TRANSCRIBERS’ NOTE

The cover image for this e-book was created by Distributed Proofreaders
and is being placed in the Public Domain

[Pg 9]

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

ENTRANCE TO THE GREAT CAVE OF KISH-CORRAN, AS SEEN FROM THE INTERIOR.

THE CAVES OF KISH-CORRAN.

Among the many wonders of Ireland, as yet undescribed and
little known, even to Irishmen, beyond their immediate localities,
the subject of our prefixed illustration has every claim
to find a place, and to attract our attention as a subject
equally interesting to the geologist, artist, and historian.
That it should have hitherto remained unnoticed, as we think
it has, while objects of the same description in other localities
less remarkable and interesting have been repeatedly described,
may be attributed chiefly to the circumstance of its
situation being remote from any leading road, and in a wild
and rarely visited district of country, namely, the barony of
Corran, in the county of Sligo. Of this barony, the mountain
called Ceis or Kish-Corran, is the most striking geographical
feature. It is composed of tabular limestone; has a
flat outline at top, but is precipitous on its sides, and rises to
an altitude of upwards of a thousand feet. To the traveller
journeying from Boyle to Sligo it must be a familiar and
pleasing object, as, after passing the little town of Ballinafad,
it offers, for some miles of the road towards the west
and south-west, the charms of a mountain boundary in contrast
to the rich woods of Hollybrook, and the delightful
vistas of the water of Lough Arrow, or Arva, which skirt
the road along the east. But the most precipitous and noble
point of Kish-Corran is presented to the west, and is not
seen by the traveller on this road, which must for a time be
abandoned to enable him to see it, as well as the wonderful
caves which open on its face, and to which we have now to
call the attention of our readers. On this western side, the
mountain, to within a hundred feet or two of its summit, presents
a green but boldly sloping grassy face, formed of the
debris of the rocks above, which rise perpendicularly, and look
more like a wall—lichen-stained and ivy-decked—formed by
the Cyclops or giants of old, than creations of nature’s hand.
And such impression is increased in no small degree by the
lofty and magnificent caves, which present themselves like
doorways, and lead into the inmost recesses of the mountain.
It is of one of these entrances, and the most remarkable for
grandeur, that our illustration attempts to give an idea. Its
height is no less than twenty feet. How far the caves extend,
we are unable to speak with certainty; they are undoubtedly
of great extent, and, if the local accounts are to be trusted,
reach even to the opposite or eastern side of the mountain,
and contain lakes of unfathomable depth, and spars of unimaginable
beauty.

A spot so striking to the imagination could not be, in Ireland,
without its legends of a romantic and singular character;
and some of these are of a most remote antiquity, and connected
with the earliest legendary history of our country. In
the ancient topographical tract called the Dinnseanchus, which
gives the origin, according to the poets, of the names of the
most remarkable mountains, lakes, rivers, caves, forts, &c. in
Ireland, we are told that Corran received its name from the
harper of Diancecht, to whom that magical race, called the
Tuátha de Danann, gave the territory as a reward for his
musical skill; and popular tradition still points to the cave of
Kish-Corran as his residence, according to the ancient form
quoted in the Dinnseanchus:—

“Here used to dwell the gentle Corann, whose hand was
[Pg 10]skilled in playing on the harp; Corann was the only ollave of
Drancich (with whom he lived), in free and peaceable security.

To Corann of the soft music, the Tuátha De gave with great
honour a free territory for his skilful playing, his knowledge,
and his astrology. Here was he, this generous man, not without
literature or in a churlish fortress, but in a place where
the stranger was at liberty to a free sojournment with him,
this liberal prosperous man.”

The same authority accounts for the prefix Ceis, or, as it is
pronounced, Kish, which is applied to the mountain by a very
singular legend, according to which it would appear that it
was originally the name of a lady, who with five others were,
by a charm compounded with the nut-fruit, metamorphosed
into pigs, the unhappy Ceis herself being here subsequently
slain. However this may be, there is nothing improbable in
the supposition that the caves of Kish-Corran were in former
times the favourite dens of the wild boar, the wolf, and many
other animals now extinct; they furnish a secure retreat to
the fox and many other wild animals at the present day.

P.

ON BENEVOLENCE OF CHARACTER.

BY MARTIN DOYLE.

If it be afflictive, on one side, to reflect upon the deeds of
cruelty and oppression which prevail upon earth, through the
instrumentality of man, it is delightful, on the other, to perceive
that human reason, instead of being abused and perverted
into a source of tyrannical oppression, is occasionally
exercised, as it ought to be, in promoting happiness and social
harmony, even among brutes; in producing that degree
of peaceful concord, which it has been proved may exist
among animals whose natural antipathies are the most violent
imaginable—that feeling which disarms the strong among
them of all desire to tyrannise over and destroy the weak,
and is brought into exercise by a steady and persevering system
of early training (and consequent acquirement of abiding
habits), directly opposed to that which prompts us to place a
whip in the hand of a child.

I have been led into this train of contemplation, from
having recently witnessed a practical illustration of the wonderful
effects producible by what may fairly be termed a
benevolent system, for there is no degree whatever of harsh
discipline connected with it—no starvation, no blows, nothing
of that “reign of terror,” under the influence of which Van
Amburgh has doubtless effected his dominion over the most
ferocious of beasts; the exhibition of which power, while it
surprises, does not please us; for, though, by an effort of the
imagination, the mind may be led for a moment to the anticipation
of the scene in which “the wolf shall dwell with the
lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid,” it quickly
considers this surprising display of human power with painful
sensations, from the conviction that extreme severity of discipline
alone has enabled man in this instance to attain his
despotic sovereignty, and that the unnatural results which he
beholds are an evidence that the legitimate dominion granted
to man “over every thing that moveth upon the earth,” has
in this case, as in ten thousand others, been overstrained and
abused.

While animals of prey are in a state of nature, they either
avoid each other, or meet in deadly contest, according to the
degree of their antipathies; and until He who has impressed
their dispositions upon them shall bid them lie down together
in peace, no efforts of puny man can avail in changing their
habits, except under such rare circumstances as confirm the
general law of instinct which leads them to destroy each
other. But the dislike which many of the domesticated animals
entertain for each other, is greatly increased by the encouragement
which they receive from man. The dog, which
under other treatment would be familiar with the cat or the
hog, is taught from his puppyhood to pursue and worry each
of them; the cat instinctively defends herself with those claws
which are her natural weapons, and she scratches her opponent’s
face, and through their after life they are never thoroughly
reconciled to each other, but live proverbially as
“cat and dog.” The hog cannot defend himself from the
teeth of the dog; his ears are torn by them; he cannot retaliate,
but he lives ever afterwards in dread of the whole canine
race. Dogs, which otherwise would live in harmony
together, are taught to fight; their natural jealousy is encouraged,
and they are rendered bullies by profession.

That the dread of man is in a certain degree naturally upon
every beast of the field and bird of the air, cannot be disputed;
but this feeling is increased considerably by the experience
which many brutes have of man’s caprice or tyranny,
and this dread is transmissible (as may be justly inferred from
cases which are perfectly analogous, such as the acquired habit
of pointing at game) to their posterity.

A benevolent man, living, as we read of Robinson Crusoe,
among his goats, ceases to be an object of apprehension to
the animals around him; even birds, habituated to his kindness
and protection, would become divested of the dread of
man; and each successive generation of those familiarized
birds would probably become more and more disposed to associate
with him, if he were systematically kind and encouraging
in his manner. Such experiments with the brute kind, it
is true, can be but extremely partial, and are unattended
with any very practically useful results in themselves; but,
as respects the education of children, they are of extreme
utility in exciting tender and benevolent feelings, and awakening
the intellectual faculties from subjects merely sensual or
idly amusing; they teach us “to look from Nature up to
Nature’s God.”

There never was a better founded observation than that of
the late Mr Cobbett, that no one should be entrusted with
the care of the nobler animals who had not been habituated
to treat the lesser ones with kindness.

I love to see a child feeding his rabbits or pigeons, and familiarly
playing with them, consulting their tastes, and contributing
to their comforts by every means within his power.
Surely such a pursuit should not be rudely discouraged;
how much more humanizing than the desire to possess “whips
for a penny,” to which I have recently adverted! It tends
to render a child compassionate in his disposition to all God’s
creatures, and unwilling to hurt, for the sake of inflicting
pain, or from thoughtless mischief.

And I am just enough of phrenologist to be of opinion
that, if there be any remarkable developement of the organ
of destructiveness, this may be sufficiently counteracted by
the exercise of feelings which have connection with the faculty
of benevolence, and so modified, by avoiding all pursuits of a
cruel nature, as to constitute, with God’s blessing, a benevolent
character, which, by the indulgence of the inherent inclination
to cruel sports, would become of the opposite nature;
for there is unquestionably an adaptation of the mind, as well
as the body, to the circumstances under which individuals are
placed. It is with the faculties of the human mind as with
the habits of brutes; when exercised, they acquire strength,
and gradually become more developed and confirmed; ay, and
become hereditary too in proportion to their original or gradually
progressing degree of developement. How important,
then, that the higher faculties, on which depends the elevation
of the moral character, should be strengthened by use and
exercise! But I have digressed far from the illustration which
I was about to give at the beginning, of a practically benevolent
system of brute education.

There stands on every fine day, near one of the great
London bridges, a mild, cheerful looking man, who exhibits
to the passers by an assemblage of animals of the most decided
antipathies by nature, who live together in the same
large cage in perfect harmony. The notion of collecting into
one family such apparently discordant members, originated, I
believe, with a gentleman who has long made the brute animal
economy the subject of his investigations, and who suggested
to John Austin the harmlessness, at least, of earning the
means of his support by the novel and interesting exhibition
of a cat, rats, mice, Guinea pigs, hawks, pigeons, owls, and
starlings, and, I believe, another bird, under the same limited
roof, and with perfect freedom of access from one to another.
One of the pigeons is now hatching, without any cause of
alarm from the hawk for the safety of her anticipated offspring;
for that bird is so far from being of a destructive
temper, that he frequently feeds a young starling with meat
from his own bill, and apparently of his own impulse; nor
do any of the birds manifest apprehension from the cat, which
has been almost born in their company, and although frequently
permitted to go outside the cage and take the air
without restraint, returns soon again, without having had her
disposition corrupted by intercourse with bad company, takes
up her favourite position in a corner, where the rats most affectionately
run up to her for warmth and concealment from the
public gaze, behind her furry and comfortable back. The
pigeons are also allowed their liberty occasionally, but they
soon return to their quarters, which habit has rendered pleasant
to them.

Now, I by no means recommend to parents, for their chil[Pg 11]dren,
the establishment of a domestic menagerie, for the care
of this would be extremely troublesome, and occupy time
which should be spent to far better purpose; nor do I recommend
the keeping of useless pets of any kind, my object being
merely to point out, by actual exemplification, what the
benevolent principle, systematically exercised, can produce even
under the most adverse circumstances. On what are called
pets, such as lapdogs and parrots, much warm, kind feeling
is often unprofitably bestowed. When Ponto dies of plethora,
or Poll from cold or infirmity, sensibilities are sometimes
called forth, which would not flow from the contemplation of
human sufferings. The servant who is daily employed to wash
and comb the dog, is perhaps never sent upon an errand of
mercy to any of the distressed families around the mistress,
and a wayworn group of children may unavailingly solicit the
luxurious food which is placed before the pampered pet, without
shame or scruple.

I do not intend to maintain the pet system in general; it is
the principle of humanity which I seek, not that mawkish
sensibility which causes so many to weep at the dramatic exhibition
of fictitious woe, who would not drop one tear of sympathy
for real misery, divested, as in the scenes of every-day
life, of the embellishments and romantic adjuncts which false
sentiment delights in. We all, it is true, require some especial
objects of endearment, something on which the feelings of the
heart may find expansion, else we become cold, selfish, and
very disagreeable to every one. In childhood, therefore, the
disposition to love even the domestic animals born for our use,
should be sedulously fostered, but not to such excess as to
weaken the affection for parents, brothers, sisters, or friends.
The principle should only be checked, however, in its exuberance,
never crushed. In mature years the affections should
have the highest objects, and in those instances in which the
Creator has denied the gift of offspring to us, I would respectfully
suggest to those who desire pets, the adoption of an orphan
or two, whom they may train both for earth and heaven,
in preference to any other perishable idols.

LAGHT-E-OURIA.

“The longest way round is often the shortest way home.”—Old Proverb.

I was not more than eight or nine years old when the following
anecdote was related to me by the actor or sufferer,
whichever he might be called, himself. He was a fine stately
old gentleman. His family had once been powerful; but in
the troubles with which the page of Ireland’s history is filled
and darkened, they had been reduced, and he, fleeced by a
treacherous guardian of the last remnant of the property,
had been compelled to accept the influence of friends in procuring
him a commission in the civil service (for in war he
would not serve them) of a government which he loathed.

He was of a stern and rather gloomy disposition, and
rarely condescended to social or pleasant conversation, much
less to notice children; but sometimes the genial fire within
would thaw the icy surface, and diffuse life and light around.
The bow could not be kept ever bent: the garrison was
too feeble to keep constant watch and ward, and a view
would be sometimes gained, through an open door, of a heart
fitted by nature to give and receive all sublunary happiness.
I heard his history long after his career had closed.
But it has nothing to do with the present story—another time
for it.

I had been playing marbles with my cousin and playfellows;
we quarrelled, and were proceeding to blows, when Mr M——,
who was sitting, unobserved by us, on a stone bench, and had
witnessed our dispute, called to us both to approach him.
He took one on each knee, and looking alternately at us,
said, in a tone so mild and different from his usual harsh
commanding voice, that we could scarcely think it was the
same man who spoke, “Boys, beware of sudden ungovernable
passion; under its influence you might commit, in one moment,
an act which would embitter, with remorse and vain regret,
all your subsequent life.

“When a young man, I once suffered so keenly the consequence
of my ungovernable temper, that were I to live a thousand
years, I could not forget it. I see that your curiosity is excited,
and you would like to hear the circumstance; but it
is connected with a ghost story, and I must tell you all.” “Oh!
do, Mr M——,” said I, “for papa says there are no such things
as ghosts or fairies, and nurse says there are; and nurse
never tells lies, and certainly papa would not, and I do not know
what to think between them.” “Well,” said he, “I shall tell
you the story, and it will help you to form your judgment.

From the high road between Cork and Cloyne, and about
three miles from the latter, a small by-road, or ‘borheen,’
branches off. It is of very ancient date, belonging to times
when men were guided by the position of the sun during the
day, and the stars at night, and when, consequently, their
track lay over mountain and hollow, through wood and bog,
as the avoidance of impediments (except to a very short
distance) would have thrown them quite out of their reckoning,
and toil was much less regarded then than in these degenerate
days. The road by Laght-e-Ouria is decidedly a
shorter way to Cloyne than the high road from which it diverges;
but a saying has arisen since it was made, ‘the
longest way round is the shortest way home,’ that has been
so often used as a conclusion to a debate upon ‘which of the
roads should be taken,’ that the wisdom of our ancestors is
voted folly, and their ways are no longer trodden.

Other reasons than the unevenness of its surface are however
not wanting, and many a headstrong drunken farmer,
upon whom all other argument had been tried in vain, has
been induced to turn his horse’s head to the new road, by the
soft voice of the ‘Vanitha’ whispering in his ear that ‘it
would be midnight ere they passed Laght-e-Ouria.’

Laght, in Irish, signifies a heap of stones, and it is customary
in Ireland, wherever a murder has been committed,
for every passer-by to throw a stone upon the spot. A heap,
or ‘laght,’ is thus soon formed, and it receives the cognomen
of the unfortunate individual whose untimely end it commemorates.

In the beginning of the month of October 1775, when residing
in Cork, I received a note from the Earl of Inchiquin,
desiring me to meet him at Cloyne between five and six
o’clock on the following morning, on most pressing and important
business. I immediately ordered my horse, determining
to dine with a particular friend who resided about
half way, to jog quietly on in the evening, and have, what I
always relished, a night’s repose on the spot where my morning’s
business awaited me.

Mr Ahern was one of a class well known in the south as
‘gentlemen farmers,’ being mostly reduced gentlemen who
farmed a portion of the grounds that once belonged to their
ancestors, in many instances to themselves.

Hospitality, the virtue they most prided themselves upon,
they carried to a fault; and my friend Ahern, in common with
the rest, made it a rule, without an exception, that a bottle
either of wine or whisky once opened, should be finished on
the spot. Upon this occasion, however, I felt it necessary to
demur. The last bottle of whisky having been opened without
my consent, and feeling that, although I was still capable
of proceeding on my journey, the half of what remained would
put it completely out of the question, I positively refused to
take another drop except the ‘Dhuch-an-dhurrish,’ or parting
glass, and resisting all his importunities to stay the night,
not relishing a ride of a dark morning, I took my departure
about an hour before midnight.

I never was a believer in ghosts or fairies, or any class
of idle, mischievous, disembodied creatures; but upon this occasion,
whether from melancholy or loneliness, or the darkness,
which was so intense as to force me to proceed very slowly,
or from my friend’s stirrup-cup having slightly obnubilated
my reasoning faculties without producing the usual valour,
I know not. Certain it is, I did not feel comfortable, and
wished most fervently for just as much light as would enable
me to urge my horse forward at a quicker pace, but the more
I wished for light the darker it became, until my eyes ached
in endeavouring to penetrate the gloom.

A row of tall trees ran along at each side of the road, and
nearly met at top, and the fitful breeze just agitating the
leaves, or occasionally moving the branches so as to cause a
low, moaning, creaking noise, jarred my nerves, and made me
feel still more and more unpleasant. At length, when I had
arrived at an intolerable pitch of nervous excitement, the
darkness became less intense, and I could just distinguish a
breach in the row of trees upon the right, which marked the
locality of the ‘laght.’ Taking advantage of the opportunity,
I pressed my horse. He seemed to have become as nervous
as myself, for he answered to the slight touch of the spur
with a loud snort and a violent spring, which I considered so
totally uncalled for, as to give me a very fair excuse for being
in a passion, and venting my irritability, which I proceeded
to do with my whip, as giving my muscles more action than[Pg 12]
the spur; but instead of plunging along at a mad gallop, as
I expected, my horse reared, and turning sharply round, attempted
a flight back. Again and again I turned his head
to the road, but onward he would not go; this was very
strange, for he never shied or started. At length I tried
the soothing system; for I must confess that the general
belief that horses see what is hidden from the eyes of man,
occurred to me, and I coaxed and patted him, and spoke gently
and encouragingly to him, but he kept sidling, and tramping,
attempting to turn, and answering every word or pat with
a long snore, whilst I could perceive by his forward pricked
ears and the direction of his head, that his eyes were rivetted
upon the heap of stones. Whilst thus engaged, and having
somewhat quieted his terror, I heard a sound like the rattling
of chains. Round and away with Rainbow. I brought him
up again nearer than before. Again the chains clanked, and I
could distinctly hear that they were chains, ere my horse
bolted and ran again. ‘The third time,’ said I, ‘contains a
charm, they say; and, man or devil, ghost or fairy, I’ll overhaul
you. Who’s there?’ No answer. ‘Who’s there?’ Clank,
clank, went the chains. I could see nothing. The perspiration
was running down my face, but I was furious. ‘By the hand
of my grandfather, if you do not answer me, I’ll go to you,
and whilst sinew and whalebone last, you shall feel the butt
of a loaded whip. Who are you?’ Again the chains clanked,
and my horse would not consent to keep such company any
longer. I dismounted, and, taking him a few paces back, tied
him to a tree, and returned on foot to the spot.

Behind the trees was a deep trench partly filled with
water; a hawthorn hedge grew at the farther side, and threw
its branches nearly across. As I approached the ‘laght,’ the
rattling of the chains again rose, accompanied by a plashing,
scrambling noise, as of something breaking through the hedge
and trench. I sprang forward, striking with the heavy handle
of my whip, having twisted the thong firmly round my
hand and wrist, I had only beaten air, but the violence of
the blow and weight of the whip carried me forward; and,
missing my footing in the darkness, I fell against, or rather
upon, the monster of the chains; and having made a furious
grasp to save myself, judge what was my horror at catching
a handful of hair, such as might be expected to be felt upon
an arctic bear! The creature slipped from me, and with a
tremendous plunge and frightful rattling of its chains, gained
the road, overwhelming me completely in the muddy ditch.

Just at that instant the whole truth flashed across my
mind; and with a vengeful rage that I am ashamed to confess,
I sprang up, and pursuing my unfortunate victim, a jackass,
who could make but little exertion to escape, being spancelled
with a piece of an iron chain, I kept my oath, by belabouring
poor Neddy until I could strike no more from exhaustion. I
then turned to remount my horse; but he was gone, having
left the principal portion of his bridle hanging on the bough
for a keepsake. Nothing saved Neddy from a second edition,
with considerable additions, but the recollection of the hour,
the necessity of catching my horse, and the confounded distance
I should have to travel afterwards, for he was, of course,
gone the wrong way.

I ran as fast as I could, but was soon obliged to pull up.
I found that I was carrying weight, and no light weight, for
my clothes were saturated with water, and covered thickly
with mud. Having scraped off as much as I could of the
latter, I got along, and about two o’clock reached my friend’s
house again, entertaining a faint hope that Rainbow had returned
to the last stall he had occupied; and so he had.

Not finding the gate open, he had jumped the road fence,
and was quietly grazing with two or three other horses.
There was now light enough to distinguish objects at a hundred
yards; and I could see his saddle, but how to catch him
was now the question, for he had at all times a propensity to
keep his liberty when he had got it; and to think of catching
him without help was idle. I approached the house, but just
then recollected that my friend had a couple of dangerous
mastiff dogs, of extraordinary size and ferocity; and as the
entrance to the front of the house lay through the farm-yard,
in which they were kept, it would be as much as my life was
worth to approach it. My only chance was to get at the
rere; and having made the circuit of a few fields, I reached
it, and, selecting a window likely to belong to some sleeping
apartment on the ground floor, I tapped at it with the butt
of my whip. Receiving no answer, I repeated the knock, and
placing my head close, heard a female voice exclaim, ‘Marcy
save us, it’s the boys;’ and the speaker hurried barefooted
from the room. I knew that the only female inmate of the
house was the daughter of an old follower of the family, now
called ‘the servant man;’ for Pat or Paddy fulfilled the manifold
duties of butler, footman, gardener, and valet, besides
taking a hand at every thing about the farm in turn.

Whilst considering whether or not I should knock again,
I had the satisfaction to see, by the still increasing light,
that the shutter of an upper window was cautiously opened;
then the window was gently raised; and I waited for the
appearance of a head to announce myself, when a bright flash
issued forth, accompanied by a tremendous report. Away
went my hat; and at the same instant the dogs opened, not
barking, but with yells upon yells, as if Pandemonium was
let loose. ‘Ahern! Ahern!’ I roared out, ‘what are you at?
’Tis I—don’t you know me?—M—— My horse has run away;
he’s in your field, and I want help to catch him.’ I bellowed
this at the top of my voice, in the vain endeavour to drown
the ‘bow-wow-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo’ of the dogs. The answer I
received was, ‘You to (hiccup) blazes (hiccup); here’s at you
again, you villains.’ I threw myself down as my quondam
kind host discharged a second blunderbuss at me; but was
instantly on my legs again, as the roaring of the dogs announced
their rapid approach. They had in some manner
got out of the yard. I glanced hurriedly round for some
place of shelter. A large arbutus tree was the nearest object,
and into it I scrambled, just as the dogs appeared in full
career upon the field.

They made repeated springs at me, for I was not above
eight feet from the ground, but I contrived, by well-aimed
kicks in the jaws, to keep them at bay for a while. I was
thus pleasantly engaged for about five minutes, when Ahern
and four or five men made their appearance. He carried a
blunderbuss in his hand, another tucked under his arm, and a
brace of holster pistols stuck in his waistband. His old servant
had the master’s fowling-piece, and the rest, who were
farm servants, had pitchforks.

As soon as I espied them, I roared out, ‘Call off the dogs,
I’m M——, you stupid drunken rascal.’ ‘Ho! ho! he’s—hic—up
in the arbutus.’ ‘Blur-an-agers, tare-an-taffy, sir,
you’ll shoot the dogs!’ said old Paddy, knocking up the
levelled blunderbuss. ‘It’s Mr M——; don’t ye know his
voice? Down, Fin—down, Oscar—down with ye,’ and with
persuasive words, and still more persuasive blows of the fowling-piece,
Pat drew off the dogs, and took them away. I
came down in a state of indescribable rage. Nothing vexes
a man so much as the consciousness of being an object of
mirth or ridicule.

Having paused awhile for words, I poured forth a torrent
of abuse on Ahern. He hiccupped once or twice, looked with
the most stupid astonishment at me, and, when I paused for
breath, ‘damned me but it would have been due to me to be
shot; firstly, for leaving a Christian habitation at the dead
hour of the night; secondly, for going at that hour by a
haunted road; and, thirdly, for attempting to get in at
a back window of his house, when I well knew that I had
only to raise the latch, and walk in at the front door.’

‘How the d—— could I get past your infernal dogs?’ said I.

‘Good dogs always know friends from foes,’ he replied;
‘but—hic—it was just one of your tricks—you wanted to
frighten me, and—ha! ha! ha!—you got frightened yourself,
and the devil’s cure to you!—hic.’ I was beginning again,
when he stopped me by saying, ‘that if I thought he had
taken any advantage of me, matters could be made even;’ and
he produced the holster pistols, saying ‘that they were both
double loaded; he had charged them himself, and I might
have my choice.’ In a minute the ground was measured;
the men were ordered not to interfere, but stand aside; and
Ahem himself asked me if I was ready, and immediately said
‘fire!’

Well might he say ‘the pistols were double charged;’
they were trebly charged—loaded to the muzzles. In fact, it
was safer to stand before than behind them. I was stunned
by the report, and remained standing, until roused by one of
the men asking me ‘was I shot?’ adding, that ‘I had killed
the masther.’ In an instant the whole impropriety of my
conduct flashed before me, and I ran to my poor unfortunate
friend, who lay motionless. I knelt down by his side, and
never shall I forget the piercing anguish that at that moment
penetrated my soul. All his virtues—his amiable qualities—his
kind-heartedness—every good action of his life with
which I was acquainted, and they were numerous, appeared
in order before my mental vision; and then conscience,[Pg 13]
shaking the ægis, on which appeared, not the Gorgon’s, but
my poor friend’s blackened countenance, before me, and
asking, ‘Why did you do this?’ froze up my faculties, and
converted my outward seeming into stone; but within, there
was a foretaste of the eternal torments.

Involuntarily I called upon his name; the sound of my own
voice started me, arousing me to a sense of keener anguish;
and I was about to break forth into some violent extravagance,
when my unfortunate friend opened his eyes, and, looking at
me with kindness, said, ‘M——, you did not do it; my pistol
burst and has hurt me—take me into the house—I’m sober
enough now.’

Upon examination it was discovered that a piece of the pistol
barrel had hit him above the forehead, cutting a path through
his scalp; one of his fingers was broken, and his hand and
arm were severely contused, but he seemed to think nothing of
it, but desired one of the men to go for old Biddy Hoolaghan, a
celebrated doctress, and the rest of them to catch Rainbow.
I refused to leave him in his then present condition, of which
I was the unlucky cause, but he would not hear of my stopping.
‘No, no,’ said he, ‘your business cannot be neglected;
and as to fault, we may divide the matter between us, and
bear each his own share. If I did not make the ridiculous
rule, that a bottle of whisky once opened should be finished
at once, I would not have drunk after you left me, but have
gone to bed at once; in which case I’d have known your
voice, and all would have been right. And if you were not
so lazy as to object to a morning ride (which you must take
after all), you’d have staid where you were, and saved all the
mischief. But, at all events, remember for the rest of your
days that ‘the longest way round is often the shortest way
home.’

Rainbow was caught at length. Ahern lent me a bridle, and
at four o’clock I faced the road again, and arrived at Cloyne,
without further adventure, at five, thoroughly soaked with
the rain, which commenced heavily soon after my second departure,
and for which I was thankful, as it partially cleansed
me from the ditch mud, and accounted for my dripping and
soiled state when I made my appearance before the earl,
which I was obliged to do, without changing my dress, at
half past five.”

Naisi.

CHARACTER OF O’DONNELL, PRINCE OF TYRCONNELL
IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

(From the MS. Annals of the Four Masters, translated by
Mr O’Donovan.)

A.D. 1537. In this year died O’Donnell (Hugh, son of
Hugh Roe, who was son of Niall Garve, who was son of
Torlogh of the Wine), Lord of Tyrconnell, Inishowen, Kinel-Moen,[A]
Fermanagh, and Lower Connaught; a man to whom
rents and tributes had been paid by the people of other territories
over which he had acquired dominion and jurisdiction,
such as Moylorg, Machaire-Chonnacht, Clann-Conway, Costello,
Gallen, Tirawly, and Conmaicne-Cuile, to the west, and
Oireacht-ui-Chathain (the patrimony of O’Kane), the Route,
and Clannaboy, to the east; for of all these there was not one
territory that had not given him pledges for the payment of
his tribute of protection. It was this man who had compelled
the four lords who ruled Tyrone in his lifetime, to give him
new charters of Inishowen, Kinel-Moen, and Fermanagh, by
way of confirmations of the ancient charters which his ancestors
had held in proof of their right to govern these countries;
and this he had done, in order that he might peaceably
enjoy jurisdiction over them, and have authority to summon
their forces into the field when he wanted them. Neither in all
this is there anything to be wondered at, for never had victory
been seen with his enemies—never had he retreated one foot
from any army, whether small or numerous; he had been distinguished
as an abolisher of evil customs, and a restrainer of evil
deeds, a destroyer and banisher of rebels and plunderers, and a
rigid enforcer of the Irish laws and ordinances after the strictest
and most upright manner; he was a man in whose reign the seasons
had been favourable, so that both sea and land had been
profusely productive while he continued on the throne;[B] a man
who had established every person in his country in his rightful
hereditary possessions, to the end that no one of them might
bear enmity to another; a man who had not suffered the power
of the English to come into his country, for he had formed a
league of peace and amity with the King of England so soon
as he saw that the Irish would not yield the superiority to any
one chief or lord among themselves, but that friends and blood
relations fiercely contended against one another; and a man
who had carefully protected from harm or violation the Termon-lands
(or sanctuaries) belonging to the friars, churchmen,
poets, and ollaves.

This O’Donnell (Hugh, son of Hugh Roe) died on the 5th
of July, in the year of salvation 1537, being Wednesday, in the
monastery of Donegall, having first taken upon him the habit
of St Francis, having bewailed his crimes and iniquities, and
done penance for his sins and transgressions. He was buried
in the same monastery, with all the honour and solemnity
which were his due; and Magnus O’Donnell was nominated
to succeed him in his place by the successors of St Columbkille
[viz. the Abbots of Kilmacrenan, Raphoe, and Derry],
with the permission and by the advice of the nobles of Tyrconnell,
both lay and ecclesiastical.

THE HARP.

The harp was the favourite musical instrument, not only of
the Irish, but of the Britons and other northern nations, during
the middle ages, as is evident from their laws, and from every
passage in their history in which there is the least allusion
to music. By the laws of Wales, the possession of a harp
was one of the three things that were necessary to constitute
a gentleman, that is, a freeman; and no person could pretend
to that title, unless he had one of those favourite instruments,
and could play upon it.

In the same laws, to prevent slaves from pretending to be
gentlemen, it was expressly forbidden to teach or to permit
them to play upon the harp; and none but the king, the king’s
musicians, and gentlemen, were allowed to have harps in their
possession. A gentleman’s harp was not liable to be seized for
debt, because the want of it would have degraded him from
his rank, and reduced him to a slave.

The harp was in no less estimation and universal use among
the Saxons and Danes; those who played upon this instrument
were declared gentlemen by law; their persons were
esteemed inviolable, and secured from injuries by very severe
penalties; they were readily admitted into the highest company,
and treated with distinguished marks of respect wherever
they appeared.

Anecdote of Jerome Duigenan, a Harper.—Some curious
tales are told of Jerome Duigenan, a Leitrim harper,
born in the year 1710. One is of so extraordinary a character,
that, were it not for the particularity of the details, which
savour strongly of an origin in fact, the editor would hesitate
to give it publicity. He is, however, persuaded that he has it
as it was communicated to O’Neill, between whose time and
that of Duigenan there was scarcely room for the invention of
a story not substantially true. It is as follows:—“There was
a harper,” says O’Neill, “before my time, named Jerome
Duigenan, not blind, an excellent Greek and Latin scholar,
and a charming performer. I have heard numerous anecdotes
of him. The one that pleased me most was this. He lived
with a Colonel Jones, of Drumshambo, who was one of the
representatives in parliament for the county of Leitrim. The
colonel, being in Dublin, at the meeting of parliament, met
with an English nobleman who had brought over a Welsh
harper. When the Welshman had played some tunes before
the colonel, which he did very well, the nobleman asked him,
had he ever heard so sweet a finger? ‘Yes,’ replied Jones,
‘and that by a man who never wears either linen or woollen.’
‘I bet you a hundred guineas,’ says the nobleman, ‘you can’t
produce any one to excel my Welshman.’ The bet was accordingly
made, and Duigenan was written to, to come immediately
to Dublin, and bring his harp and dress of Cauthack
with him; that is, a dress made of beaten rushes, with something
like a caddy or plaid of the same stuff. On Duigenan’s
arrival in Dublin, the colonel acquainted the members
with the nature of his bet, and they requested that it might
be decided in the House of Commons, before business commenced.
The two harpers performed before all the members
accordingly, and it was unanimously decided in favour of[Pg 14]
Duigenan, who wore his full Cauthack dress, and a cap of the
same stuff, shaped like a sugar loaf, with many tassels; he
was a tall, handsome man, and looked very well in it.”—Bunting’s
Ancient Music of Ireland.

THE MOUNTAIN WALK.

BY J. U. U.

APOLOGUES AND FABLES,

IN PROSE AND VERSE, FROM THE GERMAN AND OTHER
LANGUAGES.

(Translated for the Irish Penny Journal.)

No. 1.—THE DISCONTENTED STONES.

A mason was one day at work, building a stout wall to
protect a garden; nigh him lay a piled-up heap of stones,
which he took into his hands in succession, one by one, according
as he wanted them. The stones on their part submitted
with exemplary quietness to be handled and introduced
into their appropriate places; for they were fully
aware that the mason’s object was to erect a wall, and they
knew equally well that that object could not be attained, if
they took it into their thick heads to rebel against the
principle upon which he was proceeding. At last, however,
somewhat to the mason’s amusement, it did so happen, after
he had accomplished a considerable portion of his task, that
one contumacious fellow, upon being laid hold of, began to
talk very big upon the rights of stones, and the tyranny of
coercing stonekind in general, declaring, that for himself,
whether in a wall or out of a wall, he was determined to enjoy
that liberty which was the birthright of every stone upon
the earth, and that he would sooner be trodden into powder
than surrender it.

“I tell you plumply and plainly, Master Mason,” said he,
“that I will not be subjected to restraint. I must have
scope for my energies. I must have room to look about me,
and be able to roll to the left side or to the right, as I think
proper, like a free agent!”

The mason, on hearing this, could not refrain from laughing.
“Truly,” said he, “I have lighted here on an eccentric
specimen of the stony tribe. So, my good friend, you wish to
have room to roll about in—eh?”

“Precisely,” returned the other.

“Did you ever hear of the adage, ‘a rolling stone gathers
no moss?’”

“Yes, and despise it,” answered the Stone; “a moss is a
token of antiquity; and antiquity and absurdity are synonymous
terms in my vocabulary. May heaven defend me from
ever gathering moss!”

“Whew!” whistled the mason, in a manner to indicate
mingled surprise and contempt. “Pray, what do you take
yourself to be?”

“What do I take myself to be! Just a stone—a wall
stone—neither more nor less.”

“And are you content that I should allot you a position in
the wall?”

“Certainly I am.”

“And yet,” said the mason, “you declare you will not be
satisfied to remain under constraint? You must have room
forsooth for your energies! Really your inconsistency is
most ridiculous. Come; I have no time to lose; tell me at
once what you would be at. Will you go into the wall, or
shall I deposit you again on the ground?”

“I have made up my mind to oblige you by going into the
wall,” replied the Stone, with a patronizing air; “but I will[Pg 15]
not be swindled out of my natural rights! Liberty is the first
of these—and I must have liberty, even in a wall.”

“So you shall,” said the man; “your liberty will be that
of obtaining your just position in the wall, and of maintaining
it undisturbedly.”

“Bah! what stupid, sneaking notions you have of liberty,
surely! I tell you again that I must have space to expand
and expatiate in. Do you think that I can stoop to fill the
office of a mere wedge?”

“You tire out my patience, friend,” said the mason: “there
is no use in arguing the matter further. I see I cannot get
you to take up your lodging in the wall: I see I must throw
you on the earth again.”

“Very well; be it so,” returned the Stone: “liberty before
all things! Pitch me to a respectable distance from the other
stones, that I may feel myself unshackled and independent. I
have the same right to be a free-stone that you have to be a
free-mason.”

“There, then,” said the mason, and with the words he cast
the Stone from him into the middle of the highway.

The Stone was now in the full enjoyment of its darling liberty.
Exceedingly did it congratulate itself. For a time also
everything went well with it. The summer was a mild one;
the skies were bright, and the foot of the passenger was continually
transferring it to a new locality, and showing it daily
more and more of the ways of the world. But, alas! the summer
could not last for ever: autumn came, and brought with
it clouds of dust and showers of yellow leaves; and when the
wind-gusts had subsided, there fell on the earth heavy torrents
of rain; and the highway was covered with mire, and the
measure of the isolated stone was forthwith taken for a surtout
of mud; and there it lay, fallen from its high estate, and completely
confounded by the passing eye with the vilest of the
rubbish in its vicinity.

But this was not the worst: in the course of a few weeks,
the rains continuing still to fall, and the mire to accumulate,
the earth gave way under it, and it became, as it were, imbedded
in a hole produced by the force of its own pressure on
the soft soil, till at last no part of it remained above ground except
the upper surface. Unfortunately, too, there was no longer
a possibility of retracing its steps, for the wall was now erected
and the mason was far away. Nothing remained for it but to
sink deeplier and deeplier into the earth, until not a vestige of
it remained visible to the eye. Alas! for our poor Stone! Oh,
Liberty! Oh, Independence! ye are indeed desirable objects
of attainment; but surely they who seek ye at the expense
of the great combining principle of social order, commit a
senseless and irremediable blunder.

In the spring following, the mason was employed in building
another wall. He hoped that his work would be suffered to
proceed without interruption on this occasion at least, but he
was speedily undeceived; for one of the stones, just as in the
previous year, began to grumble, and protest against the
treatment to which it was about to be subjected. The mason,
recollecting the former scene, was on the point of flinging it
away at once; but second thoughts suggested to him the eligibility
of first trying the effect of a little reasoning and remonstrance,
“for, after all,” said he, aloud, “no two stones
are alike, and though I have met with one that was proof
against argument, another may be less intractable in my
hands.”

“There it is!” cried the Stone impatiently; “no two stones
alike!—that’s your foolish mistake, your ignorance. I tell
you that there is no difference between one stone and another:
I am just as good as any stone in the wall, and I insist on my
prerogatives.”

“Hoity-toity!” exclaimed the mason, “but you are a sturdy
beggar! Will you be condescending enough to define your
prerogatives? I will thank you to tell me briefly how you
would have me dispose of you.”

“I want to be a corner-stone, then,” said the rebel, “and a
corner-stone I will be. I stand on my rights: all stones are
equal; so, quick!—let me occupy a position in the corner.”

“That you cannot do, my friend,” returned the mason:
“don’t you see that the corner-stones are already in their
places?”

“I see that well enough,” said the Stone; “but you can
take one of them out, and install me in its place. I have as
clear a right to be there as any of them: equality is the badge
of us all: every one of us is from a common quarry: we are
all stones alike. Take one of them out, and put me in.”

“Now, see how grossly inconsistent you are!” urged the
workman: “all stones, you assert, are equal, and have the
same rights: yet you would have me rudely displace and degrade
one of them for your pleasure, though, according to
your own acknowledgment, you are not a bit better than he is!
Upon my word, but you have enlightened conceptions of what
constitutes equality. But I cannot stand here arguing the
question with you all day; my time is precious; I beg you will
decide whether you are satisfied to form part of the wall or
not.”

“Assuredly I am,” said the other, “but only as a corner
stone. How can you be so blind as not to see that we are all
stones alike, and all therefore equal?”

“You are all stones alike,” replied the mason, “and so
far equal, in a certain sense; but your equality consists merely
in your being all liable to serve as wall-stones, not in your
being all qualified for the place of corner-stones.”

“A truce with your slavish doctrines!” cried the malcontent;
“either make of me a corner-stone, or build your wall
without me.”

“Is that your final decision?” asked the mason. “I warn
you not to trifle with me, for I cannot let my work wait for
you any longer.”

“I have said it,” said the Stone. “I would see your wall
trampled into dust, and the whole universe along with it, before
I would surrender my great principle. Do what you
please.”

“Go, then, refractory wronghead,” exclaimed the mason,
“go and enjoy your equality where none will be likely to dispute
it!” And so saying, he cast the Stone from him with a
vigorous jerk; and the Stone, after it had completed its journey
through the air, fell down, and from the force of its own
gravitation sank several feet low into the bottom of a deep
and slimy pool.

This was, for all historical purposes, the termination of its
existence. What became of it in the pool ultimately, it is impossible
to conjecture, for half a century has elapsed since;
but as a total extinguisher was put upon its aspirations after
notoriety by the accident, it is highly probable that if not worn
quite away by the friction of the surrounding mud and water,
it was at least gnawed to the core, in a moral sense, by its
regrets for the folly of its past misconduct—regrets which we
may suppose to have been shared in a pretty equal degree
by its twin-brother of the preceding year, which had stickled
so stoutly in its colloquy with the mason for its favourite theory
of liberty and independence.

THE AIR WE BREATHE.

The objects which come every day before our eyes, the offices
which involuntarily and almost unconsciously we at each
moment must perform in order that we may live, are precisely
the subjects concerning which the mass of mankind
are least curious, and of the true nature and utility of which
they are the most completely ignorant. It is thus with the
air we breathe. There is no person but is aware of the necessity
of breathing, and of the motion of the air caused by
winds; but how few have asked themselves, What is air?
How much is there of it? Could the same air be always
used for breathing? How do fishes manage living in water in
place of air? Yet the information thus obtainable might be
the means of saving the lives of hundreds, as certainly the
ignorance on these points has been the source of death, by
painful and lingering torture, in many cases. We purpose,
therefore, now to give some information about air, to show
the importance of it to mankind, and to indicate how much
we owe to the Omniscient Providence that has given to air
the properties that we find it to possess.

Although “trifles light as air” has become a proverb, yet
air is positively heavy. A hogshead of air weighs about ten
ounces; this is heavier than the gas which is burned in the
streets and shops, of which a hogshead would weigh only seven
ounces; and very much heavier than hydrogen gas, with which
balloons were formerly filled, a hogshead of hydrogen gas
weighing only two-thirds of an ounce. A balloon filled with
hydrogen, or even with coal gas, rises into the air, as oil or a
cork rises up through water. The air being thus heavy,
presses upon the earth; and by measuring the degree of pressure
we can tell how much air there is. This is done by an
instrument termed a barometer—a glass tube closed at one
end, and which, having been filled with quicksilver, is turned
upside down in a cup containing quicksilver also. The
tube being shut at the top, the air does not press on the[Pg 16]
quicksilver inside, but presses upon that in the basin; the
quicksilver in the tube, which tends naturally to fall down
into the basin, is thus forced to remain up in the tube by the
pressure of external air; and it rises so high that the pressure
inside, of the quicksilver, and outside, of the air, is
equal. If the pressure of the air diminishes, the quicksilver
falls; if the pressure of the air increases, the quicksilver
rises: and as all great changes of the air are connected with
changes of the weather, the barometer is generally known
and consulted as a sort of weather-glass.

Every space of an inch square supports fifteen pounds
weight of air; at the rate of ten ounces to a hogshead, the
depth of the air would therefore be about five miles. But it
is much deeper, for air is what is termed compressible—that
is to say, it may by pressure be squeezed into a smaller bulk;
and hence the air next the ground, being compressed by the
portions above it, is much the heaviest portion. At three
miles high a hogshead of air weighs only five ounces, and
at eight miles high only two ounces; hence the limits of the
air are much farther removed, and it is known to extend to
at least forty miles.

The office of the air is to support animal life: no animal
can live without air: even fishes require air. The water in
which they swim contains air mixed with it, and this water
washing the gills, which are their lungs, serves to them as
the air directly acts on us. If we boil water until the air
is expelled from it, and let it cool in a close vessel, we may
drown a fish by putting it into such water, as easily as a land
animal; it could not breathe. It is thus that in the lakes on
the tops of very high mountains there are no fish. The heights
are deserted by land and by water animals, in consequence of
the air being too thin to support life. The way in which the
air acts upon the body is very interesting. The most abundant
element of our food is what the chemists term carbon,
of which, in a gross manner, charcoal may serve as an example.
Now, we eat much more of this than we require for the
supply of our bodies, and it must be got rid of. This is done
by its uniting in the body with a substance termed oxygen,
and forming carbonic acid, the sort of air which boils up in
soda water and ginger beer. This dissolves in the blood, colouring
it a deep purple, and escapes from it when by the action
of the heart the black blood is exposed to the action of the air
on the surface of the lungs. Now, the office of the air is to
supply this oxygen which removes the carbon from the blood.
But the air is not pure oxygen. If it were, it would act too
violently. An animal which breathes pure oxygen, becomes
flushed, pants violently, and, if not choked, dies of inflammation
of the lungs, produced by the intense action. In the
air we breathe, the oxygen gas is diluted to the proper degree
by another gas, termed nitrogen, which is totally destitute
of power; it does of itself no good and no harm; it
is the only substance that could be mixed in the air we breathe,
without interfering in any way. When thus the blood loses,
by exposure to the air in the lungs, its carbonic acid, it takes
oxygen in its place; from dark purple it becomes bright red,
and is then proper to take up a fresh quantity of carbon,
and to sustain the body in health by its removal.

When any thing burns in the air, it is the oxygen which
is active. The nitrogen dilutes here also the oxygen, and
keeps its activity down to the degree most suitable to our
wants. If the air were pure oxygen, all our domestic fires
would be violent conflagrations; our iron pokers and tongs, if
heated red hot, would take fire and burn like squibs; no
comfort, no safety for society could exist. But in burning,
this oxygen is destroyed. If a candle be placed lighted
under a glass bell, it will, after a little, go out. The air
will become unfit to support combustion. Here also, as well
as in the burning of coals, coke, gas, oil, charcoal, &c. the
oxygen is changed into carbonic acid, and precisely as a fresh
supply of oxygen is necessary for the continuance of life, so
is it for combustion.

The air contains about one part in five of oxygen, and, as
has been seen, this oxygen is liable to continual destruction
by the breathing of animals and the burning of fuel and of
lights. An ordinary man spoils in twenty-four hours 720
cubic feet of air, that is, a mass of air 11 feet 6 inches square
and 6 feet thick. The burning of three ounces of charcoal,
or of a mould candle of six to the pound, produces the same
effect. It is not unusual in a factory to burn ten tons of coal
a-day, which spoils 3,185,760 cubic feet of air, a mass of a
quarter of a mile square and six feet thick. If we multiply
these numbers by the number of inhabitants, of man and of
all other animals upon the earth, and also by the quantity of
fuel burned all over the globe, it will be evident that without
some regulating power superior to all that mere human means
could devise, the air might ultimately become unfit to be the
sustenance of living beings, and all the numerous tribes of
animated nature which now adorn its surface, would be destroyed.

By the all-wise arrangement of Providence, however, the
animals, in thus converting the oxygen of the air into carbonic
acid, become the means of supplying nourishment to
another class of beings equally interesting and numerous.
All vegetables breathe; but as animals take in too much carbon
with their solid food, so do plants obtain too little from
the substances that give nourishment to their roots. The
animal breathes to give off carbon, the vegetable breathes
to take it up. The two great divisions of living nature thus
act in contrary ways upon the air; the oxygen consumed
by the animal or by combustion, is given out again by the
carbon of the carbonic acid becoming fixed in the plant of
which it forms the woody mass; and thus the composition of
the air is kept balanced at its proper point, and provision for
the due nutrition of animals and vegetables is secured.

The air we breathe serves, however, for other important
uses. Without the air, the fresh breezes which moderate the
heats of summer could not exist, and there would prevail in
nature an eternal silence, for it is by means of air that we
not only breathe, but hear. The variety of aspect given to
the sky by the formation and rapid change of clouds, arises
from the mixture of warm and of cold damp air. If there
was no air, there might be dew, but there could never be
a cloud.

Without the air we could not have the bright blue sky
which gives to our fine season its greatest charm. The
heavens would be a vault of intense black, in which the sun
would appear alone a glaring ball of fire, whose rays, unmitigated
by the air which now absorbs them in their passage
through its mass, would be a continual source of ill. The blue
sky, the bright white clouds, arise from the sun’s rays being
partly stopped, and turned from one object to another. The
sun’s rays really consist of light of all the colours of the rainbow;
of these the red portion is lost in passing through the
air, and the blue remains, giving the colour we observe. Without
the air, a place shaded from the sun would be in absolute
darkness; as it now exists, a quantity of light is scattered
about in every way by the different portions of the air, and
thus an agreeable shade provided in place of the total absence
of all light. On very elevated tops of mountains, where the
traveller is placed above the greater portion of the air, all
these effects of its absence which we have noticed, are found
to exist. On the summit of Mont Blanc, a pistol discharged
is scarcely heard, and a companion once out of
sight, may be lost; for neither can he produce any noise by
his own exertions, nor could his voice reach his friends, even
if he could speak; the sky is deep indigo-coloured, or nearly
black; and those objects on which the sun’s light does not
directly fall, are seen with difficulty.

Such are the uses of the common air we breathe. Such are
the benefits we derive from a blessing, of whose existence
when at rest we are almost unconscious.

Absence of Mind.—A well-known gentleman of Magdalen
College, Cambridge, had taken his watch from his pocket,
to mark the time he intended to boil an egg for his breakfast,
when a friend entering the room, found him absorbed in some
abstruse calculation, with the egg in his hand, upon which he
was intently looking, and the watch supplying its place in the
saucepan of boiling water.

Early Rising.—Six or seven hours’ sleep is certainly sufficient,
and no one ought to exceed eight. To make sleep refreshing,
the following things are requisite:—To take sufficient
exercise in the open air; to avoid strong tea or coffee;
to eat a light supper; and to lie down with a mind as cheerful
and serene as possible. We hardly ever knew an early
riser who did not enjoy a good state of health. It consists
with observation, that all very old men have been early risers.
This is the only circumstance attending longevity, to which
we never knew an exception.

Printed and Published every Saturday by Gunn and Cameron, at the Office
of the General Advertiser, 6 Church Lane, College Green, Dublin.