[Pg 57]

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

THE HOWTH LIGHTHOUSE.

The bold and nearly insulated promontory called the Hill of
Howth, which forms the north-eastern terminus of the Bay of
Dublin, would in itself supply abundant materials for a topographical
volume—and a most interesting work it might be
made. For the geologist, botanist, and naturalist, it has an
abundant store of attractions, while its various ancient monuments
of every class and age, from the regal fortress, the
sepulchral cairn, and the cromleac of Pagan times, to the
early Christian oratory, the abbey and the baronial hall of
later years, would supply an equally ample stock of materials
for the antiquary and the historian. With all, or most of these
features, we propose to make our readers somewhat familiar
in our future numbers; but our present purpose is only to give
some account of one of its most recently erected structures—the
singularly picturesque and beautiful lighthouse, which we
have attempted to depict in our prefixed illustration.

The Baily lighthouse, as it is popularly called, is situated
at the eastern extremity of Howth, on a nearly perpendicular
rock, whose vertex is elevated one hundred and ten feet above
high-water mark. This rock, which is nearly insulated, is the
terminus of a long and narrow peninsula of still higher altitude,
which stretches out into the sea from the eastern end of the
promontory, and whose cliffs are equally precipitous on both
sides, so that the most striking and romantic views of the lighthouse
can be had from various points, in some commanding the
horizon-bound sea, and in others the Bay of Dublin, with all
its delightful sceneries of wooded country and mountain ranges.
The view which we have chosen for our illustration is taken
from the northern side of this peninsula, that presented from
the other side having been already published in several popular
works; but we trust that this view will not be deemed less
striking or picturesque; and we are of opinion that a more
romantic subject of its kind is not to be found in the empire.

The lighthouse is itself an object of great interest and
beauty, and is constructed according to the most approved
models of modern times. Its form is that of a frustrated cone,
supporting a lantern which exhibits a fixed bright light.
The illumination, according to the system now generally
adopted by the Trinity-house, is produced by a set of reflectors
ground to the parabolic form, in the foci of which twenty
large oil lamps are placed: an outer gallery, lightly but securely
railed, surrounds the dome. Connected with the building on its
east side, there is a large room, which opens by folding doors
on a platform, and where an excellent telescope is kept, by
means of which the shoals which obstruct the entrance to the
bay may be distinctly observed—namely, the great Kish, and
the Bennet and Burford banks, which are links of the chain
extending along the Wicklow and Wexford coasts, and called[Pg 58]
the Irish grounds. These, though not visible, are distinctly
marked in stormy weather by the surf, which breaks over them
with uncommon violence, and form a dangerous obstruction to
the approach to the bay.

The Baily lighthouse was erected by the Ballast Board of
Dublin in 1814, previous to which time the Howth light, as it
was commonly called, stood on a hill considerably more to the
north, and at an elevation of more than three hundred feet
above sea level. This circumstance of its great elevation, led,
however, to its being abandoned, and the erection of the Baily
lighthouse in its place, as it was found to be frequently involved
in clouds and mist, while lower stations were clear and
well defined.

The Baily lighthouse is a spot of no less antiquarian than
picturesque interest. Its name, which is cognate with the Latin
ballium, is derived from an ancient circular stone fortress
which encircled the apex of the rock, and of which considerable
remains existed previous to the erection of the present
buildings. This great keep was fortified by three earthen
walls, with deep intervening ditches placed at the entrance to
the narrow peninsula, and by extending from one side of it to
the other, cut it off completely from the promontory. These
works still remain, though in a very ruinous state; yet they
are sufficiently distinct to mark their purpose, and to convey
a good idea of the style of military defensive works in use in
extremely remote times. They will be found marked on the
Ordnance map.

In the popular traditions of Howth, these works—like most
others in Ireland, the real origin of which has been forgotten—are
ascribed to the Danes, a remnant of whom, after the
battle of Clontarf in 1014, were supposed to have fortified
themselves in this peninsula, till they were carried off in their
vessels. But such tradition is wholly opposed to history, and
the works themselves exhibit sufficient evidences of its fallacy;
they belong to a much earlier age, being nothing less
than the remains of Dun-Criomthan (pronounced Dun-Criffan),
the fortress of Criomthan Nia-nair, who, according to our
ancient histories, ascended the throne of Ireland in the year
74, and who, after being dethroned, died in this fastness in the
year 90, after a reign of sixteen years. His sepulchral cairn—crowning
the summit of Sliabh-Martin, the highest pinnacle
of the ancient Bin-edair—is still to be seen.

A century or two more will wholly obliterate these remains
of the once powerful prince and warrior Criomthan; but his
celebrity belongs to history, and will not thus pass away. It
was in the third year of his reign that Agricola fortified the
bounds of the Roman empire in Britain from the incursions of
the Picts and Irish, the latter, it is said, led by the monarch
Criomthan himself, who, according to our annalist, returned
to Ireland, loaded with spoil, as thus stated in the record of his
death in the Annals of the Four Masters:—

“Criomthan Nia-nair, sixteen years monarch of Ireland,
died, after his illustrious foreign expedition. It was from that
expedition he brought home the noble spoils; the golden chariot,
the golden chess-board studded with three hundred sparkling
gems, and the ceth-criomthan, which was a parti-coloured
shirt, interwoven with gold. He also brought with him a
battle-giving sword, having various figures of serpents engraved
upon it, and inlaid with gold; a shield embossed with
bright silver; a spear which gave an incurable wound; a sling
from which no erring cast could be thrown; two hounds linked
together by a chain of silver; together with many other valuable
rarities.”

How long after this period Dun-Criomthan existed as a
fortress, it would perhaps be impossible now to ascertain, but
from the following record in the Annals above quoted, it would
appear to have been preserved at least for six centuries:—

“A. C. 646. The battle of Dun-Criomthan was gained by
Conall and Kellach (co-monarchs of Ireland), the two sons of
Maolcobha, over Aongus, the son of Donall. Aongus was
killed in this battle, as was also Cathasach, the son of Donall,
his brother.”

These notices, which have not hitherto appeared in an English
form, of a highly interesting historical remain, not previously
identified by the antiquarian topographer, will, it is
hoped, impart a new interest to the Baily of Howth; but, independently
of such claims on our attention, its singular picturesqueness
should have made it long since not only more
familiarly known to the visitors of our capital, but also to
ourselves.

P.

JOHNNY HALFACRE; OR, THE VALUE OF TIME.

BY MARTIN DOYLE.

Statesmen and professional men, whether occupying stations
of eminence, or struggling to attain them, duly estimate the
importance of time; they know the value of an hour too well to
mis-spend it. The lawyer of high practice, during the term season,
steadily pursuing his laborious studies, and determined to
overcome every difficulty in his pursuit of professional rank
and wealth, rises early, and borrows from the night so many
of those hours which are spent in rest and sleep by men of less
mental activity, that he leaves himself but a very contracted
measure of time for those essential purposes. As to dining
out with friends at this period of care and labour, he rarely
ventures to indulge in such a recreation; or if he does on some
very particular occasion, such is the discipline of his mind,
such the strength of his self-denying habits, that he can rise
from the table at a prescribed moment, and with a cool lawyer-like
head apply to his nocturnal labours as if there had been
no interruption of an exciting nature.

The physician—I do not mean him who is regularly called
out of church, or from the social party, by his servant, under
the pretence of a pressing call, but the real and laborious practitioner,
to whom minutes are money and fame—will not idle
away an hour; neither will the sober steady shopkeeper, until
he has realized an independence, absent himself from his counter
as long as there is a reasonable chance of a customer dropping
in; nor the operative mechanic, who has to finish his
piece of work within a prescribed time, and who will contrive
to do it even in despite of all the petty interruptions to which
he is liable.

Time is proportionably valuable to the meanest peasant who
possesses a cabbage garden, and if properly estimated and
applied, will add to his comforts in a degree of which, he who
is habitually uncalculating and unthrifty in this respect can
have but little notion.

This I am anxious to impress upon the class of labourers,
many of whom I hope can read what I write, for in them I
take an especial interest, probably because they are the least
cared for of any class in the community. Some of them perhaps
will say, with a show of reality, “If our time were to bring
us in such profits as the counsellor and the doctor make,
we would be busy too, and no one would see us standing idle,
sitting on a ditch side, or smoking and coshering by the fireside,
or talking to the neighbours, of a wet day, in a forge.
If we could be coining guineas as easily as the likes of them
makes the money, sitting in their soft chairs, and never doing
a hand’s turn of work that would tire their limbs, we would;
but what could we make, after our regular day’s work, if we
can get that same, out of a bit of a garden, that would better
us any thing to signify?”

Now, I shall show them by actual facts what they could in
many cases do.

Johnny Halfacre is a little farmer, whom I occasionally see,
and who, being in no way connected with me, nor even conscious
that I am particularly observing him, goes on in his
own way, without any hint or encouragement from me, or
indeed from any one else, as far as I can perceive.

Johnny two years ago had not as much land as would correspond
with his name, which is really genuine; he had for
several previous years but a rood, including the site of his
house, and a shed for a pig, and some poultry; but this rood
produced more than half an acre usually does with many, and
entirely by his good management and judicious application of
time.

Johnny had exactly five shillings a-week, paid in full every
Friday evening, from his employer, for Johnny never had time
to be sick, far less to be drunk, and always avoided broken
days, by contriving in-door work, at Mr B.’s, in wet weather;
his wife, who had two children, washed occasionally for
a neighbour’s family, thus adding two shillings and sixpence
each week to their income, and the contribution of additional
suds to the dunghill; but in other respects they had no advantage
over other labourers. Their own little garden added
greatly to the support of the family, by judicious cropping
and excellent management. Johnny had every year some
drills of very early ash-leaved potatoes put down in January,
if possible, which he either sold at a very high price in summer
at a neighbouring town, or consumed as he found most
economical; and his early sowing of potatoes was far better
than the more common practice of the Irish cottier, who leaves
his garden uncropped with them until March or April, with[Pg 59]
the view of obtaining a more abundant crop (but of inferior
quality) at a late season, when they might be purchased at a
mere trifle, and that, too, without the advantage of a second
crop of any description to succeed them. Johnny had too
much sense for this: he began to dig his dish of potatoes for
dinner in the first or second week in July, when his neighbours
were half starving, or paying exorbitantly for oatmeal and old
potatoes; and as he dug out his crop, he either sowed turnips,
with a little ashes and a sprinkling of dung, or planted
borecole for the winter; generally he had some of both, for he
found turnips good for his own table in winter, and profitable
for the support of some poultry, of which I shall take notice
soon. He had also every variety of common kitchen vegetables
in small patches, continually changing places, and thus
improving the soil; he had, besides, two hives of bees; and
for the sake of the straw, as well as for rotation, and the support
of his pig and poultry, a little rye, vetches, or clover.

Johnny, however, only worked in the garden in the evening,
after his ordinary day’s work, or, in summer, at sunrise; yet
there never was a weed to be seen in it, for they never had
time to grow: by using the hoe for a few moments now and
then, they were always kept down, and every waste blade and
briar and useless sod around the hedge which enclosed it, was
carefully pared and burnt for manure.

He had worked in the large garden of a gentleman who
kept an English gardener, who had taught Johnny the use of
a sprong in preference to a spade for turning up the earth,
especially when too hard for the latter implement; and though
the handle was short, and, according to my own notion, fatiguing
to the back, the fact was, that Johnny soon preferred
it for dispatch and correctness of operation to the long-handled
spade which all my other neighbours use. When he cut his
own rye or other corn, the ground was usually so hard that a
broad spade could not enter it: but Johnny quickly turned it
up and broke it with his sprong, and then completely pulverized
it with what the Englishman called a beck, a three-forked
hoe, which, acting like the long tines of a harrow, loosened
and rendered the whole perfectly fine, while it brought any
latent roots of couch (or scutch grass) that might have escaped
on former occasions, to the surface.

Johnny’s various vegetables greatly assisted his housekeeping.
He had often a good bowl of soup, flavoured with
leeks, onions, carrots, &c., made with the least conceivable
portion of meat, but thickened with barley, properly shelled,
and prepared like French barley, but at only one-third of the
price of that which is sold under such denomination in the
shops; and his family always breakfasted on porridge, or
coarse bread of their own baking, with or without milk, according
to circumstances—for Johnny at this time had no
cow—sometimes washed down with a cup of tea, and more
generally in winter with a mug of light and good table beer,
which the Englishman taught Johnny to brew at Mr B.’s
brew-house. Half a bushel of malt, with a quarter of a pound
of hops, produced ten gallons of unadulterated beer which
could not be bought any where, and the grains (given to his
pig) fully counterbalanced the cost of fuel. Even at this
time he killed a pig every year, and never wanted a small
supply of salt meat for his cabbage or beans, which with this
combination of flesh went farther in this way towards the actual
supply of his dinner, and sometimes of his supper too (for
any remainder of the dinner was heated and peppered up for
the supper, with the addition of a broken loaf, or a skillet
full of potatoes), than can be imagined by the poor man who
has never cultivated his garden in the same manner—whose
cabbages are of little value from want of bacon, and whose
allotment, producing but one crop instead of two each year,
is thus of but half its proper value to him; besides, with him
potatoes succeed potatoes continually, until the ground becomes
sick of yielding them.

But, further, Johnny Halfacre’s garden, in which he seldom
ceased from doing something in the summer evenings as long
as daylight lasted, greatly aided in supporting his pig at that
time when food is so dear and scarce for swine. The tops of
blossoming bean-stalks (by the plucking off of which the
crop is improved) and other vegetable waste, besides vetches
and rye—the latter both in the green and ripe state—gave
him sufficient food to keep the pig in fair order, with a little
help from other sources; and the pig, by being always well
littered, and supplied with this food, gave a return in most excellent
manure, which with other sources of a similar kind, and
the economical distribution of crops, supplied the entire garden
with fertilizing matter.

What the other means of providing manure were, ought to
be mentioned, for the man’s system is of such easy application
that it only requires to be stated in order to be followed.

For two or three evenings in the summer before last, I perceived
Johnny Halfacre without his coat, rolling a wheelbarrow
frequently from an adjacent common to a corner of
his garden separated from the road by an old weather-beaten
paling. When I had leisure to see what he had been doing at
this time, I found that he had marked off an oblong space for
four geese and a gander, which he had bought from Bridget
Gozzard at rather a high price, partly for the sake of their
powerful manure, which, combined with other substances, is
good for stimulating the growth of vegetables, as well as for
the profit which he expected to realize by rearing goslings
for the market. Johnny was aware that fat green geese are
worth from six to ten shillings each, in the very early season
in the great English markets, and are also profitable if reared
for the stubbles at Michaelmas; and he did not see why he
and his industrious wife should not realise a profit as well as
English housewives by the breeding of such poultry, when a
steam-packet and a rail-road could take them off even to London
in a few hours. Cocks and hens would ruin his own
garden, and bring him into disputes with his neighbours—he
had the advantage of a run on the common for geese—there
was a pond of water near his house—and therefore he gave
them and ducks the preference. He first built his back wall
two feet and a half high and ten feet in length, with the sods
from the common, and then put down ten upright stakes in
front, every pair answering for the jambs of each compartment,
with a board stretching the whole length across, and
which formed the front support of his rustic roof; from this
board he laid rafters to the top of the back wall, and having
first interwoven some small branches of a tree through these
rafters, he laid as many scraws (thinly pared grassy sods) as
secured the whole roof from rain. The jambs were then contracted
to a narrow opening, for the sake of shelter and warmth,
by more sods laid one over the other.

By this simple process of construction he formed a separate
chamber for each bird, with a yard in front six feet broad and
ten long, and with an opening through the paling at the road
side, by which the inmates could go in and out at their pleasure.
His rye assisted in feeding them, and he also cultivated
grey peas for them, which are excellent for fattening;
and with cabbage and lettuce leaves, the pods of beans, and
other green food, he afterwards kept them in high condition;
and in the succeeding year, when other young geese were
dying of disease, occasioned by want of shelter, and from
starvation, his were thriving.

And to the credit of this worthy man and his wife I must
mention, that the feather-plucker was indignantly sent away
from his door whenever he came round for the execrable purpose
of plucking the geese alive. Johnny’s wife would as soon
have let him pull out the hairs of her own head, as give up one
of her birds to his barbarous hands; and the consequence was,
that while their neighbours’ geese were miserably crawling
about, with draggling and mutilated wings and smarting bodies,
until many of them died, in their miseries invoking as it
were in their dying screams shame and curses on their unfeeling
owners, Johnny Halfacre’s geese strutted about on the
common, with an independent and unconstrained step, as if
conscious of their security from the tortures to which their fellows
had been doomed.

HOW JOHNNY HALFACRE BECAME A LITTLE FARMER.

If it be true, and it unquestionably is, that “he who despiseth
small things, shall fall by little and little,” the converse
is, I think, no less so—that he who pays attention to
little matters will rise by degrees.

Mr B. having narrowly observed Johnny’s general good
conduct and extreme industry as a common labourer, put him
in possession, two years ago, of a field adjoining his cottage
and garden, which contains about six statute acres, and which
fortunately was in good condition.

Johnny at first was afraid to accept the tempting offer, at
which any other labourer would have jumped, on the sincere
and modest plea that he had no capital for such a weighty
speculation. He did not wish to grasp at more than he could
properly manage; but Mr B. set him at ease, by telling him
that he considered health, industry, and skill, sufficient capital
for Johnny to possess, as he himself would not only build a
barn, cow-shed, ass-house, and pig-styes, but put the boundary
fence into perfect order (according to the frequent[Pg 60]
practice of British landlords), and lend Johnny a sum sufficient
for the purchase of every thing necessary to give him a
good start, charging him only five per cent on the advances.
Mr B., who in riding over his property often “went by the
field of the slothful,” which “was all grown over with thorns
and nettles that covered the face of it, and the stone wall
whereof was broken down,” wished to render Johnny an
exemplar of superior management to other tenants.

I shall not trouble the reader with all the details of Johnny’s
management during the two last years, but shall very briefly
notice those particulars of husbandry which are new to my
countrymen of the same class. He has not subdivided the
field, nor does he intend to do so, as he values every foot of it
too much for such waste. He does not keep a horse, nor will
he do so, unless his holding be increased; but he keeps a donkey
and a well-constructed cart. As yet he has no cow, not
having his land in sufficiently clean order for laying down any
part of it with grasses; but he has two yards full of pigs,
which he keeps for the sake of the rich manure they supply.
I do not advocate his system altogether, but merely relate the
most striking features of it. His pig-yards are very commodious,
and well arranged for weaning, fattening, &c.; and his
stock now consists of a sow with ten young ones in one yard,
and six store pigs in another. These are in fine condition—fed
on vetches, rye (of which the grain is now, July 20, ripe),
and wash, consisting of pollards and water; their food next
week, and for some time after, will be beans, ripe and unripe,
according to their successive stages. These pigs are now ten
months old, and have never been outside their yard, nor do
they seem to be (compared with pigs of the same age which
have had the run of the common) injured by confinement.
Being always highly littered in the yard, having the sleeping
chamber kept perfectly clean, and being abundantly fed, they
sport about the straw, and seem quite contented. But without
such care and comfort young swine will certainly not thrive
in imprisonment.

Johnny will fatten up these pigs in October for sale in November,
with barley-meal, pollards, toppings, and potatoes;
and judging from his success last year under similar circumstances,
they will weigh (at the age of fourteen months) nearly
two cwt. each. He does not intend to sell any of his ten
young ones until they shall have been fattened in the same
way; but their mother will be put up as soon as possible after
they shall be weaned. He does not expect to realize any
ready money by rearing and fattening them; when sold, his
stock will merely pay for their keep—he considers the large
quantity of valuable manure a sufficient return.

He has hired a labourer to work with him, and will incur
but little expense for horse-labour, as he and his assistant
together are able to dig an acre very deeply in ten days; and
he considers one such digging equal to three light ploughings;
and from his experience of the last year, he is of opinion that
spade-husbandry is far cheaper than that which is effected by
the plough. As he reaps his vetches and rye for the pigs, he
cuts out the stubbles with a bean-hoe for litter; and for the
perfect cleansing of the ground before he digs it up, he collects
the stubbles and clears them from earth with a little harrow
drawn by the ass, and will pursue the same plan with all his
stubbles. Last year he cut and bound half an acre of wheat
himself with a fagging-hook, which I have described in my
Cyclopædia, in one day; and he and his labourer intend to cut
down an acre this year in the same way.

I could enumerate many other particulars of this man’s excellent
husbandry—such as burning the clay of headlands for
manuring his turnip-crop and cabbage seedling beds—but I
fear to be tedious, and therefore shall only add, that Johnny
Halfacre is a true exemplification of the sacred proverb, that
“the soul of the diligent shall be made fat.” He is always
diligent (not only in seed-time and harvest, but all the year
round), but never so busy with his field or garden crops as
to choke the seed of God’s word in his heart, and render that
unfruitful by sloth or negligence. As far as I can judge, he
does not permit his worldly to supersede his eternal interests;
and as he knows the value of the present TIME, so does he
estimate aright the infinitely superior importance of that which
is future.

Idleness.—The worst vices springing from the worst principles—the
excesses of the libertine, and the outrages of the
plunderer—usually take their rise from early and unsubdued
idleness.—Farr’s Discourses on Education.

LIFE AND ITS ILLUSIONS.

[Pg 61]

DONNYBROOK.

Verily, Donnybrook fair is, to all intents and purposes, “dead
and gone;” for the modern wretched assemblage of hungry-looking
cattle, dogs’-meat horses, measly swine, and forlorn-looking
human creatures, obliged to content themselves with
staring at the exterior of the show-booths, for want of the
means to visit the interior, no more resembles the Donnybrook
of the past, than a troop of the old “bulkies,” armed with their
Arcadian crooks, and helmeted with their old woollen nightcaps,
resembled a squadron of lancers.

Alas! alas! how every thing is altered! No longer does
the quiet citizen dread the approach of Trinity Sunday; no
longer does he think it necessary to barricade his windows,
and postpone exterior painting for a week or two, in order to
save his glass and the decorator’s labour from the nocturnal
industry of the gentle College students.

The students never mustered in much force at Donnybrook,
because it unluckily came during the long vacation; but there
were enough at any time to kick up a shindy or scrimmage
(by modern innovators called “a row”), for, between those
who resided in town, and such as for various reasons kept the
vacation within the College walls, a pretty decent muster
could, upon an emergency, be called together.

It was upon the 26th of August—isn’t it strange that I
should recollect the day of the month, though I forget the
year!—that Bob O’Gorman, Dan Sweeny, Dick Hall, and a
few other under-graduates of T.C.D., resolved to go to the
fair and have a spree.

Dick was a little, delicate, effeminate-looking “ould crab,”
and so smock-faced that he would easily pass for a girl, and
a rather good-looking one, if dressed in female attire.

But Dick’s effeminacy was confined to his looks, for his
muscular power far exceeded that of any man an inch or two
more in stature, or a stone more in weight. He was a perfect
master of the small-sword, had no match at single-stick;
and woe to the unhappy wretch who fell under the discipline
of his little bony fists, for he was an accomplished amateur in
the science of pugilism, then but little known and less practised
than subsequently by gentlemen.

On the present occasion it was resolved that Dick should
sustain the character of a girl, and much fun was anticipated
from the punishment that the remainder of the party
would inflict upon any presumptuous individual who should
dare to molest the modest fair one.

At the end of the double range of tents called “Dame-street,”
was one called “the Larkers;” and as this was uniformly
crowded by citizens of Dublin, it was scarcely possible
for any one, residing but for a month in town, not to be recognised
by some person present, who immediately passed the
name of the new-comer round, and he was surprised (if a raw
one) to hear himself addressed by name, by persons whom he
never saw in his life before.

It was at the entrance of this tent that a countryman
stood, attired in the usual large frieze over-coat (which, from
its being worn in summer as well as winter, might lead a
stranger to suppose that there seldom or never is a hot day
in Ireland), and accompanied by a pretty, bashful-looking
girl, apparently fresh from the “interior.” After gaping for
a considerable time, some gentlemen, amused by the wonderment
that he exhibited, and probably somewhat touched by
his companion’s charms, called to him to “come in.” With
some reluctance he accepted the invitation, and, fearful of intruding
upon the “gintlemin,” seated himself awkwardly
upon the end of a form; up it tilted, and down he went, to
the great delight of the beholders. Having gathered himself
up, he reseated himself more firmly, placing “Biddy” near
him, she having declined all offers of other accommodation
pressed on her by the company.

Paddy O’Neill (the name by which he announced himself),
having been pretty well plied with punch, had grown very
voluble, and seemed to be beginning to feel himself quite at
home, had told many queer stories, and made his entertainers
laugh very heartily, when two elderly gentlemen, closely
muffled, entered rather stealthily, and sliding over, suddenly
seated themselves behind Paddy. Biddy, who had been
hitherto quite silent, answering every compliment or remark
addressed to her only with a smile, gave Paddy a nudge,
and whispered something into his ear, that caused him to turn
and gaze at the new arrivals.

“Arrah, thin, Docthor M——, agrah, who’d ha’ thought
o’ meetin’ you here?” said he, addressing one of them, who
sprang at the mention of his name, as if he had sat on the point
of a stray nail; he and his companion Dr H——, both senior
fellows of Trinity College, having disguised themselves, as
they thought effectually, for the purpose of seeing, for the first
time in their lives, the fair, and the fun of it, without being
recognised in such an uncanonical assemblage. With this object
they had avoided exposing themselves to the risk of walking
down the tent, but had merely slipped in to reconnoitre
from behind the shelter of the frieze-coated customer, who
now, so inopportunely and innocently, had announced the
name of one of them.

“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Dr M.; “you mistake me,
sir.”

“Arrah, docthor darlint, sure iv I mistake ye, ye need’nt get
into sich a comflusthration about id; bud sure I know ye too
well to mistake ye. Sure, aint I the boy that had the misforthin
to dhrop yer honor’s riverince into the bog-hole, whin ye wint
out to make believe ye were snipe shootin’, down at Colonel
Thrench’s, last Candlemas was a twelmonth.”

“I don’t know you, sir!” roared the doctor in an agony,
hoping by his ferocity to overawe the countryman into silence;
but Paddy had taken too much punch to notice the tone, and
seemed incapable of entertaining or following up more than
one idea at a time, and the one now before him was that of
forcing himself, will he nill he, upon the recollection of the
worthy doctor.

“Ye don’t know me!—well, listen to that!—ye don’t know
me!—oh, well, iv that does’nt flog! Arrah, thin, maybe ye
don’t recollect the bog-hole that ye wanted me to carry ye
over, an’ ye war so mortial heavy that my fut slipped, an’ I
had the luck to fall an my face, jist at the very edge iv the
slush, an’ ye pitched right-over, head foremost, into the very
middle iv id; an’ iv id was’nt for the good luck that yer legs
stuck out, jist the laste taste in life, by which I got a hould iv
ye, sure would’nt ye be lost intirely? An’ don’t ye”——

“Hold your tongue, you infernal scoundrel!” roared the
enraged doctor, who saw that every eye was fixed upon him,
and every one’s attention drawn to the spot, from the eagerness
of manner and stentorian voice of Paddy, whose reminiscence
had produced a roar of laughter. Escape, too, was
utterly hopeless, for the tent had been filling, and the doorway
was blocked up by those who were pressing forward from
the outside to get a view of the speaker. “Hold your tongue,
sirrah; you mistake me for some one else. I never was thrown
into a bog-hole in my life.”

“Oh! pillelieu! meellia murther! listen to that—as iv any
one that iver seen Docthor M— ov Thrinity College could
iver mistake him agin; bud sure Docthor H— there ’ill may
be help out yer mimory [Dr H— gave a writhe, for he had
hoped to have escaped, at least]; sure he was at the colonel’s
whin ye war brought home in the muck.”

This announcement of the names and address of both the
unfortunate betrayed, was received with a shout, whilst
Paddy’s earnestness to free himself from the charge of having
blundered, increased every moment, and reminiscence followed
reminiscence, each in a louder tone than the preceding, until
his argument became a perfect shout, whilst the unlucky
S.F.T.C.D.’s strove to out-bellow him with their denials, and
the audience laughed, shouted, and danced with glee at the
fun.

“I protest,” bawled Dr H—, “that I do not know Colonel
Trench. You mistake, my honest man; I never was at his
place in my life. My friend here, Dr M—, knows him, and
has been there often; but I have not, I assure you.”

“Oh! you ass,” bellowed Dr M—, “what do you acknowledge
my name for? ’Tis no wonder they call you ‘Leatherhead
H—.’”

A renewed roar followed this piece of blundering recrimination.

“Never at Colonel Thrench’s!—not you!—oh! ye desavin’
ould villain!” screamed the hitherto silent Biddy. “Not you!—Do
ye know me!—do ye!—do ye!!—Do-o-o-o-o ye!!!”
every repetition of “do ye” being louder and longer than
the last, until she finished in a terrific long shriek, squeezing
her hands together upon her knees, and stamping alternately
with her feet, with a rapidity that gave the effect of a shake
to her voice.

“I do protest and declare,” shouted the worthy doctor,
“that I never, to my knowledge, saw your face before.”

“Arrah, Biddy, avourneen, is this the ould Turk that ye
tould me about, bud would’nt mintion his name, that was so
imperant to ye? Scraub his face, the ould thief! and let me[Pg 62]
see iv he dar purvint ye, my darlin’. Tache him to behave
himself to unpurtected faymales!”

Biddy, who seemed quite inclined to forestall her companion’s
orders, had sprung upon the unlucky doctor before
the sentence was half finished. He strove in vain to shake
her off; she clung to him like a wild-cat, screaming, shrieking,
scolding, biting, scratching, and tearing, until at length
she maddened him past all endurance by pulling two handfuls
of hair successively out of the little that remained on his skull,
for which he repaid her with two furious blows.

The spectators, who had hitherto looked on, and merely
laughed at the entire affair as an excellent joke, had undergone
a change of sentiment upon hearing the innuendo contained
in Paddy’s last speech; and, no longer considering the
old gentlemen as a pair of innocents amusingly “blown,” they
now looked upon them as a pair of wicked old profligates,
worse than young ones; and one, more zealous than the rest,
shouting out “shame! to strike the girl,” stretched Dr H—
with a blow.

Dr M., irascible at all times, now lost all self-possession, and,
unable to reach his friend’s new assailant, turned furiously
upon the cause of all his woe, and bestowed a shower of blows
with his stick upon Paddy, before the latter had time to bring
his cudgel to parry them. He soon recovered himself, however,
and from defendant quickly became assailant.

Many of the bystanders indignantly called out, “Murder the
ould villain—knock out his brains, Paddy. That’s right,
Biddy; flitther him!” and several proceeded to give a helping
hand to the good work; but others thought it was a shame for
a whole lot of people to fall upon two, and in their love for justice
they ranged themselves alongside the reverend doctors,
shouting, “fair play’s a jewel!” The fight thickened, volunteers
joining either rank every moment, in the laudable endeavour
to keep up the balance of power. Biddy had quitted
her grip of the doctor, and was now, to the surprise of those
who had time to look about them (and they were few), engaged
in the endeavour to wrench a stick out of the hands of
a huge hulk of an Englishman, who, having merely gone to see
the fun at Donnybrook, without the most remote idea of joining
in a fight, could not be persuaded of the necessity of
giving his stick, as he did not intend to use it himself, to one
who did, and that one “a female!” At first he laughed; but
he was quickly obliged to put forth all his strength to retain
it, and, whilst twisting about, he caught a stray blow that
floored him; he fell against a table, which of course overset;
the confusion increased, when a shout suddenly arose,
“Hurrah for Dr M—! Hurrah for Dr H—! College to the
rescue!—Trinity!—Trinity!”

At the well-known war-cry of the students, several changed
sides; those who had just been defending the doctors now
turned upon them, whilst many of their late assailants ranged
themselves on their side. The citizens, thinking that the
number of students must be small, rushed to the spot, to pay
off sundry old scores; but one would imagine that the cry of
“Trinity! Trinity!” which resounded on all sides, was a
sort of spell, or incantation, that raised spirits from the earth,
so many voices responded to the call.

The unfortunate doctors, who had just expected nothing
short of utter annihilation, felt their spirits rise at the prospect
of aid and rescue, and bellowed with might and main,
“Trinity! Trinity!” and in a few minutes they were the
nucleus of a fight in which the whole fair had joined.

“The poliss!—the poliss!—here come the bloody poliss!”
was now the cry; and the horse police dashed into the
mob with their customary ardour, their spurs fastened in
their horses’ flanks causing them to plunge, and bite, and
kick most furiously, and laying about them with their swords,
cutting at every thing and every one within their reach;
luckily they did not know the sword exercise, and, therefore,
when they struck with the edge, it was only by accident. In a
jiffy, the reverend seniors, caught in the very act of shouting
“Trinity!” were handcuffed, as were also the Englishman,
who got a blow of a sabre from a policeman that nearly took
off his ear, for attempting to expostulate; Paddy, who submitted
quietly; and Biddy, after a severe tussle, in which
she reefed one policeman’s face, and nearly bit the thumb off
another. They were all put together into a jingle, and conducted
by a mounted escort to town; the police hurrying
them for fear of a rescue, by keeping continually whaling the
driver with the flats of their swords, and prodding the horse
with the points, which so enraged the jarvy, that when he got
near the corner of Leeson-street, Stephen’s-green, where two
or three hundred of his brethren were assembled, having
whipped his Rosinante into a gallop, he drove against a
brewer’s dray, by which his traces were smashed, his horse
set free, the jingle locked fast, and he, springing off his perch,
shouted out, “down with the bloody poliss!”

In an instant the mob rushed upon them. Paddy and Biddy,
with an alacrity and agility truly astonishing, sprang from
the lofty vehicle, plunged into the crowd (where there were
plenty of willing hands to free them from the handcuffs), and
escaped. Nor were the worthy doctors slow in following
their example, the only prisoner that remained being the bewildered
Englishman, who suffered “only” a three months’
incarceration in his majesty’s jail of Newgate for going to
see Donnybrook, and the fun at it, his sentence having been
mercifully mitigated, in consideration of its being his first
offence!

“Well,” said Dr H—, when he went with his head bandaged
up, a shade over his right eye, and about twenty bits
of sticking plaster stuck over his face, to visit Dr M— (who
was unable to leave his bed for a week), “well, what a fool
I was to be persuaded by you to go to Donnybrook fair!
what a pretty exhibition we would have made at the police
office this morning! Was it not most fortunate that we made
our escape?”

“I have been thinking,” said (or rather groaned) Dr M—,
“who that scoundrelly country fellow could be. I never fell
into a bog in my life—that was all a lie; and still the blackguard’s
face was familiar to me.”

“I think he was very like that scapegrace Robert O’Gorman,
only that he had light hair; and though I could take my
oath I know nothing of that infamous little wretch that they
called Biddy, yet I do think I have seen her face before—hum”—

“Could it have been that he disguised himself, eh! I’ll
inquire into it, and if he did, by”—

“I think, my dear M—, you had better let it alone; the
less we say about it the better. You know we really led
the fight—that’s a fact that can’t be denied; though it surprises
me how we were hooked into it.”

A rustle at the door, followed by a loud knock, announced
that the newspaper had been thrust into the letter-box, from
which Dr H— immediately extracted it; and as he glanced
over the page, the following paragraph met his eye. It was
headed “Disgraceful and fatal riot at Donnybrook:”

“It is with mingled feelings of indignation, horror, and contempt,
that we feel bound, in discharge of our imperative,
onerous, and painful duty to the public, to give publicity to
one of the most astounding, frightful, and overwhelming facts
which it has ever fallen to our lot, as faithful journalists, to
record. The peaceable, gentle, and innoxious inhabitants of
the village of Donnybrook, and the casual visitors who sought
a little innocent recreation at the fair now being holden, were
yesterday evening thrown into a state of the utmost alarm,
confusion, and dismay, by a barefaced attempt to carry off by
brutal force a young girl from the guardianship and protection
of her brother. It appears that they had gone into a tent
to rest and refresh themselves (having probably over-exerted
their light fantastic toes), when their savage assailants (respecting
whose rank and station various rumours are afloat,
which for the present we forbear from mentioning) rushed
upon them, and endeavoured to force her away. The indignant
bystanders interfered to prevent the outrage, when—will
it, can it be believed? our pen trembles, and a cold
thrill runs through us as we write it!—the worse than Indian
war-whoop, the yell of the collegians, was raised, and their
numbers would in all human probability have succeeded, but
for the timely interference of the police, to whose humanity,
promptitude, and forbearance, upon the trying occasion, too
much praise cannot be given. The riot was not quelled until
the military were called out, and by three o’clock this morning
all was again quiet. Up to the time of going to press we had
only heard of sixteen lives being lost.

Second Edition.—We stop the press to announce that no
lives have been lost; but Sir Patrick Dunn’s, the Meath, and
Mercer’s hospitals, are crowded with wounded. N.B. The
soldiers were not called out.

Third Edition.—Dr Fitzgerald has just informed us that
there are no wounded in either Sir Patrick’s, the Meath, or
Mercer’s.”

“Well,” said Dr H—, “if they are not there, we at least
know where some of them are.”

Naisi.

[Pg 63]

WHAT IS THE USE OF WATER?

Why is it that of the whole surface of this globe, we may
consider that three-fourths are covered by water, and that only
one-fourth is in a condition to be permanently inhabited by
human beings? Is there any great object in nature served
by this? Is there any law of nature which would prevent the
proportion being one-fourth water to three-fourths land, or
even less water? In fact, what after all is the great use of
water upon the large scale in nature?

First of all, although three-fourths of the globe are now
covered with water, there is no reason to suppose that it has
been always so. On the contrary, it is quite certain that the
proportion between land and water has changed very much
and very frequently; that the whole continent of Europe was
at one time the bed of an immense sea, when probably there
was a great continent where the Pacific Ocean is now spread;
that even Old Ireland was once not merely what Admiral
Yorke wished her to be, forty-eight hours under water, but
probably many thousand years in that condition; and that the
great tract of limestone which occupies all the centre of the
country, is nothing more than a collection of the skeletons of
shell-fish, her first inhabitants, which by time and pressure
have been converted into the hard material of which we build
our houses, and which we burn into lime. There is thus no
particular reason why there should be three times as much
water at present as land, but it is easy to show that water
on the great, as well as on the small scale, is of paramount
importance in nature.

Water is a portion of the food of all living beings. In the
case of animals, the bodies from whence they derive nutriment
are so varied and so complex, that to illustrate the peculiar part
which water plays in each, would occupy too much space. In
all our drinks, even in ardent spirits, there is a very large
quantity of water, and our solid food very seldom contains less
than nine-tenths of its weight of water. The living body is
even less solid. A man weighing 150 lbs. would, if perfectly
dried, weigh not more than 10 lbs., the other 140 lbs. being
water. It is to the existence of this quantity of water that
we owe the elasticity, the softness, and pliability of the different
portions of our frame, the animal tissues being, when dry,
hard and brittle as dry glue.

The nutrition of vegetables furnishes a beautiful and simple
example of the use of water in nature. The body of the vegetable,
the proper wood, may be considered as being composed
of water and of charcoal; and hence, when we heat a
piece of wood until we decompose it, the water is expelled,
and carbon or charcoal remains behind. In order to grow, a
plant must therefore get water and charcoal in a form fit for
its use, that is, in such a form as it can make food of, and digest
them. For this, the carbon is supplied in the carbonic
acid which the air contains, and the water in the state of
vapour which the air contains also, and which is continually
descending under the form of dew and rain to moisten the
leaves and the roots of the plants, when it has been absorbed
into the ground. All the water which is absorbed by plants is
not assimilated, or digested; a great part is again thrown out
by the surface of the leaves; for, precisely as the air which an
animal expires from the lungs in breathing is loaded with vapour,
so is there a process of perspiration from the surface of
the leaves, which are the lungs of plants. For the formation
of substances which are peculiar to certain plants, other
substances are required as food, thus, most plants require
nitrogen, which is accordingly furnished abundantly in atmospheric
air; others must have access to sulphur, in order to
flourish; but this depends, as it were, upon particular branches
of manufacture in which the plant is engaged; for its own
support, for making wood, and the tissue of its leaves and vessels,
it uses only water and carbonic acid.

The conversion of water into steam or invisible vapour by
boiling, is one of the best known facts in science; but by a little
attention we can observe that this change takes place at
almost all temperatures, although much less rapidly. Thus,
if a little water be laid in a plate, it is soon dried up, and wet
clothes, by being hung up in the air, are very soon completely
dried. Even below the temperature at which water freezes, it
still evaporates; and thus, when a fall of snow is succeeded by
a continued frost, the snow gradually disappears from the fields
without having melted, evaporating while yet solid. From
the surface of all the water of the globe, therefore, there is
continually ascending a stream of watery vapour; but as the
proportion of sea is so much greater than that of land, we may
look upon the ocean as being the source of the watery vapour
of the air upon the large scale.

Now, watery vapour is lighter than air, and hence the vapour,
as soon as formed, ascends in the air like a balloon, until it
arrives at a part of the air which is of its own specific gravity.
The air in these higher regions is extremely cold, and the vapour
can no longer maintain itself under the form of invisible
steam: it is condensed, and would immediately fall back to
its source as rain or hail, but for a singular property which
it acquires at the moment of being vaporised. When water
evaporates, it becomes highly electrified, and could attract a
feather, or other light bodies, like a stick of sealing-wax
which has been rubbed briskly on a woollen cloth. Now, the
vapour which passes off is electrified also; and while in this
state of electricity, it, on arriving at the colder regions of the
air, cannot condense, to form liquid water. The minute particles
of the water repel each other too violently, in virtue of
their electricities, to form drops, but they constitute the great
loose collections of clouds which diversify so much the appearance
of our sky. The clouds being thus highly electrical,
and being very light, are attracted by the tops of mountains
and high lands, or by elevated buildings; and, giving off their
electricity, the particles of water coalesce, to form drops which
descend as rain. In this country the air is so damp that in general
the discharge of the electricity of the clouds takes place
quietly and silently; but in summer, and in dry climates, it
produces the vivid flashings and injurious effects of the lightning,
and the re-echoed rattle of the thunder-clap.

When water is cooled, it diminishes in bulk like other bodies;
but at a particular temperature it deviates from the general
law of contraction, and by doing so, becomes, perhaps, the
most striking example of providential design that is to be met
with in inorganic nature. Cold water is specifically heavier
than warm water, in consequence of the contraction it has
undergone, and hence will sink in it, as water would sink in
oil. Now, if we consider the surface of a lake exposed to the
cooling action of a wintry wind, the water which is first
cooled becomes heavier, and, sinking to the bottom, is replaced
by the warmer water, which floats up to the top; there is thus
a current established of cold water descending and of warmer
water rising up. This continues until all the water in the lake
has been cooled down to the temperature at which its specific
gravity is greatest, which is about 40 degrees, or about eight
degrees above the point at which it begins to freeze. The
action of the cold wind continuing, the water at the surface is
still further cooled; but now, in place of contracting, it expands—instead
of becoming heavier, it becomes lighter, and remains
floating upon the surface. It is then still further cooled, and
finally its temperature being reduced to 32 degrees, it freezes,
and a layer of ice is formed on the surface of the lake. This
ice, and the cold water next it, are impermeable to heat: it
actually serves as a blanket to the water at 40 degrees which
is below, preventing the escape of the heat, and retaining it at
that temperature, sufficient for the purposes to which it is subservient;
for at the temperature of 40 degrees, the life and
enjoyments of all the various tribes of animals and vegetables
which reside permanently under the surface of the water are
perfectly secured, at least for a very considerable time; the
water holding dissolved a quantity of oxygen for the animal
respiration, and the vegetables living on the carbonic acid
which is formed by the respiration of the fish. On the approach
of spring, the warmer air, and the rays of the more
elevated sun, act directly on the surface of the ice, and each
portion of water formed by melting, becoming heavier, sinks,
so as to expose the ice itself to the source of heat. Thus the
ice is rapidly dissolved, and after a few days the lake throws off
its wintry aspect altogether.

Now, if water did not possess this peculiarity of being heaviest
at the particular temperature of 40 degrees—if it contracted
according as it was cooled, up to the moment of freezing, as
almost all other liquids do, what would be the result? The
cold wind acting on the surface of the lake, and the water becoming
heavier by being cooled, the circulation would continue
until all the water had been cooled to the point at which it
freezes. The ice would then form indifferently in all portions
of it, at the bottom and in the centre, as well as on the surface;
and by the continued action of the source of cold, the
wind, the whole mass of water in the lake would be frozen into
a solid block of ice. The watery sap in the vessels of the
aquatic plants, the blood in fishes and other animals inhabiting
the water, would be equally frozen, and all these living
beings consequently killed. Further, on the approach of summer,[Pg 64]
by the first heating action of the air and sun, a layer of
ice, of a few inches thick upon the surface, would be melted,
but the water thus produced would, by being impenetrable to
heat, prevent the great body of ice below from being affected.
Just as, in reality, the cold water at the surface prevents the
warmer water below from being cooled, so then it would prevent
the colder ice below from being warmed; and hence the
heats of summer passing over without the melting process
extending beyond a few feet in depth, the first cold days of
the next winter would solidify all again.

In every country, therefore, where at present water is frozen
at all in winter, we should have there established the reign of
perpetual frost. By the presence of such large masses of ice,
the temperature of the ground would be so much reduced,
that, in place of the rich herbage of our meadows, and the
luxuriant produce of our corn-fields, we should have our country
yielding a scanty support to wandering herds of deer, in
the mosses and lichens that could be scraped up from beneath
the snow. The oaks, the beeches, the horse-chesnuts, which
give such beauty to our sylvan scenery, would disappear, and
the monotony of wildernesses of the Scotch fir and of the
spruce would be varied only by patches of stunted birch. The
countries nearer the tropics would be gradually brought into
the same condition, by the depression of their mean temperature;
and thus, in a short time after water had ceased to possess
this peculiar property, the whole surface of the globe would be
reduced to the condition of which we now happily only read in
the tales of the arctic voyagers; and all commerce, manufactures,
and civilization, would be banished from the earth. Of
such value is this little peculiarity of water!

A property of water, which, however, unlike the former, it
shares with all other liquids, is, that when it freezes it gives
out a large quantity of heat; and that conversely, in order that
ice may melt, it must obtain, from some other source, a quantity
equally considerable. Consequently, water freezes and
ice melts very slowly; and that it should melt thus slowly, is
of essential importance in animated nature. If in spring or
summer, when vegetable life is in activity, when the development
of leaves, of flowers, and fruit, is at its greatest energy,
end all the vessels of the plant are distended with its nutritious
juices, were it suddenly exposed to cold, the sap would be
frozen, and by the expansion of the ice the vegetable tissues
torn to pieces, and the plant killed. In the thin extremities, as
in the leaves, such is the effect of the frost of a single night;
but as the fluids, yielding but gradually up their latent heat,
solidify very slowly, the injury does not extend so far as to be
beyond the remedial powers of the plant itself. In another
way, however, the peculiar latent heat of water is of still more
importance. If there was no large collection of water on the
globe, the change of seasons would be amazingly more rapid
and more remarkable than they at present are. A change in
the direction of the wind, the alteration which a few weeks
should effect in the position of the sun, would transfer us from
the depth of the severest colds of winter to the summer heats.
These colds and heats would also be much greater than they
at present are, and an approximation to this actually occurs
in countries far distant from the sea. The central districts of
Europe and of Asia have what are termed continental climates
to distinguish them from ours, which is called insular.
Their summers are hotter, their winters are much colder, and
the spring and autumn seasons of passage, which with us
might be said to occupy most of the year, are in those countries
of only a few weeks’, or even a few days’, duration. In
fact, when on the cessation of summer the first cold winds
tend to bring on the winter, and to bind up our lakes in frost,
the first portion of water frozen becomes, by giving up its
latent heat, a source of warmth which tempers the chilly air,
and retards its action on the remainder. The water freezes
thus very slowly. The vegetables, and certain classes of animals,
feeling the cold of winter thus gradually coming on, prepare
to meet it without injury. The motion of the sap in the
one, that of the blood in the other class of living beings, becomes
slower, and, dropping its leaves and fruit, the tree retains
but its firm trunk, within which its energies are preserved
for the ensuing season; whilst the hedgehog, the viper, the
frog, and other animals, retire to their hiding-places, and in a
state of almost lifeless stupor remain until the warmth of the
succeeding spring calls them to renewed existence.

In the formation of the insular climate which we possess,
another power of water, however, equally or perhaps more
influential, can be traced. There issues continually from the
ocean at the equator, as the earth revolves, a current of water
considerably warmer than that which bathes our shores. This
current becoming sensible first in the Gulf of Mexico, is called
the Gulf Stream; it passes obliquely across the Atlantic, floating
on the colder water of the ocean, which tends in a direction
nearly opposite to replace it, and thus diffuses over the
coasts of North America and Europe the heat which it had
absorbed within the torrid zone. The northerly winds, which
would bring down a sudden winter on us, are therefore tempered
by passing over the warmer surface of the ocean; whilst
the hot winds from the south, which on the approach of spring
might make too premature a change, expend, in passing over
the great expanse of sea, a portion of their heat; and thus the
transition in both directions is rendered more gradual and
harmless.

These are but a few of the important duties which are allotted
to water in its place in nature. It in other respects
presents an equally interesting subject of examination, and it
is one to which we shall return. From its value as the great
agent of nutrition to the vegetable world, and the necessity of
a supply of it to animals; from its power in modifying the appearance
and structure of a country, changing land into sea,
and elevating banks where deep water had been before, the
philosophers of old looked upon water as the origin of all
earthly things, as being above all others the element of nature.
It is not so: water is not an element. Among other wonders
which chemistry has taught us, we have learned of what
water is composed; and on another occasion we shall describe
the way in which its elements may be obtained.

K.

Celebration of the Fourth of July in New York.—On
this day, the anniversary of American independence, all
creation appeared to be independent; some of the horses particularly
so, for they would not troop “in no line not nohow.”
Some preferred going sideways, like crabs; others went backwards,
some would not go at all, others went a great deal too
fast, and not a few parted company with their riders, whom they
kicked off just to show their independence. And the women
were in the same predicament: they might dance right or
dance left; it was only out of the frying-pan into the fire,
for it was pop, pop; bang, bang; fiz, pop, bang; so that you
literally trod upon gunpowder. The troops did not march in
very good order, because, independently of their not knowing
how, there was a good deal of independence to contend with.
At one time an omnibus and four would drive in and cut off
the general and his staff from his division; at another, a cart
would roll in and insist upon following close upon the band of
music; so that it was a mixed procession—generals, omnibus
and four, music, cart-loads of bricks, troops, omnibus and
pair, artillery, hackney-coach, &c. “Roast pig” is the favourite
“independent” dish, and in New York on the above day
are “six miles of roast pig.” viz. three miles of booths on each
side of Broadway, and roast pig in each booth! Rockets are
fired in the streets, some running horizontally up the pavement,
and sticking into the back of a passenger; and others
mounting slanting-dicularly, and Paul-Prying into the bedroom
windows on the third floor or attics, just to see how
things are going on there. On this day, too, all America gets
tipsy.—Captain Marryatt’s Diary in America.

Irish Dramatic Talent.—Difference of taste makes it
difficult, if not impossible, to say which is the best comedy
in the English language. Many, however, are of opinion that
there are three which more particularly dispute the palm—namely,
“She Stoops to Conquer,” “The School for Scandal,”
and “The Heiress;” and it is remarkable that the authors
of these three beautiful productions were all Irishmen—Goldsmith,
Sheridan, and Murphy.—Literary World.

The Morning.—The sweetness of the morning is perhaps
its least charm. It is the renewed vigour it implants in all
around that affects us—man, animals, birds, plants, vegetation,
flowers. Refreshed and soothed with sleep, man opens
his heart; he is alive to Nature, and Nature’s God, and his
mind is more intelligent, because more fresh. He seems to
drink of the dew like the flowers, and feels the same reviving
effect.—Illustrations of Human Life.