their former spirit 
of independence, and, becoming corrupted by pensions 
and court favours, sank into a state of effeminacy 
from which they never rose. Their vices, follies, and 
weaknesses hastened the Revolution, and at the same 
time disabled them from taking any useful part in 
that great movement, under which they were ruth- 
lessly crushed. 

The following account of a day at the court of 
Louis XIV., taken from the memoir-writers of the 
period, presents a humiliating picture of the French 
nobility at that time, when the highest object of their 
ambition was the favour of the sovereign, to obtain 
which they eagerly aspired to perform menial services 
about his person : — 

About eight o'clock in the morning, while a servant 
prepared the fire in the king's apartment, and Louis 

No. 566. 

still slept, the pages of the chamber gently opened the 
windows, and removed the collation which had been 
left in case of the king requiring refreshment in the 
night. Bontemps, the first valet, who had slept in 
the same room, and had dressed himself in the ante- 
chamber, re-entered, and waited, silent and alone, until 
the clock struck the Jhour at which the king had desired 
to be awakened. He then approached the king's bed, 
saying, " Sire, the clock has struck," and went directly 
into the ante-chamber to announce that his majesty 
was awake. The folding-doors were then thrown 
open, and the Dauphin and his children, Monsieur and 
the Duke de Chartres, were in waiting to wish him 
" good morning." The Duke du Maine, the Count de 
Toulouse, the Duke de Bcauvillers, first gentleman of 
the chamber, the Duke de la Rouchefoucauld, grand 
master of the wardrobe, entered, followed by the first 
valet of the wardrobe and other officers bringing in 
the king's dresses. The principal physician and sur- 
geon were also admitted. Bontemps, then handing a 
silver- gilt vessel, poured on the kinp's hands some 
spirit of wine ; the Duke de Beauvillers presented 
the holy water, and his majesty made the sign of the 
cross, while the Dauphin and tne Duke du Maine, ap- 
proaching the king's bed, asked him how he had slept. 
After he had recited a very short religious service, M. de 
St. Quentin laid before him several peruques, and the 
king pointed out the one he intended to wear. As 
soon as he rose from his bed, the Duke de Beauvillers 

Vol. X.— F 

Digitized by 




[January 30, 

handed him a rich morning-gown, and Quentin pre- 
sented the peruque, which the king put on himself. ' 
Bontemps next drew on his majesty's stockings, and, 
on being dressed, the holy water was again ottered to 
him. He now went from the "balustrade within 
which the bed was placed, but which is not shown 
in the engraving, as the scene is supposed to be 
within it, and, seating himself in an arm-chair near 
the fire-place, demanded " la premidre entree," which 
the Duke de Beauvillers repeated in a loud voice, 
on which a page of the chamber admitted those 
who, by right of their office or the king's favour, 
were entitled to be present at the "petit lever." 
The Marshal Duke de Villeroy, the Count dc Gram- 
mont, the Marquis de Dangeau, M. de Beringhen, 
the four secretaries, Colin and Baurcpas, readers of 
the chamber, Vergins, the Count de Crecy, secretary 
of the cabinet, and the Baron dc Breteuil, with se- 
veral keepers of the wardrobe not on service, and 
the keepers of the gold and silver plate, were intro- 
duced. His majesty then underwent the operation 
of shaving, the basin being held by Charles de 
Guisgpe, Quentin adjusting the shaving-cloth, and 
applying the soap-brush and razor, and afterwards 
a soft sponge dipped in spirit of wine, and subse- 
quently in pure water. The king wiped his face 
with a dry napkin, Bontemps holding a looking-glass 
during the wnole of these operations. When these 
were finished, Caillebat, Marquis de la Salle, and 
Letellier, Marquis de Louvre, master of the wardrobe, 
prepared to attend the king while he dressed, pre- 
vious to which he demanded the "grande entr6cs, the 
admission to which was regarded as one of the highest 
court favours. On each individual presenting himself 
in the ante-room, the Sieur de Rasse, one of the ushers 
of the chamber, approached the Duke de Beauvillers, 
and announced his name in a low tone, the duke re- 
peating it to the king, when, if his majesty did not 
make any objection, the introduction took place. No- 
bles of the highest rank, marshals, bishops, governors 
of provinces, and presidents of the parliament, now 
entered in succession. At length a gentle knock is 
heard at the door, and Beauvillers Is ready to receive 
from the groom of the chamber the name of the new 
comer, and to announce it to the king ; but the door is 
opened without ceremony, although it was neither a 
great churchman nor soldier ; it was Racine : and soon 
afterwards Boileau, Molidre, and Mansard, the archi- 
tect, are introduced with as little form. 

The king, however, is now engaged in dressing, and 
the courtiers have the gratification of witnessing this 
ceremony. The page of the wardrobe hands to Gabriel 
Bachelier his majesty's stockings and garters, who 
presents them to the king, and Louis puts on the 
former himself. Another officer hands his " haute-de- 
ehausse," to which silk stockings are attached, and a 
third puts on the king's shoes. Two pages, splendidly 
dressed, remove the habiliments which the king 
throws off, and his majesty buckles the garters himself. 
Breakfast is now ready, and Louis commands Racine 
to seat himself at the table. Two officers of the goblet 
bring in the breakfast service. The chief butler pre- 
sents to the Duke de Beauvillers a silver-gilt cup, in 
which the duke pours out wine and water from two 
decanters, borne oy another officer, tastes the beverage, 
and, after the cup has been rinsed, he presents it to 
the king, who drinks. The Dauphin then gives his 
hat and gloves to the first gentleman of the chamber, 
takes a napkin, handed to him by another officer, and 
presents it to the king, who wipes his lips. 

After breakfast is finished, Louis takes off his morn- 
ing gown, and the Marquis de la Salle assists the king 
in taking off his night-vest by the left hand, while 
Bontemps is similarly employed on the right, The 

latter receives from the king his purse, and hands it 
to Francois de Belloc, who places it in a cabinet, and 
remains in charge of it Bachelier brings a shirt, 
which he has aired, and presents it to the Duke de 
Beauvillers, and the Dauphin, again laying aside his 
hat and gloves, hands it to the king. Two officers 
extend before the king his " robe de chambre," and 
Bachelier receives the garment which the king has 
taken off. The Marquis de la Salle assists the 
king to pull on his long stockings, and the Duke de 
la Rochefoucauld helps him on with his under- waist- 
coat. Two valets of the wardrobe then present the 
king with his waistcoat, sword, and the blue ribbon 
with the crosses of the Holy Ghost and St. Louis. The 
Duke de la Rochefoucauld buckles on the sword, and 
the Marquis de la Salle assists his majesty to put on 
his coat, and next presents him with a rich lace cravat, 
which the king ties on himself. The Marquis next 
empties the pockets of the dress which had been worn 
by the king on the previous day, and which is held by 
Bachelier, and receives from the Sieur de Saint- 
Michel two handkerchiefs, presented to him on a waiter. 
The king then kneels in the space between the bed 
and the wall, and repeats a prayer, all the cardinals 
and bishops approaching and joining in a low tone. 

His majesty was now ready to receive such of the 
foreign ambassadors as had occasion to wait upon him ; 
and the ambassador of Spain was introduced to him by 
appointment, previous to which a coverlet was thrown 
on the bed, and the curtain drawn in front and at the 
feet. The king took his seat within the balustrade, 
the Dukes de Beauvillers and de la Rochefoucauld 
and the Marquis de la Salle standing near him, and 
the princes of the blood being seated by his side. The 
ambassador is introduced, and makes tnrec obeisances, 
upon which the king rises, and, taking off his hat, 
salutes the ambassador, after which, putting on his 
hat, he resumes his seat The ambassador, who had 
by this time commenced his address, put on his hat, 
on which the princes did the same. At the conclusion 
of the interview he retires, bowing three times. A 
lieutenant-general of one of the provinces is next in- 
troduced, for the purpose of taking the oaths of office, 
during which he Kneels and places his hands within 
those of the king, having previously given his sword, 
hat, and gloves to an officer of the chamber. When 
the king was indisposed or took medicine, the honour 
of being present at the " grand entr6e" was one of the 
highest aspirations of the courtiers, the mode of re- 
ception being less formal. 

The "grand cntr6e" was terminated by the king 
exclaiming, in a loud voice, "To the council!*' on 
which he immediately proceeded to his cabinet, where 
he found many officers in waiting, to whom he gave 
orders for the day. To the Bishop of Orleans, first 
almoner, he said that he would go to mass at noon, 
instead of half-past nine, as he had intended ; to the 
Marquis de Livry, his first maitre-d'hotel, that he 
would dine in his private apartment, and that he 
would sup " an grand couvert," that is, in state ; to 
Bontemps, who handed to him his watch and reliquary, 
that he would visit the fives' court ; to the officer of 
the wardrobe, that he would go out at two o'clock, and 
would take his mantle and muff ; then, putting on his 
ordinary peruque, he took his seat at the upper end of 
a table covered with green velvet, the Dauphin and 
other illustrious and distinguished persons taking their 
seats near him, according to their rank. At the con- 
clusion of the council, his majesty repaired to the 
chapel, and, in passing, gave the watchword of the day 
to the gendarmes, dragoons, and musqueteers. 

During mass, the king's musicians performed a fine 
motet, composed by the Abbe Robert. At one o'clock 
the Marquis de Livry, baton in hand, announces that 

Digitized by 





dinner is served, when Louis, attended constantly by 
a captain of the £uard, repairs to his apartment, two 
attendants preceding him, carrying a table already set 
out. The Sieur du Plessis, who was in waiting, hands 
to the Duke de Beauvillersa moistened napkin, which 
the Dauphin presents to the king. Eacn dish had 
been tasted beforehand, and on a sign from the king 
an esquire carver cuts up the viands, and the gentle- 
man in waiting changes the king's plate. Atter he 
had dined, his majesty, throwing on his mantle, and 
having received his muff from the master of the 
wardrobe, descends to his carriage, which is waiting 
for him in the marble court, a crowd of seigneurs 
ranging themselves on each side of the staircase. 
After remaining some time at the fives' court, where 
the Dukes de Chartres, de Bourgogne, and du Maine 
were enjoying this favourite game, he returns to the 
palace. About three o'clock he pays a visit to Ma- 
dame de Maintenon, where, reclining in an arm-chair, 
near the fire-place, opposite this lady, who is working 
a piece of tapestry, ne every day tiassed one or two 
hours, listening, occasionally, to Racine, who came 
here sometimes to read his compositions. * Esther' and 
' Athalie,' two of Racine's best productions, were per- 
formed in this apartment, by the young ladies of the 
school of St. Cyr, for the king's amusement, who was 
highly pleased with the unexpected entertainment. 
The performance concluded at an early hour, and at 
ten o clock Louis took his departure, after remaining 
some time in conversation with madame, who had 
already retired to bed. The king, drawing the bed- 
curtains, then repaired to the apartment in which he 
was to sup «• au grand couvert." 

The different officers had already made the prepa- 
rations for this ceremony ; the table had been laid out 
by a gentleman in waiting ; and the dishes were 
brought in according to a ceremonial settled by an 
ordinance of the year 1681. Being seated at the table, 
the king requested the Dauphin and the princes to take 
their places at the other end. The Dauphin presenting 
a napkin to his majesty, supper commenced, six 
gentlemen remaining standing to wait upon the royal 
party. When the king wished to drink, the chief 
uutler called out, in a loud voice, " a boire pour le 
roi," on which two of the principal servants under 
him, having made an obeisance, presented a silver-gilt 
cup and two carafes, and tasted the beverage, when 
his majesty helped himself, and, after another obei- 
sance, the two officers withdrew to the sideboard. 
Performances of music took place during the repast, 
and a crowd of courtiers ana persons of distinction 
were present, who remained standing, or occupied 
scats around the apartment All rose on the king 
getting up from table, and his majesty proceeded to 
the grand saloon, whither the courtiers followed him. 
Here he remained standing for a few minutes, engaged 
in conversation ; then, bowing to the ladies, he re- 
joined his family in another apartment. 

About midnight preparations were made for the 
king's retiring. A cold collation was taken into the 
apartment where he slept ; the arm-chair was drawn 
to the fire-place, and the chief barber arranged the 
dressing-table. On entering, the king found the cour- 
tiers again assembled. He gave his hat, gloves, and 
cane to the Marquis de la Salle, who handed them to 
Saint-Michel, and while he unfastens his belt in 
front, de la Salle detaches it behind, and Saint-Michel 
places it, with the sword, on the dressing-table. His 
majesty then says a prayer, and the almoner, who 
holds the wax lights, also repeats a prayer for the king, 
and informs him that mass will be said next day at 
nine o'clock. The king, returning to his seat, hands 
his watch and reliquary to a valet-dc-chambre, and the 
Duke de Beauvillers, having asked his majesty by 

whom he wished to be lighted, the Duke de Chartres 
is distinguished by this mark of royal favour, and 
takes the wax lights into his hands. The king then 
takes off the blue ribbon, which de la Salle receives, 
as well as the king's ciavat and waistcoat, and his ma- 
iesty sitting down, Bontemps and Bachelier take off 
nis garters, and two valets each draw off one of the 
king's shoes and stockings, which Saint-Michel places 
on an arm-chair near the bed. Two pages present the 
king with his slippers, and the Daupnin his •• chemise 
de nuit," which had been aired by a valet of the ward- 
robe, and his majesty rises to put on his robe de 
chambre, at the same time bowing to the courtiers, 
who take this as the signal for withdrawing. Bon- 
temps takes the candlestick from the Duke de Chartres 
and gives it to one of the nobles who had solicited the 
honour of holding it, and the groom of the chamber 
jries out, " Allons, messieurs, passez." The "grand 
coucher" is finished, and only the princes and others 
who had been present at the " petit lever" remain. 
The kine now seats himself on a folding seat, near the 
balustrade, and Quentin combs and arranges his hair, 
while two valets hold a looking-glass and a light. 
The Duke de la Rochefoucauld presents the king with 
his nightcap and two handkerchiefs, and the Duke de 
Beauvillers hands to the Dauphin a napkin, which the 
latter is to present to the kin$. All the attendants 
arc now* dismissed, the physician alone remaining, 
and, after he withdraws, tne bed is aired, and the king 
is left to enjoy, if he can, the repose which such irk- 
some ceremonies must have made needful. Bontemps 
draws the curtains, secures the doors, and then lays 
down on a bed prepared for him in the same chamber. 
Such was a day of Louis XIV. at Versailles ! 

Diseases of the Hip-Joint. — In science, as in the useful arts, 
the advantages of a division of labour are apparent in the more 
complete mastery which an individual obtains over a subject to 
which he directs constant attention ; but the benefit does nut end 
here, for, unlike the proficiency which is attained by subdividing 
the parts of manual employment, the successful prosecutor o* 
any particular scientific subject is enabled to communicate the 
results which he acquires, and thus enables others to profit by 
his investigations. The labours of numerous individuals, each 
directing his attention to a part as well as the whole of a sub- 
ject, tend to perfect the science which it emliraces. In no 
department is this more obvious than in medical science, and a 
work by Mr. Coulsou, ' On the Diseases of the Hip-Joint,' is a 
proof of this, as no professional man, without devoting his atten- 
tion to this class of diseases, could have accumulated so many 
valuable facts and such extensive experience concerning it. 
This disease is ofteu the consequence of carelessness, and persons 
expose themselves to it without being aware of their danger. 
Mr. Coulson observes : — " The continued application of cold to 
the part, a striking cause of enfecblement, is a common cause of 
this disease. I attended a child, six years old, who liad expe- 
rienced two attacks of die disease within nine months, each attack 
having been brought on by sitting on the cold steps. It ofteu 
originates from damp beds, from working in water or in wet 
grounds, or being casually much exposed to wet, as among 
washerwomen and brewers' servants, and others liable to have 
their clothes often wet. But lying on the damp ground, espe- 
cially when the body is heated, is a very common cause." He 
thus describes some of the peculiarities of this part of the human 
frame : — " All the parts of the hip-joint have a peculiar cha- 
racter ; they are low both in regard to vascular action 'and in 
the scale of sensibility. The value of this is evident, seeing that 
there is no rest to this joint, and that every motion of the l>ody 
is accompanied by movement of the head of the os femoris in 
the acetabulum ; for even the slightest motion, however remote, 
causes less or greater change in the centre of gravity of the body, 
and compels us to poise the trunk anew upon the' hips. Were 
those ports more sensible, we should be perpetually lame. Happily, 
there is sufficient sensibility to form an adequate guard against 
excessive motion of the joint, and little enough to permit the 
natural use of the limb— -a nice adjustment of sensibility to func- 
tion. The left hip-joint, which is feebler than the right, is ob- 
served to be more frequently affected." 


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[.Iant-ary JO 

[Hock of Duubartou.— From an original Sketch.] 


Few even of the generally picturesque castles of 
Scotland possess a happier site than that of Dunbarton. 
It stands upon a very singular rock jutting out into 
the Frith ot Clyde about fourteen miles below Glas- 
gow, and the top of which divides into two peaks, one 
considerably loftier than the other; over this very 
irregular surface the buildings which compose the 
castle are scattered. The rock itself stands upon a 
small peninsula formed by the junction of the little 
but beautiful river Leven with the Clyde, and occa- 
sionally, when the tides are high in winter, is com- 
pletely surrounded by water. The fortress commands 
the navigation of the Clyde, and is considered the key 
to the western highlands of Scotland : but its import- 
ance is of the past rather than the present ; the interest 
attached to it arises from the events recorded in its 
history, and not from its strength, or from the objects 
which cause its strength to be still kept available. To 
those events, however, our space will only admit of 
brief reference. 

The rock was originally called Alcluyth, signifying 
the rock of the Cluid or Clyde, by the Britons, and is 
said to have been the seat of Khydderech-hael the 
bountiful, king of the Britons. By the Romans it ap- 
pears to have been called Dun-bnton, the fort of the 
Britons, from whence comes the present designation ; 
they also made it a naval station, under the name of 
Theodosia ; about two hundred and forty years ago, 
various remains of that people were found at Dun- 
barton, and on tho western peak of the rock we find a 
circular mass of stones strongly built together, which 
is supposed to have been erected by the Romans as the 
base of a watch-tower. From a very earty period of 
what we may call the modern history of Scotland, the 
castle formed a royal stronghold, and was considered 
impregnable before the invention of gunpowder ; an 

opinion, however, strangely at variance with the fact* 
of the history of the castle, so often has it been taken 
and retaken. Of its state about the middle of the 
sixteenth century, Harding, in his Chronicle, gives the 
following description : — 

" And pass on furtherwarde to Duiibertayue, 
A castle strong, and harde for to obtafne ; 
In which* castle Saincte Patrike was borne, 
That afterward, in Ireland?, did winno : 
About the which* [ Dunbertayne] floweth even and rnortM 
The western teas, without noyse or dinne ; 
When furthe of the tame the streames dooe riiuie 
Twise in xxiv houres without any faile ; 
That no manne maie that strong castle assailc." 

If there be any doubt as to the fact of St. Patrick's 
having been born in the castle, there is little or none 
as to this being the true neighbourhood. In his 
• Confessions/ Bonaven Taberniae is stated to be the 
place of his birth, which it is supposed is the same 
with Kilpatrick, a town lying between Dunbarton and 
Glasgow. At the commencement of Edward the 
First's manoeuvres to obtain the throne of Scotland, 
Dunbarton was given up to him, and shortly after 

S laced under the charge of John BalioL Dunbarton 
as a near connection with one of the greatest of Scot- 
land's sons, and with one of the most melancholy events 
of its history. Wallace was brought here immediately 
after he had fallen into Edwards power by the trea- 
chery of the ever infamous Sir John Menteith, and 
who, among other rewards, obtained the governorship 
of the castle for his services. A gigantic sword is still 
shown in the castle as the identical weapon which the 
great patriot had wielded in many a good fight ; and 
a part of the fortress, most probably that in which he) 
was confined, was long called by his name. In 13(H) 
the castle was taken from Sir John Menteith by a stra- 
tagem, of which the particulars are not preserved, but 
the chief actor was one " Oliver, a carpenter," who re- 

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ceived a grant of lands in consequence. From this 
period to that of the reign of the unfortunate Mary, 
the castle was continually changing hands. In the 
early part of Mary's reign it was taken from the earl 
of Lennox hy the royalists; and after her dethrone- 
ment, its governor, Lord Fleming, still remained faith- 
ful to her cause. But on a dark and stormy night, in 
1571, one Captain Crawford with a few soldiers se- 
cretly scaled the walls, and obtained possession of the 
castle after a sharp struggle. Lord Fleming escaped, 
but his lady was made prisoner, and also a more im- 
portant personage, Hamilton, archbishop of St An- 
drews, wno was particularly obnoxious to the ruling 
party. The unhappy prelate was sent to Stirling, and 
there hung on a tree, with a Latin couplet inscribed 
beneath, that we may thus render : " Live long, happy 
tree, always flourishing with branches that to us bear 
such fruit. In 1640 it finally fell into the hands of 
the Parliamentarians, and, shortly after, the Scottish 
parliament ordered the works to be destroyed, an 
order that does not appear to have been at all 
obeyed. Cromwell obtained possession of the castle in 
1652. At the union of the two countries in 1707, 
Dunbarton was one of the Scottish fortresses that it 
was agreed should be kept in continual repair. The 
establishment now consists of a governor — Lord Lyne- 
doch, a lieutenant-governor, barrack-master, store- 
keeper, surgeon, and about forty-two soldiers, mostly 

The castle is only approachable through an ancient 
and massy gateway, and by a very narrow passage for- 
tified by a strong wall or rampart. Within this wall, 
which is continued almost all round the rock, is 
the guardhouse with lodgings for the officers; and 
from thence a long and steep flight of steps leads to the 
summit. The entire way is defended by batteries of 
heavy ordnanee. The two peaks of the rock are con- 
nected with each other by a bridge. In the different 
buildings scattered about the rock, two hundred sol- 
diers can be accommodated. The castle is plentifully 
supplied with water from a well. It is said that an 
immense piece of the rock once fell down from its side, 
and buried a woman and a cow she was milking in the 
plain beneath, so completely that not a vestige of them 
could be seen, and it was found impossible to lift the 
enormous pile in order to extricate their bodies. 

The town of Dunbarton derives its name from the 
castle, and one or both give name to the shire. Dun- 
barton is now the principal place of the county, as it 
was in very early times of the earldom of Lennox. It 
is also a very ancient royal burgh. The population of 
late years has decreased, mainly through the decline of 
the glass manufacture ; in 1831 it amounted to 3623 
persons. Smollett, who was born in the neighbouring 
parish of Cardross, received some portion of his edu- 
cation here. Of his love and admiration of the scenery 
of his native place, he has left a sufficient testimony in 
his beautiful poem on the river Leven, which, though 
scarcely six miles long, presents one continued suc- 
cession of the most charming and beautiful scenery. 


The power of self-sacrifice for what is believed to be 
a great and holy cause, is one of the noblest and most 
valuable qualities that can adorn or dignify human na- 
ture ; and, as all history proves, is confined to no age 
or country, to no sect, party, or colour. But enthu- 
siasm has its mistakes and failures as well as its glori- 
ous truths and successes : it is not always that its dis- 
ciples can be regarded with the peculiar affection and 
reverence with which the great body of Englishmen 
regard the distinguished martyrs of the sixteenth cen- 
tury ; — it is not always that we can look back upon the 

sentiments which inspired the dying declarations of 
those who have shed their blood in our service, with 
the same deep sense of sympathy and satisfaction that 
we now feel in reading Bishop Latimer's — " Be of 
good cheer, Master Ridley, and play the man," that he 
addresses to his fellow sufferer at the stake ; " we shall 
this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in Eng- 
land, as, I trust, shall never be put out!" And it never 
was put out ! — The beautiful memorial which is now 
in progress of erection near the spot where these ever 
memorable words were spoken, forms a significant 
commentary upon the truth of the fine old martyr's 

The Reformation, which during the reigns of Henry 
VIII. and Edward VI. had made such great progress, 
appeared to be almost brought to a sudden close by the 
accession of Mary. Scarcely had she felt herself se- 
curely seated on the throne of England before the Re- 
formers received unerring indications of the future 
that awaited them, in the imprisonment of their most 
distinguished members, Cranmer, Latimer, Ridley, 
Hooper, &c. The revival of the former brutal laws 
against heretics soon followed, and in January, 1555, 
the work of persecution was formally begun by the 
appointment of a commission which sat in the church 
of St. Mary Overy. The fires of Smithfield were lighted 
on the 4th of February, when John Rogers, prebendary 
of St. Paul's, met his fate with a courage and boldness 
which doubtless inspired many of those who were to 
follow with confidence and strength to imitate his ex- 
ample. Five days after, Bishop Hooper perished at 
Gloucester, and almost at the same time, from one end of 
the country to the other, might have been seen ascending 
toward the heavens the smoke of those cruel and un- 
natural sacrifices which men offered to the God of 
Love, and in the name of Him who came to declare 
" Peace on earth and good will towards men !" The 
greatest victims were still reserved. There appears to 
have been entertained from the first a hope of humi- 
liating Cranmer, and perhaps Ridley and Latimer, by 
inducing them to recant ; and no efforts were spared 
to accomplish what was deemed so important to the 
glory of the Roman church and the degradation of 
its antagonist In March of this year they were all re- 
moved from the Tower to Oxford, and about five weeks 
afterwards, viz. the 14th of April, they were brought 
from their prisons to St. Mary's church, and there in- 
formed that they were to debate in public on the doc- 
trines of transubstantiation, the efficacy of the mass, 
&c. : if they succeeded in convincing their opponents, 
they were to be freed ! No books were allowed them 
— no time for preparation — nor were they even allowed 
to support each other. Cranmer commenced the dis- 
cussion on the 16th, and supported his opinions with 
more courage than had been anticipated from his some- 
what yielding character ; but he was overpowered by 
the number and violence of the speakers, and could 
scarcely make himself heard amidst the hisses and 
hootings with which the Oxford scholars greeted the 
announcement of every offensive tenet. Ridley met 
with no better treatment on the following day, but his 
nerve, his ability, his determined adherence to one 
line of argument, and the great extent of his know- 
ledge enabled him on the one hand to detect the 
slightest misquotation on the part of his adversaries, 
and on the other, to bring upon them the whole spirit 
and force of the Scriptures m support of his views. 
They were even constrained to acknowledge his subtle 
wit and extensive reading. But what availed it all 
with men who would not be convinced ? When pressed 
too closely, they raised a general uproar, all speaking 
to him at once. " I have but one tongue/' cried Rid- 
lev ; " I cannot answer at once to you all." The glory 
or the Protestant cause in this three days' contest is at- 

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[January 30, 

tributed to Ridley. On the third day came Latimer's 
turn. The poor old man (he was now at least eighty 
years old) was so weak and faint that he could scarcely 
stand. " Ha ! good master," said he to one of his 
judges, " I pray ye, be good to an old man. You may 
be once as old as I am ; you may come to this age and 
this debility." 

Latimer, who was a man of humble birth and simple 
manners, addressed his audience in English, and was 
therefore better undertood than his companions, who 
had spoken in Latin. But such was the treatment he 
received— the divinity school in which these debates 
took place seemed more like a bear-garden than a 
meeting of religious men to discourse on religious 
topics — that poor Latimer complained, with a naivete" 
that makes us smile, even whilst the tears rush into 
the eyes, that in his time and day he had spoken before 
great kings, more than once, for two or three hours 
together, without interruption ; " but now," says he, •• if 
I may Bpeak the truth, by your leaves, I cannot be 
suffered to declare my mind oefore you, no, not by the 
space of a quarter of an hour, without snatches, revil- 
ing*, checks, rebukes, taunts, such as I have not felt 
the like in such an audience all my life long." On 
the 28th they were all brought up once more to St. 
Mary's church, and asked whether they would now 
turn or not ; but they bade them read on in the name 
of God, for they were not so minded. They were then 
condemned. Nearly eighteen months elapsed before 
the execution of their sentence. Ridley and Latimer 
were first brought to the stake. The scene was a ditch 
on the north side of Oxford, now forming part of the 
town itself, and covered with houses, streets, &c. The 
church of St. Margaret stands almost immediately op- 
posite the place of execution. On quitting the prison, 
Ridley soon reached the spot, but Latimer, by reason 
of his great age, walked slow ; seeing this, Ridlev went 
to meet him, and, kissing him on the cheek, said, " Be 
of good heart, brother ; for God will either assuage the 
fury of the flames, or strengthen us to bear it." Ac- 
cording to custom, a sermon was preached on the occa- 
sion ; the preacher was Dr. Smith, who, either from 
fear or interest, had renounced popery in King Ed- 
ward's time, and was now only the more glad to show 
his zeal in its favour. His text was, " Though I give 
my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth 
me nothing." After the sermon, Ridley undressed, 
giving away, as he did so, his apparel, a new groat, 
some nutmegs and bits of ginger, a dial, and what 
other trifles he had about him to the bystanders, some 
of whom were made most happy by the gifts. Latimer, 
from helplessness, submitted himself to the keeper to 
be stripped for the stake ; but when he stood up in his 
shroud, erect, fearless, by the side of the faggots, he 
seemed in the eyes of the beholders to be no longer the 
withered and decrepit old man, •' but as comely a father 
as one might behold." Then it was that as tney were 
chaining him to the stake, — Ridley being already fas- 
tened on the reverse side, — the feeble-bodied but great- 
hearted old man broke out with that glorious pro- 
phecy, " Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play 
the man ; we shall this day light such a candle, by 
God's grace, in England, as, I trust, shall never be put 
out." Gunpowder was fastened to the bodies of both ; 
that which was attached to I^timcr soon caught, and, 
of course, instantly killed him ; Ridley was less for- 
tunate, and his sufferings were as protracted as they 
were terrible. 

Cranmer lingered in prison five months longer, the 
court hoping that, now he was deprived of the sym- 
pathy and comfort of his former associates, he would 
grow more pliant. As an archbishop, also, it was 
necessary, according to the canonical law, to submit 
his case to the pope, by whom he was, with a grievous 

mockery, cited to appear before him at Rome within 
eighty days, — Cranmer all the while closely imprisoned 
at Oxford ! At the end of that period he was pro- 
nounced guilty, and sentence passed upon him. The hope 
of his enemies was now to be realised : Cranmcr's spirit 
quailed at the near approach of death ; he supplicated 
for mercy, entered into disputes, as if to show that he 
was still open to conviction, and even listened to those 
who spoke of safety through recantation. It mas a 
critical moment With a subtle and fiendish ingenuity 
thev roused the natural love of life, which his captivity 
had somewhat dulled, into all its original force, or, from 
the force of contrast, into more than its original force ; 
they removed him from his loathsome prison to the plea- 
sant house and gardens of the Dean of Christchurch, 
where he fared delicately, played at bowls, &c., and was 
flattered by being told that the queen loved him, and 
wished earnestly for his conversion for that reason ; in 
short, every thing was done that could be done to 
smooth and make pleasant the downward oath that he 
was evidently half determining to tread. Ilia temp ten* 
triumphed —Cranmer resolved to live — lie signed a 
recantation. Alas ! he knew not the men he had to 
deal with ! Whilst the monks and learned doctors of 
Oxford were in full jubilee at the prostration of one of 
the proudest columns of the Reformed church, orders 
were given for immediate execution! What must 
Cranmer have suffered now ? He had fallen from his 
high estate, and his conscience whispered that he was 
but justly punished. On the 20th of March, the eve 
of his execution, he was asked to transcribe a recan- 
tation to be delivered by him at the stake, after the 
sermon on the following day, which was to be preached 
by Dr. Cole, at St. Marys. 

When the appointed time came, Cranmer, to the great 
astonishment of the audience generally, instead of read- 
ing his recantation, burst out into a full and explicit 
declaration of his faith in the principles of the new re- 
ligion, and added, " Now I come to the great thing 
that troubles my conscience more than any other thing 
that I ever said or did in my life ; — that is, the setting 
abroad of writings contrary to the truth which X 
thought in my heart, and writ for fear of death, and to 
save my life if it might be ; and that is, all such bills 
which I have written or signed with mine own hand 
since my degradation, wherein I have written many 
things untrue. And forasmuch as my hand offended 
in writing contrary to my heart, therefore my hand 
shall be first punished. For if I may come to the 
fire, it shall be first burned. And as for the pope, 
I refuse him, as Christ's enemy, and Antichrist, with 
all his false doctrine." Here he was hastily dragged 
away, and prevented from further speaking. He was 
then conducted to the same ditch where Ridley and 
Latimer had perished, stripped and tied to the stake. 
He made no request for mercy, uttered no moan, but 
on the contrary, when the flames began to rise, thrust 
forwards his right hand wherewith he had signed the 
recantation, and kept it there while life remained. 

" When the fire raged more fiercely, his body abided 
as immoveable as the stake whereto he was fastened, 
and, lifting up his eyes towards heaven, he exclaimed, 
• Lord, receive my spirit !* and soon expired. 

"The Romish church of England, with all its ab- 
solute hopes, may almost be said to have perished 
in the flames that consumed Cranmer. The impression 
made by his martyrdom was immense, and as lasting 
as it was wide ana deep. On the side of the Roman 
Catholics, the putting him to death was as gross an error 
in policy as it was atrocious and detestable as a crime. 

" Haa the malignity of his enemies been directed 
rather against his reputation than his life, — had the 
reluctant apostate been permitted to survive his name, 
a prisoner in the Tower, it must have l>ecn a more 

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arduous task to defend the memory of Cranmer, but 
his fame was brightened in the fire that consumed 
him. ,: * 

It is to the memory of these men, and of these events, 
that the Martyrs* Memorial is raised ; and its architec- 
tural beauty may well gratify the admirers of both. 
Orginally it was intended to erect a small church ; but 
the idea was abandoned from the impossibility of find- 
ing a suitable site for such a building near the spot 
i\ here the martyrs perished. Ultimately it was deter- 
mined to erect a monumental structure at the north ex- 
tremity of Mary Magdalen's church, and to rebuild 
and enlarge an aisle of that church, fo be called the 
Martyrs' aisle, and the architecture of which was to 
assimilate in style and expression with the monument. 
These arrangements are now in progress. The design 
of the monument was to be obtained by public compe- 
tition ; seven artists in all sent in their works, from 
among which Messrs. Scott and Moffat's was selected. 
The general idea of their structure is borrowed from 
the famous cross at Waltham, though with numerous 
alterations, and, it is said, improvements. The lower 
story is higher in proportion to its width than at Wal- 
tham, — it is more lofty (this is seventy, Waltham only 
fifty feet high), — greater strength and boldness is given 
to the mouldings in the basement, — more projections 
to the buttressed—increased depths to the receding 
pannels. The lowest story, also, as being nearest to 
the eye, and therefore more open to examination, is to 
be more elaborately finished, and in the second story 
the niches which are to contain the statues of the three 
martyrs are deeper and more open, whilst the triangu- 
lar blank arches between are diminished in proportion. 
Sir Francis Chantrey has promised his aid in the super- 
intending of the designs and execution of the statues. 
When the work is completed, we shall give an engrav- 


[From a Corresponds ut.] 

Among the smaller animals inhabiting the woods of 
America is that somewhat singular creature the opos- 
sum ;t and although its skin is of little or no value, it 
is not only sought after by the more regular hunters, 
but the farmers in many instances find leisure to go in 
pursuit of the opossums, partly for the sake of their 
meat, which is dressed and brought to table, and partly 
in consideration of the depredations they are some- 
times guilty of, which are not confined to the hen- 
roost or the poultry-yard, but extend to the crops of 
Indian corn, of which they are very fond. The opos- 
sum is never found in the more northern sections of 
the United States, nor in any of the adjacent English 
colonies, and even in such of the middle states as may 
possess it, it seems to shun the mountain-ranges, where 
the cold during winter is commonly very severe. I have 
never myself seen it, or indeed heard of its being met 
with, in a wild state, east of the river Delaware ; nor in 
the southern parts of Pennsylvania have opossums ever 
been found in any considerable numbers, though in the 
adjoining states of Maryland and Virginia, even among 
the old settlements, where groves of the original woods 
have been left standing, these singular animals, at the 
present time, are somewhat numerous. They never- 
theless appear rather particular in their haunts, con- 
fining themselves to certain ranges or districts, and 
live as it were in separate colonies. 

Several years ago I spent some time with an Irish 
family that had resided for many years a little to the 
south of the Maryland boundary-line, until several 

* * Pictorial England,' rol. ii., p. 528. 

* For a description of the opossum, see ' Penny Mag./ vol. 
»i., No. 102, p. 431. 

sons had grown up to manhood ; and among other cus- 
toms of the country with which they had become fami- 
liar was that of opossum-hunting, since most of the 
original woods (groves, as they are usually called, 
when detached portions of the forest are left when the 
rest of the land is cleared) were frequented by these 
animals. Being aware that I was something of a 
hunter myself, my young acquaintances, on learning 
that my experiences were not in the opossum line, at 
once proposed to initiate me ; to which I readily gave 
my consent. During the day these creatures are rarely 
seen upon the ground, and if the hunter then goes in 
pursuit of them, he must have a quick eye to the upper 
branches of the tallest of the forest trees, for it is tnere 
that they are to be found, moving leisurely from limb 
to limb, or occasionally hanging by the tail and at- 
tempting to swing themselves to some distant branch 
they wish to reach, for, possessing heavy bodies, they 
are by no means able, like the squirrel, to leap from 
one tree to another where the branches do npt inter- 
lock. But this was not the way in which my compa- 
nions, the young Irish- American farmers, commonly 
hunted them, for the mode they usually adopted, and 
which is the one most generally followed, was as fol- 
lows. But it ought first to be remarked, that this 
species of opossum-hunting depends as much for its 
success upon the dogs which are employed as it does 
upon the guns ; and in this respect my young friends 
were better off than most of their neighbours, for they 
possessed a couple of fine Scotch- terriers, bred to the 
business, as well as two other dogs of a mixed or 
mongrel breed, and these also had long been trained 
to hunting the opossums. 

It should be previously ascertained which of the 
forest trees appear to be tne favourite haunts of these 
creatures — for the most part either chestnut, hickory, 
or beech trees, — and near the foot of such trees Borne 
of the hunters have to be stationed. Moonlight nights 
are the most favourable for these excursions, and it 
was upon one such that, about eleven o'clock, four of 
us set out in quest of our game. So late an hour is 
chosen in order that most of the opossums may have 
come down from their haunts in the trees for the pur- 
pose of foraging in the fields or paying visits to the 
farm-yards ; but although they will sometimes destroy 
poultry, they do not generally venture to a great dis- 
tance from the woods nor so close to the abode of man, 
since, when pursued, their short legs and bulky bodies 
are but ill adapted for rapid flight. 

Myself and one of the young men, armed each with 
a gun, and attended by the two terriers, made our way 
to a part of a distant clump of woods, where, at the 
foot of some tall chestnut-trees, we and the terriers 
took our stations, while two more of the farmer's sons, 
accompanied by the couple of mongrel curs, com- 
menced ranging the surrounding fields, for the purpose 
of driving back to the woods, rather than capturing, 
the opossums that might happen to be out, while my- 
self and my companions were expected to be able to 
give a good account of as many of them as made for 
the trees where we were stationed. We presently 
heard, by the barking of the dogs employed in ranging 
the enclosures, that they had got upon the scent of 
their game, and a few minutes more gave us employ- 
ment, for the scared opossums began to approach us 
in parties of two and three each, when tne terriers 
were let loose upon them. Though these animals are 
but ill calculated for either offensive or defensive 
warfare, they are fat and bulky and tenacious of life, 
so that a contest between a stout one and one of our 
terriers would frequently last two or three minutes, 
which gave others that might be near at hand an oppor- 
tunity of escaping, except when seen by one of us and 
brought down by our guns. 

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[January 30. 1841* 

The two terriers had been so well trained to their 
business, that neither of them ever left the post as- 
signed to it at the foot of some tree to assist the other 
in its various conflicts with the opossums, but would 
show by its whinings and restlessness how gladly it 
would have done so, had not its own sagacity, improved 
probably by education, convinced it of the impro- 
priety ; and when one of a party of opossums got past 
these terriers, and scrambled up one of the trees, they 
no longer directed their attention towards that point, 
apparently comprehending how useless it would be to 
waste further attention upon one that had thus got 
beyond their reach ; but their watchfulness and anxiety 
to prevent a similar result seemed to be increased by 
every such occurrence. 

Though a full-grown opossum is nearly the size of a 
badger, they have not the smallest chance for their 
lives when opposed to a middling-sized Scotch terrier, 
or indeed to almost any other species of the canine 
race ; and were they not prolific animals, and on the 
whole not considered as either very destructive or 
their carcasses of much value, there is but little doubt 
but the race would become extinct wherever the coun- 
try became settled. 

The racoon is a far more common animal on the 
American continent than the opossum.* It, too, has 
its favourite haunts, for in some situations these 
animals are pretty abundant, while in others, appa- 
rently as well adapted to their tastes and pursuits, tney 
are very rarely to be met with. It therefore happens 
that one scarcely meets with a person residing in the 
country, whether in the United States or in the British 
North American colonies, except in the very coldest 
parts of them, that is not familiar with these animals — 
for they are found in greater or less numbers from the 
St. Lawrence to the Mississippi. The racoon, like the 
opossum and the bear, is frequently used as an article 
of food, but it nevertheless requires persons that are 
strangers to racoon meat to divest themselves of cer- 
tain prejudices before they are brought to relish it 
much. Like those other animals, it resorts to climbing 
into the tall trees of the forest for protection, and like 
them also, it subsists partly upon animal and partly 
upon vegetable food, for it is occasionally caught 
among the poultry, and in the forest it preys upon 
such birds as come within its reach. But besides its 
ability as a climber, it is possessed of a degree of cun- 
ning which is scarcely surpassed by the wily fox ; so 
that, among the feathered tribes and such small ani- 
mals as it sometimes chooses to make a meal of, it is a 
most dangerous and formidable neighbour, for when 
once its sharp fangs have seized their victim, there is 
but small chance of escaping. 

In the woods where racoons are pretty numerous, 
they are in the habit of frequenting particular trees 
rather than climbing the first that may happen to come 
in their way when they feel disposed to quit terra firraa, 
and from the mark they inflict upon the bark with 
their sharp and scratching claws, the practised hunter 
has little difficulty in detecting their favourite haunts. 
But being naturally cautious and watchful, they are 
not easily discovered in their lofty retreats ; and many 
a time have I patiently watched at the foot of a racoon- 
tree for an hour or two, employing the stealth and 
subtilty of the cunning poacher, without the creature 
once venturing to expose any part of its body to my 
view ; evidently being as well aware of my intentions, 
and of my whereabouts, as I was of its presence in 
some part of the tree. In almost every case the racoon 
selects a tree that is more or less decayed, so that in 
case of necessity it can seek for safety in some hollow 

• For the natural history of the racoon, fee * Penny Mag., 1 
vol. vii., No. 371, p. 9. 

recess, and when once alarmed so as to seek shelter in 
the cavity of some lar^e limb or boll of the tree, they 
will sometimes remain for days before they venture 
from their hiding-place. When the tree is not very 
large, the American hunter often resorts to the ex- 
pedient of hewing it down with his axe ; but in that 
case there should be two persons at the least, for 
although the hidden game should continue in its snug 
retreat until it feels tne tree reeling from its perpen- 
dicular, not even allowing the jarring blows ot the 
heavy axe to alarm it so much as to induce it to leave 
its place of safety, the moment the tree commences 
falling the racoon becomes on the alert, and when it 
has nearly reached the ground the cunning creature 
springs from its hole ana dashes through the woods, if 
not prevented by dogs or a rifle bullet. I have seen 
a racoon miscalculate its time for springing from the 
tree, and thus become stunned by the concussion ; and 
have also witnessed them felled to the earth by one of 
the descending branches while in the act of making a 
flying leap; but on the whole, the precision with 
wnich they calculate the proper moment of quitting 
the tree is very remarkable. 

The racoon, though by no means swift of foot, can 
bustle through the woods at a respectable speed for a 
short distance ; but not possessing the speea of a dog 
when on smooth ground, it ventures as seldom as pos- 
sible far from its favourite haunts and places of se- 
curity ; so that as the forests disappear, these animals 
become scarcer, though seldom wholly extinct. But 
it is more for the value of the skin than the carcass 
that the racoon is hunted in most parts of America ; 
since, next to the beaver, it yields the best fur used by 
the hatter ; and the value of the skin, which depends 
upon the season in which the animal has been killed, 
as well as the size, ranges from one shilling and six- 
pence to four shillings of our money. Springes, as 
well as traps, are sometimes employed in the capture 
both of racoons and opossums, and with considerable 
success by those who understand the art of trapping. 

A neighbour of mine, an out-and-out American 
hunter, had a colony of tame racoons, some of which 
were as docile as rabbits. He kept them for several 
years, in the hope of increasing his colony so much as 
to make the skins of the old ones annually to be killed 
off pay the expenses of keeping the rest, in which case 
the carcasses would have been clear profit They were 
by no means so prolific, however, as he had expected, 
for they did not rear half the number of young that 
they probably would have reared in a wild state. They 
were fond of Indian corn, sweet potatoes, and beet- 
root, particularly when boiled ; and it was difficult to 
say whether they received more enjoyment from de- 
vouring a carrier pigeon, or feasting upon a few 
spoonfuls of molasses. But if the molasses was 
mixed with a little of the common whiskey of the 
country, they become so ravenous over it, that serious 
quarrels would ensue ; and such was their partiality 
for anything sweet mixed with a portion of ardent 
spirit, that after once tasting the mixture, they could 
not be prevailed upon, except by force, to leave a 
morsel of it unconsumed. In tnis way he would 
sometimes tempt them to get intoxicated ; and al- 
though their behaviour was amusing enough while 
under the influence of the inebriating mixture, partly 
from their quarrels with each other, and the unfavour- 
able effect produced upon the health of these animals, 
for after being intoxicated they would refuse their 
ordinary food for some days, two or three of them 
died, so that he abstained from trying any more " such 
curious experiments " as he denominated the making 
the racoons drunk. 

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[The Hat-Ratten-, or ' Kettle/ with Men employed in Wetting, Rolling, Pressing, ' Ruffing/ and Blocking the Hot-Bodies.? 

The early history of our manufactures frequently ex- 
cites a smile at the quaint and energetic manner in 
which some of the old writers denounce the fashions 
of their times; hut while we are often disposed to 
agree with them in ridiculing the strange forms of 
dress which have heen adopted at different periods, 
we must withhold our assent to the principles of 
their commercial economy, which are often short- 
sighted in the extreme. 

Philip Stuhhs, a writer of the Elizabethan age, pub- 
lished, in 1585, his 'Anatomie of Abuses/ in which, 
among other things, the costume of the time is made 
the subject of censure. After anatomizing ladies' 
dresses, and discoursing on the iniquities of ruffs and 
furbelows, he visits the wardrobes of the other sex for 
a similar purpose, and thus speaks of the then fashiona- 
ble hats : — '* Sometimes they use them sharp on the 
crown, peaking up like the spear or shaft of a steeple, 
standing a quarter of a yard above the crown of their 
heads, some more, some less, as please the fancies of 
their inconstant minds. Some others are flat and 
broad on the crown, like the battlements of a house. 
Another sort have round crowns, sometimes with one 
kind" of band, sometimes with another, now black, now 
white, now russet, now red, now green, now yellow ; 
now this, now that, never content with one colour or 
fashion two days to an end. And thus in vanity they 
spend the Lord's treasure, consuming their golden 
years and silver days in wickedness and sin." But the 
material pleases him as little as the form and colour : 

«« And as the fashions be rare and strange, so is the 

stuff whereof their hats be made divers also ; for some 

no. 567. 

are of silk, some of velvet, some of taffetie, some of 
sarcenet, some of wool ; and, which is more curious, 
some of a certain kind of fine hair. These they call 
Sever Hats, of twenty, thirty, or forty killings price, 
fetched from beyond the seas, from whence a great 
sort of other vanities do come beside." 

What would be the surprise of Philip Stubbs, if he 
could now witness the extent to which the " vanity " 
of "Bever Hats" influences the commercial arrange- 
ments of England ; — the importation of beaver and 
musquash furs from North America, of neutria furs 
from South America, of wools from various parts of 
Continental Europe, of gums, resins, and dyes from 
almost every part of the globe ! If he found, too, that 
one single nrm gives employment to fifteen hundred 
persons in making hats of various kinds, and that the 
value of all the hats made in Great Britain in one 
year is probably not much less than three millions 
sterling, he would perhaps cease to include " beaver 
hats " in his list of abuses. 

To mark the advance of the world in this respect, 
since the time of Stubbs, we propose to consider the 
present state of the hat manufacture. With this ob- 
ject in view, we have visited an establishment where 
the processes are conducted on a very complete and 
extensive scale ; and we will suppose the reader to be 
accompanying us through the various departments of 
that establishment. 

The hat-factory of Messrs. Christy occupies two ex- 
tensive ranges of buildings on opposite sides of Ber- 
mondsey Street, Southward. These we will term the 
east ana west ranges, each of which is approached by a 

^Vol. X >T -G 

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[Jan. 1*41. 

gateway leading from the street. On entering the 
gateway to the east range, the first object seen at the 
end of a long avenue is a lofty chimney connected 
with a steam-engine, and rising to the height of one 
hundred and sixty feet. Over the gateway is a range 
of warehouses for wool and other articles ; and from 
thence, proceeding onwards, is seen on the left a pile of 
buildings, occupied by cloth cap makers, hat trimmers, 
and packers. On the right of the same avenue is 
another range of buildings, consisting of a fire-proof 
varnish store-room, silk-hat workshops, and shops 
wherein the early stages of beaver hatting are carried 
on. At the left of the great chimney is a building 
wherein common black glazed or japanned hats are 
made; and near it is an archway leading north- 
ward to another avenue surrounded by buildings. 
These consist of a turner's shop, where blocks for 
shaping hats are made ; a shell-lac store, where the 
lac is bruised, ground, and prepared for use ; a black- 
smith's shop, for the repair of iron- work used in 
various parts of the factory ; a saw-mill and sawing- 
room, where machine-worked saws cut up timbers 
into boards for packing-cases required in tne export 
department ; a logwood warehouse, wherein a power- 
ful machine cuts the logs into fine shreds ; a fur-room, 
in which the beaver and other furs are cut from the 
skins by machinery ; rooms wherein the coarse hairs 
are pulled from the skins ; the steam-engine, with its 
boiler, furnace, &c. ; a carding-room, for disentangling 
the locks and fibres of wool ; a blowing-room, for se- 
parating two qualities of beaver-fur, or hair ; together 
with various warehouses, storerooms, carpenters' 
shops, timber-yard, &c. This brings us to the northern 
extremity of tne range ; on returning from which we 
pass wool-warehouses and sorting-rooms, wool and fur 
washing-houses, stoving-rooms, fur-hat workshops, 
' picking ' rooms, clerk's offices, &c. 

Crossing Bermondsey Street to the western range, 
we find a beaver store-room, the dye-house, stoving- 
rooms, shaping and finishing rooms, &c. ; the whole 
being, however, much less extensive than the east 

It may excite surprise to hear of saw-mills, black- 
smiths', turners', ana carpenters' shops on the premises 
of a hat-maker ; but this is only one among many in- 
stances which might be adduced, in the economy of 
English manufactures, of centralization, combined 
with division of labour, within the walls of one fac- 

The nature of the operations carried on in the greater 
number of these buildings will perhaps be best ex- 
plained by tracing the history of a beaver hat from 
the time when the crude materials enter the factory, 
till the hat, in a finished state, is warehoused. 

If a dozen individuals to whom the subject is new 
were asked, " How is a beaver hat made ?" it is not im- 
probable that we should receive a dozen different 
answers. One would think it is cast in a mould ; 
another, that the beaver's fur, skin and all, is stiffened 
and shaped ; a third, that the fur is in some way woven 
into a kind of cloth, and put on a stiff foundation ; but 
perhaps not one would have an idea of the beautiful 
process of felting, which is the groundwork of the 
whole theory of nat-making. A beaver hat consists 
mainly of two parts, — the body and the covering ; the 
former of which is made of fine wool and coarse fur, 
mixed, felted, stiffened, and shaped ; and the latter of 
beaver fur, made to adhere to the body by the process 
of felting. Wool and fur constitute therefore the 
main ingredients employed. For hats of inferior qua- 
lity, coarse wool is employed for the body, and coarser 
fur, or sometimes fine wool, for the covering. 

The wool is brought to the factory in a dirty and 
greasy state, retaining much of the moisture derived 

from the animal. It is carried to a large washing- 
house, on a level with the ground, where the steam 
rising from immense boilers and tubs indicates the 
great scale on which the process is conducted. The 
wool is soaked and washed, until the greasiness is re- 
moved, and is then subjected to the action of a screw- 
press, whereby all the water is expelled, and the wool 
left in a clean state. From the washing-house the 
wool is conveyed to a drying-room ; and, when required 
for use, it undergoes the process of carding in the 
carding-room. In a former number (No. 498) we 
had occasion to explain the action of a carding-engine 
in the cotton manufacture ; and we need say no more 
of it here, than that such an engine, worked by the 
same steam-engine which sets so many other parts of 
the working apparatus in motion, combs out the fibres 
of wool, and presents them in a light and tolerably 
disentangled state. The wool is then ready for the 
hatter ; and we will trace the preparation of the fur 
up to the same point. 

The term/ar, in a general sense, refers to the hairy 
coating of such animals as the beaver, bear, marten, 
minx, hare, and rabbit. The skins of these animals, 
when merely dried after being stripped from the body, 
are called peltry ; when the skin of the inner side has 
been converted into a sort of leather, by a peculiar 
process of tanning, the skins obtain the name of furs, 
in a restricted sense ; and the term is still more re- 
stricted when applied to the hairy coating cut from 
the skin, and presented in the form of delicate fila- 

Now it is in the last-named form that fur is useful 
to the hatter ; and the furs to which he gives the pre- 
ference are those of the beaver, the musquash, the neu- 
tria, the hare, and the rabbit, of which the first is by far 
the most valuable. The beaver inhabits the districts of 
North- West America, where its peculiar habits of life 
have given rise to many marvellous tales, the truth of 
which is now more than doubted. (See vol. ii., p. 120.) 
The romantic details often presented in the lives of bea- 
ver-hunters, as well as the mode of dealing between them 
and the fur-dealers, have been described in two articles 
on the Canadian fur-trade (Nob. 375, 376), and need 
not, therefore, be dwelt on here. The skins, as re- 
ceived at the factory from the Hudson's Bay Company, 
are tolerably flat and stiff, measuring, generally, about 
three feet by two. The hairy surface is of a brownish 
colour, but is not that to which the hatter attaches 
value ; for this animal has two kinds of hair on its 
skin, the innermost of which is short, implicated, and 
as fine as down, and the outermost thicker, longer, 
and more sparing. Of the separation of these two 
kinds we shall speak presently. 

Neutria is the fur of a small animal called the coy- 
pou f the quoiya, or the Myopotamus Bonariensts, found 
in various parts of South America. The long or 
coarse hairs are generally of a reddish colour ; and the 
inner or soft hairs, brownish ash colour. It was not 
until about thirty years ago that hatters, influenced by 
the high price of heaver fur (which within a century 
has risen from 20*. to 80*. per pound), began to use 
neutria fur ; but since that time the employment of 
them has become so extensive, that one million neu- 
tria skins have sometimes been imported in one year. 
This animal is yet little known to naturalists, but cer- 
tain peculiarities in the skin beneath the fur have led 
to much conjecture among those who have frequent 
opportunities of inspecting the skins, concerning the 
structure and habits of the animal : for these points 
we refer to the article in No. 243, vol. v., p. 20, 

The Musquash, or Mus Zibethicus, is a Worth Ame- 
rican animal, about the size of the common rabbit, and 
covered, like the beaver and the coypou, with two 
kinds of hair or fur, having .different degrees of fine- 

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ness. The name musk rat is sometimes given to this 
animal, on account of its secretion of a peculiar fluid 
having the odour of musk. (See No. 521.) 

The fur of hares and rabbits is so well known as to 
render few words of description necessary. The rab- 
bits fed on the wolds of Yorkshire are said to yield 
fur much exceeding in value that of the rabbits bred 
near London, by reason of the superior length and 
strength of the hairy filaments. 

We have digressed a little, in order to show the 
nature of the furs employed by the hatter. The skins, 
or pelts, on being conveyed to the factory, are rather 
greasy and dirty, and are therefore cleansed with soap 
and water ; this is effected in the same large washing- 
house •where the wool is cleansed. When the pelts 
are dried and required for further processes, they are 
carried to the * pulling-room,' where a number of 
women, seated on stools, are employed in pulling out 
the coarse outer hairs from the skins: these coarse 
hairs are utterly useless to the hatter, and, if preserved 
at all, are sold tor stuffing cushions and such-like pur- 
poses. Each woman lays a pelt on her lap, or on a 
low bench, and, by means of a knife acting against 
the thumb, tears out the larger hairs, her fingers and 
thumb being guarded by a stout leather shield. 

We next trace the progress of the pelt into a room 
where, to one unused to the din of machinery, every- 
thing seems noise and confusion. This is the • cut- 
ting or * cropping ' room, in which six or eight ma- 
chines are actively at work, each attended by a female. 
We Englishmen, happily, know very little of the 
guillotine, or we should probably find some resem- 
blance between its action and that of the cropping- 
machine. A long, brpad, and sharp blade, having the 
edgje downwards, works very rapidly, with a chopping 
action ; and the pelt being introduced between the 
blade and a support beneath, the fur is cut from it 
with a precision that nothing can exceed. The im- 
pression on the mind of a visitor is that the pelt must 

tCttttiiig-MicMue. a. Hie skin, paetiog between roller*, after the fur 
hnn beeu cat from it ; b, the fur deposited ia a light layer on au endless 

inevitably be chopped to shreds, but, by some admirable 
adjustment of mechanism, the fur is removed without 
the skin being cut. The female who attends the ma- 
chine puts it in or out of work when required, guides 
the pelt through it, collects the filaments of fur, &c. 
Such outer fragments or small pieces of the pelt as do 
not lose their iur by the action of the machine, are 
laid on a table, and women, by the aid of small instru- 
ments shaped somewhat like a cheese-cutter, remove 
the remaining fur. The denuded skins are useless to 
the hatter, and are sold at a small price to sise-makers 
in the north of England. 

[Blowing-Engine, a, spot on which the fur ia placed; ft, box containing 
the revolving fan ; e, hollow trunk through which the fur ia blown ; d, re- 
ceptacle where the finer fur is deposited.] 

We have said that the women in the • pulling' room 
cut, tear, or pull out the long coarse hairs from the 

gilts, and that these hairs are useless to the hatter, 
ut it is impossible completely to separate the coarse 
from the fine fur by this means ; and, therefore, the 
fur, when cropped from the pelt by the machines, is 
conveyed to the « blowing-room,' finally to effect the 
separation. This room is probably the largest in the 
factory, and presents a remarkable appearance. It is 
of small height, but measures, perhaps, fifty feet by 
forty, having eight hollow boxes or trunks extending 
nearly the whole length of the room. The action of 
these hollow machines is exceedingly beautiful, and 
may, perhaps, be understood without a minute detail 
of mechanism. A quantity of beaver or other fur is 
introduced at one end, near a compartment in which a 
vane or fly is revolving with a velocity of nearly two 
thousand rotations in a minute. We all know, even 
from the simple example of a lady's fan, that a body in 
motion gives rise to a wind or draught ; and when the 
motion is so rapid as is here indicated, the current be- 
comes very powerful. This current of air propels 
the fur along a hollow trunk to the other end ot the 
machine, and, in so doing, produces an effect which is 
as remarkable as it is valuable. AU the coarse and 
comparatively valueless fur is deposited on a cloth 
stretched along the trunk, while the more delicate fila- 
ments are blown to a receptacle at the other end. 
Nothing but a very ingenious arrangement of mecha- 
nism could produce a separation so complete as is 
here effected ; but the principle of action is not difficult 
to understand. If there were no atmosphere, or if an 
enclosed place were exhausted of air, a guinea and a 
feather, however unequal in weight, would fall to the 
ground with equal velocity ; but in ordinary circum- 
stances, the guinea would obviously fall more quickly 
than the feather, because the resistance of tne air 
bears a much larger ratio to the weight of the feather 
than to that of the guinea. As the resistance of air 
to a moving body acts more forcibly on a light than 
on a heavy substance, so likewise does air, when in 
motion, and acting as a moving force. When par- 
ticles of sand and gravel are driven by the wind, the 


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[Jan. 1841. 

lightest particles go to the greatest distance. So it is 
with the two kinds of fur in the ' blowing machine,' 
those fibres which are finest and lightest are driven to 
the remote end of the machine. 

We have thus visited those parts of the factory in 
which the crude materials are prepared for the hatter, 
and will now, therefore, take our materials to the 
4 body-makers,' and witness the processes of forming 
them into a hat 

In one corner of the factory is a dark dingy room, 
where, around a steaming 4 kettle/ we see six or eight 
men busily employed at some operation, the nature of 
which can scarcely be divined through the clouds of 
steam. We pass by them, however, and visit some 
upper rooms, where the fur and wool are worked up 
together. The * body/ or * foundation/ of a good 
beaver hat is now generally made of eight parts rab- 
bits' fur, three parts Saxony wool, and one part of 
lama, vicunia, or ' red ' wool. A sufficient quantity 
of these for one hat (about 2£ ounces) is weighed out 
and placed in the hands of the * bower/ On entering 
the 4 bowing-room/ a peculiar twanging noise indi- 
cates to the visitor that a stretched cord is in rapid 
vibration ; and the management of this cord by the 
workman is seen to be one of the many operations in 
hatting wherein success depends exclusively on skilful 
manipulation. A bench extends along tne front of 
the room beneath a range of windows, and each 
4 bower ' has a little compartment appropriated to 
himself. The bow is an ashen staif, from five to seven 
feet in length, having a strong cord of catgut stretched 
over bridges at the two ends. The bow is suspended 
in the middle by a string from the ceiling, whereby it 
hangs nearly on a level with the work-bench, and the 
workman thus proceeds : — the wool and coarse fur, 
first separately and afterwards together, are laid on 
the bench, ana the bower, grasping the staff of the 
bow with his left hand, and plucking the cord with his 
right by means of a small piece of wood, causes the 
cord to vibrate rapidly against the wool and fur. By 
repeating this process for a certain time, all the origi- 
nal clots or assemblages of filaments are perfectly 
opened and dilated, and the fibres, flying upwards 
when struck, are by the dexterity of the workman 
made to fall in nearly equable thickness on the bench, 
presenting a very light and soft layer of material. 
Simple as this operation appears to a stranger, years 
of practice are required for the attainment of profi- 
ciency in it. 

The point in the routine of processes at which we 
have now arrived requires a brief consideration of the 

operation of felting, on which the whole manufac- 
ture of a beaver hat depends. Felting is a process 
whereby animal fibres are made to cohere and to form a 
kind of cloth, without the aid of weaving, plaiting, knit- 
ting, sewing, or any analogous processes — warmth, 
moisture, and friction being the means by which it is 
effected. There is reason to believe that the process 
of felting was known in early times, and that the 
tents of the Tartars, as well as some articles of cloth- 
ing, "were produced by these means ; but the evidence 
on this point is rather indistinct. At what time felted 
wool was first employed for making hats it would be 
difficult now to say ; but there is a legend current 
among some of the continental hatters which gives 
the honour to St. Clement, fourth bishop of •Rome. 
Most fraternities love to have a patron saint, when 
they can find one ; and those hatters who regard St. 
Clement in this light inform us that this holy man, 
being forced to flee from persecutors, found his feet to 
be so blistered by long-continued travel, that he was 
induced to put a little wool between his sandals and 
the soles of his feet. On continuing his journey, the 
warmth, moisture, motion, and pressure of the feet 
worked the wool into a uniformly compact substance. 
Finally, the wanderer, observing the useful nature of 
this substance, caused it to be introduced in the manu- 
facture of various articles of apparel. 

But leaving St. Clement and his felted 4 inner 
soles/ we may remark that the philosophy of felting 
was not understood until the microscope was applied 
to the examination of animal fibres. It was then 
found that the fibre, whether of wool or fur, is sur- 
rounded by a vast number of minute teeth projecting 
obliquely from the central stem. As these teeth are very 
sharp and are turned in one direction, they present an 
obstacle to the motion of the fibre in that direction, 
but enable it to glide easily in the' opposite one ; just 
as an ear of barley, when placed stalk uppermost 
within the cuff of the coat-sleeve, will soon work its 
way up to the shoulder by the motion of the arm. In 
some woolly fibres the irregularities appear like con- 
centric cups, rather than sharp teeth. 

fcCC*«M r « ■ 

[Microscopic view of a fibre of beaver fur/) 

When a heap of such fibres is rubbed and pressed, 
and the fibres made to curl slightly by the action of 
warmth and moisture, they twist around each other, 
and the teeth interlace so tightly as not to separate. So 
complete, indeed, is the entanglement of fibres thus 
produced, that a coat made from cloth manufactured 
solely by the felting process has been known to last in 
wear ten years. 

The purpose which the serrated structure of hair 
or fur is intended to answer is matter for conjecture. 
With respect to the double fur of such animals as the 
beaver, the following opinion has been offered : that, 
as the beaver passes much of its time in the water, 
the little projections from the filaments of the inner 
fur may serve as receptacles whereby the water 
is prevented from reaching the skin, and that the outer 
fibres may perhaps act like valves, which, when closed, 
shield the animal from cold, and when open permit 
the evaporation of water from the inner fur, and like- 
wise permit respiration to go on from the pores of the 

But whatever be the purpose which these arrange- 
ments answer in the animal economy, it is evident that 
the minute serrations on the fibres of fur and wool 
are the means of the felting : this being understood. 

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we shall be able to comprehend how the fur and wool 
are worked up into the iorm of a hat, and we therefore 
return to the * bowing ' room. The bowed materials 
for one hat are divided into two portions, each of 
which is separately pressed with a light wicker frame, 
and afterwards witn a piece of oil-cloth or leather, 
called a ' hardening-skin,' until, by the pressure of the 
hands backwards and forwards all over the skin, the 
fibres are brought closer together, the points of con- 
tact multiplied, the serrations made to link together, 
and a slightly coherent fabric formed. These two 
halves, or * batts,' are then formed into a hollow cap by 
a singular contrivance. One of the 'batts/ nearly tri- 
angular in shape, and measuring about half a yard in 
each direction, being laid flat, a triangular piece of 
paper, smaller in size than the batt, is laid upon it, 
and the edges of the batt, being folded over the paper, 
meet at the upper surface, and thus form a complete 
envelope to the paper. The two meeting edges are 
soon made to combine by gentle pressure and friction, 
and the other batt is laid over the first in a similar 
way, but having the meeting edges on the opposite 
side of the paper. The doubled layer, with the en- 
closed paper, are then folded up in a damp cloth and 
worked by hand ; the workman pressing and bending, 
rolling and unrolling, until the fibres of the inner layer 
have incorporated with those of the outer. It is evident 
that, were there not a piece of paper interposed, the 
whole of the fibres would be worked together into a 
mass by the opposite sides felting together ; but the 
paper maintains a vacancy within, and when with- 
drawn at the edge which is to form the opening of the 
cap, it leaves the felted material in such a form as to 
constitute, when stretched open, a hollow cone. 

Our visit to this part of tne factory has been some- 
what lengthy ; but the process of transforming the 
' bowed ' materials into a conical cap is so important, 
as illustrative of felting, that if this be clearly under- 
stood, all that follows will be tolerably plain. 

Few * kettles ' are the scene of such busy operations 
as the hatter's ' kettle,' and few would be so uninviting 
to a person fastidious as to cleanliness. Imagine a 
large kettle or boiler open at the top, having a fire be- 
neath it, and eight planks ascending obliquely from 
the margin, so as to form a sort of octagonal work- 
bench, five or six feet in diametef , at which eight men 
may work. The planks are made of lead near the 
kettle, and of mahogany at the outer part, and at each 
plank a workman operates on a conical cap, until the 
process of felting or 'planking' is completed. The 
'kettle' contains hot water slightly acidulated with 
sulphuric acid ; and, as far as words can do so, the 
following may convey an idea of the process : — The cap 
is dipped into the hot liquor ; laid on one of the planks, 
and subjected to a long felting process: it is rolled 
and unrolled, twisted, pressed, ana rubbed with a piece 
of leather or wood tied to the palm of the workman's 
hand, and rolled with a rolling-pin. (p. 41.) From time 
to time the cap is examined, to ascertain whether the 
thickness of the material is sufficient in every part ; 
and if any defective places appear, they are wetted 
with a brush dipped in the hot liquor, and a few ad- 
ditional fibres are worked in. Considerable skill is 
required in order to preserve such an additional thick- 
ness of material at one part as shall suffice for the brim 
of the hat. When this felting process has been con- 
tinued for about two hours, it is found that the heat, 
moisture, pressure, and friction have reduced the cap 
to one half of its former dimensions, the thickness 
being increased in a proportionate degree. 

In many parts of the factory are ' stoving' rooms, 
in which, by the judicious arrangement of flues, a high 
temperature is maintained. To such a room the felted 
or ' planked ' cap is taken, and, when dried, it presents 



the appearance of a fine, stout, and very strong kersey- 
mere, naving a drab or greyish colour. There can be 
little doubt that such a fabric is well calculated to 
serve the purposes of common broad-cloth, provided 
the means of manufacturing it of large dimensions 
were ensured ; indeed a company is now established 
for this purpose. 

Is not the reader still puzzled to know how or when 
the hat will make its appearance ? We have described 
numerous materials, and have visited many depart- 
ments of the factory, but have still produced only a 
drab-coloured, flexible, conical cap, about fifteen 
inches wide and fourteen high, and without a particle 
of beaver on its surface. The surface, colour, and 
form are, however, now about to be changed, in the 
order here indicated. 

In the first place, the cap is taken to the ' water- 
proofing' room, where the odour of gums, resins, and 
spirits gives some intimation of the materials employed. 
Gum-lac, gum-sandrach, gum-mastic, resin, frankin- 
cense, copal, caoutchouc, spirits of wine, and spirits of 
turpentine, are the ingredients (all of a very inflam- 
mable nature) of which the water-proofing composition 
is made. This is laid on the cap by means of a brush, 
and the workman exercises his skill in regulating the 
quantity at different parts, since the strength of the 
future brim and crown depends much on this process. 

After another 'stoving,' hy which the spirit is evapo- 
rated, the exterior of the cap is scoured with a weak 
alkali, to remove a portion of the gummy coating, and 
thereby enable the beaver fur afterwards to cling to 
the woolly fibres of the cap. 

Now, for the first time, we have to direct our atten- 
tion to the fine beaver fur, the purchase and prepara- 
tion of which are so costly. Tne washing, plucking, 
cropping, and blowing departments we have already 
visited, and have seen the fibres of fur divided into two 
qualities, of which the finer is that to which the hatter 
attaches value. This finer quality, which appears to 
have been formerly known by the name of ' nix,' was, 
in bygone times, used not only for hats, but also for 
hosiery purposes, in allusion to which Dyer, in his 
poem of the * Fleece,' has these lines : — 
" The beaver's flix 
Gives kindliest warmth to weak enervate limbs, 
When the pale blood slow rises through the veins." 

The fur, being bowed very carefully by a smaller 
bow than that employed for wool, is spread out into 
a layer, and by means of the ' hardening-skin' is pressed 
and worked into a very delicate and light felt, just co- 
herent enough to hold together. This layer, which is 
called a ' ruffing, 7 or ' roughing,' is a little larger than 
the cap body ; and, to unite the two, another visit to 
the ' kettle' is necessary. The cap being softened by 
submersion in the hot liquor, the ' ruffing is laid on it. 
and patted down with a wet brush, a narrow strip of 
beaver being laid round the inside of the cap, to form 
the underside of the future brim. The beavered cap is 
then wrapped in a woollen cloth, submersed frequently 
in the hot liquor, and rolled on the plank for the space 

Digitized by 




[Jan. laU. 

of two hours. The effect of this rubbing and rolling is 
very curious, and may be illustrated in a simple man- 
ner : — if a few fibres of beaver fur be laid on a piece 

of bmad-eloth, covered with tissue-paper, and rubbed 
gently with the finger, they will penetrate through the 
cloth and appear at the opposite side. So, likewise, 
in the process of ' ruffing, each fibre of fur is set in 
motion from root to point, and enters the substance of 
the felt cap. The hairs proceed in a pretty straight 
course, and just enter the felt, with the substance of 
which they form an intimate union. But if the rolling 
and pressing were continued too long, the hairs would 
actually pass through the felt, and be seen on the in- 
side instead of the out ; the workman, therefore, exer- 
cises his judgment in continuing the process only so 
long as is sufficient to secure the hairs in the felt firm 
enough to bear the action of the hat-brush in after- 
days. Eighty or a hundred years ago, when beaver 
fur was cheap, an '• old Engiisn gentleman" was wont 
to have his hat so well beavcred, that as much nap 
felted through it to the inside as remained on the ex- 
terior ; and when the hat showed symptoms of decay 
and old age, it was sent to the maker, who turned it 
inside out, and gave it nearly the pristine freshness of 
a newly-made hat. 

At length the cap is to assume somewhat the shape 
of a hat, before it finally leaves the 'kettle.' Tne 

workman first turns up the edge of the cap to the 
depth of about an inch and a half; and then draws 
the peak of the cap back through the centre or axis, 
so far as not to take out the first fold, but to produce 
an inner fold of the same depth. The point being 
turned back again, produces a thiid fold; and thus 

the workman proceeds, till the whole has acquired the 
appearand* of a flattish circular piece, consisting of a 
number of concentric folds or rings, with the ]>eak in 
the centre. This is laid on the * plank/ where the 
workman, keeping the substance hot and wet, pulls, 
presses, and rubs the centre until he has formed a 
smooth flat portion equal to the intended crown of the 
hat. He then takes a cylindrical block, on the flat end 
of which he applies the flattened central portion of the 
felt ; and by forcing a string down the curved sides of 
the block, he causes the surrounding portion of the 
felt to assume the figure of the block. The part 
which is to form the brim now appears as a puckered 
api>endage round the edge of the hat ; but tnis puck- 
ered edge is soon brought to a tolerably flat shape by 
pulling and pressing. 

We Tiere terminate our visit to the 'blocking-shop.' 
The conical cap has been converted into a hat with a 
flat brim ; and we take leave of the • kettle/ with its 
hot acid liquor, its wet planks, its clouds of steam, and 
its ingenious attendants. We will suppose the hat to 
have been dried in a stoving-room near the great 
chimney, and will then place it in the hands of the 
•shearer/ In an appropriate room, this workman 
raises and opens the nap of the hats, by means of a 
peculiar sort of comb ; and then shears the hairs 
to any required length. Connoisseurs in these 
matters are learned as to the respective merits 
of ' short naps ' and ' long naps / and by the shearer's 
dexterity these arc regulated. The visitor recognises 
nothing difficult in this operation ; yet years of prac- 
tice are necessary for the attainment of skill therein ; 
since the workman determines the length of the nap 
by the peculiar position in which the long light shears 
are held. A nap or pile as fine as that of velvet can be 
produced by this operation. 

The routine of processes now requires that we 
should visit the western range of buildings, on the op- 
posite side of Bermondsey Street. At the remote end 
of the court-yard we see a dark and dismal-looking 
building, having very little light, and that little re- 
ceived through unglazed windows, — large boiling 

cauldrons, which it requires some nerve to look into. — 
a spacious brass cage or frame, — cranes and tackle for 
raising weights, — and a party of workmen whose per- 
sons and garments denote the staining effect of the hot 
dye to which they arc exposed. This is the 'dye- 
house/ where the hate exchange their drab or grey 

Digitized by 






hue for a black one. The dyeing ingredients are log- 
wood and some metallic salts, boiled in certain pro- 
portions in soft water. The logwood is imported from 
Campeachy in logs five or six feet long, and from five 
to ten inches thick ; and a room in this extensive fac- 
tory is appropriated to the cutting of these logs into 
fine shreds. For this purpose a powerful revolving 
wheel, provided with four cutting-blades inserted ra- 
diallv in one of its faces, is employed : the ends of the 
logs \>eing applied to these blades, the wood is cut into 
shreds with astonishing force and quickness. 

The cauldron with the dyeing ingredients being 
ready, a number of hats are fixed upon blocks, and 
the blocks, by means of a hole at one end of each, are 
fixed to brass pegs inserted in a large skeleton frame ; 
so that the hats shall not touch each other. The frame 
is then lowered into the cauldron, and turned in such 
a manner as to allow all the hats to be submerged in 
the dye ; after which the frame is hauled up, and the 
hats allowed to drain for thirty or forty minutes. This 
alternate submersion and partial drying is repeated 
twelve or fifteen times, until every fibre of the hat, — 
felt as well as nap, — is thoroughly dyed. This is fol- 
lowed by soaking and washing, which frees the surface 
from impurities ; and the hat is then again ' stoved.' A 
few subsequent processes remove certain irregulari- 
ties of shape, which the hat has acquired by repeated 
submersions in the dye-liquor. 

We next visit a department of the building where 
'finishers' are employed. A boiler is so arranged as 
to yield a jet of steam, over which the hat is held until 
thoroughly softened ; and having a block shaped in 
every part nearly as the hat is intended to be, the 
4 finisher * pulls, rubs, and presses the hat, until it as- 
sumes the form of the block ; after which the nap is 
stretched, turned in any required direction, and 
smoothed, by various sets of brushes, small cushions 
of velvet, and heated irons. The adjoining cuts show 
three successive stages in the shaping of the bats, from 
the first rough * blocking' to the production of a flat 
and sinooth-edged brim while on the finishing-block ; 
likewise a beaver bonnet on the block by which it is 

Once again we cross to the east range, and visit the 
firat story of a large pile of buildings on the left hand. 
Here the busy hum of lively voices soon indicates to 
the visitor the sex of the inmates. We enter a large 
square room, full of litter and bustle, and find fifty or 
sixty young females employed in 'trimming' hats, 

that is, putting on the lining, the leather, the binding, 
&c. Some are sitting at long tables, — some standing, 
— others seated round a fire, with their work in their 
laps ; but all plying the industrious needle, and earning 
an honourable subsistence. 

A word or two respecting the employment of females 
in factories : — The texture of English society is such, 
that the number of reputable employments for females 
in the middle and humble ranks is very small. Most 
fathers and brothers are well aware of this ; and wo- 
men themselves, however desirous of contributing to 
their means of support, are cramped in their efforts by 
the limited range of avocations left open to them. The 
effect of this is such as never fails to result when the 
vineyard is too small for the labourers ; the number 
of employments being few, so many females embark 
in them that the supplv greatly exceeds the demand, 
and the value of female labour is thereby brought to a 
very low level. Under such circumstances it is im- 
portant to inquire how far female labour may be 
available in factories where the subdivision of employ- 
ments is carried out on a complete scale ; and the fac- 
tory now under consideration may afford some valuable 
hints on this point. The number of females employed 
here is not far short of two hundred, whose earnings 
vary from eight to fourteen shillings per week. The 
degree of ingenuity required varies considerably, so as 
to give scope for different degrees of talent. Among 
the processes by which a beaver hat is produced, wo- 
men and girls are employed in the following : — pluck- 
ing the beaver skins ; cropping off the fur ; sorting 
various kinds of wool ; plucking and cutting rabbits 
wool ; shearing the nap of the blocked hat (in some 
cases) ; picking out defective fibres of fur ; and trim- 
ming. Other departments of the factory, unconnected 
with the manufacture of beaver hats, also give em- 
ployment to numerous females. Where a uniform 
system of supervision and of kindness on the part of 
the proprietors is acted on, no unfavourable effects are 
to be feared from such an employment of females in a 
factory. We cannot dwell longer on this matter ; but 
in endeavouring to solve the important problem, " How 
can all live — and live honestly ?" the nature and extent 
of female employments becomes a prominent subject 
for thought. 

But we have not yet finished our hat. However 
carefully the process of * blowing ' may be performed, 
in order to separate the coarse fibres of the fur from the 
more delicate, there are always a few of the former 
left mingled with the latter ; and these are worked up 
during the whole of the subsequent processes. Women 
are employed, therefore, after the hats have left the 
' finishers,' in picking out, with small tweezers, such 
defective fibres as may present themselves at the sur- 
face of the hats. 

Lastly, the hat is placed in the hands of a workman 
whose employment requires an accurate eye, and a 
fertile taste in matters of shape and form : this is the 
' shaper.' He has to study the style and fashion of the 
day, as well as the wishes of individual purchasers, by 
giving to the brim of the hat such curvatures in various 
directions as may be needed. Simple as this may ap- 
pear, the workman who possesses the requisite skill 
can command a high rate of wages. Fortunate is the 
' shaper * who during a ramble to any place of fashiona- 
ble resort can espy a new form of brim, — a curl here, 
a depression there, — and can imitate it at his work- 
bench,— he will please his employer, and profit him- 

Thus we arrive at the finished state of the beaver 
hat ; and may now leave it to run its career through 
all weathers, — wet and dry, — cold and heat, — till it is 
destined to be replaced by a new one. Whether we are 
contented with the "shocking bad hat," or have to en- 

Digitized by 




[Jan. 1841. 

dure the uneasy pressure of the stiff and glossy new 
one with fortitude, we must assuredly acknowledge 
that a beaver hat, whether considered with reference 
to the peculiar processes by which it is produced, or to 
the number of distinct sets of work-people (from 
twenty to twenty-five) through whose hands it passes, 
occupies an interesting and important place in the 
manufacturing history of this country. 

In tracing the progress of a beaver hat, from the 
time when the materials arc brought into the factory, 
till the hat is made, trimmed, and shaped, we have 
carried the reader through the greater part of this 
large establishment, and have shown the purposes to 
which the different departments are appropriated. It 
will, however, be desirable to say a few words respect- 
ing the silk -hat department. 

As the number of beavers caught annually in Ame- 
rica has greatly declined, the price of beaver-fur has 
of late years increased ; and this circumstance has led 
to the production of a kind of hat which presents Bome 
resemblance to beaver, and yet may be produced at a 
low r^te. This is the silk hat, the manufacture of 
which has gone through several Btages of improvement, 
by which even an humble ' gossamer * now presents a 
neat and glossy exterior. 

Silk is wholly incapable of the process of felting, 
and therefore cannot be employed in the same manner 
as fur and wool. The body of the silk hat is made 
cither of coarse felted wool, or of some light material 
such as willow or stiffened cambric ; and on this is 
placed a covering or hood of silk plush, sewn to the 
proper size for the hat The Messrs. Christy weave 
their own plush at a factory in Lancashire, and 
send it to London in the form of a soft glossy mate 
rial, which is cut and sewn by women to the requisite 
shape of the hats. 

The bodies are made in a very rough way, by shaping 
the willow, cotton, or felted wool round blocks, and 
using a substance of extra thickness for the brim. A 
varnish cement is used to join the various parts ; and 
a resinous stiffening composition is laid over the outer 
surface. Some time before the plush hood is laid on, 
the body is coated with a peculiar varnish, which, 
being softened by a heated iron after the hood is laid 
in its proper position, causes the plush to adhere to the 
foundation. This process is the most difficult in the 
silk-hat manufacture ; for not only must the plush be 
made to adhere in every part, but the seam or joining 
up the side of the hat must be made as little visible as 
possible. No sewing is here employed ; but the two 
meeting edges are brought precisely together, pressed 
down with a heated iron, and the silk shag brushed 
over the joint. 

The minuter details of the silk-hat department we 
must pass over ; for, so far as they differ from beaver 
hatting, they are of much less interest. Beaver hatters 
look down with some little scorn on the operations of 
silk hatting ; and certainly, so far as regards manipu- 
lative skill acquired by long practice, the former 
branch of handicraft is by far the most remarkable; 
but still the silk hatter appeals with such moderation 
to the purse of the purchaser, that we cannot afford to 
lose sight of him. 

The silk hatters, instead of occupying different parts 
of the factory, arc congregated in one building along 
the southern side of the avenue leading to the great 
chimney ; the building being divided into numerous 
small apartments. On the left of the chimney is a 
range ot shops wherein are made common black glazed 
japan hats, such as are worn by sailors and persons 
much exposed to the weather. The bodies of these 
hats are made of common felted wool, and the outer 
covering is a thick coating of black varnish or japan, 
presenting a glossy surface. A high temperature is 

required for this purpose, and the situation and ar 
rangement of the shops are such as to ensure this 

Tncre is a distinct range of apartments in which 
seal-skin and other skin or fur caps are made. In 
these, unlike beaver hats, the fur is not cut from the 
pelt and then felted ; but the pelt, with the fur re- 
maining on it, is dressed into leather, and is cut up 
into such pieces as may, by subsequent processes, be 
fofmed into caps of various shapes. 

Another department, entirely distinct from the rest, 
is that in which cloth caps of various kinds are made. 
This, generally speaking, is effected by needlework, 
and wholly differs from the processes of hat-making. 

Here we terminate our visit to an establishment 
which presents so considerable a number of interesting 
processes. We have selected that of Messrs. Christy 
Dccause, from the completeness and systematic arrange- 
ment of the details, it well illustrates the economy of 
a large factory, — the concentration of many depart- 
ments within the walls of one establishment, the divi- 
sion of labour, the exercise of delegated authority by 
foremen to each department, and a general super- 
vision of the whole by the proprietors. It is difficult 
to estimate the area of ground covered by all the 
workshops; but the reader may, from the foregoing 
details, form some idea of the numerous piles of building 
constituting the factory. There are many establish- 
ments in and near London, such as water-works, gas- 
works, ship-yards, tan-yards, brewhouses, distilleries, 
glass-works, &c, the extent of which would excite no 
little surprise in those who for the first time visited 
them. Indeed the densely packed masses of building 
forming the eastern districts of the metropolis, on both 
sides of the river, include individual establishments 
which, although they would appear like little towns if 
isolated, scarcely meet the eye of a passenger through 
the crowded streets. 

We may here remark, as a completion of our notice 
of the hat manufacture generally, that the making of 
straw-hats, so much worn in country places, is in the 
hands of a class of persons altogether different from 
those engaged in the other brancnes of hatting. The 
finer qualities of straw, as well as white whale- 
bone and white chip, are used for bonnets rather 
than for hats ; but the mode of manufacture is 
nearly the same in all. There are delicate planing- 
machmes in use, by which any soft kind of wood 
can be cut into thin shavings, and the shavings, at the 
same time, cut into very narrow strips with great pre- 
cision. Such is the case with willow, and also with 
whalebone. The willow of which the foundations of 
silk hats arc frequently made is prepared in some such 
way as this ; the narrow strips ot willow being plaited, 
or perhaps we might say woven, into a square sheet 
sufficiently large for three hats. A slight glance at 
the willow foundation of a silk hat will show the 
nature of the material, and will also show that the 
mode in which the narrow strips are linked together 
resembles weaving rather than plaiting. It is not 
difficult to imagine, from these few details, that a hat 
or bonnet may be made from any such materials as 
whalebone, wood, straw, cane, rush, or others wherein 
a longitudinal fibrous structure iB found ; and the 
reader will readily call to mind numerous examples 
of such an application of fibrous materials. 

In conclusion, we have to acknowledge the courtesy 
of the proprietors, and to express our pleasure at the 
harmonious and kindly feeling which evidently exists 
at this factory between the employers and tne em- 
ployed. The maintenance of such a feeling between 
parties thus connected is of the highest importance in 
a manufacturing country like England, and forms one 
of the most valuable ties in the structure of society. 

Digitized by 


Fib. e, 1841] 



found Ximena Gomez, daughter of the Count Lozano, 
attended by a numerous train. She was clad in robes 
of black ; a gauze veil of the same hue covered her 
head ; her hair hiing in long and dishevelled tresses 
over her fair neck, and tears were streaming from 
her eyes. She fell on her knees at the king^s feet, 
crying for justice against him who had slain her 
father : 

" Justice, king ! I sue fur justice — 
Vengeance on a traitorous knight 
Grant it me! — so shall thy children 
Thrive, and prove thy soul's delight 

Like to God himself are monarch* 

Set to govern on this earth, 
All the vile and base to punish, 

And to guerdon virtuous worth.' 

no. 568. 

But the king who doth not justice 

Nfr'er the sceptre more should sway- 
Ne'er should nobles pay him homage- 
Vassals ne'er his hests obey : 

Never should he mount a charger — 
Never more should gird the sword— 

Never with his queen hold converse- 
Never sit at royal board." 

Her eye then fell on Rodrigo, who stood among the 
attendant nobles : 

" Thou hast slain the best and bravest 
That e'er set a lance in rest, 
Of our holy faith the bulwark — 
Terror of each Paynim breast 

Vol. X.— H 

Digitized by 




[February 6 

Traitorous murderer, slay me also ! 

Though a woman, slaughter me ! 
Spare not — I'm Ximena Gomel, 

Thine eternal enemy ! 

Here's my throat — finite, I beseech theel 

Smite, and fatal be thy blow ! 
Death is all I ask, thou caitiff, — 

Grant this boon unto thy foe." 

Not a word did Rodrigo reply, but seizing the bridle 
of his steed, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode 
slowly away. Ximena turned to the crowd of nobles, 
and seeing that none prepared to follow him and take 
up her cause, she cried aloud, "Vengeance, sirs! I 
pray ye, vengeance !" A second time did the damsel 
disturb the king, when at a banquet, with her cries for 
justice. She had now a fresh complaint : 

" Every day at early morning, 
To despite me more, I wist, 
He who slew my sire doth ride by, 
With a falcon on his fist. 

'At my tender doves he flies it ; 

Many of them hath it slain. 
See! their blood hath dyed my garments 

With full many a crimson stain. 

List ! — The king who doth not justice, 
He deserveth not to reign ;" &c. 

and she rebuked the king in the same strain as on the 
occasion of her former complaint. Fernando, partak- 
ing of the superstition of the age, did not relish her 
implied curses, and began to ponder on the course he 
had to pursue. " God in Heaven help me and lend me 
his counsel ! If 1 imprison the youth, or put him to 
death, my Cortes will revolt, for the love they bear hiin ; 
if I fail to punish him, God will call my soul to ac- 
count. I will at all events send a letter forthwith, and 
summon him to my presence." 

This letter was put into the hands of Diego Lainez. 
Rodrigo asked to see it, but the old man, suspecting 
some sinister design against his boy, refused to show 
it, saying, " It is nothing, save a summons for thee to 
go to Burgos ; but tarry thou here, my son, and I will 
go in thy stead." " Never !" replied the youth, — 

" Ne'er would God or Holy Mary 
Suffer me this thing to do. 
To what place soe'er thou goest, 
Thither I before thee go/ 1 

How tender is the filial affection here betrayed by 
the Cid, and yet is it by no means inconsistent with the 
fierce burst of passion which the paternal squeeze had 
before called forth. 

That Rodrigo was not punished is evident, for 
Ximena repeated her visit to the king a third and a 
fourth time, still demanding vengeance. On this 
latter occasion she was attended by thirty squires of 
noble blood, arrayed in long robes of black which 
swept the ground behind them. The king was sitting 
on his high-backed chair listening to the complaints of 
his subjects, and dispensing justice, rewarding the good 
and punishing the bad, lor " thus are vassals made 
good and faithful." The mace-bearers being com- 
manded to quit the royal presence, Ximena fell on her 
knees and renewed her complaint : 

" King ! six moons have past away 
Since my sire was reft of life, 
By a youth whom thou dost cherish 
For such deeds of murderous strife. 

Four times have I cried thee justice — 

Four times have I sued in vain ; 
Promises I get in plenty — 

Justice none can I obtain." 

The king thus comforts her : 

" Say no more, oh, noble damsel ! 

Thy complaints would soften down 
Bosoms were they hard as iron,— 

Melt them were they cold as stone. 

If I cherish Don Rodrigo, 

For thy weal I keep the boy ; 
Soon, I trow, will this same gallant 

Turn thy mourning into joy." 

Fernando probably saw, what the damsel herself did 
not understand, that Rodrigo*s hawking at her doves 
in his daily rides by her dwelling, was but a rough 
mode of courtship, intimating that he himself was 
flying at higher game in their mistress. 

The second feat of arms achieved by our young hero 
was his conquest of five Moorish chiefi, or kings, as the 
romances term them, who had made a foray into the ter- 
ritory of Castile. They had ravaged the land nearly to 
the gates of Burgos, the capital, everywhere unresisted ; 
had taken many captives and a vast booty, and were 
returning in triumph, when Rodrigo, then but a beard- 
less youth, who had not seen twenty summers, mounted 
his steed Babieca, gathered a host of armed men, fell 
suddenly upon the Moors as they were crossing the 
mountains of Oca, routed them with great slaughter, 
and captured the five kings, with all their slaves and 

" Rodrigo Dial, great his honour $ 
Beardless tho' be be, and tender, 
To him princes five of Moordom 
Fealty and tribute render." 

The spoil he divided among his followers, but reserved 
the kings for his own share, and carried them home to 
his castle of Bivar, to present them as proofs of hie 
prowess to his mother. With his characteristic gene- 
rosity, which was conspicuous even at this early age, 
he then set them at liberty, on their agreeing to pay 
him tribute; and they departed to their respective 
lands, extolling his valour and magnanimity. 

The fame of this exploit soon spread far and wide 
through the land, and, as martial valour was in those 
chivalrous times the surest passport to ladies' favour, 
it must have had its due effect on Ximena's mind, and 
will in a great measure account for the entire change 
in her sentiments towards the youth which she mani- 
fested on her fifth visit to the palace at Burgos. Fall- 
ing on her knees before the king, she spoke thus : — 

" I am daughter of Don Gomes, 
Count of Gormas was he bight, 
Him Rodrigo by bis valour 
Did o'erthrow in mortal fight. 

King ! I come to crave a favour — 

This the boon for which I pray, 
That thou give me this Rodrigo 

For my wedded lord this day. 

Happy shall I deem my wedding, 

Yea, mine honour will be great, 
For right sure am I his fortune 

Will advance him in the state. 

Grant this precious boon, I pray thee! 

'Tis a duty thou dost owe ; 
For the great God hath commanded 

That we should forgive a foe. 

Freely will I grant him pardon 

That he slew my much-loved sire, 
If with gracious ear he hearken 

To my bosom's fond desire," 

"Now I see," said the king, "how true it is what I 
have often heard, that the will of woman is wild and 
strange. H itherto this damsel hath sought deadly ven- 

feance on the youth, and now she would have him to 
usband. Howbeit, with right good-will, I will grant 

Digitized by 






what she desireth." He sent at once for Rodrigo, who, 
with a train of three hundred young nohles, his friends 
and kinsmen, all arrayed in new armour and robes of a 
similar colour, obeyed with all speed the royal sum- 
mons. The king rode forth to meet him, •• for right 
well did he love Rodrigo," and opened the matter to 
him, promising him great honours and much land if 
he would make Ximena his bride. Rodrigo, who de- 
sired nothing better, at once acquiesced : 

" King and lord ! right well it pleaseth 
Me thy wishes to fulfil ; 
In this thing, at in all others, 
I obey thy sovereign will." 

The young pair then plighted their troth in presence 
of the king, and in pledge thereof gave him their 
hands. He kept his promise, and gave Rodrigo Val- 
duerna, Saldana, Belforado, and San Pedro de Cardeiia, 
for a marriage portion. , 

On the day appointed, Rodrigo was arrayed by his 
brothers for the wedding. Having doffed his well- 
burnished and graven armour, he put on first a pair of 
galligaskins, or long loose drawers, with fringes of 
purple, then his hose, and over both a wide pair of 
Walloon breeches, " such as were worn in that golden 
age," saith the romance. His shoes were of cow's lea- 
ther and scarlet cloth, fastened over the instep with 
buckles. His shirt was even-edged, without fringe, 
embroidery, or stiffening, "for starch was then food for 
children ;" his doublet or waistcoat was of black satin, 
with loose sleeves, and quilted throughout, the which 
doublet "his father had sweated in three or four 
battles ;" over this he wore a slashed leathern jerkin 
or jacket, "in memory of the many slashes he had 
given in the field,* a German cloak lined with plush, 
and a cap of fine Flemish cloth with a single cock's 
feather, completed his costume. But we must not 
forget his sword Tizona, " the terror of the world," t 
which he girt about him with a new belt, which, says 
the romance, "cost him four quartos," a sum that 
might have been considerable in those days, but is now 
only a fraction more than an English penny. Thus 
gaily attired, he descended to the court of the palace, 
where the king, his nobles, and the bishop who was to 
perform the ceremony, awaited him on foot. All then 
moved in procession to the church to the sound of 
music, Rodrigo walking in the midst. 

After awhile came Ximena, with a veil over her 
head, and her hair dressed out in large flaps hanging 
down over her ears.* She wore an embroidered gown 
of fine London cloth, and a close-fitting spencer with 
a flap behind. She walked on high-heeled clogs of 
red leather. A necklace of eight medals or plates 
of jgold, with a small pendent image of St. Michael, 
which together were " worth a city," encircled her 

The happy pair met, seized each other's hands, and 
embraced. Then said Rodrigo with great emotion, as 
he gazed on his bride — 

" I did slay thy sire, Ximena, 

But, God wot, not traitorously ; 
'Twas iu open fight I slew him : 
Sorely had he wronged me. 

• If we may rely on the authenticity of a "suit of armour 
shown in the Royal Armoury at Madrid as that of the Cid, 
these slashes must have been fashionable in Spain at a very early 
age, for on the cuirass of that suit are engraved rude figures of 
men with short slashed breeches. 

t HeYe the romance is guilty of an anachronism ; for, accord- 
ing to the chronicle, the poem, and other romances, Tizona did 
not become the property of the Cid till many years after, when 
he won it from the Moorish king Bucar beneath the walls of 

A man I slew — a man I give thee— 

Here I stand thy will to bide ! 
Thou, in place of a dead father, 

Hast a husband at thy side. 

All approved well his prudence 

And extolled him with zeal : 
Thus they celebrate the nuptials 

Of Rodrigo of Castile." 

Another romance, apparently of more modern date, 
describes the wedding costume of the Cid with equal mi- 
nuteness, but very differently, dressing him in a doublet 
of dove-coloured satin, light scarlet hose, and slashed 
shoes of yellow silk, a short jacket with sleeves closely 
plaited beneath the shoulder, a folded handkerchief 
hanging from his girdle, a collar of gold and precious 
stones about his neck, and a short black cloak with 
hood and sleeves over all. This costume appears to 
belong to a less remote age than the former ; but we 
have no means of determining the question, as the 
chronicles are wholly silent on the subject. 

A third romance gives an animated description ot 
the procession from the church to the royal palace, 
where the wedding feast was laid out, and tells us bow 
the streets of Burgos* were strewn with boughs of sweet 
cypress— how flowered cloths were hung from the 
windows— how the king had raised a festive arch of 
great elegance at the cost of thirty-four quartos— how 
minstrels sung their lays to the honour of the wedded 
pair— and how buffoons and merry-andrews danced 
and played their antics, one with bladders in hand, an- 
other in the disguise of a bull, and a third in the like- 
ness of a demon, to whom the king gave sixteen mara- 
vedis, " because he scared the women well." At the 
head of the procession marched the bridegroom and 
the bishop who had performed the ceremony, with 
their attendants ; then followed a crowd of these bois- 
terous merry-makers; and the king, leading the fair 
Ximena by the hand, with the queen and many a veiled 
lady, brought up the rear. As they passed through 
the streets, wheat was showered from the windows 
upon the bride— a mute but emphatic expression of 
a desire-that she might prove prolific. The seeds fell 
thickly on the neck and into the bosom of the blush- 
ing Ximena, and the king officiously plucked them 
forth with his own hand ; whereat exclaimed the waff 
Suero — 

" * 'Tis a fine thing to be a king, but Heaven make me a hand V 
The king was very merry when he was told of this, 
And swore the bride, ere eventide, should give the boy a kiss. 

The king went always talking, but she held down her head, 
And seldom gave an answer to anything he said : 
It was better to be silent, among such a crowd of folk, 
Than utter words so meaningless as she did when she spoke." 

We quote from Lockhart, who has rendered with 
great spirit several of the romances of the Cid into 
English ballad metre. 

Fall of AeroiUet at Milan. — On the 17th of July, 1840, at 
seven o'clock in the morning, a loud detonation was heard, re- 
sembling a peal of thunder, and near Golosecca three luminous 
projectiles were observed proceeding towards Somma, from east 
to west The sound of the explosion extended for twenty or 
thirty miles round Milan. The largest aerolite was found near 
Ceresato, a village in the neighbourhood, having penetrated 
twenty inches into the earth. It weighed 10 lbs. 2 ox. The 
others were of smaller size, and fell near the larger cne ; hut 
they have not been found. 

• The romances are not agreed as to whether the wedding 
was celebrated at Burgos or Palencia, but the chronicles deter 
mine it to have' been at the latter city. 

H 2 

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[February 6. 

[The Nativity.— Rembrandt 



There is no painter who has attained to a high re- 
putation whose works are so likely, with the un in- 
structed in art, to mislead, both by their merits and 
defects, as the illustrious artist whose name stands at 
the head of this article. The Nativity, which is repre- 
sented above, was formerly in the collection of the late 
Mr. Angerstein, and now, together with the other 
valuable pictures of that gentleman, forms a portion of 
the National Gallery. Of its merits as a work of art, 
which, in the opinion as well of critics as of practi- 
tioners of painting, are held to be of the highest order 
of excellence, we shall presently proceed to speak, 
and endeavour to point out the grounds of the admira- 
tion in which it is held, and then offer some remarks 
upon the principles which have guided Rembrandt in 
the management of his works. 

As, however, this is the first time we have had occa- 
sion to criticise the productions of this painter, we 
will give a very short account of the leading events of 
his life. He was born on the 15th of June, 1606, and 
was the son of a miller, named Gerretz, who lived near 

Leyden, on the banks of the Rhine*, whence, when the 
painter attained to reputation, he was distinguished by 
the title of Rembrandt van Ryn. He studied succes- 
sively under Jacob van Swannenberg, Peter Lastman, 
and Jacob Pinas, in all not more than fifteen months. 
From these preceptors he learned manual dexterity, 
but the peculiar effects of his works, the prevalence of 
dark in nis pictures, was the result of his own observa- 
tion in his father's mill, where he had opportunities of 
seeing the strongest contrasts of light and shade. He 
worked for some time at his native place, but, having 
gone to the Hague, at the advice of a fellow-student, 
he there sold a picture for a hundred florins, and, soon 
after, obtained numerous commissions for landscapes 
and portraits, which he executed at home. In 1630 he 
settled in Amsterdam, and at the same time married, 
and undertook the tuition of many pupils, who paid 
one hundred florins a year each. One of his earliest 
and steadiest patrons was the burgomaster Six, for 
whom he painted the Woman taken in Adultery, 
whicli now forms another of the most splendid orna- 
ments of the National Gallery. Rembrandt was 
scarcely less eminent as an engraver than as a painter, 
but we have n< » occasion here to speak upon that sub- 

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ject. He died at Amsterdam, having accumulated 
considerable wealth, in 1674. A tale has been told of 
him which has been related of other artiste, and is, per- 
haps, about as true of him as of any other. It is, that 
finding, during his earlier career, his pictures were 
not purchased so promptly as he wished, he caused it 
to be given out that he was dead, ordered a sale of 
his paintings and engravings, and so enhanced their 

The subject of the Nativity is one which has been 
frequently handled by Rembrandt, and by other painters 
of the same school; by them, perhaps, on account -of 
its presenting an opportunity, from the homeliness of its 
locality, of indulging in their favourite representations 
of familiar life ; by Rembrandt, without doubt, from 
its affording a noble field for the display of his peculiar 
power. In observing the work now before him, it 
will not fail to strike the intelligent spectator that the 
composition is lighted from two distinct sources ; the 
chief splendour is derived from the glory emanating 
from the divine Infant, whilst the right-hand portion 
is illuminated by the lantern in the hand of the standing 
figure, and the background is further lighted by some 
means not comprised within the limits of the picture. 
This has enabled the painter to distinguish between 
the supernatural and the natural lights, and the various 
gradations of both, and the effect produced must be at 
once admitted to be masterly in the extreme. The first 
presents a greater purity of tint, and the latter a glow- 
ing richness, which, wjiilst it contrasts forcibly with 
the surrounding shadows, adds, by its increased yellow- 
ness, brilliancy even to the emanation proceeding from 
the cradled Redeemer. The background represents 
the interior of a stable, and the cattle give identity to 
the scene. 

Rembrandt is said not only to have repudiated the 
beauties of Grecian and Italian art, but also to have 
ridiculed them ; but whether so or not, certain it is he 
never, in his own practice, evinces purity of form, and 
very rarely justness of proportion. Indeed his figures 
are remarkable for their uncouthness, and sometimes 
deformity, rather than for their beauty, and he would 
almost appear to have preferred vulgarity to grace. 
He seems to have generally had defective models to 
work from, and to have scrupulously followed what he 

Thus disclosing the prevailing fault of the painter 
brings us to the point wnere we may describe what are 
his excellences above all others, and what is the prin- 
ciple upon which he constructed his works. 

The great merit, then, of Rembrandt consists in his 

{jrofound knowledge of harmony in colouring, and of 
lis management of the lights and darks, technically 
called chiaro-'scuro. In the former, his pictures evi- 
dence his skill by the fact that the moment they meet 
the eye they produce a pleasing sensation. Toe un- 
tutored spectator is first struck by the glowing rich- 
ness of the performance, before he proceeds to consider 
the deformity of the figures, and voluntarily admits 
that he is gratified without knowing wherefore he is 
pleased. In compositions such as that now under no- 
tice, namely, interiors lighted only in a small propor- 
tionate degree, this is more frequently the case than in 
other works of this master. A larger space, only 
partially illuminated, must naturally present powerful 
contrasts, and such as the most uncultivated eye must 
at once understand ; but in exterior views, where there 
is a much larger proportion of light, and in which, 
notwithstanding, strong oppositions of dark are to be 
found, it requires much greater knowledge of the 
principles of art to form a just estimate of their cor- 
rectness. We have, however, now to speak only of 
the class of which the cut above is a brilliant example. 
In observing a picture of this class, the spectator, after 

the first sensation of visual pleasure has subsided* 
should consider whether the effect depicted is accounted 
for by the subject itself that is, whether, for the sha- 
dows he sees before him, there is a light placed in 
such a position in the picture, or indicated as being 
beyond its limits, as must necessarily produce such a 
shade ; if he find that to be the case, he may be sure 
that the painter has achieved his end, he has gratified 
the eye and has satisfied the understanding. If, upon 
further inspection, he finds that the painter has so 
arranged his colours that the most brilliant and the 
lightest shall form a portion of that part of the picture 
from which or by wnich it is illuminated, and shall 
find the dark draperies and other objects so introduced 
as to combine with the shadows to form a contrast, he 
will, in some degree, perceive and understand what is 
meant by the term chiaro-'scuro. In a word, then, a 
person in viewing the works of Rembrandt must look 
for fidelity of effect, and not for correctness of draw- 

If we regret the absence of that dignity of form with 
which Raffaelle invests his Scripture characters, we 
must not pass over without notice the fact that as the 
great events of the life of the Saviour, from his birth 
m a stable to his death by the most shameful punish- 
ment of the cross, were characterised by lowliness, 
and as most of the important agents in the progress of 
Christianity itself were of humble station, as in the 
instances of Peter and Andrew and James and John, 
there is perhaps less blame attachable to Rembrandt 
for the familiarity of his figures in such subjects than 
would at first sight appear. He knew that the in- 
struments of the divine revelation were of lowly birth 
and of mean occupation, and he therefore represented 
in his pictures sucn forms as his models presented un- 
dignified by any adventitious aid from his pencil. He 
pamted for brilliancy of effect and splendour of 
colouring, and not for beauty of form or majesty of 
expression. It is, therefore, for the former qualities 
that he is to be prized. 

The works ot Rembrandt are open to observation 
for his neglect of the propriety of costume, but we 
must not on that account the less value the truth of 
what he does represent. It is unquestionably better that 
the verity of history should be preserved in all works 
of art, but all parts of a picture should represent a 
consistency of date ; yet, because historic truth is vio- 
lated, we must not be led into an opposite extreme, 
and refuse our approbation to the fidelity of the imita- 
tion which is before us. If this painter, like, other 
artists of his own school, and eminent ones of the 
Venetian and Flemish schools, has violated history, 
still he has not violated painting in its rules, so long 
as the things he has represented are, in themselves, 
true to nature. 

It is sometimes objected that no effect is to be ob- « 
served exactly similar to that given by Rembrandt ; 
that in no instance can we see such depth of shadow 
where there is positive light. To a certain extent this 
is true, and the reason is manifest, for no painting can 
exactly imitate positive light, though it may give the 
effect of it by the minute exactness with which the 
gradations from light to dark are depicted. If, by so 
much as the brightest part of a picture necessarily 
falls short of positive light, in the same degree the 
other parts of it are made so much darker than reality, 
the scale of proportion is preserved, and the work is 
therefore consistent in itself, and true as an imitation 
of nature. If this be borne in mind in watching the 
productions of Rembrandt, it will greatly tend to 
familiarise the untutored in art to the superb con- 
trasts he displays. 

Of the principle by which this great genius was 
guided, it will be necessary only to say that he con- 

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[February 6, 

sidered the power of his picture was to be gained by 
an infinitely greater proportion of dark than light, a 
principle diametrically opposed to that by which Ru- 
Dcns was guided in his practice. 

We avoid, as much as possible, technical phraseology, 
but there is one point of a practical nature to which tlie 
attention of a visitor to this picture may be drawn. It 
is the mode in which the artist worked. The glowing 
effect caused by the lights in his pictures is produced 
by the masterly use of what artists call glasing, that is, 
painting over opaque colour with rich transparent 
tints, a practice which originated with the Venetian 
school, and was adopted by those of Holland and 
Flanders. It is acknowledged that no other mode of 
operation will give equal brilliancy, and it cannot be 
denied that by no hand has it been more skillfully 
applied than that of the illustrious Rembrandt. 


[Continued from page 29.] 

In our previous article we trust we have enabled the 
reader to comprehend " what constitutes a steam- 
engine." It is not the application of steam-power to 
any particular purpose, but it is the production of a 
reciprocating motion. A portion of water in a boiler 
is exposed to the action of fire; steam is formed; 
this steam is admitted into a cylinder, through which a 
piston works ; the steam drives up the piston, and is 
then converted into water by being put in communica- 
tion with a cold vessel ; a vacuum is thus formed below 
the piston, and this, and steam admitted above it, press 
down the piston ; this second amount of steam is con- 
densed; -and a new series of similar movements occur. 
The piston thus being set in motion, a connecting rod 
communicates this motion to machinery, by which the 
motion is converted into some definite Kind by cranks 
or other means. This is the great principle of the pro- 
cess ; and by far the larger part of the beautiful but 
complicated mechanism seen in a steam-engine con- 
sists of matters of detail not involving the principle on 
which the engine acts, but tending to bring that prin- 
ciple to better account. Such an engine is a condensing 
engine. The application of steam-power to loco- 
motion and to shipping frequently requires a modifi- 
cation of the arrangement, constituting a high-pressure 
engine, the nature of which will be seen hereafter. 

How many a railroad traveller has marvelled at the 
hidden power which propels him and his companions 
at so rapid a rate ! He books his place, pays his fare, 
enters one of a long string of vehicles, and presently 
feels himself to be in motion. Before and after him 
may be human beings, cattle, horses, private carriages, 
merchandise ; yet all are driven on by the same im- 
pulse, and with a rapidity which, twelve years ago, we 
would have deemed almost chimerical. The traveller 
finds the train headed by an engine which appears to 
afford the moving power, — by a mechanical horse, in 
fact, which requires no other provender than coke and 
water ; and he may naturally wish to gather a brief 
outline of the mode in which this most valuable species 
of horse performs its work. This outline we will en- 
deavour to give. 

In pages 28 and 29 of the present volume we explained 
the main points which constitute a steam-engine, as well 
as the mode in which the power there gained is made 
available for the production of circular motion. For 
a locomotive carriage another form of engine is neces- 
sary, principally on account of the inconveniently large 
space which a condensing apparatus would occupy. It 
will be remembered, that tne steam which moves the 
piston in a common steam-engine is afterwards con- 
veyed \o a vessel surrounded by cold water, the chil- 
ling effect of which re-converts the steam into water, 
and thereby produces a vacuum beneath the piston. 

But in an engine destined for motion, both size and 
weight become matters of importance ; and if the con- 
densing apparatus can be dispensed with altogether, 
the engine will obviously be rendered smaller and 

The only mode of getting rid entirely of the principle 
of condensation in the steam-engine is to employ 
steam of such a power as greatly exceeds the pressure 
of the atmosphere. All the beams, rods, Sec, of & 
steam-engine are subject to atmospheric pressure; 
and in Newcomen's engine it was this pressure, act- 
ing on one side of a piston while the other side was in 
vacuo, which caused the descent of the piston. la 
Watt's engines the atmosphere is excluded, but still 
the force of the steam does not greatly exceed that of 
the atmosphere. In the locomotive-engine, however, 
the condensing apparatus being absent, it is found that 
powerfully heated steam is required, which steam 
having a (rreat pressure, such engines are termed high- 
pressure, in contradistinction to condensing or /otp- 
pressure engines. These terms are generally but not 
universally correct, for the principle of high-pressure 
is sometimes combined with that of condensation. 

When water boils freely in an open vessel, the 
steam rising from it has a pressure or elasticity equal 
to that of tne atmosphere. Under ordinary circum- 
stances, when the barometer indicates about 30 
inches pressure, this occurs at the temperature of 212°. 
Under no circumstances can boiling water, in an open 
vessel exposed to the free action of the atmosphere, 
greatly exceed this temperature. But a closed vessel 
produces a change of effect ; for if it be sufficiently 
strong to resist a bursting pressure from within, the 
water is capable of attaining a far higher temperature ; 
indeed we Know of no limit to this increase but the 
inability of the vessel to bear the pressure. In general 
the steam of boiling water exerts a pressure of about 
15 pounds on every square inch of surface exposed to 
it; but with an increase of temperature in a close 
vessel, this pressure increases very rapidly ; for in- 
stance, at 226° it is about 20 pounds ; at 238?, 25 
pounds; at 257°, 35 pounds ; at 300°, 70 pounds on the 
square inch. 

Now this rapidly increasing pressure is the source 
of power in the high-pressure engine ; and one of the 
chief problems which the maker has to solve is, what 
must fee the strength of a close boiler, to bear such and 
such a pressure from within ? In practice, high-pres- 
sure engines are employed with a force or pressure of 
steam varying from twenty to one hundred and twenty 
pounds on the square inch. Let the reader clearly 
understand this point, and he will see how great is the 
pressure which tne boiler has to sustain. If the boiler 
were of a cylindrical shape, and measured six feet 
long by three in diameter, it would have a surface of 
more than 9000 square inches : if steam of 120 inches 
pressure were witnin the boiler, it would exceed the 
atmospheric pressure from without by 105 pounds per 
inch; which would give (105 X 9000 m 945,000) the 
enormous force of nearly one million pounds tending 
to burst the boiler from within. 

A power, similar to this in its origin, but of less in- 
tensity, is that to which locomotive-engines owe their 
value. A piston-rod is connected by a crank with 
the wheels of the carriage, in such a manner that when 
one moves the other must move also. The object is 
therefore to give a reciprocating motion to the piston ; 
and this is effected by admitting high-pressure steam 
into the cylinder wherein the piston works, so that a 
portion of steam, after moving the piston, may escape 
into the open air, and leave room for the piston to 
return by the force of a new supply of steam admitted 
on the other side of it. 
Although James Watt conceived the idea of such an 

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employment of high-pressure steam, yet Messrs. Trevi- 
thick and Vivian appear to have been the first to put 
it in action, about forty years ago. They constructed 
a steam-carriage, which proved a precursor to some 
others used on the tramways in the north of England 
and in Wales ; but the subject was not fairly tested 
until the railway system developed its wonderful 
power. While the projectors of the Liverpool and Man- 
chester Railway were engaged in that important under- 
taking, they were in doubt as to what moving power 
might best be applied to the carriages, whether horse- 
power, stationary engines with traction ropes, or loco- 
motive engines. The first two were successively aban- 
doned, and the last resolved on ; but in order to obtain 
the utmost amount of power with the least expendi- 
ture of fuel, a premium was offered to the owner of 
any locomotive-engine which should, on a certain trial- 
day, produce the most favourable results. The trial 
took place in October, 1829, and the premium was 
awarded to Messrs. Stephenson and Booth, for the 
performance of the • Rocket' engine. Since that time, 
numerous lines of railway have been opened ; and 
such gradual changes and improvements have been 
made in the locomotive-engines, as to bring them to 
the form represented in the annexed cut. The upper 
figure shows the external appearance, familiar to all 
railroad travellers ; the lower figure is a longitudinal 
section, through the middle of the engine. 

The larger part of the engine is occupied by the 
boiler, made generally of iron, but sometimes of copper. 
At the hinder end of tne boiler is a fire-box, so arranged 
as to be surrounded by water at every part except a 
door at which the fuel is introduced, and an open grating 

at bottom, the object of this waiter envelope being to 
prevent as much as possible the radiation and loss of 
neat. A man stands on the little stage or gallery at 
the back of the engine ; and a carriage called a tender, 
containing coke and water, comes next after the engine, 
between it and the passenger carriages. The operations 
may be conceived to go on in the following manner. 

The feed-pipe conveys water from the tender into 
the boiler by the action of a small forcing-pump placed 
beneath the latter, and worked by the piston-rod. 
Supposing then the boiler to have its proper quantity 
of water, the fire-box to have been supplied with 
coke, and a fire lighted, the smoke and heated air soon 
fill the fire-box, and then traverse a number of brass 
tubes which pass from end to end of the boiler, that is, 
from the fire-box to the smoke-box. These tubes are 
sometimes as many as a hundred and twenty in number, 
and about an inch and a half in diameter ; and their 
object is to present as much heated surface as possible 
to the water in the boiler. The smoke and air, after 
losing a great portion of their heat, pass into the 
smoke-box, from thence upwards into the chimney, 
and thence into the open air. This mode of tubing 
the boiler is one of the greatest improvements which 
have been introduced in locomotive engines, since the 
extent of heated surface causes the water to boil in a 
surprisingly short time. 

So much for the fire and its appendages : now for 
the steam. As the inside of tne boiler is wholly 
shielded from the atmosphere, the water may be made 
to attain as high a temperature as the strength of the 
boiler will admit ; and the space between the water 
and the root of the boiler becomes filled with steam of 
very high pressure. This steam is mixed with a good 
deal of spray from the water, and in order to eflcct a 
separation, the steam is made to ascend into a steam- 
chamber before it descends to the cylinder. After the 
separation from the spray, the steam descends the 
steam-pipe in the direction of the arrows, and then 
enters a little chamber, wbere, by the action of an in- 
genious sliding valve, it passes alternately before and 
behind the piston into the cylinder. The piston is 
thus driven alternately backwards and forwards ; and 
at each motion the steam, after having performed its 
office, passes into a waste pipe, and goes upwards in 
the direction of the arrow into the chimney, the latter 
thus serving to carry off both steam and smoke. 

The piston being set in motion backwards and for- 
wards, the rod to wnich it is connected acts, by the in- 
tervention of a crank, on the large central driving- 
wheels, which are thus made to revolve, and conse- 
quently the whole machine to be set in motion. The 
puffs or •• pantings ' which we hear several times in a 
second, are occasioned by the escape of the steam from 
the cylinder, after it has performed its work, into the 
chimney. There are two cylinders and two cranks on 
opposite sides of the machine ; but the description of 
one set will avail for the other also. 

The engine-man, on the little stage behind the boiler, 
has several pieces of mechanism under his immediate 
control. By means of the steam-whistle (h) he can 
admit steam into a small receptacle, where, passing 
through a minute aperture, and striking against a 
sharp edge, it produces a piercing noise, which acts 
as a warning signal. Near this whistle is a handle 
which, by means of a rod, opens or shuts a valve in the 
steam-pipe, and thereby regulates the admission of 
steam to the cylinder. Gauge-cocks are placed at the 
back of the boiler, by which the engineer knows how 
much water is in the boiler; and if the quantity be 
deficient, another handle, near his foot, enables him to 
open a communication between the water-tank in the 
tender and the feed-pipe by which the supply is re- 
newed. At the upper part of the boiler are two valves, 

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[February 6, 

so regulated that when the steam exceeds a certain 
pressure, these valves are opened, and the steam escapes : 
one valve is under the control of the engine-man, 
but the other (g) is locked up, thus acting as a check 
against the engine-man, should he desire to increase 
the rapidity of the engine (and therefore the pressure 
of the steam) beyond proper limits. There is reason 
to believe that in some cases this valve likewise is, very 
improperly, placed at the discretion of the engine-man. 
A provision for opening and shutting the valves in 
the cylinder several times in a second, another piece 
of mechanism for reversing the motion of the venicle, 
a brake for retarding the revolution of the wheels, &c, 
are also portions of this beautiful engine ; but what 
we have briefly described constitute the essentials, by 
which the general principle of action is regulated. 
The motion of the locomotive engine being once pro- 
duced, the manner in which the tender and the long 
train of carriages are set in motion, by being linked to 
it and to each other, need hardly be told. With 
regard to the high velocity attained, we must refer it 
to three conjoined causes, viz. the powerful action of 
steam as a prime mover, the near approach to a level 
on which the carriages move, and the smoothness of an 
iron rail-track, compared with a gravel road. 

Children should be inured as early as possible to acts of 
charity and mercy. Constantine, as soon as his son could write, 
employed hit hand in signing pardons, and delighted in con- 
veying, through his mouth, all the favours he granted. A noble 
introduction to sovereignty, which is instituted for the happiness 
of mankind. — Jortin. 


[Continued from p. 1L] 

If the long-muzzled breeds of our dogs be deemed the 
nearest to the primitive wild stock, whatever that may 
have been, it will follow that, in proportion as the do- 
mestic varieties lose this characteristic elongation of 
the head, and have the muzzle abbreviated, and the 
forehead and volume of the skull itself enlarged, they 
recede from their original type, and may be presumed 
to have been more influenced by the many causes which 
are involved in domestication. They are, in fact, more 
completely domesticated, and, if the term be allowed, 
civilized. Such are the dogs comprising the section of 
which the engraving gives characteristic examples. In 
our former paper we alluded to the shepherd's dog, 
which Buffon regards as nearest to the primitive stock, 
but which is more remote, if our ideas be correct, than 
he supposes. This valuable and intelligent dog is 
placed by F. Cuvier in the second section, distinguished 
by the head being very moderately elongated, the fore- 
head being elevated, and the cerebral cavity compara- 
tively voluminous. In referring the shepherd's dog 
to tins section, we consider F. Cuvier to be right, but 
at the same time we think that it is to be regarded as 
a link between this and the previous group. Its muzzle 
is more elongated and sharper than m the spaniel ; its 
ears are short and erect, or semi-erect, and its general 
contour is light, strength and activity being combined. 
Still its skull is developed, and its intelligence is ex- 
traordinary. Of the discrimination, sagacity, and faith- 
fulness of these dogs, many authenticated accounts are 
current. The shepherd's aog knows its master's flocks, 
probably by the mark impressed upon the wool ; it 
will single out a sheep, under the direction of its 
master, from the rest, Keep it separate, or disengage 
it again from the flock, should it regain and mingle 
with them ; it will keep two flocks apart ; and, should 
they coalesce, re-divide them. It will watch and de- 
fend them from strange dogs or foxes, and it will drive 
them to any place required. 

We knew, some years since, a dog of the shepherd's 
breed, which belonged to a man who had a large herd 
of cows under his charge. During the summer they 
were depastured on very extensive fields (in Cheshire) 
communicating with each other, and morning and 
evening this dog, at the bidding of his master, would 
collect them all together and gently drive them to the 
accustomed milking-place. If, when he had driven 
them for some distance, he discovered that one was 
missing, he would run back and traverse the fields till 
he met with the object of his search, which he would 
conduct to the herd, and then pursue his ordinary 

Closely allied to the shepherd's dog is the cur, or 
drover's dog. This useful animal is larger than the 
shepherd's dog ; the hair is generally shorter, and the 
tail, even when not cut purposely, often appears as if 
it had been so. Bewick, who was well acquainted 
both with the drover's and the shepherd's dog;, speak- 
ing of the former, says, " many are whelped with short 
tails, which seem as if they had been cut, and these are 
called in the north self-tailed dogs." The same writer 
is disposed to consider this -breed as a true or perma- 
nent kind, and he informs us that great attention is 
paid to it. It seems to us, however, that the drover's 
dog is, in reality, a cross between the shepherd's dog 
and some other race, perhaps the terrier. It often 
partakes largely of the characters of the shepherd's 
dog, but is taller in the limbs. These dogs bite 
severely, and always attack the heels of cattle, so that 
a fierce bull is easily driven by them. They are sin- 
gularly quick. and prompt in their actions, and, as all 
who have watched tnem in the crowded noisy tumul- 
tuous assemblage of men and beasts in Smithfield must 
have observed, they arc both courageous and intelli- 
gent. To their masters, who often ill-treat them, they 
are faithful and attached. 

The Siberian dog, as depicted by Buffon, is closely 
allied to the shepherd's dog, but is larger ; and, fro;n 
the inclemency of its country, more densely coated with 
long snaggy hair, which felts like wool. A fine female 
dog of this breed in our possession is singularly faith- 
ful and intelligent, but very noisy, pleasure being 
expressed by a loud barking, continued, if the animal 
be not checked, during a walk of two or three miles. 
She is an excellent house-guard, and her bark on 
the approach of strangers is very different from that 
of pleasure. So great is her indifference to cold, that 
she does not hesitate to plunge into the Thames, with 
the thermometer far below the freezing-point, nor 
does she suffer the slightest inconvenience ; a heap of 
snow or the frost-bound earth is preferred to a snug 
kennel as a sleeping-place. It is not without difficulty 
that she is restrained from chasing sheep and cattle, and 
will often, to our annoyance, slink off, when unper- 
ceived, and scour the fields, driving oxen or sheep 
before her. 

Of the present section of dogs, the shepherd's dog 
and its allies seem to form a distinct group, in which 
we suspect the lurcher should be also included, though 
this may possibly be a mixed breed between the grey- 
hound and rougn terrier, or greyhound and shepherd's 
dog. Bewick figures and describes it. He says that 
it is less and shorter than the greyhound, with stronger 
limbs ; its body is covered with a rough coat of hair, 
most commonly of a pale yellow colour ; its aspect is 
sullen, and its "habits, whence it derives its name, are 
dark and cunning. " As this dog possesses the advan-" 
tage of a fine scent, it is often employed in killing 
hares and rabbits in the night-time." It steals silently 
and cautiously upon them while they are feeding, and 
then suddenly darts forward and seizes them. It is 
said that a well-trained dog will make terrible havoc 
in a preserve for hares, or in a warren 

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[«, Spaniel ; b, Fox-Hound ; c, Pointer ; d, Lurcher ; e, Newfoundland : /, Shepherd's Dog ; g, Talbot Hound ; h t Blood- Houud.] 

The Spaniels form a distinct group of the present 
section. Among them we include the pure setter. 
The spaniels are remarkable for docility and an affec- 
tionate disposition, and these good qualities, combined 
with their beauty, render them general favourites. The 
fur is long and silky, sometimes curled or crisped ; 
the ears are large and pendent, and the expression of 
the countenance is pleasing and intelligent. All pos- 
sess an excellent scent, and especially the setter, the 
qualities of which are well known to the sportsman. 
The water-spaniel belongs to this group ; its utility 
to persons engaged in the pursuit of water-fowl is ex- 
tremely great ; it swims well, is very hardy, and is an 
excellent retriever, bringing the birds which have been 
shot on the water to its master. The French poodle 
may be referred to the spaniels. It is, we consider, 
very nearly allied to the rough water-dog figured 
by Bewick, the grand barbet of Buffon (whose figure, 

no. 569. 

indeed, Bewick has copied), and of which the petit 
barbet of Buffon is a smaller variety. 

The rough water-dog is a most valuable and intel- 
ligent animal. It is robustly made, and covered 
universally * with deep curly nair. It exceeds the 
water-spaniel in size and strength, but has the same 
aquatic habits and docility. It is much used as a 
retriever by the shooters of water-fowl. No dog is 
more easily taught to fetch and carry than this ; and 
its memory is surprising. If any small article be 
shown it, and put into a certain place, this dog, after 
the lapse even of several days, or when at consider- 
able distance from the spot, will, when bidden, hasten 
to it, search out the article, and return with it to his 
master. Mr. Bell relates an anecdote of one of these 
dogs finding a piece of money which its master had 
lost, and retaining it for a whole day in its mouth, 
till its master's return, when it joyfully laid the coin 

Vol. X.— I 

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[February 13, 

at his feet. During the whole of the time it had 
taken no food, from unwillingness to part, even for a 
few minutes, with the property of which it deemed 
iL«olf the guardian. 

It is impossible for us lo enter into an enumeration 
of all the breeds of spaniels ; we may notice, however, 
the Marlborough and King Charles breeds, which, 
from their beauty and liveliness, arc in the highest es- 
teem. In all essentials there is a close similarity 
among the dogs of this group, and the differences con- 
sist rather in size than in any other characteristic. 
Naturalists have been inclined to regard the New- 
foundland, the Labrador, and the Alpine dogs, as true 
spaniels. We do not consider this opinion as correct. 
They form a little group by themselves, and in many 
points the Alpine, or Mount St. Bernard's dog, ap- 
proaches to the mastiff. We have seen several fine 
examples of this breed ; — their size is equal to that of 
the largest mastiff ; the muzzle is deep ; the ears are 
pendulous ; the fur is rather long and wiry ; the eye is 
full and very expressive ; and the form of the body and 
limbs indicates great strength. The peculiar rooust- 
ness of form, and especially the depth of the muzzle, 
and character of the fur, serve to distinguish this no- 
ble dog from the largest of the spaniels. The Labra- 
dor dog, often called Newfoundland, presents the same 
goneral features, excepting that the fur is longer and 
softer, and sometimes disposed to curl. A fine dog of 
this breed brought from Labrador gave us the follow- 
ing admeasurements : — total length, including tail, six 
feet three inches ; height at shoulder, two feet six in- 
ches ; length of head, from occiput to point of nose, 
eleven inches ; circumference or chest, three feet one 
inch. In Labrador these powerful and intelligent 
dogs are used for drawing sledges loaded with wood, 
&c., and are of great service to the settlers. The 
Newfoundland dog is essentially the same as the 
Labrador, but, if our observations be correct, it does 
not attain to so large a stature. Of the extraordinary 
sagacity of the dogs of this group,— of the courage and 
intelligence of the Mount St. Bernard's dop, — of the 
fidelity, usefulness, and aquatic propensities of the 
Labrador and Newfoundland breed, nothing need be 
said. All are familiar with instances in which human 
beings have owed their life to the exertions of these 
devoted creatures ; — all are acquainted with their no- 
ble qualities. 

Another distinct group of dogs belonging to the pre- 
sent section is that whicn contains the hounds. Several 
varieties of hound now exist ; and of these the beagle, 
the harrier, and the foxhound are familiar to all bur 
readers. No country equals England in the swiftness, 
spirit, and endurance of its hounds ; and in no country 
is so much attention paid to the various breeds, espe- 
cially to the harrier and foxhound. The beagle was 
formerly a great favourite, but is now little used. It 
is of small stature, but of exquisite scent, and its 
tones, when heard in full cry, are musical. It has not, 
however, the strength or flectncss of the harrier, and 
still les3 so of the foxhound, and hence it does not 
engage the attention of the sportsmen of the modern 
school, who, unlike Sir Roger de Coverly, are impetu- 
ous in the field, preferring a hard run to a tame and 
quiet pursuit. The beagie wa3 only employed in 
hunting the hare, as is the harrier, but the foxhound 
is trained both for the deer and the fox. The strength 
and powers of scent of the foxhound are very great, 
and many astonishing instances of the energy and en- 
durance of these animals are on record. 

Formerly two noble varieties of the hound were 
common in England, which are now seldom seen. We 
allude to the old English hound, or talbot, and the 

Of the old English hound, which h described by 

Whittaker, in his ' History of Manchester, as the 
original breed of our island, we some years since saw 
a fine specimen in Lancashire. It was tall and robust, 
with a chest of extraordinary depth and breadth, with 
pendulous lips, and deeply-set eyes; the ears were 
large and long, and hung very low ; the nose was 
broad, and the nostrils large and moist. Its voice was 
deep, full, and sonorous. The general colour was 
black, passing into tan or sandy-red about the muzzle 
and along the inside of the limbs. Shaksperc's de- 
scription of the hounds of Theseus, in the * Midsummer 
Nignt's Dream,' is true to the letter, as referring to this 
breed, with which he was, no doubt, well acquainted : — 

" My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, 
So flew'd, to landed ; and their head* are hung 
With ears that iwoep away the morning dew ; 
Crook-kneed and dewlapp'd like TheMaliau bulls ; 
Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells 
Each under each." 

It was with hounds of this breed that " to hunt the deer*' 
" Earl Persic took his way ;" and it was with these 
dogs that our ancestors chased the larger kinds of 
game, with which, when our island was almost one 
vast forest, the country abounded. For delicacy of 
scent and acutcness of ncaring, they were unrivalled, 
and their great power rendered them a match even 
singly for the strongest of their • quarry.' 

The bloodhound, with equal delicacy of scent, has 
shorter cars, and a taller and perhaps lighter figure 
than the talbot. This celebrated dog was once in 
great request, and was employed by our ancestors, not 
only in the pursuit of game, but of men. Laid on the 
track of the felon or marauder, it kept up a steady 
persevering chase, and was not baffled without diffi- 
culty. Sir Walter Scott, in his graphic description of 
the " stark moss-trooper," Sir William of Deloraine, 
gives as a proof of his merit, that he 

" By wily hums and desperate bounds 
Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds." 

And the same accomplished knight thus eulogises 

liis dead enemy : — 

" Twas pleasure as we look'd behind 
To see now thou the chase would wind — 
Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way, 
And with the bugle rouse the fray." 

Blood-hounds, or, as the Scotch called them, Sleuth- 
bunds, were kept at one time in great numbers on 
the Borders ; and fugitive kings, as well as moss- 
troopers, were often obliged to study how to evade 
them. Bruce, it appears, was repeatedly trackod by 
these dogs, and on one occasion only escaped by wad- 
ing for a considerable distance up a broolc, and thus 
baffling the scent. " A sure way of stopping the dog 
was to spill blood upon the track, which destroyed the 
discriminating fineness of his scent. A captive was 
sometimes sacrificed on such occasions. Henry the 
minstrel tells a romantic story of Wallace, founded on 
this circumstance. The hero's little band had been 
joined by an Irishman named Fawdon, or Fadzean, a 
dark, savage, and suspicious character. After a sharp 
skirmish at Black-Erne Side, Wallace was forced to 
retreat with only sixteen followers. The English pur- 
sued with a border blood-hound. In the retreat Faw- 
don tired, or affecting to be so, would go no farther ; 
Wallace having in vain argued with him, in hasty anger 
struck off his head, and continued the retreat When 
the English came up, their hound stayed upon the dead 
body." (Notes to the * Lay of the Last Minstrel.') 

The specimens of this dog which we have seen were 
of a sandy-red colour with black muzzles. 

We have hitherto said nothing respecting the 
pointer. The old Spanish pointer is decidedly related to 
the hound, and the breed now generally used by sports- 

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mon is originally from this source ; but as the fox- 
hound is rendered by assiduous cultivation lighter, 
smaller, and more fleet than the talbot (its origin, as 
we presume), so the modern pointer may be regarded 
as a lighter and more active branch of the heavy slow 
Spanish pointer, which indeed is now seldom seen. 

We may conclude our present section with the ter- 
rier and its varieties. Two breeds of this spirited and 
well-known dog are common : one, called the Scotch 
terrier, is covered with rough wiry hair, and having 
short legs and a long body ; the other, called the 
English terrier, is sleek, with longer legs and a more 
elegant form ; its colour is black, with tanned limbs, 
and a tanned spot over each eye. In both the muzzle 
is moderately long and sharp, and the ears are erect ; 
the eye is quick ; the power of smell acute. For un- 
earthing the fox or badger, and for worrying rats and 
" such small deer," these dogs are celebrated, and they 
make excellent house-guards. 

The turnspit, a variety now seldom seen, is allied 
most nearly to the terrier, but is destitute of the bold- 
ness and spirit of that breed. It is long-bodied, with 
short bowed legs and a curled tail, and the iris of one 
eye is often of a different colour from that of the 

In taking a review of the dogs to which we have 
directed our attention, as comprising the present sec- 
tion, we cannot fail to observe that they are endowed 
respectively with qualifications or habits certainly not 
innate, but the result of education at least originally, 
which education, continued through a scries of genera- 
tions, has produced permanent effects. For example, 
no dog in a state of nature would point with his nose 
at a partridge, and then stand like a statue, motion- 
less, tor the dog would gain nothing by such a pro- 
ceeding. Man, however, has availed himself of the 
docility and delicacy of scent peculiar to a certain 
breed, and has taught the dog his lesson, and the lesson 
thus learned has become second nature. A young 
pointer takes to its work as if by intuition, and scarcely 
requires discipline. Hence, therefore, must we con- 
clude that education not only effects impressions on 
the sensorium, but transmissible impressions, whence 
arise the predispositions of certain races. Education, 
in fact, modifies organization, not that it makes a dog 
otherwise than a dog, but it supersedes, to a certain 
point, instinct, or makes acquired propensities in- 
stinctive, hereditary, and, therefore, characteristics of 
the race. The effect of this change of nature is not to 
render the dog more independent, not to give it any 
advantage over its fellows, but to rivet more firmly 
the links of subjection to man. 

It is not to the pointer alone that these observations 
apply ; all our domestic dogs have their own acquired 
propensities, which, becoming second nature, make 
them, in one way or another, valuable servants. No 
one, we presume, will suppose that the instinctive pro- 
pensities implanted by nature in the shepherd's dog 
make it not a destroyer but a preserver of sheep. On 
the contrary, this dog, like every other, is carnivorous, 
and nature intends it to destroy and devour. But 
education has supplanted instinct, to a certain point, 
and has implanted a disposition which has become an 
hereditary characteristic, and hence a shepherd's dog 
of the true breed takes to its duties naturally. But a 
shepherd's dog could not, delicate as its sense of smell 
is, be brought to take the place of the pointer in the 
field, even though it were subjected to training from 
the earliest age ; nor, on the other hand, could a pointer 
be substituted with equal advantage in the place of a 
shepherd's dog, as the assistant of the drover. Each 
is civilised, but in a different style, and education has 
impressed upon each a different bent of mind, a 
different class of propensities. 

The Bayonet. — {From a Corretpondenl.) — At page 490 of the 
last volume of this work, in an article on the Horse Armoury in 
thp Tower, the first invention of the socket bayonet is attributed 
to the French, during the campaigns of William III. in Flanders. 
Now the earliest of these campaigns was that of 1693, which 
was terminated by the battle of Neerwinden, on July 29th : 
whilst there is every reason* to believe that the socket bayonet 
was constructed in Scotland, in the winter of 1689, by General 
Mackay ; in consequence of the defeat which he sustained in the 
Pass of Killiecrankie, on the 26th «f July in that year, having 
been partly occasioned by the inability of his soldiers to fix their 
dagger-hilted bayonets with sufficient promptitude to receive the 
charge of Dundee's Highlanders, against whom they had just 
fired a volley. It is by no means unlikely that the ring-bayonet 
may have been introduced into the French army during the war 
in Flanders; and that it may even have been employed in the 
field by them, before it was generally adopted in our service. 
But this should by no means detract from the veteran Mackay, 
in having devised a means to prevent our soldiers from sustaining 
defeat through the same cause which had led to his overthrow. 
The authority for the above statement is a MS. journal of 
Mackay himself; cited by R. Chambers, Esq., in his history of 
Dundee's insurrection, in Constable's Miscellany. [The "au- 
thority for the previous statement was Meyrick. The difference 
of date is only of a few years.] 

Atmospheric Phenomena in Green/and. — The curious effects 
of the unequal refraction, produced by the varying tempera- 
ture and density of the different strata of air, constitute one of 
the most singular phenomena of Greenland. They usually 
occur on the evening or night after a clear day, and are most fre- 
quent on the approach or commencement of easterly winds. Not 
only does this state of the atmosphere elevate places above their 
proper position, bringing objects sunk below the horizon into 
view, but also changes and contorts their appearance. It most 
usually produces an increase in the vertical dimensions of the 
object affected, elevating the coast, and giving it a bolder and 
more precipitous outline ; making the fields of ice rise like cliffs 
of prismatic spar, whilst the higher and more irregular masses 
assume the forms of castles, obelisks, spires, or, where the pin- 
nacles are numerous, a forest of naked pines. In other places it 
displays the resemblance of an extensive city, crowded with 
public edifices, whilst huge masses of rock seem suspended freely 
in the air. Sometimes ships are seen with their rigging curiously 
distorted, an additional sail, or an inverted image of the vessel, 
many times larger than the real object, appearing ah",ve. 
Such are a few, and but a few, of the chauges produced, " as 
from the stroke of the enchanter's wand ;" but many others 
occur which it is impossible to describe, their forms altering with 
inconceivable rapidity, and one deceitful image disappearing 
only to be replaced by another. — Edinburgh Cabinet Library. 

Moral Algebra. — When difficult cases occur, they are difficult 
chiefly because, while we have them under consideration, all the 
reasons pro and con are not present to the mind at the same 
time ; but sometimes one set present themselves, and at other 
times another, the first being out of sight. Hence the various 
purposes or inclinations that alternately prevail, and the un- 
certainty that perplexes us. To get over this, my way is, 
to divide half a sheet of paper by a line into two columns, 
writing over the one pro, and over the other con; then, 
during three or four days' consideration, I put down, under 
the different heads, short hints of the different motives that 
at different times occur to me, for or against the measure. 
When I have thus got them all together in one view, I en- 
deavour to estimate their respective weights, and where I find 
two (one on each side) that seem equal. I strike them both out. 
If I find a reason pro equal to some two reasons con, I strike 
out the three. If I judge some two reasons con equal to some 
three reasons pro t I strike out the five; and thus proceeding, I 
find at length where the balance lies; and if, after a day or two 
of further consideration, nothing new that is of importance 
occurs on either side, I come to a determination accordingly. 
And though the weight of reasons cannot be taken with the 
precision of algebraic quantities, yet, when each is thus con- 
sidered separately and comparatively, and the whole lies before 
me, I think I can judge better, and am less liable to make a 
rash step ; and, in fact, I have found great advantage from this 
kind of equation in what may be called moral or prudential 
algebra. — Franklin, 


Digitized by 




[February 13, 

[Loan Baook and bit Localities. The Portnlt from the engraving by Marshall, 1641. prefixed to Bacon's ' LiV of Henry VII.* Beneath the 
portrait hia arms, taken from Marshall's |x>rtrait; the Chancellor's Mace, Autograph of King James, and other insignia of office, from original autho- 
rises. At the top. to the let, York House, from a drawing by Hollar engraved in Wilkinson's ' Londioi lllustratat' to the right. Old Gray's Inn. 
from a print in I'canaut Collection. Brit. Mus. At the left side, Gorhumbury, from a drawing of the remains of the original mansion by Neale, 1810. 
engraved in ' Beauties of England and Wales •• and Hl^hgate, with the Old Church, from a priut by ChaUlalue, 1740. At the bottom, St. Michael's 
Church, St. Albans, from a drawing in George Ill's Collection, Brit. Mus.] 



A more impressive or valuable lesson, one of wider or 
more permanent application in the conduct of life 
through the trials and temptations of the world, it 
would perhaps be impossible to find, than in the his- 

tory of the greatest of modem philosophers. There, 
the extent of misery and degradation which may await 
the highest intellectual powers, if they are not steadily 
directed to the fulfilment of the great purposes for 
which they were given, receives a more vivid illus- 
tration than it has ever before received, than we may 
expect it will ever receive again : it is sufficient for one 

Digitized by 





such man to have thus suffered, for one age to have 
exhibited so melancholy a spectacle. But is it only 
the great ones of the earth who are to take the lesson 
home? Is it they only who palter with their better 
judgments, who but too often make their actions but 
one continued satire on their thoughts, consciences, 
and, we might add, wishes? The answer is obvious. 
Of all errors or vices, this, in a lesser or greater degree, 
is probably the most common. How few of us are 
there, it may be feared, who do not, for the sake of 
worldly interests, sometimes quit the plain high road 
of strict duty and right, calculating, as doubtless Bacon 
calculated, that it would be easy to return uninjured ; 
who do not, like him, yield but a divided allegiance, 
seeing perhaps, as he saw, the folly of the hope in 
others of serving both " God and Mammon," yet, like 
him, clinging not the less pertinaciously to it ourselves. 
To all then but those who are free from temptation or 
above it, the " Local Memories " of this great and in 
many respects illustrious man will be full of matter 
for tne deepest reflection : of their interest it would be 
idle to speak. 

Francis Bacon, the youngest son of Sir Nicholas 
Bacon, who held the office of keeper of the great seal 
for twenty years during the reign of Elizabeth, was 
born at York House in the Strand, on the 22nd of 
January, 1561. The history of this mansion is not un- 
worthy of notice. It was originally an inn or palace 
of the bishops of Norwich, and exchanged by them 
with the archbishops of York for Suffolk House, South- 
wark: from that time it was called York House. 
Here Bacon was born, and spent some portion of his 
boyhood ; and here, later in life, he lived in the greatest 
magnificence : after his fall it was purchased by Buck- 
ingham, who appears to have rebuilt or greatly im- 
proved it. It was next settled by the parliament upon 
its general, Lord Fairfax, and then, curiously enough, 
it reverted, by the marriage of Fairfax's daughter with 
the second earl of Buckingham, into the hands of the 
Villiers family. The house, or at least the greater 
part of it, was now pulled down, and upon the site, and 
within its precincts, were built the four streets which 
still bear that nobleman's name and title — George, 
Villiers, Duke [of], Buckingham: the "of" gives 
name to an alley. The only remains of this beautiful 
mansion are York Stairs, one of Inigo Jones's most 
admired works, and a part of the old ceiling, still pre- 
served in the house No. 31, Strand, at the corner of 
Villiers Street Whilst yet a boy, Bacon attracted 
the notice of the queen, who called him her young 
lord keeper, and had frequent occasion to admire his 
ready address and dexterity. She once asked him how 
old ne was : "lam just two years younger than your 
majesty's happy reign," was the ready reply. The 
future courtier is here already visible. The future 
philosopher was no less so in tne fact of his leaving 
his play-fellows to go to a vault in St. James's Street 
to investigate into the cause of an echo he had there 
discovered. In his thirteenth year he entered Trinity 
College, Cambridge. Of the very early development 
of his mighty intellect, Dr. Rawley, afterwards his 
chaplain and oiograpber, records an interesting proof. 
" Whilst he was commorant at the University, about 
sixteen years of age (as his lordship hath been pleased 
to impart unto myself), he first fell into the dislike of 
the philosophy of Aristotle ; not for the worthlessness 
of the author, to whom he would ever ascribe all high 
attributes, but for the unfruitfulness of the way, being 
a • philosophy (as his lordship used to say), only strong 
for disputations and contentions, but barren of the pro- 
duction of works for the life of man.' In which mind 
he continued to his dying day." It is said, and the 
preceding statement makes it probable, that he at this 
time formed the outline of his own system, which was 

in direct antagonism to the ancient philosophy, as we 
shall hereafter see. On leaving college he visited the 
Continent, from whence be was recalled in 1580 by 
news of the sudden death of his father. His prospects 
were sadly clouded by this event. He now desired to 
employ his great talents in literature and politics. 
The ruling statesmen, the Cecils, were relatives of 
Bacon, and he naturally expected their assistance. But 
he was one of those able men whom he says, and with 
every appearance of truth, it was their especial policy 
to suppress. All his applications, and they were nume- 
rous, and somewhat servilely humble, were disre- 
garded, and he found himself compelled to study the 
law. He accordingly entered Gray's Inn, a place to 
which from that time to his death he was much at- 
tached, and with which many of his pleasantest memo- 
ries were associated. The apartments on the first floor 
of the house No. 1, on the north side of the square, are 
said to be still in the same state that they were when 
he last visited them. The walls have a handsome oak 
wainscoting, and over the chimney-piece is a beauti- 
ful ornament In the garden, wnich he greatly 
adorned, and where doubtless many of his happiest 
hours were spent, there were but a few years ago 
some trees planted by his own hand. The books of 
the Society abound with his autographs, written in 
connection with the business of the Inn, of which he 
was even then recognised as the most distinguished 
member. Although the hall in which Bacon so often 
sat no longer presents its former aspect, there is still 
much left of the original structure. 

We must now pass rapidly over many important 
events in Bacon's life. He was called to the bar in 
1582, made a bencher in 1586, appointed counsel-ex- 
traordinary to the queen in 1590, and at last received 
something like a recognition from the Cecils of his 
claims upon them, in tne grant of the reversion of the 
office of registrar of the Star Chamber. This, as Bacon 
says, " mended his prospects, but did not fill his barn," 
for it was twenty years before he began to receive the 
salary, which amounted to 1600/. a year. When the 
office of solicitor-general became vacant, Bacon's early, 
warm-hearted, and noble-minded friend, the Earl of 
Essex, made the most strenuous efforts to obtain it for 
him, but the Cecils were adverse and all-powerful. 
To mitigate the disappointment, Essex gave his friend 
an estate worth 1800/., and in so doing, Bacon says, 
" the manner was worth more than the matter." When 
Essex's fortunes began to decline, Bacon remonstrated 
with him in a kindly manner, and even when, in spite 
of all his advice, Essex's rashness broke out into open 
insurrection against the queen, Bacon still used all his 
influence and address to mitigate its consequences. 
But now there was a great change. He had perhaps 
by this time received a hint that he was treading upon 
dangerous ground in his efforts to save his friend, at 
all events from the present period commences that 
series of shameful acts which blacken the great philo- 
sopher's memory. By the queen's desire he appeared 
as counsel against his friend, and as if this alone was 
not sufficient, he strove to secure a conviction by means 
perfectly unjustifiable from their unfairness and dis- 
honesty. Bacon's benefactor was executed ; and 
then, to turn the current of popular opinion which ran 
strongly in Essex's favour, Bacon having before so 
well proved his zeal in pressing changes affecting his 
friend's life, was now desired to direct his talents 
against his friend's fame : * A declaration of the 
practices and treasons attempted and committed by 
Robert, earl of Essex,' accordingly appeared from his 
pen ! 

In 1592 Bacon was returned member for Middlesex. 
Upon the accession of James in 1603, his prospects 
greatly improved. He had used his utmost address to 

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[February 13, 

impress the monarch with a favourahle opinion of him, 
whilst Elizabeth was yet alive, and he was successful. 
Whatever James might be in other respects, he cer- 
tainly appreciated Bacon's wit, learning, and genius. 
The first mark of favour was the honour of knight- 
hood. Bacon's reasons for desiring this honour are 
amusing : he was the only untitled person in his mess 
at Gray's Inn, and he had •• found an alderman's 
daughter, a handsome maiden, to his liking," whom 
soon after he married. Other honours followed. He 
was appointed king's counsel in 1604, solicitor-general 
in 1607, attorney-general in 1612, and he was now 
evidently determined to let no lack of zeal in the 
service of the " powers that be" prevent a still further 
advancement. An aged clergyman, named Pcachum, 
was apprehended for naving in his possession a written 
sermon containing passages of, as it was alleged, a 
treasonable nature. It was desired to punish him, but 
neither the facts nor the law were sufficient to meet 
the case fairly. Bacon undertook to get rid of the first 
difficulty by torturing the prisoner; of the second, by 
tampering, beforehand, with the judges. In the last 
only he succeeded, for Peachum had, as Bacon com- 
plained to the king, " a dumb devil." The poor old 
man was however tried, convicted, and sentenced to 
death ; but for very shame the court felt compelled to 
restrain its desire for his execution. So the poor but 
brave old man languished the little remainder of his 
days in prison. The friendship of Buckingham, the 
king's favourite, now helped to smooth Bacon's way 
to the highest offices. In 1617 he was appointed the 
keeper of the great seal, and in the following year 
lord high chancellor. His ambition had now obtained 
all that it had desired. Most enviable appeared his 
lot to the eyes of the world. He now lived at York 
House, the place of his birth, and there it was that in 
1620 he celebrated his sixtieth birth-day with the 
greatest magnificence, and in the midst of a splendid 
circle of friends. Ben Jonson, who wa3 there, wrote 
some of the happiest of his panegyrical rhymes on the 
occasion. All things, he says, seemed to smile about 
the old house, " the fire, the wine, the men ;" and the 
scene altogether impressed him so greatly that he thus 
speaks of Bacon anu his state : — 

" England's High Cliancellor, the destined lieir, 
In his soft cradle, to his father's chair, 
Whose even thread the fates spin round and full 
Out of their choicest and their whitest wool." 

During all these events, his literary reputation had 
been steadily growing. His Essays were published in 
1536 ; • The Advancement of Learning,' in 1605 ; • The 
Wisdom of the Ancients,' in 1610. Other works had also 
appeared, and shortly after his elevation to the chancel- 
lorship was sent forth ' The Organon,' which justified 
the boasta of his youth, that it should be " the greatest 
birth of time," and on which he had spent his leisure 
hours from that time upwards till its final completion 
in his old age. To return to what we may call his 
worldly history : he had been by this time raised to 
the rank of Viscount St. Alban's, and there closes the 
course of his prosperity. 

In 1621 James touna himself compelled from want 
of money to assemble a parliament tor the first time 
for six years. It was a period of great dissatisfaction. 
Many grievances were complained of by the people, 
and their representatives were determined to examine 
into the matter thoroughly. They did so; and, in 
the course of their labours, resolved to inquire 
into the state of the courts of law. A committee was 
appointed, and on the. 15th of March of the very year 
which had witnessed the publication of the book Ihat 
was destined, more than any other of hi8 publications, 

to work an entire revolution in philosophy, Bacon 
was publicly charged with corruption in nis high 
office. One of the cases brought forward will show 
the nature of the whole. A gentleman of the name 
of Aubrey, having a suit depending in Chancery, 
and being almost ruined by expenses and delays, was 
advised by some hangers-on of the chancellor to make 
him a present. He obtained with ^reat difficulty a 
hundred pounds from a usurer, which was given to 
his lordship, Aubrey being at the same time assured 
by some ot the chancellor s dependants that all would 
go right. " A killing decree," however, was pronounced 
against him, and in his despair the unfortunate man 
exposed the whole. Numerous cases of a similar or 
worse description were also substantiated, until Bacon 
wrote to the peers, as they were pursuing the inquiry, 
and confessed their general truth. A still more direct 
admission was demanded and obtained, and then a 
committee of the House waited upon the chancellor at 
York House, where he was enduring all the agonies 
of the eternal shame he saw he had brought upon his 
head : their object was, to be sure that he had really 
signed the confession. " My Lords," said the broken- 
hearted man, •* it is my act, my hand, my heart. 
I beseech your Lordships to be merciful to a broken 
reed." He was sentenced to pay a fine of £40,000, 
to be confined in the Tower tor life, and rendered 
incapable of holding any office or of sitting in 
parliament. He was, however, soon released trom 
the Tower, with orders to banish himself from the 
court, and ultimately every part of the sentence was 

We now follow him to Gorhambury, the magnificent 
seat of his father, the home of a considerable portion 
of his boyhood, and which was now to be the resting 

Slace of his old age. During all the bustle and splen- 
our of office, he had frequently found means to escape 
to the quiet and meditation which there awaited him, 
and for the better enjoyment of such opportunities, he 
built, about half a mile from Gorhambury, a house 
which cost hiin ten thousand pounds. There he now 
endeavoured to alleviate the anguish which preyed 
upon his heart, by collecting around him some of the 
most distinguished of the many friends which not even 
his disgrace had alienated, and who were most proud 
of the office which he sometimes imposed upon them 
of writing to his dictation. Hobbes, a scarcely less 
distinguished name in philosophy, then a young man, 
was often employed in this way. Bacon never again 
entered into public life, but continued to the very day 
of his death to occupy himself in his literary and philo- 
sophical labours. " The great apostle of experimental 
philosophy was destined to be its martyr. It had 
occurred to him that snow might be used with advan- 
tage for the purpose of preventing animal substances 
from putrifying. On a very cold day early in the 
spring of die year 1626, he alighted from his coach 
near Highgate, in order to try the experiment He 
went into a cottage, bought a fowl, and with his own 
hands stuffed it with snow. While thus engaged, he 
felt a sudden chill, and was soon so much indisposed 
that it was impossible for him to return to Gray's Inn. 
The Earl of Arundel, with whom he was well ac- 
quainted, had a house at Highgate. To that house 
Bacon was carried. The Earl was absent, but the 
servants who were in charge of the place showed great 
respect and attention to the illustrious guest. Here, 
after an illness of about a week, he expired early in 
the morning of Easter-day, 1626. His mind appears 
to have retained its strength and liveliness to the last. 
He did not forget the fowl which had caused his death. 
In the last letter that he ever wrote, with finders which, as 
he said, could not steadily hold a pen, he did not omit to 
mention that the experiment of the snow had succeeded 

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" excellently well."* In his will he wrote, " For my 
burial, I desire it may be in St. Michael's Church, St. 
Alban's : there was my mother buried, and it is the parish 
church of my mansion-house of Gorhambury, and it is 
the only Christian church within the walls of Old Veru- 
lam. For my name and memory, I leave it to men's 
charitable speeches, to foreign nations, and the next 
ages." He was of course buried where he desired; 
liis faithful friend and secretary, Sir Thomas Meautys, 
erected a monument to his memory, t and when lie 
died, was himself buried at the feet of the illustrious 
man he had so loved and honoured. 

According to the views of the author of the eloquent 
essay from which we have just been quoting — an essay 
on Bacon's Life and Philosophy, which should be bound 
up with every edition of his works — the chief charac- 
teristic of that philosophy was its direct antagonism to 
all that had previously existed under the same name. 
" The ancient philosophy disdained to be useful and 
was content to be stationary. It dealt largely in 
theories of moral perfection, which were so sublime 
that they never could be more than theories." Bacon's, 
on the contrary, was essentially a philosophy of utility 
and progress — he thought the * fruit ' of more con- 
sequence than the leaves and flowers, he desired to 
multiply human enjoyments, to mitigate human suffer- 
ing, to improve man's estate. And hence it is that he 
is justly regarded as the author of modern philosophy, 
that from the day of his death his fame has been pro- 
gressively increasing, and will doubtless continue so 
to do, until he is recognised in every age and country 
as one of the most illustrious benefactors of the human 


Although ordinarily, for the due sustenance of the 
vital powers, it is necessary that supplies of food should 
be periodically administered ; yet tne power of abstain- 
ing from sources of nourishment has been sometimes 
possessed to a great extent. The attention of the 
curious has been excited from a remote period even 
to the present times, by cases in which life has been 
said to have been protracted during extraordinary 
long periods without the aid of food ; and the annals 
of this and of oilier countries abound with such nar- 
rations. Thus we are told that one Cicely de Ridge- 
way, who was condemned for the murder of her 
husband, in the reign of Edward III., fasted forty days. 
This, as is stated in a record preserved in the Tower, 
being attributed to miraculous agency, she was par- 
doned. One John Scot, being involved in debt, took 
sanctuary at Ilolyrood, where ne fasted for thirty days. 
The rumour of this reaching the king's ears, the 
man was placed under surveillance in Edinburgh 
Castle, ana again fasted for the space of thirty-two 
days. He was set at liberty, and, repairing to Rome, 
exhibited his powers of abstinence to Clement VII. 
In 1603, Jame3 Roberts, a surgeon, published, "with 
the king's privilege," ' A true and admirable historie 
of a mayden of Consolcns, in the province of Poictiers, 
that, for the space of three years and more, hath lived, 
and yet doth [live], without receiving either meat or 
drinke, of whom his majesty in person hath had the 
view, and (by his command) his best and chiefest 
phisitians have tryed all means to find whether this 
fast or abstinence ue by deceit or no.' 

The * Philosophical Transactions,' vol lxvii., contain 
a full account of the case of Janet M'Leod, who swal- 
lowed nothing but a little water for four years. 
Although the evidence upon which many cases are 
based seems satisfactory, yet, when the tacts related 

• ' Edinburgh Review,' July, 1837, article ' Lord Bacon.' 
f An Engraving of the Monument is given in vol. i., p. 130. 

so entirely pass the bounds of credibility, we are justi- 
fied in rejecting them. This is seen in a remarkable 
manner in the case of Anne Moore, the fasting woman 
of Tutbury. This woman pretended to have lived 
some years without food, and had been subjected to a 
watching by her sceptical neighbours, from which or- 
deal she came out triumphantly. Her credit now firmly 
established, crowds visited her from all parts, so that she 
was enabled to place a considerable sum of money in the 
funds, resulting from the fees she charged for admission 
into her apartment. Yet, after all, this woman, when 
submitted to a second well-concerted system of watch- 
ing, instituted by persons of the first respectability, 
confessed the imposture, and admitted that ner friends 
had from time to time clandestinely supplied her with 
small portions of food. There can be no doubt that 
the great majority of these marvellous cases were also 
impositions. But yet there is as little doubt that per- 
sons have been known to pass an immense period 
without food, especially if they have had access to 
moisture, which seems to have a wonderful power in 
assisting the endurance of privation. Thus Ann Moore 
herself indubitably fasted nine days while under her 
last surveillance. So, too, many accounts we have of 
persons buried by snow or other accidents confirm the 
latter part of the observation. Elizabeth Woodcock, 
to whom this calamity occurred, near Cambridge, 
supported life for eight days, by sucking portions of 
the snow by which she was surrounded. A young 
man, confined in a coal-pit by a burst of water, re- 
mained there undiscovered for twelve days ; and a 
woman, who lost her way in a coal-pit, preserved life 
for three days by means of her own milk, and for 
fifteen other days upon water. In experiments in- 
stituted by Redi, he found that fowls deprived of all 
food, solid or fluid, died on the ninth day, while one 
to which he gave water lived to the twentieth day. 

Persons subject to various diseases can occasion- 
ally bear the diminution of food to a great extent, 
but it is in those who are the victims of hypochondria 
or insanity that this is seen in the most remarkable 

Dr. Willan records the case of a young man who 
for sixty-one days took no other food than water to 
which a little orange juice was added. This person, 
as well as a hypochondriac cited by Doebel, who 
fasted forty days, died soon after a return to food. 
Ponteau mentions a madman who took nothing for 
forty-seven days but a pint and a half of water per 
diem, and for thirty-eight of these days remained in 
the same position. Dr. Francis relates the case of a 
ne^ro woman, who, believing herself the subject of 
Obi magic, refused all sustenance for several weeks, 
during which time she only took two cups of water 
slightly medicated with wine. 

Famine is, perhaps, the most horrible form in which 
death can make its approaches. The narrations of the 
dreadful sufferings endured from shipwrecks, sieges, 
and famines are but too familiar. A prostration of 
the vital powers is followed by wild delirium and 
restlessness, during which the most powerful instincts 
of nature have been so disregarded, that a mother 
has been known to devour her offspring. Stupor and 
coma close the terrible scene. Tne duration of life 
under such circumstances varies in different indi- 
viduals, being usually short in proportion to the youth 
and robustness of frame ; and thus, as Dr. Paris ob- 
serves, Dante was true to nature when, in picturing 
the fate of Count Ugolino and his sons, he represents 
the unhappy parent as surviving his children for some 
days. Women, too, are thus able to support abstinence 
longer than men : most of the reported cases of long 
abstinence have occurred in women. Terrible as is 
this description of death, it has been sometimes en- 

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[Fkbruaey 13, 

countered for the purposes of suicide. In the ' Trans- 
actions of the Acad. Roy. de Med.' cases are recorded 
of persons thus persisting, for an immense period, 
until their object was accomplished. But, perhaps, 
the most determined case on record is that of Viterhi, 
a Corsican, who, condemned to die for a murder of 
which he declared himself innocent, resolved thus to 
terminate his existence. Although, during the first 
few days, he suffered the greatest torment from hunger, 
he resisted the meats, &c. which were offered him, and 
continued calmly to await and record in a journal his 
approaching end. This was delayed, in some measure, 
by his yielding, on one or two occasions, to the tor- 
menting thirst which assailed him (a constant symptom 
in those suffering from starvation), and drinking a 
little wine. He lingered on, possessed of his mental 
faculties until the twenty-first day, when he expired. 

The ancient physicians held the highest opinion of 
the powers of aWinence in producing longevity and 
in curing disease, an opinion in which many moderns 
have coincided : the longevity of the early Christians, 
who retired from persecution into the deserts of Arabia, 
and of the primitive saints and hermits, who lived 
with such frugality, has been often cited. On the other 
hand, many consider that however desirable during 
the existence of acute disease, abstinence too rigid in 
its observance or too long in its duration may be pro- 
ductive of much mischief when the body is in health. 
One of the strongest advocates of abstinence, or rather 
of temperance in living, speaking, as he did, with all 
the force derived from practical experience, was the 
Venetian nobleman Louis Cornaro, who lived in the 
sixteenth century. By his voluptuous course of life, 
he had brought himself to such a state that, at the age 
of forty, his physicians announced to him that without 
a thorough change in his mode of living his days would 
indeed be short. With a determination which nothing 
could shake, he at once commenced the abridgement 
of his daily food, until he had reduced it to a most in- 
significant quantity. In proportion as he did this, he 
found his health, strength, and spirits improve, and 
lived in the full enjoyment of every faculty to the 
advanced age of a century. Convinced of the immense 
benefit he had derived from his regimen, he composed 
three or four little treatises upon the subject, in which 
he warmly recommends its adoption . he writes sensibly, 
contending only for the principle of abstemiousness, 
and not for the exact mode ana degree which he him- 
self had employed. In his later publications he rejoices 
in the benefit his advice had conferred upon many. 
Not only did he find his bodily health improve, but 
also the disposition of his mind. When at the age 
of seventy-eight, urged by his friends and physicians, 
he increased his food to twelve or fourteen ounces per 
diem, but soon perceived the ill effects upon his health 
and temper, which were at once removed by recurring 
to his spare diet. Writing at this period, he reprobates 
the opinion that old age is little better than death, and 
shows how actively he passes the day in the pursuit of 
the arts, and in labouring to inform his fellow-citizens 
upon various points relating to their interests. He 
congratulates nimself upon the serenity of mind he 
had arrived at, which elevated him above all grovelling 
contemplations. His cheerfulness was constant: "then 
how gay, pleasant, and good humoured I am," he 
writes : and again, " at my present age of eighty- 
three, I have been able to write a very entertaining 
comedy, abounding with innocent mirth and pleasant 
jests." The late Mr. Abernethy was a great admirer 
of Cornaro, and, we believe, reprinted his little work. 
Dr. Miller of New York observes that an exemption 
from pestilential diseases by reason of abstemiousness 
becomes sometimes national. Thus the French. and 
Spaniards in the West Indies and other warm climates 

I are observed, by their abstemiousness from spirituous 
liquors and their retention of a spare diet, to escape 
dangers to which the British, more plethoric in their 
habits of body and less careful in their mode of living, 
have frequently fallen victims in great numbers. 

In persons rescued from impending starvation, the 
greatest care is required in administering food. Many 
fives, which might have been saved, have been lost by 
rashness in this respecL All solid food must at first 
be avoided, and especially milk, which, solidifying in 
the stomach, is of difficult and slow digestion. A little 
thickened broth only should be given every few hours. 
Mr. Hunter found by experiment that animals en- 
feebled by abstinence maintain their temperature with 
difficulty, and thus the cautious application of heat and 
gentle friction should not be neglected. 

ViUagt Reading- Room*. — In a little volume entitled «The 
Forester's Offering,' by Mr. Spencer Hall, the 6rtt part is devoted 
to legendary tales of *' merrie Sherwood," and of Robin Hood 
and his followers ; and, after glancing at the past, the author 
turns to the modern history of the forest, and notices, among 
other contrasts which it now presents, the libraries and mechanic* 
institutes in the towns and villages within its boundary. He 
tells us " of woodmen and agricultural labourers, after the wonted 
toils of the day are concluded, plodding six miles through 
the depths of the forest to the rural village of Edwins to we, not to 
spend the night and their scanty earnings in quarrelling and 
drunkenness, as was once the fashion amongst this class, but to 
obtain useful information, and, after improving and humanising 
each other by assembling together, to carry the results into the 
bosoms of their families." The history of one of these institu- 
tions, " founded on the very spot where our ancient kings signed 
the cross, for lack of skill to write their names " (Edwinstowe), 
will not be without interest to the general reader. The first 
aUempt to form a library, in 1836, failed, and the subject re- 
mained in abeyance for a whole year. " At the close of the 
summer of 1837," says Mr. C. Thomson, a correspondent of the 
author, residing in the village, " it struck me that if a few per- 
sons would unite, and begin the new year by paying one penny 
per week, taking periodicals to the amount subscribed, they 
would form the nucleus of a library. I got twenty names the 
first week, and we started the first Tuesday in January, 1838, 
and have now fifty members. We have had three readings, or 
lectures, and we purpose forming a music class on our next 
meeting, and to resume our readings and lectures. We liave an 
annual meeting on New Year's Eve, when a report of the year's 
proceedings is read, addresses are delivered, and we have also a 
tea-party, open to all persons of character, whether members or 
not, on payment of ninepence, the surplus money going to the 
book-fund. The periodicals taken are, — * Chambers's Journal,' 
' Athenaeum,' * Farmers' Magazine/ * Loudon's Gardeners' Maga- 
zine,' Mechanics' Magazine,' Architectural Magazine,' •Poly- 
technic Journal,' ' Penny Magazine,' * Tait's Magazine,' 'Visitor,* 
Knight's * Pictorial Shaksnere,' * Pictorial History of England,* 
and, in addition to these, the works of Cooper and Scott, bio- 
graphy, travels, elementary works on science, &c. We admit 
females as members, and likewise to the lectures ; and the insti- 
tution comprises men of all trades in the neighbourhood, as well 
as farmers and agricultural labourers, many of whom reside at 
distances varying from two to six miles from the village. We 
have never applied for honorary members or donations, nor have 
any hitherto volunteered. Our rules are such as those which 
usually govern mechanics* libraries, with, however, this diu"f*r- 
ence, that, apprentices ore permitted to read or take out liooka, 
•imply on condition of their masters or parents being answerable 
for their punctual return uninjured, and, to conciliate all parties, 
we except works on religious controversy and politics. An 
anxiety prevails amongst the members to build, by shares, a 
library and museum, with two dwelling-houses beneath, to pay 
fwith what may be gained by occasionally letting the large room 
for public purposes) the interest for the money invested ; and I 
think this will be ultimately accomplished. Formerly no place 
was more constantly or conspicuously figuring in the local police 
report than this ; but now it is just the reverse, and its name U 
seldom seen there. 

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[The Host and the Cook.] 



"The two names which perhaps do the greatest 
honour to the annals of English literature are those 
of Chaucer and Shakspere. After the dramas of 
Shakspere, there is no production of man that dis- 
plays more various and vigorous talent than the 
' Canterhury Tales.' Splendour of narrative, richness 
of fancy, pathetic simplicity of incident and feeling, 
a powerful style in delineating character and man- 
ners, and an animated vein of comic humour, each 
takes its turn in this wonderful performance, and 
each in turn appears to he that in which the author 
was most qualified to succeed." Thus writes Godwin, 
in the preface to his Life of the poet, reviewing gene- 
rally the characteristics of the great father of English 
poetry ; hut elsewhere, noticing thatparticular quality 
which more than any other stamps Chaucer's produc- 
tions, he calls him emphatically " tlie poet of character 
and manners:" it is in that light we nere propose to 
view him. 

To many, perhap to a majority of our readers, the 
* Canterbury Tales are comparatively unknown ; a cir- 
cumstance that, considering their extraordinary merit, 
and their peculiar fitness for popular appreciation and 
enjoyment, is much to be lamented, and is only to be 
accounted for by the generally prevailing notion of the 
difficulty of understanding the language in which they 
arc written. Were this difficulty as great as is com- 
monly assumed, there would be what we may term 
great poetical injustice in doing so little for Cnaucer 
who has done almost everything for us ; who not only 
created for us a national poetry, but restored to us a 
national tongue. But the difficulty is less than it 
seems, and may be almost entirely got rid of, without 
any innovation on the poet's own words or modes of 

no. 570. 

pronunciation. A glossary at the foot of each page to 
explain any difficult woros, modern spelling wncre 
practicable, and a careful accentuation of the words in 
each line, which, in accordance with the principles 
that guided Chaucer in its composition, require to be 
differently pronounced than at present,* will enable 
any reader of ordinary intelligence to enjoy this fine 
old poet in his own admirable dress. A word or two 
on the great error which has so long existed with re- 
gard to Chaucer's versification will not be out of place. 
Dryden, for instance, says, " It were an easy matter to 
produce some thousands of his verses, whicn are lame 
lor want of half a foot and sometimes a whole one, 
and which no pronunciation can make otherwise." 
The first part of this statement was evidently founded 
on entire ignorance or want of consideration of the 
state of the language when Chaucer wrote. For cen- 
turies the French tongue only was used in the court 
and among the higher classes of society ; Chaucer, 
with a noble ambition, determined to write an English 
poem in English words, but of course would find it 
impossible to eradicate all traces of the French, sup- 
posing him to have wished to do so. His poems, 
therefore, abound with Gallicisms, and a preat number 
of his words require to be pronounced in accordance 
with the laws of the French rather than the English 
tongue. It must also be acknowledged that he did 
what doubtless every other great poet under his cir- 
cumstances would have done too, chose whichever pro- 
nunciation—the French or the English, both as yet in 
a very unsettled state — suited him best at the mo- 
ment. Had Dryden attended to this, he would have 
found his great predecessor's versification generally 
flowing and musical, often singularly so. With regard 

* These improvements are carried into effect in Mr. Cowden 
Clarke's * Riches of Chaucer.' 

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Vol. X.— K 


66 THE PENNY MAGAZINE. [Febkuauy 20, 


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With wonderful strength and consistency, the cha- 
racter of the Host is kept up throughout the work. 
His undissembled delight at the close of the knight's 

•' Our hostS laugh'd and swore, So mote I gon, 
This go'th aright, unbuck'led is the mail : 
Let see now who shall tell another tale ;'' 

his professional considerateness, when, having named 
the Monk as the next spokesman, the drunken Miller 
interposes, and insists upon first telling his tale, the 
host kindly says — 

" Abid6, Robin, my leve> brother, 

Some better man shall tell us first another : 

Abide, and let us werken thriftily;" 

but finding him deaf to reason, bids him hastily " tell 
on a devil way ;" his dislike to the Revc's " sermoning," 
as he characterizes the latter s moral reflections on his 
own past life ; his humour when he reminds the Cook 
of the many a Jack of Dover (probably a species of 
pasty) he has sold 

" That hath been twies hot and twies cold;" 

his scorn of the Franklins desire that his son should 
learn gentillesse — 

" Straw for your gentillesse", quod our host ;" 

his indignation at injustice, and his sympathy with its 
objects, as marked by his observations on the Doctor's 
tale (the popular story of Virginius); his ludicrous 
contempt for the Pardoner, who made a business of 
the exhibition of relics; and, lastly, his peculiarly 
tender and gallant manners towards the fair, as shown 
when he addresses the Prioress 

" As curteously as it had been a maid ;" 
all combine to form a picture of as true and genuine 
a specimen of a good old English man as it would be 
possible to find in the entire range of literature. Our 
space will only allow us to notice one or two other 
interesting matters connected with the Host. The 
first concerns a piece of his domestic history which is 
furnished to us, and from which we find that his lady 
was somewhat of a shrew. He tells us a few parti- 
culars of her at the conclusion of the Merchant's tale, 
in which a lady plays a not very creditable part, but 
wisely remembering the possibility that what he was 

" Should reported be 
And told to her of some of this company ;"' 

he desists for the present ; but when the subject is 
again brought home to him, by the contrast presented 
by the character of Prudence in the tale of Mcliboeus, 
he cannot help exclaiming 

" As I am a faithful man, 
And by the precious corpus Madrian, 
I hadde lever than a barrell of ale 
That goode lefe my wife had heard this tale.* 

And then follow some evidences of his spouse's dispo- 
sition, which do not place her gentleness, &c. in a very 
favourable lijrlit. " But," as he adds, " let us pass 
away from this matter." An interesting illustration 
o£ the times in connection with religious matters arises 
from the Host's propensity to swearing. 
" Benedicite, exclaims the parson ; 

What aileth the man so sinfully for to Swear : 
Our hoste answer 'd, O ! Jankin, be ye there ? 
Now good men, quod our host, heark'neth to me, 
I smell a Lollard in the wind, quod he. 
This Lollard here will prechen us somewhat." 

So that to abstain from ribaldry and profane oaths in 
the time of Wickliffe, were proofs of neresy ; as they 
were afterwards, in the reigns of Charles I. and II., of 
disloyalty ! 

• Levtt, — dear 

We have only now to remark that Chaucer has 
put into the mouth of the Host — evidently a favourite 
character of his— -a portrait of himself. At the con- 
clusion of the Prioress's tale, the Host's eyes fall upon 
the poet : — 

" What man art thou ? quod he. 
Thou look est as thou wouldest find a hare, 
For ever upon the ground I see thee stare. 
Approache near, and look up merrily. 
Now ware you, sirs, and let this man hare place. 
He in the waist is shapen as well as I : 
This were a poppet in an ann£ to embrace 
For any woman small and fair of face. 
He seemeth elvish by his countenance. 
For unto no wight doth he dalliance." 

The Cook must form the subject of another paper. 

The Polypi. — l Sepia octopodia' (the polyp of the ancients) is 
common in the Mediterranean. This dangerous species is fur- 
nished with eight tentacles, which are generally, on the coalt of 
Greece, not more than twelve to eighteen inches long, because 
the animals are taken before they attain any age; some, however, 
are an ell in length. These tentacles have a tendinous con- 
sistence. The largest in the Mediterranean are near Naples, but 
the East Indian, and those in the bay of Mexico, attain an enor- 
mous size. One of these polyps is sufficient to hold a man firmly, 
and tli is accident sometimes occurs to bathers. They move 
themselves in the water uncommonly fast, grasp whatever living 
thing comes in their way, and adhere firmly to it by means of 
suckers on their tentacles, which form a vacuum and cause 
severe pain. In the middle of the circle from which the ten- 
tacles proceed, is a hard black beak, like that of the parrot, 
which protects the mouth and can be extended beyond its in- 
vesting membranes; it is principally used in preparing sea-crabs 
for digestion. The body of the animal is like an oval bladder. 
They are brought from the water, on the coast of Greece, prin- 
cipally by means of spearing ; they are then laid on a stone, that 
all the mucus may run oft*. To prepare them, when fresh, for 
eating, they are generally spitted with their long tentacles bound 
together, and roasted over coals, or steamed and eaten with 
lemon juice. They taste like crabs, but are not easy of digestion. 
They may be dried, and, in that state, are brought to market. 
The Grecians prize these polyps very much ; and, among the 
Romans, they were considered a luxury ; we therefore often see 
them pictured on the walls of dieir dining-rooms. — Extract 
from Fiedler's Reise durch Griechenland, in the Foreign Quar- 
terly Review. 

Fossil Rain. — Singular as may appear the notion that the im- 
pressious of rain should be recognisable and be recognised on the 
surfaces of stratified rocks, the opinion is held by some eminent 
geologists, on the evidence of specimens of new red-sandstone 
taken from the Storeton quarries near Liverpool. In March, 
1839, Mr. Cunningham, to whose researches in the Storeton 
quarries we are indebted for much of our knowledge of the foot- 
prints of Cheirotheria and other antient animals, communicated 
a paper on the subject to the Geological Society of London. 
" In examining some of the slabs of stone extracted at the depth 
of above 30 feet, Mr. Cunningham observed that their under sur- 
face was thickly covered with minute hemisperical projections, 
or casts in relief, of circular pits in the immediately adjacent 
layers of clay. The origin of these marks, he is of opinion, must 
be ascribed to showers of rain, which fall upon an argillaceous 
beach exposed by the retiring tide, and their preservation to the 
filling up of the indentations by sand. On the same slabs are 
impressions of the feet of small reptiles, which appear to have 
passed over the clay previously to the shower, since the foot- 
marks are also indented with circular pits, but to a less degree, 
and the difference Mr. Cunningham explains by the pressure of 
the animal having rendered there nortions less easily acted 
upon." If these impressions on the clay he really the marks of 
rain or hail (a specimen is before us, and it certainly resembles 
such impressions on clay), perhaps the easiest way of compre- 
hending the preservation of them is to supjwse dry sand drifted 
by the wind to have swept over and filled up the foot prints, 
rain-pits, and hollows of every kind which the soft argillaceous 
surface had received. — Penny Cyclopaedia. 


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f February 20 > 

(The Market-Cart.— Gainsoorough.j 



Sir Joshua Reynolds, whose acute judgment as a 
critic was equal to, though it could not surpass, his 
profound knowledge of and consummate skill in the 
practice of painting, has said, in his fourteenth Acade- 
mical Discourse, of the painter from whose beautiful 
composition the above wood-engraving is taken — " If 
ever this nation should produce gjenius sufficient to 
acquire us the honourable distinction of an English 
school, the name of Gainsborough will be transmitted 
to posterity in the history of the art, among the very 
first of that rising name/ A tribute of applause so un • 
qualified from a contemporary with whom die subject oi 
his eulogy had lived for a considerable period on terms 
of rivalry, is no less honourable to the good feeling and 
sagacity of its author, than it is remarkable for its in- 
nate modesty, since at the very time he delivered his 
sentiments he had himself become the founder of that 
school, the existence of which he contemplated as a 
then future contingency In quoting the opinion of 
Sir Joshua Reynolds, we have no wish to guide the 
judgment of tne spectator by the authority of a by- 
gone dictum, but cite his observation simply to show 

that Gainsborough was held in high estimation by one 
in every respect, both theoretically and practically, 
competent to arrive at a sound conclusion. 

Before speaking of the Market-Cart itself, and oi 
the style adopted by its painter, it will add interest to 
this paper to give a short notice of his life. Thomas 
| Gainsborough, the son of a clothier, was born at Sud- 
j bury in Suffolk, in the year 1727, and evincing a strong 
natural talent for drawing, particularly in sketching 
all the picturesque scenery of his native county, was 
at fourteen years of age placed under the tuition of 
Francis Hayman, with whom he remained four years. 
After practising as a portrait painter at Ipswich and 
at Batn, he came to London in 1774, and obtained ex- 
tensive employment in that capacity, and soon attained 
high reputation in landscape composition. Shortly 
before his death he was reconciled to Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds, between whom and himself a coolness had for 
some time existed, and that eminent painter was with 
him in his last moments. Gainsborough had just said, 
" We are all going to Heaven, and Vandyke is of the 
company," when he suddenly expired. He died of 
cancer in the neck, on the 2nd of August, 1788. 

The Market-Cart is as excellent a specimen as we 
could cite in illustration of the scrupulous fidelity with 

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which Gainsborough planned his works, and the entire 
consistency of management he displayed throughout. 
The scene here intended is evidently the entrance to a 
wooded road, from which the spectator may be sup- 
posed to view the picture. The figures and the horse 
drawing the cart approach, and are at the moment 
chosen by the artist passing a break or opening amongst 
the trees, through which the pure morning sun-light 
streams across the whole, illuminating in its progress 
the various objects which form the centre of tne com- 
position. There are two exquisitely natural country- 
girls in the cart, which is loaded with various samples 
of market produce. The figures present the perfection 
of rustic beauty — they are plain, simple, and unaffected. 
Over the front of the cart, above the haunches of the 
horse, a shadow is thrown which has the double effect 
of making the vehicle appear to recede, whilst it adds 
to' the excellent appearance of foreshortening of the 
horse. The consistency so apparent arises from the 
careful manner in which all parts of the picture are 
made to receive light from one source. The touches 
of half-tint on the dark tree on the right, — the brilliant 
dash of red on the figure stooping down to pick up 
some sticks, — the beautiful illumination of the white 
cloud above, and the pure tone of light upon the sleepy 
, dog which trudges by the side of the horse, all com- 
bine to satisfy the judgment in as great a degree as 
they fascinate the eye. It should be noted in this 
picture, that although there are all the varieties of tint 
which the glow of morning can present, from the sun- 
light of the foreground to the grey cool hue of the 
distance, there is but one touch of pure, that is, posi- 
tive colour in the whole composition, the piece 01 red 
before alluded to. It is the introduction of this which 
so powerfully conduces to the exactness of gradation 
we observe in the work, for it immediately carries the 
eye to the source whence the light is derived, in the 
same manner as the brightness of the tints on the 
figures, horse, and dog, rivet the attention on that 
which the painter intended as the chief attraction of his 

Homely English landscape was that in which Gains- 
borough chiefly delighted, and no artist has-been more 
successful in its delineation. The rich foliage in some, 
and the variation of hill and dale in others, — the 
serenity of woodland scenery, and the simplicity of 
rustic employment, appear in his pictures as purely 
natural as they are entirely national. Other painters 
have invested our landscape views with a portion of 
their own poetic imagination, but Gainsborough was 
content to take nature as he found her, only exercis- 
ing his great natural sagacity in the fitting choice of 
his subject, and transferring to canvas the result of 
his observation, a process he has performed, as in the 
Market-Cart, witn masterly skilL Simplicity and 
nature are, therefore, the qualities to be sought for in 
the works of this artist, and not loftiness of conception 
. or majesty of design. 

In viewing a landscape by Gainsborough it will not 
fail to occur to the spectator that there is in the 
management of the lights and darks a resemblance to 
works of the same class by some of the Dutch and 
Flemish painters, yet in all other respects our country- 
man differs from tnem. He is in no degree an imita- 
tor, nor is he a plagiarist He formed his own style, 
though he shows that he was guided in this respect by 
the same principles as had rendered their names 
famous. This point of resemblance is chiefly observ- 
able in the practice of making the dark masses pre- 
dominate over the light, which inevitably has the 
effect of guiding the eye at once to the chief point of 
the picture. The nice gradations of tint in the several 
distances prevent the contrasts between the lightest 
and the darkest parts of the composition from becoming 

violent. They by no means militate against a power* 
ful effect, but conduce to a harmonious whole. We 
are now speaking of such works of Gainsborough as 
that under notice, for there are others, consisting prin- 
cipally of a rustic figure or group, in which the land- 
scape is made subservient to the principal object ; in 
these the balance of light will be usually found to 
exceed the dark. 

The mode of execution is another point to which the 
reader's attention may be profitably arawn. Provided 
that the effect which his judgment satisfied him was 
correct were obtained, Gainsborough was indifferent 
to the means by which it was produced. Hence we 
see, upon a near inspection of most of his works, an 
extraordinary collection of scrapes and scratches, of the 
value of which it is difficult to believe, particularly 
when it occurs amongst the foliage ; yet, upon receding 
to a proper distance, that is, so tar as that the eye will 
conveniently embrace the whole surface of the canvas, 
we cannot help being struck with the exact similitude 
presented to tne appearance of nature. It is manifest 
from this that one important rule to follow in viewing 
his works is this, that the spectator should retire to 
the distance indicated above, before he forms his judg- 
ment of their merit. 

We are quite aware that it may be objected that the 
leafing of trees never forms itself in this manner, and 
the observation is undoubtedly just. Yet as painting 
is intended to imitate the effects produced by nature, 
it matters not whether it be gained by a bold or dash- 
ing touch, by a multiplicity of dots or scratches, by a 
load of colour on the surface of the canvas, or a thin 
tint through which the canvas is apparent. By each 
and every of these modes an appearance of truth in 
landscape has been attained, and by whichever, of 
them, or by any other means, he can succeed in his 
object, an artist is justified in resorting to it for his 
purpose. Though every leaf upon a tree has light, 
and middle-tint, and shade, yet when viewed at a dis- 
tance those various degrees are harmoniously blended, 
and present masses of forms in which light, and middle- 
tint, and shade are also apparent. It is this harmony, 
this blending, this massing, which the landscape-painter 
endeavours to present to view, and not the minute par- 
ticles which combine to form it. If, then, his picture, 
beheld at such a distance as that the eye of the spec- 
tator can at one view compass its whole surface, yield 
a true idea or notion of a landscape, the space of which 
could also be embraced at a single glance, he has suc- 
ceeded in his effort at imitation, in an artistic sense, as 
much as if he had painted every leaf upon each tree 
and the light upon every blade of grass within the 
limit of his subject 

It is a truly gratifying addition to make, when speak- 
ing of the professional celebrity of Gainsborough, that 
he was as estimable in bis private character as he was 
eminent in his vocation. As on one point we com- 
menced by quoting the words of Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
so on the other we can do no better than cite his valu- 
able opinion. When speaking, in a lecture delivered 
at the Royal Academy soon after the death of Gains- 
borough, and referring to that artist, the accomplished 
President says, " While we lament him as an artist, let 
us not pass over those virtues that were an honour to 
human nature ; that generous heart, whose strongest 
propensities were to relieve the genuine claims of 
poverty. If he selected, for the exercise of his pencil, 
an infant from the cottage, the tenants of the humble 
roof generally participated the benevolence of the 
painter." Here we may observe the natural proneness 
of a good man duly to estimate the moral worth of 
another, for Reynolds was himself as eminent for his 
charity as he was exalted in the practice of his art. 

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[February 20, 


Perhaps no biographies are more generally interest- 
ing than those which illustrate the power of superior 
lninds to rise above the, uncongenial condition to which 
they were born ; for no feeling is more universal than 
that which such biographies most strongly appeal to— the 
desire of improving our position in life. However 
little similitude there may be between our own minds 
and circumstances and those of the individual with 
whose fortunes we are for the moment occupied, we 
still feel an almost personal sympathy with his strug- 
gles, we experience an almost personal satisfaction 
when they at last terminate in complete success. Dif- 
ficulties of this nature must have strongly beset the 
early course of Thomas Britton, the subject of our pre- 
aent paper, but unfortunately the details have not been 
recorded. Another source of interest, however, is opened 
in his biography— one, too, infinitely more elevating. 
His was no vulgar ambition. His calling was very 
humble, but it made him independent, and nad advan- 
tages which he knew how to use and appreciate ; ac- 
cordingly, when he had obtained his books, his music, 
.and the distinguished society which his tastes, habit, 
And intellect required, he kept to that calling still ; 
none of the fretfulness which a less steady mind would 
shave exhibited at the discrepancy between his morning 
and evening occupations — going his daily rounds with 
the coal-sack on nis back in the one, and receiving 
and entertaining a brilliant company at his own house 
at Clerkenwell in the other, — troubled him. The popu- 
lar greeting with which he was often saluted in the 
streets, " Tnere goes the small-coal man, who is a 
lover of learning, a performer in music, and a com- 
panion for a gentleman," remained altogether true to 
the latest day of his life. Britton's modesty would 
have disclaimed the epithet of • the philosopher,' but 
surely this was philosophy ! 

He was born at or near Higham Ferrers in the 
county of Northampton, about the middle of the seven- 
teenth century. From this place he removed to London 
-whilst a boy, and there apprenticed himself to a dealer 
in small-coal. At the expiration of his apprenticeship, 
Jlearne the antiquary says, he received a sum of money 
from his master to go and set up in his native place, or, in 
•other words, that he might not carry on the same busi- 
ness in London. He went to Higham Ferrers, but the 
money was spent without any useful result; so he de- 
termined to return to the metropolis, and commence 
business there. His character does not make this state- 
ment very probable, and in the absence of conclusive 
testimony we may be allowed to disbelieve it One of 
liis first acquaintances in London was an eminent 
chemist, Dr. Garaniere, who, seeing the interest Brit- 
ton took in his studies, admitted him to his laboratory. 
Here he improved his opportunities so well, that he 
constructed a * moving laboratory' for himself, upon 
so ingenious a plan, that a Welsh gentleman who saw 
it took him down to his house in Wales, in order that 
he might there construct a similar instrument. Britton 
#ave perfect satisfaction, and received in return a very 
handsome gratuity. He now became a diligent col- 
lector of all sorts of curiosities, more particularly in 
-old books, manuscripts, music, drawings, prints, &c. 
His favourite literary subjects were chemistry, judicial 
astrology, magic, and mystic divinity ; on these and 
on music he was perpetually on the watch, as he pur- 
sued his daily rounds, to acquire the scarcest, most 
ancient, and most valuable works. Every book-stall 
that lay in his way was searchingly examined. Some 
years before his death he sold a collection of old books 
and manuscripts, the very catalogue of which, Heame 
says he looked at with no small surprise and wonder. 

A very interesting evidence of the taste, skill, and 
knowledge he lavished upon this matter is afforded by 
one of the anecdotes of Britton. About the commence- 
ment of the last century there was a fashion among per- 
sons of rank of buying up scarce old books and manu- 
scripts, which taste, then first spread amongst the upper 
classes, has been the foundation of many rich collections, 
some of which are now national property. The Duke of 
Devonshire and the Earls of Oxford, Pembroke, Sun- 
derland, and Winchelsea in particular, were accustomed 
to ramble through London for this purpose on the 
Saturday mornings, when the houses or parliament did 
not generally meet. After their walk the party met in 
Paternoster Row, at the comer of Ave Maria Lane, at 
the house of a bookseller of the name of Batcman. 
Here, precisely at twelve o'clock, Britton, who most 
probably was employed to assist them in their researches, 
was accustomed to come in his blue frock, and laying 
down his coal-sack by the door, to join the titled per- 
sonages within, and chat with thein for an hour or so 
upon the subjects of their search. 

But the most important feature of his life is his con- 
nection with music, which Sir John Hawkins thought 
of so much importance, that he devotes many pages of 
his • History' of that art to an account of Britton's life. 
Sir John, indeed, considers that Britton's musical meet- 
ings or concerts were the first things of the kind in 
England, but that is denied in Chalmers's * Biogra- 
phical Dictionary ;' the historian also adds that he was 
the undoubted parent of some of the most celebrated 
concerts of his ^Sir John's) day ; a statement he must 
have made on his personal knowledge, and therefore to 
be relied on. Britton's meetings began in 1678, and 
among his earliest supporters was Sir Roger L'Es- 
trange. The place chosen was Britton's own house in 
Aylesbury Street, Clerkenwell. Here his visitors found 
on the ground-floor a coal-shed, and a very narrow and 
almost perpendicular staircase or ladder leading to a 
long low room above. This was the concert-room. 
Here Dr. Pepusch and sometimes Handel played the 
harpsichord : Woolaston the painter, who was a good 
performer on the flute and violin ; Hughes the poet ; 
Dubourg, who played here the first solo he ever played 
in public, and numerous distinguished public perfor- 
mers were among the other members. The reputation 
of the meetings spread, till the most distinguished 
ladies of the court condescended to visit the small-coal 
man's house, and enjoy his excellent entertainments, 
44 A lady of the first rank in this kingdom, now living," 
says Sir John Hawkins, referring to the Duchess of 
Queensberry, 44 one of the most celebrated beauties of 
her time, may yet remember that in the pleasure which 
she manifested at hearing Mr. Britton's concert she 
seemed to have forgot the difficulty with which she 
ascended the steps that led to it" At first the meet- 
ings were absolutely gratuitous, but perhaps many 
of the parties who shared in them felt that it was 
wrong to let the whole expense fall on their host ; ulti- 
mately the subscription was fixed at 10*. a year, Brit- 
ton finding the instruments ; and coffee was provided 
at a penny a dish. It is very probable, after all, that 
this arrangement was consequent on Britton's renting 
a more convenient room for the purpose, and which he 
obtained in the adjoining house. 

Considering all this in contrast with Britton's busi- 
ness occupation, we can hardly wonder at the many 
strange notions which got abroad concerning him. 
44 Some," says Walpole, 44 thought his musical assembly 
only a cover for seditious meetings ; others, for magical 
purposes. He was taken for an atheist, a Presbyterian, 
a Jesuit." But ultimately it seems to have been wisely 
concluded, 44 that Britton was a plain, simple, honest 
person, who only meant to amuse himself. The cir- 
cumstances attending Britton's death arc as strange 

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and romantic as they are painful. One Honeyman, a 
ventriloquist, was introduced into his company by a 
Justice Robe, who played at the concerts ; this man, 
making his voice appear to come from a distance, an- 
nounced to Britton nis approaching dissolution, and 
bade him prepare himself by repeating the Lord's 
Prayer on his knees. The poor man did so, and such 
an effect had the affair altogether on his imagination, 
that he died in a few days, a victim to the miserable 
heartlessness which so commonly characterises the prac- 
tical joker. Britton's death occurred in September, 
1714, when he was upwards of sixty years of age. He was 
buried on the 1st of October following, in Clerkenwell 
church-yard, and his corpse was followed to the grave 
by a great concourse of people. His books, manu- 
scripts, music, and musical instruments were sold for 
the benefit of his widow — the instruments alone pro- 
duced 80/. Many articles were purchased at the sale 
by Sir Hans Sloane. In person he was short and 
thick-set, with an exceedingly honest, open, ingenuous 
countenance. Woolaston painted two portraits of him, 
one under circumstances worthy of notice, on account 
of the instructive modesty they show Britton to have 
possessed. Having emptied his sack earlier than usual 
one morning, he felt inclined to call on his friend the 
painter above named. But the difference between the 
musician and the coal-man was for others to forget, 
not him, so that all that he could do was, he thought, 
to raise his well-known musical cry near Woolaston's 
house. He did so, and Woolaston, to whom the cry 
was strange in that neighbourhood, hearing it, imme- 
diately threw up the sash of the window in the room 
where he was sitting, and called Britton in. It was 
then that he painted one of the best known of the many 
portraits that used to be commonly seen in the print- 
shops, — Britton with his blue frock, and the small-coal 
measure in his hand. Beneath these portraits were 
generally inscribed the following lines by Hughes the 
poet, who, as we have already mentioned, was a mem- 
ber of the concerts ; and witn these we conclude our 
account of the celebrated small-coal man : — 

" Though mean thy rank, yet in thy humble cell 
Did gentle peace, and arts, unpurchased, dwell. 
Well pleased, Apollo thither led his train, 
And music warbled in her sweetest strain. 
Cyllenius so, as fables tell, and Jove, 
Came willing guests to poor Philemon's grove. 
Let useless pomp behold, and blush to Hud 
So low a station, — such a liberal mind." 


[From a Correspondent.] 

One of the greatest drawbacks upon a residence in 
our American colonies, to those who have been accus- 
tomed to enjoy the out-door amusements and recrea- 
tions to be met with in most parts of Great Britain, is 
the almost entire absence of the means of similar en- 
joyments. I have often thought of this when I have 
caught myself practising some unsportsmanlike species 
of fishing, such as that of capturing bull-frogs, cat-fish, 
or suckers ; or when I have taken out my gun in pur- 
suit of game that I should have been ashamed of pur- 
suing in my own country. To be sure, it takes some 
time to overcome one's imported prejudices ; but after 
awhile the mind, in a great measure, becomes recon- 
ciled to that which cannot be remedied. Among the 
summer amusements, if amusements they may be 
called, is that of hunting the mud-turtles. There are 
several varieties of the tortoise common to this part of 
North America, and no fewer than three or four, of 
different shapes and sizes, that frequent the ponds and 
the rivers, two distinct species among whicn are uni- 

versally denominated mud-turtles, owing to their gene- 
rally being found where the water is tolerably still, 
whether in pond or river, and where the bottom tor the 
most part is muddy, amongst which mud they find the* 
principal part of their food. One, however, is of a 
very small kind, only from four to six inches long, and 
is therefore but seldom hunted; whereas the larger 
species sometimes measures as much as fifteen or six- 
teen inches in length, or even still more, and its body 
is bulky and heavy in proportion ; for I have met with 
some of them that weighed between thirty and forty 
pounds. Some persons dress them and eat them after 
the manner of the green turtle of the West Indies, and 
pronounce the meat delicious; but they are by no 
means a favourite dish among any class of the inhabi- 
tants ; so little so, indeed, that not one-fourth part of 
those that are caught are used as food by the human 
species ; nor do I remember any animal, either wild 
or domestic, that appeared to enjoy a feast of mud- 
turtle. The fact is, though the flesh is very rich, it has 
a muddy and unpleasant flavour, at least so say the 
great majority of the persons 1 have ever known to 
taste it. This is also the case as regards the small 
land-tortoise, or terraphin, found in various parts of 
the United States, which some of the city epicures pro- 
fess to consider a great delicacy, but wnicn the gene- 
rality of the people do not consider fit to be dressed 
and brought to table. The species of mud-turtle 
already spoken of may be seen in great numbers about 
the margins of the North American lakes and rivers ; 
and although they may probably be found in greater 
numbers in the solitudes of the forests, wherever there 
are shallow lakes with muddy buttoms, they also fre- 
quent the great fresh-water lakes, such as Erie and 
Ontario, and the larger rivers therewith connected; 
nor do they disappear from their original haunts when 
the country becomes peopled, which, considering that 
they are shy animals, seems a thing likely enough to 
occur ; for in the oldest settlements in the Canadas, 
the inhabitants believe them to be as numerous at the 
present time as they were fifty or sixty years ago. 
Wherever there are prostrate trees, stretching from the 
shore to a considerable distance into some river or 
lake, they appear to be the favourite resorts of the mud- 
turtles when they quit their watery element, for many 
a time have I seen six or eight (or various sizes) upon 
a single tree ; but if no such trees are at hand, but 
pieces of rock or the tops of large stones should show 
themselves above the surface, then these creatures 
crawl upon the stones, where they will bask in the sun- 
shine and sleep for several hours when the day is warm 
and sunny. But they are easily aroused ; lor unless 
silence and considerable caution are observed, while 
those in pursuit of them are still at a considerable dis- 
tance, either their sight or their hearing is so acute, 
that they detect the approach of an intruder, and in- 
stantly plunge headlong into the water. Along the 
northern shore of Lake Erie, and at the distance of 
about twenty miles from the outlet of that lake, or the 
head of the Niagara river, a small settlement was 
commenced in the early part of the present century, 
where a sluggish stream of water falls into the lake. 
Since in all new settlements a grist-mill is a necessary 
establishment, an individual more enterprising than 
the rest put up a wooden building for this purpose near 
the mouth of the small creek ; but in order to establish 
the necessary head of water that was to put the ma- 
chinery in motion, he had to throw a dam across the 
stream. Though it was not necessary to raise the 
water within the dam more than nine or ten feet, in 
accomplishing this he found that he laid under water 
above sixty acres of the adjoining lands, a result he 
had not calculated upon, either not understanding the 
art of levelling, or not conceiving the fall in the waters 

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[February 20, 

of the creek so trifling as they evidently proved to have 
been. The consequence was, that at tne expense of 
losing about sixty acres of land, of no very great value 
in' that part of the country, he gained such an extensive 
body of water, that his mill had a supply when many 
others were often left dry. Wherever the water is 
made to overflow the land in this way, all the timber 
dies within a year or two, which of course proved the 
case with the trees that stood in this spacious reservoir. 
In the course of a few years the trees began to decay ; 
and from that period a strong gale never passed over 
the adjoining lake without prostrating some of these 
old monarchs of the forest. Previous to the com- 
mencement of this settlement, a small bay at the mouth 
of the creek, full of large stones that showed themselves 
above the waters of the lake, had long been noted as 
abounding with mud-turtle ; and by me time half of 
the trees in the mill-dam had been prostrated, so nu- 
merous had the mud-turtles become in this newly- 
formed pond, that they became the wonder of the whole 

In the broad but clear waters of the Niagara river, 
several miles above the Falls, there are two or three 
large bays, formed by the winding course of this noble 
stream, where the current becomes comparatively 
slow, so that the mud-turtles appear to meet with little 
or no difficulty in stemming it ; for if the sportsman 
will take the trouble of concealing himself in the ad- 

ioining bank, where he may occasionally meet with 
)ushes or underwood, or lie anchored off in the stream 
at some distance in a small canoe, that looks more like 
a floating log of timber than a navigable craft, he will 
have opportunities of seeing these creatures rowing 
themselves from one part of the bay to another, for the 
purpose of finding some suitable stone, or stump, or 
prostrate tree, upon which to crawl for the purpose of 
taking a nap for a few hours. Many a time have I t 
accompanied by a Canadian friend, repaired to some 
of these bays in the river, particularly during the 
months of May and June, since at that season, the 
water of the river still continuing cold from the 
recent melting of the ice in the lake from which it 
issues, they leave their favourite element as much as 
possible, in order to enjoy the more congenial tempe- 
rature of the atmosphere, which has by that period De- 
come pretty warm. We used to reach the place we 
had fixed upon for a few hours' diversion at an early 
hour in the morning, one of us ensconcing himself on 
the river bank, and the other dropping gently down 
the stream, and anchoring within gun-shot distance 
from where wc expected our game to make their ap- 
pearance. We never attempted to shoot them with 
anything but rifle-ball, for the largest common shot 
would have harmlessly glanced off their shells, except 
they had been fired down upon from a moderate height, 
and in nearly a perpendicular direction. If a ball 
struck one of them and wounded it severely, it most 
likely would tumble off its perch upon its back ; and 
while it was struggling and attempting to turn itself 
over, the person in the canoe would paddle up to it and 
haul it into his little vessel. But if not mortally 
wounded, and they managed to keep the right side up- 
wards, before the canoe could reacn them they would 
have dived to the bottom, and might be seen — for the 
water was very clear — paddling along at a great speed 
to some place of security. When there are several 
upon the same log, provided those who fire at them 
can keep themselves hid and perfectly quiet, two or 
three may often be shot, one after the other, before the 
remainder of them take the alarm and plunge heavily 
into the water. 

I have known us capture nearly a score in a favour- 
able morning, including all sizes ; and, by way of 
excuse for not being considered wantonly cruel, we 

took them home with us, and invariably had some of 
them dressed ; but though with a strong desire to do 
so, we never relished them much. Had we been near 
a comb-manufactory, the shells of the large ones would 
have been worth a trifle ; but that not being the case, 
they were utterly valueless. We had another plea for 
occasionally engaging in the destruction of these crea- 
tures, namely, the unfavourable reputation the farmers 
give them by asserting that they are great destroyers 01 
both ducklings and goslings ; and I afterwards lived to 
prove that at least the former part of the accusation 
was correct, for I have over and over again had duck- 
lings of my own carried off by mud-turtles within sight 
of my own dwelling. 

TU Planetary System — This beautiful system of sun, planets, 
and comets can have its origin in no other way than by the pur- 
pose and command of an intelligent and powerful Being. He 
governs all things, not as the sovereign of this world, but as the 
Lord of the Universe. He is not only God, but Lord or Gover- 
nor. We know him ouly by his properties and attributes — by 
the wise and admirable structure of things around us. We admire 
Him on account of his perfections — we venerate and worship Him 
on account of His government. — Sir Isaac Newton. 

The True Scientific Inquirer into Natural Philosophy. — His 
mind should always be awake to devotional feeling ; and in con- 
templating the variety and beautj of the external world, and 
developing its scientific wonders, he will always refer to that 
Infinite Wisdom through whose beneficence he is permitted to 
enioy knowledge. In becoming wiser, he will become better; lie 
will rise at once in the scale of intellectual and moral existence; 
his increased sagacity will be subservient to a more exalted 
faith ; and, in proportion as the veil becomes thinner through 
which he sees the causes of things, he will admire more the 
brightness of the Divine light by which they are rendered per- 
ceptible.— Sir Humphry Davy, 

Agriotftlureof Modem Greece.— It is, in two words, almost 
patriarchal. The plough differs in no resoect from that de- 
scribed by Hesiod ; it has not been improved for three thousand 
years. The earth is furrowed to the depth of about three inches, 
and the seed is sown : so far is well. A harrow to cover the 
grain evenly and carry off the roots and weeds dug up by the 
plough, rollers, &c. is unknown. My pioneers made the pea- 
sants a small model of a harrow ; they at once perceived its 
value and prepared to adopt it, but many complained that they 
had no cattle, and must still, as before, use the hand-rake. 
October is the month for sowing ; the field is so full of stones 
that they generally predominate over earth. The rains of winter 
come on ; the plant appears above ground. In June is the har- 
vest ; the produce generally tenfold. The corn is cut down with 
sickles, bound in small sheaves, and carried home upon horses, 
much being lost on the road among the bushes, &c. It is next 
thrown on a round and even place which is solid and sometimes 

Slastered j here it is trodden by horses, less frequently oxen, 
riven in a circle — only in a few places, as Ajio Petro in the 
Morea, the corn is threshed ; then, however, only by very clumsy 
instruments. The grain, thus trodden out, is purified by sift- 
ing; the short broken straw, Achera, is the usual food for* horse 
and cattle. The corn is ground by water-mills; more fre- 
quently, however, windmills are employed. The millstones are 
light, and impart to the flour a quantity of their sand. The ad- 
dition of water to this flour, without acid, forms a dough, which 
is left to stand during the night, and baked on the following 
day. They often make a cake, a couple of inches thick, lay it 
on the hot part under a fire, and cover it with hot ashes ; some- 
times it is baked in the same manner between two plates of iron. 
It is a great pleasure to them to eat this doughy cake as hot as 
possible. The* greater part of the bread is made of l«rley j 
white wheaten bread, but always heavy and half baked, is found 
in the monasteries. The best white bread was formerly obtained 
in Hydra and at Poros. Rye bread is rarely met with; the 
people do not like it. Whenever horses get better food than 
usual on their journeys, it is barley ; oats are only very seldom 
to be procured. — Extract from FicMer's Rene (lurch Griechen- 
tand, in the Foreign Quarterly Review, 

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What Bucephalus was to Alexander, Babieea was to 

the Cid — a faithful servant through a long course of 

difficulty and danger, and a sharer of his perils on 

many a battle-field. Like the Grecian steed, Babieea 

fell into the hands of his master when he was but a 

youth ; but had the better fortune not only to survive 

nis lord, rendering him good service even after his 

death, but to end a life of warfare in peace. The word 

Babieea signifies noodle, booby — a strange cognomen 

for a beast which is said to have been " more like a 

rational being than a brute ;" but why he was thus 

called is explained by the Chronicle, which says that 

Rodrigo, wnen a youth, asked his god-father, Don 

Peyre Pringos, for a colt ; and the worthy priest took 

him out into a paddock where his brood-mares were 

feeding, in order that he might make his choice ; but 

Rodrigo " suffered the mares and their colts to pass 

out and took none of them ; and last of all came forth 

a mare with a colt right ugly and scabby, and, said he, 

' This colt will I have.* But, said his god-father with 

wrath, • Booby (Babieea), a bad choice hast thou made !' 

• Nay,' said Rodrigo, • a right good horse will this be.' 

And Babieea was he henceforth called, and he was 

afterwards a good steed and a bold, and on his back did 

my Cid win many battle-fields." We have already 

seen that he stood Rodrigo in good stead in the affair 

of the five Moorish kings : we next find him acting 

the part of the Samaritan's beast, and our hero in the 

novel character of a pilgrim. 



Very soon after his marriage, Rodrigo made a pil- 
grimage to Comnostela, to the shrine of Santiago, the 
patron saint of Spain. This was no wedding- trip, in 
the modern sense of the term ; for instead of his bride, 
whom he left at home in the care of his mother,* 
c< Twenty young and brave hidalgos 
With him did Rodrigo take ; 
Alma on every side he scattered 
For Gods and Our Lady's sake." 

On the road he saw a leper in the midst of a slough, 
crying loudly for help. The generous youth on the 
instant dismounted and dragged him out; then, 
having seated him on his own beast, he led him to an 
inn, made him there sit down to supper with him at 
the same table, to the great wrath of the twenty hidal- 
gos, and, finally, shared with him his bed. At midnight 
Rodrigo was awakened by a sharp and piercing blast 
blowing on his back. He started up in great alarm, 
and felt for the leper, but found him not in the bed. 
He sprung to his feet, and called for a light. A light 
was brought, but no leper could he find. He again lay 
down, when presently a figure, in robes of shining 
white, approached the bed, and thus spoke : — 

" I Saint Lazani9 am, Rodrigo ; 

Somewhat would I say to thee — 

• In a former article it was stated that the romances make no 
mention of the Cid's mother : it should have been said that they 
do not mention her name. 

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Vol. X.— L 




[February 27» 

I the leper am to wnom 

Thou hast shown iuch charity. 

Thou of God art well beloved- 
He hath granted this to thee, 

That on whatsoe'er thou enterett, 

Be it war, or what it may, 
Thou shall end it to thine honor, 

And shall prosper day by day. 

To respect and pay thee reverence, 
Moor or Christian ne'er shall fail ; 

None of all thy foes shall ever 
Over thee in fight prevail. 

Life shall bring thee no dishonor— 

Thou shalt ever conqueror be ; 
Death shall find thee still victorious, 

For God's blessing rests on thee." 

With these prophetic words the saint vanished ; the 
hero fell on his knees, and continued in thanksgiving 
to God and Holy Mary till the break of day, when he 
pursued his pilgrimage. 

From the shrine at Compostela, Rodrigo turned his 
steps to Calahorra, a town on the frontiers of Castile 
ana Aragon, the possession of which was contested 
by the kings of those realms. To avoid war, the 
monarchs agreed to settle the dispute by single combat, 
each appointing a knight to do battle in his name. 
Martin Gonzalez was chosen by Ramiro of Aragon, 
and our hero by King Fernando. On the first meeting 
of the combatants, Martin arrogantly boasted of his 
prowess and his certainty of victory : 

" Sore, Rodrigo, must thou tremble 
Now to meet me in the fight, 
Since thy head will soon be sever'd 
For a trophy of my might 

Never more to thine own castle 

Wilt thou turn Babieca's rein ; 
Never will thy lov'd Ximena 

See thee at her side again. n 

Rodrigo replied : 

" Thou mayst be right stout and valiant, 
But thy boastings prove it not ; 
Truce to words — we come to combat, 
Not with tongues, but swords, I wot. 

In the hands of God Almighty 

Doth the victory abide ; 
And He will on him bestow it 

Who hath right upon his side." 

We have here an instance, and many such will he 
found in the romances of the Cid, of the belief preva- 
lent in the chivalrous ages, that right and mi^ht were 
in certain cases identical, that God was peculiarly the 
God of battles, and that trial by combat was the most 
efficacious mode of exercising justice. 

After the prophecy above recounted, it were needless 
to say that the boasting knight was vanquished and 
slain, and that Calahorra was annexed to the kingdom 
of Castile. 

" Loud to arms the trumpets sounded, 
Beat the drums the call to war, — 
Deadly strife, and fire, and slaughter, 
Were proclaimed wide and far. 

Ruy my Cid his warmen gathering, 

Marshal I'd them right speedily ; 
Then forth came Ximena Gomes, 
And all tearfully did cry, 
' King of my soul ! lord of my bosom ! stay ! 
Oh, whither go'st thou ? leave me not, I pray !* 

Moved by her sad complainings, 

Lo ! the Cid his pain contest ; 
Weeping sore, he claspt Ximena, 

Claspt his lov'd one to his breast. 

* Ween not, lady dear/ he whispereth ; 

4 Till I come back, dry thine eye '.' 
Stedfast still on him she gaieth, 
And still bitterly doth cry, 
' King of my soul ! lord of my bosom 1 stay ! 
Oh, whither go'st thou ? leave me not, I pray f n 

On what warlike expedition Rodrigo was bound when 
this tender parting took place is not made evident by 
the romances ; but it was probable that he was hasten- 
ing to attack the Moors, •• great hosts " of whom about 
this time overran Estreinadura. He overtook them, 
put them to flight, freed the captives they had made, 
slew so many of the infidels " that the number could 
not be counted/* and returned to Bivar laden with 
spoil and glory. 

The city of Coimbra in Portugal had for seven years 
been invested by King Fernando, who was despairing 
of overcoming the resistance of the Moors, when St. 
James the apostle, in the guise of a knight in white 
robes and burnished armour, and mounted on a snowy 
charger, delivered the city into the hands of the Chris* 
tians. On the mosque being consecrated as a church, 
our hero was therein created a knight; for it seems by 
the Chronicle, as well as by the romances, that up to 
this time he was nothing but an esquire. The king girt 
on the sword with his own hands, and kissed bis lips 
as a knightly salutation ; while, to testify his great 
respect for the young hero, he refrained from striking 
the customary blow on the neck.* The queen, to do 
him honour, brought him his horse, and the Infants 
Urraca stooped to attach the golden spurs. The king 
then called upon him to exercise his newly acquired 
privilege of knighting others, and he accordingly 
dubbed nine valiant esquires before the altar. 

Whilst Rodrigo was with the king's court in the city 
of Zamora, there came to hiin messengers from the 
five Moorish kings he had conquered, hringing him 
tribute. This consisted of a hundred horses, all richly 
caparisoned : 

u Twenty were of dapple grey, 
Twenty were as ermine white, 
Thirty were of hardy sorrel, 
Thirty were as black as night;" 

together with many rare jewels for his lady Ximena, 
and chests of silken apparel for his attendant hidalgos. 
Kneeling at Rodrigo's feet, the messengers offered him 
these gifts in token of the allegiance of their masters 
to him their Cid or lord. 

u Out then spake Rodrigo Dial, 

* Friends, I wot, ye err in this; 
I am neither lord nor master 

Where the king Fernando is. 
All ye bring to him porta i net h — 

Nought can I, his vassal, claim/ " 

The king, charmed with the humility of so noble 
and doughty a knight, refused to accept any portion of 
the tribute, and replied to the messengers — 
" Say ye to your lords, albeit 

This their Cid no crown doth wear, 
To no monarch is he second ; 

With myself he may compare. 
All my realm, my wealth, my power, 
To this knight's good f word I owe j 
To possess so brave a vassal, 
Well it pleaseth me, I trow.** 

Rodrigo sent back the messengers laden with pre- 

• Father Bergania, in his « Antiquities of Spain/ says that 
the buffet was given with the hand upon the neck, with the 
words, " Awake, and sleep not in affairs of chivalry !" and that 
it was also usual to say, ** Be a good and faithful soldier of 
the realm!" but that King Fernando spared the buffet in this 
instance, as he knew the Cid needed not such exhortation. 

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sents ; and " from that day forth," says the romance 
•• he was called the Cid. a name given by the Moors to 
a man of valour and high estate." 

[•• King of my soul ! lor ! of my bosom I stay !'*] 


[Continued from page 56.] 

The motion of a ship or boat on the surface of the 
water is brought about by means differing greatly from 
the tractive forces exhibited in land travelling, owing 
to the peculiar nature of the liquid medium through 
or on which the vessel moves. If we view the pro- 
gression of a vessel by canal, by tide or current, by 
sail, by oars, or by steam, we find that however much 
these methods differ from each other, they differ still 
more from land travelling. On a canal we see a 
heavily-laden barge drawn along with comparative 
ease by a single horse : the resistance of the water to 
the progress of the barge is so small, compared with 
the friction of a common road, and the surface of the 
water is so perfectly level, that many tons weight are 
drawn by a single "horse with little exertion. In the 
case of the ebb and flow of a tide in a river, or a cur- 
rent in the open sea, the material on which the vessel 
rests is itself in motion, and bears along the vessel 
with it, at a quicker or slower rate, according to the 
weight of the vessel and the power of the tide or 

When we come to consider the action of sails, we 
find a kind of reversal of the canal movement, the 
vessel being pushed along, instead of pulled. The horse 
is exchanged for the wind, the rope is exchanged for 
sails, a single point of attachment is exchanged for an 
extensive surface, and a tractive force in front is ex- 
changed for a propelling force from behind. But still 
the two kinds of motion are brought about by some- 
what analogous means, for in each case the moving 
force is above the surface of the water, and indepen- 
dent of it. 

When, however, the action of an oar in an open 
boat is considered, we find it to depend on wholly 

different principles ; and a little reflection will show, 
that however opposite this action may appear to 
that of paddles in a steam-vessel, the explanation of 
the one will serve also for the other. The canal-boat 
and the sailing-vessel move easily, because the resist- 
ance of the water is small ; the rowing-boat and the 
steam-boat move easily, because the resistance of the 
water is great ; but this apparent anomaly is explained 
away when we view the matter a little more closely. 
A rowing-boat penetrates so little into the water, that 
it may almost be said to lie. on the surface. Under 
these circumstances the oar acts as a lever, of which 
the power is the boatman's hand, the fulcrum appears 
to be the notch in the edge of the boat, and the weight 
the water moved by the blade of the oar. But this 
appearance does not represent the real fact ; for while 
the boatman is working the oar as a lever, it is more 
easy for the boat to pass on the surface of the water in 
one direction, than for the blade of the oar to pass 
through the water in the opposite direction, on account 
of the resistance to the latter motion. Both of these 
motions occur in practice ; but still the former so far 
predominates, as to give a progressive movement to 
the boat ; and to constitute the oar a lever of that 
variety which mechanical philosophers term the second 
kind, that is, where the weight to be moved (the boat) 
is between the power (the hand) and the fulcrum (the 
blade of the oar;. 

Now we shall find that the action of a steam-boat 
paddle very much resembles that of the oar. These 
paddles are large wheels, sometimes as much as thirty 
feet in diameter, attached to the side of the vessel, and 
set into rotation. Each wheel is provided with boards 
or floats, ranged parallel, or nearly parallel, with the 
axis, and is immersed in the water to a depth greater 
or less, according to circumstances, but always less 
than one-half, so that the larger portion shall be above 
water. When these float-boards, in the course of their 
revolution, dip into the water, what results ? They 
must pass at various angles through the water, but 
this water must be moved in order to permit the pas- 
sage : a resistance to this motion is immediately ex- 
cited ; and this resistance is so powerful, that the whole 
body of the steam-ship, however vast and weighty it 
may be, is propelled in the opposite direction to that 
in which the paddle-board strives to move. It is a 
recoil, a rebound, a reaction, such as occurs, with more 
or less modification, wherever motion is produced. 
The gases resulting from the ignition of gunpowder 
propel the cannon-ball in one direction, but they give 
the cannon itself a recoil in the opposite direction : 
the explosive compound in a rocket sends a train of 
sparks in one direction, but also sends the rocket 
itself in another. So likewise with the oar and the 
paddle-board ; each succeeds in passing through the 
water, but the resistance of the water to this motion 
causes the vessel to which the oar or the board is at- 
tached to advance in the opposite direction. 

When, therefore, a steam-boat passenger sees the 
complicated mechanism beneath the deck, he must not 
suppose that steam acts in the same manner as wind, 
by driving the vessel onward; but must first call 
to mind the action of an oar in an open boat, and then 
understand that the sole object of the mechanism is to 
give a revolving motion to the paddle-wheels. If this 
motion could be equally well produced by other means 
than steam, then the steam-engine mignt be wholly 
dispensed with. 

It ought not to excite much surprise that the steam- 
engine, when its value as a moving-power became 
known, should be regarded as a means whereby a 
vessel might be moved. That the rotation of wheels 
dipping in the water would propel a vessel, was 
known long ago. William Bourne, in 1578, wrote 


Digitized by 




[February 27, 

thus : — " And furthermore, you may make a boat to go 
without oars or sail, by the placing of certain wheels 
on the outside of the boat, and so turning the wheels 
by some provision, and so the wheels shall make the 
boat go. The Marquis of Worcester afterwards 
made some indistinct allusion to the employment of 
steam-power for such a purpose; and Savaryalso pro- 
posed to propel a vessel by raising water into an ele- 
vated cistern through the medium of his steam-engine, 
and then causing the water to fall upon the floats of a 
wheel. About a century ago, Jonathan Hulls published 
a description of a boat with two paddle-wheels pro- 
jecting from the stem, and two steam (or rather, atmo- 
spheric) engines in the body of the boat : by the con- 
nection of pistons, ropes, and pulleys, he explained 
how the wheels might be made to revolve. From 
that time numerous attempts were made to apply 
steam-power to this purpose ; but none succeeded till 
1788, when Mr. Miller, a Scottish gentleman, had the 
pleasure of seeing a little steam-boat pass along Dals- 
winton Lake, at the rate of five miles an hour : two 
boats were fastened side to side ; a boiler was placed 
in one, a small steam-engine in the other, and a paddle- 
wheel was suspended between them. From this time, 
the gradual rise and progress of steam-navigation, the 
labours of Fulton ana Stevens in America, of Bell and 
Napier at Edinburgh, and the development and com- 
bination of such powers as are exhibited in the 
" Great Western " and " President " steam-ships, form 
a large subject, into which we cannot here enter. 

We have recently explained the difference between 
a high-pressure and a low-pressure steam-engine. 
When, therefore, we say that most English steam- 
vessels are propelled by tne latter kind, and American 
vessels by the former, the reader will understand how 
it is that steam-boiler explosions occur so much more 
frequently in America than in England, the steam em- 
ployed being of a far higher temperature and pressure. 
Wherever a high-pressure engine can be conveniently 
employed, a much smaller amount of mechanism is 
required than in a condensing-engine ; and this seems 
to have been one reason why the former class has been 
employed to a considerable extent in America. 

In the usual construction of English steam-boats 
we see various parts of the mechanism through open- 
ings in the deck ; but we do not see anywhere that 
which corresponds to the beam or lever of a common 
steam-engine. At one part we see a piston-rod work- 
ing up and down in a cylinder, and at another a pair 
of cranks working the axle of the paddle-wheel, but 
no appearance of the beam which connects the one 
with the other. The truth is, that the whole affair is 
turned upside down with respect to the position of the 
beam. There is a beam, but it occupies nearly the 
lowest position in the engine; and the connecting-rods 
between the beam and the crank at one end, and the 
piston at the other, proceed upwards. The object of 
this is to keep the bulk and weight of the engine as 
low as possible in the hull of the vessel. 

At stated intervals the passenger espies three or four 
opened doors, through which a fierce fire is visible: 
these are the doors ot the furnace, over which is a very 
lonp boiler containing water. From this boiler a me- 
tallic pipe, frequently coated with some non-conducting 
substance, conveys steam to a small receptacle near 
the cylinder ; and, by the action of valves, tnis steam is 
admitted to the cylinder alternately above and below 
the piston. The vertical motion of the piston-rod then 
ensues in the manner explained in a recent paper, 
by the aid of a condensing apparatus, which is gene- 
rally placed so low as to be out of view to a person on 
decK. The short piston-rod which meets the eye of 
the passenger is not that which connects it witn the 
beam ; this connection is beneath the cylinder, where a 

beam oscillates to and fro, as in a common land-engine. 
At the remote end of this beam we see, through a sepa- 
rate opening in the deck, the mechanism winch trans- 
fers the motion, by means of a crank, to the axle of 
the paddle-wheels. This axis extends all across the 
vessel ; and, in many instances, projects half way above 
the deck, where a semi-cylindrical case shields it from 
injury or interruption. At each end of this axis a 
paddle-wheel is fixed ; so that when the axis rotates, 
the wheel must rotate also. 

We have described these several parts as if they 
were all single, but almost every part of the marine 
engine, with the exception of the boiler and furnace, 
is double ; thus, there are two cylinders, two cranks, 
&c. j for it is found that the required object is better 
attained by this arrangement, than by one larger as- 
semblage of mechanism. 

In most of the American steam-vessels the beam of 
the engine is uppermost, and the whole of the me- 
chanism is placed on the upper part of the vessel. The 
object of this seems to be that a larger space of cabin- 
room is thus procured within the body of the vessel. 
Most persons have probably seen representations of the 
vessels plying on the Mississippi, in which nearly the 
whole ot the machinery is above the level of the water. 
This gives a less elegant appearance to the exterior of 
the vessel than that presented by English steamers, 
but it renders the interior much more commodious. 

To obtain, then, an idea of the philosophy of the 
motion of a steam-boat, we have to regard three things, 
viz. : the action of a common steam-engine in producing 
a reeinroeatinp or up and down motion in a piston- 
rod ; tne rotation of a large paddle-wheel, by connect- 
ing it with this piston-rod ; and the motion of the 
vessel, produced by a species of reaction or recoil, 
when this revolving wheel is partly immersed in the 

Mode of preparing Wine in Modern Greece*— In each vineyard 
is an oblong receiver, six feet by nine in length, and three feet by 
six in breadth, a couple of feet deep, and lined with cement to 
make it water-proof; on one of the narrow sides the floor is in- 
clined, that the expressed juice may flow through an opening 
into another receiver, generally circular, which is a few feet 
broad, and also made water-proof in the same manner as the 
upper one. At the time of vintage the ripe bunches are cut off, 
ana thrown into the upper and larger receiver, where they are 
trodden by the naked feet of men and the oldest women. The 
juice runs off into the lower cistern, whence it is drawn off into 
Acnrt. These are rough goat-skins, turned with the hairy side 
inwards, and bound tightly together at the feet ; the liquor is 
poured in at the neck, which is then tightly tied. One of these 
skins being tied ou each side of the pack-saddle, it is thus car- 
ried home. Being then thrown into the owner's cask, perhaps 
he possesses but one, fermentation commences. The better kind 
of wine is sometimes put into large jugs. Already in the vine- 
yard, when with the husks, fermentation has commenced, and 
some of the husks pass into the lower receiver ; but when at 
home, to assist its progress, a quarter part of water is added, 
often more, and as no one knows how long the whole ought to 
ferment, they wait until no more bub hies appear, and the small 
vinegar flies are found ; the cask is then closed, soon after tapped, 
and the wine gradually drawn off, the dregs remaining. In 
order that the new wine may keep, a number of green pine 
cones, or else half fluid or grated resin, is thrown in. This is 
the resinate, or krassik, a word generally omitted. When no 
resin is put to the wine, they generally add, as soon as it com- 
mences to him sour, a considerable quantity of burnt gypsum, 
which unites with the acid, forming an acetate of lime, that is 
mixed with the wine and makes it sweeter, but causes head- 
ache and illness. The resinous wine also at first causes head- 
ache,* but the action of the turpentine causes it soon to pass 
away. The new wine is very thick, it induces colic and dis- 
ordered stomach. — Extract from Fiedler t Reitedurch Qriecken- 
land, in the Foreign Quarterly Review, 

Digitized by 






to, Bull-dog; »• Mattiff; c, Ban-dug.] 


[.Concluded from p. 50.] 

We now enter upon a group of dogs distinguished by 
the shortness of the muzzle and the breadth of the 
head, this latter character resulting not from a corre- 
sponding development of the brain, but from the mag- 
nitude of the temporal muscles, which are attached to 
a bony ridge passing down the median line of the 
skull. The expression of the eyes is lowering and 
ferocious ; the jaws are very strong, the lips pendu- 
lous ; the general form is thick-set and robust ; the limbs 
are muscular. 

This group comprehends the Bull-dog, the Mastiff, 
and their allies. In sagacity and intelligence the dogs 
of the present section are not to be compared to the 
Newfoundland dog, the spaniel, or the shepherd's dog ; 
they surpass all, however, in determined courage and 
prowess in combat. In early times the English mas- 
tiff was celebrated for its strength and resolution, cha- 
racteristics which did not fail to attract the attention of 
the Romans when this island formed a part of their 
widely-spread empire. *To a people in whom a par- 
tiality for scenes of bloodshed ana slaughter, and for 
the sanguinary games of the amphitheatre, was a rul- 
ing passion, dogs so fitted to gratify their taste were 
peculiarly acceptable, and accordingly we find that they 
were bred and reared by officers specially appointed, 
who selected such as were distinguished for combative 
qualities, and sent them to Rome for the service of the 
amphitheatres, where they were matched in fight with 
various beasts of prey. Dr. Caius, a naturalist of the 

time of Elizabeth, states that three were reckoned a 
match for a bear, and four for a lion. 

Stow, in his ' Annals/ gives us the account of an 
engagement between three mastiffs and a lion, which 
took place in the presence of James I. The battle 
reminds us of a recent occurrence, excepting that the 
dogs which fought with Nero and Wallace were not 
mastiffs, but half-bred bull-dogs. " One of the dogs, 5 * 
says Stow, " being put into the den, was soon disabled 
by the lion, which took it by the head and neck, and 
draggeo>it about. Another dog was then let loose, and 
served in the same manner ; but the third, being put in, 
immediately seized the lion by the lip, and held him 
for a considerable time ; till, being severely torn by his 
claws, the dog was obliged to quit its hold, and the 
lion, greatly exhausted in the conflict, refused to renew 
the engagement, but, taking a sudden leap over the 
dogs, fled into the interior part of his den. Two of the 
dogs soon died of their wounds; the last survived." 
The mastiff is bv far the most sagacious of the present 
section, and, of all other dogs, makes the be'st guardian 
of property. It is attached to its master, but towards 
strangers is fierce and suspicious. Its bark is deep 
and sonorous. 

Though the mastiff has by no means the keen sense 
of smell which the hound possesses, it seems to be (at 
least such is our opinion, and that not hastily formed) 
either an offset from that branch, or a cognate branch 
from the same root. The mastiff, however, has a finer 
scent than persons are generally aware of, and its hear- 
ing is very acute. A dog of this breed, chained to his 
kennel, and never suffered to wander about the prc- 

Digitized by VjOOQLC 



[February 27, 

mises, nor treated as a friend and companion, affords 
but a poor example of what the animal really is. Con- 
finement spoils its temper and cramps the noble quali- 
ties of its mind. We knew a dog of this kind (as 
purely bred as most in the present day), which, possess- 
ing immense strength and indomitable courage, was 
yet one of the gentlest of animals. He suffered the 
children of the house and even strange children to 
pull him about as they pleased ; they might sit upon 
nim, or pull his ears, ana roughly too, as children will, 
and yet ne never manifested anger or impatience by 
voice or action, but submitted quietly and good 
humouredly ; small dogs might snarl and snap at him, 
but he bore their petulance unmoved. This animal 
was the guardian of a manufactory, and he knew every 
person on the establishment He would permit 
strangers to come in during the day, merely regarding 
them with an attentive gaze, but offering tnem no mo- 
lestation. At night, when the gates of the premises 
were closed, he seemed to assume a new character : 
he was then as fierce as he had been gentle during the 
day ; he would not allow even the ordinary workmen 
to enter the yard, and several times seized men who 
attempted, on the strength of knowing him, to pass 
through, holding them till succour arrived. 

A personal friend of the writer's, some time since, on 
a visit at a gentleman's house in the country, was 
taking a moonlight walk through the shrubbery and 
pleasure-grounds, when he was startled by a noise be- 
hind him ; on turning his head, he perceived a large 
mastiff, which was ordinarily let loose as evening 
closed, and which had tracked him through the 
grounds. The dog with a fierce growl roughly seized 
him ; our friend wisely deemed passive obedience and 
non-resistance the most prudent, if not the most coura- 
geous part for him to play, and was unceremoniously 
led back through the grounds to the hall-door; here he 
was relieved by the master of the house. Subsequently 
assured that he had no cause to fear, he repeated his 
walk ; he found the dog again at his side, but the animal 
walked quietly with liim, and acknowledged in the 
usual way his words of conciliation. On these instances 
of sagacity (sagacity of a kind very different from that 
displayed by the snepherd's dog or the setter) there 
needs no comment 

We have said that the mastiff is allied to the 
hound. The pendulous ear, not so large in the mastiff 
as in the hound, the thick hanging lips, the broad 
moist nose, the brindled markings, and the general 
figure attest the affinity. The mastiff is larger and 
stronger than the largest hound, and useless for the 
chace. This inutility for the chace, however, is no 
proof of great diversity of origin. It must be remem- 
bered that particular instincts and qualities are ac- 
quired, and that the excellences of the hound are the 
result of long-continued and judicious culture. We 
do not say that the mastiff can be converted into the 
hound, but we say that two branches from the same 
root may be so cultured as to assume, to a given 
point, diverse characteristics. 

The Thibet mastiff belongs to the present section. 
This huge dog is kept by the natives of the Thibet 
range of hills as a guardian of their flocks and their 
villages. It is very fierce, and its bark is loud and 
terrific ; the colour is black. 

Spain presents us with a fine breed of mastiffs, of 
which kind are those brought from Cuba : both Spanish 
and Cuban mastiffs are to be seen in the gardens of 
Zoological Society.' They are less in stature than the 
English mastiff, and of a reddish-brown colour, with 
black muzzles. They make excellent watch-dogs, and 
are very courageous, attacking the bull and the bear 
with determined resolution. 
The ban-dog appears to be a term given to any 

of the fierce animals of the present section, which 
are, in ordinary cases, kept chained or secured in 
kennels. Bewick, however, expressly applies it to 
a dog of which he gives an excellent figure, and 
which he states to differ from the mastiff in being 
lighter, more active and vigilant, but not so large 
and powerful: its muzzle, besides, is not so heavy, 
and it possesses in some degree the scent of the 
hound. Its hair is described as being rather rough, 
and generally of a yellowish-grey, streaked with shades 
of a black or brown colour. It is ferocious, and full of 
energy. Bewick says that this dog is seldom to be seen 
in the present day. We have, however, more than once 
had occasion to notice varieties of the mastiff so closely 
agreeing with Bewick's figure and description as to 
convince us that he took both these from nature. 

One of the dogs of this kind which we knew, belonged 
to a man living near Manchester. It was intelligent, 
and very much attached to its master ; but very savage, 
and not to be trusted by strangers. Its attack was 
sudden and impetuous ; and once to offend it, was to 
make it an unforgiving foe. On one occasion its 
master, to show its attachment to himself and its courage 
in defending him, having secured it properly, asked us 
to pretend to strike him : we did so : the fury and the 
struggles of the dog to get at us may be conceived, 
but can scarcely be described, and dearly should we 
have paid for our presumption had it broken its fasten- 
ings. Previously to that time we had been on friendly 
terms with the animal ; ever afterwards it strove to 
attack us, and we never ventured near the house 
without an assurance that the dog was chained up. 

Mr. Bell, in his * History of British Quadrupeds,' 
does not notice this breed ; perhaps because it is not 
pure : the individual to which we have alluded ap- 
peared as if between the mastiff and bull-dog, crossed 
wi A the drover's dog. This, however, is only a suppo- 
sition. Its master regarded it as identical with Be- 
wick's ban-dog, and certainly nothing could be closer 
than it was to the figure he has given. 

Of all the dogs of this section, none surpass in ob- 
stinacy and ferocity the bull-dog : this fierce creature 
seems to be peculiar to our island ; or rather, perhaps, 
in no other country has the breed been so carefully 
cultivated. The bull-dog is smaller than the mastiff, 
but more compactly formed; the bust is broad, the 
chest deep, the loins narrow, the tail slender and arched 
up, and, with the exception of the head and neck, the 
figure approximates to that of the greyhound, the limbs 
being, however, shorter and more robust The head 
is broad and thick, the muzzle short and deep, the jaws 
strong, and the lower jaw often advances, so that the 
inferior incisor teeth overshoot the upper. The cars 
are short and semi-erect, the nostrils distended, the 
eyes scowling, and the whole expression calculated to 
inspire terror. Of the brutal use to which this dog was 
formerly, nay, recently applied, we shall say nothing : 
all have heard of the barbarous custom of bull-baiting, 
so common in some countries, and but lately abolished ; 
and all are aware of the manner in which this dog 
attacks his enemy, and how tenaciously he maintains 
his hold. 

In all its habits and propensities, the bull-dog is 
essentially gladiatorial — it is a fighting dog, and 
nothing else: its intelligence is very limited; and 
though we have known dogs of this breed attached to 
their masters, they exhibited, even in their feelings of 
attachment, an apathy, in perfect contrast to the New- 
foundland, the watch-dog, or the spaniel, These latter 
dogs delight to accompany their master in his walks, 
and scour the fields and lanes in the exuberance of 
delight ; the bull-dog skulks at its master's heels, and 
regards with a suspicious glance everything and every- 
body that passes by ; nor indeed is it safe to approach 

Digitized by 





the animal, for it often attacks without the slightest 

A cross breed between the bull-dog and the terrier 
is celebrated for spirit and determination. 

It has been usual to consider the pug-dog as a de- 
generate variety of the bull-dog, but we doubt the 
correctness of this theory. It has indeed somewhat the 
aspect of the bull-dog, on a miniature scale ; but the 
similarity is more in superficial appearance than 
reality. The pug is a little round-headed short-nosed 
dog, with a preternatural abbreviation of the muzzle, 
and with a tightly twisted tail. Like the Gilloros 
trout, it is a specimen of hereditary malformation. 
Not so the bull-dog, in which the bones of the skull 
and the temporal muscles are finely developed, and in 
which the muzzle and head are in perfect harmony. 

The pug-dog is snarling and ill tempered; but 
cowardly, and by no means remarkable for intelligence. 
Formerly it was in great esteem as a pet, but is now 
little valued, and not often kept. 

From this cursory review of the principal breeds of 
dogs with which we are acquainted, let us return to 
our starting-point, the question at issue as to the ori- 
ginal source of the domestic dog. This, notwithstand- 
ing the opinion of many eminent naturalists, we cannot 
admit to be the wolf. Mr. Bell indeed argues in 
favour of this theory ; and Dr. Richardson, that the 
Esquimaux dogs at least are derived from that animal. 
If, nowever, it be proved, which it really is not, that 
the wolf is the source whence the Esquimaux dog 
has sprung, does it follow as a consequence that all 
dogs nave descended from the same origin ? By no 
means. If then one breed has its own distinct origin, 
every other breed may have respectively theirs also : 
one may be derived from the Canis primaevis, another 
from a lost source, and so on ; and thus we may come 
to the opinion of Pallas, that the domestic dog is not 
a species at all, but a factitious being, the production 
of several distinct but closely allied animals, capable 
of breeding inter se, and of producing a fertile pro- 

Such, then, is the obscurity in which the origin of 
the dog is involved. It is a subject which has exercised 
the attention and called forth the theories of many able 
naturalists, but it remains still in the midst of diffi- 
culties and perplexity. 



The next character that we shall introduce to our 
reader from this " Comedy not intended for the Stage," 
as Chaucer's greatest work has been happily designated, 
is the Cook ; and that he may be received with due 
respect, we prefix a few notices illustrative of his social 
importance in this country from a very early period. 
These notices must be necessarily indirect, as referring 
rather to his vocation than to him. Of the Cook, history 
says little ; of the banquets set forth by his skill before 
the highest and mightiest of the land, and on the most 
interesting and eventful occasions, it, on the contrary, 
furnishes many particulars not unworthy of more detail 
than our space or our object will here admit of. The 
art of cookery in this country may be dated from the 
Norman conquest : our Saxon ancestors appear to have 
distinguished themselves for the excess rather than 
for the quality of their food ; whilst the Normans, as 
William of Maimsbury expressly states, were delicate 
in the choice of meats and drinks, — seldom exceeded 
the bounds of temperance, and whilst living less ex- 

Eensively, lived also with more elegance. John of 
alisbury mentions that he was present at a great en- 
tertainment where there were served up the choicest 

luxuries of Babylon and Constantinople, of Palestine 
and Alexandria, of Tripoli, Syria, and Phoenicia. These 
delicacies of course could only be obtained at a great 
expenditure, and must have required cooks to do 
them justice. Such, no doubt, existed, and were so 
highly esteemed that estates were granted them to be 
held by the tenure of dressing a particular dish. One 
of the most striking evidences of the magnificence of 
the feasts of the Norman court is daily before our 
eyes in that finest of European halls, the one at West- 
minster : that hall, we are told by Stow, was built by 
William Rul'us for his dining-room. As we approach 
nearer to the period of the ' Canterbury Tales' (written 
towards the close of the fourteenth century), we find 
the love of display, or of hospitality, or of good living, 
or perhaps of all combined, more and more apparent 
in the banquets of the court and of many of the princi- 
pal nobles of the country. At the marriage feast of 
Richard, earl of Cornwall, in 1243, thirty thousand 
dishes were served up ; and upon a similar occasion, 
the marriage of Lionel, duke of Clarence, the third 
son of Edward III., thirty courses were included 
in the bill of fare. But such enjoyments, if enjoy- 
ments they can be called, were no longer confined to 
the king or his nobles, or even to the lesser gentry of 
the country, for in the seventeenth year of Edward's 
reign rules were established forbidding any common man 
from having dainty dishes at his table, or costly drink. 
Cookery had indeed now become a most complicated 
and artificial system, as the details we possess clearly 
prove ; and the cook himself a person of sufficient 
importance to be introduced as one of the pilgrims to 
Canterbury. Here is Chaucer's description of him : — 

" A Cook they hadden with them for the nones, • 
To boil the chickens, and the marrow bones, 
And poudre marchant tart, and galingale.f 
Well could he know a draught of Loudon ale, 
He conlde roast, and seethe, and broil, and fry, 
Maken mortrewes, and well bake a pie ; 

« « « « « 

For blanc-manger that made he with the best." 

In the dishes here enumerated we have doubtless an 
epitome of the taste of the middle, perhaps also of the 
higher classes at this period, in cookery, though of the 
nature of some of them — those specified in the third 
line — we are ignorant Mortrewds, we find from a 
printed MS. of the Royal Society on • Ancient Cookery,* 
consisted of pork or other meat brayed in a mortar 
(in the French, une mortreuse, and hence the 
name), mixed with milk, eggs, spices, &c., and 
coloured very deep with saffron. As to the blanc- 
manger, for which it seems the cook was particularly 
famous, we need only say that the following recipe for 
making it, which we have found in a curious little 
volume in the British Museum bearing the title of ' A 
Proper new Booke of Cookery,' and dated 1575, will, 
we presume, be new to the culinary artists of the pre- 
sent day : — " Take a capon and cut out the braune of 
him alive, and parboyle the braune tyll the flesh come 
from the boone, and then dry him as dry as you can, 
in a fayre clothe ; then take a payre of Cardes, and card 
him as small as possible ; and then take a pottell of 
milke, and a pottell of creame, and halfe a pound of 
rye flower, and your carded brawen of the capon, and 
put all into a panne, and styr it altogether, and set it 
upon the fyre, and when it beginneth to boyle put 
therto halfe a pound of beaten sugar, and a saucer full 
of roose water, and so let it boyle tyll it be very thyckc ; 
then put it into a charger till it be colde," &c. As 
it is remarked that our Cook is a thorough judge of 
London ale, it should seem that the metropolitan 
breweries were in particular esteem, and the supposi 

• For the occasion, t Sweet cypress. 

Digitized by 




[Feb. 1841. 

tion is borne out by tne circumstance mentioned by 
Tyrwhitt, in his note on this passage, in his edition of 
the « Canterbury Tales,' that in the accounts of the feast 
given by Archbishop Warham in 1504, London ale was 
tnen priced 5*. a barrel more than that of Kent 

We should fear the Cook has not much enjoyed, even 
if he has at all listened to the glowing poetry of the 
knight's tale; but the very free stories told by the 
Miner and the Reve, which immediately follow, are 
evidently greatly to his taste ; the latter, indeed, has 
scarcely finished, before he marked his approval very 
significantly — 

" He clawed [or clapped] him on the back ; M 
and immediately offers, unasked, to tell a tale of 

" A little jape* that fell in our cit/ ; M 

and in the exhilaration of his spirits, threatens Harry 
Bailly, the ho9t, who has been bantering him, witfi 
a tale of ' an hostclere.' The tale he commences for 
the present is of a dissolute apprentice, but is left in 
Chaucer's manuscripts unfinished. We must not omit 
to notice that the host's banter furnishes us with two 
or three particulars as to the Cook's position, name, 

*' Many a Jack of Dover hast thou sold 
That hath been twies hot and twies cold. 
Of many a pilgrim hast thou Christe's corse, 
For of thy parsley yet fare they the worse, 
That they have eaten in thy stubble*goose,t 
For in thy shop go'th many a flie loose. 
Now tell on, gentle Roger, by thy name/' Ac 

The pilgrims continue their journey ; the tales, now 
of the broadest humour, now of the deepest pathos, 
follow in regular succession ; but intellectual enjoy- 
ments alone are far from satisfactory to the Cook. He 
accordingly applies himself to a much more accus- 
tomed, ana, to mm, more substantial pleasure ; what 
that was, the ensuing extracts will show. At the con- 
clusion of the Canon Yeoman's tale, the Host, looking 
back, sees the Cook fast asleep upon his horse : 

" Then gan our host to jap6 and to play ; 
And saide, Sirs, what? Dun is in the mire. 
Is there ne man for praierie ne for hire 
That will awaken our fellow behind ? 
A thief him might full lightly rob and bind : 
See how he nappe th, see, for cock 6s bones, 
As he would fallen from his horse at ones : 
Is that a cook of London ?" &c. 

He is awakened, looking " full pale," and excuses 
nimself by saying, 

" There is fall'n on me such heaviness, 
Not I not why, J that me were lever sleep, 
Than the best gallon wine that is in Cheap." 

The Host has determined that he shall now tell a tale 
by way of penance ; but the Manciple offers to under- 
take that task for him, saying, 

11 See how he gapeth, lo, this drunken wight, 
As though he would us swallow anon right." 

It is but too true, — the Cook is drunk; and at last, 
vexed by the jibes, of the Manciple, and his own in- 
ability to answer him in his present state, " he gan nod 
fast," and fell from his horse. Then 

" There was great shoving bothe to and fro, 
To lift him up, and mochel care and woe.*' 

The humorous Host now reminds the Manciple that 
the Cook, another day, will be revenged for this. " I 
niene," he says, 

• To jap4, — to jest or joke 

t A goose fed upon stubble-grounds. 

t Nor know I not why, or, nor know I why . 

" He speaken will of smalle things, 
As for to pinchen at thy reckonings,* 
That were not honest if it came to proof.' 1 

The Manciple, it must be observed, was an officer 
who had the care of purchasing victuals for an inn of 
court ; and there might consequently have been trans- 
actions between the Cook and the Manciple not very 
creditable to the latter if known. He is frightened, 
at all events, — 

" I would not wrathen him, so mote I thrive,* 1 
and, with admirable judgment, makes peace by 

" A draught of wine, yea, of a ripe grape/' 

We cannot resist the temptation of appending to this 
picture of a cook of the fourteenth century, Ben Jon- 
son's description of a more consummate artist, two 
centuries later : — 

" A master cook I why, he is (lie man of men. 
For a professor ; he designs, he draws, 
He paints, he carves, he builds, he fortifies, 
Makes citadels of curious fowl and fish. 
Some he dry-ditches, some motes round with broth*, 
Mounts marrow-bones, cuts fifty-angled custards, 
Hears bulwark pies ; and for his outer works, 
He raiseth rani|NirU of immortal crust, 
And teacheth all the tactics at one dinner — 
What ranks, what tiles, to put his dishes in, 
Hie whole art military ! Then he knows 
The influence of the stars upon his meats, 
And all their seasons, tempers, qualities; 
And so to fit his relishes and sauces. 
He has nature in a pot 'bove all the chemists 
Or bare-breech'd brethren of the rosy cross. 
He is an architect, an engineer, 
A soldier, a physician, a philosopher, 
A general mathematician." 

Honey of the Hy met tut. — This spot was, certainly, at one j 
time more abundantly supplied with flowers than at present; j 

these, too, so strongly scented, that hounds, on that account, fre- 
quently lost trace of the game when hunting on these regions. i 
But there is no land like Greece, in which, for centuries, the 
works not only of men, but of nature also, have been, as far as 
possible, destroyed. Trees and shrubs were cut down, in the 
continued wars, without any thought of the consequence ; and 
what the axe snared the shepherds burned, in order to raise from 
the ashes, during the first year, a few blades of grass for their 
goats. . . . Were not the Grecian climate so favourable, the 
greatest part of the country must long since have become a bare, 
stony, and rocky wilderness. The Hymettus now has no better 
vegetation than the mountains of Attica. The honey of the 
Laurion mountains was much prised (Erica Mediterranea grow* 
there in abundance). Throughout Greece honey is more agree- 
able and aromatic than in other lands, owing to the heat being 
moderate, for which reason the juices of the plants are in a more ' 
concentrated state. The honey of the Hymettus no longer pos- 
sesses its superiority ; it is, in other neighbourhoods, finer and 
more aromatic, e.g. in many of the Cyclades, especially in 
Sekino. The greatest quantity of honey is obtained from the 
monastery of Syrian to the north-east of tne city ; it is delivered 
to the local archbishop. The shepherds at other parts of the 
Hymettus have also, most probably, .bee-bives; and the honey 
from Pentelicon is also reckoned among the Hymettic. The 
number of hives on these mountains yielding honey has been 
averaged, of late years, at five thousand. The principal food of 
these bees is Satureia capitata (Saturei), then Lentiscus, Cistus, 
Salvia, Lavandula, and other herbs. Otherwise the Hymettus 
is very bare ; on its declivities and in some of the dales are wild 
olives, with shrubs of myrtle, laurel, and oleander. Pinus 
maritima grows on its summit very imperfectly, but near the 
monastery it is pretty. Resides this there grow on the Hymettus 
hyacinths, Amaryllis lutea, dark violet crocus, &c — Bxhaet 
from Fiedler $ Htite durch Grtcchenland, in the Foreign Quar- 
terly Review 

* TW is to say, to discover flaws in the reckonings. 

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[Glass-blowiug Furnace.] 

1 It might contribute to dispose us to a kinder regard 
for the labours of one another, if we were to consider 
from what unpromising beginnings the most useful 

Eroductions of art have probably arisen. Who, when 
e first saw the sand or ashes, by a casual intenseness 
of heat, melted into a metalline form, rugged with 
excrescences and clouded with impurities, would have 
imagined that in this shapeless lump lay concealed so 
many conveniences of life as would, in time, constitute 
a great part of the happiness of the world ? Yet, by 
some such fortuitous liquefaction was mankind taught 
to procure a body, at once, in a high degree, solid and 
transparent ; which might admit the light of the sun, 
and exclude the violence of the wind ; which might 
extend the sight of the philosopher to new ranges of 
existence, and charm him, at one time, with the un- 
bounded extent of material creation, and at another 
with the endless subordination of animal life ; and, 
what is of yet more importance, might supply the de- 
cays of nature, and succour old age with subsidiary 
sight. Thus was the first artificer in glass cmployea, 
though without his knowledge or expectation. He 
was facilitating and prolonging the enjoyment of 
light, enlarging the avenues of science, and conferring 
the highest and most lasting pleasures : he was en- 
abling the student to contemplate nature, and the 
beauty to behold herself." 

A century has nearly elapsed since Dr. Johnson 
wrote this forcible ana beautiful paragraph; and 
nothing has occurred, in the subsequent history of ma- 
nufactures, to lessen its truth or beauty. Many 
opaque substances are capable of assuming a form 
more or less vitreous or glass-like ; such as earths, 

no. 572. 

some acids and salts, and metallic oxides. In porce 
lain we see an example of partial vitrification ; tor the 
granular texture is exceedingly fine, and a slight 
translucency is produced. But complete vitrification 
never results until after the fusion or melting of the 
ingredients; and we know of no means by which 
porcelain clay or any other earth may be melted in its 
simple state. But when two kinds of earttrare mixed 
together, or, still better, when a siliceous earth is mixed 
with certain crystalline salts, perfect fusion may be pro- 
duced, and a nearer approach to transparent glass may 
result. Again, certain metallic oxides may be made 
to assume a vitreous form, and, when mixed with 
silcx, to produce a glass possessing valuable proper- 
ties. We may thence regard glass, generally speaking, 
as resulting from the mixture and fusion of these three 
kinds of ingredients ; and the purpose fulfilled by each 
may be thus understood : — the siliceous substance is the 
vitrifiable ingredient ; the salt or alkali is the flux, 
by mixture with which the silex becomes fusible ; and 
the metallic oxide, besides acting as a flux, imparts 
certain qualities whereby one kind of glass is distin- 
guishable from another. 

Such is the nature of vitrification, a process which, 
if we may judge from the researches made within the 
last thirty or forty years in Egypt, and the discovery 
of the mode of deciphering the hieroglyphics so pro- 
fusely displayed on Egyptian monuments, was known 
in very remote ages. Sir J. G. Wilkinson (' Manners and 
Customs of the Ancient Egyptians') adduces three dis- 
tinct proofs that the art of glass- working was known in 
Egypt before the exodus of the children of Israel from 
that land, three thousand five hundred years ago. At 

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Vol. X.— M 




[Feb. 1841. 

Beni Hassan and at Thebes are paintings representing, 
in a very rude form, glass-blowers at work ; and from the 
hieroglyphics accompanying them, it is found that they 
were executed in the reign of a monarch who occupied 
the throne at about that period. Again : images of 
glazed pottery were common at the period under con- 
sideration, the vitrified quality of which is of the same 
quality as glass ; and therefore the mode of fusing, and 
ttie proper proportions of the ingredients for making 

flass, must have been already well known. Lastly, 
ir J. G. Wilkinson adduces the instance of a glass bead 
about three-quarters of an inch in diameter, which 
Captain Henvey found at Thebes, and which contains 
in hieroglyphic characters the name of a monarch whw 
lived fifteen hundred years before Christ. 

The knowledge of the manufacture probably tra- 
velled from Egypt to Greece, and thence to Rome and 
modern Europe ; and successive improvements have 
not only brought the art to a high degree of excellence, 
but have led to its subdivision into several "kinds, such 
as flint-glass, plate-glass, window-glass, and green or 
bottle-glass making. 

Confining ourselves to flint-glass, we now invite 
the reader's attention to the process of manufacture. 
The flint-glass works of Mr. Pellatt, which we have 
been permitted to visit for our present purpose, are 
situated in Holland Street, Blackfriars, and comprise 
the various buildings necessary for the production of 
flint-glass ware ; such as a horse-mill, for grinding old 
melting-pots, as one of the ingredients in the manu- 
facture of new ones ; a room wherein ground or pow- 
dered clay is mixed and kneaded into a working state ; 
another in which the pots are made ; others for drying 
the manufactured pots; rooms for storing, washing, 
and preparing the alkaline salts ; others for washing 
and drying the siliceous sand ; a mixing-room, wherein 
the sand, alkali, and oxides are combined ; two coking- 
ovens, or furnaces for converting coal into coke ; the 
glass-house, with its working-furnaces, pot-furnace, 
and annealing-oven ; glass-cutting and glass-engraving 
shops ; and others for subsidiary purposes : the whole 
occupying an area of about three-fourths of an acre. 
The routine of operations in these departments will 
come successively under our notice. 

In describing the vitrifiable qualities of various 
materials, we used the most general terms, in order to 
include all kinds of glass within our remarks ; but it 
is necessary now to state the restrictions which are re- 
quired in practice. Although most earthy substances 
may, by peculiar treatment, be wholly or partially 
vitrifiea, yet silex, or Jlint, is that whicn possesses the 
most valuable qualities. Again, although many alka- 
line and saline substances might be used as fluxing 
materials, yet soda and potash, in one or other of their 
forms, are tnose generally employed by the glass-maker. 
Lastly, although many metallic oxides might be simi- 
larly vitrified, yet oxide of lead is that which is most 
frequently employed. This being premised, we may 
state that the materials for flint-glass are nearly as 
follow :— One part of alkali (carbonate and nitrate of 
potash), two parts of oxide of lead, three parts of sea- 
sand, and a minute portion of the oxides or manganese 
and arsenic. 

The term ' flint-glass ' is given because flints were 
formerly employed as the siliceous material: they 
were made red-hot, and plunged into cold water, 
whereby they were so fractured and disintegrated as to 
be easily ground to powder. Sea-sand is, however, 
now found to answer the same purpose, at a less expen- 
diture of time and trouble. Tne sand employed is ob- 
tained from the sea-shore at Lynn in Norfolk, and at 
Alum Bay, Isle of Wight ; the qualities brought from 
hence being superior to most others. A few years ago, 
a portion of sand brought from Australia as ballast 

was found to answer the purpose of English sand, and 
was indeed expected to be superior ; we believe, how- 
ever, that the qualities of tne three kinds are now 
ranked nearly on a level. 

The sand, being impure when brought to the works, 
is conveyed to an upper room, and thrown into a trough 
containing water. This trough is capable of being 
closed, and is fixed on horizontal pivots, whereby a 
rocking motion can be given ; and the sand, being 
thus driven from side to side in the water, and stirred 
with a spade, loses some of its impurities. The dirty 
water is emptied into a channel in the floor of the 
room ; and the same process is repeated seven or 
eight times, until the sand becomes perfectly clean. 
It is then placed in a trough over an oven, through 
holes in wnich it passes, when partially dried, into the 
oven beneath, and, when dried, leaves the oven in the 
state of fine, glittering, white particles. 

With regard to the alkali employed, there are rea- 
sons why potash, in the form of carbonate, is prefera- 
ble to other kinds ; the carbonic acid being, however, 
dissipated during the melting, and leaving the potash 
in a pure state. The carbonate of potash is obtained 
from Canada and the United States, and requires a 
process of washing previous to use. It is conveyed to 
an underground apartment, in which are washing- 
bins, settling-pans, evaporating-pans, and other neces- 
sary apparatus. The state to which the carbonate is 
brought by the process of cleansing, is that of fine 
white grains, differing but little, to an unpractised eye, 
from the prepared sand. 

Oxide of lead, both in the form of litharge and of 
minium, or red-lead, is employed in flint-glass for the 
following reasons : — it is a powerful flux, enabling the 
sand to melt more readily, and it gives the glass 
greater density, greater power of refracting light, 
greater lustre, greater resistance to fracture from 
sudden heat and cold, and greater ductility during the 
working. If there be too much of this material, the 
glass becomes inconveniently soft. 

The other ingredients in flint-glass, which are very 
small in quantity, are used as purifying and bleaching 
agents ; and, as well as the oxide of lead, require but 
little preparation on the part of the glass-maker. 

Let us assume that these several ingredients are in a 
sufficiently prepared state. They are taken to the ' mix- 
ing-room, which contains several long bins or boxes ; 
and after being weighed in proper proportions, the in- 
gredients are sifted, mixed in the bins, and brought to 
a state fit for the melting-furnace. Here we must leave 
them for the present, remembering that the state in 
which the ingredients are put into tne melting-pots is 
that of a salmon-coloured powder, the red tinge being 
given by the oxide of lead. 

The melting-pots, and their mode of preparation, 
now deserve our notice. The reader will not be sur- 
prised to hear that the manufacture, drying, and bak- 
ing of the glass-pots are important processes ; since 
one pot, when filled, contains sixteen hundredweight 
of glass, the preservation and proper melting of which 
are essential to the subsequent labours of the glass- 

There is a particular kind of clay, brought from Stour- 
bridge in Worcestershire, which seems better calculated 
than any other as a material for the glass-pots, and 
which is dug from the soil in a hard state, ground fine, 
barrelled, and sent up to London. The broken or wom- 
out pots are likewise found to be useful when employed 
in combination with new clay ; four parts of new clay 
being mixed with one part of old pots, ground by a 
horse-mill, and sifted to fine powder. The mixed ingre- 
dients then undergo a process so primitive, that one 
almost regrets to see it in this age of machinery. The 
powdered clay, being mixed with warm water in large 

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square leaden troughs, is trampled on with naked feet 
until thoroughly kneaded into a stiff adhesive clay. The 
kneading of the dough for sea-biscuits at Deptford, 
which was formerly done by men's fists and elbows, is 
now much better effected by machinery ; and we might 
suppose that a similar result would follow the appli- 
cation of machinery in the present case ; but it appears 
that a machine, formerly employed at these works for 
this purpose, failed to produce the required effect, and 
the old method was again resumed. 

The services of the • pot-maker ' are now called for. 
The melting-pots for flint-glass are not moulded, but 
are built up piecemeal, eacn piece being rolled into a 
cylindrical form, and laid in a curve on preceding 
rolls. If we could imagine a boy's grotto to be built 
of these clay rolls instead of oyster-shells, we might 
form an idea of the potter's operations, with this im- 
portant addition, that every roll of clay is so thoroughly 
pressed and squeezed as to expel all the air from be- 
1 ween the rolls, and to form a uniform and thick wall 
or crust. The manipulations of the potter are aided by 
a few simple tools ; and, keeping four in progress at 
once, wonting a little on each in turn, he completes 
the four in six days. Few persons, probably, on hear- 
ing of a ' melting-pot,' would imagine the weight and 
bulk of those here alluded to. The weight of clay 
required for one pot is nearly one thousand pounds ; 
and the dimensions of the finished vessel are about 
three feet in height, two and three-quarters in diameter, 
and from two to three inches thick. The shape is nearly 
cylindrical, with a hemispherical top and a flat base, 
and there is only one opening, about ei^ht or ten inches 
in diameter, at the upper part of one side. 

The longer these pots can be left before they are 
used, the better ; consequently it is important to keep 
a considerable number on hand. We were struck with 
the singular appearance of a large dark room, the floor 
of which was studded with nearly a hundred of these 
dome-shaped vessels. A little stretch of imagination 
would have transformed the assemblage into Cassim 
Baba's oil-jars, and have peopled them with forty (or 
twice forty) thieves ; but the damp odour of clay kept 
the thoughts from wandering from Black friars to Bag- 
dad. The pots are left in this room for several months. 
The evaporation from the damp clay is considerable, and 
is allowed to go on very gradually, in order to ensure 
an equable state throughout the thickness of the pot 
When the drying is effected, the pots are taken as 
wanted to an adjoining room, kept at a higher tem- 

Eerature, and then, a door being opened into the glass- 
ouse (of which more presently), eacn pot is lowered 
by a crane, and placed in the * pot-arch.' This arch is 
a small furnace capable of containing two or three 
pots ; and the pots are there exposed tor five days to 
a very intense heat 
The ingredients are prepared ; the melting-pots are 

made and hardened ; and it is now time to visit the 
• glass-house ' itself — the part of the building to which 
all the others are subsidiary, and to which the eye of 
an artist might be directed for some striking effects of 
light and shade. Imagine a large room, fifty or sixty 
feet square, with an earthen floor, bounded by brick 
walls, lofty and dimly lighted, and covered by an 
iron roof, the middle of which is probably fifty feet 
from the ground. This is the shell or crust the 
kernel of which is the melting-furnace. In the middle 
of the room we see four pillars, twelve or fourteen feet 
high, supporting the four corners of a great chimney, 
which passes through the middle of the roof, and rises 
to a height of about eighty feet This chimney is 
quadrangular, tapering upwards; and a clear passage 
is left beneath it between the pillars. Built on the 
level of the ground, at two opposite sides of this chim- 
ney, are two furnaces, the smoke from each of which 
ascends by a bent flue into the great chimney. Such 
are the objects which first meet the eye through the 
dusky gloom of the place. 

As the two furnaces closely resemble each other, we 
will, for convenience of description, speak as if there 
were but one. The furnace is a circular dome, about 
fifteen feet in diameter and the same in height ; and 
its internal construction may be understood by sup- 
posing two basins, one shallow and the other deep, to 
be inverted and placed one on another, the shallower 

[Section of Meltiug-Pa a a. the pots; fr. flues] 

one underneath. The inner basin encloses a spare 
containing the pots, the fuel, and the flame and smoke 
arising therefrom ; this flame and smoke reverberate 
from tne vaulted roof, and pass up through flues into 
the cavity between the two basins, whence the smoke 
passes, by a bent pipe, into the chimney. All is con- 
structed of brick, and lined with clay capable of resist- 
ing the fiercest heat. 

The fuel for this furnace is laid on an iron grating in 
the middle, in connection with which, and beneath the 
glass-house, is a series of passages running in various 
directions to the extent of some hundred feet and in- 
tended to furnish the channels for a powerful draught 
which, passing upwards through the grating, keeps the 
fuel in an intensely ignited state. The roof of the 
inner dome of the furnace is about five or six feet from 
the ground ; and the flame and heated air, rever- 
berating from this root maintain a very high tempera- 
ture within the internal area. 

Formerly, the fuel employed used to be coal, but. it 
is now found that in London many advantages result 
from employing oven-burned coke instead. In a dis- 
tinct part of the building two coking-ovens have been 

M 2 

Digitized by 




[Fsa. 1841. 

erected, for the purpose of preparing the coke on the pre- 
mises. Into these ovens, which arc nearly circular and 
very shallow, is put small coal, such as is brought from 
the pit-mouths in Northumberland ; and after twenty- 
four hours 1 burning or roasting, during which the in- 
flammable matters arc driven off, the fuel is drawn out 
in the form of coke. Twenty-one tons of coal per week 
are, on an average, required for the glass-house ; and 
this is converted into about fifteen tons of coke in the 
coking-oven, before being conveyed to the melting- 

IGiound Plan of Melting Furnace, a, Hum ; b. league or ground on 
which the pot*, c, are placed; d, grate-bars. J 

The melting-pots being of large dimensions, open- 
ings, or arches, of sufficient size are left in the sides of 
the furnace, to allow of the pots being introduced; 
after which the openings are bricked up. A pot, when 
once introduced into the furnace, is seldom removed 
until worn out ; but as the average duration of a pot 
is not more than two or three months, these removals 
frequently occur. The withdrawal of an old pot and 
replacing it with a new one is called ' setting a pot,* 
and constitutes the most arduous and indeed fearful 
operation of the glass-house, and the one to which the 
men are wont to refer as proof of their power of heat- 
endurance. It frequently happens that the old pot 
breaks, and the pieces, becoming partially vitrified, 
adhere to the bottom of the furnace : in such case the 
men stand in front of the fiercely heated openings, and 
dig up and remove the broken fragments of pot by 
means of crow-bars and other instruments. While the 
removal of the old pot is in progress, the new one is 
kept at a white heat in the * pot-arch/ a pot-furnace 
within a few yards of the melting-furnace ; and when 
the transference is to take place, the door of the arch is 
opened, a low iron carriage is wheeled in and tilted so 
as to lift up and draw out the pot, and the latter, at a 
glowing wnite heat, is wheeled to the furnace, and there 
deposited in its proper place. When the adjustment 
is properly made, the opening is immediately bricked 
up. The temperature to which the men are exposed 
in this operation (which sometimes takes several hours) 
may be imperfectly imagined when we remember that 
the other pots in the furnace may at that time be at a 
perfectly white heat. 

In some kinds of glass manufacture, open melting- 
pots are used, whereby the fusion of the ingredients is 
effected in a shorter tune. But flint-glass is liable to 
be injured by the carbonaceous and gaseous matters 
arising from the fuel, and therefore the pots are covered 
in. Each pot is so placed in the furnace, that the 
mouth shall be directed outwards ; and this projecting 
mouth is so bricked and clayed round as to prevent the 

escape of flame. By this arrangement, every part of 
the pot, except the mouth, is surrounded by a fierce 
heat ; and although, on looking through this orifice 
from without, a fiery whiteness is seen, yet this results 
from the interior of the pot, and not from the interior 
of the furnace itself, the latter being entirely shielded 
from view. 

Such is the melting-furnace, provided in this way 
with seven pots ; and we now follow the routine of 
processes connected with the melting. - 

The management of a glass-house, in respect to 
time, is somewhat curious and worthy of note. The 
filling and emptying of a melting-pot arc in general so 
managed as to occupy one week. On Friday morning, 
the necessary arrangements for filling commence. The 
mixed ingredients arc brought to the furnace in 
wooden vessels, and then thrown into the pots by 
means of shovels, through the openings before alluded 
to. About four hundredweight is put into each pot ; the 
mouth is closed ; the fire kept burning strongly ; and 
the ingredients allowed to sink and melt. Three or 
four hours afterwards, the hole is again opened, 
another equal supply thrown in, and another equal 
space of time allowed to elapse. This is repeated lour 
times, until each pot contain its full quota of about 
sixteen hundredweight. When all the pots are 
filled, every orifice is stopped up, the fuel is urced 
to vivid combustion by increased draught from be- 
neath, and the ingredients remain throughout Satur- 
day and Sunday exposed to an intense heat. At stated 
intervals a small opening is made, and a little of the 
' metal ' (as the glass is technically termed) is with- 
drawn to test its progress. In some glass-works, a 
considerable quantity of scum rises to the surface of 
the glass while melting ; but there is not much in a 
flint-glass furnace, on account of the purity of the ma- 
terials, and this little is removed by skimming. We 
may here observe, that without any wish on the part 
of the proprietor to deviate from usual customs, a 
glass-house furnace must necessarily be kept heated 
on Sundays as well as other days; but the week is so 
apportioned as to leave as little as possible to be done 
on Sundays ; nothing, indeed, but to watch the furnace • 
each man having three Sundays out of four at liberty. 

On Monday morning all is ready for the glass- 
workers ; the pots arc full of ' metal,' looking like 
liquid fire, ana a large party of workmen assemble 
round the furnace. The mouths are opened, so as to 
afford access to the melted glass ; ana smaller holes 
are opened also, at which the working-tools are heated. 

Flint-glass ware, such as drink nig- glasses, cruets, 
decanters, lustres, lamp-shades, phials, &c, are made 
partly by blowing, partly by manual working, and, in 
a smaller degree, by moulding or casting, in a way 
which we will endeavour to describe. We first saw 
some four-sided perfumery bottles made. A man took 
a hollow iron tube, about five feet long and half an 
inch in diameter, and, dipping one end into a pot of 
melted glass, collected a small quantity at the extre- 
mity. The glass appeared like a projecting lump of 
red-hot iron, and, from its consistence (between that ot 
treacle and of putty), was just able to be retained on 
the tube. He then rolled the glass on a flat plate of 
iron, thereby giving it a cylindrical form, and pinched 
a part of it, by means of a small instrument, to form 
the neck of the bottle. He next inserted the end of the 
tube into a small brass mould lying on the ground, shut 
up the two parts of which the mould consisted, and blew 
through the tube. This double operation produces 
a curious effect ; for while the air from the lungs, 
passing through the tube, makes the mass of glass hol- 
low, the mould at the same time imparts to it the ex- 
ternal form required. The mould being opened, the 
glass — kow jn the form of a bottle — was withdrawn, 

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still adhering to the end of the rod, and was detached 
by a slight touch with a piece of cold iron. All this 
was done in about half a minute ; and during the 
latter part of the process, another workman was gather- 
ing and rolling a similar portion of glass, so that one 
mould served for both. As the bottles were severed 
from the tube, they were taken up on the end of a 
heated nd by a third workman, wno re-heated them 
(for by this time they were below red-heat), and by 
means of a few simple tools finished the necks and 
mouths as fast as the other two could make the bottles. 
The lower of the two following cuts represents one 
form of mould used by the glass- worker. 

A far more skilful operation was the production of 
a claret-iug, since no part whatever of this vessel was 
moulded. The workman, with a heavier tube than the 
one before alluded to, gathered a considerable quan- 
tity of metal ; whirled it twice or thrice round his 
head, to elongate the mass, rolled it on a flat iron 

plate ; to give it a regular shape ; and blew through 
the tube from the other end, to make the glass hollow. 
The rolling and blowing having been repeated two or 

three times, anqther workman received it, and sat down 
in a chair having two flat parallel arms sloping 
downwards. Then, resting the tube on these arms, 
he rolled it backwards and forwards, to keep the glass 
from bending ; and a boy, stooping down at the other 
end, blew through the tube, whereby the mass of glass 
was maintained hollow. By the aid of an elastic in- 
strument, shaped nearly like sugar-tongs, the workman 
brought the mass into form, rolling the tube continu- 
ally, and heating the glass frequently to preserve the 

proper consistence. Another workman, called the 
• footer/ then brought a little melted glass on the end 
of a rod, and applied it to the end of the blown mass, to 
which it instantly adhered. This was soon shaped into 
a foot ; and the whole was transferred from the tube to 
a rod called the 4 punty,' the latter being made to ad- 
here to the foot ot the vessel by a little melted glass, 
and the tube being detached by a touch with a piece 
of cold iron at its junction with the glass. The glass thus 
transferred, the making of the upper part of the vessel 
proceeded. With the aid of scissors, a piece of glow- 
ing glass was cut off, so as to allow of a depression for 
the lip of the jug, and the edge was bent and curved 
with a dexterity altogether beyond the scope of descrip- 
tion. Sometimes one prong, sometimes both prongs of 
the tongs were inserted in the mouth of the jug, and 
the internal cavity, as well as the external surtace of 
the iug, were gradually modelled into shape. An at- 
tendant workman next brought a smaller mass of 
melted glass on the end of another rod, which was at- 
tached to the vessel, and curved in the form of a handle 
by a few delicate manoeuvres. 

The rapidity with which these operations are effected 
almost baffles the eye of a spectator. The glass is in 
such a medium state between a solid and a liquid, that 
while, on the one hand, it would drop from the tube if 

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[Feb 1811 

not kept rotatory, it is, on the other, capable of being 
pulled, twisted, stretched, cut, pressed, and worked in 
various ways. No mould, stamp, or press was em- 
ployed in the manufacture of this jug, the whole being 
effected by the manual dexterity and accurate eye of 
the workman, aided by a few of the most simple tools. 
Great, indeed, is the surprise excited at seeing such 
an elegantly-formed vessel manufactured in such a 
way in the space of ten or twelve minutes : we here 
allude to the making only, for in the annexed figure the 
jug is represented in its finished or • cut' state. The eye 

of the workman detects when the glass is becoming too 
cold for working, and he holds it for a few seconds at 
the * working hole/ — one of the pot-mouths. After 
every such re-heating, he sits down again, and rolls 
the tube in the * chair-arms,' with the glass projecting 
over near his right hand. 

In all vessels provided with a leg and foot, such as 
wine-glasses, the leg is formed of one dip of glass, and 
the foot of another, eacti in turn being attached to the 
body of the vessel, and worked into shape. In such 
articles as salvers, dishes, or shallow vessels generally, 
the workman, after having his mass of glass hollowed 
by blowing, transfers it from the working tube to the 
punty : the hole left where the tube had been attached 
ne gradually enlarges, by whirling, modelling, re-heat- 
ing, and bending, until the glass expands to the wide 
flat concave form required. In any vessel to be pro- 
vided with a handle, a lump of glass — if we call it 
glass putty, perhaps the reader will form a better idea 
of its consistence — is attached at one spot, drawn out, 
dexterously curved, and attached also at another spot, 
an operation nearly as surprising as any in the manu- 
facture, since the workman has no guide but the accu- 
racy of his eye in suddenly forming the handle. In 
such a production as a lamp or chandelier shade, the 
mass requires frequent re-heating, on account of the 
large size attained; and whenever the mass of glass 
has to be thus repeatedly heated, a constant rotation is 
given to the tube or rod, to preserve a circular form in 
the article attached to it. While re-heating at the fur- 
nace, this rotation is maintained as much as on the 
1 chair-arms/ a resting-groove being placed in front of 
the furnace-mouth for the support of the rod while 

The ductility of the melted glass, or that property 
by which it is capable of being drawn out, is perhaps 
nowhere so strikingly shown as in the making of class- 
tubes, such as are employed for thermometers, baro- 
meters, &c. A workman collects a quantity of glass 
on the end of a tube, rolls it on an iron plate into a 
cylindrical form, blows into it to form a cavity within, 
and holds it towards a second workman, who attaches 

a heated rod to the other end of the mass, to whirh it 
instantly adheres. The two men, standing opposite 
each other, then walk backwards, the glass elongating 
as they proceed, until a tube forty or fifty feet long is 
produced. This tube hangs down as it is formed, and 
rests on a ladder or frame laid along the floor of the 

Slass-house ; and by the time all the mass of glass is 
ius drawn out, a tube almost perfectly equable in 
thickness is formed, with a bore or perforation running 
through its whole length. The preservation of this 
bore is one of the most singular parts of the process, 
the elongated tube acquiring a bore of the same form 
as is given to the cavity in toe mass of glass, however 
much reduced in size. In most thermometers the 
mercurial column is seen to be flattened, so as to be 
scarcely visible when viewed laterally. This flattened 
shape represents the form of the bore of the tube ; and 
in order to produce it, the mass of glass, after having 
been blown hollow, is gently pressed on two opposite 
sides, whereby a flattening ot the internal cavity is 
produced while the external surface is again made 
cylindrical by re-dippin* into the melting-pot. This 
form, i.e. flat within and circular without, is retained 
throughout the subsequent elongation, notwithstanding 
the vast diminution in the sectional area of the tube 
Most kinds of glass-tubing, for meteorological, optical, 
or other purposes, are produced in a manner nearly 
analogous to that here described ; the length of tubing 
being afterwards cut into convenient portions. Most 
persons have probably seen or heard of " Glass-working 
exhibitions," in which trinkets and toys are made in a 
very delicate and neat manner out of melted or softened 
glass ; although the glass is, in these cases, melted at a 
blowpipe instead of a furnace, yet the principle by 
which tne exhibitor is enabled to proceed is the same 
as that developed in tube-making, and calls for our 
assent to the remark that • flint-glass possesses, at the 
working heat, a degree of tenacity and ductility not to 
be found in any other substance in nature.' 

Four thousand pounds weight of glass is weekly 
wrought into these various articles; and we must 
now quit the melting-furnace, and watch the manu- 
factured articles in the process of 'annealing.' The 
object of this process is to render the glass less brit- 
tle, and less liable to fracture from sudden alter- 
nations of temperature. If a glass vessel, made at 
the high temperature necessary for working, were 
allowed at once to cool in the open air, the surfaces of 
the vessel would cool and contract more rapidly than 
the interior substance, whereby the glass would be in 
an unequable state of elasticity, and therefore liable to 
fracture. We have seen a piece of thick glass-tube, 
which had been plunged while hot into cold water : the 
interior surface was cracked to such a degree as to ap- 
pear like a surface covered with crystals. There are 


by Google^ 




philosophical toys, known as 'Bologna phials' and 
* Prince Rupert's Drops/ which are similarly treated, 
by being plunged into cold water while yet hot : the 
exterior becomes cooled and fixed before the interior 
has time to contract in a corresponding degree ; the 
consequence of which is, that this unusual state of ten- 
sion causes the whole to be shattered to atoms when 
the smallest incision or scratch is made on the surface. 
To avoid such an inconvenience as this, glass-ware is 
suffered to cool by very slow degrees. 

This slow coolmg takes place in an annealing-oven 
called a ' leer ;' a name for which it would not perhaps 
be easy to furnish a reason, unless it be an instance of 
the Anglicised foreign terms used in a glass house, 
and of which the • punty,' or working rod, and the 
•marver,' or iron plate, furnish examples — these 
two terms being derived from the French 'pontil* 
and •marbre.' The arched entrance to the 'leer' 
is seen at one side of the glass-house, closed by iron 
doors ; the oven having the form of a long flat arch, 
sixty feet in length or depth, five feet wide, and from 
one to two in height. Adjoining the door of the oven on 
each side is a furnace, by which a high temperature is 
maintained ; but as there is no other heating-power, the 
oven experiences less and less of the heat as the dis- 
tance from the mouth is greater, until, at the remote 
extremity, the temperature is scarcely higher than that 
of the surrounding atmosphere. Along the floor of 
the oven is a miniature railway upon which two rows 
of iron trays, called ' leer-pans/ travel. 

Such being the arrangement, and all the operations 
being in full play, the annealing proceeds as follows : 
— As soon as a glass vessel is formed, a boy carries it, 
either on a wooden shovel or by means of a pronged 
fork,* to the • leer,* and places it in one of the pans. 
This continues until one pan is full ; and the pan being 
then wheeled onward by means of a windlass, another 
is laid in its place, similarly filled, and similarly 
wheeled on ; and so on, one pan after another. By 
this means, the pan first filled is drawn farther and 
farther from the heat, whereby the annealing or 
gradual cooling is effected. The time required for 
annealing varies from twelve to sixty hours according 
to the thickness of glass in the article manufactured ; 
and~matters are so arranged as to have similar articles 
in the oven at one time, in order that the same routine 
may be available for all ; or else to make the two rows 
of pans travel with different speed. There are some 
annealing-ovens in which the process is differently 
conducted : they are much shorter, and more equa- 
bly heated in the different parts; and after being 
filled with manufactured articles, the mouth is closed, 
and the fire allowed gradually to go out, whereby the 
whole oven loses its heat by slow degrees. The form 
first described is, however, found most advantageous 
in the flint-glass manufacture. 

The order of processes now requires us to visit a 
room at the remote end of the annealing-oven. The 
key of this room is in the possession of an excise- 
officer, under whose supervision all the arrangements 
of the room are conducted. Were this the place, we 
might remark on the evils jresul ting to manufactures 
from the mode in which excise duties are collected on 
the articles manufactured ; but we must take the case 
si raply as we find it. The annealed vessels are removed 
from the pans, examined to see that they are perfect, 
and weighed ; a duty being payable on such articles 
only as leave the annealing-oven in a perfect state. 
This restriction is necessary, for the vessels are fre- 
quently spoiled in the oven, either by being imperfectly 
annealed, or by being overheated near the furnace. 

Many articles of flint-glass ware are deemed finished 
when tney leave the annealing-oven, and are accord- 
ingly warehoused ; but the brftliant display of a side- 

board or dinner-table owes much of jts attraction to 
the cut, or, if the term be allowable, sculptured forms 
of the glass vessels. This cutting is effected* after the 
vessels are annealed, in a distinct part of the building, 
and by a process wholly different from those hitherto 

The glass-cutting room has a singular appearance. 
A double work-benph extends along the room, divided 
into several compartments for an equal number of men. 
In front of each workman is a thin wheel revolving 
on a horizontal axis ; and above some of the wheels are 
vessels containing sand and water, which drop through 
a small orifice in the bottom, and fall on the edge of 
the wheel. All the wheels are set in motion by steam- 
power, and each workman has the means of unfixing 
nis wheel, and putting on another of a different kind. 
These wheels are of various sizes, and made of various 
substances, such as cast-iron, wrought-iron, Yorkshire 
stone, and willow- wood. The edge of the wheel is that 
part by which the grinding is effected ; and different 
shapes and thicknesses are given to these edges, in 
order to produce different results. 

The workman takes the glass, decanter, or other 
manufactured article, and holds it against the edge 
of the revolving wheel, by which the substance of 
the glass is ground down, and flat or curved surfaces 
produced. The vessel is held in various positions, 
according to the pattern required ; accuracy of eye and 
steadiness of hand being indispensable in the work- 
man. The iron wheels, with sand and water, are used 
for grinding away the substance of the glass; the stone 
wheel, with clean water, for smoothing the scratched 
surfaces; and the wooden wheel, with rotten-stone 
and putty-powder, for polishing. 

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[Fkb. 1841. 

In a separate room the stoppers or stopples for bot- 
tles are ground 1 , and the necks of small bottles made 
truly circular by attaching them to a kind of lathe, and 
applying small tools to the surface while revolving. 
The value of well-stoppled bottles to the chemist ren- 
ders this operation one of nicety and importance. 

In addition to the cut surfaces of glass vessels, 
whereby such a lustrous play of colours is produced, 
the more costly articles are engraved, that is, devices 
are cut on the surface more delicate than can be pro- 
duced by the cutting-wheel. A separate apartment is 
devoted to the operations of the glass-cngravcr, who is 
seated at a bench before a small lathe ; and to this 
lathe he attaches one of a series of little metallic disks 
or wheels, generally made of copper, and varying from 
an eighth of an inch to two incnea in diameter. The 
edge of the rotating disk he touches with a little 
emery moistened in oil, and then holds the glass vessel 
against the edge of the disk, by which very minute 
scratches or indentations are produced. By dexterous 
changes in the position of ttic class, and in the form 
and size of the disks employed, ne combines these in- 
dentations so as to produce beautiful intaglios or 
sunken pictures. 

This is strictly a branch of the Fine Arts, and as such 
places the engraver on a different level from the other 
workmen. Taste, both natural and cultivated, a 
knowledge of the external forms of natural objects, 
and a delicacy of eye and hand, are all required in this 
operation ; and we viewed with pleasure the labours 
of an intelligent workman engaged therein. A 
laudable attempt is now being made in England to 
diffuse among workmen a more extensive knowledge 
of the Arts of Design than has yet been possessed by 
them ; and such operations as those of glass cutting 
and engraving afford an ample field for the display of 
this kind of knowledge. We believe that the proprie- 
tor of this establishment is himself one of the council 
in the new government School of Design. 

The most profitable and important articles of flint- 
glass are such as are largely employed and have a cur- 
rent sale ; but the costly and delicate articles occasion- 
ally produced call for great skill and inventive in- 
genuity. There is a kind of cut-glass in which the 
projecting parts of the pattern are coloured and the 
sunken parts colourless. These are produced in a 

remarkable way ; for after the working-tube has col- 
lected nearly sufficient colourless glass from one pot, 
the mass is clipped into another containing class which 
is coloured by the addition of certain metallic oxides, 
by which an external coating of coloured glass is given 
to the mass. When the blowing and modelling are 
completed, this exterior coating is, in the finishing 
process of cutting, ground away in some parts and 
left remaining in others, thus producing a singularly 
delicate effect. 

Another kind of ornamental manufacture is the 
'crystallo-ccramic/ or glass-incrustation, patented by 
Mr. Pellatt some years ago, and consisting of an opaque 
substance imbedded in a mass of colourless glass. A 
medallion or bas-relief, representing any device what- 
ever, is moulded in a peculiar kind of clay capable of 
resisting the heat of melted glass ; and the medallion 
is enclosed between two pieces of soft glass, or else is 
introduced into a cavity in the glass, from whence the 
air is afterwards extracted. The introduction of the 
medallion into the glass is the main difficulty in this 
process, and requires much skill and ingenuity, in 
order that no air-bubbles may exist between the two 
substances. When finished, and the external surface 
of the glass cut to the required form, the appearance of 
the imbedded medallion is singularly chaste and ele- 
gant; for the white clay, seen within the clear and 
highly refractive glass, presents an appearance nearly 
resembling that of unburnished silver. This branch 
of art, i.e. the incrustation of clay devices, was in- 
vented by a Bohemian, about sixty years ago ; at a later 
period some French manufacturers encrusted medal- 
lions of Napoleon in this way, and sold them at an 
enormous price ; but since the introduction of the art 
into England, under an improved form, a wide exten- 
sion has been given to its applicability. Decanters, 
goblets, wine-glasses, lamps, girandoles, chimney-orna- 
ments, plates, door-handles, and other articles formed 
of flint-glass, have been ornamented in this way ; the 
incrustations being arms, ciphers, crests, inscriptions, 
portraits, small busts, caryatides, or indeed any small 
objects capable of being modelled or moulded in clay. 
The incrustation may be painted with metallic colours, 
which will remain uninjured by the heat required in 
the process. 

There is a mode of incrusting opaque ornaments or 
devices on the surface, instead of within the substance, 
of the glass. This is effected by adjusting the ornament 
in a brass mould, and blowing and moulding the glass 
to it; the details requiring considerable skill, but 
the principle being nearly the same as in the other 

The astronomer and the optician obtain from the 
flint-glass manufacturer the materials from which their 
lenses are made. It has been ascertained that there is 
a certain state of the fused glass which is best calcu- 
lated for optical purposes ; and when the mass has 
attained this state, about seven pounds weight is taken 
up in a conical ladle and blown into the form of a hol- 
low cylinder. This cylinder is cut open, and flattened 
into a sheet twenty inches long by fourteen wide, and 
from two to three eighths .of an inch in thickness. In 
this form it passes into the hands of the optician, who 
cuts and grinds it to the shapes required for optical 

{mrposes. The masses of jrJass for large telescope 
enses require a Bomewhat different process, and ex- 
traordinary care in the choice, preparation, mixing:, 
and melting of the ingredients : indeed, the production 
of good glass for this purpose is one of the most uncer- 
tain things in the whole glass-manufacture; 

We terminate our visit by alluding to the elegan* 
show-rooms or galleries, in which the finished mate- 
rials, of all the various kinds above alluded to, consti- 
tute a brilliant display. 

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March 6, 1841.] 



[Tlio Holy Family. —Sir Joshua UeyaokU.] 



From the revival of painting by Giovanni Cimabue, 
in the latter half of the thirteenth century, to its second 
declension under Carlo Maratti, in the commencement 
of the eighteenth, no subject has so frequently exer- 
cised the painter's skill as that of the Holy Family. It 
has been represented with all the sublimity of art by 
Raffaelle ; with tenderness and exquisite sweetness by 
Carlo Dolci ; with familiarity by Rembrandt ; and in 
our own day by Sir Joshua Reynolds, in the picture 
before us, with a mixture of the solemnity of the earlier 
schools and the domesticity of modern art. 

The chief beauty of this performance is the richness 
of its colouring and the excellent management of the 
lights and darks. In order te make the drapery of the 
Virgin combine with the colouring of the figure of the 
Infant Saviour, and with the flesh of Mary herself, that 
drapery is painted of a light hue, and possesses a very 
small share of actual red, although its general effect 
is to give a notion of that colour. In like manner the 
ftgure of Joseph is bo managed that incidental shadows, 

no. 573. 

that is, shadows thrown into the picture from sub- 
stances not indicated within its limits, are seen upon 
the hands and the leg, which cause them to form masses 
in conjunction with die dark drapery he wears and the 
background of the composition ; thus the attention is 
at once and inevitably drawn to the chief portion of 
the picture, the Infant Jesus, as well by trie actual 
attraction of the light as by the contrast of the dark. 
It is this management of the masses of light and dark, 
or chiaro-'scuro, and the beauty of colouring, which have 
rendered the works of Reynolds so famous with his 
own countrymen, and which, though reluctantly, have 
wrung from foreigners expressions of their approba- 

In a subject such as the Holy Family, the artist 
has to contend against two opposite difficulties ; he 
must give as much elevation of expression to his 
figures as will convey the feeling of supernatural ex- 
cellence, yet he must not divest his work of those social 
attributes which render it understandable by the 
general observer. 

In the glories of the Transfiguration, or the sublimity 
of the Assumption, all human feelings, all earthly con- 

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Vol. X.— N 




[March 6, 

siderations are absorbed in the awful manifestations of 
the power of the Almighty. In the nativity and in the 
infancy of the Redeemer we are prepared to behold 
him as bearing the investment of humanity, and not 
asserting the divine majesty of the Godhead. In the 
former class, therefore, painters have properly endea- 
voured to excite the loftier emotions of the soul ; in the 
latter, they have, with equal justice, appealed to the ten- 
derest sympathies of our nature. In the Holy Family 
of Reynolds we must look for purity and simplicity, 
and in the person of the Virgin Mother that expression 
will be found ; and though the Infant Saviour accords 
in bodily shape with his apparent age, still the face 
gives evidence of an intellect beyond the reach of 
mortality. With all this judicious management, the 
picture will be beheld as one of those works into which 
the artist has endeavoured to infuse a spirit of do- 
mestic feeling rather than a sensation of reverential 
distance. In short, the scene is presented to us as 
if we could form part of the group, instead of a 
transaction taking place in a situation into which our 
frail humanity can by no possibility intrude. 

We may conveniently take occasion here to correct 
an error which was inadvertently fallen into in the 
notice of the picture of St. John by Murillo.* It was 
there said, "Though it should seem that John was 
about twenty-five or twenty-six years of age when he 
was called to follow Christ, painters have delighted 
to imagine him as the early associate of his Mas- 
ter." This idea, which would nave been inaccurate with 
regard to the Evangelist, may have been correct as 
refers to the Baptist, who was the son of Zacharias 
and Elisabeth, and who from his conception had been 
miraculously appointed (see Luke, chap, i.) to preach 
the advent and kingdom of the Messiah ; whilst the 
Apostle and Evangelist, the youngest, the gentlest, 
and most affectionate of the disciples of Jesus, was 
destined but to tread in the steps of his divine 

The engraving at the head of the article is by Mr. 
Jackson, and is a copy of the picture of the Holy Family, 
painted by Reynolds, for Mr. Macklin's edition of the 
Bible, ana which has been engraved for that work by 
Sharp, in a very masterly manner. The original was 
purchased at tne sale of Lord Gwydyr's collection, 
and liberally presented to the public, for the National 
Gallery, by the governors of the British Institution. 

Before proceeding to comment on the exalted rank 
held by Reynolds, it will be sufficient to state of his 
history that he was one of eleven children of a clergy- 
man, who was head master of Plympton grammar- 
school, in Devonshire, and was born at that place, on 
the 16th of July, 1723. His early predilection for art 
induced his father to place him under the tuition of 
Hudson, the portrait painter, in London. He made 
rapid progress in his studies, visited Rome, and, on his 
return to England, in 1752, almost immediately ob- 
tained extensive employment. In 1768, on the foun- 
dation of the Royal Academy, he was chosen its first 
president, a station he held, with but a short intermis- 
sion, for the space of twenty-two years. He died in 
London, on the 23rd of February, 1792, and, after 
lying in state at the Academy, was buried in the vaults 
of St. Paul's Cathedral, by the side of Sir Christopher 
Wren, the constructor of that edifice, and a statue to 
his memory, executed by Flaxman, has been erected 
in the church. Thus the most eminent architect and 
the most gifted sculptor that England has produced 
have appropriately furnished a noble resting-place for 
the remains and a lasting memorial to the honour of 
the great founder of her school of painting. 

Before the appearance of Sir Joshua Reynolds, 

• Ante, page 13. 

excepting Hogartn in his peculiar and unapproached 
style, and Wilson in poetic landscape, any the re- 
motest approximation to a native school of art could 
not be said to exist in England. At one stride this 
eminent man reached the summit of professional 
distinction, though it could be only by profound 
study that he achieved the rank he held amongst the 
colourists and chiaro-'scurists of Europe. In his career 
he was so universally sought for as a painter of por- 
traits, that it was not untrl the latter portion of his life 
he could devote his attention to historic or poetic com- 
position. Indeed so enthusiastic was the grave Dr. 
Johnson in favour of this pursuit of his friend, that he 
seems to have grudged the time given bv Reynolds 
to the few works in these classes which ne has left 
us. " It is in painting," he says, " as in life, what is 
greatest is not always best I should grieve to see 
Reynolds transfer to neroes and to goddesses, to empty 
splendour and to airy fiction, that art which is now 
employed in diffusing friendship, in renewing tender- 
ness, in quickening the affections of the absent, and 
continuing the presence of the dead." 

Fortunately, Reynolds did not confine himself to 
this branch of art, but executed, in tne words of Barry, 
" a few expansive efforts of colouring and chiaro-'scuro, 
which would do honour to the first names in the re- 
cords of art." In respect to these qualities the Pro- 
fessor mipht have referred to the liolv Family, for, 
although in colour it has in many parts become much 
deteriorated, still it remains a noble specimen of the 
mastery which the painter held over those essentials 
of the art. But even supposing he had never executed 
any pictures but portraits, we ought not therefore to 
look upon Reynolds as less endowed with the true 
principles of painting. It is a mistake, but too general, 
that the art of portraiture is governed by rules at vari- 
ance with those of historical composition. In each the aim 
is to imitate the effect of nature, and it matters not whe- 
ther the composition, so far as the management of the 
colour and light and dark is concerned, consists of 
one figure or of a group of twenty persons. The at- 
traction of the attention to the principal point of one 
is as essential as to the chief action of the other 
The harmony and arrangement of both are to be pro- 
duced by the same means. Dr. Johnson himself would 
appear, from the passage we have quoted, to have 
been unaware of this fact, for he alludes to the portraits 
by Reynolds only as likenesses, and is silent on their 
merits as pictures. Mr. Burke, on the other hand, 
seems to have had a just appreciation of the distinction 
between an expert face-painter and a real artist, for 
he says that " his portraits remind the spectator of the 
invention of history, and the amenity of landscape ;" 
nor has the eloquent statesman less truly observed of 
Reynolds, that " he possessed the theory as perfectly 
as the practice of his art. To be such a painter, he was 
a profound and penetrating philosopher. 

Entertaining a deep reverence for the genius of Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, we are still quite ready to admit that 
in his historical works he is more eminent for his 
colouring than for academic correctness in drawing. 
His own modesty and candour, indeed, render it 
scarcely necessary to do more than allude to the fact, 
for he admits that of all the main principles of art, that 
was the one to which he had least attended. Yet in 
his studies at Rome he devoted his time to the magni- 
ficence of Michael Angelo and to the divine purity of 
Raffaelle, and recorded his devotion to the former by 
writing to Barry at Rome, urging him to study in the 
Capella Sistina, for that the wonders there were 
those things which alone rendered the Eternal City 
more profitable to an artist than any other place in the 
world, and he sealed that opinion by declaring from 
his chair, in his farewell address to the students of the 

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Royal Academy, that he should desire that the last 
words which he should pronounce in that place, and 
from the seat of its president, might he the name of 
Michael Angelo. Here, too, we may refer to the cir- 
cumstance so obvious in most of the pictures of Rey- 
nolds, the great cracking and separation of the colours 
that has taken place. This arose from the constant habit 
in which he indulged, of adopting every experiment in 
his colouring materials that was suggested to him. An 
anxious wish to discover the mode adopted by the 
artists of the Venetian school, and particularly Titian, 
led Reynolds to try the effect of every vehicle for 
painting that was proposed, and, as many of these were 
of a highly volatile nature, we see the sad effect of 
his experimentalizing in the faded and defaced con- 
dition of his works. 

We have now only space left for a brief mention of 
the admirable professional writings of this distinguished 
artist and accomplished man. The • Discourses ' of 
Reynolds originated in the custom of his official de- 
livery of the premiums offered by the Academy for suc- 
cessful application by its students. The president 
thought that mere compliments might grow vapid by 
repetition. He, therefore, composed these ' Discourses,' 
which have rendered his name as noted for his powers 
of criticism, profound thought, and varied literary 
acquirements, as his painting had previously done for 
it as an artist. These compositions have been from 
time to time attributed both to Johnson and to Burke, 
but at the present day no tolerably well informed 
unprejudiced person doubts for a moment that they 
were the genuine productions of Sir Joshua's hand 
and the true emanations of his brain. There is a 
slight degree of hastiness discoverable in the style, 
which has given cause to cavillers to say that the pre- 
sident sometimes contradicts himself. To the candid 
reader, however, they contain a whole treasury of 
true maxims, and together form one of the most valu- 
able collections of remarks that has ever been pub- 
lished on art, fully bearing out the eulogy or Sir 
Thomas Lawrence, who characterised them as " golden 
precepts, which are now acknowledged as canons of 
universal taste." 


The great branches of our national industrv, while 
they are instrumental in producing and diffusing 
wealth, appear at first sight almost to involve the 
moral and physical degradation of the numerous masses 
of our working population who are immediately en- 
gaged therein ; ana although a closer examination will 
show that this is by no means the case, we shall find 
that this class is undoubtedly suffering from evils of no 
common magnitude. The chief palliation of the guilt 
of neglect and delay in providing a remedy for the 
existing evils, is to be found in the rapidity with which 
they sprung forth. They had become of gigantic sta- 
ture before men were aware of their existence, and 
then it seemed to be hopeless to contend with them. 
The changes which have taken place in the state of 
society in England during the present century were so 
different from the ordinary circumstances under which 
^reat social revolutions take place, that men's atten- 
tion was not sufficiently directed to inquire into the 
new wants to which they gave birth. Numbers were 
drawn to the great seats of manufacturing industry 
from the surrounding rural districts, and from more 
distant quarters as the demand for 'hands' became 
more urgent ; rows of cottages were hastily erected 
for the accommodation of the immigrants, and to pro- 
vide for the demands of a rapidly increasing popula- 
tion. In twenty or thirty years the population of the 

towns which became the scene of these changes was 
doubled, or perhaps trebled ; but as for their physical, 
moral, and intellectual improvement, the mass of 
human beings thus suddenly congregated on a given 
spot, were in a state of as much destitution as are some 
hundreds of labourers employed for a few months on 
public works, and who are temporarily occupying rude 
nuts erected close to the scene of their labours. One 
great want, therefore, of the large towns of modern 
growth is an improved municipal organization directed 
to such objects of local interest as can be successfully 
accomplished by local means. No single remedy can 
be adapted to evils which ramify into so many branches, 
and though no one can doubt the advantages which 
have been derived from Sunday-schools, savings'-banks, 
mechanics' institutes, and reading-rooms, yet the 
inefficiency of these alone is now forced upon our 
conviction, and we hope we are not mistaken in assum- 
ing that the condition of the labouring population, es- 
pecially in the large towns, will soon be treated as a 
whole, and that a series of practical measures will be 
devised for their benefit. 

As an instance of the various means by which the 
great object to be kept in view may be promoted, we 
regard with much satisfaction the recent introduction 
of a measure to enforce a better system of drainage in 
large towns. It is a step in the right direction, and is 
avowedly taken with the object of directing attention 
to the condition of the poorer classes of the town popu- 
lation, so that it will naturally be followed by other 
plans of improvement, such as public walks, ceme- 
teries, &c„ Sec. A glance at one branch of the evils 
which the proposed measure is designed to remedy, 
will at once prove its value and necessity. Our facts 
are taken from the Report of a Statistical Committee 
of the Leeds Town Council upon the condition of that 
town and its inhabitants, which contains information 
respecting the condition of the surface and subways 
of the streets; and we are assured that the state of 
things therein described will find a parallel in every 
one of our large towns of similar size. In Leeds there 
are extensive and populous districts without any sewers 
or means of drainage, and filth of every kind accumu- 
lates in masses and lodges in hollows on the surface 
until dissipated by the wind and sun. There were, in 
1839, three streets in Leeds containing one hundred 
dwellings, and a population of 452 persons, for whose 
accommodation there were but two out-offices, neither 
of which was fit for use ; and other parts of the town 
were in scarcely a better condition. Some streets re- 
semble a field which has been cut up by loaded vehi- 
cles in wet weather, and the inhabitants vainly attempt 
to repair them with ashes or other refuse. In whole 
rows of cellar-dwellings the walls never cease to drip 
with moisture, and in some habitations of this class the 
inhabitants have been awakened in the night and 
literally found their beds floating. In other cases, 
where there are sewers, the want of arrangement 
amongst proprietors renders them incomplete and im- 
perfect. They become engorged, and pour a flood of 
fetid matter into cellars and dwelling-rooms. Mal- 
aria then affects the inhabitants, and its influence is 
shown by the accelerated fatality of disease in the dis- 
trict In a case of this kind at Leeds, it appeared 
that while in other parts of the town there were two 
deaths to three births, the proportion in the flooded 
district was three deaths to two births. Dr. South- 
wood Smith has stated of the metropolis, that by taking 
a map of the sewers, and tracing the course of fever, 
it would be found to run in a directly inverse ratio to 
the course of the sewers : where there were sewers, 
there no fever would be found. 

There are many other evils in the physical state of 
towns besides those arising from deficient drainage, 

N 2 

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[March 6, 

but the reader may be spared for the present the 
painful facts which show that large portions of our 
industrious fellow-countrymen are habitually living 
amidst circumstances which degrade and brutalise the 
character, and all but extinguish the moral sense. It 
is more pleasing to notice the fact that attention 
is awakened to these evils, and the conviction is 
gaining ground that they must be removed ere the 
work of moral, religious, and intellectual improve- 
ment can commence upon a just foundation. ' How, 
for example, is it possible to give to individuals 
already morally degraded a sense or a taste for do- 
mestic comforts while they continue destitute of a 
home worthy of the name ? or can it be surprising that 
the damp and cheerless cellar, without a single do- 
mestic convenience, should exercise a less powerful 
influence and attraction than the gin-shop or the beer- 
shop ? Those who have had opportunities of learning 
the condition of the working classes have not failed to 
notice that when the mechanic removes from a two- 
and-sixpenny cottage to a three-and-sixpenny cottage, 
a corresponding moral improvement has been visible 
in his conduct and deportment; and the man who 
falls from a state of comfort into the hopeless degrada- 
tion of a miserable cellar-dwelling, sinks too often 
into a lower moral state as his physical condition be- 
comes depressed and unfavourable. Mr. Ashworth, 
the great manufacturer of Bolton, is so strongly im- 
pressed with the influence 6f comfortable habitations 
for the working classes upon their moral character, 
that every successive range of cottages erected by him 
for the last twenty years has been rendered more ex- 
pensive and has been more completely furnished with 
conveniences than the preceding lot; and the best 
cottages are at once the most expensive and the most 
sought after by his own work-people. In cottages of 
this class new desires are experienced; an effort is 
made to purchase appropriate furniture, to obtain 
which orderly and sober nabits are necessary ; and 
cottages of this description encourage such habits, 
for here the artizan can spend his evenings in the en- 
joyment of domestic comforts, and need not resort for 
excitement or occupation to the gin-shop. 

The legislative measure to which we have alluded, 
is an attempt to give the poor a greater share of public 
comfort and convenience. It will protect them from 
the cupidity of the owners of small tenements ; for in 
many instances they, and not the tenants, are to blame 
for the scandalous violations of comfort and decency 
which are inevitable without this protection. While 
the inquiry at Leeds was proceeding, a deputation of 
women waited upon the Committee to beg an imme- 
diate remedy for a nuisance in their neighbourhood ; 
but owing to the indefinite meaning of the term 
"nuisance" in point of law, this object could not be 
accomplished without great trouble and expense ; and 
these impediments have in fact been the protection of 
many a nuisance, while a special general measure like 
the one in progress will go to the source of the evil. It 
may also be regarded as an encouragement to owners 
of tenements who are disposed to consult the comfort and 
convenience of their tenants. At Leeds, " in many 
instances, when the property of a street is in many 
hands, one half of them or more originally completed 
their respective parts, as regards paving and sewering, 
but the cupidity, obstinacy, or poverty, or all com- 
bined, of otner owners, or even of a single one, has 
prevented the improvement of the whole." Lastly, 
the proposed measure will be one of justice to the 
small rate-payers. In the Leeds Report it is stated 
that " in a great measure the cottages are rated as a 
part and for the benefit of the whole community, but 
are mulcted of that proportion which ought to carry 
clean pavement to their own doors." 

What England has done : What it hot yet to do.— -The earth- 
works on most of the great lines of railway in England are very 
extensive, in many cases averaging from 100,000 to 150,000 
cubic yards per mile. On the North Midland railway from 
Derby to Leeds, a distance of 72} miles, about 9,500,000 
yards of earth were moved, being more man 130,000 cubic yards 
per mile. During part of the time that the works were in pro- 
gress, from 9000 to 10,000 men, assisted by eighteen steam- 
engines, were employed, besides great numbers of horses. Tem- 
porary stables were erected, and the agriculturists in the vicinity 
obtained large supplies of manure, an advantage from which 
they had previously been excluded on account of their distance 
from towns. The quantity of earth and stone removed in form- 
ing the London 'and Birmingham line was about 16,000,000 
cubic yards, which, if formed into a belt three feet wide and 
one high, would more than encompass the earth at the equator. 
Looking at what has been effected in this country by the labour, 
ingenuity, and industry of man, we are reminded of a striking 
passage in one of the vivid rhapsodies of Mr. Carlvle : " Who 
(he asks) shall say what work and works this Bngland has yet 
to do ? For what purpose this land of Britain was created, set 
like a jewel in the encircling blue of ocean ; and this tribe of 
Saxons was sent travelling hitherward ? No man can say : it was 
for a work, and for works, incapable of announcement in words. 
Thou seest them there ; part of them stand done, and visible to 
the eye ; even these thou canst not name : how much less the 
others still matter of prophecy onlyt They live and labour 
there, these twenty million Saxon raeu; they have been borne 
into this mystery of life out of the darkness of Past Time : — 
bow changed now since the first Father and first Mother of them 
set forth, quitting the tribe of Theuth, with passionate fare- 
well, under questionable auspices ; on scanty bullock -cart, if 
they had even bullocks and a cart, with axe and hunting- 
spear, to subdue a portion of our common Planet ! This Nation 
now has cities and seed-fields, has spring-vans, dray-wagons, 
Long-acre carriages, nay, railway trains; has coined money, 
exchange-bills, laws, books, war-fleets, spinning*jennies, ware* 
houses and West India Docks : see what it has built and done, 
what it can and will yet build and dot These umbrageous 
pleasure-woods, green meadows, shorn stubble-fields, smooth- 
sweeping roads ; these high-domed cities, and what they hold and 
bear ; this mild * Good-morrow ' which tfie stranger bids thee, 

r 'table, nay forbearant if need were, judicially calm and law- 
rving towards thee a stranger, — what work has it not cost f 
How many brawny arms, generation after generation, sank down 
wearied ; how many noble hearts, toiling while life lasted, and 
wise heads that wore themselves dim with scanning and discerning, 
before this waste fVhite-ctiff, Albion so called, became a British 
Empire I" 

Success and Economy of Early Treatment m Insanity. — The 
Sixth Report of the Trustees of the Worcester Lunatic Asylum 
(United states) contains some valuable facts showing the success 
attending the early treatment of insanity, and demonstrating be- 
sides its importance as a matter of economy merely. The twelfth 
table of the Report shows that " upon the proper and usual basis 
of computation, the proportion of cures at this hospital in recent 
cases — that is, in cases of less than one year's duration at the time 
when received — is 94 per cent. : while the proportion of cures in 
cases of more than five years* duration has been only 12^ per 
cent. ; and in cases of more than 10 years* duration, only 3% per 
cent. Or, to present the same fact in another striking point of 
view, the proportion of the old cases remaining at the end of this 
year is about 87 J per cent., while the proportion of recent cases 
remaining at the same time is only 12£ per cent." Looking at the 
pecuniary results, the Report observes, mat " the expense already 
incurred for faking care of twenty cases, which from neglect had 
been suffered to run on until they became incurable, has been 
more than thirty-two times greater than the expense of the same 
number for which early and proper provision was made.*' 

Advantages of Commerce. — It is the great advantage of a trad- 
ing nation, that there are very few in it so dull and heavy, who 
may not be placed in stations of life which may give them an . 
opportunity of making their fortunes. A well regulated com- 
merce is not, like law, physic, or divinity, to be overstocked 
with hands; but, on the contrary, flourishes by multitudes, and 
gives employment to all its professors. Fleets of merchantmen 
are so many squadrons of floating shop, that vend our wares 
and manufactures in all the markets of the world, and find out 
chapmen under both the tropics, — Spectator, No. 21. 

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[The Knight and the Squire.} 



Although we cannot trace the existence of chivalry 
backwards to so very remote a period as that referred 
to in the visions of Piers Plowman,* where we find 
that David " dubbed knights," yet there is much rea- 
son to doubt the truth of the common opinion which 
ascribes its origin to the eleventh century, and con- 
siders that it was then first invented as a great moral 
antagonist to the deplorable evils of the time ; for " a 
closely attentive as well as philosophical analysis of 
the history of European society in the middle ages 

S roves this theory, or rather this supposition, to be 
eceitful. It shows us that chivalry was not, in the 
eleventh century, an innovation, an institution brought 
about by a special exigency which it wa§' expressly 
adapted to meet. It arose much more simply, more 
naturally, and more silently ; it was but the develop- 
ment of material facts long before existing — the spon- 
taneous result of the Qermanic manners and the feudal 
relations. It took its birth in the interior of the feudal 
mansions, without any set purpose beyond that of de- 
claring, first, the admission or the young man to the 
rank and occupation of the warrior ; secondly, the tie 
which bound him to his feudal superior — his lord, who 
conferred upon him the arms of knighthood 

• By Robert Langland ; the most distinguished poetical work 
that had appeared before the productions of Gowerand Chaucer. 

But when once the feudal society had acquired some 
degree of stability and confidence, the usages, the feel- 
ings, the circumstances of every kind which attended 
the young man's admission among the vassal warriors, 
came under two influences which soon gave them a 
fresh direction and impressed them with a novel cha- 
racter. Religion and imagination, poetry and the 
church, laid hold on chivalry, and used it as a powerful 
means of attaining the objects they had in view, of 
meeting the moral wants which it was their business 
to provide for."* And the result was that character — 
of all characters, whether of romance or reality, the 
most popular for many ages — the knight ; — that strange 
incarnation of the most opposite qualities of our na- 
ture ; whose gentleness in peace was no less remark- 
able than his ferocity in war, who was as pious in faith 
as he was not uncommonly irreligious in deed ; who 
held such pure and lofty notions of women in the ab- 
stract, that they were to him women no longer, but a 
species of eartnly goddesses, worthy of all reverence, 
and a life-long self-devotion to their service, yet who 
at the same time but too often exhibited in his life the 
grossest sensuality, the most utter disregard of their 
true welfare or dignity. To such discrepancies be- 
tween the knight's theory and practices in the matters 
of religion and love, doubtless there were many ex- 
ceptions ; to that concerning his disposition in peace 
and war there could be few or none. War was their 

• ' Penny Cyclopedia,' article ' Chivalry,' vol. vii., p. 99. 

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Google ; 



[March 6, 

" being's end and aim." " Take them," says Godwin, 
•' in the chamber of peace, it is impossible to figure to 
ourselves anything more humane. When occasion 
called to them to succour the oppressed, and raise the 
dejected, overwhelmed by some brutal or insulting 
foe, they appeared like GodB descending from Heaven 
for the consolation of mankind. But the garb of peace, 
however gracefully they wore it, they regarded as only 
an accident of their character. War was their profes- 
sion, their favourite scene, the sustenance of their life. 
If it did not offer itself to them at home, they would 
seek it to the ends of the earth, and sell themselves to 
any master rather than not find occasion to prove the 
intrepidity of their temper and the force of tneir arm. 
When they entered the field of battle, they regarded 
the business of war not as a matter of dire and tre- 
mendous necessity, but as their selected pleasure. 
Their hearts were then particularly alive, and all their 
pulses beat with joy."* Froissart furnishes a happy 
illustration to this passage, in his account of the battle 
of Poitiers. " The prince of Wales (the Black Prince), 
who was as courageous and cruel as a lion, took great 
pleasure this day infighting and chasing his enemies ;" 
yet, when the battle was over, and the French king 
made prisoner, the same prince waited upon his illus- 
trious captive at supper, with a tenderness and de- 
licacy of respect, mat it is impossible to read of 
unmoved. Tne period of Edward III. and of his 
gallant son is indeed the period of the highest and most 
palmy state of chivalry ; it is also the period of Chau- 
cer, who, in "the Knight" and "the Souire," has 
shown us the two great and clearly distinguishable 
phases of the knightly character. In the one, we see 
the young, loving, enthusiastic, poetical, and accom- 
plished aspirant for military honours ; in the other, the 
aged veteran warrior, with whom the stern realities of 
life have sobered down much of its early romance : 
the first ("the Squire") will form the subject of 
our next paper ; the last we now present to our 

" A Knight there was, and that a worthy man, 
That from the tim6 that he first began 
To riden out, he loved chivalry, 
Truth and honour, freedom and courtesy. 
Full worthy was he in his lordes war, 
And thereto bad he ridden, no roan farre.f 
As well in Christendom as in Heatheness : 
And ever honour'd for his worthiness. 

At Alisandre| he was when it was won : 
Full often time he had the board begun} 
A bo v en all6 nations in Prusse. 
In Lettowe I had he reysed,^[ and in Russe, 
No Christian man so oft of his degree. 
In Gernade •• at the siege eke had he be 
Of Algezir, &nd ridden in Belmarie : ft 
At Layas was he, and at Satalie.ft 
When they were won ; and in the Greate* Sea {§ 
At many a noble army had he be. 
At mortal battles had he been fifteen, 
And foughten for our faith at Tramissene ft 
In listes thries, and aye slain his foe. 

• Godwin's < Life of Chaucer/ vol. 2, p. 237. 
i Farther. 

* Alexandria, taken in 1365 by Pierre de Lusignan, king of 
Cyprus, but immediately abandoned. 

$ He. had been placed at the head of the table or board, as a 
compliment to his extraordinary merit. 

II Lithuania. ^f Journeyed. 

•• The city of Algexir, or Algebras, was taken from the 
Moorish king of Granada in 1344. 

i\ Supposed to refer to a place or kingdom of Africa. 

# Layas, a town in Armenia, and Satalie, the ancient Attalia, 
were both taken by the king of Cvprus before mentioned ; the 
former in 1367, the latter in 1352. * 

ft Supposed to be die Mediterranean. 

This ilke worthy knight had been also 
Sometime* with the lord of Palatine, • 
Against another heathen in Turkey. 
And evermore be bad a sovereign prise. f 
And though that he was worthy, he was wise ; 
And of his port as meek as is a maid. 
He never yet no villainy X ne said 
Iu all his life unto no manner wight : 
H* was a very perfect, gentle knight. 

But for to tellen you of his array ; 
His horse was good, but he ne was not gay. 
Of fustiin he weared a giponf 
All besmotter*d|| with his habergeon )% 
For he was late ycome from his viage, 
And went* for to do his pilgrimage. * 

In Leland's Itinerary we find the epitaph of " the 
noble and valiant knight Matthew de Gourney, who, in 
his life, was at the battle of Benamaryn (probably the 
Belmarie mentioned by Chaucer), and afterwards at 
the siege of Algezir against the Saracens, and also at 
the battles of L'Escluse, of Cressy, of Deyngenesse, of 
Pey teres (Poitiers), of Nazare, of Ozrey, and at several 
other battles and sieges, in which he gained great 
praise and honour." This warrior, whose adventures 
so strikingly illustrate those of Chaucer's knight, died 
in 1406, aged ninety-six years. It has been justly 
noticed as a peculiar feature of the times, that Chaucer 
does not bring his hero from Cressy and Poitiers, but 
from Alexandria and Lithuania ; as though compara- 
tively slight services against infidels were then thought 
of more importance than the most brilliant victories 
where Christians alone were concerned. It appears 
that it was usual in the fourteenth century for military 
men to go to Prussia, in order to serve with the 
knights of the Teutonic order, who were in a constant 
state of warfare with their then heathen neighbours. 
The youngest son of Edward III., Thomas, duke of 
Gloucester, and Henry, earl of Derby (Bolingbroke), 
afterwards Henry IV., were among the other distin- 
guished men who shared in these expeditions. 

In a very interesting manuscript of the • Canterbury 
Tales,* written in the fifteenth century, which was 
bought at the Duke of Bridgewater's sale at Ashridge, 
and is now in the possession of the Duke of Sutherland, 
there is, at the commencement of each tale, a pictorial 
representation of the relater. The figures, it is stated,** 
are drawn and coloured with great care, and present a 
very minute delineation of the dress and costume of 
Chaucer's time. In the portrait of the knight, the 
countenance is highly expressive of sedateness and 
dignity. His folded head-covering is of a dark colour. 
His gipon is also dark, but his under coat red, which 
is discernible through the sleeves at his wrists. His 
legs are in armour, with gilt spurs. His dagger is in 
a red sheath by his side ; and ne wears little points or 
aiglets of red tipped with gold on his neck and shoulder. 

We have spoken of the knight's romance being so- 
bered down, but it is only sobered down, not evaporated. 
With old and young the universal motto of the knight- 
hood of Europe during his time was, " Tout l'amour, 
tout a Thonor ; and our knight is far from being a 
recreant t^fcie sentiments which gave to chivalry all 
its grace and glory. When, therefore, he is chosen to 
tell the first tale, he seems at once to have grown 
young again. Never certainly was a story more ad- 
mirably adapted to knightly theme — more sounding 
with chivalrous feats of arms, and no less chivalrous 
devotion to the fair, than that he tells — the well-known 
' Palamon and Arcite.' After its conclusion we do not 
hear much more of the knight, though what we do 

Pal at hi a in Anatjlia. { Praise. 

"Any tiling unbecoming a gentleman." — Tyrwkitt. 
A short cassock. | Soiled. % Coat of mail. 

•• Todd's * Illustrations of Gowcr and Chaucer.' 


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hear is no less happily characteristic. The host's 
humorous but biting sarcasms against the Pardoner 
bring on a quarTel, which threatens serious conse- 
quences. The knight however interferes : 
" No more of thU. 

Sir Pardoner, be merry and glad of cheer ; 

And ye, Sir Host, that be to me so dear, 

1 pray you that ye Aim the PardoneT. M 

And so — 

" Anon they kissed and riden forth their way/* 
When the monk, who has said — 

«' I will bewail, in manner of tragedy, 
The harm of them that stood in high degree/ 

proceeds accordingly with the most intolerable per- 
severance through the history of the respective cala- 
mities of Luciier, Adam, Sampson, &c, down to 
Croesus, Peter of Spain, and Hugelin of Pisa, and for 
aught that is apparent, may still intend to go on to the 
very end of the pilgrimage, the good knight's patience 
fails : 

" Ho ! quod the knight, good sire, no more of this : 

That, ye have said, it right enough y wis, 

And mochel more ; for little heaviness 

Is right enough to mochel folk, I guess. 

I say for me it is a great disease 

Where as men have been in great wealth and ease, 

To hearen of their sudden fall, alas ! 

And the contrary is joy and great solice. 

As when a man hath been in poor estate, 

And climbeth up, and waxeth fortunate, 

And there abideth in prosperity ; — 

Such thing is gladsome, as it thinketh me ; 

And of such thing were goodly for to tell." 

Doubtless the pilgrims agreed with him that " little 
heaviness" was "right enough;" and a very different 
kind of story therefore follows. 


[From a Correspondent] 

Many of the enterprising settlers in several of the dis- 
tricts of Upper Canada (the great local divisions of 
that country being known under the name of Districts) 
have for many years been engaged in the rude manu- 
facture of an article universally known in that country 
under the name of ' Black Salts/ — but which, in fact, 
is the ordinary potash in a crude and very impure 
state. It is not a little singular that in scarcely 
another British colony besides Upper Canada, either 
in North America or elsewhere, or, indeed, nearly 
throughout the whole territories of the United States, 
do the settlers devote much of their attention to this 
subject ; although, in very many instances, there is no 
obstacle to their doing so with as great (and in some 
cases greater) probability of being amply repaid for 
their trouble, since many other countries yield nearly 
or precisely the same species of forest-trees as the 
black salts of Canada are made from, and they have 
greater facilities for procuring the necessary pans and 
vessels to make it in. 

All who have ever entertained any peculiar interest 
regarding new colonies, and their becoming peopled 
and the wilderness subdued, will be aware, I presume, 
that one of the chief and primary obstacles the first 
settlers have to encounter, is, that which the state of 
the primeval forest presents; for in many of our 
colonies, and our North American ones particularly, 
the entire country, when first entered upon by a race of 
enterprising settlers, is one interminable wilderness of 
forest-trees. Now, until means be taken either to 
annihilate those trees by cutting them down and then 
burning them, or to destroy the vital principle in 

them, and so leave them standing for a season, by a 
process called ' girdling' — that is, by cutting a circular 
notch quite round the tree, and completely through 
both the outer and inner bark — afterwards leaving 
them standing until through absolute decay they fall 
of their own accord, — the land cannot possibly be made 
to produce any of the necessaries of life, nor sustenance 
for any description of farm-stock. Among the poorer 
and more indolent portion of the settlers, in some par- 
ticular districts, the system of girdling is practised to 
a considerable extent; but this certainly is a slovenly 
method of preparing the soil for crops of either grass 
or grain, and one which never ought to be adopted by 
such as possess the means of clearing off the timber in 
a better and more legitimate way, namely, by first 
cutting down all the trees, great and small, and after- 
wards having them cut into convenient lengths to be 
drawn together by oxen or rolled together by the use 
of handspikes, preparatory to their being set fire to 
and burned, root and branch. 

The soil of Upper Canada being, for the most part, 
of a good quality, many of the trees grow to a large 
size ; and the usual phrase of the country employed to 
designate the forest with this large growth of Umber 
upon it, is, ' heavily timbered land/ We are in the 
habit of hearing much said about the very low rate at 
which land of a pretty good quality may be bought 
in Upper Canada and elsewhere ; but in many places 
where the fee-simple of the soil might be purchased 
for 10*. or 12*. sterling the acre, the cost of clearing 
off the timber will amount to four or five times as much, 
thus making the first cost fully 31. per acre ; and if 
I were to include the fencing, probably 10*. or 15*. 
more. But in several of the most flourishing settle- 
ments, from the Head (as it is called) of Lake Ontario, 
westward the whole length of Lake Erie, many of the 
more enterprising settlers, as I before remarked, are 
in the habit of turning the timber to account, in a way 
that used never to be thought of, or, at all events, 
never attempted, that is, by the manufacture of crude 
potash, or ' black salts/ from the ashes of the burned 
timber; and since the process generally adopted by 
the Canadian settlers is a very simple one, and one that 
might be introduced into some of the other British 
colonies to the decided advantage of those persons who 
undertake to subdue the native forests, I will proceed 
to explain it. 

Since it is not every species of forest-tree that con- 
tains alkaline salts, or at least in such quantities as to 
be worth the while of any one to attempt to extract 
them for useful purposes, it has become a matter of 
some consideration with parties who calculate upon 
turning the ashes of the forest-trees to a profitable 
account, to have an eye to the kinds of timber the soil 
produces in the greatest abundance, when making a 
selection of lands in a state of nature, or what is 
generally called a wild state ; for where a great por- 
tion of tne timber consists of resinous trees, there is 
little likelihood of turning black-salt-making to any 
advantage. Many experiments have been made, from 
time to time, upon the ashes of the sundry varieties 
of timber (not very scientific or accurate ones, how- 
ever), for the purpose of ascertaining which sort yields 
the greatest quantity of alkaline salts; and it is now 
generally believed the species of elm, which is tolerably 
abundant m many parts of the forests of Upper Canada, 
yields rather more than any other sort of native tim- 
ber. Next to the elm they consider one or two species 
of ash — the red beech, the black birch, the black 
maple, and locust tree— among the favourite sorts of 
timber to employ in making potash ; but nearly every 
other species of ' hard wood ' (a term used in contradis- 
tinction to all the varieties of pine, cedar, &c.) will 
answer to form part of a pile of logs that is intended 

Digitized by 




[March 6, 

to be burned, and black Baits afterwards extracted from 
the ashes. 

There is no particular time of the year set apart for 
the making of black salts, but a dry season is always 
the most advantageous, as it would not be advisable 
to allow the wood-ashes to become wet by rain or 
otherwise before they are collected and put into the 
vats. These vats are very often cuts or sections from 
some hollow tree, instead of vessels made by the 
cooper, and sometimes the owners do not even go 
to the expense of putting bottoms in these hollow 
logs (top they do hot want), but place them upright 
on the broad-topped stump of some mighty monarch 
of the forest, and so contrive some ingenious means of 
collecting the material (lye) .from which potash is 
made. But this is a slovenly plan ; because the vessel 
having no bottom to it, the water which is poured upon 
the ashes with which the tub is filled passes too quickly 
through them, and so fails in extracting the wnole of 
the salts. The more skilful potash-makers use four or 
five large rude tubs, each containing twelve or sixteen 
bushels of ashes, and a couple of large iron kettles or 
caldrons that will boil from thirty to forty gallons of 
lye each. As soon as practicable, after the piles of logs 
have been reduced to ashes, the ashes are carefully 
collected and taken to the vicinity of the * boiling- 
camp ;' and when there happens to be more than the 
vessels will hold, the surplus has to be stowed away 
under cover to avoid exposure to the weather. When 
a very copious supply ot water is poured into the vats, 
or whatever they may be called, that contain the dry 
ashes, the alkaline salts will be the sooner extracted, 
and a couple of days will suffice to extract most part 
of the salts ; but since very weak lye requires a great 
deal more evaporating (by boiling) in order to obtain 
a certain quantity of the black salts, the better mana- 
gers in these matters saturate the ashes no more than 
is just necessary to extract the salts ; and by letting 
the mass remain several days before the vents are 
opened for the liquor to escape by, a much stronger 
lye is produced, and hence the operation of boiling is 
much sooner over. To some this may seem of little 
consequence, whether there should be a thousand gal- 
lons to evaporate or five hundred only, but it should 
be borne in mind that when once the boiling process 
commences, it ought to be continued night and day 
until it is completed ; for since (for the most part) it 
iakes place in tne open air, when the kettles are large 
and tne fires are permitted to go out and the liquor to 
cool, considerable extra trouble is necessary ; for vessels 
placed in the open air and over fires that arc blown 
about by every breath of wind, require far more fuel 
to bring their contents to the boiling-point than if they 
had been placed in any ordinary apartment over a fire- 
place that was exactly adapted to the shape and size of 
the vessel. 

When the lye has been boiled down to a consistency 
approaching a semi-fluid form (but the settlers have 
several plans of ascertaining when it has been suffi- 
ciently reduced), the mass ia allowed to cool in the bot- 
tom of the kettles, where it crystallizes and becomes 
a tolerably Bolid substance, but neither white nor ex- 
hibiting any transparency ; since during the process 
dust and ashes and smoke have had access to the boil- 
ing liquid ; and this, in addition to the lye itself acquir- 
ing a dark colour from the mixed ashes, charcoal, and 
particles of soil, gives to the crude potash that dark ap- 
pearance from which it derives its name, and it is m 
this state that the farmers, or the parties employed in 
clearing away the primeval forests of Upper Ca- 
nada, generally bring their produce into the market. 
Formerly much of the black salts was sent all 
the way to Montreal or Quebec in the state in 
which it was taken from the kettles of the settlers, 

and there sold to parties who were at no great deal 
of cost or trouble in converting it into marketable 
potashes ; but in most of the older and more flourish- 
ing settlements there now are persons (principally 
storekeepers), who are ready to buy it from the 
settlers, and who have the requisite conveniences con- 
nected with their establishments for converting the 
black salts into either pot or pearl ashes, as may seem 
to be the best calculated to answer their purpose ; 
when it is afterwards packed in proper casks for 
the foreign markets, but which it can only reach 
through the distant markets of the sea-ports above 

I have known settlers clear twenty acres of land 
annually, and yet able to pay the whole of the expenses 
by the sale of their black salts ; while the labour at- 
tending the manufacture of this article has been per- 
formed by the parties owning the land ; but even if 
persons had been hired to perform it, the expense would 
not have exceeded a fourth part of the cost of clearing. 
To be sure, lands that will yield black salts to pay the 
cost of clearing, must be well stocked originally with 
the most favourable sorts of forest-trees for yielding 
salts ; and since it is by no means necessary that the 
wood-ashes should be spread upon the ground as a 
manure (the maiden soils being sufficiently fertile— 
either naturally t or through additions of decayed leaves 
and other vegetable matter), they consequently are 
accounted of little or no value as regards the future 
crops the soil may be adapted to produce. Indeed this 
is frequently so obviously the case, that it is quite a 
common thing to find settlers, in districts where they 
neglect making black salts (and yet such as have the 
reputation of being good managers generally), after re- 
ducing to ashes the large piles of timber upon the lands 
they are clearing, not even going to the trouble of 
spreading them over the surrounding surface in the 
immediate vicinity, but contenting themselves with 
letting the whole remain upon the very place where 
the logs had been piled together and consumed. 

I have been induced to dwell upon this subject at a 
greater length than I otherwise should have done, 
with the view of making this source of profit to new 
settlements more generally known than it appears to 
be at present ; and not only more known, out more 
generally practised ; and what, to me, seems a matter 
quite unaccountable, is this, — that throughout theUnited 
States, among a people who are confessedly so prone to 
mix up with their farming pursuits, speculations of 
various sorts connected with trade, manufactures, and 
commerce, this plan of turning the clearing of wild 
land to a profitable account, or at least of reducing 
the expense to little or nothing, should continue almost 
universally neglected from one end of the Union to 
the other.* There are, it is true, what goes by the 
name of * asherics,' in many of the inland country towns 
and villages of the United States, where both pot and 
pearl ashes are manufactured ; but the owners of these 
establishments employ only dry and clean ashes, such 
in fact as are made in the dwelling-houses, which the 
manufacturers themselves collect in their own carts, 
from house to house, at 4d. or 5rf. per bushel ; or if 
delivered at the ashery by the settlers, a trifle more is 
usually given. 

Of all sights which can soften and humanise the heart of man, 
there is none that ought so surely to reach it as that of innocent 
children enjoying the happiness which is their proper and natural 
portion.— Sou they. 

• The method of manufacturing potash from seaweed is de- 
scribed in No. 474. Potash-male ing is one of the secondary 
branches of industry practised by the peasantry in the forests of 
Sweden. (See No. 495.) 

Digitized by 





[Miotoh and bis Looalitixi. .1. The Portrait, from an etching by Cipriani, after a picture formerly in the possession of Jacob Johnson. 2. Lud- 
low Castle, from a view drawn in 1760. 3. ChsHbnt. from a wood-cut in a series of views of Poets' residences. 4. Chiist's College. Cambridge, fiom 
a print in Ackermann s • Cambrkige. , 5. St. Giles's, Cripplegate, with part of the London Wall, from a view in Wilkinson's • Loudiniana.'] 

The popular feeling towards great men never shows 
itself more gracefully than in the traditions it delights 
to preserve of the localities honoured by their pre- 
sence ; than when— with all the zeal of the devotee in 
Catholic countries displaying to some travel-worn but 
enthusiastic pilgrim the shrine towards which he has 
been so long journeying—it points out the house in 
which this great poet lived, or the tree that that philo- 
sopher had planted. And most universal is the re- 

No. 574. 

verence in which such feelings have their origin. With 
what pleasure we all trace the course of the lives of 
those illustrious men, step by step, from the house 
where they first saw the lignt, to that where, for the last 
time, ' their fading vision was cheered by its beams ! 
With what gratification we busy ourselves in identify- 
ing any of the circumstances of those localities — the 
home — the scenery — the neighbourhood — with the 
growth and development of their minds, or with par- 
ticular passages of their writings.- With what pecu- 
liarly grateful delight we receive any fresh testimonies 
of their worth, any new evidences of their unswerving 

Digitized by 

Vol. X.— O 




[March 13, 

constancy to the great principles they lived but to 
expound. Such considerations apply with peculiar 
force to the great poet whose local memories we are 
here about to illustrate ; for in his case, party and sec- 
tarian intolerance has done its worst to prevent or 
destroy such reverential respect ; and with what 
effect ? — None, we may answer, of a permanent kind ; 
— and as to the temporary, — had Milton required 
any other support than his own steady soul at all times 
„ furnished, he would have found it in the opinions of 
some of the best and purest men in his own country, 
in the general esteem and admiration in which he was 
held abroad. It is a matter suggestive of much useful 
reflection, that whilst foreigners of the most distin- 
guished European reputation were seeking in the 
streets of the city for the birth-place of Milton, the 
man whom they thus honoured was in hourly danger 
of his life, and perhaps only avoided the scaffold by 
strict concealment. 

That birth-place (on Dec. 9, 1608) was in Bread Street, 
Cheapside, the house of his father, an eminent Bcrivener, 
and was distinguished by a sign representing the armo- 
rial ensign of the family — the Spread Eagle. The house 
was left to the poet, but just at the period when its pos- 
session would have been most valuable to him, he lost it 
by fire : the great fire of London in 1666. There his 
education was sedulously commenced under the care 
of a person named Young, afterwards master of Jesus 
College, Cambridge. He was next sent to St. Paul's 
school, and from thence, at the age of fifteen, to Cam- 
bridge. Christ's College, of which, in 1624, he became a 
member, was originally founded in 1456, by Henry VI., 
under the name of God's House, but afterwards incor- 
porated into the present establishment and liberally 
endowed by the Lady Margaret, Countess of Rich- 
mond, a great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt, and 
the mother of Henry VII. The buildings consist of a 
handsome quadrangle or principal court (130 feet by 
120), and of a second court built on two sides, that 
next the garden and fields forming an elegant facade 
about 150 feet long. In the garden there is an inter- 
esting memorial of Milton, a mulberry-tree planted 
by his own hand, and which at once carries back the 
thoughts to the period when the young poet-student 
jiaced to and fro along its walks, book in hand, some- 
limes utterly wrapped in its contents, sometimes letting 
it fall listlessly by his side, to commune with a still 
greater spirit — his own sublime imagination! This 
garden was doubtless a favourite place; for he dis- 
liked the surrounding countiy, it was too level and 
unpicturesque ; and, as he complained, had no soft 
shades to attract the Muse. Those scenes, however, 
have a tradition of their own in connection with Mil- 
ton, and one too that would be exceedingly interesting, 
if we eould have more faith in its truth -than the 
poet's biographers seem to think we should have. The 
story first appeared in a newspaper published in the 
latter part or the last century: — "It is well known 
that in the bloom of youth, and when he pursued his 
studies at Cambridge, this poet was extremely beauti- 
ful.* Wandering one day, during the summer, far 
beyond the precincts of the University, into the coun- 
try, he became so heated and fatigued, that reclining 
himself at the foot of a tree to rest, he shortly fell 
asleep. Before he awoke, two ladies, who were fo- 
reigners, passed by in a carriage. Agreeably astonished 
at the loveliness of his appearance, they alighted, and 
having admired him (as they thought) unperceived, 
for some time, the youngest, who was very handsome, 
drew a pencil from her pocket, and having written 
some lines upon a piece of paper, put it with her trem- 
bling hand into his own. Immediately afterwards they 

* He was called the * Lady of hit College ;' a designation he 
did not much relish. 

proceeded on their journey. Some of his acquaintance, 
who were in search of him, had observed this silent 
adventure, but at too great a distance to discover that 
the highly favoured party in it was our illustrious 
bard. Approaching nearer, they saw their friend, to 
whom, being awakened, they mentioned what had hap- 
pened. Milton opened the paper, and, with surprise, 
read these verses from Guarini : * — • Ye eyes ! ye 
human stars ! ye authors of my liveliest pangs ! If 
thus when shut, ye wound me, what must have proved 
the consequence nad ye been open ?' Eager, from this 
moment, to find out the fair incognita, Milton travelled, 
but in vain, through every part of Italy." 

At college Milton soon distinguished himself; and 
although Dr. Johnson, in a well known passage, says, 
he " is ashamed to relate, what he fears is true, that 
Milton was one of the last students in either university 
that suffered the public indignity of corporal correc- 
tion," we have Milton's own grateful testimony to 
the kind and enlightened treatment he there met with. 
In answer to one of his slanderers, later in life, who 
had said that, " after an inordinate and riotous youth 
spent at the University," he had been "at length vo- 
mited out thence," Milton writes, " for which commo- 
dious lie, that he may be encouraged in the trade 
another time, I thank him ; for it gives me an apt 
occasion to acknowledge, publicly, with all grateful 
mind, that more than ordinary favour and respect 
which I found above any of my equals at the hands of 
those courteous and learned men, the fellows of the 
college," &c. This statement appears to us perfectly 
decisive that Dr. Johnson was mistaken. 

From Cambridge Milton went into Buckingham- 
shire, where his father, now retired from business, had 
purchased an estate at Horton, near Colnebrook; 
and where, in the parish church, his mother lies buried. 
Here he is supposed to have written the * Arcades/ 
' L' Allegro,' and « II Penseroso/ • Lycidas,' and * Co- 
mus.' The 'Arcades' was performed at Harefield 
Place, the seat of the Countess Dowager of Derby, and 
about ten or twelve miles from Horton ; that lady's 
children being the actors. The personal accomplish- 
ments of the Countess, and the woody scenery of Hare- 
field, are supposed to be referred to in the following 
lines from « L' Allegro :' — 

" Toners and battlements it sees 
Bosom'd high in tufted trees, 
Where, perliaps, some beauty lies, 
The cynosure of neighbouring eyes." 

The house at Horton was pulled down about the 
year 17^8. Through his acquaintance with the Countess 
of Dei by, Milton was most probably introduced to the 
Earl of Bridgewater, her relation ; and perhajfe first 
heard from her lip the incident which there is reason 
to believe formed the groundwork of • Comus.' " I 
have been informed from a manuscript of Oldy's," 
says Warton, " that Lord Bridgewater, being appointed 
lord-president of Wales, entered upon his official resi- 
dence at Ludlow Castle with great solemnity. On this 
occasion he was attended by a large concourse of the 
neighbouring nobility and gentry. Among the rest 
came his children, in particular Lord Brackley, Mr. 
Thomas Egerton, and Lady Alice, 

* To attend their father's state 
And new intrusted sceptre.* 

They had been on a visit at a house of their relations, 
the Egerton familv, in Herefordshire ; and, in passing 
through Heywood Forest, were benighted, and the 
Lady Alice was even lost for a short time. This acci- 
dent, which, in the end, was attended with no bad con- 
sequences, furnished the subject of a maske for a 

* We omit the original in Italian. 

Digitized by 





Michaelmas festivity, and produced « Comus.' " Lawes, 
also, the musician, who set the composition to music, 
dedicated die work to Lord Brackley, remarking that 
" the poem received its first occasion of birth from 
himself and others of his noble family." It was in the 
autumn of 1634 that • Comus' was performed in the 
noble hall of Ludlow Castle, and by the very person- 
ages whose adventure had given rise to its production 
— Lord Brackley, his broiher, and the Lady Alice. Both 
hall and castle are greatly changed since that day, 
though the latter still presents, in its bold and lofty 
site, its massy ruins, and towering keep, in its em- 
battled wall, and immense fosse (now forming a de- 
lightful promenade for the inhabitants of the town), 
the proofs of its former strength and grandeur. Of 
its history — with all the great sieges it has known 
(having been invested by King Stephen, Simon de 
Montfort, Henry VI., and at different periods of the 
parliamentary war), we must not stop to speak. We 
quit Ludlow Castle, therefore, merely remarking as 
we pass that in one of the towers of the castle, Butler, 
another great poet, composed several cantos of his 
4 Hudibras.' On the death of his mother, in. 1637, 
Milton travelled through Italy ; but returned on hear- 
ing of the political troubles which broke out in this 
country about that time. He then lodged for a time 
in St. Bride's Churchyard, Fleet Street, where he com- 
menced the education of his nephews, the Pnilips's, 
on a new system ; but soon removed to a handsome 
house situated in a garden in Aldersgate Street. In 
1643 he married the daughter of a gentleman of Forest 
Hill, Oxfordshire. Sir William Jones has given* a 
long and interesting account of a visit to this place, 
where he states that Milton resided for some time ; 
and he is supported in this statement by a tradition 
still current among the villagers, and by the undoubted 
fact that Milton was intimately acquainted with his 
wife's family so early as 1627. The poet's house, he 
states, was close to the church ; the greater part of it 
however had been pulled down, and the remains then 
forming a part of an adjacent farm. This marriage 
was at first unhappy ; the lady went home to her lather's 
house professedly for a time only, but soon announced 
to Milton her determination to remain there entirely. 
Milton consequently repudiated her, and published 
several treatises in justification of his right to do so. 
He proceeded also to pay his addresses to a beautiful 
young lady, when his wife, either alarmed at that cir- 
cumstance, or at the misfortunes of her family, produced 
by their adherence to the king, met him unexpectedly 
one day at the house of a relation in St. Martin's-le- 
Grand; and falling on her knees, conjured him to 
forgive her. Milton found that, in the words of his 
own ' Paradise Lost,' where Eve is praying Adam's 
forgiveness for the sin into which she had led him,— » 
" Soon his heart relented 
Toward her, his life so late, and sole delight, 
Now at his feet submissive in distress.*' 

He not only forgave her, but when her family was re- 
duced to utter distress by the ruin of the royal cause, re- 
ceived the whole — father, mother, brothers, and sisters — 
into his house to " protection and free entertainment" 
Before, however, ne could accommodate so large a 
household, he had to obtain a much larger house ; for 
his own father was now living with him, and his scho- 
lars had increased : accordingly he removed to Bar- 
bican. About this period was written the most splen- 
did of all his prose works, the ' Areopajrjtica, or a 
Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing.' After 
the death of his wife's father, and the removal of the 
rest of the family, Milton went into a smaller house in 
Holborn, the back part of which opened into Lincoln's 

* Letter to Iiidy Spencer, 1769, 

Inn Fields. This was in 1647. On the death of the 
king, two years later, Milton produced his tract on 
' The Tenure of Kings and Magistiates, 1 proving that 
it Is lawful to call to account a tyrant or wicked king. 
&c. The ability displayed in this and similar political 
productions doubtless recommended him to the Council 
of Slate of the Commonwealth, which, having de- 
termined to use the Latin language in all negociations 
with foreign nations, appointed Milton its Latin secre- 
tary. An official residence in Scotland Yaid, then 
called Whitehall, was now provided for him ; and it 
is said that here he used to hold a weekly table for the 
entertainment of foreign ministers and persons of 
learning, such especially as came from Protestant 
states. In 1651 Milton quitted Scotland Yard, in ac- 
cordance with the arrangement of the parliamentary 
commissioners connected with the management of 
Whitehall, and removed to a pretty garden-house in 
Petty France, Westminster,* where he remained until 
within a few weeks of the Restoration. Here his wife 
died in childbed in 1653 : to the same house, three 
years later, he brought a second partner ; and from 
the same house followed her, dying under similar cir- 
cumstances, also to the grave. His twenty-third sonnet, 
that • On his deceased wife,' shows how deeply her loss 
had sunk into his mind : — 

" Methought I saw my late espoused saint 

Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, 
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, 
Rescued from death by force, though pale aiid faint. 
Mine, as when wash'd from spot of child-bed taint 
Purification in the old law did save, 
And such as yet once more I trust to have 
Full sight of her in Heav'n without restraint, 
Came, vested all in white, pure as her mind : 
Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight, 
Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shin'd 
So clear as in no face with more delighl. 
But oh, as to embrace me she inclin'd, 
I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night." 

To feel the full pathos of the last line, we must re- 
member that Milton was now blind. He had been 
warned by his physicians several years before, whilst 
engaged in one of his great political tracts, that he 
must desist, or he would lose his sight. His duty 
would not, he thought, permit him to desist ; and so 
the prediction was verified. 

At the Restoration, Milton withdrew from the im- 
pending storm by taking shelter in secrecy with a 
iriend in Bartholomew Close ; and it is stated that a* 
mock funeral was got up, so imminent was his danger 
considered. On the 27th of August, 1659, his books 
were burnt by the public hangman (an act in every 
way worthy of the prince who had Cromwell's moulder- 
ing bories taken up and exposed on a scaffold) : in three- 
days after, however, the Act p of Indemnity appeared, 
by which it was supposed that he was relieved from 
danger. If the fact were so, his apprehension after- 
wards might have been a matter of form only. At all 
events he was apprehended, but discharged on pay- 
ment of exorbitant fees. Milton referred to this period 
When he described himself as having fallen on evil 
days and evil tongues, and with darkness and with 
danger compass'd round: Richardson, indeed, says 
" he lived under continual terror of assassination." 
In the course of the next three or four years, Milton, 
whose mind appears to have been somewhat changeable 
as regarded his residences, lived first in Holborn, near 
Red Lion Fields; then in Jewin Street where he 
married his third wife ; and lastly in Artillery Walk, 
leading to Bunhill Fields, where he ended his" mortal 

* Now Queen Square Place. Here also the late Jeremy Ben- 
tham lived for many years, and was accustomed to point out the 
garden, to visitors, as that in which Milton ha^fcftequently walked. 

O 2 

Digitized by 




[March 13, 

pilgrimage." When the plague begun in London, in 
1665, Elwood, the Quaker, who acted occasionally as 
his secretary, took a house for him at Chalfont, in 
Buckinghamshire, " a pretty box," as he called it. 
Here Elwood visited him one day ; and " after some 
common discourses," as he himself informs us, " had 
passed between us, he called for a manuscript of his, 
which being brought, he delivered to me, bidding me 
take it home with me, and read it at my leisure ; and 
when I had so done, return it to him, with my judg- 
ment thereupon. When I came home, and set myself 
to read it, 1 found that it was that excellent poem 
which he entitled * Paradise Lost.' " At Chalfont, also, 
• Paradise Regained ' is supposed to have been entirely 
written. When the danger from infection had ceased, 
Milton returned to Bunhill Fields ; and here he pub- 
lished his great poem. At the door of this house he 
used to sit in warm sunny weather, to enjoy the fresh 
air, clad in a coarse grey coat ; and there, as well as in 
his rooms, receive the visits of the numerous distin- 
guished persons who came to see and converse with 
him. His domestic habits were still, as they had always 
been, " those of a sober and temperate student. Of wine 
or any strong liquors he drank little. In hi3 diet he 
was rarely influenced by delicacy of choice ; illustrating 
his own admirable rule, 

The rule of * Not too much,* by temperance taught, 
In what thou eat'st and driuk'bt ; seeking from thence 
Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight. 

He once delighted in walking and using exercise, 
and appears to have amused himself in botanical pur- 

suits ; but, after he was confined by age and blindness, 
he had a machine to swing in for the preservation of 
his health. In summer he rested in bed from nine to 
four ; in winter to five. If at these hours he was not 
disposed to rise, he had a person by his bed-side to read 
to him. When he first rose, he heard a chapter in the 
Hebrew bible, and commonly studied till twelve ; then 
used some exercise for an hour; then dined; after- 
wards played on the organ or bass viol, and either 
sung himself or made his wife sing, who, he said, had 
a good voice, but no ear. It is related that when 
educating his nephews, he had made them songsters, 
and sing from the time they were with him. No poet, 
it may be observed, has more frequently or more 
powerfully commended the charms of music than 
Milton. He wished perhaps to rival, and he has suc- 
cessfully rivalled, the sweetest descriptions of a favourite 
bard, whom the melting voice appears to have often 
enchanted, the tender Petrarch. After his regular in- 
dulgence in musical relaxation, he studied till six ; 
then entertained his visitors till eight ; then enjoyed a 
light supper ; and after a pipe of tobacco and a glass 
of water, retired to bed.'** 

On Sunday, the 8th of November, 1674, the great 
poet died : so serene was his departure, that the atten- 
dants in the room at the time were unaware of the pre- 
cise moment. He was buried next to his father in 
the chancel of Cripplegate Church. A marble bust, 
by Bacon, with a tablet beneath, was erected in the 
middle aisle by the munificence of the late Mr. Whit- 
bread. The bed on which he died was presented to 
the poet Akenside, who, we need hardly say, treasured 
it as a most precious gift. 

tTric-trac— From a Painliug by Tenicrs.] 


The period of the invention of this game, which was 
for many centuries one of the most popular of all our 
sedentary amusements, appears to be unknown ; but 
it seems to have been intended, in common with several 
other games uniting chance and skill, to place players 
of unequal ability more on a level than Chess per- 
mitted. The name furnishes an interesting proof of 
its antiquity in England, being no other than a genuine 
Saxon compound, Bac, or baec, and gamen, meaning 
back-game, so called because the game essentially 

consists in the players bringing back their men from 
their antagonist's tables into their own ; or, because 
the pieces arc sometimes taken up and obliged to go 
back, that is, re-enter at the table from which they 
came. During the Norman dominion the name was 
doubtless changed to that appellation under which we 
next find the game existing in this country, that is, 
Tables, a word derived directly from the French. The 
form of the backgammon-table at this period is shown 
in a beautifully illuminated manuscript of the thir- 

* Todd's < Life and Writings of Milton/ p. 243. 

Digitized by 





teenth century ; it is square, as at present, but has no 
division in the centre, the points on either side being 
contained in a single compartment. A century later 
the division was made, as we find by a MS. of the time ; 
but the points are still undistinguished by colours, ac- 
cording to the present, " and, indeed, says Strutt, 
" more ancient usage.*' The principal differences in 
the mode of playing then and now were, first, in 
having three dice mstead of two, or reckoning a certain 
number for the third when that was missing ; and, 
second, in placing all the men within the antagonist's 
table. Among the authors of the sixteenth and seven- 
teenth centuries we find various allusions to the game 
under this and other names. Thus, in Shakspere's 
• Love's Labour's Lost :' 

" This is the ape of form, Monsieur the nice, 
AVho, when he plays at tables, chides the dice." 

In a curious collection of epigrams, epitaphs, &c, 
published in 1663 under the title of 1 Wit's Recreations,' 
we find an epitaph on one John Crop, which is through- 
out a continued series of puns upon the different terms 
and peculiarities of the game, and which therefore 
will, we doubt not, be interesting to all those who, in 
spite of the dictates of fashion, still adhere to this fa- 
vourite old English sport : — 

" Man's life's a game at tables, and he may 
Mend his bad fortune by his wiser play ; 
Death plays against us, each disease and sore 
Are blots ; if hit, the danger is the more 
To lose the game ; but an old stander by 
Dinds up the blots, and cures the malady, 
And so prolongs the game : John Crop was be, 
Death in a rage did challenge, for to see 
His play ; the dice are thrown ; when first he drinks, 
Casts, makes a blot, death hits him with a cinque : 
He casts again, but all in vain, for Death 
By th* after game did win the prize — his breath. 
What though his skill was good, his luck was bad, 
For never mortal man worse casting had. 
But did not Death play false to win from such 
As he J No doubt, he bare a man too much." 

Burton, in his ' Anatomy of Melancholy,' testifies as 
to the popularity of the game in his time. " The or- 
dinary recreations which we have in winter, and in 
most solitary times busy our minds with, are cards, 
tables and dice, shovel-board, &c." Whilst acknowledg- 
ing their utility, however, he points out the terrible mis- 
chief to which their abuse led : " which though they 
be honest recreations in themselves, yet may justly be 
otherwise excepted at, as they are often abused, and 

forbidden as things most pernicious For most part 

in these kind of disports, 'tis not art, wit, or skill, but 
subtlety, coney-catching, knavery, chance and fortune 

carries all away They labour most part not to pass 

their time in honest disport, but for filthy lucre, or 
covetousness of money — A thing so common all over 
Europe at this day, and so generally abused, that many 
men are utterly undone by it, their means spent, pa- 
trimonies consumed, they and their posterity beggared, 
besides swearing, wrangling, drinking, loss of time, 
and such inconveniences which are ordinary concomi- 
tants. So good things may be abused, and that which 
was first invented to refresh men's weary spirits, when 
they come from other labour and studies, to exhilarate 
their mind, to entertain time and company, tedious 
otherwise, in these long solitary winter nights, and 
keep them from worse matters, an honest exercise is 
contrarily perverted."* 

The other names to which we have alluded are 
tric-trac and tic-tack, the last being apparently a 
mere familiar abbreviation of the first ; but Menage, 

* « Anatomy of Melancholy,* part ii., sec. 2, No. 4, Exercise 

a French philologist, considers tic-tack the more an- 
cient appellation, and states that the game is still so 
called in Germany. The words are said to be derived 
" from touch ana take, for if you touch a man you 
must play him, though to your loss."* To the preced- 
ing allusions to the game in the writings of different 
authors, we may add the remark of Hall, an English 
poet of the seventeenth century, that " tick-tack sets a 
man's intentions on their guard. Errors in this and 
war can be but once araended/'t 

Strutt states, in bis well known work on c Sports 
and Pastimes ' (to which we are indebted for several 
of the facts contained in this sketch of the game), that 
at the commencement of the last century backgammon 
was a very favourite amusement, and pursued at lei- 
sure times by moat persons of opulence, aud especially 
the clergy, which occasioned Dean Swift, when writ- 
ing to a friend of his in the countiy, sarcastically to 
ask the following question : " In what esteem are you 
with the vicar of the parish; .can you play with him 
at backgammon ?" Jn conclusion we may remark, 
that the history of this game adds one more proof 
to the immense amount of evidence that exists, to show 
how comparatively temporary after all were the effects 
of that most tremendous of revolutions — the Norman 
Conquest of England, in the way of de-nationalizing 
the country. The Saxon « backgammon ' was, as we have 
shown, the original name for the amusement, which 
was altered into' tables' by the Normans; but cen- 
turies pass, gradually though silently the foreign appel- 
lation disappears, and the native resumes its sway. 
For a considerable period the game has been known 
as backgammon only, and so long as it shall exist for 
the future, will doubtless continue to be recognised 
by no other name. 



As in the description of the Knight we have seen a 
full and complete development of that character which 
it was the object of the cnivalric institutions to create, 
so in the Squire we perceive an intermediate stage in 
the process ; the foundation, as it were, upon which 
the Knightly character has been built. Tnus whilst 
our knight fondly, but not unreasonably anticipates, 
that what he is, his son (the Squire) shall one day be, 
he cannot but at the same time remember that that 
son, with all his youthful grace and enthusiasm, his 
mental and bodily accomplishments, is but an epitome 
of his former self. And how exquisitely has Cnaucer 

Sainted this young aspirant for military glories ! The 
escription, like the individual it celebrates, is " as fresh 
as is the month of May ;" like the airs of that sweet 
season, it seems filled with the sense of new life — of 
growing vigorous beauty : 

" With him [the knight] there was his son, a young Squi6r, 

A lover and a lusty bachelor, 

With lockls curl'd as they were laid in press ; 

Of twenty year of age he was, I guess. 

Of his stature he was of even length, 

And wonderly deliver,^ and great of strength. 

And he had been some time in chevachie} 

In Flanders, in Artois, and in Picardy ; 

And borne him well, as of so little space, 

In hope to standen in his lady's grace. 
Embroider'd was he, as it were a mead, 

All full of fresh* flowres, white and red. 

Singing he was, or floyting|| all the day : 

He was as fresh as is the month of May. 

Short was his gown, with sleeves long and wide. 

Well could he sit on horse, and fairl ride. 

* ' Complete Gamester/ f ' Horas Vacivs?/ 1646. 

I Active, nimble. $ A military expedition. 

' || Playing on the flute. 

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[March 13, 

He couldd soughs make, and well indite, 

Joust, and eke dance, and well pourtray, and write. 

So hot he lov6d, that by uighteriale* 

He slept no more than doth the nightingale. 

Courteous he was, lowly, and serviceable, 

And carv'd before his father at the table. 

To this description, and the engraving at the head 
of the preceding paper, we may add a few words illus- 
trative of the miniature portrait of the Squire in the 
manuscript before mentioned. His locks are there 
curiously curled, and give the idea of their having 
been " laid in press," whilst his short vest, with his 
cloak fluttering in the wind, is embroidered so as to 
give something of the appearance of the " mead all 
full of freshe fiowr6s, white and red ;" the ground be- 
ing of a green colour, lined with red, on which are 
small white spots or ornaments. His pantaloons are 
white, the upper part adorned with ermine. He wears 
a light but nigh blue cap, embroidered in the front. 
His horse is on the gallop, and evidently under grace- 
ful as well as skilful management. Such was the 
Squire of the reign of Edward III. at the age of twenty 
years, or within a few months of the period when he 
would be admitted into the knight's order. Let us now 
see what was the nature and what were the details of 
that education which produced such results. 

Up to his seventh year, the boy destined for the 
honours of the military profession spent his time 
among the females of the family ; he then entered upon 
the first stage of his career. He received the appella- 
tion of Page, or Valet, and was admitted to the society 
of his father, and of his father's friends and visitors. 
If his family was sufficiently affluent, companions of 
his own age, and with similar views, but of more 
straitened circumstances, were educated with him in 
the same house, who became his earliest friends and 
associates, and who often remained through life his de- 
voted brethren in war. But if, on the contrary, his 
own family was comparatively poor, he then himself 
entered the house of some other nobleman or gentle- 
man to receive the requisite training. Among the 
very earliest lessons instilled into his mind was that of 
unbounded admiration for the knightly character, as it 
Mas continually pointed out to him in the persons of 
the most worthy and accomplished warriors of" the time. 
Upon them therefore he looked with awe, wonder, and 
earnest love ; they were the standards of excellence 
he set up in his own mind, by which he would con- 
stantly measure himself. The physical exercises cal- 
culated to strengthen his youthful frame were now 
begun. As he approached nearer to the period of the 
honours and duties of the Squire, " the love of God 
and the ladies," in the irreverent but characteristic 
language of the time, was constantly cherished in him : 
he was taught, on the one hand, that no true votary of 
knighthood ever undertook any important adventure 
or entered into any serious engagement without pre- 
vious prayer and devotional exercise ; and on the other, 
that the knight who thought or spoke of the female 
sex with familiarity or disrespect was a recreant to his 
order, a most ignoble member of a most noble profes- 
sion. Carrying out this principle, he was to consider 
it one of the highest privileges of his calling to be 
able to relieve their distress or avenge their wrong ; 
and lastly, he was to look upon their opinion as the 
great tribunal where all his actions were to be judged 
— where he was to be disgraced by censure, or honoured 
by applause. Godwin remarks that " it is the rem- 
nant of this sentiment which has given to the inter- 
course of the sexes, from the days of chivalry to the 
present time, a refinement and a spirit of sanctity and 
nonour wholly unknown to the ancient world."t We 


t 'Life of Chaucer,' vol. i., p. 411. 

may add to this account of the education of the Page, 
that he was expected to select, even at this early period 
of youth, from among the virgins whose society he fre- 
quented, one, to whose service he was to devote him- 
self, towards whom he might show the practical effects 
of the lessons so carefully inculcated. Thus passed his 
life until the fourteenth year. He was now i aised to 
the dignity of Squire, and with ceremonies that im- 
pressed still more deeply upon the mind of the excited 
youth his own sense of the importance of the occasion. 
His father and mother, or two of his near relations, 
each holding a lighted taper, led him to the altar, 
upon which a sword and girdle had been previously 
laid. These the ministering priest took up, and hav- 
ing pronounced a benediction over them, girt the youth 
with his first warlike insignia. He now entered upon 
a life involving many and peculiar duties. It was 
an essential principle of chivalry that no office was 
sordid if performed with a worthy object ; and so com- 
pletely was this principle carried into effect, that the 
candidates for knighthood were not merely willing, 
but proud to wait upon their superiors, and perform 
for them the most menial services. And truly the dig- 
nity of the person raised the employment and made it 
no longer menial ; the spirit in which it was performed 
gave it even grace and lustre. Thus we find the Pages, 
but still more the Squires, spreading the table, carving 
the meat(Froissart particularly mentions that the young 
Count de Foix, like Chaucer s Squire, carved before 
his father at the table), attending to the guests, bring- 
ing them water to wash, and afterwards conducting 
them to their bedchambers. The Squire also cleansed 
and kept in repair the arms of his lord, helped to 
equip him for the field, and remained by his side ready 
to render assistance either there or in the tournament. 
It cannot be denied but that " there is an exquisite 
beauty in offices like these, not the growth of servitude, 
not rendered with unwillingness or constraint, but the 
spontaneous acts of reverence and affection performed 
by a servant of mind not less noble and free than that 
of his honoured and illustrious master."* 

During this period of probation for the highest 
office, the Squire spent a great part of each day in the 
open air, in exercises which conduced alike to the 
vigour of his bodv, the suppleness of his limbs, and the 
precision both of his eye and arm. He dressed and 
trained his own horses ; he practised leaping, running, 
and mounting on horseback clad in all his armour ; 
he scaled walls with the assistance merely of his hands 
and feet ; above all he paid the greatest attention to 
those sports which, as it were, prefigured the exploits 
of that grand arena, the tournament, in which he 
hoped one day to exhibit his prowess and knightly ac- 
complishments. " One of these was the Pel (in Latin, 
palus), practised with a post, or the slump of a tree, 
about six feet in height, which the youth, armed at all 
points, attacked vigorously on foot; and while he 
struck or thrust at the different parts which were 
marked to represent the head, breast, shoulders, and 
legs of an antagonist, he was taught to cover himself 
carefully with his shield in the act of rising to the 
blow. Similar to this was the Quintain, where the 
attack was made on horseback. A pole or spear was 
set upright in* the ground, with a shield strongly bound 
to it, and against this the youth tilted with his lance in 
full career, endeavouring to burst the ligatures of the 
shield, and bear it to the earth. A steady aim and a 
firm seat were acquired from this exercise, a severe 
fall being often the consequence of failure in the 
attempt to strike down the shield. This, however, at 
the best, was but a monotonous exercise, and there- 
fore the pole in process of time was supplanted by 

* Godwin's * life of Chaucer,' vol. i., p. 415. 

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the more stimulating figure of a misbelieving Saracen, 
armed at all points, and brandishing a formidable 
wooden sabre. The puppet moved freely upon a pivot 
or spindle, so that unless it was struck with the lance 
adroitly in the centre of the face or breast, it rapidly 
revolved, and the sword, in consequence, smote the 
back of the assailant in his career, amidst the laughter 
of the spectators. . . . In addition to these exer- 
cises, the young squires and pages were taught to 
career against each other with staves or canes ; and 
sometimes a whole party exhibited on horseback the 
various evolutions of a battle, but without the blows 
or bloodshed of a tournament."* Amidst all this pre- 
paration for the warfare that was to be the business of 
their lives, they did not forget to cultivate the gentler 
arts and accomplishments of peace. Like our young 
Squire, they learned to make " songes," to " indite/' 
and "pourtray" well, and "eke dance;" like him, 
they might often have been heard "singing" or "floyt- 
ing all the day." 

We must now follow our hero through the last and 
long wished-for ceremonies which are to make him a 
knight, a member of that illustrious band whose glories 
have so dazzled his youthful vision. At the age of 
twenty-one he is eligible. Solemn and deeply impres- 
sive, even to the least imaginative of those concerned, 
were the rites attending the inauguration of the 
youthful warrior. He was first stripped of his gar- 
men te, and put into the bath ; on leaving this he was 
clad in a white tunic, as the symbol of purity, in a red 
robe as an emblem of the blood he was to shed in the 
cause of the faith, and, lastly, in a black doublet, as a 
token of the dissolution which awaited him as well as 
the rest of mankind. Thus purified and clothed, he 
kept a rigorous fast for twenty-four hours. When 
evening came, he entered the church, and there spent 
the night in solitude and prayer. His arms were 
piled upon the altar before him, an object of con- 
tinual and fervent contemplation. His first act in 
the morning was confession, which it was expected 
should be more than usually strict and devotional; 
he then received the solemn sacrament of the Eucha- 
rist The mass of the Holy Ghost was now performed, 
followed commonly- by a sermon on the duties of 
a knight, and on the nature of the life opening upon 
the novice. His sponsors (certain approved knignts) 
now accompanied him to the chancel or choir, and 
there pledged themselves for the rectitude of his 
future conduct. The priest then took the sword from 
the novice's neck, where it hung, and having blessed 
it, once more attached it to his neck. But one thing 
now remained — the appearance before the hero or lord 
who was to confer the actual investiture of knighthood. 
To him, therefore, the Squire (soon to lose that title 
for ever) went, and, falling upon his knees, demanded 
the honour to which he aspired. "To what end," 
inquired the lord, " do you desire to enter into this 
Order ? If it is that you* may be rich, repose yourself, 
and be honoured without doing honour to knighthood, 
then you are unworthy of it, and would be to the 
knighthood you should receive what the simoniacal 
clergyman is to the prelacy." A modest but collected 
and dignified answer to this question was expected ; 
which given, the lord granted his request, and the 
proper oath was administered. Then came thronging 
round the young man knights, and frequently ladies, 
assisting him to arm ; putting on first the spurs, then 
the hauberk, next the breastplate, the brassarts, or 
arm-pieces, and the gauntlets, and lastly the sword. 
Then he was dubbed, to use the modern English ex- 
pression, derived from the French adoube\ or adopted. 
The lord rose from his seat, went up to him, and 

* « Pictorial History of England,' vol. i., p. 649. 

gave the accolade, or three strokes with the flat of his 
sword upon the shoulder or nape of the neck, adding, 
sometimes, a blow with the palm of the hand upon the 
cheek, saying, " In the name of God, Saint Michael, 
and Saint George, I make thee a knight;" and, 
occasionally, concluding with " Be thou brave, bold, 
and loyal." They now handed to the youthful knight 
his helmet, and brought him his horse, upon which 
he sprang, "vaulting like the feathered Mercury," into 
the saddle, and, brandishing his sword and lance, ca- 
racolled his horse along the pavement. On quitting 
the church he exhibited his grace and dexterity in 
a similar manner to the populace outside, whom 
he found eagerly waiting for their share of the 

The tale which was told by the Squire of Chaucer 
is described by Milton as 

" The story of Cambuscan bold, 

Of Camball and of Algarsife, 

And who had Canace to wife, 

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass ; 

And of the wond'rous hone of brass 

On which the Tartar king did ri Jo." 

It is a tale of the very first order of imaginative 
romance, but, unhappily, left imperfect. 

Moderation is the silken string running through the pearl-chain 
of all virtues. — Bishop Hall. 

He 'who saith there is no such thing as an honest man, yon 
may be sure is himself a knave. — Bi$hop BtrktUy. 

Envy. — The envious man is in pain upon all occasions which 
ought to give him pleasure. The relish of his life is inverted ; 
and the objects which administer the highest satisfaction to those 
who are exempt .from this passion, give the quickest pangs to per- 
sons who are subject to it. All the perfections of their fellow- 
creatures are odious: youth, beauty, valour, and wisdom are 
provocations of their displeasure. Wliat a wretched and apostate 
state is this ! To be offended with excellence, and to bate a man 
because we approve him ! The condition of the envious man is 
the most emphatically miserable ; he is not only incapable of 
rejoicing in another's merit or success, but lives a world wherein 
all mankiud are in a plot against his quiet, by studying their 
own happiness and advantage. — Addixm (Spectator, No. IP), 


The order Ruminantia abounds far beyond any other 
with quadrupeds • immediately useful to man. We 
need scarcely refer to the ox, the shecD, the goat, the 
deer, the antelope, the camel, and the llama, as illus- 
trations in point. The flesh of all is esteemed as food, 
that of some being more highly valued than that of 
others ; and many, as the camel, llama, ox, buffalo, and 
yak, are used as beasts of draught and burden. 

Every portion of the earth has its indigenous Rumi- 
nants, expressly adapted for the localities to which they 
are respectively allotted; so that— excepting, indeed, 
in the isles which stud the Pacific Ocean, or on the ice- 
bound shores of Greenland, where the sea is the park 
and chace, and where whales and seals are the herds 
and flocks of the fur-clad native — these animals are 
everywhere provided for the supply of the human 

Restricting our observations to the Ruminantia of 
the British Islands, we find the ox, the sheep, the goat, 
and three species of deer, as tenants of our fields and 

With respect to the ox, which is domesticated in 
every part of the world, we scarcely know whether to 
claim it as one of the indigenes of our island or the 
contrary. The relics of a wild race, once common, 
before our woods and forests were cleared, still exist 
in Chillingham Park; but whether, like the wild cattle 

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[March 13, 

of the Pampas of South America, this race be descended 
from a domestic stock, having under some circum- 
stances gained, at an early period, or soon after the 
introduction of its progenitors into England, its free- 
dom, — or whether it be the indigenous wild origin of 
our domestic ox, is still a matter of uncertainty. If 
the latter point be affirmed, a question opens, is it 
identical with that species of which the fossil bones 
are found in recent deposits, and die skulls of which 
are said by Cuvier to resemble those of the modern 
domestic breed ; and further, was this species identical 
with the Urus of the ancients ? These are questions 
which involve much research, and, after all, are not 
perhaps capable of a satisfactory solution. 

With respect to the goat and the sheep, of which the 
wild origins yet remain in obscurity, we may safely 
conclude that they are naturalised importations, and 
that they were brought here in a state of domestication 
by man ; perhaps by the first westward tide of colo- 
nizers who pushed their migrations to this " ultima 

The deer now remain for our consideration, and will 
form the subject of the present article. 

Three species of deer inhabit our island at the pre- 
sent day, and these three belong each to a distinct 
group or section of the Linnsean genus Cervus, or the 
family Cervidae of modern naturalists. 

The fallow-deer belongs to the plaiycerine section of 
Colonel Hamilton Smith, the red deer or stag to the 
elaphine, and the roe-deer to the capreoline section. 

As a preliminary to the history of these animals, it 
is necessary to give a short exposition of the essential 
characters of the Cervida?. Tne first diagnostic con- 
sists in the acquisition of deciduous bony antlers (often, 
but erroneously, called horns) by the males only, of 
every species excepting the reindeer, of which Doth 
sexes acquire them. These antlers, or horns, differ 
in form in the different sections, and it is chiefly upon 
these differences that the sections are established. The 
horns of the ox and the antelope consist of processes 
of bone continued from the bones of the skull, and 
sheathed with a case of horn ; they are therefore per- 
sistent : they are never shed. Not so those of the deer ; 
they are annually lost and renewed, and, to a certain 
period of life, each pair in succession becomes more 
and more developed. To understand the process, we 
must place the skull of a deer before us. From the 
centre of each frontal bone (in the male) we see a 
bony protuberance rise, which, covered by the skin, is 
the foundation upon which the antlers are built as a 
superstructure. The days of nonage being passed, 
spring kindles the blood of the youthful deer ; the 
arteries of the neck and head enlarge, and assume an 
increased action ; and their ramifications, enveloping 
these frontal protuberances, now begin to deposit upon 
them layer after layer of osseous matter with astonish- 
ing rapidity; the antlers are growing, and as they 
grow the skin grows with them ; while the arteries, 
enlarging and extending more and more, leave their 
course permanently impressed in furrows on the struc- 
ture they are building. In due time the work is 
finished, the development of the horns being in pro- 
portion to the age and vigour of the individual. Still, 
nowever, the skin envelops them, surrounding every 
part and every fork ; it is highly vascular, soft, and 
velvety ; and is termed ' the velvet.' This velvet has 
yet to be got rid of, for these antlers are weapons des- 
tined for combat. By a gradual process the arteries 
of the velvet must be compressed and obliterated ; for 
a sudden check to the flow of blood through them 
would turn the current with such violence upon the 
brain as to produce apoplexy. At the base of the horn, 
where it unites with the frontal protuberance, we ob- 
serve a rugged ring or burr, and this burr is perforated 

with notches, through which the great arteries pass. 
The arteries which formed this burr are the last to 
close their action, and their work is now to cause the 
notches, through which the vessels to the velvet pass, 
to contract more and more, the compression or the 
vessels taking place in an according ratio, till at last 
the obstruction is complete. The velvet now dries, 
shrivels, splits into shreds, and peels off, the animal 
assisting to remove it by rubbing the antlers against 
a tree. 

This process, as far as we have detailed it, occupies 
about ten weeks, and in that time a mass of phosphate 
of lime and gelatine, amounting to twenty pounds or 
more in the common stag, is elaborated from the blood 
of the system. In the extinct Irish elk, whose broad 
palmated horns measure from twelve to fifteen feet in 
their expanse, twice as much of this phosphate of lime 
as the rest of the skeleton contains was annually pro- 
duced, a fact as wonderful as the rapidity of its depo- 

These horns, however, are only temporary, having 
ceased to have a vital connection with the skull, to 
which they now only adhere, not grow ; they remain 
during the winter, till spring again excites the circu- 
lation of the blood, and then begins a process of ab- 
sorption at the line of junction just below the burr, 
where they join the frontal protuberances. This ab- 
sorption is continued until the union is so far dissolved 
that the least motion or the slightest rub against a tree 
disengages them ; the skin now closes over the pro- 
tuberances, and new antlers begin to be deposited. Of 
the annual increase of these antlers we shall speak 
when treating of each species separately. 

In addition to deciduous horns, we may notice as 
characters, the presence of lachrymal sinuses, — of 
which the use is not known, — but which are also found 
in many of the antelopes. 

The limbs of the aeer are slender but iirm ; the 
body is round and compact, the neck long, the eyes 
large, and the ears erect and pointed ; their general 
form betokens strength and activity, and their move- 
ments are peculiarly light and graceful. Teats on the 
female four. 

The Fallow-deer (Cervus Dama, Linn.), which we 
shall first introduce, belongs, as stated, to the Platy- 
cerine section. The horns are divergent, — the upper 
part is flattened and palmate, — but the beam is round, 
with two antlers or branches directed forwards ; the 
muzzle is naked. 

This beautiful species is common in the parks and 
forests of England ; on the Continent, however, at least 
in France, Germany, and Italy, it is rarely to be seen, 
— partly because less esteemed than in England, 
and because the practice of enclosing parks, and of at- 
tending to the animals, for the keep of which such 
enclosures are here expressly planned, is not there 
pursued. Fischer, speaking of the Fallow-deer, says, 
" It is more scarce in Europe than the stag, though it 
abounds in the parks (in vivariis) of England. It is 
found in Persia, China, and Abyssinia. In Denmark 
and Norway there is a variety to be regarded perhaps 
as a distinct species ;" this he terms, from its uniform 
dark-brown colour, Var. Maura, 

Dcsmarest says, " The Fallow-deer is peculiar to 
Europe, where, nowever, the species is less extensively 
spread than the Red-deer. It does not exist in Rus- 
sia, but it would seem that it inhabits Lithuania, Mol- 
davia, and Greece, the north of Persia and China, as 
well as Abyssinia ; it is abundant in England, but 
very scarce in France and Germany." 

Nothing can be more unsatisfactory than the above 
details ; and the query opens upon us, of what country 
is the Fallow-deer an aboriginal ? This inquiry we 
shall shortly pursue 

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[Group of Fallow -Deer.— From an original Drawing by W. Ilowitt.J 

Dksmarkst regards the Fallow-deer as the Platyceros 
of Pliny, and the " spread ing-horned deer" of Oppian 
("EXa^of tvpvKtptoQ). 

Mr. Bell, in his * British Quadrupeds,' observes, 
"It is probable that it (this deer) was brought to this 
country from the South of Europe, or from the western 
narts of Asia, in which places it is found to attain to a 
larger size than in its semi-doinesticated state in our 
parks. It is found, indeed, in a more severe climate 
than our own, but it is only the dark-brown variety 
( Var. Maura, Fischer ; Cervus Dama; Mauricus, Desm.), 
which is far more hardy than the usual one, and is 
well known to have been imported, on account of this 
quality, by James I. from Norway." 

We suspect the true colour of this deer to be dark 
brown, like that of the Norway breed ; and the spotted 
breed, as we mostly see it in our parks, to be a variety 
rather than a type of the species. Desmarest men- 
tions a deer found in Spain, nearly as large as a stag, 
and of a darker colour than our race, which is proba- 
bly to be referred to the present species. The young 
of the red-deer or Stag is spotted with white, and 
we may easily conceive of a breed retaining these 
spottings, the specific characteristics of immatu- 
rity, through life, and transmitting the tendency to pre- 
serve such markings to their descendants. Wnite 

no. 575. 

varieties of the deer are animals in which the white 
spots have become confluent, and excluded the brown ; 
we see the same thing in various species of Coccinella 
(lady-birds), in which the yellow spots on the wing- 
cases (elytra) often spread so as to banish entirely the 
black ground-colour in which, in normal individuals, 
the yellow appears in little dots. If our view, then, be 
correct, the brown variety of the Fallow-deer, intro- 
duced by James I., was the true and genuine species, 
which, not having been influenced by cultivation in 
parks and a state of semi-domestication, retained its 
original hardiness and pristine vigour. It is to be ob- 
served that the term Fallow has no reference to spots ; 
it is from the Saxon 'Falewe' (Falepe), which sig- 
nifies of a reddish or brick colour. Having ventured 
it as our opinion that the dark-brown variety is the 
true breed of the Fallow-deer, we advance to the ques- 
tion as to whether it is one of the aboriginal natives of 
our island or not. We have already stated Mr. Bell's 
opinion, and his observations respecting the Norway 
race. Highly as we esteem the acumen of this natu- 
ralist, we are strongly inclined in the present instance 
to differ from him. At the earliest period of English 
history we read of Fallow-deer existing wild in our 
forests ; together with wild oxen, boars, and red-deer. 
They tenanted the great forest which, in the time of 

Digitized by 

Vol. X.— P 




[March 20, 

Henry II., stretched northwards from London : Fitz- 
Stephen says, " Proximd patet foresta ingens, — saltus 
nemorosi ferarum, — latebrae cervorum, damarum, apro- 
rum, et taurorum sylvestrum ;" that is, "a mighty 
forest next (to London) stretches out, the embowered 
abode of wild beasts ; the covert of stags, deer, boars, 
and wild bulls." 

Be it remembered that deer are not tame animals, 
necessary to man, which he brings with him in his 
wanderings, when, nomadic in his habits, he traverses 
the earth in quest of pasturage and a settlement ; of 
fresher springs and greener fields, on which to fix his 
tent and found an empire. The habits of the semi- 
barbarian, and indeed of the civilized, are to chase the 
wild, to drive them to a distance, and finally, to extir- 
pate them ; and where pleasure or the fancied interest 
of the few does not incite to a direct preservation of 
such, they speedily disappear: witness the beaver, 
the wild boar, and the wolf in England; and were it 
not for the laws of feudal origin and feudal spirit, the 
fox, the fallow-deer, and the stag would long since have 
shared their fate. The monarchs and barons of England 
loved the chase ; it was their aim, therefore, to preserve 
the objects of it, and though some of these objects have 
been extirpated, as the march of civilization and the 
improvement of the country increased, others, not ob- 
noxious from their destructive habits, have survived, 
becoming enclosed in parks, or restricted to wild and 
barren situations, where they cannot interfere with the 
agricultural labours of man. Hence, like the wild ox, 
the fallow-deer has its range now limited, its freedom 
curtailed ; while the excellence of its flesh as food, and 
its beauty, rendering it an ornament to the pleasure- 
grounds of the noble and wealthy, have contributed to 
its preservation. As we now see it, therefore, it is not 
wild; not truly free; but the semi-domesticated de- 
nizen of the park and chace. Less fleet and bold than 
the stag, and preferring rich grassy plains and glades 
instead of wild hills and extensive moorlands, it would 
naturally be the first of our British deer to succumb to 
man, and in fact to need his protection. The conver- 
sion of our parks into farms would be in efTect to anni- 
hilate our fallow-deer. We conceive, then, that this 
species, originally of a brown colour, is one of our 
native animals ; that its spotting is the result of 
semi-domestication, and that with this was induced 
a delicacy of constitution rendering it necessary to 
have recourse again to the true wild breed still exist- 
ing in Norway, for the purpose of improving the 
race or of enabling it to endure our winters. 

It is interesting to watch the actions of a herd of these 
elegant creatures as they quietly graze in their pas- 
turage. They are inquisitive, and, if not suddenly 
alarmed, will often approach very close to their ob- 
server, gaze attentively at him, and then bound grace- 
fully away. Except during the pairing season, when 
the bucks associate with the does, and during the 
winter, when the troops mingle promiscuously together, 
the males and females form separate herds. 

The female goes eight months with young, and she 
brings forth one, sometimes two at a birth, concealing 
them among the tall and thick fern, or the dense under- 
wood of the park ; they afterwards associate with the 
herds of does. 

The bucks cast their horns about the end of February, 
and others begin to succeed them. It is, however, not 
until the second year that the younjj male has horns at 
all ; and then they appear only as single snags ; in the 
third year there are two branches produced, and the 
horn assumes a palmate form at the top ; in the fourth 
year the palmation is more distinct ; in the fifth the 
palmation is nearly at its maximum, and the two front 
branches are large ; in the sixth year the horns arrive 
at their complete stage, a few snags or advances being 

added to the palmate portion. The buck acquires a 
different name in the language of • venerie every 
year to the sixth. The first year he is a fawn ; the 
second, when the simple horns appear, a pricket ; the 
third, a sorrel ; the fourth, a soare ; the fifth, abuck of the 
first head ; the sixth, a buck complete. In Shakspere's 
play of ' Love's Labour's Lost,' the " extemporal epitaph 
on the death of the deer," in which Holofernes " some- 
thing affects the letter," and in which three of the above 
terms are employed, is familiar to all. 

During the pairing season, which takes place at the 
end of summer or m autumn, the males continually 
utter a deep tremulous cry, and often engage with each 
other in obstinate battles, which are continued day after 
day till the mastery is completely established. They 
arc not, however, dangerous to persons approaching 
near them, as is the red deer, at least we never knew an 
instance of their attacking any one ; and we have our- 
selves passed at this time through herds of them with- 
out seeing the slightest cause for apprehension. 

M . Desmarest says, " They have a natural antipathy 
towards the red-deer, and retire from the localities oc- 
cupied by the latter." How far this may be the case 
where both species tenant extensive wilds at large, 
we cannot say, but we have seen small troops of red- 
deer, both in Windsor and Chatsworth Parks, certainly 
not mixed with the fallow-deer, but surrounded by 
several herds of them at no great distance, and we 
could not perceive any tokens of dislike or animosity 
between tnem ; it cannot be supposed that the two 
species seek each other's society, but indifference is 
not antipathy. 

The delight with which deer and many other ani- 
mals listen to music is well known. Playford, in his 
' Introduction to Music/ says, " Travelling some years 
since, I met on the road near Royston a herd of about 
twenty bucks, following a bagpipe and violin, which, 
while the music played, went forward ; when it ceased, 
they all stood still; and in this manner they were 
brought from Yorkshire to Hampton Court" 

Mr. Bell, who quotes the above passage, adds, " A 
fondness for musical sounds is not confined to this 
animal ; there is more than poetical truth in the power 
of the lyre of Orpheus over the beasts of the field ; and 
Shakspere avails himself of this predilection in cattle, 
to form one of his exquisite illustrations. I have often, 
when a boy, tried the effect of the flute on cows and 
some other animals, and have always observed that it 
produced great apparent enjoyment." 

We have many times noticed the fascination which 
music exercises upon mice and rats ; it does so also 
upon the seal. Sir Walter Scott says, — 

" Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark 
Will long pursue the minstrel's bark.'* 

And Laing, in his account of a voyage to Spitzbergen, 
states that a numerous auditory of seals would sur- 
round the vessel, and follow it for miles, when the 
violin was played on deck. 

The venison of the fallow-deer is far superior to 
that either of the stag or roe ; its skin and horns are 
both useful, the one being prepared into a peculiarly 
soft leather, the other forming knife-handles and 
various things besides. 

The fossil relics of a gigantic deer, commonly called 
the Irish elk, but in truth closely allied to the fallow- 
deer, are abundant in the bogs and marl -pits of Ire- 
land, and are also met with both in England and the 
Isle of Man, and, according to Cuvier, in France and 

A figure of the skull and horns of this animal, ac- 
companying a paper on the subject, will be found m 
the « Penny Magazine' for August 1, 1833 (voL iv. ? 
page 299). 

Digitized by 








A slight glance at a terrestrial globe will show that 
it is no easy matter to estimate the comparative quan- 
tities of land and water on the earth's surface. If the 
various boundaries between the seas and countries 
were straight lines, or were curved in any regular 
manner, the comparison might be made with less diffi- 
culty ; but the sea-coasts are in reality so tortuous, that 
the common modes of measuring or calculating are 

Dr. Halley, in order to determine the number of 
acres of land in each county of England, procured a 
large map in six sheets; cut out the counties one from 
another, by parting them at the boundary-lines by means 
of scissors or a penknife; and weighed each piece of 
paper separately. Supposing the paper on which the 
map was printed to have been equable in thickness in 
every part, and the scales to have been delicate, the 
comparative weights would have given the comparative 
area of the counties. But Dr. Halley was aware that 
this method could only give an approximation to cor- 
rectness. Dr. Long afterwards applied the same prin- 
ciple, varied somewhat in detail, ior determining the 
relative quantities of land and water over the whole 
earth. The engraved surface of a terrestrial globe is 
put on in a number of separate pieces. Dr. Long, 
therefore, took the separate pieces belonging to a 16- 
inch globe, cut out the parts representing the land from 
those representing the water, and weighed them sepa- 
rately ; when he found that the former weighed 124 
grains, and the latter 349 grains, thus making the sur- 
face of the sea about three times as great as the surface 
of the dry land. 

Very little seems to have been done in this matter 
until recently, when Professor Rigaud of Cambridge 
made a very careful examination of the subject, using 
the printed paper surface for one of Cary's 21 -inch 
globes, and also for one of Addison's 36-inch globes. 
Dr. Halley was well aware of the obstacles which had 
to be overcome in experiments of this kind, for he 
said : — " The moisture of the air imbibed by the paper 
did very notably increase its weight, which made me 
very well dry the pieces before I weighed them, that 
so I might be assured there was no error upon the 
amount ; and, in so doin^, I found that in a very few 
minutes of time their weight would sensibly increase 
by their re-imbibing the humidity of the air. He also 
observed : — " The map consisting of several sheets of 
paper, they were found to be of different thicknesses 
or compactness, so as to make a sensible difference, 
which obliged me to examine the proportion between 
the weight and area in each sheet. Professor Rigaud 
took the best precautions which he could devise to 
avoid these evils. He laid out the paper for some 
time in a large room, where there was no danger of 
much fluctuation in the state of the air, by which the 
substance attained a tolerably stationary condition as 
to saturation. To avoid the second evil, he caused a 
copy of the map to be printed on paper of very uni- 
form thickness. 

The surface of a 36-inch globe requires 4071$ square 
inches of printed paper to cover it ; and this paper 
may be conceived as being divided into twenty-four 
equal pieces, called gores, shaped like the profile of a 
double convex lens, the wide central part representing 
a portion of the equator, and the sharp ends terminating 
at the poles. Each piece represents 180° of latitude 
and 15 of longitude ; so that when placed side by 
side, the twenty-four pieces exactly cover the surface 
of the globe. If, therefore the land be cut out from 
the water, in all these pieces, and weighed separately 

in two parcels, the comparative quantities of each 
might be ascertained. But Professor Rigaud deemed 
it advisable to proceed on a different plan. He cut 
up the gores into more than one hundred pieces, and 
weighed the land and water portions of each piece 
separately. The chief reason for adopting this plan 
was, that if future discoveries should effect changes in 
the mode of delineating our maps, the particular part 
where the change occurred might be corrected without 
going over the computation in all its parts; also 
because by this means we ascertain the proportion of 
land and water, not only over the whole globe, but 
over any small part of it. These small parts are chosen 
with reference to certain distinct boundaries which 
never change. The equator passes round the earth 
equidistant from both poles : the tropics are parallel 
to the equator, and distant 23£° from it northward and 
southward : the polar circles are also parallel to the 
equator, but distant 23J° from the two poles respec- 
tively. Each gore was cut at these boundary lines, by 
which it was divided into six pieces or zones, viz. the 
arctic, the north temperate, the north tropical, the 
south tropical, the south temperate, and the antarctic. 

The printed paper, divided into more than one hun- 
dred portions thus well defined, was carefully weighed. 
Each zone or piece was weighed first ; then the parts 
representing the land and water were carefully cut (an 
operation wnich, for the whole number, occupied seve- 
ral days) and separately weighed twice over, so as to 
obtain the utmost possible accuracy. The polar zones, 
the central parts of Africa and Southern America, and 
some parts of Asia and of New Holland, have been so 
little explored, that conjecture was unavoidably neces- 
sary in making a subdivision of land and water at those 
parts. Professor Rigaud considered it safe to rank 
the whole of the antarctic zone as sea, until further 
knowledge is obtained of that region. 

Every care was taken to separate the land and sea 
with accuracy. All the bays, aestuaries, and indenta- 
tions were attended to, especially when the precise 
form of them appeared to indicate the representation 
of actual surveys. The several weights were taken 
to the tenth of a grain, a quantity which was likely to 
lead to as close an approximation to truth as the cir- 
cumstances of the experiment admitted. 

In order to ensure as much accuracy as possible, 
Professor Rigaud employed, as before observed, two 
different globe-surfaces, viz. that of Mr. Addison's 36- 
inch globe, and of Mr. Cary's 21-inch globe ; and in 
the account which he gives of the results obtained, 
although he refers to the larger globe, yet the two 
yielded results so nearly alike as to be deemed almost 
identical. The modes in which the printed surfaces 
were divided by the engravers, were different in the 
two cases. The gores of the larger globe were made 
each for 15° of longitude, and there were five di- 
visions of each for the zones (a sixth being made 
for the experiment, by cutting the torrid zone into two 
at the equator) ; whereas on the smaller globe, the 
gores were 20° wide, and extended from the equator 
to the pole. But these differences have no effect on 
the result of the experiment ; because as all the sepa- 
rate pieces are made to join without overlapping, the 
total amount of paper surface is the same, however it 
may be divided lor the convenience of the workman 
who has to fix it to the globular shell. We may also 
remark, that as the paper was cut up into a vast num- 
ber of minute pieces, any slight inequalities of thick- 
ness would be likely to compensate each other, in 
taking the ratio of land and water. 

In order to establish a convenient mode of com- 
parison, Professor Rigaud conceived the whole surface 
of the globe to be divided into one thousand equal 
parts, of which each of the six zones contain, respec- 
1 P2 

Digitized by 




[March 20. 

tively, about 41$, 259, 200, 200, 259, 41*. He gives 
tabulated results of more than two hundred separate 
weights, arising from the relative quantities ot land 
and water contained in each of the pieces into which 
every gore was divided. These tables are too long to 
be presented here, but we will select such parts of 
them as will convey to the reader a tolerably definite 
idea of the subject ; for as this appears to be by far the 
most exact experiment ever made on the subject, the 
results may be deemed authoritative. Supposing the 
whole surface of the earth to be divided into 1000 
equal parts, then 

The two polar zones = 64*9137 water 180263 land 

North temperate zone =132*5247 „ 126*6308 „ 
South temperate zone =236*6060 „ 22*5488 „ 
North torrid zone =146*8162 „ 52*5582 „ 
South torrid zone =153*2156 „ 46*1592 „ 

Or, dividing the whole surface into two hemi- 

Northern hemisphere =302*7846 water 197*2153 land 
Southern hemisphere =431*2916 „ 68*7080 „ 

Out of 1000 equal portions of surface, 266, omitting 
fractions, are dry land, which are distributed among 
the continents as follows, the islands being included in 
those continents to which they seem most nearly to 
belong : — 

Europe . . . .16* 

Asia 89 

Africa .... 59* 

New Holland . . 15* 

North America . . 50* 

South America . . 35 


We may remark that the correct determination of 
the ratio oetween the land and water on the earth's 
surface, however obtained, is now becoming a matter 
of scientific importance ; for the amount ofdaily eva- 
poration from the earth's surface, which is obviously 
greatly dependent on the amount of liquid surface, is 
one of the most interesting inquiries in meteorologi- 
cal science, with reference to ram, hail, dew, &c. 

Famine in India. — I never saw the ravages of famine so dread- 
fully displayed as at Cawnpore. A great scarcity having oc- 
curred in the interior, the poor ryots, or farmers, were unable to 
support themselves and their families : the multitude of beings 
who had been able to earn a scanty subsistence in the fields dur- 
ing other years, were at this time thrown out of employment ; 
provisions became extravagantly dear; the failure of so many 
crops deprived them of subsistence, and wretchedness succeeded : 
it was then that thousands of these poor creatures sought the 
towns, and were seen crowding every avenue to the cantonments. 
Cawnnore was filled with them ; those who had youth and health 
brougnt in their aged and infirm relatives — poor disabled crea- 
tures who had for many years never left their hovels ; disease 
and famine rendered them scarcely able to crawl along the 
parched roads, under an almost vertical sun : and when arrived, 
they denended entirely upon charitable contributions for sup- 
port. Under every wall they assembled in crowds, taking up 
their position, and merely changing from one side of the road 
to the other, as the trifling shade afforded relief; and, thus es- 
tablished, they kept up a constant moaning and crying, or, as 
passengers drew near, raised an urgent clamour for alms ; their 
miserable appearance setting forth a claim which few could re- 
sist. On three or four occasions we passed the dead and dying 
stretched on the roadside : their attenuated frames bore but too 
certain testimony of the immediate cause of their destruction. 
One morning we saw a poor wretch on the public road who was 
still breathing, but so feebly that it was evident his troubles 
were nearly over : a few miserable rags hung around him ; but 
no one had lingered to see life depart, or to pay the last sad 

offices to the dead : he was only about half a mile from the can- 
tonment, whither, doubtless, his fellow-travellers had passed 
forward totally unmindful of his condition, but anxious to ame- 
liorate, if it were possible, their own misery. Another morning 
we saw a human body slung across a bamboo, which two men 
carried on their shoulders ; the head and arms were dangling on 
one side, while the legs hung down on the other, and her long 
hair (for it was the body of a female) descended, filthy and 
matted, from her head. She was being conveyed to the river, 
into which the inanimate form would be carelessly thrown. On 
each occasion that we saw the dead or dying on the roads, Pariah 
dogs and birds of prey were lingering near : they were, however, 
scared away by those employed by the authorities to convey the 
corpses from public view ; for none others would approach them. 
as only those of the lowest caste would touch the body of the 
poor emaciated wanderer. — Wire* Months' March in India. 

Exhibitions of Mechanics Institutes. — We nave much pleasure 
in noticing the results of an Exhibition connected with the Me- 
chanics' Institute at Derby, and which has proved not less suc- 
cessful than similar exhibitions at Leeds and Sheffield, an 
account of which was given in a former No. (507). The Derby 
Institute was established in March, 1835, ana at its commence- 
ment was joined by 347 members; in 1832 premises were pur- 
chased for the sum of 1500/.; and in 1837, a lecture-hall was 
built. It is an elegant and spacious room, 75 feet long, 40 feet 
wide, and 35 feet high, and cost 2000/., to raise which sum a 
mortgage of 1600/. was effected on the property of the institution. 
The Exhibition was proposed with a view of diminishing this 
burthen, and the nobility and gentry of the country were solicited 
for the loan of objects. This appeal was responded to in the 
most gratifying manner by persons of every shade of opinion, 
and four hundred individuals contributed five thousand articles, 
comprising paintings by eminent masters ; specimens of sculp- 
ture ; splendid assortments of porcelain of Derby and foreign 
manufacture ; a great number of good models of various kinds ; 
valuable specimens in ornithology, entomology, mineralogy, aud 
geology ; together with an extensive collection of domestic and 
foreign curiosities. An insurance for 15,000/. was effected on 
the property thus generously confided to the managers of the 
institution. The Exhibition was at first intended to be open for 
a month, but at the eud of that period the number of visitors 
was daily increasing, and it was not eventually closed until it 
had been open eighteen weeks. The attractions of the Exhibi- 
tion were increased by philosophical experiments ; the arts of 
printing, weaving, and modelling were illustrated and exhibited 
in visible operation ; and the musical classes of the Institution 
gratified the visitors with their performances. The terms of ad- 
mission were fixed at 6d. each person, and tickets for the season were 
sold at 2s. 6rf. : six thousand sixpenny catalogues were sold. The 
total number of persons admitted (the repeated visits of tiie 
holders of season-tickets being included) exceeded 96,000 ; the 
total receipts were 2110/. ; the expenses 763/., leaving a balance 
in favour of the Institution of 1355/. The inmates of the alms- 
houses and of the union poorhouse, the police and the military 
of the town, were allowed to visit the Exhibition free of expense. 
The children of the Sunday and charity schools of Derby and of 
other towns were admitted at 2rf. each ; and not the slightest 
injury was done to any of the articles exhibited. The Exhibi- 
tion Committee remark, in their Report, that '' if such Exhibi- 
tions were more frequent, if amusements and recreations of a 
similar nature were substituted for those debasing sports which un- 
fortunately prevail ; judging from the orderly conduct of those 
who frequented the late Kxhibitiou, and from the interest it evi- 
dently excited, there can be little doubt that a mighty change 
would soon be effected in the character and habits of our Eng- 
lish population. Men (they remark) must have some kind of 
relaxation and amusement, which are necessary to the health 
both of body and of mind ; and without some agreeable and in- 
nocent occupation for their leisure hours, it can occasion little 
surprise if they are driven to the baneful pleasures of the tavern 
and of the gin-shop." Referring to our account of the Leeds 
and Sheffield Exhibitions, we may thus tabularise their results 
and compare them with those at Derby : — 

Leeds . 
Derby • 


211 A/. 



No. of Visits 


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• We. Hermia, ltkff two artificial *od«. 
Have with our ncelds created both one flower. 
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion."] 


We have before us a sketch by Mr. Severn, an En- 
glish artist of great celebrity residing at Rome, of 
which the above wood-engraving is, as far as possible, 
a fac-simile. The engraving falls, however, somewhat 
short of the charming expression of the original draw- 
ing. The subject is one of those poetical creations of 
Shakspere of which we necessarily make a picture in 
our own minds as we read; but to the adequate repre- 
sentation of which, in the same degree, no effect of 
the sister art of painting, however successful, is alto- 
gether equal. Tne painter can only seize upon one 
point of view ; the poet has the control of time and 
space, and presents us a succession of images harmo- 
nizing with and strengthening the leading idea. The 
lines which we have placed under Mr. Severn's sketch 
tell the story of the friendship of Hermia and Helena, 
as far as can be shown in one action. But the poet 
(rjves us a succession of actions. The whole passage 
is to be found in the third act of • A Midsummer 
Night's Dream ;' in which Helena, who fancies she 
has been injured by her friend Hermia, breaks out into 
the following most beautiful apostrophe : — 

" Injurious Hermia ! most ungrateful maid ! 

Have you conspir'd, have you with these contrir'd 
To bait me with this foul derision? 
Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd, 
The sister's tows, the hours that we have spent, 

When we have chid the hasty-footed time 

For parting us, — O, and is all forgot ? 

All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ? 

We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, 

Have with our neelds created both one flower, 

Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 

Both warbling of one song, both in one key ; 

As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, 

Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 

Like to a double cherry, seeming parted ; 

But yet a union in partition, 

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem : 

So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart ; 

Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, 

Due but to One, and crowned with one crest. 

And will you rent our ancient love asunder, 

To join with men in scorning your poor friend ? 

It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly : 

Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it ; 

Though I alone do feel the injury/ 1 

What a simple picture is this of the every-day life 
of two maidens growing together in love and confi- 
dence, as thousands still grow ; — and yet how exqui- 
sitely poetical in its literal truth. The "counsel'* 
shared together ;— the little confidences gradually 
ripening into the revealing of the inmost heart, and 
thus becoming "sistere* vows;" — the longing to meet, 
the dread to part ;— the common occupation, such as 
Mr. Severn has exhibited, but accompanied with that 
crowning circumstance — 

» Both warbling of one song, both in one key." 

Digitized by 




[March 20 

He that wrote this charming description is, of all 
poets, the one who has left us the truest delineations 
of the tenderness, the constancy, the intrepidity, and 
the purity of woman. 

Rosalind and Celia, in ' As you Like It,' present a 
most attractive dramatic exhibition of female .friend- 
ship. Shakspere has again, with his innate know- 
ledge of human character, made the strength of the 
affection of Celia for Rosalind depend upon habit 
and long companionship. She remonstrates against 
her father's determination to banish Rosalind, in these 
words : — 

u If ghe be a traitor, 

Why to am I ; we still have slept together, 

Rom at an instant, leam'd, play d, eat together ; 

And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, 

Still we went coupled and inseparable." 

Shakspere has painted the existence of friendship 
amongst men, as in the instance of Antonio and Bas- 
sanio, in the « Merchant of Venice ;' and in that most 
touching description of the deaths of York and Suffolk, 
in ' Henry V.' : — 

" Suffolk first died ; and York, all haggled oyer, 
Comes to him, where in gore he lay ensteep'd, 
And takes him by the beard ; kisses the gashes, 
That bloodily did yawn upon his face ; 
And cries aloud, * Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk ! 
My soul shall thine keep company to heaven ; 
Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly a-breast ; 
As, in this glorious and well-foughten field, 
We kept together in our chivalry !' 
Upon these words I came, and cheer'd him up ; 
He imil'd me in the face, caught me his hand, 
And, with a feeble gripe, says, * Dear my lord, 
Commend my service to my sovereign.' 
So did he turn, and over Suffolk's neck 
He threw his wounded arm, and kissM hit lira ; 
And so, espoused to death, with blood he seal'd 
A testament of noble-ending love." 

But in this glorious picture there is high and heroic 
duty, — the sternness as well as the tenderness of 
chivalry blending in the friendship of the heroes. 
It is a picture of the friendship of men, which is 
generally the strongest amongst those who are 
struggling over the same rough path of life. The 
friendship of mere companionship, without firmer 
ties, seldom lasts beyond the age of boyhood, and 
then we go our own selfish and solitary ways. Leontes 
and Polixenes, in the * Winter's Tale,' were the friends 
of childhood : — 

•• We were as twinn'd lambs, that did frisk i* the sun, 
And bleat the one at the other/* 

Yet the remembrance could not preserve them from 
deadly hatred and suspicion. 


However attractive the title of the present article 
might have proved two or three centuries ago, an his- 
torical point of view is the only one in which it is 
likely to interest readers of our own times. True 
science derives no support from mystery, and so far 
from having anything occult in her objects or pro- 
ceedings, she proclaims her views far and wide, and 
rejoices and prospers in proportion to the numbers and 
free intercommunication of her votaries. It is true 
that she has her difficulties, hut then she frankly con- 
fesses them, well knowing that the first step towards 
the removal of obstacles to her progress is the free re- 
cognition of their existence. 

The so-called occult sciences had for their object the 
supernaturally influencing present and predicting 
future events. The labours and proceedings of the 
magician, the astrologer, and the alchemist have all 

had one or other of these ends more or less in view. 
The belief in magic and divination seems to have pre- 
vailed in all ages and in all countries, both in those to 
which we are accustomed to look back as the origina- 
tors of ancient civilization, and others plunged in the 
grossest barbarism and darkness. 

Allusions to the practices of magic or divination 
abound in the Scriptures : the Jews, ever after their 
captivity in Egypt, seem to have become addicted to 
them, and were frequently and expressly forbidden to 
engage in proceedings which with them formed but a 
branch of that idolatry to which they were so obsti- 
nately prone. The Jewish Cabala is referred back to 
a very remote antiquity, but it was seen only in all its 
varieties during the middle ages, reflecting the re- 
ligious mysteries of Rabbinism. Cabala signifies tra- 
dition, and in its origin would seem to have been 
purely religious — a kind of secret theology endeavour- 
ing to explain the mysterious sense of the sacred writ- 
ings ; but prior to the middle ages it had become the 
imaginary vehicle for communicating with the beings 
of another world. It was divided into two sections, 
one treating of the occult virtues concealed in the 
world, and the other of supernatural knowledge. An 
inferior description of Cabala consisted in the combi- 
nation of certain mysterious words, termed cabalistic 
words, which, carried about the person, afforded pro- 
tection from demons, sickness, &c. : the famous com- 
bination Abracadabra acquired an immense reputa- 
tion. Among the primitive Christians, and long since 
among the illiterate vulgar, texts of the New Testa- 
ment were in like manner supposed to be of great 
efficacy in the recovery of the sick, &c. : the first two 
or three verses of the Gospel of St. John were espe- 
cially esteemed for this purpose. The same cabalistic 
sijjns which could thus at one time avert disease and 
mischief, were employed under other circumstances to 
invoke demoniacal agency and work evil miraculously. 
In like manner the disposition of certain numbers has 
been considered as a principle involving the most 
wonderful power over futurity. The Hindoos, Egyp- 
tians, and Chinese, and the Europeans of the middle 
ages, have all entertained the highest opinion of the 
energy of magic squares and other cabalistic figures. 
The Greeks placed .implicit faith in divination, so that, 
in the early period of their history, every action of im- 
portance was determined upon only after the observa- 
tion of the flight of birds, the inspection of their en- 
trails, of sacrifices, &c. At a later period they consulted 
oracles, whom they believed to be the direct interpre- 
ters of the wills of their deities. The oracle of Apollo 
at Delphi acquired, by the skill and duplicity with 
which trie responses were framed, an immense and du- 
rable reputation. The Romans practised augury most 
extensively : at one time it formed a part of the regu- 
lar system of instruction of their principal youth, some 
of whom were by a decree of the senate sent to each 
of the states of Etruria to be instructed in the art. 
The augurs, originally taken exclusively from the pa- 
trician class, but afterwards partially from the plebeian, 
were formed into a college, and neld in the highest 
estimation : they possessed many privileges, and could 
not be deprived of their offices, however great the 
crimes they may have committed. Their omens were 
derived from the appearance of the heavens, the sing- 
ing and flight of birds, the feeding of chickens, the 
examination of the entrails of victims, drawing lots, 
&c., &c. Some of these were of a very ridiculous na- 
ture. It is remarkable that many of the profoundest 
observers of antiquity believed in this power of pre- 
dicting the future : but it must be recollected that 
among the ancients divination was associated more or 
less with the solemnities and mysteries of their reli- 
gion. Nevertheless Cato expresses his surprise that 

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the soothsayers could keep their countenances while 
consulting their omens. 

A fertile period of modern sorcery occurred when 
the northern tribes inundated and devastated the 
southern regions of Europe. The various nations of 
Huns, Goths, Allemanns, &c., all brought their tra- 
ditions of magicians, sorcerers, &c, differing from 
each other ; while those whom they conquered in their 
progress, oftentimes concealing themselves in the 
forests and caves, furnished yet further materials for 
legends of concealed dwarfs, sorcerers, &c. This was 
the case with the Finnish tribes overrun by the Swedes 
and Danes. Although the Celtic mythology yielded 
to the influence of Christianity, yet aid it leave as a 
legacy its magicians and other supernatural beings. 
Thus we have the enchanter Merlin introduced with 
the fables of King Arthur, and his renown has survived 
every change, and reached our own times, both in this 
country and in France. After the Crusades, the Eu- 
ropeans mingled with the sterner ideas of the North 
the brilliant fairy-land of the Arabs and Persians; 
and from this source are derived many of our legends. 
The occupation of Spain by the Moors must have given 
great encouragement to the study of the occult 
sciences : they were at that time the best instructed 
people in Europe, and much addicted to this descrip- 
tion of pursuits. The Jews also (to whose cultivation 
ol these studies we have already alluded), by reason of 
their wandering habits, must often have become a me- 
dium of communication of the knowledge of the East 
to the West. During the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries, the belief in sorcery prevailed over entire 
Europe, and frequently gave rise to the most cruel 
persecutions. Professed in the persons of the charlatan, 
or the disordered and weakened in intellect, it had 
lost that solemn and important character which its con- 
nection with religious observances had invested it with 
in times of antiquity, and has gradually disappeared 
before the light of increasing civilization. 

It is humiliating to recall to mind how short is the 
period since the belief in witchcraft was all but uni- 
versal; and the cruel persecutions instituted for its 
suppression form one of the too numerous dark spots in 
modern European history. It would be idle here to 
enter upon the discussion concerning the identity of 
the witches mentioned in Scripture, and those unfor- 
tunate beings who have been distinguished by the 
appellation in more recent times. Suffice it to say 
that texts intended for special and temporary applica- 
tion have been seized hold of as justifying a cruel and 
sanguinary persecution, originating in the grossest 
folly and credulity, and directed tor the most part 
against aged, feeble, and half-witted women, who, in 
many instances, by the torments they endured and the 
general persuasion of those around them, were brought 
to confess to a communing with the evil one, and the 
derivation thence of a power injurious to society. 
Some of the earliest accusations of this crime were, 
however, directed against different subjects, and veiled 
under the pretext of different objects : thus political 
enemies and heretical believers were frequently de- 
nounced as guilty of witchcraft Who has not felt in- 
dignant at the mean vindictive charge of witchcraft 
brought by our ancestors against the noble and heroic 
Maid of Orleans? It is true that Joan of Arc believed 
herself inspired to the delivery of her country, when 
during her prayer for aid she believed she heard a celestial 
voice exclaiming — " Va, va, je seray a ton aide, va ! " 
The accusation against the wife of the good Duke 
Humphrey of Gloucester for the same crime, as also 
those numerous ones invented by Richard III., must 
be familiar to all readers of English history. In dif- 
ferent parts of Europe Commissions of Inquisition 
were appointed to search for and destroy all those who 

practised witchcraft ; and it is from the statement of 
some of these inquisitors we learn the dreadful extent 
to which their cruelties were often carried. Pope In- 
nocent VIII. issued a bull, deploring the increase of 
witches, and exhorting the inquisitors to more ala- 
crity in their dreadful functions. The consequence 
was a bloody persecution spread over France, Italy, 
and Germany. 

About 1485 Cumanus burned forty-one poor women 
in one year ; and about the same period another inqui- 
sitor burned a hundred persons in Piedmont. In 1515 
five hundred persons were executed at Geneva as 
" Protestant witches ;" and Rem ignis, the inquisitor 
in Lorraine, boasts that in fifteen years he put to death 
nine hundred persons. In 1524 a thousand persons 
are said to have thus perished in Como. Witchcraft 
was made a frequent pretext for the persecution of the 
Albigenses in France, and that country continued the 
scene of the most cruel proceedings, until an edict of 
Louis XIV. forbidding further proceedings on account 
of the crime, was the cause of its entire disappearance. 
So true is it that cruel persecution multiplies rather 
than diminishes the crime it is directed against. In 
Spain the Inquisition was most active in its proceed- 
ings against sorcery ; while in Sweden, in 1669, accord- 
ing to Dr. Horneck, more than fourscore persons lost 
their lives on the accusation of witchcraft, the only 
evidence against them being the reports of children. 

Britain has unfortunately kept pace with other coun- 
tries in these barbarous proceedings. Prior to the 
reign of Elizabeth condemnations had occurred for 
witchcraft, or rather for political offences with which 
this was said to be mingled; but in 1558 we find 
Bishop Jewel thus addressing her : — " It may please 
your Grace to understand that witches and sorcerers 
within the last four years are marvellously increased 
within your Grace's realm. Your Grace's subjects 
pine away even to the death, their colour fadeth, their 
flesh rotteth, their speech is benumbed, their senses are 
bereft. I pray God they never practise further than 
the subject." 

Statutes were passed against sorcery and witchcraft ; 
but, with some exceptions, the punishments resulting 
were neither severe nor frequent during the queen's 
reign. Far otherwise in that of her successor. The 
pedantic James had, even before his accession to the 
English throne, published a work upon the subject ; 
and thus his fears of personal injury resulting to him- 
self from the diabolical agency of witchcraft, and his 
vanity as an author, instigated him to an active inves- 
tigation of the subject. He published a new edition of 
his • Dacmonologie,' in 1603. In it he deplores the 
manifold increase of the crime ; enters into an elabo- 
rate disquisition concerning its varieties, its detection 
and punishment, adopting with implicit faith all the 
gross delusions and glaring absurdities current among 
the mass of the people. The book is written in the form 
of a dialogue. After death having been denounced, 
the question is asked, " But ought no sexe, age, or 
ranke to be exempted ? — None at al ; for it is the 
highest point of idolatry, wherein no exception is ad- 
mitted by the law of God." Speaking of the proofs of 
witchcraft, he says, " And besides there are two other 
good helpes that may be used for their triall : the one 
is the finding of their marke, and the trying the insen- 
sibleness thereof. The other is their fleeting in the 
water ; for, as in a secret murther, if the dead carkasse 
be at any time handled thereafter by the murthercr, it 
will gusn out of bloud, as if the bloud were crying ro 
heaven for revenge of the murtherer, God having 
appoynted the secret supernaturall signe for tryall of 
that secret unnaturall crime ; so it appears that God 
hath appoynted that the water shall refuse to receive 
them m her bosome that have shaken off them the 

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[March 20, 

sacred water of baptisme, and wilfully refused the 
benefite thereof. No, not so much as their eies are 
able to shead teares (threaten and torture them as you 
please) while first they repent, albeit the women-kinde 
especially be able otherwaies to shead teares at every 
light occasion, when they will, yea, although it were 
dissemblingly like the crocodiles." Numerous other 
writers supported the views of the monarch, and at that 
epoch Reginald Scott was the only writer in this country 
who courageously combated the popular delusions; 
and in his • Discoverie of Witchcraft' fully exposed 
the utter absurdity of attributing this evil practice 
to these miserable victims of persecution, and the 
cruelty of the means employed for their condemnation. 
His book was burned by the order of James, who also 
stigmatized the author in the preface to his * Daemon- 
ologie.' Indeed, it required no little moral courage in 
those days to take the part which Scott did, as all the 
early writers against the existence of witchcraft were 
looked upon as atheists. The statute of James declared 
witchcraft felony without benefit of clergy, and several 
individuals perished in consequence. But it was 
during the civil wars, upon the predominance of the 
Presbyterian party, that the greatest cruelties were 

Iiractised against witches both in England and Scot- 
and. Wretches under the name of witch-finders were 
encouraged to traverse all parts of the country in quest 
of these victims of ignorance and credulity. Evidence 
of the slightest, and often of the most absurd description , 
was received as all-sufficient : nay, the mere surmise 
of an ill-affected neighbour, or the occurrence of some 
calamity in her neighbourhood, has hurried many a 
poor old woman to the stake. The witch-finder was per- 
mitted to submit the suspected person to various cruel 
trials or tests, out of which it was scarcely possible she 
should come unscathed, seeing that the pain she suf- 
fered often extorted confession (for what will torture 
not extort ?) <j and when this was not the case, the by- 
standers almost always drew unfavourable conclusions 
from the mode in which she went through her trials. 
A brutal fellow, named Matthew Hopkins, acquired 
an immense reputation as a witch-finder ; and in 1647 
published a pamphlet detailing the means he em- 

After the restoration of Charles II., these cruelties 
were but rarely practised, yet the statute of James I., 
which sanctioned them, was not repealed until the 9th 
of George II. One of the most extraordinary events 
which has been recorded in connection with popular 
delusions occurred in New England, when the colonists, 
themselves fleeing from oppressions at home, com- 
menced, in 1692, a most furious and unaccountable 
persecution against persons accused of witchcraft. In- 
dividuals of all conditions and ages became involved in 
the proscription, and those who did not save themselves 
by speedy flight were executed : young children suf- 
fered, and even a dog was among the condemned. This 
frenzy disappeared as suddenly as it had commenced ; 
many of the judges and jurors who had taken part in 
the horrid scenes publishing their penitence for the 
rashness of their conduct. 

Education.— It ia a great art in the education of youth to find 
out peculiar aptitudes, or, where none exist, to create inclina- 
tions which may serve as substitutes. Different minds are like 
different soils; some are suited only to particular cultivation; 
other will mature almost anything ; others, adapted to a round 
of ordinary products ; and a few are washed, unless they are re- 
served for what is most choice. — Walker* Original. 

A companion that is cheerful, and free from swearing and 
scurrilous discourse, is worth gold. I love such mirth as does 
not make friends ashamed to look upon one another next morn- 

ing ; nor men, that cannot well bear it, to repent the money 
they spend when they be warmed with drink. And take this 
for a rule : you may pick out such times and such companions, 
that you may make yourselves merrier for a little than a great 
deal of money ; •« Tis the company, and not the charge, that 
makes the feast."— /zoo* Walton. 

Town Gordon of the Japan**.— The front of the better class 
of houses is occupied by a large portico and entrance, where the 
palanquins, umbrellas, and shoes of visitors are left, where ser- 
vants and persons on business wait, &c. ; and which is connected 
with all the domestic offices* The back of the house is the part 
inhabited by the family ; and it projects into the garden trian- 
gularly, for the benefit of more light and cheerfulness. These 
gardens, however diminutive, are always laid out in the land- 
scape-garden style, with socks, mountains, lakes, waterfalls, and 
trees ; and uniformly contain a family chapel or oratory. Ab- 
surd as such would-be pleasure-grounds may seem, when con- 
fined in extent, as must be the garden even ot a wealthy house- 
holder in the heart of a city, this intermixture of verdure 
nevertheless contributes greatly to the airiness and gay aspect of 
the town itself. And we are told that the very smallest habita- 
tions possess similar gardens, yet more in miniature, sometimes 
consisting of what may be called the mere comers cut off from the 
triangular back of the house, with the trees in flower-pots. — 
SteboWt Manner* and Custom* of the Japanese. 

A Gigantic Iceberg. — At twelye o'clock we went below ; and 
had just got through dinner, when the cook put his head down 
the scuttle, and told us to come on deck and see the finest sight 
that we had ever seen. «* Where away, cook V asked the first 
man who was up. " On the larboard bow.' 1 And there lay 
floating in the ocean, several miles off, an immense irregular 
mass, its top and points covered with snow, and its centre of a 
deep indigo colour. This was an iceberg, and of the largest 
size, as one of our men said, who had been in the Northern Ocean. 
As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every direction was of a 
deep blue colour, the waves running high and fresh, and spark- 
ling in the light ; and in the midst lay this immense mountain- 
island, its cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, and its 
points and pinnacles glittering in the sun. All hands were soon 
on deck, looking at it, and admiring in various ways its beauty 
and grandeur. But no description can give any idea of the 
strangeness, splendour, and, really, the sublimity of the sight. Its 
great size — for it must have been from two to three miles in cir- 
cumference, and several hundred feet in height ; its slow motion, 
as its base rose and sank in the water, and its high points nodded 
against the clouds ; the dashing of the waves upon it, which, 
breaking high with foam, lined its base with a white crust ; and 
the thundering sound of the cracking of the mass, and the break- 
ing and tumbling down of huge pieces ; together with its near- 
ness and approach, which added a slight element of fear — all 
combined to give it the character of true sublimity. The main 
body of the mass was, as I have said, of an indigo colour, its 
base crusted with frozen foam ; and as it grew thin and trans- 
parent towards the edges and top, its colour shaded off from a 
deep blue to the whiteness of snow. It seemed to be drifting 
slowly towards the north, so that we kept away and avoided it. 
It was in sight all the afternoon ; and when we got to leeward of 
it, the wind died away, so that we lay-to quite near it for a 
greater part of the night. Unfortunately there was uo moon ; 
but it was a clear night, and we could plainly mark the long 
regular heaving of the stupendous mass as its edges moved slowly 
against the stars. Several times in our watch loud cracks were 
heard, which sounded as though they must have run through the 
whole length of the iceberg, and several pieces fell down with a 
thundering crash, plunging heavily into tne sea. Towards morn- 
ing a strong breeze sprang up, and we filled away and left it 

astern, and at daylight it was out of sight .No pencil 

has ever yet given anything like the true effect of an iceberg. In 
a picture they are huge uncouth masses stuck in the sea *, while 
their chief beauty and grandeur— their slow stately motion, the 
whirling of the snow about their summits, and the fearful groan- 
ing and cracking of their parts-^-the picture cannot give. This 
is the large iceberg ; while the small and distant islands, floating 
on the smooth sea in the light of a clear day, look like little 
floating fairy isles of sapphire. — Two Year* before the Moit. 

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THE CID.— No. V. 

« I'm the Cid, Rodrigo Diaz, 
Honour of Castile and Spain ; 
Look unto my deeds of prowess ! 
Who could greater glory gain?*' 

In the year 1055, Henry III., Emperor of Germany, com- 
plained to Victor II., who sat in the chair of St. Peter, 
that Fernando of Castile alone, of all the potentates of 

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MxRcn 27 

nobles counselled him to submit, lest he should lose 
his kingdom. " The good Cid " was not present when 
the council commenced its deliberations, but he now 
entered the hall ; and hearing what had passed, " it 
grieved his heart sore," and he thus broke forth : — 

w _Woe the day thy mother bore thee ! 
Woe were for Castile that day, 
Should thy realm, oh, King Fernando, 
This unwonted tribute pay ! 

Never yet have we done homage — 

Shall we to a stranger bow ? 
Great the honor God hath given us— 

Shall we lose that honor now t 

He who would such counsel lend thee, 

Count him, king, to be, thy foe ; 
He against thy crown conspireth, 

And thy sceptre would o'erthrow. 

Thy forefathers erst did rescue 

This fair realm from Paynim sway ; 

Sore they bled, and long they struggled— 
None to aid them did essay. 

Sore they bled — my life I'd forfeit 

Ere 1 d wear the brand of shame, 
Ere I'd stoop to pay this tribute, 

Which none hath a right to claim. 

8end then to the Holy Father, 

Proudly thus to him reply — 
Thou, the king, and I, Rodrigo, 

Him and all his power defy." 

Notwithstanding the daring boldness of this counsel, 
it pleased the king ; and he sent back the messengers 
to the Pope, begging his Holiness not to interfere, and 
at the same time challenging the Emperor and all his 
tributary kings. Straightway a host of eight thousand 
nine hundred men was gathered, and, commanded by 
the Cid and accompanied by the king, it crossed the 
Pyrenees, and met the Count of Savoy, " with a very 
great chivalry" (twenty thousand men, says the Chro- 
nicle), on the plains of France. The Emperor's forces 
were routed and the Count made prisoner ; but the 
Cid released him on his giving up his daughter as 
a hostage. Rodrigo having in another battle defeated 
•* the mightiest power of France," the allied sove- 
reigns in alarm wrote to the Pope, beseeching him to 
Iwevail upon the king of Castile to return to his own 
and, and they would ask no more for tribute, for none 
might withstand the power of the Cid. On these terms 
Fernando withdrew nis forces. The Chronicle adds, 
that the Pope and the allied sovereigns made a solemn 
covenant with him that such a demand should never 
again be made upon Castile. 

In order that we may not withdraw the attention of 
our readers from what bears an immediate reference 
to the Cid, we pass over Ximena's letter to the king, 
complaining ot the long absence of her lord, the king's 
reply, the ceremony of her purification after her first 
delivery, the subsequent death-bed scene of " the good 
king" Fernando, and the distribution of his territories 
among his children — which things are recorded in 
many romances full of interest — and we proceed to 
notice the next striking event in the life of our hero. 

Sancho II., who in 1065 succeeded his father on the 
throne of Castile, went to Rome to attend a council 
convoked by the holy father. On his arrival, he was 
admitted to kiss the pope's hand, which we are informed 
he did " with great courtesy," as did also the Cid and 
the other knights in his train, each in turn, according to 
his rank. After this our Cid chanced to stray into the 
church of St. Peter, and there beheld seven marble 
seats set for the Christian kings then in Rome ; he re- 
marked that that of the French king was placed next 
the papal throne, whilf* that of his own liege was on a 
lower step. This fired his wrath, and he kicked the 

French king's seat to the ground with such violence 
as to break it to pieces, and set his own lord's chair 
in the place of honour. Hereon exclaimed a noble 
duke called the Savoyard, who stood by, — 

" Cursed be thou, Don Rodrigo ! 
May the Pope's ban on thee rest ; 
For thou hast a king dishonour'^, 
Of all kings, I wot, the best." 

The Cid replied— 

"Speak no more of kings, Sir Duke; 

If thou dost of wrong complain, 

It shall straightway be redressed-* 

Here are none beside us twain." 

But the Duke did not seem inclined to fight, so the 
Cid stepped up to him, and gave a hard thrust, — a 
departure, it must be confessed, from his wonted cour- 
tesy, but to be accounted for, if not excused, by the 
state of irritation in which he was at the moment. The 
Duke received the insult in silence, but made his com- 
plaint to the Pope, who immediately excommunicated 
the Cid. Rodrigo, whose wrath had now subsided, 
hereon fell prostrate before his Holiness, and besought 
absolution : 

" I absolve thee, Don Ruy Diaz, 
I absolve thee cheerfully, 
If while at my court thou showest 
Due respect and courtesy." 

Hardly had Sancho ascended the throne of Castile, 
when he sought to wrest from his brothers, Alfonso, 
king of Leon, and Garcia, king of Galicia, the domi- 
nions they had inherited from their father, and in both 
cases, owing to the wisdom and valour of the Cid, he 
was eminently successful. On his first encounter with 
Alfonso, Sancho had the worst of it, his troops being 
put to the rout, but he was cheered by the counsel of 
the Cid : — " List, my liege ! Thy brother's hosts are 
now feasting and making merry in their tents, as is 
the wont of the Leonese and Galicians after a victory ; 
and soon will they be buried in slumber, neither heed- 
ing nor fearing thee ; but gather thou together as 
many of thine own men as may be, and at break of day 
fall on the foe manfully, and verily thou wilt have thy 
revenge." This counsel was followed with great suc- 
cess, the men of Leon were overthrown, and Alfonso 
himself made prisoner, but his troops rallied, and in 
their turn captured Don Sancho. As he was being 
led off the field by fourteen knights, •« the renowned 
one of Bivar" came up, and begged his release in 
exchange for their King Alfonso. They sternly re- 
plied — 

" Hie thee hence, Rodrigo Diaz, 
An thou love thy liberty ; 
Lest, with this thy king, we take thee 
Into dire captivity." 

At this, " preat wrath seized on the Cid," and, regard- 
less of their numbers, he attacked them, and with his 
single arm routed them, and set his king at liberty. 

Our hero was equally instrumental in the conquest 
of Don Garcia, but we refrain from particulars, as it 
is not our intention to dwell so much on his warlike 
deeds as on the other events of his life, which will 
prove of more general interest. We pass then at once 
to the expedition against Zamora. 

Having deprived his brothers of their kingdoms, and 
his sister Elvira of the town of Toro, her only inhe- 
ritance, Don Sancho marched against Zamora, which 
the old king had bequeathed to his other daughter, 
Urraca, but which the new monarch considered his 
rightful inheritance, and eagerly desired to possess, in 
order that his dominion mi^ht in no way be inferior to 
that of his predecessor. His army being encamped be- 
fore the town, the king rode out with the Cid, to re- 

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connoitre the place, and thus expressed his admiration 
of its strength : — 

" See ! where on yon cliff Zamora 
Lifteth up her haughty brow, 
Walls of strength on high begird her, 
Duero swift and deep below. 

Troth ! how wondrous strong she seetneth 

In her panoply of towers ; 
She, I wot, might bid defiance 

To the world and all its powers ! 

Wert she mine, that noble city, 

Spam itself were not so dear ; 
Cid, my sire did thee much honour, 

Great love eke to thee I bear. 

Wherefore charge I thee, Rodrigo, 

As a vassal loyal and true, 
Hie thee straight unto Zamora, 

This my bidding for to do. 1 ' 

He charged the Cid to tell his sister Urraca to de- 
liver up the city, either for a sum of gold or in ex- 
change for some other town, and promised to swear, 
with twelve of his vassals, that he would fulfil the 
agreement ; but as the strongest inducement for her 
to accede to his demand, he added — 

" If she will do none of these, 

I will e'en by force possess it." 

The Cid obeyed with great reluctance, for he had 
before endeavoured to dissuade the king from his un- 
righteous purpose, and had sworn that he would not 
himself take up arms against Zamora. As he ap- 

Eroached the walls, the Infanta Urraca calls out to 
im from the ramparts, — 

" Back ! begone with thee, Rodrigo ! 
Proud Castilian, hence ! away ! 
How canst thou thus dare assail me 1 
Hast forgot that happy day, 

When, at Santiago's altar, 

Thou wast made a belted knight f 
The king, my sire, was thy godfather, 

And put on thy armour bright ; 
My mother brought to thee thy charger, 

By my hands thy spurs were dight. 

Woe is me ! I thought to wed thee ; 

Fondly did I love thee, Cid ; 
But my sins, alas ! forbad it, 

Thou didst with Ximena wed. 

With her thou hadst well-fill'd coffers, 
Honour wouldst have won with me ; 

And, if wealth be good, still better 
Rank and honour were to thee."* 

These words rendered the Cid very sorrowful, and 
he returned to the camp without having accomplished 
the purpose of his embassy. But, according to another 
romance, which agrees with the « Chronicle* in this, as 
well as in omitting all notice of Urraca's confession, 
he entered the city, and delivered his message. The 
Infanta heard it with many tears, and cried — 

* Though the romances make mention of but one Ximena, it 
may be doubted whether the Cid had not two wives of that 
name. Father Berganza, who spared no pains to verify the 
events of our hero's life, seems to regard his marriage with 
Ximena Gomez as fictitious, and thinks his true wife was Ximena 
Diaz, daughter of Don Diego, Count of the Asturias, and of the 
royal blood of Leon, and that he married her in the reign of 
Sancho II. Certain it is that on her tomb, which we have seen 
iu San Pedro de Cardena, she is styled " Ximena Diaz, grand- 
daughter of the King Alfonso V. of Leon." Sandoval and 
Berganza give at length the marriage settlement of the Cid and 
Ximena Diaz, dated 1074, and still preserved, it is said, in the 
archives of the cathedral at Burgos. Lest it should be supposed 
that she was so called from the surname of her husband, we 
must observe that Spanish females do not lose their maiden 
names on their marriage. 

" Woe is mo, a lonely woman ? 
Woe is me, a maid forlorn ! 
King, thy dyjng sire remember ; 
Be not Sancho still forsworn ! 

From thy "brother Don Garcia 

Thou hast crown and kingdom ta'en ; 

Cast him eke into a dungeon, 
Where he ruefully hath lain. 

Next, thy brother Don Alfonso 
Thou didst drive liim from his throne ; 

Fled he straight unto Toledo, 
Where he dwelleth woe-begone. 

From my sister, Dona Elvira, 

Toro host thou wrested, too ; 
Now of me thou would'st Zamora ; 

Woe is me ! what shall I do ?" 

Hereon arose Arias Gonzalo, an aged noble, who 
was the Infanta's chief counsellor, and, to console her, 
he proposed that the sense of the citizens should be 
taken with regard to this matter. This was accordingly 
done, and — 

'< Then did swear all her brave vassals 
In Zamora's walls to die, 
Ere unto the king they'd yield it, 
And disgrace their chivalry." 

When the Cid returned with this answer, the king 
was exceeding wrathful, and accused him of having 
suggested it, because he had been brought up in 
Zamora, and was ill affected towards the expedition. 
So wrathful was Don Sancho, that he exclaimed, 
" Were it not for the love my father bore thee, I would 
straightway have thee hanged ; but I command thee 
to begone in nine days from this my realm of Castile. 
The Cid went his way to the Arab court of Toledo, 
hut his exile was not of long duration, for the king, 
through the representations of his nobles, soon began 
to regret the loss of so valiant a liegeman, and sent to 
recal him. When he heard of his approach, 

" Forth two leagues he went to meet him, 

With five hundred in his train ; 
When the Cid beheld the monarch, 

From his steed he sprung amain. 
Kneeling, the king's hands he kissed, 

Lowly homage did he pay ; 
Then, with joy of all, urn-is ing, 

Took he to the* camp his way." 

One day during the siege of Zamora there came 
running irom the city, hard pursued by the sons of 
Arias Gonzalo, one who made straight for the tent 
of the King Don Sancho. This fellow, whose name 
was Bellido Dolfos, said that he had been forced to 
fly for his life, for having advised Arias to surrender 
the city; he professed himself a warm partisan of 
the king, and offered to show him a postern through 
which he and his forces migjht enter Zamora. Though 
the king was warned hy Arias Gonzalo from the ram- 
parts, — 

" Ware thee ! ware thee ! King Don Sancho, 
List to my admonishment T 
From Zamora's walls a traitor 
Hath gone forth with foul intent," 

he was imprudent enough to sally forth with Bellido 
alone, in order to see this postern, and even handed to 
him, for a moment, the hunting-spear he bore in his 
hand. Dolfos, seeing him unprotected, raised himself 
in his stirrups, and with all his force hurled the spear 
into the king's hack. It passed completely through 
him, and he fell in the agonies of deatn. Tne traitor 
spurred away towards the town, but not alone, for the 
Cid had seen the deed, and, springing to his horse, 
galloped after him ; but not having buckled on his 


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[March 27, 

spurs, he was unable to overtake him before he reached 
the gates. Then cried he in his wrath, — 

" Cursed be the wretch ! and cursed 

He who mounteth without spur ! 

Had I arm'd my heels with rowels, 

I had slain the treacherous cur.** 

The Castilian knights gathered around their dying 
king, and all flattered him with the hope of recovery, 
save the veteran Count of Cabra, who charged him to 
take no heed to his body, but to commend his soul to 
God without delay, for his end was at hand. While 
faltering out his thanks for this counsel, the hapless 
Don Sancho expired. 

" Such-like fate awaiteth all 

Who in traitors put their trust'* 

Seeing without Sight. — Let a man have all the world can give 
him, he is still miserable, if he has a grovelling, unlettered, un- 
cle v out mind. Let him have his gardens, his fields, his woods, 
his lawns for grandeur, plenty, ornament, and gratification; 
while at the same time God is not in all his thoughts. And let 
another man have neither field nor garden ; let him look only at 
nature with an enlightened mind — a mind which can see and adore 
the Creator in his works, can consider them as demonstrations of 
his power, his wisdom, his goodness, and his truth ; this man is 
greater, as well as happier, in his poverty, than the other in his 
riches. The one is but little higher than a beast, the other but a 
little lower than an angel.— Jones of Nawkmd. 

Picture of a Savage, — I observed a native on the opposite 
bank, and, without being seen by him, I stood awhile to watch 
the habits of a savage man at home. His hands were ready to 
seize, his teeth to eat any living thing; his step, light and sound- 
less as that of a shadow, gave no intimation or his approach ; his 
walk suggested the idea of the prowling of a beast of prey ; 
every little track or impression left on the earth by the lower 
animals caught his keen eye, but the trees overhead chiefly en- 
gaged his attention. Deep in the hollow heart of some of the 
upper branches was still hidden, as it seemed, the opossum on 
which he was to dine. The wind blew cold and keenly through 
the lofty trees on the river margin, yet tliat brawny savage was 
entirely naked. Had I been unarmed, I had much rather have 
met a lion, than that sinewy biyed ; but I was on horseback, 
with pistol in my holsters, and the broad river was flowing be- 
tween us. I overlooked him from a high bank, and I ventured 
to disturb his meditations with a halloo. He then stood still, 
looked at me for about a minute, and then returned, with that 
easy bounding kind of step which may be termed a running-walk, 
exhibiting an unrestrained facility of movement, apparently in- 
compatible with dress of any kiud. It is in bounding lightly 
at such a pace, that, with the additional aid of the waramerah 
(a short notched stick), the native can throw his spear with suffi- 
cient force and velocity to kill the emu or kangaroo, even when 
at its speed.— Major MitcheWs Third Expedition into the Interior 
0/ Eastern Australia. 

A Finland Farm-house.— After leaving Ofvre Tomea there are 
no regular post-houses, but the peasants drive to a farm-house. 
Here is a description of one : — A large fire blazed, that made 
even the great room uncomfortably warm. Divers trades were 
going on in different parts of it : in one comer a man was finish- 
ing a set of harness ; in another, the runners of a sledge were re- 
ceiving the peculiar curve that distinguishes them in Finland ; 
and a number of lasses, with their shoulders troubled with very 
little clothing, were keeping half-a-dozen spinning-wheels in con- 
stant motion. As soon as they perceived that I wanted a relay, 
one of the girls put on a little jacket, and, without waiting to 
button it over her breast, ran to a house a quarter of a mile off 
to fetch a horse. ... I entered a few houses where there 
were shelves on each side of the fire, bearing forty or fifty birch 
pans filled with cream an inch thick ; and they contrive to continue 
making butter the whole winter through. The houses are not dirty, 
though the rooms are generally darkened by smoke. In lieu of 
candles, they use latlis of fir planted obliquely in a stand ; these 
give a cheerful but unsteady light, and require replacing every 
second minute. Although labouring under such disadvantages, 
both as regards soil and climate, their state is infinitely prefera- 

ble, to that of tha Irish. Their habitations are roomy, built of 
wood, and furnished with glass windows ; they themselves are 
comfortably clothed and industrious. — Dillon % Winter in Ice- 

Habits of the Greenlandtrs. —Like most other savage nations, 
among whom the gratification of the mere animal propensities is 
the only inducement to action, the Greenlanders are indolent and 
listless. Though good humoured, friendly, and sociable, they are 
seldom lively or inclined to indulge in mirth, and can scarcely 
be roused from their apathy either by curiosity or passion. They 
are accordingly little disposed to Quarrel or fight ; blows or even 
angry words are seldom exchanged, and they live in great har- 
mony, more influenced by kindness than by harsh treatment. 
Changeable to an extreme degree, their most favourite projects 
are resigned on the smallest unexpected obstacles. Endowed 
with little reach or extent of intellect, their thoughts and cares 
are almost entirely confined to the present ; and they spend their 
limited stock of provisions without reflecting on future wants, or 
waste the best season of the year in hunting reindeer for skins to 
gratify the vanity of their wives and daughters. When not com- 
pelled by absolute necessity, they pass whole days in sleep, or 
sit thoughtful and dejected on some lofty eminence watching the 
changes of the sea and sky, or forecasting the toils and dangers of 
the chase. Vanity, both personal and national, seems their 
strongest passion ; unable to estimate the advantages of others, 
they esteem no people equal to themselves, no title higher than 
to be a Greenlander. The most flattering compliment they can 
pay to a stranger is to say, " He is almost as well bred as we ; n 
or, *' He begins to be a man/ 1 or " Innuit," that is, a Greenlander. 
A favourite amusement among them is to exhibit caricatured 
imitations of the Kablunaet, or foreigners. Even those who have 
been in Denmark prefer their naked sterile rocks to every other 
country, and still hardly confess that Europeans are so happy as 
they-; complaining that at Copenhagen there is not heaven 
enough, and no reasonable degree of cold.— Edinburgh Cabinet 

One Supreme Vomer in Japan. — The monarch de facto is called 
the Ziogoon ; and his time is now occupied by ceremonies and 
receiving homage ; but there is over him a monarch de jure, 
whose title is Mikado, and who is thus described : — 

" This nominally supreme sovereign does, indeed, claim td 
reign by right' divine, both as being descended in a direct line 
from the gods, and as being in a manner still identified with them, 
the spirit of the Sun goddess, the deity who rules the universe, 
gods and men included, Ama-terasu-oo-kami, being embodied in 
every reigning Mikado. Sach a claim to despotic power was in- 
disputable and undisputed, as it still is ; but some centuries ago, 
a military chief, rendering his own situation hereditary, possessed 
himself of the actual authority, under the title of Ziogoon, as 
vicegerent or deputy of the Mikado, to whom he left the nominal 
supreme sovereignty, and all his state, pomp, and dignity, a no- 
minal ministry included. In fact, it appears that tlie autocrat's 
dignity is now made the plea for depriving him of his power. 
Worldly affairs are represented to be so wholly undeserving the 
attention of the successor of the gods, that his bestowing a thought 
upon them would degrade him, even if it were not actual pro- 
fanation. Accordingly, no business is submitted to him, no act 
of sovereignty is p erfo rm ed by him that has not a religious cha- 
racter. He deifies or canonizes great men after death ; the Zio- 
goon taking the trouble of pointing out the dead who are worthy 
of apotheosis. He confers the offices of his court, a real spiritual 
hierarchy, and, from their nominal dignity and sanctity, objects 
of ambition to the princes of the empire, to the Ziogoon s minis- 
ters, and to the Ziogoon himself. He determines the days on 
which certain moveable religious festivals are to be celebrated, 
the colours appropriate to evil spirits, and the like : and one 
other governing act, if act it may be called, he daily performs, 
which should prove him to be, in virtue of his partial identifica* 
tion with the Sun goddess, quite as much the patron divinity as 
the sovereign of Japan. He every day passes a certain number of 
hours upon his throne, immovable, lest by turning his bead he 
should bring down ruin upon that part of the empire to or from 
which he should look; ny this immobility maintaining the 
whole realm's stability and tranquillity. When be has sat the 
requisite number of hours, he resigns his place to his crown, 
which continues upon the throne as his substitute during tht 
remainder of the day and night. — Siebold's Manners and Customs 
of the Japanese. 

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[Maim*. Chart* and its localities. The Portrait of John from the effigv on hb tomb at Worcester ; that or Filnralter (full length') fa>m his seal. 
View of Runoymede. from an original drawing engraved in the ' Pictorial History of England.* The arms, pennons, &c of the principal barons, 
and Regal ana Ecclesiastical insignia, from MSS. of the period, occupy the remainder of the design.] 



If there be one feature of our national history more 
important than any other, more worthy of our pride 
and unalloyed gratification, it is the growth of that 
constitutional liberty which, from a very distant pe- 
riod, occupies so large a portion pf our annals. To 
Uke arms against oppression may be an act worthy of 
all honour, and successes in such a struggle are trea- 
sured up in the hearts of almost every people ; but to 
have at the same time a clear perception of the prin- 

ciples upon which these successes can alone be solidly 
based and rendered permanently valuable — to fight 
not against the tyrant, but his tyranny, — these are 
honours peculiarly our own, and are among the most 
interesting evidences of the penetration and solidity 
of the national character. Without attempting to in- 
vestigate the origin of this perception of the value of 
constitutional safeguards, we may say that there can 
be little doubt it first assumed a definite form in the 
hands of the mailed Norman-English barons of the 
thirteenth century, when the Great Charter was wrung 
from John ; who thus by a species of poetical justice 

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[March 27, 

obtained for our Saxon forefathers a new and more 
enduring liberty than that which the ancestors of those 
same barons had destroyed in the memorable field of 

As we have already given in our publication a de- 
tailed history of this great event, as well as a view of 
the chief provisions of the Charter,* we shall here 
confine ourselves strictly to the " memories*' with which 
they are connected. And first, as to the great meeting 
at St. Edmund's Bury, or, as it is now called, Bury St. 
Edmund's. This town, named after King Edmund 
the Martyr, who was crowned here on Christmas-day, 
856, is pleasantly situated on the river Larke, in the 
western division of the county of Suffolk, at a distance 
of twenty-five miles from Ipswich and seventy-two 
from London. It presents in its general aspect — its 
good houses, clean streets, and beautiful promenades 
— as delightful a specimen of a country town as one 
would desire to see. To the antiquarian it presents 
additional objects of interest in the remains of its once 
magnificent abbey, built to commemorate the martyr- 
dom of Edmund, and which, for the grandeur of its 
buildings, the splendour of its decorations, and the 
great privileges and immunities it enjoyed, exceeded 
every other religious establishment in this country, 
Glastonbury only excepted. The first stone church of 
the abbey was begun m 1065. In this edifice, which 
took twelve years to build, which measured no less 
than 505 feet in length, and from 212 feet in the tran- 
sept to 240 feet in the western front in breadth, met, 
on the 20th of November, 1214, the confederated 
barons to arrange finally their plans with regard to 
the king. John had but just returned from France, 
where his troops and allies had been completely routed 
at the battle of Bouvines by the army of the French 
king Philip. Defeat made him more ferocious than 
ever, his foreign mercenaries were once more let 
loose upon the country, to riot in the blood and wealth 
of his English subjects. Every promise the barons 
had formerly obtained, no matter now solemn the cir- 
cumstance by which it had been attended, was now 
violated. Accordingly the barons met at St. Edmund's 
Bury, and determined to demand their rights in a 
body, at the ensuing festival of Christmas. Up to the 
high altar of the sacred edifice — so endeared from its 
Saxon memories, and therefore so fitting a place for 
the Norman-descended barons to offer up their solemn 
vows to carry stedfastly forward the object they had in 
view for the benefit of universal England— did the barons 
advance one by one, and in the order of their seniority, 
and then, laying their hands upon it, swear that if the king 
refused the rights they claimed, they would withdraw 
their fealty, and make war upon him, till, by a Charter 
under his own seal, he should confirm their just 
petitions. They then parted to meet again at the Feast 
of the Nativity. 

Before we follow their progress any further, let us 
take a hasty glance at the persons and previous his- 
tories of the principal of those brave and enlightened 
warriors, to whom we owe so much. Robert Fitzwal- 
ter, their leader (and who, if we may judge from his 
portrait in the engraving at the head of this paper, 
bore that in his lineaments and bearing which stamped 
him as no ordinary man), was the grandson of Richard 
Trowbridge, earl of Clare, to whom Henry I. had 
granted the barony of Dunmow in Essex, and the 
honour of Baynard's Castle in the city of London. 
His father, Walter, distinguished himself by his opposi- 
tion to John in his attempts to seize the crown during 
Richard's absence from England. His son and heir, 
who was destined still more strongly to excite John's 
resentment, was called Fitz- Walter, that is to say, the 
eon of Walter, being the first of his family who appears 
* Vol. ii., p. 328. 

to have assumed that name. There are two interest- 
ing Circumstances connecting the personal history of 
Robert Fitzwalter with the king. In the fourteenth 
year of his reign, John, in revenge for the share Fitz- 
walter had taken in the opposition to his arbitrary mea- 
sures, destroyed Baynard's Castle, and drove its owner 
and his family into exile. Some time after this, John, 
being present at a tournament in Normandy, was de- 
lighted with the success of one of the knights who 
fought there on the English side, and whose surprising 
gallantry was the general theme of admiration : «« By 
God's teeth," he exclaimed, " he deserves to be a king 
who hath such a soldier in his train," and immediately 
sent to inquire his name ; it was Robert Fitzwalter. 
John, with a grace and generosity not very common 
with him, immediately restored the barony, and gave 
him leave to repair his castles. A still more interest- 
ing but less authentic circumstance is thus mentioned 
by Dugdale : " Robert Fitzwalter having a very beauti- 
ful daughter, called Maud, residing at Dunmow, the 
kinjj frequently solicited her chastity, but never pre- 
vailing, grew so enraged that he caused her to be 
privately poisoned, and she was buried on the south 
side of the choir of Dunmow, between two pillars 
there." His object in poisoning her is stated by other 
writers to have been to prevent her informing her 
father (then in France) of nis conduct. Whether true 
or false, this story obtained extensive credence, and 
Drayton founded two of his heroical epistles upon it 

Robert de Ros, or Furfan, another of the barons, 
early in life fell under the displeasure of Richard I., 
then in Normandy, who committed him to close con- 
finement under the charge of Hugh de Chaumont, with 
especial directions to keep him safe as his own life. 
Chaumont transferred the charge to William de Spiney, 
whom the prisoner bribed to allow him to escape from 
his castle of Bonville. De Ros escaped, but Richard 
made him pay a fine of 1200 marks ; and as for William 
de Spiney, the incensed monarch caused him to be 
hung. 1 his baron married the daughter of William 
the Lion of Scotland, and was therefore powerfully 
connected. For a short time he entered a religious 
house, giving up his houses and lands to another, but 
not liking the solitudes of the cell and the cloister, or 
perhaps stirred by a noble ambition to aid in the great 
struggle then going on, he soon returned to the world, 
and resumed his property. Among the other eminent 
barons, were Gilbert de Clare, first earl of the united 
baronies of Hertford and Gloucester; Robert de Percy, 
head of the famous house of that name ; Geoffrey de 
Mandeville, earl of Essex, to whom John had given 
in marriage his wife Isabel, when he repudiated her on 
the ground of consanguinity ; Henry Bohun, first earl 
of Hereford; William de Malet, whose ancestor was 
deputed by the Conqueror, after the battle of Hastings, 
to see the body ot Harold decently interred ; and 
Robert de Ros, whose family was so ancient that Leland 
deduced it from Noah, taking in Meleager, that slew 
the boar, and Diomedes, who was at the siege of Troy, 
by the way. On this point we give our entire assent 
to the cautious doubt expressed by Banks : " this 
genealogy appears to be founded on fancy more than 
truth." De Vere's brother, Aubrey, was on the oppo- 
site side, and achieved the not very honourable distinc- 
tion of being one of John's chief counsellors in the 
disgraceful doings of that monarch. Such are a few 
only of the eminent men John saw arrayed against 

On the Feast of the Nativity the barons set out to 
meet John at Worcester, but alarmed at the general 
aspect of affairs, he suddenly quitted that place, and 
coming to London, shut himself up in the strong house of 
the Knights Templars. Here, on the Feast of the Epi- 
phany, the barons (who chose a holy day for every im- 

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porlant step — a striking proof of the solemn determined 
spirit that actuated them) presented themselves in such 
numbers that John was obliged to admit them to an 
audience. After vainly endeavouring to frighten them 
from their course, he turned pale, trembled, and 
changed his tone. " Your petition," said he, " con- 
tains matter weighty and arduous. You must grant 
me time till Easter, that with due deliberation I may 
be able to do justice to myself and satisfy the dignity 
of the crown." The barons ultimately agreed to this, 
and dispersed. John used the interval by courting the 
church, the people, and by sending a special mes- 
senger to the Pope, in which the barons imitated his 

At the appointed time the barons met at Stamford 
with great military pomp, attended by a retinue of two 
thousand knights, and a host of less important followers. 
From thence they marched to Brackley, within a few 
miles of Oxford, where the king was. Here they were 
met by a deputation from the king, to which they de- 
livered a schedule of the chief articles of their demand, 
saying, " these are our claims ; and, if they are not 
instantly granted, our arms shall do us justice." When 
John read the schedule, his rage knew no bounds: 
" but why do they not demand my crown also ? By 
Gods teeth, I will not grant them liberties which will 
make me a slave." The barons now proclaimed them- 
selves " the army of God and of Holy Church," and 
unanimously elected Robert Fitzwalter to be their 
general. After an ineffectual attempt to take North- 
ampton Castle (having no battering-engines), they 
marched to Bedford, where the people threw open the 
gate to welcome them. The same took place m Lon- 
don : and now, in all parts of the country, the lords 
and knights quitted their castles to join the barons 1 
standard. John was stupified at the power and array 
he beheld, and at last sent to assure the barons that, 
for the good of peace and the exaltation of his reign, 
he was ready freely to grant all they desired, and 
wished them to name a day and a place of meeting. 
" Let the day," replied the barons, " be the 15th of 
June; the place, Runnymede." 

According to tradition, the barons met the preceding 
evening, to make all necessary preparations, at Reigate 
Castle, in the neighbourhood, which then belonged to 
William, Earl of Warren and Surrey, one of the king's 
party. The precise spot to which the tradition is re- 
ferred is a cavern under the castle court, called for a 
long time, perhaps still, " the Barons' Cave." 

On the folio wing day, the ever memorable 15th of 
June, the parties met in the meadow on the banks of 
the Thames, known, from time immemorial, as a place 
sacred to great national events, the name, Runnymede, 
signifying the Mead of Council.* The tents of the king, 
and of the few barons and great personages who ad- 
hered to him, were pitched upon one side, and those of 
the countless nobles, knights, &c., who were there to 
dictate terms to their humbled sovereign, on the other. 
A scroll was then and there presented to John, which 
he almost immediately signed. Securities also were 
exacted ; the foreign officers were to be sent out of the 
kingdom ; the City of London, for the next two months, 
was to be held by the barons, and the Tower by their 
supporter Cardinal Langton : above all, the barons 
were to choose five and twenty of their number to act 
as guardians or conservators of the liberties of the 
kingdom, with power, in case of any breach of the 

* Much has been said about the Charter being signed not at 
Runnymede, but in a wighl>ouring island, known as Charter 
Island. One would have thought the document itself wa* an 
unanswerable testimony as to the fact of the case. It concludes 
with the words, " Given under our hands .... in the meadow 
called Runnymede, between Windsor and Staines, on the 15th 
day of June, and in the 17th year of our reign." 

Charter for which redress was not immediately given, 
to make war upon the king ; to seize his castles and 
lands, always, however, saving harmless his person 
and the persons of his queen and family. So ended 
this great day. As soon as John found himself alone 
among his friends at Windsor Castle, he gave way to 
the now ungovernable rage and frenzy that possessed 
him. He cursed the day of his birth, gnashed his 
teeth, rolled his eyes, gnawed sticks and straws, and 
appeared to have utterly lost his senses. His foreign 
adherents, however, soon raised his spirits ; messengers 
were despatched to hire adventurers to come aud join 
the king's standard. Into subsequent events we cannot 
enter at any length. John soon found himself at the 
head of an army of foreign mercenaries, with whom he 
moved to and fro, burning and slaughtering his sub- 
jects and countrymen at every step. The barons, in 
despair of successfully coping with these savage hordes 
continually pouring into the country, offered the crown 
to the French king s eldest son, Louis, who speedily 
landed at Sandwich with a numerous and well ap- 
pointed army. A few months after John died, and 
Louis and the confederated barons were opposed by the 
noble Earl of Pembroke, who, having overthrown the 
latter at Lincoln, at the battle known as " the Fair of 
Lincoln," wisely used his victory in attaching the Eng- 
lish barons to the standard of the young king, Henry 
III., by full indemnity for the past A principle of 
fidelity, indeed, to the man whom, though a foreigner, 
they had invited into England, could have been the 
only motive that kept them so long from joining tho 
royal standard ; for Pembroke, as Protector, nad already 
shown his desire to meet their demands in a sincere 
spirit of concession. Most of the great barons we 
have before particularised were made prisoners, in this 
battle. We need not follow their history farther than 
to mention that Fitzwalter subsequently went to the 
Holy Land ; and having distinguished himself at the 
siege of Damietta, returned to England, and was buried 
(1235) in the priory at Dunmow ;* and that Robert de 
Itos, after founding the castles of Hamlake in York- 
shire and Werke in Northumberland, became a Knight 
Templar, and now lies buried in the Temple church. 
Upon his tomb (a beautiful and very interesting me- 
morial) is a representation of a comely-looking knight 
in mail and flowing mantle with a kind of cowl; nis 
hair is neatly curled at the sides, his legs are crossed, a 
long sword is by his side, and a lion at his feet 


(.Continued from p 119.] 

Alchemy, or the imaginary art of converting the 
baser metals into gold and silver, is supposed, as 
the prefix al would seem to denote, to have been 
of Arabic origin. The means by which this trans- 
mutation was affected, was the substance termed the 
philosopher's stone— the grand object of the re- 
search and manipulations of the chemical philosophers 
of the middle ages. The possibility of its discovery 
was implicitly believed by even some of the greatest 
geniuses of the time, while its actual possession was 
boasted of by others of more doubtful reputation. It 
was a sorry circumstance that the possessor of this 
source of unlimited riches was but too often clothed 
in rags, and a mendicant for the necessaries of life ; 
so that with good reason the Italian proverb says, 
" Non ti fidiarc al alchemista povero o medico ania- 
lato " (do not place your trust in a poor alchemist or 

* This very same carl is, we believe, the founder of the 
famous custom at Dunmow of giving a flitch of bacon to any 
married couple who, alter the space of a year, would swear they 
have never wished themselves unmarried. 

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[March 27. 

a rick physician). In the thirteenth century alchemy 
was in a most flourishing condition, enumerating 
among its professors the names of Roger Bacon, Ray- 
mond Lully, and Albertus Magnus. Another object 
of research was the elixir of life, or universal medi- 
cine for the cure of all diseases and the prolongation 
of life beyond its natural limits. " That medicine," 
says Friar Bacon, " which could remove all impuri- 
ties of the base'r metals, and change them into the 
finest gold and silver, could also remove all the cor- 
ruptions of the human body, to such a degree that life 
might be prolonged through many ages." There 
arose in Germany a religious sect about the fourteenth 
century, which, by the distortion of certain passages of 
Scripture, gave them an alchemical application ; and 
constituted itself into an order of the Rosie Cross (four 
red roses arranged in a cross being its sign), and has 
since attracted much attention in Europe under the 
appellation of Rosicrucians. 

We have mentioned that many learned men of these 
comparatively dark periods were firm believers in the 
truths of alchemy, and passed great portions of their 
lives in the laborious studies and practices its study 
entailed. Besides Bacon and others, who, contem- 
poraries of the delusion, were the more likely to be 
led astray by its promises, others in. more recent times 
have professed their partial or entire belief in the nar- 
rations handed down to us : this is the case with Des- 
cartes, Bergmann, and Van Helmont. The latter says, 
44 1 am constrained to believe in the making of gold 
and silver, though I know many exquisite chemists to 
have consumed their own and other men's goods in 
search of this mystery ; and to this day we see these 
unworthy and simple labourers cunningly deluded by 
a diabolical crew of gold-and-silver-sucking flies and 
leeches. But I know that many will contradict this 
truth : one says it is the work of the devil, and another 
that the sauce is dearer than the meat" Helvetius 
published a detailed account of a transmutation he 
himself witnessed, performed at his house by a stranger 
of " plebeick habit, honest gravity, and serious 
authority." He calls his book * The Brief of the 
Golden Calf: discovering the rarest miracle of nature, 
how by the smallest portion of the Philosopher's 
Stone a great piece of common Lead was totally trans- 
muted into the purest transplendent Gold, at the 
Hague in 1666." 

Holding out such brilliant promises, the alchemists 
could not want protectors and patrons, and accordingly 
we find various sovereigns taking the greatest interest 
in their proceedings, nay, becoming operators them- 
selves. This was the case with Pope John XXJI., at 
whose death were found eighteen million florins in 
gold and seven million in precious stones ; while he 
declares, in his work upon the subject, that he had made 
two hundred ingots ot gold, each weighing a hundred 

gmnds. In our own country two of our greatest kings, 
dward I. and III., were great believers and patrons, 
and Raymond Lully is said to have furnished Edward 
I. with a great quantity of gold. In 1329 Edward III. 
issued the following curious proclamation : " Know 
all men that we have been assured that John Rows and 
William de Dalby know how to make silver by the art 
of alchymy ; that they have made it in former times, 
and still continue to make it; and considering that 
these men, by their art, and by making that precious 
metal, may he profitable to us and to our kingdom, we 
have commanded our well-beloved Thomas Cary to ap- 
prehend the aforesaid John and William, wnerever 
they can be found, and bring them to us, together with 
all the instruments of their art." 

Alchemy was also much encouraged by Henry VI. 
In his reign many protections were given to alchemists, to 
secure them from the penalties of an act of parliament 

passed in 1403, and from the fury of the people, who 
believed them to be aided by infernal spirits. After 
a long preamble stating the advantages and probabili- 
ties of success attendant upon the researches of the 
alchemists, one of these protections thus continues: 
" We, therefore, confiding in the fidelity, circumspec- 
tion, profound learning, and extraordinary skill in the 
natural sciences, of these famous men, John Faucely, 
John Kirkelv, and John Rayney, elect, assign, no- 
minate, and license all and each of them, and of our 
certain knowledge, and by our authority and preroga- 
tive royal, we, by these presents, grant to all and each 
of them, liberty, warrant, power, and authority, to in- 
quire, investigate, begin, prosecute, and perfect the 
aforesaid; medicine, according to their own discretion 
and the precepts of ancient sages, as also to transub- 
stantiate other metals into true gold and silver : the 
above statute or any other statute to the contrary not- 
withstanding. Eurtner we hereby take the said John, 
John, and John, with all their servants and assistants, 
into our special tuition and protection." This com- 
mission was confirmed by the parliament in 1466. 

Although many of the alchemists were the honest 
dupes of their own imaginations, yet others were rank 
impostors and charlatans; and the advancement ot 
modern chemical knowledge has brought to light many 
of the trickB and stratagems (several very ingenious in 
their contrivance) they liad recourse to in order to 
deceive. Occasionally, however, they were hardly dealt 
with, for various princes and nobles, whose cupidity 
was excited by their representations, imprisoned and 
tortured them in order to make them multiply gold or 
furnish the valuable powder for so doing. W itn how 
little success need not be mentioned. 

[To be Continued.] 

Greenland Fi$hmg-Boat$. — The only thing in which the Green- 
landers manifest much skill is in the structure and management 
of their boats, the kayak, or boat for one man, and the oomiak, or 
women's boat, both formed of a light framework of wood covered 
with seal-skin. The latter is usually about twenty-four feet 
long and five or six wide, though some are built nearly a half 
larger. The covering consists of sixteen or twenty seal -skins 
saturated with blubber and thoroughly dried. Neither nails nor 
spikes are used in their construction, the whole being fastened 
together by the sinews of the seal, and their entire strength con- 
sists in their elasticity. They are flat-bottomed, and only fitted 
for a calm sea, as a stiff breece or heavy swell is sure to causiso 
or destroy them. The ice is also apt to cut the skin by which 
they are covered, when the natives repair the damage by stuffing 
the hole with blubber, or draw them upon the shore and sew a 
patch an the place, which is soon accomplished, as two persons 
can easily carry one of them. They are rowed by four or five 
women, and with a full cargo on board can accomplish thirty miles 
or more in a day, though on long voyages one cannot reckon on more 
than twenty or twenty-four on an average, as every fifth day the 
boat must be taken out of the sea, to allow the skin, now saturated 
with water, to dry. The former, the kayak, or man's boat, is from 
twelve to fourteen feet long, about eighteen inches wide, and a 
foot deep, formed of wood and whalebone, covered above and 
below with skin, and seldom weighs more than twenty or thirty 
pounds. In the middle is an opening, surrounded by a hoop, 
into which the Esquimaux slips, and drawing his seal-skin cloak 
tight round it, renders the whole completely impervious to water. 
There is only one oar, six feet long, with a thin blade at each 
end fenced with bone. In this frail bark he fears no storm, float- 
ing like a sea-bird on the top of the billows, or emerging from 
beneath the white waves that dash over his head. Even when 
upset, he rights himself by a stroke of his oar under the water ; 
but if this is lost or broken, he is certain to perish. Few Eu- 
ropeans ever learn to row the kayak, and many even of the 
natives can never attain sufficient skill to regain their equili- 
brium when overturned. — Edinburgh Cabinet Library, 

Seek not proud riches, but such as thou mayest get justly, 
use soberly, # distribute cheerfully, and leave contentedly. — 

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[Ktitraucc to Barclay's Brewery.] 

Jhose dwellers in and visitors to the " Great Metro- 
polis" who cross Southwark Bridge from the City to 
the Borough, can scarcely fail to have observed the 
array of tall chimneys whicn meets the eye on either side 
of its southern extremity ; each one serving as a kind of 
beacon or guide-post to some large manufacturing esta- 
blishment beneath — here a brewery, there a saw-mill, 
farther on a hat-factory, a distillery, a vinegjar factory, 
and numerous others. Indeed, Southwark is as distin- 
guishable at a distance for its numerous tall chimneys 
and the clouds of smoke emitted by them, as London is 
for its thickly congregated church-spires. Let the 
reader, when next on the bridge, single out from 
among these chimneys one more bulky, though not 
more lofty than the rest ; and this will point out the 
spot where one of those gigantic establishments — a 
London Brewery — is situated; establishments which, 
whether we regard the extent of the buildings com- 
prising them, tne amount of invested capital by which 
they are maintained, or the systematic arrangements by 
which the daily operations are conducted, rank among 
the first in the kingdom, or indeed in the world. With- 
out entering into the chemical niceties which are in- 
volved in the process of brewing, or into a history of 
beer and malt liquors generally, we hope to convey to 
the reader some idea of the astonishing magnitude of 
the arrangements and the labour by which a " pint of 
porter " is produced. We have recently, through the 
courtesy of the proprietors, been permitted to visit the 
Brewery of Messrs. Barclay, Perkins, and Co. ; and 
will endeavour to describe the objects and the processes 
there observed. 
On crossing Southwark Bridge to the Surrey side of 



the water, the bridge-road passes over a narrow street 
running parallel with the river, to which we descend 
by a flight of stone Steps ; and on looking eastward 
along this street, we observe large ranges of buildings 
on either side, connected by a covered bridge or passage 
thirty feet from the ground. These piles of buildings 
form parts of the brewery ; and on approaching the 
end of the right-hand range, we arrive at another street 
leading southward, both sides of which are in like 
manner occupied by the brewery buildings, extending 
to a distance of several hundred feet. Proceeding 
southward along this street, we pass under a light and 
elegant suspension-bridge, by which communication is 
established between the opposite sides; and beyond 
this we arrive at the entrance to the brewery, within 
which are two or three open yards or squares, sur- 
rounded by buildings of vast extent. The frontispiece 
at the head of this page represents some of the prin- 
cipal buildings of the brewery, together with the sus- 
pension-bridge, taken from a spot nearly opposite the 
principal entrance. The entrance gate is large and 
elegant, and fronting it is a building appropriated 
as offices and counting-houses, where thirty or forty 
clerks are employed. 

Nearly in the middle of the premises is a building, 
called the ' tun-room,' in which some of the processes 
connected with the brewing are conducted ; and from 
the leaded roof of this building we obtained a pano- 
ramic view of nearly all the various parts of the 
brewery. Towards the north-east, on the river side, 
is a wharf, from whence beer is shipped for exporta- 
tion : to the north are two large ranges of malt-ware- 
houses, separated by the street first alluded to, and con- 

Digitized by 

Vol. X.— R 




[March, 1841. 

' nected by the covered bridge : westward is an open 
court, containing at various points in its circuit an 
engine-house with all the steam-engine apparatus, 
two water-reservoirs for the supply of the establish- 
ment, a cooperage, a building where casks are cleansed, 
sheds for containing empty casks, and various other 
buildings ; southward is a most extensive range of 
storehouses, where the beer is kept in vats ; and beyond 
these is a range of stables for the dray-horses ; to the 
Bouth-cast is the fining-house and some of the store- 
houses; and, lastly, eastward are the porter and ale 
brewhouses, connected by the suspension-bridge pass- 
ing over a street below. Such are the extensive ranges 
of buildings visible from the elevated roof of the * tun- 
room ;' the whole covering a space of ground eight or 
nine acres in area, and from a quarter to a third of a 
mile in circuit. 

The purposes to which these several buildings are 
applied will perhaps best be understood by following 
the processes in tne order actually observed in the 
brewery ; by tracing the water, malt, and hops through 
their successive changes, as far at least as may be done 
without discussing the scientific details of the pro- 

The water used for brewing is that of the river 
Thames, pumped up by means of a steam-engine 
through a large iron main ; the main passing under 
the malt-warehouses, and leading to the reservoirs in 
the open court of the brewery. The appellation given to 
these cisterns reminds us of the fact that every manu- 
facture has its peculiar phraseology, not easily under- 
stood by strangers ; for when we heard mention made 
of the « liauor-back,' it required some explanation to 
show that tnis is but another name for ' water-reservoir;' 
water, in the language of the brewhouse, being 
• liquor/ and a cistern or reservoir, a ' back.' The water, 
then, is conveyed to these cisterns ; and we have seldom 
seen a cast-iron structure present a finer combination 
of strength with elegance. Fifteen iron columns, each 
nearly half a yard in diameter, are ranged in three 
rows of five each ; and on the top of these columns is 
the lower cistern, a cast-iron vessel about thirty-two 
feet long by twenty wide, and several feet deep. From 
this cistern rise the supports by which a second one, 
about the same size as tne former, is upheld ; and a 
light staircase leads up from the ground to the upper 
cistern. The whole structure, reaching an elevation 
probably of forty feet, is made of cast-iron. 

By these means, then, the establishment is supplied 
with a reservoir of water for brewing, the water flow- 
ing into the various vessels from the cisterns by 
the usual kinds of apparatus ; and the importance of 
these arrangements may be judged from tne fact that 
a hundred thousand gallons of water, on an average, 
are required for the services of the brewery every day. 
There is a well on the premises, not far from the cis- 
terns; but the water obtained thence is employed 
principally, on account of its low temperature, to aid 
the cooling of the beer in hot weather. 

All the pumps by which the water is conveyed from 
the Thames to the cisterns and from the cisterns to the 
brewing-vessels, as well as various machinery used in 
the brewhouse, are worked by a steam-engine situated 
near the water-cisterns. There are two engines ; one 
of forty-five and the other of thirty horse-power, the 
larger one of which only was employed at the time of 
our visit, the other being used when the brewing 
operations are in less activity. The construction of 
these engines, and the mode in which power is com- 
municated from them to various parts of the establish- 
ment, resemble those generally observed in large fac- 
tories, and need not claim particular notice here. 

Our attention was next directed to the malt, and the 
means by which it is conveyed to the brewing build- 

ings. On looking from the great brewhouse towards 
the river, we were struck with the appearance of a 
string of sturdy porters, each carrying a large sack on 
his back from a barge at the river side to the malt- 
warehouses. These men followed each other pretty 
closely, each one bringing his sack of malt, weighing 
about one and a half hundredweight, from the barge, 
depositing the contents in the warehouses, and return- 
ing to the barge with the empty sack. If the malt- 
warehouses extended to the river, the bags or quarters 
of malt would probably be hauled up by crane and 
pulley from the barge lying beneath; but premises 
unconnected with the brewery intervene, and conse- 
quently the services of these malt-porters are neces- 
sary. Each man carries his bag of malt into the 
warehouse, up several flights of stairs, and empties the 
contents into one of a series of enormous bins or boxes. 
These bins, which are about two dozen in number, are 
of such extraordinary dimensions, especially in height, 
that we may say, without exaggeration, tnat an or- 
dinary three-storied house, — roof, chimneys, and all, — 
might be contained and shut up in one of them. They 
are formed entirely of wood, and are supplied with 
malt till full ; the earlier portions of the supply being 
introduced at a door halt- way up the bin, afterwards 
closed up. 

As the northern malt-warehouse is separated by a 
street from the brewery buildings, the malt originally 
deposited there is, when wanted, conveyed from the 
north to the south warehouse by an arrangement of a 
very curious kind. At the lower part of the front of 
eacn malt-bin is a little sliding-door, eight or ten 
inches wide and rather more in height, which, when 
slid upwards, allows the malt to rush out with great 
quickness ; and at these doors another set of malt- 
porters, such as are represented in the subjoined cut, 
are employed whenever the malt is to be transferred 

from the north to the south warehouse. Each man 
brings a basket, covered with leather, and capable of 
holding about two bushels, to a shelf or stage beneath 
the sliding-door ; opens the latter ; fills his basket with 
malt ; takes it on his back by means of a strap held 
in the hand, and carries it to a large funnel or « hop- 
per,' into which he empties the malt In this manner 
each man will frequently carry four hundred loads in 
a day, of two bushels eacn, from the bins to the funnel ; 

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and as all the men deposit their loads of malt in the 
same funnel, it was natural for us to look to this as the 
immediate channel of communication. Dipping into 
this funnel is an apparatus called, in the language of 
the brewhouse, a * Jacob's ladder/ consisting of an end- 
less leather band, passing round rollers at the top 

contains a pair of steel rollers rotating nearly in con- 
tact, by passing between which the malt becomes 
crushed into the state called grist. This grist may 
have any degree of fineness suitable for the kind of 
malt-liquor to be produced, by regulating the distance 
between the rollers. 

A third • Jacob's ladder,' much larger than either of 
the others, carries the grist from the grind ing-room to 
a height of sixty or seventy feet in the middle of the 
great brewhouse and near its roof; where the grist is 
deposited in various channels, of which we shall have 
to speak presently. The stages or layers of these 
• Jacob's ladders/ or rather, the ascending and descend- 
ing ladder, are each enclosed in an iron trunk or case 
extending the whole length; the ascending ladder 
having the buckets full, while those of the descending 
ladder are empty. The subjoined cut shows the ap- 

pearance of two or three of the buckets seen through 
an open door in the iron case. The buckets and the 
endless leather band to which they are attached are 
set in motion by machinery connected with one or both 
of the rollers at the ends of the ladder ; and when we 
state that these buckets raise up, on an average of the 
whole year, more than two thousand two hundred 
quarters of malt per week (for this is the quantity 
required for the brewery), it will be allowed that this 
4 Jacob's ladder* is a most industrious porter. 

Of the great brewhouse itself, to which we have now 
arrived, it is no easy task to give a description. The 
first effect on the mind of a stranger is a state of be- 
wilderment, which is not removed till matters are 
viewed a little more in detail. The dimensions of the 
room are so vast, the brewing utensils reach to such a 
height, and the pumps, pipes, rods, and other apparatus 
are so thickly arranged on every side, that unless wc 
follow the actual brewing processes in their regular 
order, the whole assemblage, to the mind of a visitor, 
oecomes a mass of confusion. 

In the first place the reader must imagine a room 
nearly equalling Westminster Hall in magnitude, 
built entirely of iron and brick, and uninterrupted by 
distinct floors or partitions, so as to be open from the 
ground to the root, except where stages and platforms 
occur in various parts and. at various heights. The 
room is lighted by eight lofty windows on the east 
side ; and all round the walls just below the roof are 
openings for the exit of steam. The principal part of 
the room is occupied by ten enormous piles of brew- 
ing vessels, reacning from the ground to a great 
height. Without troubling ourselves with detailed 


Digitized by 




[March, 1841. 


20 M 

measurements, it will be sufficient to state the average 
diameters of all these vessels at about twenty feet; and 
the arrangement of them is as follows : — The piles of 
vessels are ranged in two rows of five each, occupying 
the greater part of the length of the room, parallel 
with the windows. Those nearest to the windows con- 
sist of a square iron vessel called an ' under-back' (i.e. 
lower cistern) near the ground ; above this a circular 
vessel called the ' marsh-tun ;' above this again a square 
wooden-box called a • malt-case ;' and, highest of all, 
a pipe to convey malt into this case. Each one of the 
set farthest removed from the windows consists, near 
the bottom, of a large furnace ; above this, a copper- 
boiler enclosed in brick-work, and capable of holding 
nearly twelve thousand gallons; above this again, 
a vessel called a ' copper-pan ;' and at the top a * cop- 
per-back,' for receiving the wort previous to Us being 
boiled with the hops. These ten piles of vessels, as 
before stated, occupy the chief part of the brewhouse, 
but there is also, near each end, a very capacious 
square vessel, called a 'hop-back,' or ' jack-back.' The 
pumps, pipes, iron platforms, iron flights of stairs, &c. 
are very numerous, and distributed in various parts of 
the building ; but they are altogether subsidiary to the 
large piles of vessels just alluded to. 

Let us now see how far it may be practicable to explain, 
in a brief manner, the purposes to which these huge 
vessels are applied. To aid the description, we give, 
at the head oi this page, a sectional representation of 
the principal vessels and working apparatus. The 
reader is supposed to be looking southward, with the 
windows on the left hand, and to have before him a 
vertical section of all the vessels in one of each of the 
five pairs alluded to above, together with the long 
• Jacob's ladder,' and the malt-crushing apparatus in 
the building to the right of the great brewhouse. Most 
of the vessels and apparatus have the names attached, 
whereby the reader, by occasional reference to the cut, 
can follow the routine of processes. 

To begin at the beginning, let us suppose the fur- 
nace fires to be lighted. The door of each furnace is 
opposite the western wall of the building ; and a pas- 
sage leads along the sides of the furnaces, with the 
furnace-doors on the one hand, and large cellars or 

receptacles for coals on the other, one in front of each 
of the five furnaces. These cellars arc supplied with 
coals in a very ingenious manner. The coals, when 
brought to the brewery, are placed in a coal-yard or 
court, and from thence arc conveyed to another recep- 
tacle within the brewhouse. Here a box, capable of 
holding about two sacks, is filled with coals, drawn up 
by means of tackle, placed upon a very ingenious rail- 
way situated between the wall and the furnaces, paral- 
lel to both, and wheeled along till it comes over any 
one of the five coal-cellars, where it is emptied. The 
coals required for the brewery, about twenty tons per 
day, are thus conveyed opposite to the doors of all the 
furnaces with great ease. The form of each furnace, 
and the details of its arrangement, do not require par- 
ticular notice ; but it is worthy of remark, that the smoke 
from ail the furnaces enters one large subterraneous 
flue, which conducts it to a chimney situated in the 
open court, detached from every other building. This 
chimney is a fine specimen of brickwork, rising to a 
height of a hundred and twenty feet, and being, from 
its bulky area, a conspicuous object from the bridge. 

The coppers, which are immediately over the fur- 
naces, are employed in the first place to heat water for 
extracting the saccharine matter from the malt, and 
afterwards to boil the malt-extract thus obtained. The 
water is brought from the large reservoirs in the open 
court, through pipes, to the ' copper-pan' and also 
to the copper; and at certain times and in certain 
quantity is allowed to flow into the copper, where it 
gradually acquires the temperature proper for the 
process of ' mashing,' or that by which the extract is 
obtained from the malt. 

All kinds of malt liquor may be shortly characterised 
as being extracts of malt, boiled with hops, and then 
fermented ; so that the main processes are those of 
extracting, or 'mashing,' boiling, and fermenting. The 
water in the copper is for the first of these processes ; 
and while it is gradually heating, the malt is being 
conveyed to the * mash-tun.' We have before stated, 
that the crushed malt, or 'grist,' is conveyed, by a 
long • Jacob's ladder,' nearly to the top of the brew- 
house. Here the buckets deposit their contents into a 
small vessel, from which five pipes ramify, each pipe 

Digitized by 





leading to one of the ' malt-cases/ The top of each 
pipe has a kind of sliding door or portcullis drawn 
across it, by the management of which the grist may 
be made to descend whichever of the pipes may be 
desired. The malt-case is merely a receptacle to hold 
sufficient malt for one mashing, until sucn time as that 
process is to be conducted, and when this time arrives, 
tour valves are opened in the bottom of the malt-case, 
whereby the malt speedily falls into the • mash-tun.' 
This last-named vessel is circular, and is provided with 
a double bottom, the upper one of which is pierced 
with very small holes ; the space between tne two 
bottoms is placed in communication with the copper 
by means 01 a pipe, and a few large holes, closed with 
plugs or tape, occur in the lower or true bottom. 

This being the arrangement, and the mash-tun being 
supplied with malt, a proper quantity of water is 
allowed to flow from the copper to the space be- 
tween the two bottoms of the tun ; and, percolating 
upwards through the small holes, it mixes with the 
malt. The malt and the water are then stirred about 
by means of a mashing-machine set in rotation by the 
steam-engine ; and after this has continued for a cer- 
tain length of time, the water, which now contains a 
large proportion of malt-extract, is allowed to flow 
from the tun into the square ' under-back,' the taps in 
the bottom being turned on for this purpose, ana the 
holes in the false bottom being too small to allow any 
of the malt to pass. The liquor thus produced is 
called ' wort.' 

A pump is next brought into requisition, to pump 
the wort from the * under-back* into the copper. Here, 
for the first time, our attention is directed to the hops. 
Most persons are aware that it is the flower of the 
hop-plant which goes by the general name of hops, 
and that this imparts a peculiar bitter, without which 
beer would not be recognised as such. The hop- 
flowers are pressed into large canvass bags, and in that 
state conveyed to the brewery, where they are ranged 
in large warehouses near the brewhouse till wanted. 
The bags are hauled up into the brewhouse, conveyed 
to the upper part of the copper, and the hop thrown 
in at a door in the copper called the ' man-hole' (this 
being the hole at which the men go in to clean the 
copper after each brewing). The wort and the hops 
are then boiled together, until the flavour of the latter 
is sufficiently imparted to the former, Jhe hops being 
constantly stirred by a rotating machine called a 
* rouser.' 

The boiled wort next descends, through a shoot or 
trunk, from the boiler to a very large square vessel, 
called a * hop-back ' (almost entirely hidden behind the 
mash-tun in our section). As the nops as well as the 
liquid descend through the shoot, the hop-back is pro- 
vided with a perforated false bottom, through which the 
wort flows, leaving the hops above the perforation. 
The capacity of this vessel cannot be less than four 
thousand cubic feet, and when filled with boiling wort 
and hops, the clouds of steam rising from the open 
surface are, as may easily be imagined, most profuse. 

The wort is pumped from the hop-back into ' coolers ;' 
but before we follow it in this process, it may be de- 
sirable to say a few more words respecting the great 
brewhouse. Three of the coppers and three of the 
mash- tuns, with the accompanying vessels, are em- 
ployed for the brewing of porter, while the others are 
for ale ; one hop-back, too, is for porter, and the other 
for ale. The fermentable matter obtained from the 
malt is not all extracted at one time ; and, therefore, 
the 'grist' is covered with hot water two or three 
times, the extract or infusion each time being called a 
'mash.' The hops, in like manner, do not lose all 
their valuable qualities by once boiling, and are, there- 
fore, used again, in fresh portions of boiling wort In 

order to convey the drained hops back again to the 
copper, a number of men strip off their upper gar- 
ments, and get into the hop-back, where they shovel 
the wet hops, still scalding hot, into a tub or bucket, 
which is drawn up, wheeled along a stage, and emptied 
into the coppers. This operation has rather an ex- 
traordinary appearance, for the men are enveloped 
in steam, and are moreover liable to severe injury 
if any of the hot wet hops touch the upper and un- 
clothed parts of their bodies. The hops from the 
porter-brewing are re-conveyed to the coppers in this 
way ; but those from the ale-brewing are carried up 
by a ' Jacob's ladder,' which dips at the lower end into 
the hop-back, and empties the hops into the boiler at 
the top. When the malt and the hops are thoroughly 
spent, they are thrown into the street, and thence 
carted away, the one under the name of ' grains,' to 
be used as food for cattle and swine, and the other as 

Adjoining the western side of the brewhouse are 
large ranges of buildings, through which the wort 
passes in the subsequent processes. The first process 
necessary after draining from the hops is a rapid cool- 
ing, which is effected in a manner somewhat striking 
to a stranger. At the upper part of a lofty* building 
are two spacious cooling-noors, one over another; the 
sides of tne rooms being open for the free access of air. 
Each floor is of immense extent, perfectly level, and 
perfectly clean, and exposes a surface of not less than 
ten thousand square feet The floor is divided into 
compartments by raised ledges a few inches in height, 
and into the compartments thus formed the hot beer 
or wort is pumped from the hop-back. The surface 
of the stratum of beer being so very large in propor- 
tion to the depth, the air which is wafted over it from 
the open sides of the room cools the beer, in a short 
space of time. In some particular states of the wea- 
ther, when the beer is not cooled with sufficient rapidity 
by these means, it is passed through a refrigerator, in 
which it is brought into close connection with cold 
spring water, thus effecting a rapid reduction of tem- 

Our visit next led us into that part of the building 
where the process of fermentation is carried on. The 
cool beer or wort is allowed to flow into four enormous 
square fermenting vessels, technically called 'squares ;' 
and in these wooden vessels, one of which wul hold 
fifteen hundred barrels of beer, the liquid is fermented 
with yeast for a certain space of time. On ascending 
a ladder to look into one of these squares, we remarked 
the singular appearance of the thick masses of yeast 
covering the surface of the beer, and still more the 
suffocating fumes of the gas which emanated from it 
and hovered in a kind of mist over the surface. 

We next visited a spacious room called the ' tun- 
room,' in the lower part of a building, of which the 
middle story is occupied as hop-lofts and the upper as 
the coolers just alluded to. This tun-room contains 
nearly three hundred cylindrical vessels, ranged with 
great regularity in about twenty rows of fifteen in a 
row, and each holding upwards of three hundred 
gallons. These vessels are called ' rounds,' and pipes 
and cocks are so arranged at the bottom of each as to 
allow them to be filled with beer from the fermenting 
squares, at a certain stage in the process. Between 
the rows of vessels are long trougns, into which the 
yeast worked off by the beer through a hole in the top 
of each vessel, is conducted along a sloping shoot or 
channel, a mode of arrangement represented in the 
subjoined cut This process of working off the yeast 
is called 'cleansing,' and is important to the future 
quality of the beer ; and although it is a process some- 
what dirty and unpleasant in small or domestic 
breweries, yet here all is clean, regular, and orderly ; 

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[March, 1841 

indeed this is not the only proot which such an esta- 
blishment affords, that the large extent of the operations 
is the very circumstance which leads to cleanly and 
orderly arrangement, from the absolute necessity of 
economising room and time. 

Sunk in the floor of the tun-room, beneath the 
1 rounds/ is an oblong tank lined throughout with 
white Dutch tiles, and intended for the occasional re- 
ception of beer. This tank would float a barge of no 
mean size, T)einc 'about a hundred feet in length and 
twenty in breadth. 

On proceeding westward through the brewery from 
the main entrance, all the buildings which we have yet 
described are situated at the right hand ; but we have 
now to cross to the southern range, separated from the 
other by an avenue, over which a large pipe crosses 
to convey the beer from the ' rounds' to the store vats. 
These vats are contained in a series of store-rooms, 
apparently almost interminable ; indeed all that we 
have hitherto said as to vastness is much exceeded by 
the array which here meets the eye. On entering the 
store-buildings, we were struck with the silence which 
reigned throughout, so different from the bustle of the 
manufacturing departments. Ranges of buildings, 
branching out north, south, east, and west, are crammed 
as full of vats as the circular form of the vessels will 
permit ; some larger than others, but all of such di- 
mensions as to baffle one's common notions of ' great ' 
and ' small.' Sometimes, walking on the earthen floor, 
we pass immediately under the ranges of vats (for 
none of them rest on the ground), and might then be 
said to have a stratum of beer twenty or thirty feet in 
thickness over our heads; at another, we walk on a 
platform level with the bottom of the vats; or, by 
ascending steep ladders, we mount to the top, and 
obtain a kind of bird's-eye view of these mighty mon- 
sters. Without a guide, it would be impossible to tell 
which way we are trending, through the labyrinth of 
buildings and lofts, surrounded on all sides' by vats. 
At one small window we caught a glimpse of a church- 
yard, close without the wall of the storehouse ; and, 
on further examination, we found that the buildings 
belonging to the brewery, principally the storerooms, 
have gradually but completely enclosed a, small an- 
tique-looking churchyard, or rather burial-ground 
(for it docs not belong to any parochial church). In 
this spot many of the old hands belonging to the esta- 
blishment have found their last resting-place, literally 

surrounded by the buildings in which they were em- 
ployed when living. 

Ihe Bpace occupied as store-rooms may in some 
measure be judged, when we state that there are one 
hundred and fifty vats, the average capacity of each of 
which, large and small together, is upwards of thirty 
thousand gallons. The town of Heidelberg in Ger- 
many, has gained a sort of celebrity for possessing a 
tun of vast dimensions, capable of holding seven hun- 
dred hogsheads of wine; but there are several vats 
among those here mentioned, in each of which the 
Heidelberg tun would have " ample verge and space" 
to swim about. Subjoined is a sketch of one of these 
large vats, each of which contains about three thousand 
barrels, of thirty-six gallons each, and weighs, when 
full of porter, about five hundred tons. 

Leaving this array of vats — these silent giants of the 
brewery — we next visited the ale department, of which 
little has yet been said. The distinction between ale 
and beer is well known by the taste, but is not easily 
described in words : ale is of greater specific gravity, 
lighter coloured, more transparent, and less bitter than 
porter. Whether or not we assent to the dictum of 
Autolycus, in the • Winter's Tale,' that a •• quart of 
ale is a dish for a king," it is certain that a malt liquor 
more or less resembling the ale of modern times was 
much in vogue among our forefathers centuries 

It will be remembered that we stated two out of the 
five sets of brewing vessels are employed for the brew- 
ing of ale. These two are at the northern end of the 
brewhouse, and are used nearly in the same way as the 
porter vessels. The water is conveyed from the cistern 
to the copper, and there heated ; the crushed malt is 
introduced, first into the malt-case, and then into the 
mash-tun ; hot water is allowed to flow to this malt 
from the boiler ; the mashing process follows, and the 
wort, when drained off from the malt into the under-back, 
is pumped into the boiler ; the hops are introduced 
and boiled with the wort ; and, lastly, the whole con- 
tents of the copper flow into the hop-back, where the 
wort is strained from the hops. All this nearly resem- 
bles the process followed in porter-brewing ; but the 
hot ale-wort travels by a very different route. We 
have alluded to an elegant iron suspension-bridge, 

Digitized by 





which passes over a street from the great brewhouse to 
a building termed the ale-brewery. Along the bottom 
or floor of this bridge are laid three pipes, one to 
convey gas for lighting the ale-brewery, another for 
cold water from the cisterns, and a third for conveying 
the hot ale from the hop-back to the coolers in the ale 
department. This latter structure, nearly fire-proof, 
is built with much elegance, and consists of the neces- 
sary rooms for the completion of the ale-brewing. 
The hot ale-wort, passing from the hop-back over the 
suspension-bridge, is conveyed to the top of the ale- 
brewery, where it is spread out in two cooling-floors, 
separated, like those in the porter-brewery, into com- 
partments by means of raised ledges, and, like them 
also, exposed to the free access of air on all sides. 
The cooling being effected by exposure on these floors, 
and afterwards by passing through a refrigerator, 
the ale-wort descends to the story containing the fer- 
menting vessels, which is on a level with the suspen- 
sion-bridge ; and here, in various vessels, some square 
and others round, the wort ferments, and assumes the 
state of ale. Again descending, the ale enters the 
'tun-room,' to undergo the process of cleansing. 
About three hundred and fifty cylindrical casks, or 
' rounds/ each containing about a hundred and fifty 
gallons, are ranged in great order throughout this 
large room ; and here the ale remains till in a fit state 
to be vattcd. Once again descending, we arrive at the 
level of the street, where, passing through a dark 
spacious store-room, we see immediately over head an 
uninterrupted range of vats, into which the ale flows 
from the ' rounds.' 

The water conveyed over the suspension-bridge is 
deposited in a cistern at the top of the ale-brewery, and 
from thence flows to the various stories as required. 
Adjoining the southern end of this building are large 
ranges of storehouses occupied by ale-vats. 

We now again cross to the principal range of build- 
ings, and offer a few remarks descriptive of the mode 
of filling the butts with beer. The butts in which the 
beer is conveyed to the publicans, and which are so 
well known in the streets of London, contain one 
hundred and! eight gallons each. An India-rubber hose, 
similar in form to those which are attached to fire-en- 
gines, is connected at one end to a hole in one of the vats, 
and at the other to the bung-hole of the butt, the latter 
being placed on the ground with that hole uppermost 
Then, by means of a tap or valve governed by a handle, 
the beer is made to flow from the vat, through the 
lcatherhose, to the butt or barrel ; and when one butt 
is in this way filled, the end of the hose is quickly 
transferred to the hole of a second butt, which is filled 
in a similar manner. The subjoined cut represents a 
man engaged at this process of ' drawing-off,' which 
is effected in cellars on the level of the ground, of 
which there are several. Some of the store-vats are 
ranged round these cellars ; while those which are at a 
greater distance are placed in connection with the cel- 
lars by pipes and hose. 

Most persons perhaps are aware that malt liquors, 
after fermentation, require a process called ' fining,' 
to render them more clear and transparent. The 
liquid with which this is effected is made at the 
brewery; and* on. visiting the building where the 
manufacture takes place, we found that, small as is the 
quantity required for each butt of beer, the process is 
conducted on a considerable scale. The building is 
at the left hand of the principal entrance to the brewery, 
and consists of three or four stories or tiers, each filled 
with square vessels, in which the fining liquid (a 
solution of isinglass and other analogous substances) 
is prepared. A very small quantity of this liquid is 
used to every butt of beer. 
fc Westward of the main body of the brewery-buildings 

is a large paved yard ; looking across which towards 
the north-west, we espied such an array of butts, pun» 
cheons, and barrels, as excited no small surprise. 
These were not filled with beer or ale, but had been 
brought empty from the cellars of the publicans, to be 
repaired and cleansed before again using. One of the 
most undeviating rules in these establishments, — the 
golden rule, indeed, — is to observe the greatest clean- 
liness in every part of the processes; nearly every 
vessel, large and small, however frequently it may be 
emptied and filled, and in whatever part 01 the opera- 
tions it may be employed, is cleansed after each time 
of using ; according to the nature or condition of the 
liquid contained in the vessel, so is there a particular 
mode of cleansing adopted. The butts in which the 
beer is conveyed from the establishment are especially 
attended to in this respect. A chimney at the west 
end of the yard points out the spot where the cleansing 
or steaming house is situated, and in which the process 
is conducted in an ingenious manner. The butts or 
barrels to be cleansed are ranged, a certain number at 
a time, round the sides of the building, immediately 
over a horizontal pipe containing steam from an 
adjacent boiler; ana from this pipe a number of jets 
or short pipes branch upwards, and pass into the bung- 
holes of the casks, one to each cask. 

But these casks are not only cleansed after every 
time of using, they are also inspected and measured, 
and if any leakages or injuries appear, the means of 
repair are at hand. Adjoining the building where the 
cleansing is effected, a very large cooperage is seen, 
occupying three sides of a square court. Here we 
trod our way with some difficulty among casks, old 
and new, — iron hoops that had seen hard service, and 
others destined to replace them, — staves of various 
shapes and sizes, — and all the tools and working appa- 
ratus necessary for a cooperage on a large scale. 

Under a range of sheas forming part of the circuit 
of the large open court, are the casks which have either 
been repaired and cleansed, or are waiting for those 
operations. There they lie, side by side, one on another, 
one behind another, in a solid mass of extraordinary 
extent. Some idea of the number of casks lying here 
ready to be filled, may be formed from the fact that 
the whole number of butts, puncheons, barrels, and 

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[March, 1841. 


similar vessels belonging to the establisnment is be- 
tween sixty and seventy thousand ! 

It has not formed part of our object to detail the 
number of hours employed in each part of the brewing 
processes, nor the particular time of day at which they 
commence ; but the reader will probably suppose that 
the operations are continued by night as well as by day. 
The coppers are almost uninterruptedly in use, and 
relays of workmen succeed each other to attend them. 
But not only within the brewhouse is activity dis- 
mayed betimes in the morning ; in the open court, long 
•efore sleepy London has roused its head, the draymen 
are busy in hauling up the butts of beer, and placing 
them on the drays. So many butts are sent out from 
the establishment every day, and the advantage of con- 
veying them in drays through the metropolis at as early 
an hour as possible is so great, that by four o'clock in 
the morning all is bustle and activity; clerks and 
foremen superintending the operations, and men work- 
ing the cranes by which the butts are lifted from the 
cellars to the drays. The form of these drays, of which 
seventy or eighty are constantly at work, is familiar 
enough to every Londoner ; and we doubt not that the 
ears of many passers-by would be grateful for the ad- 
dition of springs or some other appendage to the drays, 
whereby their rattling, shaking, deafening progress 
over the paved streets might be in some degree sub- 
dued : we believe that something of the kind has been 
already adopted. 

If the brewers' drays are well known in London, 
what shall we say of brewers' horses? Who ever mis- 
takes a brewer's horse for any other? who, that has 
ever passed one day in the London streets, has failed 
to remark these noble but unwieldy creatures, — un- 
wieldy from very strength ? And the draymen too : 
here are specimens of the " physical man !" the horses 
seem made for the men and the men for the horses ; 
and we can hardly fancy such horses driven, or ridden 
ladv-wise, except by such men. In the course of our 
visit, we passed round the extensive stables where the 
horses belonging to the brewery, nearly two hundred 
in number, are kept. Here were marks of the same 
well-organized system, the same cleanliness and order, 
as so many other parts of the establishment present. 
Southward of the bttle burial-ground and of the store- 
buildings is a very large paved court, around which 
are the stables ana subsidiary offices ; here, a dwelling- 
house and laboratory for the veterinary surgeon, under 
whose care the health of the valuable stud is placed ; 
there, a blacksmith's shop, provided with the necessary 
arrangements for shoeing horses ; farther on, a harness- 
maker's shop, where necessary repairs to the harness 
are effected. But the principal of these buildings are, 
as may be supposed, tne stables, one range of which 
extenas nearly three hundred feet in length. A clear 
passage leads throughout from end to end, the horses 
being ranged on either side with great regularity ; gal- 
leries or lofts for provender above them ; and an open 
space for ventilation along the middle of the stables. 
At one end of the long stable is a building in which 
the provender is prepared for the horses : a small 
steam-engine, of five or six horse-power, works ma- 
chinery by which the oats are bruised or crushed be- 
fore being given to the horses (a modern practice, 
productive of much benefit to the health of the animal) ; 
and another machine by which the chaff is cut. By 
an ingenious arrangement, the waste steam from this 
engine can be directed into a water-trough, whereby 
any desired temperature may be given to the water 
which the horses drink. 

In our ramble through the brewery, we came to a 
building where " Barclay, Perkins, and Co.'s Entire" 
stared us in the face in all shapes, colours, and sizes ; 
some boards higher than they were wide, others wider 

tnan high ; some flat, some convex ; some with gold 
letters' on a green ground, others on red. These were 
the inscription-boards, so well known in the London 
streets, and so puzzling to strangers, who cannot con- 
ceive what the " Co.'s Entire" means. It appears that 
in by-gone times, beer-retailers were wont to sell a 
kind of liquor called half and half, that is, half ale and 
half « twopenny,' which had to be drawn from two 
casks. Afterwards a taste was gradually acquired for 
' three-threads,' a compound of ale, beer, and two- 
penny, which the retailer was necessitated to draw from 
three casks; a process so troublesome, that it led to the 
brewing of a kind of beer which should combine the 
qualities of these three sorts, and which, being drawn 
entirely from one cask, obtained the name of entire 
butt beer. The circumstances under which the neces- 
sity arose have long since passed away ; but the term is 
still retained. The inscription-boards, which inform us 
whose " Entire" is sold oy the publican, are made in 
the part of the establishment to which we allude above. 
One shop is devoted to the carpenters who prepare the 
boards, and another to the painters and gilders who 
finish them. 

Before concluding our necessarily hasty sketch of 
this vast establishment, we may observe that it is 
something more than a brewery ; it is a memorial of 
past times, carrying us back to the period when the 
Globe theatre occupied part of the site, and, later, when 
Dr. Johnson was domiciled in an apartment over the 
entrance gate. In Boswell's ' Life of Johnson ' there 
are numerous letters and reports of conversations 
relating more or less to the brewery; but without 
entering upon these, we may briefly state how the 
great lexicographer became connected with this spot 

It appears that in the early part of the last century, 
the brewery belonged to a Mr. Halsey, who reaped a 
fortune there, and upon the jnarriage of whose daugh- 
ter to Lord Cobham the brewery was sold to the elder 
Mr. Thrale. Thrale was an active and liberal man ; 
became sheriff of the county, and M.P. for the borough ; 
and died in 1758, leaving nis property to a son whom 
he had educated liberally. This son married a Welsh 
lady of good family, and, to use the words of Boswell, 
"although in affluent circumstances, he had good sense 
enough to carry on his father's trade, which was of such 
extent, that I remember he once told me he would not 
quit it for an annuity of ten thousand a year ; * not,' 
said he, * that T get ten thousand a year by it, but it is 
an estate to my family." " The beer brewed by Thrale 
at the period here alluded to was about thirty thousand 
barrels annually, not one-twelfth part of the quantity 
now brewed in the same establishment, which produces 
as much as the nine principal breweries did in 1760. 
In 1765 Dr. Johnson was introduced to Mr. and Mrs. 
Thrale by Malone ; and from that time till the brewer's 
death Jonnson lived almost entirely in their houses, 
at the brewery and at Streatham. Before the fire at 
the brewery in 1832, the room was pointed out, near 
the gate, in which the Doctor wrote many of his most 
celebrated productions, more particularly his Dic- 
tionary. In 1781 Mr. Thrale died, and as he had 
no sons, the executors, of whom Dr. Johnson was one, 
deemed it desirable to dispose of the brewery. It was 
sold jointly to Mr. Barclay and Mr. Perkins, the latter 
of whom had been the superintendent of the brewery, 
for the enormous sum of one hundred and thirty-five 
thousand pounds. Boswell relates : " When the sale 
of Thrale s brewery was going on, Johnson appeared 
bustling about, with an ink-horn and pen in his 
button-hole, like an exciseman ; and on being asked 
what he really considered to be the value of the pro- 
perty which was to be disposed of, said, ' We are not 
here to sell a parcel of boilers and vats, but the poten- 
tiality of growing rich beyond the dream of avarice " 

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[Rurkk and his Localities.-!!* the centre a portrait of Burke, from the pietnre by O. Romney. At top. ^n^^-^^JSteU^SJllS 1 
of Warren Hasting, painted by Edward Dayes. Bnrke is nddressh* the House, »nd stands »tthe bar, to the left. At bottom. BeaconsfleM House, 
Burke's country residence; and Beaeousfield Church, in which he was buried*] 



Iff reviewing the early associations of the life of this 
eminent man, one cannot but think that Nature had 
intended him to have achieved his reputation in the 
pleasant fields of poesy, rather than in the turbulent 
arena of politics ; for not only was he related by the 
mother's side to one of England's greatest poets, whose 
Christian name he bore, but being removed at an early 
age from Dublin, where he was born in 1730, he was 

* For a sketch of his life, see toI. i„ d, 383. 

no. 578. 

left to spend some of the sweetest 'years of his life at 
Castle Roche, in the immediate neighbourhood of the 
old castle of Kilcolman, the residence of that great 
relative during the period of the composition of the 
• Fairy Queen,' and in the very midst of the lovely scenes 
which that jpoem, bv its scarcely less lovely descriptions, 
has made familiar "to the world. And deep and per- 
manent, undoubtedly, were the effects of these associa- 
tions on his youthful mind ; witness, his early poetical 
attempts, some of which exhibit more than ordinary 
ability. But, above all, we owe to those associations, 
most probably, that deep and powerful current of 

Vol. X.— S 

Digitized by 




[April 3, 

poetical thought and emotion which, in after-life, so 
characterised all his speeches and writings. To this 
period and to those scenes, with all their memories 
and traditions, Burke ever delighted to refer; and 
among the poetical compositions to which we have al- 
luded was, according to his biographer Mr. Prior, 
some beautiful verses upon one of the most charming 
of the localities around Castle Roche, the river Black- 
w ater, which, in its progress to Youghall Bay, receives 
in its course the Molla or Mulla stream, well known 
10 the readers of Spenser. These verses are lost, un- 
fortunately ; but we still possess one of his very earliest 
compositions, a translation of Virgil's second Georgic, 
written in his sixteenth year. We transcribe a few 
lines of this poem, which will give our readers a tole- 
rably good idea of the style and spirit of the whole : — 

" Oh ! happy swains ! did they know how to prite 
The many blessings rural lite supplies ; 
Where, in safe huts, from clattering arms afar, 
The nomp of cities, and the din of war, 
Indulgent earth, to jwy his labouring hand, 
Pours in his arms the blessings of the land ; 
Culm through the valleys Hows along his life, 
He knows no anger, as he knows no strife. 
What, though no marble (K>rtals. rooms of state, 
Vomit the cringing torrent from his gate ; 
Though no proud purple hang his stately halls, 
Nor lives the breathing brass along his walls : 
Though the sheep clothe him without colour's aid, 
Nor seeks he foreign luxury from trade ; 
Yet peace and honesty adom'his days 
With rural riches and a life of ease." 

From Castle Roche, where he received the rudiments 
of his education (the ruins of the school-room used to 
be, and perhaps still are, pointed out to visitors), Burke 
went to Ballytore, in the county of Kildare, a village 
agreeably situated in the valley through which runs 
the river Griese, about twenty-three miles south of 
Dublin. The site of Ballytore was purchased soon 
after the commencement of the last century by two 
members of the Society of Friends, John Barcroft and 
Amos Strettel, for the purpose of founding a colony of 
persons of that persuasion. It was soon determined 
that a school of a very superior kind should be esta- 
blished here ; and an able and honest member, Abraham 
Shackleton, was brought from Yorkshire to superin- 
tend its foundation and subsequent operations. The 
reputation of the new school soon spread throughout 
Ireland, and from that time to the present day has 
made Ballytore an object of interest. The grand- 
daughter of Abraham Shackleton was Mrs. Mary 
Lead beater, whose poems and other works have made 
her favourably known to the public. Burke was in 
his twelfth year when he entered Ballytore. In a 
debate in parliament on a proposal that no rapist should 
be permitted to educate a Protestant, Burke referred 
very effectively to his own personal history at Ballytore 
school, expressing at the same time in his happiest 
manner his gratitude to its master. " I have been 
educated," he said, *' as a Protestant of the Church of 
England, by a dissenter, who was an honour to his 
sect, though that sect was one of the purest" With 
Richard Shackleton, the son of the lounder, Burke 
formed a close and continuous friendship : the family 
still possess a series of letters written by him to Richard 
Shackleton from the age of fifteen, when he left Bally- 
tore, up to within two months only of his death. No 
wonder then that this place was, ever afterwards, 
greatly endeared to Burke; that one of his moBt 
cherished pleasures during the turmoil of political 
strife was an occasional visit to this " happy valley " of 
his youth. 

He now (1744) entered Trinity College, Dublin, and 
began to study for degrees, relieving ita tedium by 

ioining in the chief sports, intellectual or otherwise, ol 
his fellow-collegians. Thus we find him one of that 
body of students who took so active a part in supporting 
Sheridan (the father of the author of the ' Scnool for 
Scandal')» then manager of the Dublin theatre, in the 
theatrical riots of 1746, when the house was nearly de- 
stroyed, 'and its owner driven from the Irish stage. 
We find him also a member of a literary club esta- 
blished in Dublin in 1747, acting sometimes as its 
secretary, sometimes as its president. A« extract from 
the original minutes of this association give us an 
interesting glimpse of the future orator : — " Friday, 
June 5, 1747, Mr. Burke being ordered to speak the 
speech of Moloch (from the * Paradise Lost '), receives 
applause for the delivery, it being in character.' He 
attended also the meetings of the Historical Society, 
which was formed about this period, and became very 
famous. Many of Ireland's most distinguished men of 
the last century exhibited their talents here for the first 
time in public. It existed so late as l£l5, when it was 
put down by the heads of the college, on account, it is 
supposed, or its attention to politics. In Dublin, 
Burke wrote the poems we have referred to, and com- 
menced his well-known work, the * Essay on the Origin 
of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful.' Having 
been previously enrolled as a member of the Middle 
Temple, London, he removed thither from Dublin in 
1750, in order to keep his terms. But literature and 
politics soon began to occupy his mind, to the entire 
exclusion of law, though not to the exclusion of those 
social enjoyments which became still more attractive 
in London than in Dublin, as bringing him into con- 
tact with more important men. The Grecian Coffee- 
House was at first a favourite place of resort ; where he 
became acquainted with Murphy, a dramatist and law 
student, by whom perhaps he was introduced to Mack- 
lin and Garrick. Some years later, when his own 
reputation was established by the publication of the 
4 Essay/ we find him one of the principal members of 
the Literary Club established by Johnson, and in- 
cluding, among its other members, Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds and Goldsmith. 

During the period of Burke's London life, and prior 
to his entrance into parliament, he suffered much from 
ill-health, and on more than one occasion visited Bath 
and Bristol with a view to recovery. On the recur- 
rence of his malady, in 1757, Dr. Nugent, a fellow- 
countryman, a skilful physician, and a most amiable 
man, invited Burke to nis house. Here he wooed, not 
health only, but a bride, Miss Nugent, the daughter of 
his kind host. They were married, and happily married. 
Burke used to say •• every care vanished the moment 
he entered under his own roof." On one of the anni- 
versaries of the marriage-day, he surprised her with a 
piece of prose-poetry descriptive of nis idea of a per- 
fect wife, and which was headed — " The Character 

of ." His grateful and happy wife could be 

at no loss to fill up the blank. 

In 1761, Burke commenced his public lifc^as assist- 
ant to Mr. Hamilton, commonly called Single-speech 
Hamilton, who had been appointed secretary to the 
lord- lieutenant of Ireland, and whom he accompanied 
to that country. Here Mr. and Mrs. Shackleton called 
on him one day at his apartments in the Castle, and, to 
their great enjoyment, found him on the carpet romp- 
ing with his two boys. It is pleasant to find now much 
of this playful simple spirit will exist in the minds of 
men where one would least expect to meet with it — in 
statesmen, whose failing frames and premature grey 
hairs too often attest the severity of their intellectual 
and bodily labours ; and it is not unworthy of notice, 
that the higher and truer the genius of the men, the 
more keen is the zest for such innocent relaxations. 
Some years after the period just referred to, a gentle- 

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1841 .J 



man wandering towards Harrow came suddenly upon 
an interesting scene. On the ijreen in the front of a 
small cottage was its owner, Richard Brinsley Sheri- 
dan, surrounded by Fox, Burke, Lords John Town- 
shend and William Russell, &c, all busily diverting 
themselves in the simplest manner. Among them 
Burke was the most conspicuous; he was rapidly 
wheeling round the green one of Sheridan's boys in a 
small chaise, and it would be difficult to say wnich of 
the two enjoyed it the most. 

Burke entered parliament on the 14th of January, 
1760, having been previously appointed private secre- 
tary to the new premier, the Marquis of Rockingham ; 
ana but a short time elapsed before he was looked 
upon as one of its most distinguished members. The 
greatest event in his political life, so far at least as 
concerns the display of nis own wonderful powers and 
the estimation in which he was held, was the trial of 
Warren Hastings. Westminster Hall presented on this 
occasion a most august scene. The king, with the pre- 
lates and the peers of parliament, sat on the judgment- 
seat. The Commons stood at the bar, headed by Burke, 
whom they had chosen to guide the prosecution. All 
the great functionaries of the state were present in 
their robes and insignia of office. And the accused — 
as the governor of sixty millions of people, and of a 
territory as large as Europe — was not unworthy of 
all this solemn splendour. The trial really com- 
menced on the 15tn of February, 1788. two days having 
been spent in mere preliminaries. Then Burke rose, 
saying, "he stood forth at the command of the Com- 
mons of Great Britain as the accuser of Warren Hast- 
ings.'* He then paused for above a minute, before he 
commenced the first of that most magnificent series 
of addresses which electrified alike the judges, the 
accused, and the spectators, and which in particular 
parts, where for instance he was describing some of 
the atrocities perpetrated by Debi Sing, an alleged 
agent of Warren Hastings, excited the feelings of his 
auditors to a pitch that we, coldly reading the accounts, 
can scarcely credit, and so overpowered himself, that 
the Prince of Wales, for the relief of all parties, moved 
the adjournment of the House. Had not the trial been 
allowed to proceed so slowly (above seven years 
elapsed before it was brought to a conclusion), Warren 
Hastings could scarcely have escaped a conviction, so 
tremendous was the effect of these invectives. Pass 
we now to the last scene of all, Burke's favourite resi- 
dence, the place where he loved to live, and to which 
he came contentedly to die. 

Beaconsfield is in the county of Berkshire, about 
twenty-three miles from London. The manor, we 
believe, still belongs to the descendants of the poet 
Waller, whose estate it was, and to whose memory 
there is a monument in the churchyard. Gregories, 
the seat of Burke, was purchased by him at an ex- 
pense of about £20,000, the Marquis of Rockingham 
assisting him to complete the payment. The name of 
Butler's Court seems to have been given by Burke to 
the mansion. Here it was that Burke brought Crabbe, 
then a young man, whom he had relieved from the 
most absolute destitution in the metropolis, with no 
other recommendations than a letter, certainly one of 
the most pathetic ever written, and some poems, whieh 
to Burke foreshadowed the reputation of the author of 
the * Borough.' Nor did he rest here ; as he had 
already, by obtaining a publisher for the poems, se- 
cured Crabbe's reputation, he now sought to fix 
his pecuniary fortunes on an equally solid basis. 
He succeeded in introducing the young poet into 
the church, and then in sending him back to his native 
place — him, the poor fisherman's boy — with the ap- 
pointment of curate : an earnest merely of the higher 
preferment that awaited him. But a few months 

elapsed before he was appointed domestic chaplain to 
the Duke of Rutland, through the good offices of his 
in every sense great benefactor. In 1794 twice did the 
family grave open at Beaconsfield church — once for 
Burke's brother, and once for his only remaining son, 
Richard. Burke himself should then have died. It 
was a blow that utterly overwhelmed him. " I am 
alone" said he, in one of his letters ; " / have none to 
meet my enemies in the gate." He had hitherto much 
enjoyed the beautiful scenery of the neighbourhood, 
he had also taken much interest in farming operations. 
But all this was now at an end, he could not hence- 
forward bear the sight of the place which seemed to 
have robbed him of his son. A dreadful change took 
place in his appearance. Three years after, Beacons- 
field appeared to him under a different aspect, but he 
came then to join that beloved son ; he expressly said 
in one of his letters, that he was going thither to die. 
Even the very day seemed to be known to him ; for, 
some hours before his death, he busied himself in send- 
ing messages of affectionate remembrance to absent 
friends, in declaring his forgiveness of all who had in 
any manner injured him, and desiring a similar for- 
giveness for himself. He then again reviewed the 
motives of his conduct in various public emergencies, 
expressed his thoughts on the then alarming state of 
the country, gave some private directions concerning 
his decease, and lastly, his entire business with the 
world being concluded, caused some of Addison's papers 
on the immortality of the soul to be read to him. He 
was thus engaged when the dread shadow passed over 
him ; after a brief struggle, he expired. Six days after, 
he was buried in Beaconsfield churchyard. Seldom 
has funeral been more magnificently attended. In 
his will he desired that no other memorial of him 
should be provided than a simple inscription on the 
flag-stone, or on a tablet to be erected on die wall of 
the sacred building. Such a tablet accordingly we 
find, and on it is inscribed, " Near this place lies in- 
terred all that was mortal of the Right Honourable 
Edmund Burke, who died on the 9th July, 1797, aged 
68 years." Mrs. Burke long survived him, continuing 
to reside here till her death in 1812. Some time prior 
to this she sold the estate for 38,500/., reserving its 
use for life. In the year following the house was acci- 
dentally burnt to the ground. We cannot better con- 
clude tnis paper than by a character of its object, which, 
though brief and in a shape not generally considered 
the most fitting for a summary of a great statesman's 
life, remains to this hour unequalled for its truth and 
comprehensiveness, as well as for its wit : 

" Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; 
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat 
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote ; 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining. 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining : * 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, 
Too nice for a stateman, too proud for a wit ; 
For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient; 
And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient : 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor." 


[Concluded from p. 120.] 

The evil which has resulted from the pursuit of these 
• occult sciences' has not been entirely unmixed. Dis- 
coveries in astronomy have resulted from the observa- 
tions of the astrologers : from the search for the philo- 
sopher's stone has resulted also the discovery of several 
valuable chemical compounds and the invention of 

S 2 

Digitized by 




[Ap*il 3, 

much useful apparatus; while more than one useful 
medicine has been introduced by those who were search- 
ing for an imaginary elixir. But it must be remem- 
bered that any good which may have thus sprung from 
these researches is merely accidental, and that we can- 
not but congratulate ourselves that in our own day the 
attention, abilities, and time of philosophers are turned 
to objects less alluring to the imagination, but infinitely 
more certain in results. But we must not flatter our- 
selves that belief in these matters is merely a matter of 
history. M. Denis states (in an excellent article in the 
• France Litt^raire,' to which we have referred in pre- 
paring this paper), that so late as 1826, a woman was 
burned at Dax for witchcraft, while about the same 
period a venerable prelate was denied burial at Spires, 
because public report accused him of magic, In our 
own country and our own day, have we not seen mul- 
titudes pinning their faith to a new weather-prophet, 
and a city company employing a philosopher of no 
mean reputation to prepare astrological predictions. 
Is not a • wise man* still often consulted by our pea- 
santry in rural districts ? Is not the horse-shoe still 
nailed up as a protection against the power of witches ? 
Are not amulets still worn, and how many people are 
there yet who will never commence any undertaking 
of the least importance on a Friday ? " These things 
prove,*' says M. Denis, " how mucn the minds of the 
people yet recruire to be enlightened, and what a bad 
effect the hawking books of fortune-telling and witch- 
craft produces in the provinces. Of all the means we 
can employ to remedy this state of things, the proper 
instruction of the lower orders is the most efficacious : 
elementary instruction in physics and physiology would 
indeed do much." 

Judicial astrology, or the art of foretelling future 
events by the inspection of the stars, seems to have 
been practised from very remote antiquity. It is ge- 
nerally supposed to have originated with the Chal- 
deans, ana to have been thence transmitted to the 
Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans. The Jews, after their 
captivity, became much addicted to it ; while the Ro- 
mans, after they had conquered Egypt, conceived so 
passionate a love for the science of astrology, as to defy 
all the edicts of the senate issued against its profes- 
sors. Neither astrology nor astronomy seemed to have 
been known to the northern nations of Europe until 
introduced to its acquaintance by the Moors of Spain 
and the Crusaders. The Mohammedans have always 
been great astrologers. Once introduced into Europe, 
the study of and belief in the science spread rapidly 
and extensively, not merely among the illiterate and 
vulgar, but among some of the brightest spirits of 
their respective periods, who indeed usually pursued 
the study of astronomy only inasmuch as it was sub- 
servient to the purposes of astrology. No important 
events were undertaken without consulting the astro- 
logers, and their predictions were looked to with hope 
or fear as the case might be, but never with doubt. 
Thus Catherine de' Medici is said to have always con- 
sulted astrologers before any important undertaking ; 
and at one time there was scarcely a prince or even 
great baron in Europe who did not keep an astrologer 
in his retinue to cast the horoscopes of his children 
and foretell future events. The predictions of the 
astrologers were for the most part couched in artful 
and general terms, and when tney ventured to be too 
precise, they brought sometimes great discredit on 
their art: thus, in 1186, all the great astrologers of 
Christendom agreed that on the 18th of September of 
that year a most dreadful storm would sweep away 
whole cities, and would be followed by pestilence and 
wars of a most destructive character. The Moorish 
astrologers of Spain, however, disputed the accuracy 
of the prediction. Baldwin, Archbishop of Canter- 

bury, ordered a solemn fast for three days in ordei to 
prepare for the calamity. All Europe was in conster- 
nation ; but on the arrival of the much-dreaded day, 
it proved unusually serene and calm, and the season 
which followed was mild and healthy : and there were 
no storms all that year (says Gervase of Canterbury) 
but what the archbishop raised in the church by his 
own turbulence. Friar Bacon was a great adept and 
believer in astrology, and imputed the various calami- 
ties which befel Europe in 1264 to the neglect of its 
predictions. He says, " Oh, how happy had it been for 
the church of God, and how many mischiefs would it 
have prevented, if the aspect and qualities of the 
heavenly bodies had been predicted by learned men, 
and known to the princes and prelates of those times ! 
There would not have then been so great a slaughter 
of Christians, nor would so many miserable souls nave 
been sent to hell." Even down to the beginning and 
middle of the seventeenth century, almost numberless 
works upon the subject of astrology, some of them 
requiring great industry and patience for their pro- 
duction, continued to appear, although the influence 
they exerted became chiefly confined to the lower 
classes of the community. 

Economy . — Merc parsimony if not economy. Expense, and 
great expense, may be an essential part in true economy. Eco- 
nomy is a distributive virtue, and consists not in saving, but in 
selection.— Walk*?* Original, 

The Plains of Hungary. — We had heard much of the dull 
and monotonous character of the great plain of Hungary. We 
had now a veritable specimen of it before us : for many long and 
weary miles we drove, ere so much as a cottage made its appear- 
ance, and all the while the #rn waved on either hand, rank and 
luxuriant. Yet, singular as to us this state of things appeared, 
it is but a copy, and an imperfect one, of what prevails elsewhere. 
There are parts of the country, especially in the great plain of 
the Theiss, where you may travel an entire day without encoun- 
tering either the houses or the faces of men ; and all the while 
your route will be through fields loaded with abundant crops 
of wheat and rye. Moreover, the customs of the people who 
occupy that plain are to the full as striking as the external 
appearance of the country, and it may be well if I describe 
them. The long and fierce wars which Hungary sustained with 
Turkey, and the exposure of these open districts to perpetual 
invasion, first induced the inhabitants to congregate into heaps, 
and the habits then contracted have never since been laid aside. 
Accordingly, there are no such things as villages and hamlets, 
far less detached dwellings, to be seen anywhere; but, at re- 
mote intervals one from another, you come upon towns, towns 
of the veriest huts, where dwell six, eight, ten, and sometimes 
as many as thirty thousand peasants together. How they pre- 
serve order among themselves I do not know, for their magis- 
trates seem to possess little influence over them ; yet they do 
live peaceably enough ; and though all are poor and squalid, and 
filthy to a degree, there seems to be a perfect indifference to 
the evils which poverty and squalor bring with them. They 
are to a man agriculturists. It is by the labour of their hands 
that the boundless plains through which you have travelled 
are cultivated ; and the process by which the mighty operation 
is performed is this : — When the season for ploughing and sowing 
comes round, the males march in a body from their homes. 
They erect wigwams, or huts, here and there in the fields ; and 
then setting to work, they toil from Monday till Saturday, living 
on the provisions which they may have brought with them, and 
sleeping at night in their bivouac. On Saturday they all return 
to the town, and do not leave it again till Monday. In this 
manner the first processes are carried through ; and when all the 
seed has been scattered, the people inarch back to their perma- 
nent habitations, there to abide in idleness and filth till some 
fresh operation becomes necessary. Finally, when harvest is 
ready, the bivouac is resumed, the women coming forth this 
time to assist in getting it in. And as the completion of the 
sowing season sent them back to town, so, when reaping ends, the 
huti are abandoned. — QUigt Hungary. 

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IThe Red Doer, or Stag, and the Foe- Deer.} 


[Concluded from p. 106 ] 

The red-deer, or stag (Cervus Elaphus, Linn.), belongs 
to the Elaphine section of Col. Hamilton Smith, and 
is to be distinguished from the fallow-deer, not only by 
its horns, which are very different in their form, but 
also by its superior stature It is undoubtedly a native 
of the British Islands, and its range extends over the 
whole of Europe, the high northern latitudes excepted, 
and advances into the proximate districts of Asia. Des- 
marest says that it exists in the north of Africa, and 
he also gives Abyssinia as one of the native localities 
of the fallow-deer. Africa, as far as it is ascertained, 
presents us with only two species of deer : of these, one 
species, very different from the fallow-deer, is allied 
to the red-deer, but is at the same time distinct ; it in- 
habits the northern line of coast (Barbary) ; the other 
is allied to the fallow-deer, and is perhaps identical 
with it. Cuvier says that he has received the fallow- 
deer wild (un daim sauvage), from the woods to the 
south of Tunis. We are not aware that either the red 
or the fallow deer has been seen by late travellers in 

The stag delights in extensive forests and unen- 
closed hilly districts, where he can enjoy a vast range 
of pasturage, Hence there are only a few places in 

the British Islands where this fine species wanders 
truly wild and unrestrained. These are the Grampian 
chain of mountains, and other parts of Scotland, — the 
New Forest in Hampshire, ana various parts of Ire- 
land. In the Grampians they exist in numerous herds ; 
i in the New Forest, however, which was made by 
devastating the country, in order that the red-deer 
might multiply, very few are now to be seen. Wolmer 
Forest in Hampshire formerly abounded in red-deer, 
and when Queen Anne visitea it, as she was journey- 
ing on the Portsmouth road, the keepers, as White in 
his ' Natural History of Selborne* tells us, drove a 
herd of five hundred head before her. During sub- 
sequent years they were reduced to fifty head, and in 
Wnite's time the whole were caught and conveyed to 
Windsor Park. A few red-deer, Mr. Bell informs us, 
existed in Epping Forest within the recollection of 
persons living, and in some parts of Gloucestershire 
j the relics of once large herds are said still to linger. 
! During the winter the males and females of this deer 
! associate together, and form herds of variable numbers 
which wander in quest of pasturage. In February 
I the males lose their norns, ana shortly afterwards others 
| begin to grow ; they then retire from the general herd, 
I and remain alone. The paring season is in August, and 
I during this time, when two males meet, they engage in 
i most furious contests : they utter a loud tremulous 

Digitized by 




[April 3, 

bellowing, and attack persons unwarily approaching 
their lair with great impetuosity. The throat or an- 
terior part of the neck of the stag at this epoch is 
singularly swollen, and the whole system is under the 
highest excitement In quest of the hinds they Bwim 
across broad rivers or lakes ; and are said even to 
venture the passage from island to island along the 
coast of the Scottish Highlands. The female, or hind, 
goes with young eight months and a few days, and pro- 
duces only one at a birth. When about to bring forth, 
she retires from the herd, and selects a place of con- 
cealment, in which her progeny remains until able to 
follow her, when she joins the rest of the hinds, each 
of which is accompanied by her fawn or calf. The 
hind is bold in the defence of her offspring, and de- 
fends it with great courage against enemies : having 
no horns, she uses her fore-feet, and is capable of over- 
powering a dog, and perhaps even a single wolf. 
" Some fellowB, says Wnite, " suspecting that a calf 
new-fallen was deposited in a certain spot of thick 
fern, went with a lurcher to surprise it; when the 
parent hind rushed out of the brake, and taking a vast 
spring with her feet close together, pitched upon the 
neck of the dog and broke it short in two." 

The young remain with their parents during the 
whole of the summer ; in the winter the stags join with 
them ; in spring a general separation takes place, the 
young ones forming companies by themselves. 

The acquisition of horns by the male, or stag, is ana- 
logous to their acquisition oy the fallow-deer. The 
first year produces no horns, l>ut only the frontal pro- 
tuberances or bossets for their future support. These 
are merely rounded knobs. In the second year a simple 
stag or stem is produced. In the third year a longer 
stem is formed, and this is garnished with a branch, 
or brow-antler. In the fourth year a still greater 
development takes place, and, in addition to the brow- 
antler, a second near the extremity of the shaft, and 
termed the bcs-antler, is acquired. In the fifth year 
another antler, called the antler royal, is added. In 
the sixth year the crown, or surroyal, diverges, con- 
sisting of two or three snags, and to these, in future 
years, others are added ; the total number of branches 
often amounts to ten in a stag seven or eight years 
old, and sometimes even more. While young, and 
before the protuberances of the frontal bones have 
appeared, the male is called a calf,— as is also the 
young female. When the protuberances have grown, 
the male is termed a knobber. In the second year he 
is called a brocket ; in the third year, a spayad ; in the 
fourth, a stag gar d ; in the fifth, a stag ; in the sixth, 
a hart, or a stag of ten. 

A stag, or, to use the language of the " honourable 
science of veneric " a hart, in the fulness of maturity, 
with his head carried high, and surmounted by finely- 
developed horns, is indeed a noble object. The ease 
and freedom of his movements, his proud bearing, and 
the animation which glances in his full dark eyes, his 
impatience of a rival, his boldness in the combats, the 
beauty of his form, his strength and fleetness, combine 
to render him worthy the pencil of a Landseer or the 
poetry of a Scott. 

That the stag should have been accounted the first 
and noblest of the " beasts of venerie" by our chace- 
loving ancestors, and by the barons of the feudal times, 
eannot surprise us : his swiftness and his gallant de- 
fence, when brought to bay ; his intrepid reception of 
the dogs ; his sudden and impetuous rush upon his 
assailants, rendering the termination of the pursuit a 
welcome opportunity of displaying personal prowess, — 
gave him such favour in trie eyes of the nobles, that it 
was deemed less criminal in the peasant or man of low de- 
gree to commit murder, than to kill a stag. The severity 
of the forest laws enacted by the early Norman kings, 

and the recklessness with which they afforested whole 
districts, — villages, hamlets, cottages, and churches, 
being all demolished, — attest at the same time their 
passion for the pleasures of the exciting chase, and their 
indifference to the welfare of the peasant population of 
the land,— serfs and villains, — whose interests or lives 
were not for a moment to weigh against the pleasures 
of a king. 

Desmarest says that the stags of mountain districts, 
where food is in less abundance, are always Bmaller 
than those tenanting the plains, which are covered with 
a fertile vegetation. This observation is confirmed by 
a * remark of Dr. Johnson (* Journey to the Western 
Highlands of Scotland'), who, in reference to these 
animals found in the Isle of Skye, says, "The stags of 
the mountains are less than tnose of our parks or 
forests, perhaps not bigger than our fallow-deer. Their 
flesh has no rankness, nor is inferior in flavour to our 
common venison." 

The same learned writer adds, " These are not coun- 
tries for a regular chase. The deer are not driven with 
horns and hounds. A sportsman with his gun in his 
hand watches the animal, and when he has wounded 
him, traces him by the blood. They have a race of 
brindled greyhounds, larger and stronger than those 
with which we course hares, and those are the only 
dogs used by them for the chase." A more dry and 
prosaic description of Highland deer-stalking cannot 
te imagined. 

As, however, we are not of the class of sportsmen, 
and have never witnessed the scene, we shall not 
attempt its delineation. To most of our readers ani- 
mated descriptions of this kind of chase arc familiar, 
and all are acquainted with the account of the great 
hunting-match in • Waverlcy.' 

A full-grown stag is about four feet in height at the 
shoulders ; the general colour is reddish-brown in the 
summer, with a dark dorsal mark and pale haunches ; 
in winter, the general colour is deep brown. The du- 
ration of its life, which has been by many overstated, is 
from thirty to forty yeais. Desmarest and other natu- 
ralists describe a small variety, peculiar to Corsica, 
with a thick body, short legs, and a brown fur. The 
stags of Ardennes are said to exceed in size the ordinary 

When England was less cultivated than at present, 
another beautiful deer tenanted the hilly parts and the 
wild mountain -ranges, whence it has long been 
banished. We allude to the roe-deer (Cervus capreo- 
lus, Linn.), a species very common in various parts of 
the Continent, out in our island now restricted to the 
mountains of Scotland. 

This deer, which belongs to the Capreoline section, 
is much smaller than the fallow-deer, and its horns are 
very different to those in either the latter or the stag ; 
they rise perpendicularly from the head, and are short; 
they are forked at the tip, and have a small antler from 
the main stem, directed forwards. There arc no la- 
chrymal sinuses; the muzzle is naked; the tail ex- 
tremely short. 

The roe deer is most gracefully formed, and is re 
markable for its activity and fleetness. It delights in 
bold mountain districts, well covered with heath, 
amidst which it conceals itself from its enemies ; and 
is wary and cautious in the highest degree. So ex- 
quisite is its sense of smell, that it perceives a man 
while yet at a great distance, and it is, consequently, 
difficult for the sportsman to approach it within gun- 
shot. When roused by the hunter, away it bounds, 
leaping among crags and rugged places, with the 
agility and precision of the chamois ot the Alps, or the 
klipspringer of the rocks of Southern Africa. It uses 
the most subtle artifices to elude pursuit, returns upon 
its steps, crouches among the heath or fern, listens and 

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■miffs the air, and again bounds away. A river is no 
impediment; the roe crosses it witn ease, and, fa- 
voured by the difficulties of the locality, it seldom 
happens that it can be taken by dojjs. 

Tnese animals may, however, it is said, be deceived 
by the sportsman, if he quietly watch for them near 
their usual tracts with a piece of lighted peat, which 
prevents him from being perceived by the creature's 
einell ; while it produces no alarm, as the roe is accus- 
tomed to it " The roe," says Mr. Tytler, as quoted by 
Mr. Bell, " is never known to turn on its enemy when 
wounded; but bad wounds are sometimes received 
from its horns, while it lies tossing its head in agony. 
It is very active, and I have seen one bound, without 
much apparent effort, across a road twenty feet wide. 
Their usual pace, unless when hard pressed, is a long 
and rather awkward canter ; but when closely hunted or 
suddenly startled, their bounds are the most rapid and 
beautiful that can be conceived. They often come 
down on the corn-fields and peas in the neighbourhood 
of their haunts, feeding entirely in the grey of the 
morning and evening. The usual method of killing 
them is to drive the wood with hounds and beaters, the 
shooters being placed so as to command the tracks or 
posses ; and caution is necessary to avoid the windward 
side, as the roe will not approach if it smell the enemy. 
This sport is very tiresome ; and a much more exciting 
mode is to walk quietly through their haunts in the 
earliest dawn, and endeavour to get within shot of 
them, which, however, is by no means easily effected." 

The roe, in one of its habits, differs in the most re- 
markable manner both from the red and the fallow 
deer. The males of these, as is well known, attach 
themselves at certain seasons to several females, from 
which they afterwards separate ; but the roe is strictly 
monogamous : a pair mate themselves together, and 
continue associated during life, never separating from 
each other, and evincing great mutual attachment. 
The pairing season is November, and the female goes 
five months and a half with young, and brings forth 
one or two at a birth : when there are two, these are 
said to be male and female, and to mate themselves 
for life. The female conceals her young amidst the 
tangled herbage of brakes and thickets, and watches 
over them with the greatest solicitude : when able to 
follow her, which they do in about a fortnight, she joins 
her companion, and the family continue united till the 
ensuing November. Sometimes it would appear that 
two or three families, consisting of the parents and 
their young, unite ; for, according to Mr. Tytler, their 
couches, which are often found among the heather, 
indicate that a party of six or seven had lam there to- 
gether. They make their couch by scraping off the 
heather, and crouch like hares, which animals they 
also resemble in keeping to the same tracks on their 
way to their feeding-places They are also observed 
to stop occasionally and listen, especially if they hear 
any sudden noise, and then canter quickly onwards. 
The cry of the roe is frequently heard at night upon 
the hills where the animal is common : it is a short 
sharp note, between the bleat of a sheep and the bark 
of a dog. They are in the habit of answering each 
other; and, when all is still, they may be heard at a 
great distance. In Scotland the fox is their principal 
enemy, and destroys many of the fawns. On the Con- 
tinent, both the fox and trie wolf prey upon them. 

The male roe loses his horns in autumn, and not, 
like the stag, in spring ; he regains them at the com- 
mencement of winter, their completion taking place 
before November, and more rapidly, as might be ex- 
pected from their small dimensions, than in the stag 
or fallow-deer. 

During the first year the fawn has only the small 
frontal prominences developed. The second year a 

single snag is produced. The third year brings an 
increase in the size of the horn, and the addition of a 
sharp branch which is directed forwards. In the fourth 
year the horns are still larger, and fork at the top. 
The fifth and the sixth years add only to their size and 
their roughness. 

The roe lives twelve or fifteen years : its fur is sub- 
ject to a variation in colour, from a greyish or yellowish 
brown to a reddish-brown or dusky-black : the under 
parts are pale, or dirty-white ; the haunch-mark, a spot 
on each side of the lips, and the chin are white ; the 
ears are long, the inside is furnished with long white 
hairs. The height of the adult male at the shoulders 
is about two feet. 

The dusky-black variety is said to prevail at Lune- 
bourg in Saxony. 

The flesh of the roe is in little estimation ; it is dry 
and insipid, and destitute of fat ; it is, however, eaten 
on the Continent, where we have several times tasted 
it. How Bewick can say that it is fine and well fla- 
voured, is beyond our conjecture. 

The wildness and timidity of the roebuck renders the 
attempt to familiarise it difficult, even when the ani- 
mal is taken young. At this early age it is, moreover, 
extremely delicate : Dr. Johnson says that in the Isle 
of Raasay, which, unlike Skye, is destitute both of deer 
and roes, attempts had been made to introduce the 
latter, but without success, in consequence of the diffi- 
culty of rearing the young, and the impossibility of 
taking the old alive, or without injuring them. 

The roe does not exist in Russia ; an allied species, 
however, considerably superior in size, equalling, if 
not exceeding, the fallow-deer, inhabits the mountains 
of Russian Tartary, near the Volga, and is very simi- 
lar to our roe in its habits. 

In concluding our notice of the British deer, we 
may observe that the fallow-deer is the only existing 
species (granting Cuvicr to be correct as to the animal 
from Tunis) with which we are acquainted ; but fossil 
relics prove that others inhabited Europe at a former 
period. Of the Elaphine group, besides our stag, we 
may number the wapite of America, the Barbary stag, 
and two or three species inhabiting the Nepal range of 
mountains. Of the Capreoline section, we only know 
the roe and the * Chevrcuil de Tartary,' Cervus pay- 

fargus, Pallas. This group is represented in America 
y the brockets, or Mazama section, oeculiar to that 


[From a Correipoadratl 

Fish, not fresh, but salted or dried, is an article of 
which the Americans seem to be peculiarly fond, if 
a correct opinion can be formed from the large quan- 
tities consumed, and from there scarcely being a family 
where fish does not form, at least during a great part 
of the year, no inconsiderable portion of their daily 
food ; and in many families this is the case from one 
end of the year to the other. The fish that I am al- 
luding to in that country consists principally of salted 
(pickled) shad and mackerel, and dried coa, salt her- 
rings being scarcely ever seen or heard of, though 
they are sometimes caught along the Atlantic coast ; 
and another sort of fish, called the fresh-water herring, 
abounds in the great lakes and the rivers communi- 
cating between them, though they are seldom eaten ex- 
cept during the spring months. Were salmon abun- 
dant, in a dried or pickled state, I doubt not but it 
would be a favourite ; but for many years these fish 
have been getting scarcer in nearly all the rivers be 
longing to the United States ; and hence when any 
happen to be caught and brought to the city markets, 
they invariably command a price that precludes the 

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[April 3, 

possibility of their finding their way into the interior 
of the country, and to the tables of the working classes. 

At the period when the United States first became fre- 
quented by Europeans, many of the rivers abounded 
with salmon, but very few are now found. For in- 
stance, the Chesapeake Bay and the rivers therewith 
connected, scarcely more than a century ago could 
boast of an abundance of salmon; while a few of 
the rivers to the southward even of the Chesapeake 
were not wholly destitute of them. The Phila- 
delphia and New York rivers (the Delaware and 
Hudson) were formerly well supplied with those fish, 
but this is by no means the case now ; and the scanty 
supply of salmon in the markets of both these cities, 
for the most part is derived from the waters of the 
extreme north-eastern part of the Union. Thus do 
these fish appear to have been receding northwards 
from river to river ; but the rivers of our colonies, 
particularly the St. John's river and the St. Lawrence, 
can still boast of a good supply of this prince of fishes. 

Regarding some of our own rivers, I am aware that 
circumstances have arisen, principally the introduction 
of Bteam and the establishing of various sorts of manu- 
factories, which tend to make those rivers no longer a 
favourite resort of salmon, as well as of Bcveral other 
sorts of fish. But in hardly a single instance has the 
same thing occurred to an equal extent in America ; 
for though it may be true that there are numerous 
steam-boats plying upon several of their rivers, for the 
most part the rivers are of so great a breadth, that it is 
scarcely probable a few steam-boats daily passing up 
and down channels of so great a width would be suf- 
ficient to frighten the fish away from haunts to which 
they had long been accustomed. 

Shad, the Clupea Alosa, or large species of herring, 
in the absence of salmon, appears to be the favourite 
fish with the Americans, particularly with the people 
of the middle and eastern states ; although black 
bass (when in season) is by' some persons considered 
superior to shad, but being caught only in particular 
situations connected with the bays and inlets of the 
sea, its greater scarcity, no~doubt, enhances its value ; 
whereas shad, during the spring months, abounds in 
most of the rivers and creeks connected with the ocean. 
These fish leave the shallow parts of the sea near the 
mouths of the rivers early in spring ; for after the first 
spring freshets (floods) have subsided, shad-fishing in 
the fresh waters immediately commences. The fish 
are then in excellent condition, for at that time they 
are not quite ready to deposit their spawn ; and the day 
they first make their appearance in the markets of the 
principal cities is so anxiously looked for, that exorbi- 
tant prices are frequently given. Of course the prices 
vary from year to year, being in- a measure regulated 
by the quantity of fish early in the market ; but in 
Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, and Boston, two 
dollars (about 8*. 3d.) are frequently obtained for a shad 
of good size, that is, one weighing from four to five 
pounds; and, in the course of two or three weeks 
afterwards, fish of similar size and quality may often 
be purchased for a sixth part of that sum. The shad 
of America commonly range from three to six pounds, 
but the chief portion of those that are salted aown in 
barrels average from three to four pounds. By the 
time these fish have ascended far up the rivers, they 
lose much of the fine flavour and richness for whicn 
they are so esteemed on their first leaving the sea ; 
nevertheless they are still held in high repute by the 
inhabitants of the inland parts of the country; and 
when they happen to be caught far inland in larger 
quantities than the people of the neighbouring towns 
and villages can consume, they are sent off in small 
light waggons, and peddled through the distant settle- 
ments ; and though they may not be found in the most 

perfect condition, yet shad is so exceedingly popular a 
nsh with most Americans, that there is but little diffi- 
culty experienced in -disposing of a few waggon-loads 
in almost any populous settlement. It is, however, in 
the vicinity of the bays and estuaries that these fish are 
caught in very large quantities, and where the fisher- 
men make a business of curing them as an article 
destined for the internal commerce of the country. 
When they ascend far up the rivers, they are generally 
caught with hook and line ; but where the rivers are 
large, nets and seines of different kinds are employed 
in fishing for shad. 

The finest shad that frequent the English rivers are 
universally admitted to be those caught in the Severn, 
some of which are larger than any I recollect having 
met with in any part of America. 

Mackerel, too, are found along the coasts of North 
America, and at one period of the year considerable 
attention is paid to mackerel-fishing ; yet very few oi 
these fish are used fresh, but are salted and cured, like 
a portion of the shad, and transported in barrels to 
every section of the country. The chief part of the 
consumption of both salt shad and mackerel takes place 
in the inland parts of the country, where, during the 
greater portion of the year, there is hardly a village 
storekeeper who does not trade away (to make use of 
an American expression), among the settlers in his 
neighbourhood, more salt-fish than any other com- 
modity he deals in. And here it should be remem- 
bered, this vast consumption of salt-fish takes place in 
a country where animal food is exceedingly cheap. 
It is not only at the tables of the mechanic, artisan, 
and tradesman that you daily meet with salt-fish 
at the breakfast-table — and frequently at the sup- 
per-table too— but also among the settlers generally, 
or among the class of persons that in England would 
be considered the agricultural portion of the popula- 
tion. Neither have religious fasts and observances 
anvthing to do with this almost universal use of salt- 
fisn, since there are but comparatively few of the in- 
habitants, if we except a portion of that class of persons 
usually denominated the American-Irish, who are in 
the habit of denying themselves the use of animal food 
on feasts and fast-days. It must be admitted, however, 
that the backwoods farmer of America acknowledges 
one dish as equal, if not superior, to all the salt-fish in 
the universe, and that is pickled pork. But since 
pork is such a general and especial favourite nearly 
throughout the entire length and breadth of the coun- 
try, it frequently happens that the settler's pork-tub 
becomes exhausted long before his next supply of hogs 
is ready to replenish it ; when, instead of resorting to 
beef, mutton, and veal to supply the deficiency, salt 
shad, if he can afford it, or else salt mackerel (which is 
rather cheaper), in a great measure is made to supply 
the place ot pork. 

At the village and roadside taverns the same mode 
of living is pursued ; and there a whole mackerel or 
the half of a shad is often found the leading article at 
the breakfast-table where two or three persons sit down 
in company. There are many other things to be found 
in the domestic economy of the Americans that differ 
as materially from our English household arrange- 
ments as the prevailing taste for salt-fish in America 
exceeds anything of the kind existing among ourselves, 
which can only be hinted at at present. But it ought 
to be borne in mind, that the peculiarities I have re- 
ferred to, and designated as American, are nearly as 
common in our own North American colonies as in 
the United States themselves, at least in most of the 
older settled parts, where it would often be an exceed- 
ingly difficult matter to draw a distinction between the 
manners, tastes, and customs of our colonial subjects 
and those of the American nation. 

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[Spanish Ueggar.Boyv— Murillo.] 



The picture from which the above wood-engraving, 
by Mr. Jackson, is taken, forms deservedly one of the 
greatest attractions of the Bourgeois Collection at 
Dulwich College. Indeed, amongst the number of 
this Spanish artist's works which are in England, it 
would be difficult to find one that has attained a greater 
degree of popularity. From his early youth Barto* 
lome" Estevan Murillo delighted in the delineation of 
familiar life, and more especially in those of peasants 
and beggar-boys. Persons acquainted with the peculiar 
cast of features of individuals of those classes in Spain, 
are instantly struck with the amazing fidelity with 
which the painter has transferred to his canvass the 
peculiarities of expression observed in the mixed race 
of the Spaniard and the Moor. 

The subject under notice requires at our nands a 
very small share of description, seeing that it at once 
and directly appeals to the senses, and not to the ima- 

no. 579. 

gination of the beholder. The group consists of two 
boys, sometimes, in the catalogues, called peasants, 
and at other times described as beggars, one of whom 
seems to be preparing to play, or having successfully 
played, at a game, the exact name of which we do not 
at this moment remember, but which consists of batting 
or bowling a ball through a ring of iron placed up- 
right in the ground. The other boy is standing by, 
eating a piece of bread, with apparently a considerable 
degree of sulky satisfaction, wnilst a dog, of a large 
Spanish breed, looks wistfully up into the face of his 
ragged master. The artist tor such a choice of sub- 
ject has produced that which every spectator will at 
once admit to be a master-piece of painting in the 
quality of expression, and which no cultivated mind 
can contemplate without being struck with the inti- 
mate and minute knowledge possessed by Murillo of 
the true principles of his art With respect to the 
former, it is manifest that the boys he represents are 
of a stamp partaking greatly more of the animal than 
the intellectual being ; yet the lying figure is that of 

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Vol. X.— T 




[April 10, 

a creature possessing a large fund of natural and exu 
berant drollery. There is fun marked in every line of 
his face, whilst the contrast afforded by the loutish 
looker-on serves to render still more prominent his 
exhaustless fund of animal spirits. 

The management of the picture is of that class which 
he adopted in the school ot Juan del Castillo, namely, 
a large proportionate quantity of black and blue-black 
tints, the other darks consisting of deep rich \>rown, 
with very little or rather no unmixed colour, the flesh 
being painted with an exquisite fidelity to nature ; and, 
in order to afford a scale by which the propriety of the 
relative strength of the light and dark may be tested, 
the artist has introduced into two or three places very 
bright touches — for instance, on the bread protruding 
from the mouth of the standing figure, and on the teeth 
of his whimsical companion. 

Admitting that this class of painting is not the 
highest, though with a vast number of persons it will 
be the most attractive, it is impossible not to see that 
the work we are noticing is in all respects one of the 
most perfect examples Of the class to which it does 
belong. The painter has, with a rare exercise of dis- 
crimination, afforded us a specimen of the lowest life, 
yet has offered nothing in it offensive to humanity or 
repugnant to good taste. In short, we are disposed to 
agree entirely with an anonymous writer on the Bour- 
geois Collection, high as tne praise he bestows un- 
doubtedly is, when he speaks of this picture as " a 
miracle of successful art, and as a work beyond all 
praise and price." 

Of the history of the painter it is only necessary to 
say that he was bom on the 1st of January, 1618, at 
Seville, and not at Pilas, as stated by Palomino Ve- 
lasco. He showed an early inclination for painting, 
and was placed under the care of a maternal uncle, 
Don Juan del Castillo, a painter of some eminence, 
who had established an academy in Seville. After 
quitting the school of that master, he painted many 
pictures which were exposed for sale at the fair annu- 
ally held in his native city, and a great number of 
which were exported to Spanish America, a circum- 
stance that has induced some of his biographers to 
assert that he himself visited South America. Murillo 
had a great desire to travel to Rome, but on making a 
journey to Madrid he paid his court to Velasquez, 
then in the height of his reputation and influence, who 
found him ample employment in copying from the 
pictures of Titian, Rubens, and Vandyke, in the royal 
palaces. After remaining at Madrid three years, he 
returned to Seville, and immediately enjoyed a very 
great degree of fame. His first great work, in fresco, 
or, in other words, on undried plaster on the walls of 
the convent of San Francisco, or the Capuchins, esta- 
blished his reputation as an historical painter. The 
work consists of sixteen compartments, the chief of 
which, and that which was considered by the painter 
himself as his master-piece, is a representation of St. 
Thomas of Villanueva distributing aims to a group of 
poor people. He died at Seville, on the 3rd of April, 
1682, that event being accelerated by a fall from a 
scaffold whilst painting in the church of the Capuchins 
at Cadiz. In stating the dates of Murillo's birth and 
death, we have adopted those given by M. Perries, in 
the <Biographie Universelle/ though Mr. Bryan,* 
following probably Velasco, states those events to have 
respectively happened in the years 1613 and 1686. 

Although it is manifest from the later works of 
Murillo that he deeply reflected on the principles 
which guided the great masters of the Italian schools 
of painting, there is in no single instance the slightest 
appearance of the servility of imitation. He has pre- 
eminent claims to be considered in all respects as the 
founder of an original style. In his imitation of nature 

too, without abandoning a scrupulous fidelity of repre- 
sentation, he has so managed to invest his figures, in 
subjects such as the one before us, with a chasteness of 
expression which elevates the work in some degree 
into the class of poetic composition, without at the 
same time sacrificing the truth of history. In fact, 
when he depicts a Spanish beggar-boy he does not give 
us the mere portrait of one individual member of that 
class, but places before us in the individual represented 
a personification of the whole class itself.* Such we 
conceive is his merit in the subject of which we have 
been speaking, but the converse in some degree of this 
view must be taken in relation to his Scripture sub- 
jects. In these he paints life as he sees it in Spain, not 
as it existed in Palestine. The Madonna, from his 
hand, appeals to us as a beautiful sample of Andalu- 
sian nature, and not, like the sacred emanations of 
Raffaelle's pencil, the very impersonation of divine 
purity. Still his style is in all respects distinguished 
oy a close and lively imitation of nature, whilst his 
"forms have a national peculiarity of air, habiliment, 
and countenance, It has been justly remarked that 
his features of the Virgin, his saints, and even his re- 
presentations of the Redeemer, are stamped with the 
features of his country, and a characteristic expression 
of the eye which is remarkable. 

It does not appear that he aimed at any great aca- 
demic truth in his drawing; but would rather seem to 
have been satisfied with such models as presented 
themselves to his notice, carefully, however, avoiding 
manifest defects, and never falling into the delineation 
of monstrosity or contortion, unless, as in his picture of 
St Thomas of Villanueva, the subject imperatively 
called for such exhibition. "His colouring, observes 
Mr. Bryan, " is clear, tender, and harmonious ; and 
though it possesses the truth of Titian and the sweet- 
ness of Vandyke, it has nothing of the servility of imi- 
tation. Though he sometimes adopts a beautiful ex- 
pression, there is usually a portrait-like simplicity in 
the airs of his heads, in which there is seldom anything 
of the ideal. His style may be said to hold a middle 
rank between the unpolished naturality of the Flemish 
and the graceful and elegant taste of the Italian 



The pleasure which most persons experience in view- 
ing the portrait of a great man, of one who has made 
for himself a reputation by great thoughts or great 
deeds, may be traced to the association which is imme- 
diately established between the picture and the merits 
of the person whose lineaments it represents. The per- 
sonal appearance of the individual, and the skill with 
which the painter has represented it, do indeed attract 
a certain share of our attention ; but the mind invo- 
luntarily turns from the picture itself, to the thoughts 
or deeds with which the original is associated. 

So it is with models of machinery, when viewed in a 
right spirit As mere collections of wheels and axles, 
levers and pinions, there is to most persons something 
irksome about them ; but when regarded as memorials 
of social advancement, as engines of national wealth, as 
indices of the progress of scientific knowledge, they 
rise to the importance of historical monuments, by 
which future ages may test the rate of progress of the 
present and the past 

If machinery be regarded in this light, there are 
many places in London where a profitable hour may 
be passed in the inspection of machines, engines, and 
tools whereby certain processes are effected, and of 
raw materials in certain stages of their progress. The 

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mechanic, who is practically engaged in any branch of 
art, may perchance reap advantage from the inspection 
of a machine different from those he employs ; while 
the general visitor may gather much curious and inte- 
resting knowledge respecting the production of articles 
with which he is daily surrounded. 

The Museum of the Society of Arts is one of the 
places to which we have alluded. This admirable 
Society was established about the middle of the last 
century, for the purpose of encouraging British art 
and manufactures by various means. The funds of the 
Society are chiefly appropriated to the presentation of 
rewards or premiums to individuals who have pro- 
duced anything new or valuable in mechanical or 
agricultural processes, or in the instruments by which 
they are effected. An humble individual may make a 
useful discovery, but may not have the means of pro- 
fiting by it through the protection of a patent: to 
afford such a man the means of publicity for his in- 
vention, and to give him, under certain regulations, a. 
small reward for his ingenuity, are among the objects 
of the Society. The models which the Society receives 
on many such occasions, as well as specimens of culture 
and of manufacture, models, and instruments received 
from other persons, have gradually accumulated to a 
considerable number, and form a museum. The So- 
ciety's house is in John Street, Adelphi; and the 
museum occupies one apartment on the ground-floor. 
No charge is made for admission to view these objects ; 
but still, for obvious reasons, a visitor is expected to 
bring an order from any one of the members (who are 
very numerous) : with such an order a stranger may 
be admitted any week-day except Wednesday. 

There is nothing attractive in the appearance of the 
room which contains the models and machinery ; indeed 
persons unused to these subjects might deem it scarcely 
better than a lumber-room ; but a little steady atten- 
tion to the contents will show the liberal objects which 
the Society has had in view. Almost the first articles 
seen on entering the room are specimens of Leghorn 
plat deposited in a glass case. Our female readers 
who are conversant with the qualities of ' Leghorn,' 
' ' Tuscan,' ' Dunstable,' and other materials for bonnets, 
well know how large a price has been generally paid 
for foreign plats, compared with English. Now the 
Society has paid great attention to this subject, with 
the view of improving, so far as their influence and 
encouragement can do so, the quality of the English 
straw used for this purpose, the permanence of the 
colour, and the mode of platting, in order to raise the 
quality of the home manufacture as nearly as possible 
to the level of that of Italy, and thereby provide em- 
ployment for the numerous families in the midland 
counties of England who are engaged in the straw-plat 
manufacture. In the glass case to which we allude 
are specimens of English ' Leghorn,' in a great variety 
of forms, placed in iuxta-position with an Italian plat. 
This is the fair and legitimate mode of maintaining a 
home manufacture — not by prohibiting the importation 
of foreign goods, but by improving our own ; and to 
aid in this improvement is the enlightened object of 
the Society of Arts. 

In another case are specimens of hemp and flax of 
different qualities, resulting from attempts made to 
improve the culture of those valuable materials. We 
may observe that the Society has paid especial attention 
to the encouragement of those branches of agriculture 
and insect-rearing whereby the raw materials of manu- 
factures are produced both in England and in the 
colonies. As examples, we may mention that in one 
case are bottles containing different specimens of Assam 
tea, grown in the north-east district of Hindustan, as an 
attempt to show how far we could be supplied with tea 
from our own colonies ; in another are specimens of 

Assam sUk, brought from the same country ; in a third 
are specimens of silk- worms' cocoons, containing silk 
wholly produced in England. In all such instances as 
these, the commercial advantages or disadvantages 
likely to result from the success of the respective 
attempts are left to develop themselves at the nroper 
time, the object being to ascertain, by the influence 
and encouragement of the Society, whether, and by what 
means, such and such things am be cultivated, of good 
quality, in England or her dependencies. 

In different parts of the room are models of the ap- 
paratus whereby fibrous materials are worked up into 
cloth, as well as specimens of the cloth thus produced. 
Specimens of wool, taken from various kinds of sheep 
and goats, are exhibited, as well as pieces of broad-cloth 
woven therefrom. Lace, made in the old method by 
hand, under the designation of * pillow-lace,' is placed 
in juxta-position with other specimens produced by 
other means. Then there are numerous models of 
looms for producing various kinds of woven fabrics, 
some of them almost obsolete in form, but still serving 
to mark the steps by which progress has been made. 
Indeed one of the chief points of interest in this museum 
arises from the contrast often exhibited between models 
of machines made in the last century and others of 
modern date : they are like facts in the history of a 
nation, showing how the present has been derived 
from the past 

Among the. models seen in the room are many re- 
lating to improvements in ship-building, such as in the 
formation and fixing of the rudder, and so forth. 
Others show us various forms of rafts which have been 
devised for the preservation of life in case of shipwreck ; 
and of fire-escapes, for use in the public streets : among 
the latter is a model of Mr. Wivell's ingenious machine. 
A pair of scales and a set of weights, brought from 
Belgium, enable us to compare the forms of the 
weighing apparatus used in that country with the 
kinds employed in England. Wind-gauges, rain- 
gauges, tide-measures, and telegraphs, of some of the 
numerous forms devised, are represented by small 
models deposited here; as are also lathes and hand- 
tools of many kinds. 

Whatever is calculated to lighten or relieve human 
labour or human pain, by the substitution of me- 
chanism, is a prominent subject for the consideration 
of this Society. The substitution of machines for 
climbing-bovs, in the process of cleansing chimneys, is 
an object which has led to the construction of many 
pieces of mechanism, specimens of some of which are 
to be seen here. There is another glass case, contain- 
ing some pieces of mechanism, which can scarcely be 
looked at without calling up a feeling of regret at the 
obstinacy with which injurious customs are sometimes 
adhered to: we allude to the magnetic mouth-pieces 
for needle-grinders. The men employed in grinding 
the points of needles are among the most short-lived 
of our artisans, on account of the fatal effects of the 
particles of steel inhaled by the lungs. To obviate 
this evil, an ingenious person contrived a sort of mag- 
netic shield for the mouth, by which the particles of 
steel were stopped and retained before they could reach 
the mouth. But the men refused to use this apparatus, 
lest, by making the occupation less injurious, more 
persons might embark in it, and the rate of wages 
(which is high) be diminished ! 

Among the most pleasing pieces of mechanism at 
the museum are those for teaching blind persons to 
read, to write, and to learn music. Tablets of different 
kinds are provided with pins and wires, the admixture 
and arrangement of which are made to denote the 
letters of the alphabet, the numerals, the notes of the 
gamut, &c. 

Models of agricultural machines are rather nume- 


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[April" KV 

rous, and comprise various forms of ploughs, narrows, 
&c. For subjects more strictly mechanical, there are 
specimens of girders for roofs; presses for book- 
binders and other artizans; planes and other tools; 
sash-frames, and numerous others; all being models of 
machines containing some improvement, more or less 
important, on the usual forms. A few models of 
safety lamps show the principle on which Sir H. Davy 
founded his admirable contrivance, and the minor im- 
provements made by others; A collection of apparatus 
belonging to the associated sciences of electricity, 
galvanism, and magnetism is interesting, not as show- 
ing the state to wnich they have now arrived, and 
which is far beyond- the point which this apparatus in- 
dicates, but as exemplifying the steps by which the- 
progress has been made. 

The Society does not confine ■ its operations to the 
encouragement of any art or manufacture in particu- 
lar, but to the advancement of productive industry 
generally, whether in the raw material to which manu- 
facturing art is afterwards to be applied, or to the im- 
plements or processes by which this manufacture is 
conducted. The preparation of pigments, of oils, of 
varnishes, of cements, and other substances used in 
the arts, comes therefore legitimately within the scope 
of the Society's notice ; and some of the. cases in the 
museum contain bottles and packages exhibiting spe- 
cimens of such articles, distinguished either for their 
excellence or for the improved mode in which they 
were prepared. 

These few paragraphs will serve briefly to show 
what are the objects tor which the museum was esta- 
blished, and what is the general description of articles 
deposited there. A person who is either unacquainted 
with the nature of machinery and implements, or is 
indifferent to the processes of manufacturing industry, 
may perhaps fail to reap either pleasure or profit from 
sucn an exhibition ; but he who rightly appreciates the 
true sources of a nation's greatness ana wealth will 
feel a pleasure in viewing specimens of the apparently 
humble means by which that wealth and greatness have 
been principally acquired ; and will also duly respect 
those who by their influence and liberality have aided 
in improving those means. 

The true prop of good government is opinion ; the perception, 
on the part of the subjects, of benefits resulting from it ; a set- 
tled conviction, in other words, of its being a public good. Now, 
nothing can produce or maintain that opinion but knowledge, 
since opinion is a form ot knowledge* Of tyrannical and un- 
lawful governments, indeed, the support is fear, to which igno- 
rance is as congenial as it is abhorrent from the genius of a free 
people.— Robert Hail. 

Female Labour in Arabia. — I saw several females here 
literally performing the labour of bullocks — in plain English, 
they were yoked to the plough. One Was a very comely lass, 
and she answered my inquiries laughingly, that they hired them- 
selves for the purpose, the remuneration being a small quantity 
of grain ! The men at the same time were standing looking on, 
with spinnets in their hands. An odd transfer of duties this ! 
The reader may recollect that Sir Thomas Munro relates, as a 
reason why an Indian should be exempted from paying his 
taxes, that he pleaded the late loss of his wife, who did as much 
work as two bullocks. — WelsteoVs City of the Caliphs. 

The Mikado of Japan. — Everything about him must be in- 
cessantly new. No article of his dress is ever worn a second 
time ; the plates and dishes in which his repasts are served, the 
cups or bowls out of which he drinks, must be new at every 
meal, as must the culinary utensils in which the meal is pre- 

I tared. But none inherit his leavings. Whatever article of any 
;ind has been hallowed by the Mikado's use, even such remote 
use as cooking what he is to eat, is thereby so sanctified, that no 
human touch must be afterwards suffered to profane them. To 

wear his cast clothes, to eat off his plates, cook in his saucepan, 
&c., or even to feed upon the broken victuals from his table, 
would call down the vengeance of heaven upon the sacrilegious 
offender, To prevent all risk of the kind, everything that has 
once been in any way employed in the service of the Mikado is 
immediately torn, broken, or otherwise destroyed ; his clothes, 
which are of a colour that no other person may wear, are burnt ; 
and hence arises the only drawback upon all this state. Th* 
Mikado is supported by the Ziogoon; and the allowances 
from Yedo not wing as ample as might be wished, the heavy 
expense of renewing daily, almost hourly, whatever appertains 
to the Son of Heaven, is alleviated by supplying his wardrobe, 
table, kitchen, &c. with articles of the very cheapest, and, 
therefore, coarsest description. — SteboWs Manner* and Custom* of 
the Japanese. 

A Hungarian Gentleman's Establishment. —The gentleman 
whose guests we had thus unexpectedly become, belonged to that 
class in Hungarian society which corresponds, in respect to rank, 
with our untitled aristocracy— the proprietors of estate* which 
have descended to them through many generations. He inha- 
"bitai a country-house, which, in point of sixe and the general 
aspect of things in and around it, I can compare to nothing so 
aptly as the dwelling of a Highland laird. It was a long-fronted, 
two-storied, white-walled chateau, having before it a sort of 
court or grass-plot, round which ran a gravelled drive, that was 
fenced off from the road only by a hedge and paling. At the 
bottom of this court, again, and at right angles with the swing- 
gate by which we entered, stood a range of cottages, where dwelt 
the grooms and menials and hangers-on upon the family ; while 
just across the road were stables, coach-houses, sheds, barns, and 
a garden well stocked with fruit and vegetables. Of park, or 
paddock, or grounds purely ornamental, there was, however, no 
trace. Except where the green court lay (and it was not wholly 
ornamental, inasmuch as the draw-well stood exactly in the 
centre of it), every rood of land had been laid under the plough. 
Up to the very walls of the mansion the corn crops were grow- 
ing ; and in the hamlet where we and our host first met, the 
labourers or serfs by whom they were reared resided. It was 
not, however, in the outward appearance of things alone that I 
traced a close resemblance between the domicile of this Hun- 
garian gentleman and that of the Highland laird, rather, per- 
haps,** he was half a century ago, than as you now find him, 
except in rare cases. The family of Mr. Scultati (for so* my 
young friend was called) appeared of countless extent There 
was no end to the retainers, men, women, and children, who went 
to and fro before his hall-door and thronged his kitchen. Eating 
and drinking, moreover, appeared to be a work which suffered 
small intermission ; and the viands, though coarse perhaps, were 
most abundant. Then, again, I saw one woman arrive with 
several couples of fowls, another with a basket of eggs, a third 
with a jar of milk, a fourth with something else ; and I learned 
that such were not so much the spontaneous offerings of a good- 
will, as the feudal perquisites which the chief claimed, and the 
cottar and small tenant paid. " It is thus," said my kind host, 
" and thus only, that the hospitalities of such a household as 
mine could be kept up. These things are brought to me every 
day. What could I do with them, if I did not feed the people 
whom you consider so numerous I" — Gleig's Hungary. 

Indian Thieftakers. — The hired watchmen are generally of 
these castes. (thieves), and are faithful and efficacious. Their 
presence alone is a protection against their own class ; and their 
, skill and vigilance against strangers. Guzerat is famous for one 
class of people of this sort, whose husiness it is to trace thieves 
by their footsteps. In a dry country a bare foot leaves little 
print to common eyes ; but one of these people will perceive all 
its peculiarities so as to recognise it in all circumstances, and 
will pursue a robber by these vestiges for a distance that seems 
incredible. One was employed to pursue a man who had car- 
ried off the plate belonging to a regimental mess at Caira : he 
tracked him to Ahmedabad, twelve or fourteen miles ; lost him 
among the well-trodden streets of that city, but recovered his 
traces on reaching the opposite gate ; and though long foiled by 
the fugitive's running up the water of a rivulet, he at last came 
up with him, and recovered the property, after a chase of from 
twenty to thirty miles. — Mr. Elphinstones History of India. 

When any calamity has been suffered, the first thing to be 
remembered is, how much has been escaped. — Dr. Johnson. 

Digitized by 







Haleb (commonly, but erroneously, called Aleppo), 
the capital of a pasnalik of Asiatic Turkey of the same 
name, is situated in the north part of Syria, in 36° 1 1' 
32" N. lat. (according to Niebuhr), and 37° 9' E. long. 
It is one of the largest and most important towns in 
Western Asia. Tavernier, in 1670, estimated the po- 
pulation at 258,000; D'Arvieux, in 1683, at about 
258.000 ; Russell, in the last century, at 235,000, of 
which 200,000 were Mohammedans, 30,000 Christians, 
and 5000 Jews ; Volney reduces the number to 100,000 ; 
but Rousseau, who lived for some time at Haleb as 
French consul, estimates it at 200,000. Rousseau also 
informs us that the town is built on four hills, called 
Djeleb beni el-Kaka, on one of which there is a forti- 
fied castle ; that it is surrounded by a stone wall, and 
has seven gates ;* that it contains 5 serais, or gover- 
nor's palaces, 100 mosques, of which the most cele- 
brated is that of Zacharias ; 50 mesieds, or oratories, 
of which the most beautiful, called Helawie, is sup- 
posed by Pococke to have been formerly a Christian 
church Duilt by Helena, mother of Constantine ; 10 
or 12 public schools, 2 public libraries, 5 mehkems, 
or courts of justice, 60 baths, 100 coffee-houses, 40 or 
45 great bazaars, 31 khans, occupied principally by 
Franks or other strangers, 200 fountains, about 15 
wakfs, or religious- institutions, a mewla-kh&ne, or 
college of dervishes, 5 Christian churches, a syna- 
gogue, and 40,000 houses. But the state of the city 
has been greatly changed by an earthquake whicn 
happened in August, 1822, ana which destroyed almost 
two-thirds of the buildings. The population is a mix- 
ture of Turks, Arabs, Christians, and Jews. The 
Christians principally belong to the Greek, Syrian, 
and Armenian churches: of these the Greeks are the 
most numerous and the richest. The small river Kpik 
runs along the west^ide of the town. 

Before the earthquake of 1822, Haleb was supposed 
to possess 12,000 artisans, and was celebrated for its 
goid and silver lace, its manufactures of silk and 
cotton goods, shawls, &c., being, next to Smyrna, the 
most commercial town of Turkey in Asia; but its 
Drosjperity was chiefly owing to its situation, which 
rendered it one of the great commercial marts between 

' * In Niebuhr's plan, 1766, there are nine gates. 

Europe and A3ia. It carries on a great caravan trade 
with Bagdad, Persia, and the eastern parts of Asia. 
The goods destined for the European market are 
shipped from the port of Latakia. Consuls from all 
the commercial states of Europe reside at Haleb. 

The ancient name of the town was Chaleb, or Cha- 
lybon, which was changed by Seleucus Nicator into 
Bercea. It continued to be called by that name until 
its conquest by the Arabs under Abu Obeidah in 638, 
when its original name of Chaleb or Haleb was re- 
stored. It afterwards became the capital of an inde- 
pendent monarchy under the sultans of the race of 
Hamadan, under whose rule it appears to have enjoyed 
great prosperity. In the latter part of the tenth cen- 
tury Haleb was again united to the Greek empire by 
the conquests of Zimisces, emperor of Constantinople. 
During the crusades Haleb was subject to the Seljuke 
princes. In 1260 it was plundered by the Moguls, and 
again in 1401 by Timur. It was afterwards annexed 
to the dominions of the Mameluk sultans of Egypt, 
but was conquered by Selim I., the Turkish sultan, 
and has since that time been subject to the sultans of 
Constantinople. It was, however, lately, for a few 
years, in the possession of the pasha of Egypt, but is 
now again restored to the dominion of the sultan. 

The pashalik of Aleppo is bounded on the west by 
the Mediterranean, on the cast by the Euphrates, on 
the north by an imaginary line drawn from Scanderoon 
(the ancient Alexandria) on the coast to El Bir on the 
the Euphrates, and on the south by another line drawn 
from Billis to the Mediterranean, passing by Murrah 
and the bridge of Shogher. The northern part is oc- 
cupied by high mountains, known to the ancients under 
the name of Amanus, which is only a branch of Mount 
Taurus. The southern part is sterile and sandy ; but 
the plains at the foot of the mountains are fertile, and 
afford good pasturage for the numerous flocks of the 
Arabs and Kurds, wnich graze upon them during the 
greater part of the year. The inhabitants only culti- 
vate the land in the mountainous districts, which pro- 
duce wheat and other sorts of corn, melons, olives, 
cotton, tobacco, figs, &c. : the level parts of the coun- 
try are abandoned to the Kurds and Arabs. The heat 
of the climate is seldom oppressive, in consequence of 
the west winds which blow from the Mediterranean. 
The country is reckoned healthy ; but the inhabitants 

Digitized by 




[April 10, 

of Haleb are very subject to a disease which first ap- 
pears under the form of an eruption on the skin, and 
afterwards forms into a sort of boil : it dies away in 
about eight months from its appearance. Volney and 
many other travellers attribute the disease to the bad- 
ness of the water which the inhabitants drink. 

The pashalik of Haleb is watered by the Euphrates, 
the Orontes, and the Koik. The Koik rises near 
Amtab in the north, and passing by Haleb, loses itself 
in a morass about sixteen miles south of the city. 

The pashalik contains no other towns of any import- 
ance, with the exception of Haleb. Alexandria (Scan- 
deroon) and Antioch, which were once so celebrated, 
are now of little importance. 


Thomas Gent is known to students of the topography 
of the Northern Counties, especially Yorkshire, as the 
author of several works on local antiquities and local 
history ; and as being one of the chief master-printers 
out of London towards the middle of last century. 
Until within the last few years nothing was known of 
his personal history beyond a few names and dates, and 
the incidental allusions to himself contained in his 
writings. In 1832 a thin octavo volume was published 
containing " his Life," or rather autobiography, printed 
from a manuscript in Gent's hand-writing, discovered 
by Mr. Thorpe of Bedford Street in a collection of pa- 
pers received from Ireland. This document gives a 
minute but not uninteresting account of the life of its 
author until the age of fifty-six, the time when it was 
drawn up. It does not appear to have been resumed 
after that period. It is valuable as the simple narra- 
tive of honest perseverance gradually surmounting 
very formidable obstacles, and as an illustrative re- 
cord of some of the events and customs of the time. 

Gent was the son of Irish parents, and appears to 
have been born in Dublin about the year 1691. When 
his autobiography commences (some of the first pages 
have been lost) we find him, at the age of sixteen or 
seventeen, absconded from his parents, and from his mas- 
ter, Mr. Powell, a printer in Dublin, and embarking 
for England. In a poetical narrative of his adven- 
tures, inserted in a subsequent part of the pamphlet, 
he tells us that the wanton tyranny of his master was 
the cause of this desertion. Arrived in England with 
an Irish shilling, and sixpence given to him by the 
captain of the vessel, he began to consider what course 
was most advisable under the circumstances. He tra- 
velled to Chester, " but no printing-press, as I could 
hear of, was set up in those parts ;" so he and his fellow- 
travellers " were obliged to push forward to London." 
His companions he Boon discovered were very disrepu- 
table characters. " At first," says he, " they called me 
Mr. Tommy ; but when they found the title did not 
agree with my empty pockets, they imposed some of 
their heavy burdens on my wearied shoulders." After 
being implicated by these vagrant friends in the un- 
lawful appropriation of a goose, and after narrowly 
escaping impressment by a party of soldiers whom he 
overtook on the road, he reached St Alban's, •• very 
lame and tired, and with but twopence in the world. 
When and how he reached London we do not know, 
for there is unfortunately another lost page in the 
manuscript. When the story is resumed, he is in the 
employ of Mr. Midwinter, a master-printer, as an ap- 
prentice for the remainder of the usual term of seven 
years. His hardships at this period of his life were 
more than ordinarily severe. He complains of being 
often "severely beaten," and says, "I worked many 
times from five in the morning till twelve at night, and 
frequently without food from breakfast to five or six 
in the evening." His peaceful disposition, both here 

and in fact throughout his whole life, entailed upon 
him much annoyance by inviting the insults of his 
more audacious tellow-workmen. When grossly pro- 
voked, if his own statement may be trusted, he does 
not appear to have been deficient either in will or 
power to punish the aggressor. 

When he was about twenty years old, his master re- 
linquished all claim upon him as an apprentice, and 
began to treat him witn great courtesy. \Ve discover 
the immediate cause of this change in tie circumstance 
"of my writing Dr. Sacheverells sermon after his 
suspension, for which I waited from morning till even- 
ing to hear him, and my master cleared thirty pounds 
that week by it" This incident proves that, under all 
his disadvantages, Gent had assiduously availed him- 
self of every chance of improvement, and it indicates 
the immense excitement caused by the proceedings 
against Sacheverell, and the manner in which the crav- 
ings of that excitement were supplied. 

His whole stock of money at the time of his libera- 
tion was a single shilling, sixpence of which paid the 
postage of a letter from his parents at Dublin, and 
with the remaining sixpence he purchased Ayres 
* Arythmetic* at a book-stall. But his fortunes began to 
mend apace. He obtained employment immediately 
with a Mr. Bradford. He describes an absurd cere- 
mony which the journeymen of his new shop compelled 
him to perform as indispensable to his initiation among 
them, "besides having to pay what is called beer- 
money." We hope the present generation of opera- 
tives estimate such practices at their proper value. 
He soon after engaged himself to Mr. White of York, 
" for eighteen pounds a year, besides board, washing, 
and lodging." He offered twenty shillings to the car- 
rier who traded between the two cities for a place in 
his waggon, but the man would not take less than five 
and twenty, " so I was resolved to venture on foot" 
Arrived at York, he says, " the first house I entered to 
inquire for my new master was in a printers at Pe- 
tergate, the very dwelling that is now my own by pur- 
chase." Mr. White was at dinner " by the fireside, 
sitting in a noble arm-chair with a good large pie be- 
fpre him, and made me partake heartily with him." 
He continues, " my master had plenty of business to 
employ several persons, there being few printers in 
England, at that time, except in London ; none then, I 
am sure, at Chester, Whitehaven, Preston, Manchester, 
Kendal, and Leeds, as for the most part now abound." 
This was written in 1746. Gent was engaged by Mr. 
White in 1714. 

His situation at York soon became uncomfortable, 
and after " having vented the diversity of my flowing 
passions " in thirty-six stanzas of six lines each, more 
valuable as an epitome of his personal history than for 
any poetical excellence, he determined to visit his 
native country. He had already conceived an affection 
for " Mrs. Alice Guy, upper maiden to Mrs. White, 
who, I was persuaded to believe, had the like mutual 
kindness for me ; she was the daughter of Mr. Richard 
Guy, schoolmaster at Ingleton near Lancashire ; had 
very good natural parts, quick understanding, was of 
fine complexion, and very amiable in her features." 
This young person ultimately became his wife. The 
prudence and disinterestedness he manifested by post- 
poning their marriage until he had a reasonable pros- 
pect of providing for a family, are among the most 
interesting portions of his simple story, and certainly 
not the least honourable distinctions of his conduct and 

After some delay, he found a vessel about to sail for 
Ireland. A storm compelled them to take shelter in 
Douglas harbour in the Isle of Man. They were de- 
tained here eleven days ; but provisions were cheap. 
" I could buy," he says, " a pullet for four-pence, and a 

Digitized by 





quart of strong brandy for an English shilling, which 
went there for fourteen pence." 

He did not stay long in Dublin, but again engaged 
himself to Mr. White, with whom he continued during 
the years 1715 and 1716. He then returned to London, 
to his first master, Mr. Midwinter. He mentions as 
taking place about this time the execution of two men 
for an alleged robbery, on the highway, of three half- 
pence ; which, he says, " neither of them had received." 
The incident is a shocking exemplification of the 
savage state of our criminal jurisprudence at that time, 
and of the little value set on human life in judicial 

In 1717 he was admitted a freeman of the Company 
of Stationers ; and in October of the same year com- 
menced citizen of London at Guildhall. " We dined at 
a tavern that day, and my part of the treat, with other 
expenses, came to about three pounds." He adds, " all 
this While I was as careful in saving what I earned as 
possible, but yet could not perceive a prospect of set- 
tlement whereby to maintain a wife as I judged she 
deserved, and I could not think of bringing her (Alice 
Guy) from a good situation without I could certainly 
make us both happy in a better." After several vicis- 
situdes of employment, he was offered a very advan- 
tageous partnership at Norwich, but at the moment 
he was setting out to that place he received intelligence 
that his parents were in a very precarious state of 
health, and desired to see him for perhaps the last time. 
He at once relinquished the prospect before him, 
" taking care to recommend Mr. Robert Raikes in my 
room, who is now settled master in Gloucester,"* and 
started for Ireland. His affection for his father and 
mother, when age had rendered them unable to main- 
tain themselves, is beyond all praise. He appears to 
have considered their comfort paramount to every other 

When he returned to London, he was employed by a 
Mr. Clifton, apparently a disguised Jesuit, who was in 
active communication with Dr. Atterbury, the Jacobite 
bishop of Rochester. After printing from a manu- 
script, of which he was not allowed to know the author- 
ship, " the papers were packed up and delivered to my 
care, and the same night, my master hiring a coach, we 
were driven to Westminster, where we entered into a 
large sort of monastic building. Soon we were ushered 
into a spacious hall, where we sat near a large table 
covered with an ancient carpet of curious work, and 
whereon was soon laid a bottle of wine for our enter- 
tainment In a little time we were visited by a grave 
gentleman in a black lay habit, who entertained us with 
one pleasant discourse or other. He bid us be secret ; 
* For,' said he, ' the imprisoned divine does not know 
who is his defender* " (the printed papers were a pamph- 
let in defence of a person under confinement). Gent 
of course assured the grave gentleman and his master 
that there was no fear of his disclosing anything he 
might know ; but of this they had taken pretty good 
care; for he admits that the "wine" presently made 
him so tipsy that he does not know by what means he 
was conveyed home. He never seems to have sus- 

Eected that what he swallowed was anything but the 
onest juice of the grape. One day afterwards he hap- 
pened to encounter a nle of guards conveying a state 
prisoner to the Tower ; and in Dr. Atterbury, the per- 
son under arrest, recognised the grave gentleman " by 
whom my master and I had been treated." 

Some time after this he published ' Teague's Ramble,' 
a satire " I had written on some of our profession, who 
richly deserved it for their unmerciful usage of me 
and others." 
He then gives a long account of one Burridge, a 
* Wai this the Mr. Robert Raikes who is so gratefully 
remembered as the founder of the first Sunday-school f 

penniless author, alias "bookseller's hack," who "sold 
copies (t>. pamphlets, &c.) for half-a-crown a-piece," 
and spent his life, after the genuine Grub Street fashion, 
in alternate extravagance and starvation, sometimes at 
large, but oftener in prison, and always in a scrape, or 
beset by bailiffs. He then describes being sent as a 
reporter to Kingston assizes. He had now accumu- 
lated a respectable sum, and began to buy furniture, 
and type, and other things that would be useful when 
he started in business onhis own account With many 
other printers, he was committed to Newgate on sus- 
picion of being concerned in the publication of some 
obnoxious pamphlets relative to the pending prosecu- 
tion of Dr. Atterbury, but as nothing could he proved 
against him, he was presently liberated. He says, 
" My stock of goods growing larger by my careful in- 
dustry, I moved into the next house, where I set up 
my press and letters, and here I published truly some 
things relating to the bishop, but while I pleased the 
people with an artful taking title, I strove to instil 
into them principles of loyalty, love, and obedience." 
His facility of combining the occupations of author 
and printer had always been of service to him, for he 
says, "during my apprenticeship, Mrs. Midwinter, 
being fully satisfied of my genius at the pen, obliged 
me to turn author for them, in which office my harm- 
less style of relating occurrences that daily happened 
proved very acceptable to the public." His business 
increased very satisfactorily, still he did not altogether 
abandon the humbler but more certain profits of 
journeyman's employment. Twenty shillings per week 
appears to have oeen the maximum rate of printer's 
wages at that time. 

At length,* at the sober age of thirty-three, " being a 
citizen ofseveral cities, free from debt, and possessed 
of two hundred pounds," he ventured to propose mar- 
riage to the young person before alluded to. " I took 
leave," he says, " of my friends at the Black Swan, in 
Holborn, where I paid my passage in the stage coach, 
which brought me to York m four days." 

On the 10th of December, 1724, he became a hus- 
band, having previously entered upon his former mas- 
ter's (Mr. White) business and premises. " At York," 
he says, " I found a newspaper printed, but utterly 
spoiled by being compiled by a mean-spirited selt- 
conceited Quaker, whom I discharged." 

His marriage does not seem to have yielded the hap- 

Siness he expected. His disappointment is rather in- 
icated than expressed, but he complains loudly of 
treacherous servants and violent opposition in his trade. 
He again visited his parents, and narrowly escaped 
shipwreck. As he returned home, he overtook a 
countryman, who told him that on that day (3rd of 
November, 1725) " was to be hanged the greatest rogue 
in all England, called Jonathan Wild. I had seen 
that thief-catcher several times about the Old Bailey, 
and particularly took notice of him when he rode tri- 
umphantly, with pistols, before the criminals, whilst 
conveying to execution." 

In 1728, "the opposition still continuing against 
me," he conceived tne design of appearing before the 
public in a more imposing character than he had 
nitherto assumed; he projected a history of York. 
The work was published in 1730, under the title of 
'The Ancient and Modern History of the Famous 
City of York, and in particular of its magnificent 
Cathedral, &c; the whole diligently collected by T. G., 
York.' The book is a faithful collection of data, but 
its accuracy is its most commendable quality. It is 
rather peevishly mentioned by Drake, in his ' Ebora- • 
cum," published six years later, we think without 
sufficient reason. Several works of standard value 
were printed at his press between the years 1730 and 
1740. His diligence, courtesy, and uprightness as a 

Digitized by 




[April 10, 

tradesman and a citizen, obtained for him the esteem 
of the whole neighbourhood, and when misfortune 
overtook him, his previous integrity was a constant 
and increasing source of consolation and sustenance. 

In 1733 he published his 4 History of Ripon,' with a 
notice of the antiquities in several other towns in the 
county ; and this was followed, in 1736, by his * History 
of Hull.' Although none of these wprks can pretend 
to first-rate excellence, still, as the production of the 
leisure hours of a self-dependent mechanic, acting in 
the different capacities of author, compiler, collector, 
printer, and publisher, they are highly creditable. It 
is to be feared that Gent's fortunes did not increase 
with his reputation. When his narrative closed, in 
1746, he was already in difficulties, not, however, in- 
duced by his own misconduct, but by causes against 
which human foresight could raise no effectual bar- 
rier. He still continued to write occasional pieces, 
and give them to the world, but age and necessity con- 
spired to repress his perseverance and industry. At 
the age of seventy-one he published his * History of 
the East Window of York Minster ;' and an octavo 

pamphlet, in heroic couplets, entitled * Historical De- 
lights/ ought, perhaps, to be referred to a still later 
period of his life, it is printed on the coarsest paper, 
and in the rudest manner, a melancholy contrast with 
the neat typography of his earlier works. It contains 
several passages ot very creditable poetry. The con- 
cluding sentence expresses an important truth in a 
manner not unworthy of the subject : — 

" But when deserted by ungrateful friends, 

Delightful studies make some small amends ; 

At least the mind from troubles disengage, 

And smooth the harsh severities of age, 

Enrich our souls for greater joys al>ove, 

Where all is glory, ecstacy, and love." 

A man who had long ago fulfilled his three score 
years and ten, and was afflicted by poverty and the 
ingratitude of friends, and could so nobly moralise on 
his condition, has surely some claim on the admiration 
and reverence of posterity. 

He died at York, on the 19th of May, 1778, in his 
eighty-seventh year, and was buried in the church of 
St. Michael-le-6elfrey. 

IMiuical Knife In the Louvre.] 


This very curious specimen of ancient musical taste 
is to be found among the miscellaneous collection of 
early French antiquities preserved in the Louvre. 
The blade of the knife is of steel, upon which is en- 
graved the " Blessing of the Table," or Grace before 
Meat, which may be literally translated thus : — " What 
we are about to take, may Trinity in Unity bless. 
Amen." This* is accompanied by the musical notes of 
the bass part only, so that there must have been a set 
of four or five knives, upon each of which the other 
parts necessary to make the composition complete were 

From the character of the musical notes, and the 
general appearance of the ornamental work that em- 
bellishes it, we should be inclined to fix the date of 
this knife somewhere about the latter half of the six- 
teenth century, when a taste for music was so uni- 
versally felt, and its practical study so commonly 
exercised, that nearly every person witn any pretension 
to respectability or a eood education could play on 
some instrument, or at least bear a part in a madrigal 
or other composition. Not to be able to do so would 
imply the disgrace of ignorance, or a culpable neglect 
of the necessary accomplishments of good society. 
This relic is a curious confirmation of this fact, and 
of the extent to which such feeling was carried. 

We may just remark, in conclusion, that the orna- 
mental portion of the blade is (like Mrs. Quickly's 
goblet) " parcel-gilt ;" that is, gilt on the raised parts 
of the work. The handle is of ivory, upon which is 
carved a running sprig. 

Chemical Principles of the Rotation of Crops, — Those plants 
ought to succeed each other which contain different chemical 
ingredients, so that the quantities of each which the soil at any 
given time contains may be absorbed in an equal ratio. Thus a 
productive crop of corn could not be obtained without the 
phosphates of lime and magnesia, which are present in the grain, 

nor without the silicate of potass, which gives stability to the 
stalks. It would be injudicious, therefore, to sow any plant 
that required much of any of the above ingredients, immediately 
after having diminished the amount of them present in the soil 
by a crop of wheat or of any other kind of com. But, on the 
other hand, leguminous plants, such as beans, are well calculated 
to succeed to crops of corn, because they contain no free alkalis, 
and less than one per cent, of the phosphates. They thrive, 
therefore, even where these ingredients have been withdrawn, 
and during -their growth afford time for the ground to obtain a 
fresh supply of them by a further disintegration of the subjacent 
rock. For the same reason, wheat and tobacco may sometimes 
be reared in succession in a soil rich in potass, because the latter 
plant requires none of those phosphoric salts which are present in 
wheat. In order, however, to proceed upon certain data, it 
would be requisite that an analysis of the plants most useful to 
man should be accomplished in the different stages of their 
growth, a labour which has hitherto been only partially under- 
taken. It is a curious fact that the same plant differs in con- 
stitution when grown in different climates. Thus, in the beet- 
root, nitre takes the place of sugar when this plant is cultivated 
in the warmer parts of France. The explanation of this differ- 
ence is probably as follows : — Beet-root contains, as an essential 
ingredient, not only saccharine matter, but also nitrogen ; and it 
is probable that the two are mutually so connected together in 
the vegetable tissue that the one cannot exist without the other. 
The nitrogen, being derived* from the decomposition of ammonia, 
must be affected by any cause which diminishes the supply of 
the latter ; and in proportion as this ingredient is wanting, the 
secretion of sugar will likewise fall off. Now, it has been shown 
by Liebig that the formation of nitric acid is owing to the de- 
composition of ammonia; and it is conceived by him that the 
last products of the decomposition of animal bodies present 
themselves in the form of ammonia in cold climates, and in that of 
nitric acid in warm ones. Hence, in proportion to the amount of 
nitric acid formed, and of nitre absorbed by the plant, that of 
the nitrogen, and, consequently, that of the saccharine matter 
present in it may be diminished. — Lectures on Agriculture^ by 
Dr. Daubeny, Sibthorpian Profeuor of Rural Economy in the 
University of Oxford. 

He that does not know those things which are of use and 
necessity for him to know, is but an ignorant man, whatever he 
may know beside.— Tilhtson. 

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1841. J 



[The Franklin and the Merchant.] 



The name of the class to which this luxurious respect- 
able old gentleman, this " Epicurus' owen son, be- 
longs, is derived from the word frank, free, that is to 
say, the Franklin was one who held his lands imme- 
diately from the king, paying homage, but free from 
all feudal services or payments. And a person of con- 
siderable dignity and importance he must have been at 
and prior to the period of Chaucer. In the ' Metrical 
Chronicle' of Robert de Brunne (thirteenth century), 
he is placed in very high companionship indeed : that 
learned monk writes, there 

" Was mad an other statute, that non erle, ne baroun, 
No other lord stoute, ne fraunkelyn of toun, 
Till holy kirke salle gyue tenement, rent, no lond," &c 

We need not, therefore, be surprised to find Chaucer's 
Franklin filling the distinguished offices of sheriff and 
knight of the shire ; still less to find that he can afford to 
keep what, in modern parlance, might almost be called 
" open house." The dress of the Franklin, according to 
the duke of Sutherland's manuscript, was a surcoat 
of red lined with blue, with bars or stripes of fringe 
or lace over it. He wore a small blue hat turned 
up, and black boots. For the rest, let Chaucer him- 
self speak : 

" White was his beard as is the dayesy. 
Of his complexion he was sanguine ; 
Well lov'd ne by the morrow a sup in wine. 

no. 580. 

To liven in delight was ever his wone,* 
For he was Epicurus' owen son ; 
That held opinion that plain delight 
Was verily felicity partite. 
An householder, and that a great was he, 
Saint Julian he was in his countree. 
His bread, his ale, was always after one, 
A better envynedf man was nowhere none. 
Withouten bak'd meat never was his house, 
Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous, 
It snewed, in his house, of meat and drink, 
Of alle dainties that men could of think, 
After the sundry seasons of the year : 
So changtd he his meat and his supplr. 
Full many a fat partridge had he in mew, 
And many a bream, and many a luce J in stew. 
Woe was his cook, but if his sauce* were 
Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gear. 
His table dormanto in his hall alway, 
Stood ready cover d all the longe day. 

At sessi6ns there was he lord and sire ; 
Full often time he was knight of the shire. 
An anlace,|| and a gipciere,^[ all of silk, 
Hung at his girdle, white as morrow milk. 
A sheriff had he been, and a countour ; 
Was nowhere such a worthy vavasour." 

Saint Julian, to whom the poet has likened the 
Franklin, was a saint who enjoyed particular reputa- 
* Custom. 

f That is to say, a man having a better store of wine, 

X Pike. $ Never moved, fixed. 

|| A kind of knife or dagger generally worn at the waist in 
Chaucer's time. % Purse. 

Vol. X.— U 

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[April 17, 

tion as an admirable caterer for his votaries in the 
iiatters of good living, good lodgings, and, in short, 
-ood tilings of all kinds. In some of the old legends, 
iimon, the leper, at whose house our Saviour lodged 
in Bethany, is called " Julian, the good herberow." 
In the • Legend of Saint Julian,' a manuscript of the 
sixteenth century, in the Bodleian Library, occur the 
following as the concluding lines: — 

" Therefore yet to this day they that over land wend, 
They biddeth Saint Julian anon that good herberw he them 

And Saint Julian's Pater-noster oft sayeth also, 
For his father's soul, and his mother's, that he them bring 


Travellers and their lodgings, indeed, appear to have 
enjoyed the saint's especial protection, — to have formed 
the principal objects of his care ; for in the talc of 
Beryn* he is invoked to revenge a traveller who had 
been treacherously used at the place where he had 
been staying. 

The last two lines of Chaucer's description have 
caused his commentators much perplexity. Contour 
has been supposed to mean coroner, and Warton, in 
his 'History of Poetry/ adopts that reading, and illus- 
trates it by remarking that it was an office " anciently 
executed oy gentlemen of the greatest respect and 
property." The Chaucer MSS. all read countour or 
comptour, and this last reading appears to us to explain 
its meaning. Compteur is the French word for an ac- 
countant or reckoner. Robert of Gloucester, speaking 
of the summoning of a hundred court by the constable 
of Gloucester castle, says, 

" He held this hundred mid great folk and honour, 
And Adam of Arderue was his chief contour." 

Chaucer's Franklin was probably, like Adam of 
Arderne, the " chief contour or steward of the hun- 
dred to which he belonged, and officiated on all such 
great public occasions. The meaning of the word 
.vavasour is also a matter of doubt. Tyrrwhitt con- 
siders it to mean the entire class of middling landlords, 
among which there was " nowhere such a worthy" man 
as our Franklin. 

From this period the class appears to have gradually 
sunk in rank and influence, though still distinguished 
for its wealth. A century later, Sir John Fortescue, 
the preceptor of Edward IV. and chancellor to Henry 
VI., writing during the reign of the former, states 
that " England is so thick spread and filled with rich 
and landed men, that there is scarce a small village in 
which you may not find a knight, an esquire, or some 
substantial householder, commonly called a frankleyne ; 
all men of considerable estates. Lastly, we may ob- 
serve that by the time of Elizabeth the Franklin must 
indeed have " fallen from his high estate," for Shak- 
spere to have spoken disrespectfully of him ; yet so it 
is: — 

" Let Boors and Franklin* say it, 111 swear it," 

exclaims the Clown, in the ' Winter's Tale.' 

" Boors and Franklins !" Is it come to this ! The 
" Saint Julian in his countrde," the lord at sessions, and 
the knight in parliament, all degraded into such vile 
companionship ! their very existence forgotten in the 
vile indistinguishable horde of " boors and franklins !" 
But worse was to follow. Two centuries and a half 
more have elapsed, and the very name sounds strange 
to us. " Boors" yet flourish, but the franklins are no- 
where to be found, except in the pages of Chaucer. 
Well, there at least they are insured an everlasting 

* One of the stories told by the travellers on their return 
from Canterbury, in a work written as a continuation of Chau- 
cer's great work, by a poet of the fifteenth century. 


In No. 453 of the • Penny Magazine ' some account 
was given of two very considerable valleys, those 
of the Eden and the Lune ; the first-named river after- 
wards passing off towards the north-west through the 
entire extent of Cumberland, and the latter, after tra- 
versing the northern part of Lancashire, a few miles 
below the ancient borough of Lancaster, falls into 
Morecambe Bay. Between these two rivers, as they 
respectively diverge to the right and to the left, lies an 
extensive, wild, and mountainous region, interspersed, 
however, with some fine fruitful and interesting val- 
leys, among which, and by far the most noted and ex* 
tensive one, is that of the Vale of Kent. 

This valley is not, however, of any very large extent, 
neither is the river which lends its name to it a large 
one, but it is that which falls into the head of More- 
cambe Bay ( just within the southern confines of this 
county), and whose channel alon^ this part of Miln- 
thorpe Sands forms a rather intricate navigation for 
small coasting vessels during spring-tides, the only 
sea-borne vessels that can approach the county of West- 

The river Kent has its source in that lofty range of 
mountains which separates the waters which flow north- 
ward into the secluded lakes of Ulswater and Haws- 
water from those that flow to the southward and form 
this river, as well as those that fall into the beautiful 
lake of Windermere ; this portion of the dividing ridge 
of mountain is known to the traveller who climbs these 
lofty ascents in search of the picturesque, under the 
names of High Street, Kirkstonc, and Harter FelL 
But from this lofty mountain-region, running east and 
west for many miles, commencing towards the east at 
Shap Fells, and thence continuing westward until 
broken up into those pyramidal rocks called Langdale 
Pikes— several diverging spurs or ridges (like ribs 
from the spinal bone) project out either way, with deep 
narrow valleys shut in between them : and it is down 
one of these (Kentmere), and probably the longest of 
the whole, that this infant stream first receives the 
name of Kent. But though the whole of the valley is 
called Kentmere, as if embosomed within it slumbered 
some lake of considerable size, all that it can boast of 
in this way consists of a piece of water no larger than 
such as are frequently, in this part of the country, 
known by the less imposing name of tarns, such a one 
being found midway down the valley. 

But what may be considered as the more legitimate 
river Kent — for these mountain-streams are little more 
than what are commonly called becks in some of the 
northern counties— commences but a mile or two north 
of the town of Kendal, and is formed by the junction of 
three respectable-sized streams — the Kentmere branch 
being the most westerly one ; the Mint, the one flowing 

* Miluthorpe is a small market-town, but in ancient writings 
usually denominated a sea-port. It is situated a mile from the 
head of the sstuary, on a little river called the Bela, which, after 
entering the sands, soon falls into the channel of tlie Kent. The 
coasting vessels plying from hence to Lancaster, Ulverston, 
Whitehaven, and Liverpool, cannot approach the town, but un- 
load their cargoes into carts and waggons at low-water, whence 
they are carted to some small storehouses built along the shore, 
and called Sand -side, or, frequently without the trouble of un- 
loading, to their destination at once (the greater part being in- 
tended for Kendal) ; but the Lancaster canal, which has been 
completed as far as Kendal for upwards of twenty years, has 
greatly interfered with the traffic of the few small trading vessels, 
the goods being shipped in larger vessels direct to Lancaster, and 
from thence sent by canal to Kendal. 

There is another small river, called the Lythe Beck, or some- 
times the Poo, which unites its waters with the Kent a little 
above the head of the sestuary ; but this, like the Bela, beccmes 
part of the Kent j the head of the bay being but from one to two 
miles across. 

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farthest from the east ; and Long Sleddale Beck form- 
ing the centre branch. The source of the first of these 
has been already mentioned ; the most easterly branch 
rises in that dreary waste called Fawcett Forest ; and 
the third rises in the same range of mountains with the 
first, and waters a long narrow valley running parallel 
with Kentmere. There are some other small tributa- 
ries, the principal one watering the valley of Staveley, 
and rising within a mile or two of Windermere j but 
the rest are of little importance. Indeed, after the junc- 
tion of the three branches already spoken of, there is not 
any other stream or beck worthy of notice until the river 
enters the head of Morecambe Bay, as already stated. 

Kendal — commonly written Kirkby-Kendale, that is, 
the church in the dale of the Ken or Kent (in the time 
of the Romans called Can) — although not the county 
town, is and has long been by far the most important 
place in Westmoreland. Under the Reform Bui, Ap- 
pleby, the county town, was deprived of its ancient 
privilege of returning members to parliament, and 
Kendal was enfranchised, and now returns one. The 
county lost one member by the passing of the afore- 
said bill ; it formerly returned tour, wnereas it now 
only returns three. Kendal was among the ancient 
boroughs, enjoying corporate rights, and under the 

t'urisdiction of a mayor and twelve aldermen; and 
tas on several occasions given titles to persons of dis- 
tinction. It is not, nor does it appear ever to have 
been, a place capable of offering much resistance to an 
armed force ; for, notwithstanding that the river Kent 
bounds it towards the east from one extremity of the 
town to the other, the ground rises abruptly all along 
the west side, leaving a narrow strip between the river 
and the hill (upon which the town stands), so that the 
town is overlooked and completely commanded by this 
high ground (called the Banks) from one extremity to 
the other. Notwithstanding its distance from " the 
Borders," it has often suffered from the incursions of the 
Border clans. It was visited, in November, 1715, and 
again in the same month in 1745, by the Scotch rebels ; 
and on the latter occasion Prince Charles Edward 
Stuart and his adherents spent two nights here, the in- 
termediate day happening to be Sunday. 

It has long been a place of considerable trade, par- 
ticularly in the manufacture of coarse woollen goods, 
oddly enough known by the name of Kendal cottons. 
Linsey-woolseys, another peculiar sort of goods, were 
formerly manufactured here in considerable quantities, 
and worn almost universally by the female part of the 
peasantry of the surrounding country. So early as the 
reign of Edward III., a Flemish manufacturer of the 
name of Kemp came over and settled here; and 
shortly afterwards several weavers arrived from the 
same country and settled here also. Ever since that 
period, up to the present time, a more extensive trade 
nas been carried on here in coarse woollen goods than 
in any other town of the four most northerly counties 
of England, Carlisle even not excepted ; and although, 
through the aid of improved machinery, the manufac- 
turers have been enabled to improve and in some 
degree vary their original line of business, yet it is 
still for the most part the coarse long wool, the pro- 
duce of the flocks of mountain sheep in the neighbour- 
ing districts, upon which the manufacturing part of 
the population is employed. Less than forty years ago 
vast numbers of the inhabitants of the surrounding 
dales and valleys, and parts of the country situated at 
the distance of fifteen or twenty miles, were employed 
by the Kendal wool-staplers and hosiers in knitting 
worsted stockings, when liberal wages were paid to the 
knitters ; but for twenty years this business of stock- 
ing-knitting has been almost entirely laid aside, and 
the few persons who are now employed in knitting, 
knit coarse scarlet caps for the negro population of 

the West Indies, and Guernsey frocks for the use of 
the navy. Of later years a finer branch of manufac- 
ture has been introduced into Kendal, namely, Valentia 
waistcoating, which has already obtained a nigh repu- 
tation amongst that description of goods. During a 
considerable period the woollen cloths made here, and 
dyed green, maintained some celebrity ; but at length 
more permanent greens were discovered, and the 
Kendal greens fell into comparative neglect. How- 
ever, if the historians of past ages arc to be depended 
upon, the Kendal archers were noted bowmen, and 
always clothed in the manufactures of the place ; and 
at one period were clad in the snow-white cloths that 
were manufactured here. At the battle of Flodden 
Field the Kendal archers are spoken of as being clad 
in white ; as also appears to have been the case with 
them on other occasions where we find them mentioned. 

The appearance of the town is not very striking, 
from whatever point it is viewed. It consists of one 
long street running north and south, which is some- 
what curving as well as undulating, and hence the 
view is never very extensive. There are also several 
short streets and lanes, leading to the foot of the Banks 
on the one hand, and to the river on the other, besides 
a tolerably good street which branches off from the 
main one towards the north-east, and along which is 
the route which leads the mail-coach road across the 
river Kent, and thence towards the north. There are 
three bridges across the river ; until lately there was 
but a very small suburb on the opposite side, but for 
the last twenty years houses have been occasionally 
springing up ; and till within a few years the parish 
church and a small chapel in the market-place 
were the only places of worship belonging to the 
Established Cnurch ; but two new churches nave re- 
cently been added to the number. For the number of 
inhabitants, however, the different religious sects that 
have chapels or meeting-houses are very numerous ; 
the Friends or Quakers constitute a leading sect in the 
town. The parish church is one of the largest build- 
ings of the same sort in England ; and the parish itself 
is remarkably extensive, extending twelve or thirteen 
miles from north to south, and ten or eleven miles from 
east to west ; and what is still more remarkable, there 
are thirteen or fourteen chapels-of-ease at a distance 
from the town, in various parts of the parish, to most 
of which small endowments are attached, the vicar of 
Kendal having the presentation to the whole of them, 
with one or two exceptions. 

On the east side of the river, at the distance of three- 
quarters of a mile from the town, are the ruins of a 
strong castle named after the town. The site is a very 
remarkable one, for although a level plain surrounds 
it, the ruins occupy the summit of a hill of consider- 
able elevation, but so regularly shaped, being the 
longer segment of an ellipse, that it seems far more 
like an artificial mound than a natural one. It was 
here that Catherine Parr, one of the wives of bluff 
King Henry VIII., was born ; but the building has 
been in a state of decay for more than two centuries ; 
arid the present ruins only indicate its original strength 
by the thickness of the walls that still remain ; but the 
extent to which it may have reached at an early period 
may at present be more easily conjectured than deter- 
mined. On the opposite side of the town, upon the 
Banks, is an artificial mound called Castle How, but 
whether it is the remains of some old Roman fort, or 
a work of more recent date, seems never to have been 
satisfactorily decided; but that there was a Roman 
station, the Cancangium of the Notitia, about a mile 
from Kendal, at a place that now bears the name of 
Watercrook, is very certain; and some remains of 
Roman military works are there still visible. 

The houses are built of stone (limestone princi- 


Digitized by 




[April 17» 

pally), and covered with blue slate ; and in the prin- 
cipal streets are substantial and respectable-looking 
buildings : the stones are quarried in the banks above 
the town, and the slate is found in the mountains to 
the west and the north, at a distance of from twelve to 
twenty miles. Though' the size has increased within 
the last fifty or sixty years, the population has appa- 
rently increased still more. Twenty-two years ago, 
the Lancaster canal was opened to this town, which is 
a source of great convenience both to the town and 
surrounding country ; and the inhabitants are flatter- 
ing themselves at present with the hope that the rail- 
road, which has already reached Lancaster (twenty-two 
miles distant), will ultimately pass near to Kendal, in 
preference to crossing Morecambe Bay ; but neither 
route seems as yet determined upon. In the year 1784 
the population was 7571 ; in 1811 it was 8759 ; and in 
1831 it amounted to 11,301. 

The vale or valley of Kent, properly so called, in 
the vicinity of Kendal, is little more than a mile across 
the bottom of it, and probably about Ave miles across 
from ridge to ridge. Following the valley downwards 
to the extreme head of Morecambe Bay, it is about 
eight miles ; and here it opens out to a somewhat in- 
definite width, for the bounding hills are no longer of 
considerable elevation ; and although it may not be 
the most fertile, it certainly is one of the best culti- 
vated districts in the county. No portion of the river 
is navigable until it enters the Sands ; and although it 
may then be considered as having lost its original cha- 
racter, still down the bay to the distance of ten or 
twelve miles, the guide that pilots the traveller across 
the sands when the tide is out, points out to him a 
slowly stealing current, which has to be forded, as " the 
channel of the Kent." From Kendal to tide- water 
there is a very considerable descent, the river running 
with a lively current over a bright gravelly bottom ; 
but about four miles below the town it is hemmed in 
by immense shelving rocks, beneath some of which, 
for a space, it nearly disappears. A little below this 
place the rocks run obliquely across the whole channel 
of the stream, so that a cataract, not quite perpendi- 
cular, of twelve or fourteen feet, is formed. It is, 
however, of so precipitous a nature as to prevent the 
salmon (Which are found in Levcns park, immediately 
below the waterfall, in great numbers) from getting 
farther up the river ; and the writer of this article has 
many a time sat on the opposite bank watching their 
vain attempts to surmount the difficulty. 

There are several old manor-houses along this part 
of the valley, which in their time have been places 
of interesting consideration; but the only two that 
continue to attract the traveller's notice are Sizergh 
Hall or Castle, belonging to Thomas Strickland, Esq., 
and Levens, the property of the Hon. Col. Howard. 
The former of these mansions is situated in a park 
west of the road leading from Kendal to Milnthorpe ; 
and the latter, also on the west side of the same road, 
and almost immediately adjoining the river Kent, 
where it is crossed by a handsome ivy-bound bridge : 
the park, which is large and well stocked with deer, 
and containing some of the most splendid ornamental 
trees in the county, is situated on the contrary side of 
the high road, and through its entire length is divided 
into two parts by the river Kent. Levens, or Levens 
Hall, is a very antient mansion, and has evidently 
undergone alterations in its style of architecture from 
time to time, but it has never been materially mo- 

About a mile south of Levens is the pretty little 
rural village of Heversham (the name of tne parish in 
which both Levens and Milnthorpe are situated), and 
the site of a handsome country cnurch. The village 
is situated along the lower extremity of a hill of mo- 

derate elevation, called Heversham Head, which 
standing alone in the lower section of the valley of the 
Kent, from its summit a view of every part of the 
valley is commanded, and even in some directions far 
beyond the range of its collateral branches. At about 
one-third of the ascent of the Head from the village 
stands a venerable building apart from any inhabited 
dwelling, and almost secluded from public gaze by a 
few wide-spreading sycamore trees. This building is 
the endowed grammar-school of Heversham, and 
though somewhat humble in appearance, it is tolerably 
well endowed ; and here have been educated several 
individuals of eminence in the different walks of lite- 
rature ; of those that are gone, a single instance need 
only to be mentioned — the late Bishop Watson, and, 
without attempting a longer list of the living genera- 
tion, Professor Whewell, will suffice as an example. 

Still nearer to the head of Morecambe Bay, and near 
what may be considered the southern extremity of the 
Vale of Kent, is the beautiful modern mansion of 
Dallam Tower, the residence of George Wilson, Esq. 
It is situated on the tributary stream the Bela ; and 
although the mansion stands rather low, some beautiful 
views are commanded from the various eminences im- 
mediately adjoining, in an extensive park that is well 
stocked with deer. Near to this elegant residence are 
the woods in which a colony of rooks and another of 
herons once waged a remorseless war, but which now 
for many years have lived on excellent terms ; for an 
account of which see * Penny Magazine,' No. 511. 

A great means of happiness ii, a constant employment for a 
desirable end, and a consciousness of advancement towards that 

Japan** use* of the Fan, — Neither men nor women wear hats, 
except as a protection against rain : the fan is deemed a suffi- 
cient guard from the sun ; and perhaps nothing will more strike 
the newly-arrived European than this fan, which he will behold 
in the liand or the girdle of every human being. Soldiers and 
priests are no more to be seen without their fans than fine ladies, 
who make of theirs the use to which fans are put in other coun- 
tries. Amonst the men of Japan it serves a great variety of pur- 
poses : visitors receive the dainties offered them upon their fans ; 
the beggar, imploring charity, holds out his fan for the alms his 
prayers may have obtained. The fan serves the dandy in lieu 
of a whalebone switch ; the pedagogue, instead of a ferule for 
the offending schoolboy s knuckles ; and, not to dwell too long 

Xthe subject, a fan, presented upon a peculiar kind of 
r to the high-born criminal, is said to be the form of an- 
nouncing his death-doom ; his head is struck off at the same 
moment as he stretches it towards the fan. — Siebold's Manner* 
and Custom* of the Japanese, 

Charge of Indian Cavalry, — The most important part of the 
Hindu battles is now a cannonade. In this they greatly excel, 
and have occasioned heavy loss to us in all our battles with 
them: but the most characteristic mode of fighting (besides 
skirmishing, which is a favourite sort of warfare) is a general 
charge of cavalry, which soon brings the battle to a crisis. No- 
thing can be more magnificent than this sort of cliarge. Even 
the slow advance of such a sea of horsemen has something in it 
more than usually impressive; and, when they move on at 
speed, the thunder of the ground, the flashing of their arms, the 
brandishing of their spears, the agitation of their banners rushiug 
through the wind, and the rapid approach of such a countless 
multitude, produce sensations of grandeur which the imagina- 
tion cannot surpass. Their mode is to charge the front and the 
flanks at once ; and the manner in which they perform this ma- 
noeuvre has sometimes called forth the admiration of Euro])ean 
antagonists, and is certainly surprising in an undisciplined body. 
The whole appear to be coming on at full speed towards their 
adversary's front, when, suddenly, those selected for the duty at 
once wheel inwards, bring their spears by one motion to the side 
nearest the enemy, and are in upon his flank before their inten- 
tion is suspected. These charges, though grand, are ineffectual 
against regular troops, unless they catch them in a moment of 
confusion, or when they have been thinned by the fire of cannon 
— Mr, E/ph ins tones History of India, 

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[Cowm and his Localities.— Carper, from • Portrait euftMVed in Knight's 'Gallery of PortrmiU.* At the upper right-baud corner, a view of the 
Poet's birth place, Berkhamstesd; awl abore it. Ruins of 01 ney Church, and Cowper's House iu the Market-place, Olney. At the bottom, the 
• Summer-house," and the *• Three Levereti.*** 



Cowper, one of the most popular of English poets, and 
a most delightful letter-writer, was born at the rectory 
of Great Berkhamstead in Hertfordshire, on the 15th of 
November (old style), 1731. His father, Dr. Cowper, 
was chaplain to George II., and his grandfather, Spen- 
cer Cowper, one of the judges of the court of Common 

Pleas. By the mother's side Cowper was connected 
with the poet Donne's family, and with the several 
noble houses of West, Knollys, Carey, Bullen, Howard, 
and Mowbray, and so by four different lines with Henry 
III., king of England. Berkhamstead, the poet's birth- 
place, is a town of considerable interest. The Mercian 
Kings had a palace here, as had also the first of the 
Plantagenet8, who granted to the inhabitants peculiar 
liberties and exemptions. In after- times two royal 

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[April 17, 

favourites possessed the honour and castle, which was 
attached to the earldom of Cornwall : Piers Gaveston, 
in the rei^n of Edward II., and Robert de Vere, in 
tliat of Richard II. During the last few years of her 
miserable life, Cicely, duchess of York, ana the mother 
of the last of the Plantagenets, resided here. The 
poet's recollections of this place were saddened by the 
loss of his mother, who died at Berkhamstead whilst 
he was yet but in his sixth year. One of the most 
beautiful of his minor poems records his feelings on 
that occasion. 

Nearly fifty years after her death, he writes — " Not a 
week passes (perhaps I might with equal veracity say 
not a day) in which I do not think of her : such was 
the impression her tenderness made upon me, though 
the opportunity she had for showing it was so short. 

Cowper was now placed at a boarding-school at 
Market Street in the same county, kept by a Dr. Pit- 
man, where he suffered much from the cruelty of an 
elder boy. His savage treatment, he says, impressed 
such a dread of his figure on his mind, that he was 
afraid to lift his eyes upon him higher than his knees ; 
and he knew hiin better by his shoe-buckles than by 
any other part of his dress f No inconsiderable portion 
of that frightful malady which in after-years so fre- 
quently made life intolerable to him, may probably be 
ascribed to this important era of the poet's life. Two 
years were spent at this school, when, being threatened 
with blindness, he was removed to the nouse of an 
oculist, where he spent two years more ; and although 
he remained through life liable to an occasional in- 
flammation of the eyes, they grew so much better, 
that he was enabled to enter Westminster School at the 
age of ten. Here he remained for eight years, during 
which time he acquired among his contemporaries the 
character of an accomplished scholar. Among those 
contemporaries he formed some close intimacies, and 
with men destined to acquire a poetical reputation 
only inferior to his own. There was Lloyd, the author 
of the poem called « The Actor,' written with ease, 
vigour, and critical discrimination; Colman, the 
author of the • Jealous Wife/ and of one of the 
best translations of Terence in the language; and 
Churchill, the satirist, and author of the • Rosciad,' a 
man of still higher power. On leaving Westmin- 
ster, Cowper was articled to a solicitor, in whose office 
he had for a fellow-clerk Thurlow, afterwards lord- 
chancellor. " There was I and the future lord- 
chancellor," he says in a letter to his dear friend and 
cousin Lady Hesketh, " constantly employed from 
morning to night in giggling and making giggle, in- 
stead of studying the law." On leaving this office, he 
entered the Middle Temple ; in 1754 he was called to 
the bar, and in 1759 received the appointment of a 
commissioner of bankrupts. Whilst here he fell in 
love with his cousin Theodora Cowper, the sister of 
Lady Hesketh, who reciprocated his affection. This 
circumstance forms one of the most interesting epi- 
sodes of Cowper s history. The lady's father appears 
to have first looked on with a favourable eye, but 
afterwards to have peremptorily forbidden the con- 
nection, assigning no other reason than the impro- 
Friety of marriage between persons so nearly related, 
n all probability he saw the incipient insanity which 
broke out shortly afterwards, and therefore was com- 
pelled to act as he did, and submit at the same time to 
the misconstruction which his conduct produced : — he 
could not tell Cowper what he feared. From that 
time the two cousins never met ; although the affair 
left on her mind at least an ineffaceable impression. 
Many years afterwards, when his circumstances were" 
not very ^ood, he was accustomed to receive from time 
to time gifts from an anonymous correspondent ; who 
that was, no one can doubt : Cowper himself playfully 

thanked Lady Hesketh (Theodora's sister) for these, 
gifts, on the ground that as it was " painful to have 
nobody to thank," he must constitute her his " Thanks- 

During his residence in the Temple he became a 
member of a club called the • Nonsense Club,' con- 
sisting entirely of men educated at Westminster School, 
and comprising Bonnell Thornton and Colman, the 
principal writers of the * Connoisseur,' to which Cowper 
contributed some papers, as well as Lloyd, and otter 
distinguished men. 

In 1763 the offices of clerk of the journals, reading 
clerk, and clerk of the committees in the House ot 
Lords, all became vacant, and Cowper was offered the 
two last by his cousin Major Cooper, " the patentee of 
these appointments." They were hurriedly but grate- 
fully accepted ; and at the same moment he felt, as he 
states, that he had " received a dagger in his heart." 
The offices required that he should frequently appear 
before the House of Lords, which he felt was a matter 
of impossibility to one of his retired nervous excite- 
able temperament. So he begged his relative to give 
him, instead of these offices, the office of clerk of the 
journals, an appointment of much inferior value: 
which was done. But some opposition had been raised 
from the first as to the right of nomination by Major 
Cooper ; and, to his poor relative's horror, it was de- 
cided that the latter should appear at the bar of the 
house to be examined as to fitness. From this moment 
his state of mind was most pitiable : quiet, he says, 
forsook him by day and peace by ni^ht He looked 
forwards with a sort of desperate satisfaction to the 
time when the ravages of the mental disease that was 
preying upon him should render it impossible for him 
to be subjected to the terrible cxammation; and at 
last, finding that event approach too slowly for his 
purpose, he made several attempts to commit suicide. 
There is nothing on record more painful in the history 
of any of our great men than in C owner's own account 
of these lamentable events. Ultimately the office was 
resigned on the very day appointed for the examina- 
tion, and Cowper was immediately removed to St. 
Alban's, where he was placed under the care of Dr. 
Cotton. The fonn of Cowper's madness was that of 
religious madness : he believed that he was cut off 
from all hope of " grace" in this world and salvation 
in the next. After a stay of eighteen months at St. 
Alban's, he was apparently cured ; but from 1773 to 
1776, for half of the year 1787, and for a considerable 
portion of the last six years of his life, Jje again ex- 
perienced all the unutterable miseries of his awful 

On leaving St. Alban's, Cowper took up his resi- 
dence at Huntingdon, in order that he might be near 
to a younger brother then at Cambridge. This is the 
place praised by Henry of Huntingdon (who derived 
his name from it) for the convenience of the fens just 
by, and for its great advantages of fishing and hunting. 
" It surpassed," he adds, " all the neighbouring towns 
in the pleasantness of its situation, and in its hand- 
someness and beauty." Cowper gives a somewhat 
different account of it. " We nave neither woods nor 
commons, nor pleasant prospects ; all flat and insipid ; 
in the summer adorned with blue willows, and in the 
winter covered with a flood." " Yet," says he else- 
where, " the longer I live here, the better I like the 
place, and the people who belong to it." These last 
words explain the secret. He here met with the Unwin 
family, to a member of which, Mrs. Unwin, England 
is possibly indebted for one of its best poets. With 
them he took up his residence, and, on the death of 
Mr. Unwin, in 1767, removed with his widow to Olney 
in Buckinghamshire. In making that place their re- 
sidence, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin had been influenced 

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by their esteem for Mr. Newton, the then curate of 
Olney. M r. Newton, a man of great moral worth and 
powerful mind, was of the class called Evangelical, and 
to his guidance Cowper gave himself almost entirely 
up. When we consider Mr. Newton's own remark 
upon himself — " I believe my name is up about the 
country for preaching people mad!" — we need not 
wonder at the injurious consequences which Cowper 
derived from this "sincere but injudicious friend."* 
The poet's life for the next few years was spent in 
a state of almost continual religious excitement ; nor 
were matters improved when Mr. Newton induced him 
to join in the composition of the • Olney Hymns,' which 
the former was then preparing, for in 1772 came on 
the second attack of insanity, which lasted no less than 
four years. About the expiration of that time, Mr. 
Newton removed from Olney ; and Cowper was induced 
by Mrs. Unwin to begin writing a poem, that lady 
giving him for a subject • The Progress of Error ;' and 
thus was produced his first important poem, and at 
the age of forty-five ! « Truth,' • Table-Talk,' and * Ex- 
postulation' immediately followed. Of the 'Table- 
Talk' he says, in a letter to Mr. Newton, dated Feb- 
ruary 18, 1781, " It is a medley of many things ; some 
that may be useful, and some that, for aught I know, 
may be very diverting. I am merry that I may decoy 
people into my company, and grave that they may be 
the better for it. Now and then I put on the garb of 
a philosopher, and take the opportunity that disguise 
procures me to drop a word in favour of religion, In 
short, there is some froth, and here and there a bit of 
sweetmeat, which seems to entitle it justly to the name 
of a certain dish the ladies call a trifle. I did not 
choose to be more facetious, lest I should consult the 
taste of my readers at the expense of my own appro- 
bation ; nor more serious than I have been, lest I should 
forfeit theirs Whether all this manage- 
ment and contrivance be necessary I do not know, but 
am inclined to suspect that if my muse was to go 
forth clad in Quaker colour, without one bit of riband 
to enliven her appearance, she might walk from one 
end of London to the other as little noticed as if she 
were one of the sisterhood indeed." 

In another letter* Cowper thus describes his fa- 
vourite retreat at Olney, tnc place in which he com- 
posed a considerable portion ol his poems : — " I write 
m a nook that I call my boudoir. It is a summer- 
house, not much bigger tnan a sedan-chair, the door of 
which opens into the garden, that is now crowded with 
pinks, roses, and honey-suckles, and the window into 
my neighbour's orchard. . . . Having lined it with 
garden mats, and furnished it with a table and two 
chairs, here I write all that I write in summer-time, 
whether to my friends or to the public. It is secure 
from all noise, and a refuge from all intrusion." Here, 
too, when disinclined for literary labour, he was ac- 
customed to amuse himself with the freaks of three 
leverets, which he brought up with great care, and the 
last of which he lost only through old age, after twelve 
years' companionship. He has immortalized these 
animals in prose and in poetry, English and Latin ; 
they have been represented in prints, and engraved on 
seals, and Cowper s account of them contains more in- 
teresting matter on the natural history of that timid 
but playful race than had ever before been contri- 

The poems before mentioned, together with some 
others written subsequently, were published in 1782, 
and another volume, containing the • Task,' in 1785. 
This poem was, as is well known, commenced at the 
suggestion of another of Cowper's female friends, Lady 
Austen, to whom we are also indebted for the famous 

* Southey. f To J. Hill, Eiq. 

ballad of ' John Gilpin.' The translation'of Homer was 
begun in 1784, and published in 1791. During its pro- 
gress, Cowper had changed his residence from Olney 
to Weston, a neighbouring village, where was the seat 
of Sir George and Lady Throckmorton, who paid the 
most marked attention to the poet. By this time his 
reputation had become firmly established. An amus- 
ing proof that poets, if not prophets, are sometimes 
honoured in their own country, is furnished by one of 
Cowper's delightful letters to Lady Hesketh : — " On 
Monday morning last Sam brought me word that there 
was a man in the kitchen who desired to speak with me. 
I ordered him in. A plain, decent, elderly figure 
made its appearance, and, being desired to sit, spoke 
as follows : — • Sir, I am clerk of the parish in All 
Saints, in Northampton, brother of Mr. Cox, the up- 
holsterer. It is customary for the person in my office 
to annex to a bill of mortality, which he publishes at 
Christmas, a copy of verses. You will do me a great 
favour, sir, if you will furnish me with one.' To this 
I replied, — ' Mr. Cox, you have several men of genius 
in your town, why have you not applied to some of 
them ? There is a namesake of yours, in particular, 
Cox, the statuary, who, every person knows, is a first- 
rate maker of verses. He, surely, is the man of all 
the world for your purpose.' • Alas ! sir, I have here- 
tofore borrowed help from him, but he is a gentleman 
of so much reading, that the people of our town cannot 
understand him !' I confess to you, my dear, I felt all the 
force of the compliment implied in this speech, and was 
almost ready to answer. Perhaps, my good friend, they • 
may find me unintelligible for the same reason. But, 
on asking him whether he had walked over to Weston 
on purpose to implore the assistance of my muse, and 
on nis replying in the affirmative, I felt my mortified 
vanity a little consoled, and, pityine the poor man's 
distress, which appeared to be considerable, promised 
to supply him. The waggon has accordingly gone this 
day to Northampton, loaded in part with my effusions 
in the mortuary style. A fig for poets who write 
epitaphs upon individuals. I have written one that 
serves tux> nundred persons." 

Almost immediately after the completion of the 
translation of Homer, ne undertook to superintend a 
new and splendid edition of Milton's works. In 1792, 
for the first time for twenty years, he took a journey 
from home, in order to pay a visit to Hayley, at Ear- 
tham, in Sussex, a place of which Cowper says, " I had, 
for my part, no conception that a poet could be the 
owner of such a paradise." He was, however, soon 
glad to get home again. The symptoms of his disease 
were continually recurring, and in the beginning of 
1794 he was again afflicted with all its worst horrors. 
He removed from place to place, till he stayed at East 
Dereham, in Norfolk, where the faithful companion 
and most devoted nurse of so many years, Mrs. Unwin, 
died. Three dreary years followed, when Cowper 
followed her to the grave, on the 25th of April, 1800. 
He was buried in St. Edmund's chapel, Dereham 
church ; a very ancient collegiate edifice, of which 
Bonner was once the incumbent. 

One of the most curious circumstances attending 
Cowper 8 malady was the unerring judgment he ex- 
hibited on all matters unconnected with religion, — the 
continual stream of playful humour running through 
his correspondence, at all but the very darkest periods 
of his life. Thus, in 1793, whilst he was suffering 
both by day and by night from what he called his " ex- 
periences" (which appear to have been insane dreams 
that possessed him between sleeping and waking), 
" such terrors as no language could express," and no 
heart but his own ever knew, he wrote a letter 
to Hayley, in which he describes a dream of a very 
different kind, in the following exquisite manner ;— 

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[April 17. 

" Oh, you rogue, what would you give to have tuch a 
dream about Milton as 1 had about a week since ? 1 
dreamed that, being in a house in the city, and with 
much company, looking towards the lower end of the 
room from the upper end of it, 1 descried a figure, 
which I immediately knew to be Milton's. He was 
very gravely but very neatly attired in the fashion of 
his day, and had a countenance which filled me with 
those feelings that an affectionate child has for a be- 
loved father ; such, for instance, as Tom has for you. 
My first thought was wonder where he could have been 
concealed so many years ; my second, a transport of joy 
to find him still alive ; my third, another transport to 
find myself in his company ; and my fourth, a resolu- 
tion to accost him. I did bo, and he received me with 
a complacence in which I saw equal sweetness and 
dignity. I spoke of his ' Paradise Lost' as every man 
must who is worthy to speak of it at all, and told him 
a long story of the manner in which it affected me when 
I first discovered it, being at that time a school-boy. 
He answered me by a smile and a gentle inclination 
of his head. He then grasped my hand affectionately, 
and, with a smile that charmed me, said, ' Well, you 
for your part will do well also. 1 At last recollecting 
his great age (for I understood him to be two hundred 
years old), I feared that I might fatigue him by too 
much talking, I took my leave, and he took his, with 
an air of the most perfect good-breeding. His person, 
his features, his manner, were all so perfectly charac- 
teristic* that I am persuaded an apparition of him 
. could not represent him more completely." Who can 
read this, and resist the conclusion tnat judicious 
management of its author at an earlier period would 
have greatly lessened the miseries of his unhappy life, 
if it could not have altogether prevented them ! 

Yet, "sad as Cowper s story is, it is not altogether 
mournful," says his admirable biographer, Southey; 
" he had never to complain of injustice nor of injuries, 
nor even of neglect Man had no part in bringing on 
his calamity, and to that very calamity which made 
him « leave the herd ' like * a stricken deer ' it was 
owing that the genius which had consecrated his 
name, which has made him the most popular poet 
of his age, and secures that popularity from fading 
away, was developed in retirement ; it would have 
been blighted had he continued in the course for which 
he was trained up. He would not have found the way 
to fame unless he had missed the way to fortune. He 
might have been happier in his generation, but he 
could never have been so useful ; with that genera- 
tion his memory would have passed away, and he 
would have slept with his fathers, instead of living 
with those who are the glory of their country and the 
benefactors of their kind."* 


Out of every hundred foreign vessels which enter the 
ports of the United States of America, above eighty are 
from the United Kingdom and its dependencies, the 
number in 1836 having been 3510 (544,774 tonnage), 
and from all other countries 611. Nearly 1000 
vessels sail yearly direct from the United Kingdom 
to the United States, and about 800 arrive direct 
in our ports under their star-spangled banner. The 
ships from our shores are chiefly freighted with manu- 
factured goods, and the aggregate value of their car- 
goes is about 9,000,000/. annually. In 1838 the United 
States took more than any other country of our wool- 
lens, linens, silks, hardwares and cutlery, wrought and 
unwrought iron and steel, and several other articles ; 

•'Life,' vol. ii.,p. 313. 

and we send them, annually about one-sixth of our ex- 
ported produce and manufactures. On the other hand 
we are the best customers for their domestic produce. 
Above six-tenths of their exports consist of cotton and 
tobacco, and in 1840 we took from them 453,000,000 
bis. of the former and about 28,000,000 lbs. of the 
latter. We should take a still larger proportion of 
their agricultural produce, if the importation of * bread- 
stuffs ' were not prohibited except under conditions 
which render the demand uncertain. 

In 1740 the imports of New York from Great Bri- 
tain were 72,390/., and the exports amounted to 
171,000/. ; but in 1836 the value ot the imports in that 
city was estimated at 23,000.000/., of which, in that 
year, probably above 11,000,000/. consisted of British 
manufactures and commodities. A century ago these 
States, which now contain a population of sixteen mil- 
lions, enjoying more abundantly than any other people 
the means of comfort and luxury, did not amount to 
One million ; and in 1860 there can be little doubt that 
their numbers will exceed thirty millions, for the wild 
lands of the * far west/ consisting of the most fertile 
soil in the world, admit of a vast increase of popula- 
tion ; and until these lands are cultivated, tne laws 
which limit the increase of the people in older coun- 
tries will not be called into operation in the United 
States. These sixteen millions of our American 
brethren are already better customers for our manu- 
factures than France and Germany with a population 
of seventy millions, and as the latter countries are ap- 
proaching br have reached a state in which the pro- 
gress of manufactures is more strikingly displayed 
than that of agriculture, they arc becoming our rivals, 
while in the United States industry is most profitably 
employed in developing the resources of agriculture, 
and we, by our advancement in non-agricultural in- 
dustry ana arts, may materially assist them in the 
rapid creation of wealth from the cultivation of the 
soil. No policy can be truer to the best interests of 
both countries than that which tends to encourage 
their mutual commercial dependence ; but strong as 
are the ties which unite them, their intercourse might 
be on a stil} grander scale. The following facts show 
the proportions in which their commercial interests 
are blended: — 1, In 1821 the proportion which the 
trade with England bore to the whole foreign trade of 
the United States was 35 per cent., and in 1835 it was 
41 per cent. 2, The proportion which the trade with the 
United States bore to the whole foreign trade of Eng- 
land was 17 per cent in 1821, and 22 per cent in 1835. 
In 1805 the proportion was 28 per cent, but m the in- 
terval our aggregate trade with al\ other countries 
had increased m a greater ratio than that with the 
United States. 3, The proportion of British to 
American shipping which entered the ports of the 
United States averaged 9£ per cent, annually from 
1822 to 1830, but from 1831 to 1836 the average was 
35£ per cent. 

The suspension of friendly relations between these 
two great countries has recently been a topic of dis- 
cussion. Could anything be more absurd and wicked 
than a war between them ? Whatever political mis- 
understandings may have arisen, let them be settled by 
the calm decision of reasonable men in both countries, 
and not by a senseless destruction of property and 
resources, which, after exhausting the strength of both 
parties, would probably still leave the subject of quar- 
rel a bone of contention. We trust that both in Eng- 
land and America the silent influence of the friends of 
peace will put down the noisy clamour of what is 
called the « war party/ which appears to consist of only 
a small number of braggadocios. 

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to 1 

For within your walla protection " ;>. ^* a^*"^- ■-••"' 

To a traitor ye do give. 

No - 581 • VoL ' X '"" X 

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Those who shelter lend to traitors, 

Traitors are themselves, I trow ; 
And as such I now impeach ye, 

And as such I curse ye now. 

Cursed be your wives and children ! 
Cursed be your babes unborn ! 

Cursed be your youth, your aged- 
All that joy, and all that mourn ! 

Cursed eke be your* forefathers, 
That they gave ye life and breath ! 

Cursed be the bread, the water, 
Which such traitors nourisheth ! 

Cursed be men, women, children ! 
Cursed be the great, the small ! 

Cursed be the dead, the living- 
All within Zamora's wall ! 

Lo ! I come to prove ye traitors- 
Ready stand I on this plain 

Five to meet in single combat, 
As it is the wont in Spain/ 

Out then spake the Count Gonzalo— 
Ye shall hear what he did say : — 

« What wrong have our infants done ye t 
What our babes unborn, I pray ¥ 

Wherefore curse ye thus our women t 

Why our aged and our dead ? 
Wherefore curse our cattle ¥ wherefore 

All our fountains and our bread f 

Know that for this foul impeachment 

Thou mmt battle do with five V 
Answer made he, * Ye are traitors — 

All who in Zamora live !' " 

Then said Don Arias, " Would I had never been 
born, if it be in truth as thou sayest ; nevertheless, I 
accept thy challenge, to prove that it is not so." Then, 
turning to the citizens, he said, " Men of great honour 
and esteem, if there be among ye any who hath had 
aught to do with this treachery, let him speak out and 
confess it, and I will straightway quit this land, and 50 
in exile to Africa, that I may not be conquered in 
battle as a traitor and a villain." 

With one voice all replied, 

M ( Fire consume us, Count Gonzalo, 
If in this we guilty be ! 
None of us within Zamora 
Of this deed had privity. 

Dolfos only is the traitor ; 

None but he the king did slay. 
Thou canst safely go to battle — 

God will be thy shield and stay " 

Though the Infanta with tears besought Don Arias 
to regard his hoary head, and forego so perilous an 
emprise, he insisted that he and his four sons should 
accept the challenge, " because he had been called a 

u « Deem it little worth, my lady, 
That I go forth to the strife ; 
For unto his lord the vassal 
Oweth wealth, and fame, and life.* M 

The combat which ensued brings to mind the de- 
scription given by Sir Walter Scott, in his • Fair Maid 
of Perth/ of old Torquil and his sons in the battle be- 
tween the Highland clans Chattan and Quhele. We 
must not, however, omit to notice a romance which 
describes the knighting of Pedro, one of the sons of 
Don Arias, previous to the battle. It tells us that 
after he had watched his arms before the altar, mass 
was sung by the bishop, who also blessed each piece 
of armour ere it was donned, and that the young 
squire was then dubbed by his father, who added some 
knightly counsel :-^ 

* ' Rise a knight, son of my bosom ! 
A knight of noble race thou art ; 
That God make thee all thou should* be, 
Is the fond wish of my heart. 

True and upright be to all men ; 
Traitors shun thou and despise ; 

Of thy friends be thou the bulwark- 
Terror of thine enemies; 

Firm in trial, bold in peril, 

Mighty in the battle-field. 
Smite not, son, thy vanquish 'd focman, 

When the steel he cannot wield ; 

But as long as in the combat 

He doth lance or sword oppose, 
Spare thou neitlier thrusts nor slashes, 

Be not niggard of thy blows.' " 

The *| fond wishes" of the old Count were, alas ! soon 
disappointed, for on the first encounter with Don 
Diego Ordonez, Pedro Arias was slain. Such was also 
the fate of his two brothers Diego and Hernan, but 
the latter, when mortally wounded, struck Don Diego's 
charger, which, furious with pain carried his rider 
out of the lists, so that the umpires declared it to be a 
drawn battle. 

Bravely did the old Count bear up against his heavy 
loss, as is shown by a short but oeautirul romance 
which describes the funeral procession of one of his 
sons. In the midst of a troop of three hundred horse- 
men was borne the corpse, in a wooden coffin : 

" Five score noble damsels wail him, 
Of his kindred every one ; 
Some an uncle, some a cousin, 
Some bewail a brother gone. 

But the fair Urraca Hernando, 
Deepest is her grief, I ween." 

This was probably his true love, or it might have 
been the Infanta herself, who was his foster-sister. 
"How well," says the romance, "doth the old Arias 
Gonzalo comfort them !" 

u ' Wherefore weep ye thus, my damsels t 
Why so bitterly bemoan f 
In no tavern-brawl he perish'd ; 
Wherefore then so woe-begone ? 

But he died before Zamora, 

Pure your honour to maintain ;— 
Died he as a knight should die, 

Died he on the battle-plain. 1 " 

It does not appear that Arias Gonzalo or hit sons 
were in any way guilty of the treacherous murder of 
the king Don Sancho. Suspicion would rather attach 
to the Infanta Urraca, who, according to the Chronicle, 
had promised Bellido Dolfos whatever he might ask, 
if he would cause the siege to be raised. On the 
ultimate fate of this miscreant, further than that he 
was imprisoned by Don Arias, both Chronicle and 
romances are wholly silent 

[Prom Spencer's TntTcls in tfrcauia.] 
As I happened to be at Pesth during the great spring fair, I was 
not only provided with ample materials for amusement, but an 
opportunity of seeing the motley population of natives and 
strangers which are usually attracted on this occasion; for 
though the Magyars, who have given their name to Hungary, 
are the greatest landed proprietors, and hold the reins of go- 
vernment, yet they are inferior in numerical force to the Sclavo- 
nians (or Totoks), the original inhabitants. These are divided 
into at least half a dozen separate tribes, each speaking a different 
patois ; and if to them we add the colonies of Germans, Walla- 
chians, Greeks, Armenians, French, Italians, Jews, and Gipsies, 
speaking their own languages, and retaining their national man- 

Digitized by 





mew, customs, and religions, we may term Hungary a miniature 
picture of Europe. 

My fint lounge was through the fair, which afforded as many 
groups for the painter as for the observer of life and manners. 
The Babel-like confusion of tongues was endless ; and the cos- 
tume and appearance of the motley tribes could not have been 
equalled in variety by any other fair in Europe, or even by the 
most entertaining maskers that ever trod the Piazza San Marco, 
or the Corso at Rome ; because here each performed his natural 
character. The most prominent figures in the group were ever 
the proud Magyars, particularly those just arrived from the pro- 
vinces. The dress a( some of these noblemen was indeed singu- 
lar, consisting of a tight sheep-skin coat, or mantle, the woolly 
side inwards; while the other was gaudily embroidered all 
over with the gayest flowers of the parterre, in coloured silk, 
among which the tulip was ever the most prominent. Those 
whose wealth permitted it, were to be seen habited in their half- 
military, half-civil costume ; and you might in truth fancy from 
their haughty demeanour, that you were beholding a feudal lord 
of our own country of the middle ages, as, mounted on their fiery 
steeds, and armed with sword and pistols, they galloped through 
the parting multitude, upon whom, when the slightest interrup- 
tion occurred, they glanced with scorn and contempt. 

Among crowds of Jews, Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Tyrol iana, 
Germans, Sclavouians, Italians, and Hungarian peasants, were 
groups of gipsies, their black matted locks shading their wild 
sunburnt countenances, exhibiting their dancing-dogs, bears, and 
monkeys, or playing a lively tune for the amusement of the sur- 
rounding multitude, these itinerants beiiig the popular musicians 
of Hungary. In another part of the fair, mountebanks on ele- 
vated platforms were relating the exploits of the famous robber 
Schrubar in the great forest of Balcony ; or the ravages com- 
mitted by the dreadful monster, half-serpent, half-flying dragon, 
that lately rose out of the Balaton Lake, together with the most 
veritable history of the reappearance of the renowned Merman, 
who had inhabited, for the last two years, his own extensive do- 
main, the Hansag marshes. All these astonishing marvels, 
besides hundreds of others, were listened to by the peasants not 
only with attentive ears, but open mouths, and were illustrated 
by paintings as large as life, depicting the extraordinary wonders, 
executed in a style which set all imitation at defiance. 

Bread, cakes, cheeses, vegetables, &c. were heaped on high in 
the streets, with the owners of each separate pile squatted in the 
midst. The savoury odour of frying sausages attracted some 
gourmands; whilst others feasted on the lighter refreshment* of 
pastry which the accomplished cuisiniers were preparing for their 
gratification. But the popular viand was evidently the cray- 
fish, which all ranks, however otherwise engaged, were inces- 
santly consuming; nor did they in this manifest any deficiency 
in go&t, as the flavour of the little dainties was really excellent, 
and I have rarely seen them exceeded in size. Indeed, to thread 
the mazes of this great Hungarian fair, so as to obtain a view of 
its rarities, was an undertaking of no little difficulty, on account 
of the immense pyramids of wool, hides, tobacco, and other raw 
materials, which ever stood in the way ; and as these articles 
were most tempting bates to the cupidity of the Jewish traders, 
they might constantly be seen making use of all their cajoling 
eloquence, while prevailing upon the artless peasant to dispose 
of his wares at a price Utile more than nominal. When, how- 
ever, the case was reversed, and the gaudy merchandise of the 
Jew and Armenian traders induced the peasant to become a pur- 
chaser, the balance of trade was considerably against him. 

But, perhaps, of all the groups over which my eye wandered, 
none more strongly arrested my atteution than the Saxon colo- 
nists : these were attired in the same costume in which their 
ancestors, some centuries gone by, had emigrated from their 
father-land, their blue eyes and heavy quiet countenances form- 
ing a striking contrast to the vivid glances of the half- Asiatic 
people around them. Nor were their moral traits less distinctly 
defined ; for the prudent German, well knowing he was in the 
society of some of the most accomplished pickpockets on the 
Continent, wisely determined that they should not prey upon 
snm ; be did not once remove his hand from his pocket, while 
his good woman never failed to keep watch behind, attended by 
her little ones, who, on the approach of the half-wild gipsy, 
timidly covered their naxen heads in the many folds of mam- 
ma's cumbrous petticoat. 

I would, above all things, recommend every traveller who 
may visit Pesth during the spring fair, not to leave it without 
taking a morning's ramble through the town. He will then see 
tH^f^naa of men, women, and children lying about the streets, 

beneath the piazzas, or in the numerous barks on the river, with 
no other covering save the canopy of Heaven and their own 
sheep-skin mantles : he will also, still more to his surprise, be- 
hold them anointing their persons with lard, in order to protect 
themselves during the day from the effect of heat, and the bites 
of vermin and insects. 

In wonder all philosophy began; in wonder it ends; and 
admiration fills up the interspace. But the first wonder is 
the offspring of ignorance ; the last is the parent of adoration. 

Cottages of Bengal, — The cottage of Bengal, with its trim 
curved thatched roof and cane walls, is the best looking in In- 
dia. Those of Hindoostan are tiled, and built of clay or unburnt 
bricks; and though equally convenient, have less neatness of 
appearance. The mud or stone huts and terraced roofs of the 
Deccan village look as if they were mere uncovered ruins, and 
are the least pleasing to the eye of any. Farther south, though 
the material is the same, the execution is much better ; and the 
walls, being painted in broad perpendicular streaks of white and 
red, have an appearance of neatness and cleanness.— Mr, Elphin- 
stone'* History of India, 

Pake of Thread for Lace. — The exquisitely fine thread which 
is made in Hainault and Brabant, for the purpose of being worked 
into lace, has occasionally attained a value almost incredible. 
A thousand to fifteen hundred francs is no unusual price for it by 
the pound ; but some has actually been spun by hand of so ex- 
quisite a texture as to be sold at the rate of ten thousand francs, 
or upwards of 400A, for a single pound weight. Schools have 
been established to teach both the netting of the lace and draw- 
ing of designs by which to work it; and the trade at the present 
moment is stated to be in a more flourishing condition than it 
has ever been known before, even in the most palmy days of the 
Netherlands. — Mr, Emerson Tennenfs Belgium. 

Game of Football, m HoUtorn or the Strand. — If the mob 
round the pillory was safely passed, there was another mob often 
to be encountered. Rushing along Cheapside, or Covent Gar- 
den, or by the Maypole in the Strand, came the football players. 
It is scarcely conceivable, when London had settled into civili- 
zation, little more than a century ago— when we had our famed 
Augustan age of Addisons and Popes — when laced coats, and 
flowing wigs, and silver buckles ventured into the streets, and 
the beau prided himself on 

" The nice conduct of a clouded cane,—" 
that the great thoroughfare through which men now move " in- 
tent on high designs" should be a field for football :— 

** The prentice quits lib »hop to join the crew ; 
Increasing crowds the flying game pursue." 

Tliis is no poetical fiction. It was the same immediately after 
the Restoration. D'Avenant's Frenchman thus complains of the 
streets of London : — " I would now make a safe retreat, but that 
methiuks I am stopped by oue of your heroic games, called 
football ; which I conceive (under your favour) not very conve- 
niently civil in the streets, especially in such irregular and nar- 
row roads as Crooked Lane. Yet it argues your courage, much 
like your military pastime of throwing at cocks. But your 
mettle would be more magnified (since von have long allowed 
those two valiant exercises in the streets) to draw your archers 
from Finsbury, and during high market let them shoot at butts 
in Cheapside." It was the same in the days of Elizabeth. To 
this game went the sturdy apprentices, with all the train of 
idlers in a motley population ; and, when their blood was up, 
an it generally was in this exercise, which Stubbes calls "a 
bloody and murthering practice, rather than a fellow ly sport or 
pastime/ 1 they had little heed to the passengers in the streets, 
whether they were passing by— 

• a velvet justice, with a long 
Great train of bine coats twelve or fourteen strong ;" 

or a gentle lady on her palfrey, wearing her « visor made of 
velvet." The courtier, described in Hall, had an awful chance 
to save his " periwinke " in such an encounter, when, with his 
" bonnet vail d," according to the " courtesies" of his time, 

" Travelling in along London way** 
he has to recover his "auburn locks" from the "ditch" tl»at 
crosses the thoroughfare. — London. 

Digitized by 




[April 24, 

[Source of the Rareiuboarne.) 



weet, fresh, and balmy as are 
the breezes, fair the skies, and 
tender the foliage of the young- 
est and gentlest of the seasons, 
Spring, yet how few of us seem 
to appreciate its peculiar love- 
liness; how few of us hurry 
forth to enjoy it where alone it 
can be enjoyed, by the green 
hedgerows, or on tne glorious 
w revelling in all the splendour 
den blossoms of the furze. The 
1 uncertainty of the season is 
the chief cause of its being so 
; in fad, it must be owned that 
sometimes little better than a 
h us : to-day it is summer, come 
\ time; to-morrow winter, still 
when we thought we had fairly 
: him for another year. But the 
less oi me real spring we nave, the more 
surely should we enjoy it when it is ours. Then let us 
not lose this bright morning, which seems to promise 
a beautiful day, but, leaving the town " buried in 
smoke and sleep/' 

« Wander o'er the dewy fields, 
Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops 
From the bent bush, as through the verdant mate 
Of sweetbriar hedges we pursue out walk/ 1 

The Ravensbourne rises on Keston Common, near 
the border of Surrey, and flows northward past the town 
of Bromley and the village of Lewisham, and between 
the towns of Greenwich and Deptford, into the Thames. 
It turns several mills, and supplies Greenwich and 
Deptford with water by means of waterworks. It is 
navigable for nearly a mile up to Deptford Bridge for 
lighters and other small craft. The whole length of 
the Ravensbourne is about ten miles. The head of the 
llavensbourne shall be our starting-point ; its course 

from thence to the Thames at Deptford, our course : 
from Deptford we can return to the great town again 
by the Greenwich Railway, for we propose in these 
Rambles to use that magnificent mode of locomotion 
in whatever way may be most convenient to us, or to 
those who, interested in the scenes described, or the 
associations with which these scenes are connected, 
may honour us by personally wandering through the 
same routes. We therefore make no apology for com- 
mencing with a ramble to the railway before-men- 
tioned, or in leaving the Elephant and Castle by the 
older, slower, but more picturesque conveyance. So 
the Tunbridgc Wells coach sets us down by one ot 
the lodge gates of Hoi wood Park, thirteen miles from 
London ; from thence a road leads to Keston Cross, 
where there is a well-known inn, standing, it is sup- 
posed, on the site of some old cross, and which, with its' 
nost and ostler, has been commemorated by Hone in 
some of the rambles about London described in his 
1 Tablc-Book." At Keston Cross we turn to the left, and 
pass alon«j a road bordered by wild-looking park plan- 
tations, where the graceful and feathery birch is seen 
rising to a considerable height, its slender stems frosted 
as it were with silver. At a short distance, the road, 
which has been gradually rising, opens upon a heath 
spreading away to a considerable distance on the right ; 
on the left is Hoi wood Park, with the beautiful lodge, 
and in front the summit of the eminence known as 
Holwood Hill. Just at the foot of this hill the heath 
opens into a long hollow, where first we find the source 
of the Ravensbourne, and then three large artificial 
ponds formed by its waters. Beyond the latter its 
stream is so small as to be imperceptible to the 
eye as it flows through some broad meadows par- 
tially screened by plantations. Among the other fea- 
tures of this beautiful place, we must not omit to 
notice one of those picturesque objects, so charac- 
teristic of an English landscape, the windmill on the 
heath on our left, and the distant hills, yet bathed 
in the purple light of the morning, of Norwood 
and Forest Hill, beside which the great metropolitan 
dome may be often seen in front, and Shooters Hill, 
Chiselhurst, &c. to the right. The history or tradition 

Digitized by 



of the origii 
Hone:— "V 


were in gr< 
in the vicmi 
quently alig 
it was for th< 
the coming 
to be parti 
result was a 
resort was tt 
a supply of i 
Haven's boi 
in great rep 
to bathe in 
present ceo 
with some v 
heath then f 
gentry and 
some miles 
Common (a 
dotted, as il 
tume of the 
and the air 
music. Th 
rise into th 
through smi 
pierced: fr< 


ugh, and then into the 
>ps, never dries up ; it 
iisand years ago, when 
lost concealed in the 
ip referred to in the 
of its course, in excel- 
wards it through Hol- 
ding dell known as the 
i up to the beautiful 
ichwg the latter, how- 
lere we presently find 
hree banks or bastions 

now surmounted by 
irregular, and appears 
ie ground, whicn here 

There is little doubt 
of Noviomagus. Ro- 
^ontinually turned up 
ic. Holwood House 
m formerly inhabited 
e have been informed, 
hung round with the 
ie day that had been 
ei short but immensely 
wn as Pitt's Oak : its 
th him. The present 
idsome and large, and 

a most extensive and 
e distance by the hills 

d near which we have 
ross the fields into the 
h presently takes us 
ing with golden blos- 
merous flock of sheep 
I off (dainty epicures; 
the heart of a poet to 
^changed again for a 
ant one, and bordered 
e way, and 

and bush 
o'er the heads 
Ige within, 

and there, with their 
i small cottages with 

Digitized by 




[April 24, 

their little garden-plots in front, attract the eve, and 
remind us that summer monopolizes not all those 
beautiful tribe which form the poetry of the soil. 
Along the " blushing borders" we see— 

u The daisy, primrose, violet blue, 
And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes ; 
The yellovr wall-flower, statn'd with iron-brown, 
And lavish stock that scents the garden round ; 
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, 
Anemones ; auriculas, enriched 
With shining meal, o'er all their velvet leaves ; 
And fu