THE MIRROR
OF
LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

FALLS OF THE GENESEE.

The Genesee is one of the most picturesque rivers of North
America. Its name is indeed characteristic: the word Genesee
being formed from the Indian for Pleasant Valley, which
term is very descriptive of the river and its vicinity. Its
falls have not the majestic extent of the Niagara; but their
beauty compensates for the absence of such grandeur.

The Genesee, the principal natural feature of its district,
rises on the Grand Plateau or table-land of Western
Pennsylvania, runs through New York, and flows into Lake
Ontario, at Port Genesee, six miles below Rochester. At the
distance of six miles from its mouth are falls of 96 feet, and
one mile higher up, other falls of 75 feet.¹
Above [pg 98] these it is navigable for
boats nearly 70 miles, where are other two falls, of 60 and
90 feet, one mile apart, in Nunda, south of Leicester. At
the head of the Genesee is a tract six miles square,
embracing waters, some of which flow into the gulf of
Mexico, others into Chesapeake Bay, and others into the Gulf
of St. Lawrence. This tract is probably elevated 1,600 or
1,700 feet above the tide waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

The Engraving includes the falls of the river, with the
village of Rochester, seven miles south of Lake Ontario. This
place, for population, extent, and trade, will soon rank among
the American cities: it was not settled until about the close
of the last war; its progress was slow until the year 1820,
from which period it has rapidly improved. In 1830 it contained
upwards of 12,000 inhabitants: the first census of the village
was taken in December, 1815, when the number of inhabitants was
three hundred and thirty-one. The aqueduct which takes the Erie
canal across the river forms a prominent object of interest to
all travellers. It is of hewn stone, containing eleven arches
of 50 feet span: its length is 800 feet, but a considerable
part of each end is hidden from view by mills erected since its
construction.

On the brink of the island which separates the main stream
of the river from that produced by the waste water from the
mill-race, will be seen a scaffold or platform from
which an eccentric but courageous adventurer, named Sam
Patch, made a desperate leap into the gulf beneath. Patch
had obtained some celebrity in freaks of this description,
though his feats be not recorded, like the hot-brained
patriotism of Marcus Curtius in olden history. At the fall of
Niagara, Patch had before made two leaps in safety—one of
80 and the other of 130 feet, in a vast gulf, foaming and tost
aloft from the commotion produced by a fall of nearly 200 feet.
In November, 1829, Patch visited Rochester to astonish the
citizens by a leap from the falls. His first attempt was
successful, and in the presence of thousands of spectators he
leaped from the scaffold to which we have directed the
attention of the reader, a distance of 100 feet, into the
abyss, in safety. He was advertised to repeat the feat in a few
days, or, as he prophetically announced it his “last jump,”
meaning his last jump that season. The scaffold was duly
erected, 25 feet in height, and Patch, an hour after the time
was announced, made his appearance. A multitude had collected
to witness the feat; the day was unusually cold, and Sam was
intoxicated. The river was low, and the falls near him on
either side were bare. Sam threw himself off, and the waters
(to quote the bathos of a New York newspaper) “received him in
their cold embrace. The tide bubbled as the life left the body,
and then the stillness of death, indeed, sat upon the bosom of
the waters.” His body was found past the spring at the mouth of
the river, seven miles below where he made his fatal leap. It
had passed over two falls of 125 feet combined, yet was not
much injured. A black handkerchief taken from his neck while on
the scaffold, and tied about the body, was still there. He is
stated to have had perfect command of himself while in the air;
and, says the journalist already quoted, “had he not been given
to habits of intoxication, he might have astonished the world,
perhaps for years, with the greatest feats ever performed by
man.”

The Genesee river waters one of the finest tracts of land in
the state of New York. Its alluvial flats are extensive, and
very fertile. These are either natural prairies, or Indian
clearings, (of which, however, the present Indians have no
tradition,) and lying, to an extent of many thousand acres,
between the villages of Genesee, Moscow, and Mount Morris,
which now crown the declivities of their surrounding uplands;
and, contrasting their smooth verdure with the shaggy hills
that bound the horizon, and their occasional clumps of
spreading trees, with the tall and naked relics of the forest,
nothing can be more agreeable to the eye, long accustomed to
the uninterrupted prospect of a level and wooded country.

SONG FROM THE ALBUM OF A POET.

By G.R. Carter.

Ray wittily observes that an obscure and prolix author may
not improperly be compared to a Cuttle-fish, since he may be
said to hide himself under his own ink.

LINES

FROM THE GERMAN OF KÖRNER.

Written on the morning of the Battle of
Dänneberg.

H.

EQUANIMITY OF TEMPER.

Goodness of temper may be defined, to use the happy imagery
of Gray, “as the sunshine of the heart.” It is a more valuable
bosom-attendant under the pressure of poverty and adversity,
and when we are approaching the confines of infirmity and old
age, than when we are revelling in the full tide of plenty,
amid the exuberant strength and freshness of youth. Lord Bacon,
who has analyzed some of the human accompaniments so well, is
silent as to the softening sway and pleasing influence of this
choice attuner of the human mind. But Shaftesbury, the
illustrious author of the Characteristics, was so
enamoured of it, that he terms “gravity (its counterpart,) the
essence of imposture;” and so it is, for to what purpose does a
man store his brain with knowledge, and the profitable burden
of the sciences, if he gathers only superciliousness and pride
from the hedge of learning? instead of the milder traits of
general affection, and the open qualities of social feelings. I
remember, when a youth, I was extremely fond of attending the
House of Commons, to hear the debates; and I shall never forget
the repulsive loftiness which I thought marked the physiognomy
of Pitt; harsh and unbending, like a settled frost, he seemed
wrapped in the mantle of egotism and sublunary conceit; and it
was from the uninviting expression of this great man’s
countenance, that I first drew my conceptions as to how a proud
and unsociable man looked. With very different emotions I was
wont to survey the mild but expressive features of his great
opponent, Fox: there was a placidity mixed up with the graver
lines of thought and reflection, that would have invited a
child to take him by the hand; indeed, the witchcraft of Mr.
Fox’s temper was such, that it formed a triumphant source of
gratulation in the circle of his friends, from the panegyric of
the late Earl of Carlisle, during his boyish days at Eton, to
the prouder posthumous circles of fame with which the elegant
author of The Pleasures of Memory, has entwined his
sympathetic recollections. The late Mr. Whitbread, although an
unflinching advocate for the people’s rights, and an
incorruptible patriot in the true sense of the word, was
unpopular in his office as a country magistrate, owing to a
tone of severity he generally used to those around him. The
wife of that indefatigable toiler in the Christian field, John
Wesley, was so acid and acrimonious in her temper, that that
mild advocate for spiritual affection, found it impossible to
live with her. Rousseau was tormented by such a host of
ungovernable passions, that he became a burden to himself and
to every one around him. Lord Byron suffered a badness of
temper to corrode him in the flower of his days. Contrasted
with this unpleasing part of the perspective, let us quote the
names of a few wise and good men, who have been proverbial for
the goodness of their tempers; as Shakspeare, Francis I., and
Henry IV. of France; “the great and good Lord Lyttleton,” as he
is called to the present day; John Howard, Goldsmith, Sir
Samuel Romilly, Franklin, Thomson, the poet,
Sheridan,²
and Sir Walter Scott. The late Sir William Curtis was known
to be one of the best tempered men of his day, which made
him a great favourite with the late king. I remember a
little incident of Sir William’s good-nature, which occurred
about a year [pg 100] after he had been Lord
Mayor. In alighting from his carriage, a little out of the
regular line, near the Mansion House, upon some day of
festivity, he happened inadvertently, with the skirts of his
coat, to brush down a few apples from a poor woman’s stall,
on the side of the pavement. Sir William was in full dress,
but instead of passing on with the hauteur which
characterizes so many of his aldermanic brethren, he set
himself to the task of assisting the poor creature to
collect her scattered fruit; and on parting, observing some
of her apples were a little soiled by the dirt, he drew his
hand from his pocket and generously gave her a shilling.
This was too good an incident for John Bull to lose: a crowd
assembled, hurraed, and cried out, “Well done, Billy,” at
which the good-natured baronet looked back and laughed. How
much more pleasing is it to tell of such demeanour than of
the foolish pride of the late Sir John Eamer, who turned
away one of his travellers merely because he had in one
instance used his bootjack.

The author of “A Tradesman’s Lays.”

Probably our correspondent may recollect Sir William and the
orange, at one of the contested City elections. A “greasy
rogue” before the hustings, seeing the baronet candidate take
an orange from his pocket, put up for the fruit, with
the cry “Give us that orange, Billy.” Sir William threw him the
fruit, which the fellow had no sooner sucked dry, than he began
bawling with increased energy, “No Curtis,” “No Billy,” &c.
Such an ungrateful act would have soured even Seneca; but Sir
William merely gave a smile, with a good-natured shake of the
head. Sir William Curtis possessed a much greater share of
shrewdness and good sense than the vulgar ever gave him credit
for. At the Sessions’ dinners, he would keep up the ball of
conversation with the judges and gentlemen of the bar, in a
fuller vein than either of his brother aldermen. It is true
that he had wealth and distinction, all which his fellow
citizens at table did not enjoy; and these possessions, we
know, are wonderful helps to confidence, if they do not lead
the holder on to assurance.—Ed. M.

The Sketch Book.

EXTRACTS FROM THE ORIGINAL LETTERS OF AN OFFICER IN
INDIA.³

The Sight of a Tiger.⁴

Secunderabad, 1828.

A short time since, a brother sub. in my regiment was riding
out round some hills adjoining the cantonment, when a
cheetar, small tiger (or panther,) pounced on his dog.
Seeing his poor favourite in the cheetar’s mouth, like a mouse
in Minette’s, he put spurs to his horse, rode after the beast,
and so frightened him, that he dropped the dog and made off.
Three of us, including myself, then agreed to sit up that
night, and watch for the tiger, feeling assured that his haunt
was not far from our cantonment. So we started late at night,
armed cap-à-pied, and each as fierce in heart as
ten tigers; arrived at the appointed spot, and having selected
a convenient place for concealment, we picketed a sheep,
brought with us purposely to entice the cheetar from his lair.
Singular to relate, this poor animal, as if instinctively aware
of its critical situation, was as mute as if it had been
mouthless, and during two or three hours in which we tormented
it, to make it utter a cry, our efforts were of no avail. Hour
after hour slipped away, still no cheetar; and about three
o’clock in the morning, wearied with our fruitless vigil, we
all began to drop asleep. I believe I was wrapped in a most
leaden slumber, and dreaming of anything but watching for, and
hunting tigers, when I was aroused by the most unnatural,
unearthly, and infernal roaring ever heard. This was our
friend, and for his reception, starting upon our feet, we were
all immediately ready; but the cunning creature who had no idea
of becoming our victim, made off, with the most hideous
howlings, to the shelter of a neighbouring eminence; when
sufficient daylight appeared, we followed the direction of his
voice, and had the felicity of seeing him perched on the summit
of an immense high rock, just before us, placidly watching our
movements. We were here, too far from him to venture a shot,
but immediately began ascending, when the creature seeing us
approach, rose, opened his ugly red mouth in a desperate yawn,
and stretched himself with the utmost nonchalance,
being, it seems, little less weary than ourselves. We
presented, but did not fire, because at that very moment,
setting up his tail, and howling horribly, he disappeared
behind the rock. Quick as thought we followed him, but to our
great disappointment and chagrin, he had retreated into one of
the numerous caverns formed in that ugly place, by huge masses
of rock, piled one upon the other. Into some of these dangerous
places, however, we descended, sometimes creeping, sometimes
walking, in search of our foe; but not finding him, at length
returned to breakfast, which I thought the most agreeable and
sensible part of the affair. Some wit passed amongst us
respecting the propriety of changing the name cheetar,
into cheat-us; but were, on the whole, not pleased by
the failure of our expedition; and I have
[pg 101] only favoured you with this
romantic incident in the life of a sub. as a specimen
of the sort of amusement we meet with in quarters.

Natural Zoological Garden.

Secunderabad, 1828.

Your description of the London Zoological Garden, reminds me
that there is, what I suppose I must term, a most beautiful
Zoological Hill, just one mile and a half from the spot
whence I now write; on this I often take my recreation, much to
the alarm of its inhabitants; viz. sundry cheetars,
bore-butchers, (or leopards) hyenas, wolves, jackalls, foxes,
hares, partridges, etc.; but not being a very capital shot, I
have seldom made much devastation amongst them. Under the hill
are swamps and paddy-fields, which abound in snipe and other
game. Now, is not this a Zoological Garden on the grandest
scale?

H.C.B.

Old Poets.

BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.

(From “England’s Heroical Epistles⁵.”)

Spirit of Discovery

AMERICAN IMPROVEMENTS.

[The very recent publication of the ninth volume of the
Encyclopaedia Americana⁶
enables us to lay before our readers the following
interesting notices, connected with the national weal and
internal economy of the United States of North America.]

Navy.—Since the late war, the growth and
improvement of our navy has kept pace with our national
prosperity. We could now put to sea, in a few mouths, with a
dozen ships of the line; the most spacious, efficient, best,
and most beautiful constructions that ever traversed the ocean.
This is not merely an American conceit, but an admitted fact in
Europe, where our models are studiously copied. In the United
States, a maximum and uniform calibre of cannon has been lately
determined on and adopted. Instead of the variety of length,
form, and calibre still used in other navies, and almost equal
to the Great Michael with her “bassils, mynards, hagters,
culverings, flings, falcons, double dogs, and pestilent
serpenters,” our ships offer flush and uniform decks, sheers
free from hills, hollows, and excrescences, and complete,
unbroken batteries of thirty-two or forty-two pounders. Thus
has been realized an important desideratum—the greatest
possible power to do execution coupled with the greatest
simplification of the means.

But, while we have thus improved upon the hitherto practised
means of naval warfare, we are threatened with a total change.
This is by the introduction of bombs, discharged horizontally,
instead of shot from common cannon. So certain are those who
have turned their attention to this subject that the change
must take place, that, in France, they are already speculating
on the means of excluding these destructive missiles from a
ship’s sides, by casing them in a cuirass of iron. Nor are
these ideas the mere offspring of idle speculation. Experiments
have been tried on hulks, by bombs projected horizontally, with
terrible effect. If the projectile lodged in a mast, in
exploding it overturned it, with all its yards and rigging; if
in the side, the ports were opened into each other; or, when
near the water, an immense chasm was opened, causing the vessel
to sink immediately. If it should not explode until it fell
spent upon deck, besides doing the injury of an ordinary ball,
it would then burst, scattering smoke, fire, and death, on
every side. When this comes to pass, it would seem that the
naval profession would cease to be very desirable.
Nevertheless, experience has, in all ages, shown that, the more
destructive are the engines used in war, and the more it is
improved and systematized, the less is the loss of life.
Salamis and Lepanto can either of them alone count many times
the added victims of the Nile, Trafalgar, and Navarino.

One effect of the predicted change in naval war, it is said,
will be the substitution of small vessels for the larger ones
now in use. The three decker presents many times the surface of
the schooner, while her superior number of cannon does not
confer a commensurate advantage; for ten bombs, projected into
the side of a ship, would be almost as efficacious to her
destruction as a hundred. As forming part of a system of
defence for our coast, the bomb-cannon, mounted on steamers,
which can take their position at will, would be terribly
formidable. With them—to say nothing of torpedoes and
submarine navigation—we need never more be blockaded and
annoyed as formerly. Hence peaceful nations will be most
gainers by this change of system; but it is not enough that we
should be capable of raising a blockade: we are a commercial
people: our merchant ships visit every sea, and our men-of-war
must follow and protect them there.

Newspapers.—No country has so many newspapers
as the United States. The following table, arranged for the
American Almanac of 1830, is corrected from the Traveller, and
contains a statement of the number of newspapers published in
the colonies at the commencement of the revolution; and also
the number of newspapers and other periodical works, in the
United States, in 1810 and 1828.

The present number, however, amounts to about a thousand.
Thus the state of New [pg 103] York is mentioned in the
table as having 161 newspapers; but a late publication
states that there are 193, exclusive of religious journals.
New York has 1,913,508 inhabitants. There are about 50 daily
newspapers in the United States, two-thirds of which are
considered to give a fair profit. The North American
colonies, in the year 1720, had only seven newspapers: in
1810, the United States had 359; in 1826, they had 640; in
1830, 1,000, with a population of 13,000,000; so that they
have more newspapers than the whole 190 millions of
Europe.

In drawing a comparison between the newspapers of the three
freest countries, France, England, and the United States, we
find, as we have just said, those of the last country to be the
most numerous, while some of the French papers have the largest
subscription; and the whole establishment of a first-rate
London paper is the most complete. Its activity is immense.
When Canning sent British troops to Portugal, in 1826, we know
that some papers sent reporters with the army. The zeal of the
New York papers also deserves to be mentioned, which send out
their news-boats, even fifty miles to sea, to board approaching
vessels, and obtain the news that they bring. The papers of the
large Atlantic cities are also remarkable for their detailed
accounts of arrivals, and the particulars of shipping news,
interesting to the commercial world, in which they are much
more minute than the English. From the immense number of
different papers in the United States, it results that the
number of subscribers to each is limited, 2,000 being
considered a respectable list. One paper, therefore, is not
able to unite the talent of many able men, as is the case in
France. There men of the first rank in literature or politics
occasionally, or at regular periods, contribute articles. In
the United States, few papers have more than one editor, who
generally writes upon almost all subjects himself. This
circumstance necessarily makes the papers less spirited and
able than some of the foreign journals, but is attended with
this advantage, that no particular set of men is enabled to
exercise a predominant influence by means of these periodicals.
Their abundance neutralizes their effects. Declamation and
sophistry are made comparatively harmless by running in a
thousand conflicting currents.

Paper-making.—The manufacture of paper has of
late rapidly increased in the United States. According to an
estimate in 1829, the whole quantity made in this country
amounted to about five to seven millions a year, and employed
from ten to eleven thousand persons. Rags are not imported from
Italy and Germany to the same amount as formerly, because
people here save them more carefully; and the value of the
rags, junk, &c., saved annually in the United States, is
believed to amount to two millions of dollars. Machines for
making paper of any length are much employed in the United
States. The quality of American paper has also improved; but,
as paper becomes much better by keeping, it is difficult to
have it of the best quality in this country, the interest of
capital being too high. The paper used here for printing
compares very disadvantageously with that of England. Much
wrapping paper is now made of straw, and paper for tracing
through is prepared in Germany from the poplar tree. A letter
of Mr. Brand, formerly a civil officer in Upper Provence, in
France (which contains many pine forests), dated Feb. 12, 1830,
has been published in the French papers, containing an account
of his successful experiments to make coarse paper of the pine
tree. The experiments of others have led to the same results.
Any of our readers, interested in this subject, can find Mr.
Brand’s letter in the Courrier Francais of Nov. 27,
1830, a French paper published in New York. In salt-works near
Hull, Massachusetts, in which the sea-water is made to flow
slowly over sheds of pine, in order to evaporate, the writer
found large quantities of a white substance—the fibres of
the pine wood dissolved and carried off by the
brine—which seemed to require nothing but glue to convert
it into paper.

The Naturalist

THE CUTTLE-FISH

Is one of the most curious creatures of “the watery
kingdom.” It is popularly termed a fish, though it is, in fact,
a worm, belonging to the order termed Mollusca,
(Molluscus, soft,) from the body being of a pulpy substance
and having no skeleton. It differs in many respects from other
animals of its class, particularly with regard to its internal
structure, the perfect formation of the viscera, eyes, and even
organs of hearing. Moreover, “it has three hearts, two of which
are placed at the root of the two branchiae (or gills); they
receive the blood from the body, and propel it into the
branchiae. The returning veins open into the middle heart, from
which the aorta proceeds.”⁷
Of Cuttle-fish there are several species. That represented
in the annexed Cut is the common or officinal Cuttle-fish,
(Sepia officinalis, Lin). It consists of a soft,
pulpy, body, with processes or arms, which are furnished
with small holes or suckers, by means of which the animal
fixes itself in the manner of cupping-glasses. These holes
increase with the age of the animal; and in some species
amount to upwards of one thousand.
[pg 104] The arms are often torn or
nipped off by shell or other fishes, but the animal has the
power of speedily reproducing the limbs. By means of the
suckers the Cuttle-fish usually affects its locomotion. “It
swims at freedom in the bosom of the sea, moving by sudden
and irregular jerks, the body being nearly in a
perpendicular position, and the head directed downwards and
backwards. Some species have a fleshy, muscular fin on each
side, by aid of which they accomplish these apparently
inconvenient motions; but, at least, an equal number of them
are finless, and yet can swim with perhaps little less
agility. Lamarck, indeed, denies this, and says that these
can only trail themselves along the bottom by means of the
suckers. This is probably their usual mode of proceeding;
that it is not their only one, we have the positive
affirmation of other observers.”⁸
Serviceable as these arms undoubtedly are to the
Cuttle-fish, Blumenbach thinks it questionable whether they
can be considered as organs of touch, in the more limited
sense to which he has confined that
term.⁹

The Cuttle-fish.

The jaws of the Cuttle-fish, it should be observed, are
fixed in the body because there is no head to which they can be
articulated. They are of horny substance, and resemble the bill
of a parrot. They are in the centre of the under part of the
body, surrounded by the arms. By means of these parts, the
shell-fish which are taken for food, are completely
triturated.

We now come to the most peculiar parts of the structure of
the Cuttle-fish, viz. the ear and eye, inasmuch as it is
the only animal of its class, in which any thing has hitherto
been discovered, at all like an organ of hearing, or that has
been shown to possess true eyes.¹⁰
The ears consist of two oval cavities, in the cartilaginous
ring, to which the large arms of the animal are affixed. In
each of these is a small bag, containing a bony substance,
and receiving the termination of the nerves, like those of
the vestibulum (or cavity in the bone of the ear) in fishes.
The nature of the eyes cannot be disputed. “They resemble,
on the whole, those of red-blooded animals, particularly
fishes; they are at least incomparably more like them than
the eyes of any known insects; yet they are distinguished by
several extraordinary peculiarities. The front of the
eye-ball is covered with a loose membrane instead of a
cornea; the iris is composed of a firm substance; and a
process projects from the upper margin of the pupil, which
gives that membrane a semilunar form.”¹¹
The exterior coat or ball is remarkably strong, so as to
seem almost calcareous, and is, when taken out, of a
brilliant pearl colour; it is worn in some parts of Italy,
and in the Grecian islands by way of artificial pearl in
necklaces.

Next we may notice the curious provision by which the
Cuttle-fish is enabled to elude the pursuit of its enemies in
the “vasty deep.” This consists of a black, inky fluid,
(erroneously supposed to be the bile,) which is contained in a
bag beneath the body. The fluid itself is thick, but miscible
with water to such a degree, that a very small quantity will
colour a vast bulk of water.¹²
Thus, the comparatively small Cuttle-fish may darken the
element about the acute eye of the whale. What omniscience
is displayed in this single provision, as well as in the
faculty possessed by the Cuttle-fish of reproducing its
mutilated arms! All Nature beams with such beneficence, and
abounds with such instances of divine love for every
creature, however humble: in observing these provisions, how
often are we reminded of the benefits conferred by the same
omniscience upon our own species. It is thus, by the
investigation of natural history, that we are led to the
contemplation of the sublimest subjects; thus that man with
God himself holds converse.

“Bone,” or plate.

The “bone” of the Cuttle-fish now claims attention. This is
a complicated calcareous plate, lodged in a peculiar cavity of
the back, which it materially strengthens. This plate has long
been known in the shop of the apothecary under the name of
Cuttle-fish bone: an observant reader may have noticed scores
of these plates in glasses labelled Os Sepiae.
[pg 105] Reduced to powder, they
were formerly used as an absorbent, but they are now chiefly
sought after for the purpose of polishing the softer metals.
It is however improper to call this plate bone, since, in
composition, “it is exactly similar to shell, and
consists of various membranes, hardened by carbonate of
lime, (the principal material of shell,) without the
smallest mixture of phosphate of lime,¹³
(or the chief material of bone.)

Eggs.

Lastly, are the ovaria, or egg-bags of the
Cuttle-fish, which are popularly called sea-grapes. The
female fish deposits her eggs in numerous clusters, on the
stalks of fuci, on corals, about the projecting sides of rocks,
or on any other convenient substances. These eggs, which are of
the size of small filberts, are of a black colour.

The most remarkable species of Cuttle-fish inhabits the
British seas; and, although seldom taken, its bone or plate is
cast ashore on different parts of the coast from the south of
England to the Zetland Isles. We have picked up scores of these
plates and bunches of the egg-bags or grapes, after rough
weather on the beach between Worthing and Rottingdean; but we
never found a single fish.

The Cuttle-fish was esteemed a delicacy by the ancients, and
the moderns equally prize it. Captain Cook speaks highly of a
soup he made from it; and the fish is eaten at the present day
by the Italians, and by the Greeks, during Lent. We take the
most edible species to be the octopodia, or eight-armed,
found particularly large in the East Indies and the Gulf of
Mexico. The common species here figured, when full-grown,
measures about two feet in length, is of a pale blueish brown
colour, with the skin marked by numerous dark purple
specks.

The Cuttle-fish is described by some naturalists, as naked
or shell-less. It is often found attached to the shell of the
Paper Nautilus, which it is said to use as a sail. It is,
however, very doubtful whether the Cuttle-fish has a shell of
its own. There is a controversy upon the subject. Aristotle,
and our contemporary, Home, maintain it to be parasitical:
Cuvier and Ferrusac, non-parasitical; but the curious reader
will find the pro and con.—the majority and
minority—in the Magazine of Natural History, vol.
iii. p. 535.

Notes of a Reader.

SERVANTS IN INDIA.

[Captain Skinner, in his Excursions in India, makes
the following sensible observations on the tyranny over
servants in India:]

There are throughout the mountains many of the sacred shrubs
of the Hindoos, which give great delight, as my servants fall
in with them. They pick the leaves; and running with them to
me, cry, “See, sir, see, our holy plants are here!” and
congratulate each other on having found some indication of a
better land than they are generally inclined to consider the
country of the Pariahs. The happiness these simple remembrances
shed over the whole party is so enlivening, that every distress
and fatigue seems to be forgotten. When we behold a servant
approaching with a sprig of the Dona in his hand, we
hail it as the olive-branch, that denotes peace and good-will
for the rest of the day, if, as must sometimes be the case,
they have been in any way interrupted.

Even these little incidents speak so warmly in favour of the
Hindoo disposition, that, in spite of much that may be
uncongenial to an European in their character, they cannot fail
to inspire him with esteem, if not affection. I wish that many
of my countrymen would learn to believe that the natives are
endowed with feelings, and surely they may gather such an
inference from many a similar trait to the one I have related.
Hardness of heart can never be allied to artless simplicity:
that mind must possess a higher degree of sensibility and
refinement, that can unlock its long-confined recollections by
so light a spring as a wild flower.

I have often witnessed, with wonder and sorrow, an English
gentleman stoop to the basest tyranny over his servants,
without even the poor excuse of anger, and frequently from no
other reason than because he could not understand their
language. The question, from the answer being unintelligible,
is instantly followed by a blow. Such scenes are becoming more
rare, and indeed are seldom acted but by the younger members of
society; they are too frequent notwithstanding: and should any
thing that has fallen from me here, induce the cruelly-disposed
to reflect a little upon the impropriety and mischief of their
conduct, when about to raise the hand against a native, and
save one stripe to the passive people who are so much at the
mercy of their masters’ tempers, I shall indeed be proud.

[Again, speaking of the condition of servants, Captain
Skinner remarks—]

It is impossible to view some members of the despised class
without sorrow and pity, particularly those who are attached,
in the lowest offices, to the establishments of the
[pg 106] Europeans. They are the
most melancholy race of beings, always alone, and apparently
unhappy: they are scouted from the presence even of their
fellow-servants. None but the mind of a poet could imagine
such outcasts venturing to raise their thoughts to the
beauty of a Brahmin’s daughter; and a touching tale in such
creative fancy, no doubt, it would make, for, from their
outward appearances, I do not perceive why they should not
be endowed with minds as sensitive at least as those of the
castes above them. There are among them some very stout and
handsome men; and it is ridiculous to see sometimes all
their strength devoted to the charge of a sickly
puppy;—to take care of dogs being their principal
occupation!

Our attention has been drawn to the above passage in Captain
Skinner’s work, by its ready illustration of the views and
conclusions of the late Dr. Knox, in his invaluable Spirit
of Despotism, Section 2, “Oriental manners, and the ideas
imbibed in youth, both in the East and West Indies, favourable
to the spirit of despotism.” How forcibly applicable, on the
present occasion, is the following extract:—”from the
intercourse of England with the East and West Indies, it is to
be feared that something of a more servile spirit has been
derived than was known among those who established the free
constitutions of Europe, and than would have been adopted, or
patiently borne, in ages of virtuous simplicity. A very
numerous part of our countrymen spend their most susceptible
age in those countries, where despotic manners remarkably
prevail. They are themselves, when invested with office,
treated by the natives with an idolatrous degree of reverence,
which teaches them to expect a similar submission to their
will, on their return to their own country. They have been
accustomed to look up to personages greatly their superiors in
rank and riches, with awe; and to look down on their inferiors
in property with supreme contempt, as slaves of their
will and ministers of their luxury. Equal laws and equal
liberty at home appear to them saucy claims of the poor and the
vulgar, which tend to divest riches of one of the greatest
charms, over-bearing dominion. We do, indeed, import gorgeous
silks and luscious sweets from the Indies, but we import, at
the same time, the spirit of despotism, which adds deformity to
the purple robe, and bitterness to the honied beverage.” “That
Oriental manners are unfavourable to liberty, is, I
believe, universally conceded. The natives of the East Indies
entertain not the idea of independence. They treat the
Europeans, who go among them to acquire their riches, with a
respect similar to the abject submission which they pay to
their native despots. Young men, who in England scarcely
possessed the rank of the gentry, are waited upon in India,
with more attentive servility than is paid or required in many
courts of Europe. Kings of England seldom assume the state
enjoyed by an East India governor, or even by subordinate
officers. Enriched at an early age, the adventurer returns to
England. His property admits him to the higher circles of
fashionable life. He aims at rivalling or excelling all the old
nobility in the splendour of his mansions, the finery of his
carriages, the number of his liveried train, the profusion of
his tables, in every unmanly indulgence which an empty vanity
can covet, and a full purse procure. Such a man, when he looks
from the window of his superb mansion, and sees the people
pass, cannot endure the idea, that they are of as much
consequence as himself in the eye of the law; and that he dares
not insult or oppress the unfortunate being who rakes his
kennel or sweeps his chimney.”

FALL OF ROBESPIERRE.

It is well known, that during the revolutionary troubles of
France, not only all the churches were closed, but the Catholic
and Protestant worship entirely forbidden; and, after the
constitution of 1795, it was at the hazard of one’s life that
either the mass was heard, or any religious duty performed. It
is evident that Robespierre, who unquestionably had a design
which is now generally understood, was desirous, on the day of
the fête of the Supreme Being, to bring back public
opinion to the worship of the Deity. Eight months before, we
had seen the Bishop of Paris, accompanied by his clergy, appear
voluntarily at the bar of the Convention, to abjure the
Christian faith and the Catholic religion. But it is not as
generally known, that at that period Robespierre was not
omnipotent, and could not carry his desires into effect.
Numerous factions then disputed with him the supreme authority.
It was not till the end of 1793, and the beginning of 1794,
that his power was so completely established that he could
venture to act up to his intentions.

Robespierre was then desirous to establish the worship of
the Supreme Being, and the belief of the immortality of the
soul. He felt that irreligion is the soul of anarchy, and it
was not anarchy but despotism which he desired; and yet the
very day after that magnificent fête in honour of the
Supreme Being, a man of the highest celebrity in science, and
as distinguished for virtue and probity as philosophic genius,
Lavoisier, was led out to the scaffold. On the day following
that, Madame Elizabeth, that Princess whom the executioners
could not guillotine, till they had turned aside their eyes
from the sight of her angelic visage, stained the same axe with
her blood!—And [pg 107] a month after, Robespierre,
who wished to restore order for his own purposes—who
wished to still the bloody waves which for years had
inundated the state, felt that all his efforts would be in
vain if the masses who supported his power were not
restrained and directed, because without order nothing but
ravages and destruction can prevail. To ensure the
government of the masses, it was indispensable that
morality, religion, and belief should be
established—and, to affect the multitude, that
religion should be clothed in external forms. “My friend,”
said Voltaire, to the atheist Damilaville, “after you have
supped on well-dressed partridges, drunk your sparkling
champaigne, and slept on cushions of down in the arms of
your mistress, I have no fear of you, though you do not
believe in God.—-But if you are perishing of hunger,
and I meet you in the corner of a wood, I would rather
dispense with your company.” But when Robespierre wished to
bring back to something like discipline the crew of the
vessel which was fast driving on the breakers, he found the
thing was not so easy as he imagined. To destroy is
easy—to rebuild is the difficulty. He was omnipotent
to do evil; but the day that he gave the first sign of a
disposition to return to order, the hands which he himself
had stained with blood, marked his forehead with the fatal
sign of destruction.

—Memoirs of the Duchess of Abrantes.

SOUNDS DURING THE NIGHT.

The great audibility of sounds during the night is a
phenomenon of considerable interest, and one which had been
observed even by the ancients. In crowded cities or in their
vicinity, the effect was generally ascribed to the rest of
animated beings, while in localities where such an explanation
was inapplicable, it was supposed to arise from a favourable
direction of the prevailing wind. Baron Humboldt was
particularly struck with this phenomenon when he first heard
the rushing of the great cataracts of the Orinoco in the plain
which surrounds the mission of the Apures. These sounds he
regarded as three times louder during the night than during the
day. Some authors ascribed this fact to the cessation of the
humming of insects, the singing of birds, and the action of the
wind on the leaves of the trees, but M. Humboldt justly
maintains that this cannot be the cause of it on the Orinoco,
where the buzz of insects is much louder in the night than in
the day, and where the breeze never rises till after sunset.
Hence he was led to ascribe the phenomenon to the perfect
transparency and uniform density of the air, which can exist
only at night after the heat of the ground has been uniformly
diffused through the atmosphere. When the rays of the sun have
been beating on the ground during the day, currents of hot air
of different temperatures, and consequently of different
densities, are constantly ascending from the ground and mixing
with the cold air above. The air thus ceases to be a
homogeneous medium, and every person must have observed the
effects of it upon objects seen through it which are very
indistinctly visible, and have a tremulous motion, as if they
were “dancing in the air.” The very same effect is perceived
when we look at objects through spirits and water that are not
perfectly mixed, or when we view distant objects over a red hot
poker or over a flame. In all these cases the light suffers
refraction in passing from a medium of one density into a
medium of a different density, and the refracted rays are
constantly changing their direction as the different currents
rise in succession. Analogous effects are produced when sound
passes through a mixed medium, whether it consists of two
different mediums or of one medium where portions of it have
different densities. As sound moves with different velocities
through media of different densities, the wave which produces
the sound will be partly reflected in passing from one medium
to the other, and the direction of the transmitted wave
changed; and hence in passing through such media different
portions of the wave will reach the ear at different times, and
thus destroy the sharpness and distinctness of the sound. This
may be proved by many striking facts. If we put a bell in a
receiver containing a mixture of hydrogen gas and atmospheric
air, the sound of the bell can scarcely be heard. During a
shower of rain or of snow, noises are greatly deadened, and
when sound is transmitted along an iron wire or an iron pipe of
sufficient length, we actually hear two sounds, one transmitted
more rapidly through the solid, and the other more slowly
through the air. The same property is well illustrated by an
elegant and easily repeated experiment of Chladni’s. When
sparkling champagne is poured into a tall glass till it is half
full, the glass loses its power of ringing by a stroke upon its
edge, and emits only a disagreeable and a puffy sound. This
effect will continue while the wine is filled with bubbles of
air, or as long as the effervescence lasts; but when the
effervescence begins to subside, the sound becomes clearer and
clearer, and the glass rings as usual when the air-bubbles have
vanished. If we reproduce the effervescence by stirring the
champagne with a piece of bread the glass will again cease to
ring. The same experiment will succeed with other effervescing
fluids.—Sir David Brewster.

No man is so insignificant as to be sure his example can do
no hurt.

—Lord Clarendon.

The Public Journals.

PADDY FOOSHANE’S FRICASSEE.

Paddy Fooshane kept a shebeen house at Barleymount Cross, in
which he sold whisky—from which his Majesty did not
derive any large portion of his revenues—ale, and
provisions. One evening a number of friends, returning from a
funeral—-all neighbours too—stopt at his house,
“because they were in grief,” to drink a drop. There was Andy
Agar, a stout, rattling fellow, the natural son of a gentleman
residing near there; Jack Shea, who was afterwards transported
for running away with Biddy Lawlor; Tim Cournane, who, by
reason of being on his keeping, was privileged to carry a gun;
Owen Connor, a march-of-intellect man, who wished to enlighten
proctors by making them swallow their processes; and a number
of other “good boys.” The night began to “rain cats and dogs,”
and there was no stirring out; so the cards were called for, a
roaring fire was made down, and the whisky and ale began to
flow. After due observation, and several experiments, a space
large enough for the big table, and free from the drop down,
was discovered. Here six persons, including Andy, Jack,
Tim—with his gun between his legs—and Owen, sat to
play for a pig’s head, of which the living owner, in the
parlour below, testified, by frequent grunts, his displeasure
at this unceremonious disposal of his property.

Card-playing is very thirsty, and the boys were anxious to
keep out the wet; so that long before the pig’s head was
decided, a messenger had been dispatched several times to
Killarney, a distance of four English miles, for a pint of
whisky each time. The ale also went merrily round, until most
of the men were quite stupid, their faces swoln, and their eyes
red and heavy. The contest at length was decided; but a quarrel
about the skill of the respective parties succeeded, and
threatened broken heads at one time. At last Jack Shea swore
they must have something to eat;——him but he was
starved with drink, and he must get some rashers somewhere or
other. Every one declared the same; and Paddy was ordered to
cook some griskins forthwith. Paddy was completely
nonplussed:—all the provisions were gone, and yet his
guests were not to be trifled with. He made a hundred
excuses—”‘Twas late—’twas dry now—and there
was nothing in the house; sure they ate and drank enough.” But
all in vain. The ould sinner was threatened with instant death
if he delayed. So Paddy called a council of war in the parlour,
consisting of his wife and himself.

“Agrah, Jillen, agrah, what will we do with these? Is there
any meat in the tub? Where is the tongue? If it was yours,
Jillen, we’d give them enough of it; but I mane the cow’s.”
(aside.)

“Sure the proctors got the tongue ere yesterday, and you
know there an’t a bit in the tub. Oh the murtherin villains!
and I’ll engage ’twill be no good for us, after all my white
bread and the whisky. That it may pison ’em!”

“Amen! Jillen; but don’t curse them. After all, where’s the
meat? I’m sure that Andy will kill me if we don’t make it out
any how;—and he hasn’t a penny to pay for it. You could
drive the mail coach, Jillen, through his breeches pocket
without jolting over a ha’penny. Coming, coming; d’ye hear
’em?”

“Oh, they’ll murther us. Sure if we had any of the tripe I
sent yesterday to the gauger.”

“Eh! What’s that you say? I declare to God here’s Andy
getting up. We must do something. Thonom an dhiaoul, I
have it. Jillen run and bring me the leather breeches; run
woman, alive! Where’s the block and the hatchet? Go up and tell
’em you’re putting down the pot.”

Jillen pacified the uproar in the kitchen by loud promises,
and returned to Paddy. The use of the leather breeches passed
her comprehension; but Paddy actually took up the leather
breeches, tore away the lining with great care, chopped the
leather with the hatchet on the block, and put it into the pot
as tripes. Considering the situation in which Andy and his
friends were, and the appetite of the Irish peasantry for meat
in any shape—”a bone” being their summum
bonum—the risk was very little. If discovered,
however, Paddy’s safety was much worse than doubtful, as no
people in the world have a greater horror of any unusual food.
One of the most deadly modes of revenge they can employ is to
give an enemy dog’s or cat’s flesh; and there have been
instances where the persons who have eaten it, on being
informed of the fact, have gone mad. But Paddy’s habit of
practical jokes, from which nothing could wean him, and his
anger at their conduct, along with the fear he was in did not
allow him to hesitate a moment. Jillen remonstrated in vain.
“Hould your tongue, you foolish woman. They’re all as blind as
the pig there. They’ll never find it out. Bad luck to ’em too,
my leather breeches! that I gave a pound note and a hog for in
Cork. See how nothing else would satisfy ’em!” The meat at
length was ready. Paddy drowned it in butter, threw out the
potatoes on the table, and served it up smoking hot with the
greatest gravity.

“By ——,” says Jack Shea, “that’s fine stuff! How
a man would dig a trench after that.”

“I’ll take a priest’s oath,” answered Tim Cohill, the most
irritable of men, but whose
[pg 109] temper was something
softened by the rich steam;—

“Yet, Tim, what’s a priest’s oath? I never heard that.”

“Why, sure, every one knows you didn’t ever hear of anything
of good.”

“I say you lie, Tim, you rascal.”

Tim was on his legs in a few moments, and a general battle
was about to begin; but the appetite was too strong, and the
quarrel was settled; Tim having been appeased by being allowed
to explain a priest’s oath. According to him, a priest’s oath
was this:—He was surrounded by books, which were
gradually piled up until they reached his lips. He then kissed
the uppermost, and swore by all to the bottom. As soon as the
admiration excited by his explanation, in those who were
capable of hearing Tim, had ceased, all fell to work; and
certainly, if the tripes had been of ordinary texture, drunk as
was the party, they would soon have disappeared. After gnawing
at them for some time, “Well,” says Owen Connor, “that I
mightn’t!—but these are the quarest tripes I ever eat. It
must be she was very ould.”

“By ——,” says Andy, taking a piece from his
mouth to which he had been paying his addresses for the last
half hour, “I’d as soon be eating leather. She was a bull, man;
I can’t find the soft end at all of it.”

“And that’s true for you, Andy,” said the man of the gun;
“and ’tis the greatest shame they hadn’t a bull-bait to make
him tinder. Paddy, was it from Jack Clifford’s bull you got
’em? They’d do for wadding, they’re so tough.”

“I’ll tell you, Tim, where I got them—’twas out of
Lord Shannon’s great cow at Cork, the great fat cow that the
Lord Mayor bought for the Lord Lieutenant—Asda churp
naur hagushch.”¹⁴

“Amen, I pray God! Paddy. Out of Lord Shandon’s cow? near
the steeple, I suppose; the great cow that couldn’t walk with
tallow. By ——, these are fine tripes. They’ll make
a man very strong. Andy, give me two or three libbhers
more of ’em.”

“Well, see that! out of Lord Shandon’s cow: I wonder what
they gave her, Paddy. That I mightn’t!—but these would
eat a pit of potatoes. Any how, they’re good for the teeth.
Paddy, what’s the reason they send all the good mate from Cork
to the Blacks?”

But before Paddy could answer this question, Andy, who had
been endeavouring to help Tim, uttered a loud “Thonom an
dhiaoul! what’s this? Isn’t this flannel?” The fact was, he
had found a piece of the lining, which Paddy, in his hurry, had
not removed; and all was confusion. Every eye was turned to
Paddy; but with wonderful quickness he said “‘Tis the book
tripe, agragal, don’t you see?”—and actually
persuaded them to it.

“Well, any how,” says Tim, “it had the taste of wool.”

“May this choke me,” says Jack Shea, “if I didn’t think that
’twas a piece of a leather breeches when I saw Andy
chawing it.”

This was a shot between wind and water to Paddy. His
self-possession was nearly altogether lost, and he could do no
more than turn it off by a faint laugh. But it jarred most
unpleasantly on Andy’s nerves. After looking at Paddy for some
time with a very ominous look, he said, “Yirroo Pandhrig
of the tricks, if I thought you were going on with any work
here, my soul and my guts to the devil if I would not cut you
into garters. By the vestment I’d make a furhurmeen of
you.”

“Is it I, Andy? That the hands may fall off me!”

But Tim Cohill made a most seasonable diversion. “Andy, when
you die, you’ll be the death of one fool, any how. What do you
know that wasn’t ever in Cork itself about tripes. I never ate
such mate in my life; and ‘twould be good for every poor man in
the County of Kerry if he had a tub of it.”

Tim’s tone of authority, and the character he had got for
learning, silenced every doubt, and all laid siege to the
tripes again. But after some time, Andy was observed gazing
with the most astonished curiosity into the plate before him.
His eyes were rivetted on something; at last he touched it with
his knife, arid exclaimed, “Kirhappa, dar
dhia!“—[A button by G—.]

“What’s that you say?” burst from all! and every one rose in
the best manner he could, to learn the meaning of the
button.

“Oh, the villain of the world!” roared Andy, “I’m pisoned!
Where’s the pike? For God’s sake Jack, run for the priest, or
I’m a dead man with the breeches. Where is he?—yeer
bloods won’t ye catch him, and I pisoned?”

The fact was, Andy had met one of the knee-buttons sewed
into a piece of the tripe, and it was impossible for him to
fail discovering the cheat. The rage, however, was not confined
to Andy. As soon as it was understood what had been done, there
was an universal rush for Paddy and Jillen; but Paddy was much
too cunning to be caught, after the narrow escape he had of it
before. The moment after the discovery of the lining, that he
could do so without suspicion, he stole from the table, left
the house, and hid himself. Jillen did the same; and nothing
remained for the eaters, to vent their rage, but breaking every
thing in the cabin; which was done in the utmost fury. Andy,
however, continued watching for Paddy with a gun, a whole month
after. He might be [pg 110] seen prowling along the
ditches near the shebeen-house, waiting for a shot at him.
Not that he would have scrupled to enter it, were he likely
to find Paddy there; but the latter was completely on the
shuchraun, and never visited his cabin except by
stealth. It was in one of those visits that Andy hoped to
catch him.

—Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine.

CONVERSATIONS WITH LORD BYRON.

By the Countess of Blessington.

One of our first rides with Lord Byron was to Nervi, a
village on the sea-coast, most romantically situated, and each
turn of the road presenting various and beautiful prospects.
They were all familiar to him, and he failed not to point them
out, but in very sober terms, never allowing any thing like
enthusiasm in his expressions, though many of the views might
have excited it.

His appearance on horseback was not advantageous, and he
seemed aware of it, for he made many excuses for his dress and
equestrian appointments. His horse was literally covered with
various trappings, in the way of cavesons, martingales, and
Heaven knows how many other (to me) unknown inventions. The
saddle was à la Hussarde with holsters, in which
he always carried pistols. His dress consisted of a nankeen
jacket and trousers, which appeared to have shrunk from
washing; the jacket embroidered in the same colour, and with
three rows of buttons; the waist very short, the back very
narrow, and the sleeves set in as they used to be ten or
fifteen years before; a black stock, very narrow; a dark-blue
velvet cap with a shade, and a very rich gold band and large
gold tassel at the crown; nankeen gaiters, and a pair of blue
spectacles, completed his costume, which was any thing but
becoming. This was his general dress of a morning for riding,
but I have seen it changed for a green tartan plaid jacket. He
did not ride well, which surprised us, as, from the frequent
allusions to horsemanship in his works, we expected to find him
almost a Nimrod, It was evident that he had pretensions
on this point, though he certainly was what I should call a
timid rider. When his horse made a false step, which was not
unfrequent, he seemed discomposed; and when we came to any bad
part of the road, he immediately checked his course and walked
his horse very slowly, though there really was nothing to make
even a lady nervous. Finding that I could perfectly manage (or
what he called bully) a very highly-dressed horse that I
daily rode, he became extremely anxious to buy it; asked me a
thousand questions as to how I had acquired such a perfect
command of it, &c. &c. and entreated, as the greatest
favour, that I would resign it to him as a charger to take to
Greece, declaring he never would part with it, &c. As I was
by no means a bold rider, we were rather amused at observing
Lord Byron’s opinion of my courage; and as he seemed so anxious
for the horse, I agreed to let him have it when he was to
embark. From this time he paid particular attention to the
movements of poor Mameluke (the name of the horse), and said he
should now feel confidence in action with so steady a
charger.

April—. Lord Byron dined with us today. During
dinner he was as usual gay, spoke in terms of the warmest
commendation of Sir Walter Scott, not only as an author, but as
a man, and dwelt with apparent delight on his novels, declaring
that he had read and re-read them over and over again, and
always with increased pleasure. He said that he quite equalled,
nay, in his opinion, surpassed Cervantes. In talking of Sir
Walter’s private character, goodness of heart, &c., Lord
Byron became more animated than I had ever seen him; his colour
changed from its general pallid tint to a more lively hue, and
his eyes became humid: never had he appeared to such advantage,
and it might easily be seen that every expression he uttered
proceeded from his heart. Poor Byron!—for poor he is even
with all his genius, rank, and wealth—had he lived more
with men like Scott, whose openness of character and steady
principle had convinced him that they were in earnest in
their goodness, and not making believe, (as he
always suspects good people to be,) his life might be different
and happier! Byron is so acute an observer that nothing escapes
him; all the shades of selfishness and vanity are exposed to
his searching glance, and the misfortune is, (and a serious one
it is to him,) that when he finds these, and alas! they are to
be found on every side, they disgust and prevent his giving
credit to the many good qualities that often accompany them. He
declares he can sooner pardon crimes, because they proceed from
the passions, than these minor vices, that spring from egotism
and self-conceit. We had a long argument this evening on the
subject, which ended, like most arguments, by leaving both of
the same opinion as when it commenced. I endeavoured to prove
that crimes were not only injurious to the perpetrators, but
often ruinous to the innocent, and productive of misery to
friends and relations, whereas selfishness and vanity carried
with them their own punishment, the first depriving the person
of all sympathy, and the second exposing him to ridicule which
to the vain is a heavy punishment, but that their effects were
not destructive to society as are crimes.

He laughed when I told him that having heard him so often
declaim against vanity, and detect it so often in his friends,
I began to suspect he knew the malady by having had it himself,
and that I had observed through life, that those persons who
had the most [pg 111] vanity were the most severe
against that failing in their friends. He wished to impress
upon me that he was not vain, and gave various proofs to
establish this; but I produced against him his boasts of
swimming, his evident desire of being considered more un
homme de societe than a poet, and other little examples,
when he laughingly pleaded guilty, and promised to be more
merciful towards his friends.

Byron attempted to be gay, but the effort was not
successful, and he wished us good night with a trepidation of
manner that marked his feelings. And this is the man that I
have heard considered unfeeling! How often are our best
qualities turned against us, and made the instruments for
wounding us in the most vulnerable part, until, ashamed of
betraying our susceptibility, we affect an insensibility we are
far from possessing, and, while we deceive others, nourish in
secret the feelings that prey only on our own
hearts!

—New Monthly Magazine.

The Gatherer.

Canary Birds.—In Germany and the Tyrol, from
whence the rest of Europe is principally supplied with Canary
birds, the apparatus for breeding Canaries is both large and
expensive. A capacious building is erected for them, with a
square space at each end, and holes communicating with these
spaces. In these outlets are planted such trees as the birds
prefer. The bottom is strewed with sand, on which are cast
rapeseed, chickweed, and such other food as they like.
Throughout the inner compartment, which is kept dark, are
placed bowers for the birds to build in, care being taken that
the breeding birds are guarded from the intrusion of the rest.
Four Tyrolese usually take over to England about sixteen
hundred of these birds; and though they carry them on their
backs nearly a thousand miles, and pay twenty pounds for them
originally, they can sell them at 5s. each.

Braithwaite’s Steam Fire Engine—will deliver
about 9,000 gallons of water per hour to an elevation of 90
feet. The time of getting the machine into action, from the
moment of igniting the fuel, (the water being cold,) is 18
minutes. As soon as an alarm is given, the fire is kindled, and
the bellows, attached to the engine, are worked by hand. By the
time the horses are harnessed in, the fuel is thoroughly
ignited, and the bellows are then worked by the motion of the
wheels of the engine. By the time of arriving at the fire,
preparing the hoses, &c. the steam is ready.

Fisher, bishop of Rochester, was accustomed to style his
church his wife, declaring that he would never exchange her for
one that was richer. He was a zealous adherent of Pope Paul
III. who created him a cardinal. The king, Henry VIII., on
learning that Fisher would not refuse the dignity, exclaimed,
in a passion, “Yea! is he so lusty? Well, let the pope send him
a hat when he will. Mother of God! he shall wear it on his
shoulders, for I will leave him never a head to set it on.”

Flax is not uncommon in the greenhouses about
Philadelphia, but we have not heard of any experiments with it
in the open air.—Encyclopaedia Americana.

The Schoolmaster wanted in the East.—Mr.
Madden, in his travels in Turkey, Egypt, Nubia, and Palestine,
says:—”In all my travels, I could only meet one woman who
could read and write, and that was in Damietta; she was a
Levantine Christian, and her peculiar talent was looked upon as
something superhuman.”

La Fontaine had but one son, whom, at the age of 14, he
placed in the hands of Harlay, archbishop of Paris, who
promised to provide for him. After a long absence, La Fontaine
met this youth at the house of a friend, and being pleased with
his conversation, was told that it was his own son. “Ah,” said
he, “I am very glad of it.”

Universal Genius.—Rivernois thus describes the
character of Fontenelle: “When Fontenelle appeared on the
field, all the prizes were already distributed, all the palms
already gathered: the prize of universality alone remained,
Fontenelle determined to attempt it, and he was successful. He
is not only a metaphysician with Malebranche, a natural
philosopher with Newton, a legislator with Peter the Great, a
statesman with D’Argenson; he is everything with
everybody.”

Forest Schools.—There are a number of forest
academies in Germany, particularly in the small states of
central Germany, in the Hartz, Thuringia, &c. The principal
branches taught in them are the following:—forest botany,
mineralogy, zoology, chemistry; by which the learner is taught
the natural history of forests, and the mutual relations,
&c. of the different kingdoms of nature. He is also
instructed in the care and chase of game, and in the surveying
and cultivation of forests, so as to understand the mode of
raising all kinds of wood, and supplying a new growth as fast
as the old is taken away. The pupil is too instructed in the
administration of the forest taxes and police, and all that
relates to forests considered as a branch of revenue.

The Weather.—Meteorological journals are now
given in most magazines. The first statement of this kind was
communicated by Dr. Fothergill to the Gentleman’s Magazine, and
consisted of a monthly account of the weather and diseases of
London. The latter [pg 112] information is now
monopolized by the parish-clerks.

Goethe.—The wife of a Silesian peasant, being
obliged to go to Saxony, and hearing that she had travelled (on
foot) more than half the distance to Goethe’s residence, whose
works she had read with the liveliest interest, continued her
journey to Weimar for the sake of seeing him. Goethe declared
that the true character of his works had never been better
understood than by this woman. He gave her his portrait.

Liverpool and Manchester Railway.—The Company
has reported the following result:

Being upwards of 33 per cent. increase of the first six
months of the year, and upwards of 135 per cent. increase on
the travellers between the two towns during the corresponding
months, previously to opening the railway.—Gordon, on
Steam Carriages.

Caliga.—This was the name of the Roman
soldier’s shoe, made in the sandal fashion. The sole was of
wood, and stuck full of nails. Caius Caesar Caligula, the
fourth Roman Emperor, the son of Germanicus and Agrippina,
derived his surname from “Caliga,” as having been born in the
army, and afterwards bred up in the habit of a common soldier;
he wore this military shoe in conformity to those of the common
soldiers, with a view of engaging their affections. The caliga
was the badge, or symbol of a soldier; whence to take away the
caliga and belt, imported a dismissal or cashiering. P.T.W.

The Damary Oak-tree.—At Blandford Forum,
Dorsetshire, stood the famous Damary Oak, which was rooted up
for firing in 1755. It measured 75 feet high, and the branches
extended 72 feet; the trunk at the bottom was 68 feet in
circumference, and 23 feet in diameter. It had a cavity in its
trunk 15 feet wide. Ale was sold in it till after the
Restoration; and when the town was burnt down in 1731, it
served as an abode for one family.—Family
Topographer, vol. ii.

Brent Tor Church, Devonshire, situate upon a
rock.—On Brent Tor is a church, in which is
appositely inscribed from Scripture, “Upon this rock will I
build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail
against it.” It is said that the parishioners make weekly
atonement for their sins, for they cannot go to the church
without the previous penance of climbing the steep; and the
pastor is frequently obliged to humble himself upon his hands
and knees before he can reach the house of prayer. Tradition
says it was erected by a merchant to commemorate his escape
from shipwreck on the coast, in consequence of this Tor serving
as a guide to the pilot. There is not sufficient earth to bury
the dead. At the foot of the Tor resided, in 1809, Sarah
Williams, aged 109 years. She never lived further out of the
parish of Brent Tor, than the adjoining one: she had had twelve
children, and a few years before her death cut five new
teeth.—Ibid.

The Dairyman’s Daughter.—In Arreton churchyard,
Isle of Wight, is a tombstone, erected in 1822, by
subscription, to mark the grave of Elizabeth Wallbridge, the
humble individual whose story of piety and virtue, written by
the Rev. Leigh Richmond, under the title of the “Dairyman’s
Daughter,” has attained an almost unexampled circulation. Her
cottage at Branston, about a mile distant, is much
visited.—Ibid.

Singular distribution of common land in
Somersetshire.—In the parishes of Congresbury and
Puxton were two large pieces of common land, called East and
West Dolemoors (from the Saxon word dol, a portion or share,)
which were occupied till within these few years in the
following manner:—-The land was divided into single
acres, each bearing a peculiar mark, cut in the turf, such as a
horn, an ox, a horse, a cross, an oven, &c. On the Saturday
before Old Midsummer Day, the several proprietors of contiguous
estates, or their tenants, assembled on these commons, with a
number of apples marked with similar figures, which were
distributed by a boy to each of the commoners from a bag. At
the close of the distribution, each person repaired to the
allotment with the figure corresponding to the one upon his
apple, and took possession of it for the ensuing year. Four
acres were reserved to pay the expenses of an entertainment at
the house of the overseer of the Dolemoors, where the evening
was spent in festivity.—Ibid.

Anna Maria, Countess of Shrewsbury.—At Avington
Park, in Hampshire, resided the notorious and infamous
Anna-Maria, Countess of Shrewsbury, who held the horse of the
Duke of Buckingham while he fought and killed her husband.
Charles II frequently made it the scene of his licentious
pleasures; and the old green-house is said to have been the
apartment in which the royal sensualist was
entertained.—Ibid.

Footnote 1:
(return)

It may be as well here to quote the formation of
Cataracts and Cascades, from Maltebrun’s valuable
System of Universal Geography. “It is only the
sloping of the land which can at first cause water to
flow; but an impulse having been once communicated to
the mass, the pressure alone of the water will keep it
in motion, even if there were no declivity at all. Many
great rivers, in fact, flow with an almost interruptible
declivity. Rivers which descend from primitive mountains
into secondary lands, often form cascades and
cataracts. Such are the cataracts of the Nile, of
the Ganges, and some other great rivers, which,
according to Desmarest, evidently mark the limits of the
ancient land. Cataracts are also formed by lakes: of
this description are the celebrated Falls of the
Niagara; but the most picturesque falls are those of
rapid rivers, bordered by trees and precipitous rocks.
Sometimes we see a body of water, which, before it
arrives at the bottom, is broken and dissipated into
showers, like the Staubbach, (see Mirror, vol.
xiv. p. 385.); sometimes it forms a watery arch,
projected from a rampart of rock, under which the
traveller may pass dryshod, as the “falling spring” of
Virginia; in one place, in a granite district, we see
the Trolhetta, and the Rhine not far from its source,
urge on their foaming billows among the pointed rocks;
in another, amidst lands of a calcareous formation, we
see the Czettina and the Kerka, rolling down from
terrace to terrace, and presenting sometimes a sheet,
and sometimes a wall, of water. Some magnificent
cascades have been formed, at least in part, by the
hands of man: the cascades of Velino, near Terni, have
been attributed to Pope Clement VIII.; other cataracts,
like those of Tunguska, in Siberia, have gradually lost
their elevation by the wearing away of the rocks, and
have now only a rapid descent.”—Maltebrun,
vol. i.

Footnote 2:
(return)

May we not, however, say the friendless Sheridan?

Footnote 3:
(return)

Communicated by M.L.B., Great Marlow, Bucks.

Footnote 4:
(return)

Vide Mirror, vol. xviii. p.
343.—Note.

Footnote 5:
(return)

A Collection of Poems of the Sixteenth
Century.—Communicated by J.F., of Gray’s Inn. We
thank our Correspondent for the present, and shall be
happy to receive further specimens from the same
source.

Footnote 6:
(return)

Philadelphia, Carey and Lea, 1832.

Footnote 7:
(return)

Cuvier.

Footnote 8:
(return)

Nat. Hist. Molluscous Animals, Mag. Nat. Hist. vol. iii.
p. 527.

Footnote 9:
(return)

Manual Comp. Anat. p. 263.

Footnote 10:
(return)

In all other worms the eyes are entirely wanting, or
their existence is very doubtful. Whether the black
points at the extremities of what Swammerdam calls the
horns of the common snail, are organs which really
possess the power of vision, is still problematical.

Footnote 11:
(return)

Blumenbach, Man. Comp. Anat. p. 305.

Footnote 12:
(return)

According to Cuvier, the Indian ink, from China, is made
of this fluid, as was the ink of the Romans. It has been
supposed, and not without a considerable degree of
probability, that the celebrated plain, but wholesome
dish, the black broth of Sparta, was no other than a
kind of Cuttle-fish soup, in which the black liquor of
the animal was always added as an ingredient; being,
when fresh, of very agreeable taste.—Shaw’s
Zoology.

Footnote 13:
(return)

Mr. Hatchett, in Philos. Trans.

Footnote 14:
(return)

May it never come out of his body!

Erratum—In the lines, by J. Kinder, on a
Withered Primrose, in our last, verse ii. line 2—for
“gust of the storm” read “jest of the storm.”

Printed and published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near
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Paris; and by all Newsmen and Booksellers.