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LONDON SYSTEMS. [From "The Italian Exile," by Count Pecchio.] Some people are quite thunderstruck at the silence which prevails among the inhabitants of London. But how could one milliou four hundred thousand persons live together without silence? The torrent of men, women, and children, carts, carriages, and horses, from *.he Strand to the Exchange, is so strong, that it is said that in winter there are two degrees of Fahrenheit dilference between the atmosphere of this long line of street, and that of the West End. I have not ascertained the truth of this; but from the many avenues there are to the Strand, it is very likely to 'be correct. From Charing Cross to the Royal Exchange is an encyclopaedia of the world. An apparent anarchy prevails, but without confusion or disorder. The rules which the poet Gay lays down in his " Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of Loudon," for walking with safety along this tract of about three miles, appear to me unnecessary. The habit of traversing this whirlpool renders the passage easy to every one, without disputes, without accidents, without punctilio, as if there were no obstacle whatever. I suppose it is the same thing at Pekin. The silence then of the passengers is the consequence of the multiplicity of business. I do not say it by way of epigram, but if Naples should ever have a population of a million and a half, it would be necessary for even Neapolitan windpipes to put themselves under some restraint! It is only in Spain that silence is the companion of idleness.
In London I hare often risen early, in order to be present at the spectacle of the resurrection of a million and a half of people. This great monster of a capital, like an immense giant awaking, shows the first signs of life in the extremities. Motion begins at the circumference, and, by little and little, goes on getting strength, and pushing towards the centre, till at ten o'clock commences the full hubbub, which goes on continually increasing till four o'clock, the 'Change hour. It seems as if the population followed the laws of the tide until this hour; it now continues flowing from the circumference to the Exchange: at half-past four, when the Exchange is shut, the ebb begins ; and currents of people, coaches, and horses, rush from the Exchange to the circumference.
Among an industrious nation, incessantly occupied, panting lor riches, man, or physical force, is a valuable commodity. Man is dear, and it is therefore expedient to be very economical of him. It is not as in the countries of indolence, where the man and the earth alike have little or no value. A Turkish effendi, or gentleman, always walks about with a train of useless servants at his heels. In the same manner a Polish nobleman, or a grandee of Spain, consumes a great quantity of men, who are otherwise unproductive. 1 was to'.d that the Duke of Medini Celi has in his pay four hundred servants, and that he goes to the Prado in a carriage worse than a Parisian fiacre. It was the same in England when there was a foreign commerce, and no home manufactures. Not knowing in what way to consume their surplus revenues, the old English landowner used to maintain a hundred, and, in some cases, even a thousand followers. At the present day, the greatest houses have not more than ten or twelve servants; and, setting aside the wealthy, who are always an exception in every nation, and taking the greatest number, it cannot be denied that in England, and especially in London, there is a very great saving, both of time and of servants. But how can this be reconciled with the loudly vaunted comfort of the English? Thus: the milk, the bread, the butter, the beer, the fish, the meat, the newspaper, the letters—all are brought to the house every day, at the same hour, without fail, by the shopkeepers and the postmen. It is well known that all the street doors are kept shut, as is the custom in Florence and the other cities of Tuscany. In order that the neighbourhood should not be disturbed, it has become an understood thing for all tradespeople to give a single rap on the knocker, or a single pull at the bell, which communicates with the underground kitchen, where the servants are; while the postman distinguishes his visit by precisely two knocks. There is another conventual sign for visits, which consists in a rapid succession of knocks, the more loud and noisy according to the real or assumed consequence or fashion of the visitor.
This custom requires punctuality in servants, and an unfailing attendance at their posts. The price of every thing is fixed, so that there is no room for haggling, dispute, or gossip. All this going and coming of buyers and sellers is noiseless. Many bakers ride about London in vehicles so rapid, elastic, and elegant, that an Italian dandy would not disdain to appear in one of them at the Corso. The butchers may be frequently met with, conveying the meat to their distant customers, mounted on fiery steeds, and dashing along at full gallop. A system like this requires inviolable order and a scrupulous division of lime. For this reason there are clocks and watches every where—on every steeple, and sometimes on all the four sides of a ■teeple; in the pocket of every one; in the kitchen of the lowest journeyman. This is a nation working to the stroke of the clock, like an orchestra playing tc the *' time " of the leader, or a regiment marching tc the sound of the drum. Nothing can be more iuge. nious than the various ways in which the English contrive to mark the division of time. In some ma
chines, for example, at every certain number of strokes, | the machine rings a bell to inform the workmen of the fact. The tread-mill, introduced for a punishment: and an employment in the houses of correction, also ring! a bell every time it makes a certain number of i revolutions. In the wool-carding manufactory at | Manchester there is a species of clock to ascertain if the watchman, whose duty it is to guard against fire, has kept awake all the night. If, every quarter of an hour, he omits to pull a rope which hangs from the wall outside, the clock within notes down and reveals his negligence in the morning.
One shopman, therefore, in London, supplies the place of forty or fifty servants: the shops may be distant, and remotely situated, without any inconvenience. The shopkeepers themselves do not remain idle, and, instead of men, in some places lads or children are employed. The newspapers are circulated from house to house at a penny an hour; the carrier is a boy of ten or twelve years old, active as a sprite, exact as time, who brings them and takes tbem away.
By this system, the servants remain at home, with nothing to divert them from their occupations. The servant maids, especially, very seldom go out during all the week, until the arrival of Sunday sets them at liberty for three or four hours. It follows, also, that an English family has no need of keeping any great store of provisions in the house; there is in consequence less occupation of room, and less occasion for capital, less care, lest waste, less smell, and less wear and tear.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MASON. There was once upon a time a poor mason, or bricklayer, in Granada, who kept all the saints' days and holidays, and Saint Monday into the bargain, and yet, with all his devotion, he grew poorer and poorer, and could scarcely earn bread for his numerous family. One night he was roused from his first sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it, and beheld before him a tall, meagre, cadaverous-looking priest. "Hark ye, honest friend," said the strangbr, " I have observed that you are a good Christian, and one to be trusted; will you undertake a job this very night?"
"With all my heart, Senor Padre, on condition that I am paid accordingly." "That you shall be, but you must suffer yourself to be blindfolded."
To this the mason made no objection; so being hoodwinked, he was led by the priest through various rough lanes and winding passages until they stopped before the portal of a house. The priest then applied a key, turned a creaking lock, and opened what sounded like a ponderous door. They entered, the door was closed and bolted, and the mason was conducted through an echoing corridor and spacious hall, to an interior part of the building. Here the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he found himself in a patio, or court dimly lighted by a single lamp.
In the centre was the dry basin of an old Moorish fountain, under which the priest requested him to form a small vault, bricks and mortar being at hand for the purpose. He accordingly worked all night, but without finishing the job. Just before daybreak the priest put a piece of gold into his hand, and having agaiu blindfolded him, conducted him back to his dwelling.
"Are you willing," said he, "to return and complete your work?" "Gladly, Senor Padre, provided I am as well paid." "Well, then, to-morrow at midnight I will call again."
He did so, and the vault was completed. "Now," said the priest, "you must help me to bring forth the bodies that are to be buried in this vault."
The poor mason's hair rose on his head at these words; he followed the priest with trembling steps into a retired chamber of the mansion, expecting to behold some ghastly spectacle of death, but was relieved, on perceiving three or four portly jars standing in one corner. They were evidently full of money, and it was with great labour that he and the priest carried them forth and cuusigned them to their tomb. The vault was then closed, the pavement replaced, and alt traces of the work obliterated.
The mason was agaiu hoodwinked and led forth by a route different from that by which he had come. After they had wandered for a long time through a perplexed maze of lanes and alleys, they halted. The priest then put two pieces of gold into his hand. "Wait here," said he, "until you hear the cathedral bell toll for matins. If you presume to uncover your eyes before tliHt time, evil will befall you." So saying, he departed.
The mason waited faithfully, amusing himself by weighing the gold pieces in his hand, and clinking them against each other. The moment the cathedral bell rung its matin peel, he uncovered his eyes, and found himself on the banks of the Xeni), from whence he made the best of his way home, and revelled with his family for a whole fortnight on the profits of his two nights' work, after which he was as poor as ever.
He continued to work a little and pray a good deal, and keep holidays and saints' days from year to year, while his family grew up as gaunt and ragged as a crew of gipsies.
As he was seated one morning at the door of his hovel, he was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon who was noted for owning many houses and being a griping landlord.
The man of money eyed him for a moment from
beneath a pair of shagged eyebrows. "I am told, friend, that you are very poor." "There is no deny, ing the fact, Senor; it speaks for itself." "I presume, then, you will be glad of a job, and will work cheap." "As cheap, my master, as any mason iu Granada."
"That's what I want. I have an old house fallen to decay, that cost me more money than it is worth to keep it in repair, for nobody will live in it; so I must contrive to patch it up and keep it together at as small expense as possible."
The mason was accordingly conducted to a hogs deserted house that seemed going to ruin. Passing through several empty balls and chambers, he entered an inner court, where his eye was caught by an old Moorish fountain.
He paused for a moment. "It seems," said he, "as if I had been in this place before; but it is like a dream. Pray, who occupied this house formerly?"
"A pest upon him!" cried the landlord, "it was an old miserly priest, who cared for nobody but himself. He was said to he immensely rich, and, having no relations, it was thought he would leave all his treasure to the church. He died suddenly, and the priests and friars thronged to take possession of hit wealth; but nothing could they find but a few ducats in a leathern purse. The worse luck has fallen on me; for since his death, the old fellow continues to occupy my house without paying rent, and there's no taking the law of a dead man. The people pretend to hear at night the clinking of gold all night long in the chamber where the old priest slept, as if he were counting over his money, and sometimes a groaning and moaning about the court. Whether true or false, these stories have brought a bad name on my house, and not a tenant will remain in it."
"Enough," said the mason, sturdily—" Let me live in your house rent free until some better tenant presents, and I will engage to put it in repair and quiet the troubled spirits that disturb it. I am a good Christian and a poor man, and am not to be daunted."
The offer of the honest mason was gladly accepted; he moved with his family into the house, and fulfilled all his engagements. By little and little he restored it to its former state. The clinking of gold was no longer heard at night in the chamber of the defunct priest, but began to be heard by day in the pocket of the living mason. In a word, he increased rapidly in wealth, to the admiration of all his neighbours, and became one of the richest men in Granada. He gave large sums to the church, by way, no doubt, of satisfying his conscience, and never revealed the secret of the wealth until on his deathbed, to his son and heir.— Washington Irving.
Burks often made extempore rhymes the vehicle of his sarcasm: having heard a person, of no very elevated rank, talk loud and long of some aristocratic festivities in which he had the honour to mingle, Burns, when he was called upon for his song, chanted some verses, of which one has been preserved :— Of lordly acquaintance you boast.
And the dukes that you dined wi' yestreen,
Anecdote Of A Doo A small pet dog, belonging
to a gentleman in Fife, lately had six pups, one of which died, and was buried in the garden. Soon after, another took ill, and seemed likely to die also, when the mother carried the miserable creature out to the garden, scraped a hole, in which she deposited her offspring, and had proceeded to replace the earth, when her master entered, and, being attracted by a peepy cry, went up to the spot, and found the ailing pup nearly buried. There can be no doubt that the dog acted upon the principle of imitation.
Natural Affection Of A Lamb In the year
1010, a small enclosure in Leith Links, employed for keeping a few sheep, was broken into, and a ewe abstracted, the head of which was left by the depredators on the outside of the paling. In the morning, her lamb, only two days old, was found by the keeper standing over this relic of her parent, as if lamenting her fate, and could only be brought away by force.— Edinburgh Annual Register.
Plouoh And Harrows A clergyman in one of
the agricultural districts of Scotland had busied himself in producing an improved plough, about which he was for some time very " full," as the Scutch say, and accordingly, wherever he was, he was sure to overflow in reference to the subject. He afterwards employed his busy brain in editing a school Horace, of which foi some time he was also very "full." Calling one day upon a farmer in the neighbourhood, he said, " Well, have you seen my Horace?" "Na, sir," quoth the agriculturist, " 1 haena seen your harrows; but taw/ / kent your ploo I"
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CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM CHAMBERS, AUTHOR OF « THE BOOK OF SCOTLAND," &&, AND BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, AUTHOR OF "TRADITIONS OF EDINBURGH," "PICTURE OF SCOTLAND," &e.
SINCERITY. What honesty is in deeds, sincerity is in words—the ■est policy. It is a virtue, nevertheless, to which the artificial habit* of society are not very favourable. The forms of politeness, with all their utility, hare this disadvantage, that, in teaching to restrain the real sentiments and ideas which cannot conveniently be expressed, they are apt to lead to the expression of others which are not consistent with the truth. Insincerity, however, arises from many sources in the human character. In some it springs from the genuine love of concealment and intrigue. In others it is prompted by a dread of the consequences which they suppose would result from the disclosure of the truth. In others, it arises from a false love of approbation, the flattering of others seeming to them a sure way of gaining that object.
To the first of these classes of individuals, all that can be said is, that they possess a feature of character which they should endeavour to keep in check, as, if indulged, it caunot fail to procure them much contempt, and frustrate all those cherished views which they think by such means to realise.
To the second class, I would say, that, like all cowards, they are apt to miscalculate the supposed danger. Even if a dread of consequence were a fair excuse for a departure from truth, they should still reflect that they should not give way to it in a greater degree than is absolutely necessary. They will readily allow that to incur a considerable danger in endeavouring to escape a small one, can only be the mark of an imbecile mind. In the most of circumstances, the danger from telling the truth, as it is usually immediate, can at least be calculated with accuracy; but no one can tell what mischiefs are to ensue, in long-drawn succession, from either the saying of what is false, or the suppression of what is true. In general, the straight-forward course only threatens us with a slight loss of the respect of others, which the majesty ef sincerity is almost sure immediately to restore: but what an awful responsibility do we incur when we undertake to endure the unulleviated miseries, with which we are to be overpowered at that moment, when it is discovered that we were not only guilty of the fault, but destroyed our honour in a vain endeavour to conceal it! In the very dread of such a detection there must be infinitely greater pain than in the most humiliating confession. The timid insincere, wheu tempted to take this means of avoiding a little trouble, would do well to consider the one danger as well as the other, and not, for the sake of a trifle, pledge away more than the nature of the risk entitles them to stake. But persons of this kind often imagine there is danger where there is none, and act the hypocrite for nothing. They couceive themselves to be called upon either to assume certain feelings, which they would not naturally assume, or to put a disguise upon those which really animate them, and thus, from whatever cause —often from a mistaken deference to a few surrounding minds—subject themselves to the humbling and vitiating sense of doing what is mean and wrong; when a candid and conscientious course, so far from injuring them in any way, would gain them that approbation which sincerity never fails to command.
Insincere discourse towards others, for the sake of gaiuing a larger return of approbation, is so shortsighted and so contemptible a folly, that they must be weak indeed who are guilty of it. In more than one previous paper, an endeavour has been made to imprest the great truth, that, without genuine deserving!, there can be no genuine or estimable praise. All falae art* for obtaining the respect and admiration of our fellows, are labour in rain; or rather, by engross
ing present energies, and creating contempt in the discerning, serve but to postpone the time of genuine approbation. The peculiar mode here pointed at is no exception from the rule. The insincerity is much more liable to be detected than may be imagined, if not by the immediate object, at least by some other person; but, at the best, it can only impose upon those whose approbation is not worth having, or will, when obtained, be equally false. With the discerning and good, such a miserable expedient can only serve to raise the worst suspicions, neutralising the value of any little merit that may exist.
There is a kind of insincerity to which it may be more difficult to attach the idea of guilt, but which must not be overlooked. It is the abuse of the habit of innocent jesting. Some give themselves up so entirely to an ironical and bantering kind of discourse, and use a phraseology so full of whimsical slang, that their real sentiments are at length buried beneath a mass of rubbish, and, after knowing them for years, you become alive to the painful recollection, that, during the whole time, you have not found in their character a tingle pieee of solid ground whereon to rest your foot. Persons of thit kind live in a perpetual masquerade; they grow old with the rattle in their hands; and, while their neighbours are all more or less busied with seriout objects, aim at no higher gratification than that of being laughed at. All manly and estimable qualities in time sink under the habit; the motley, at first put on at a mask, eats in lime into the character itself; and that which was once perhaps a good and valid human being, is found in the end a mere painted husk. There is, in contrast with tuch a habit, an open and pure kind of tpeech which, however homely itt tone, or in whatever dialect it may be expressed, dignifies every one who uses it, and it unquestionably conducive to moral excellence.
In the indulgence of every kind of dissimulation, in whatever circumstances, there it much danger. However innocent a transaction may be in itself, however absolute may appear the necessity of managing it clandestinely, it cannot be to carried into effect without injury to virtue. In the very consciousness of putting a veil over our thoughts, there is a sure degradation. Hence, smugglers, conspirators, and the members of various ambuscading profesaions, however convinced they may be of the abstract Innocence, and even praise-worthiness of their practices, in time become vitiated. It is of very great importance that the course of our lives should be such that we have little to conceal.
In conclusion, to all who may be disposed by nature or "evil communications" to the vice of insincerity, I would not only represent the obvious disadvantages which follow the practice of the vice, but also the great advantages which accrue from the opposite virtue. No one can reflect on the vast number of evils and inconveniences which afflict society on account of the necessity of being guarded against possible insincerity; no one can reckon up the fears, discomforts, and expense of both money and pains, which are every where occasioned by the few who habitually depart from truth,—or contemplate the happiness which would attend even a sublunary world, where truth prevailed more generally; without feeling that he cannot in himself practise a virtue more useful to his kind, or accord to any fellow-creature greater praise than to say that he is sincere. But, besides the lustre with which we are invested by the practice of sincerity, there is the comfort of the still brighter and more blessed light which it kindles in our own bosoms. He who is conscious of sincerity can scarcely know fear: he walks through the wilderness of this world,
in the placid enjoyment of an internal fountain of happiness, which can neither be damaged nor impaired.
A GLANCE AT THE NEW FOREST.
Be my retreat
Between the groaning forest and the shore, A rural, shelter*d, solitary scene-—Thomson. In that pleasant sunny district of "merry England" which lies on the borders of the British Channel, opposite the Isle of Wight, and within the boundaries of Hampshire, liea the New Forest, or rather the tcattcred remains of that once famous hunting ground. What an antiquity does this tract of woodland boast, though still receiving the appellation of New! It was originally made a forest by William the Conqueror in the year 1079, about thirteen years after the battle of Hastings, and it took the designation of New, from itt being an addition to the many forests which the crown already possessed. According to the chroniclers of the period, William laid waste at least thirty miles of cultivated lands, and committed great devastations on the property of the inhabitants, in dedicating the place as a hunting ground, and partially covering it with trees.*
In those days, however, it was a matter of little ceremony either to make or enlarge a forest. The king was invested with the privilege of having his place of recreation and pleasure wherever he might appoint. Agreeably to this arrangement the royal forests were regulated; each had itt government and laws, which were sufficiently annoying; and in this manner the right of hunting or taking game became a peculiar privilege of the monarch and thote who enjoyed his favour. The idea of forest law and forest rights obtained early, indeed in Saxon timet. But the Saxon princes were in general a mild race, and there were tome traces of liberal sentiment in their institutions. The Norman princes were a different race. They increated the rigour of the forett lawt, and to tuch an extent wat the rigour carried, that, till the reign of one of the Edwardt, it was death to be guilty of killing a hawk. Forest law it now abolished, but the officials who are entrusted with the care of the New Forest, still in some measure continue to exercise their functions. The principal functionary is the lord-warden, who it appointed by the crown, and beneath whom there are rangera and other officials, for preservation of the game and timber. We believe that some of the ancient offices are now disused, especially that of bow.bearer. It was the duty of this personage to attend the king with a bow and arrowt whilst in the forest. Hit talary was forty shillings per annum, with a fee of a buck and doe yearly.
The keepers and under-keepers form the principal executive in this ancient domain. According to Gilpin, the under-keeper feeds the deer in winter, browses them in summer, knowt where to find a fat buck, executei the king't warrants for venison, presents offences in the forest courts, and prevents the destruction of game. In this last article his virtue is chiefly shown, and to this purpose the memory of every souud keeper should be furnished with this cabalistic verseStable stand, Dog draw, Back bear, and
Bloody hand. 1 It implies the several circumstances in which offend, ers may be taken with the manner, as it is phrased. If a man be found armed, and stationed in some sus
* The greater part of what follows is a condensation from "Oilpin's Forest Scenery," as edited and considerably extended by Sir Thomas Dick Lauder; 2 vols.; Fraser and Co., Edinburgh; and Smith, Elder, and Co., London, 1834.
picious part of the forest—or if he be found with a dog pursuing a stricken deer—or if he be found carrying a dead deer on hii back—or laatly, if he be found bloody in the forest—he is, in all these cases, seizable, though the fact of killing a deer cannot be proved upon him.
With regard to the woods of the forest, which were originally considered only as they respected game, the first officer under the lord-warden is the woodward. It is his business, as his title denotes, to inspect the woods. He prevents waste, he sees that young trees are properly fenced, and he assigns timber for the payment of forest officers. This timber is sold by auction at the court at Lyndhurst, and annually amounts to about seven hundred pounds, which Is the sum required. Besides the woodward, there is an officer with the title of purveyor, whose duty it is to assign timber from the forest for the use of the navy.
One of the most noted officers of the forest in bygone times was Henry Hastings, second son of the Earl of Huntingdon, and who exercised the vocation of keeper in the reigns of James and Charles I. Hastings was not less celebrated as a sportsman than noted for his eccentricity of manners, which partook largely of tiie humours of the old English squire. He was a man of low stature, but very strong and very active, of a ruddy complexion, with flaxen hair; and his clothes were always of green cloth—a colour dedicated from time immemorial to the dress of English foresters and hunters. His house was of the old fashion, in the midst of a large park, well stocked with deer, rabbits, and fish-ponds. He had a long narrow bowling green in it, and used to play with round sand-bowls. Here, too, he had a banqueting room built like a stand in a large tree. He kept all sorts of hounds, that ran buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and bad hawks of all kinds, both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hank-perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. The k upper end of it wus hung with fox-skins of this and
the last year's killing. Here aud there a polecat was intermixed, and hunter's poles in great abundance. The parlour was a large room, completely furnished in the same style. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels. One or two of the great chairs had litters of cats in them, which were not to be disturbed. Of these three or four always attended him at dinner; and a little white wand lay by his trencher to defend it if they were too troublesome. In the windows, which were very large, lay his arrows, cross-bows, and other accoutrements. The corners of the room were filled with his best hunting and hawking poles. His oyster-table stood at the lower end of the room, which was in constant use twice a-day all the year round; for he never failed to eat oysters both at dinner and supper, with which the neighbouring town of Pool supplied bim. At the upper end uf the room stood a small table with a double desk; one side of which held a church Bible, the other, tbe Book of Martyrs. On different tables in the room lay hawks' hoods, bells, old hats with their crowns thrust in, full of pheasant eggs, tables, dice, cards, aud store of tobacco pipes. At one end of this room was a door, which opened into a closet, where stood bottles of strong beer and wine, which never came out but in single glasses, which was the rule of the house, for he never exceeded himself, nor permitted others to exceed. Answering to this closet, was a dour iuto an old chapel, which bad been long disused for devotiou; but in the pulpit, as the safest place, was always to be found a cold chine of beef, a venison pasty, a gammon of bacon, or a great apple pie, with thick crust, well baked. His uble eost him not much, though it was good to eat at. His sports supplied all but beef and mutton; except on Fridays, wheu he had the best of iish. He never wanted a London pudding; aud he always sang it in with, "My part lies therein-a." He drank a glass or two of wiue at meals, put syrup of gilly-flowers into his sack, and had always a tunglass of small beer standing by him, which he often stirred about with rosemary. This remarkable individual lived to be a hundred years of age, and never lost his eyesight, nor used spectacles. He got on horseback without help, and rode to the death of the stag till he was past fourscore.
It is well known, from the history of England, that the death of William Bufus (the son and successor of the Conqueror, and who had been instrumental in planting aud extending the forest) took place withiu tbe bounds uf the New Forest, being shot by an arrow from the bow of Sir Waller TyrreL, who bad aimed at a stag as it passed along through the glade. The spot on which this transaction occurred was, it seems, marked by an oak, which survived until some time during last century. Before the stump was removed, a stone was erected at the place by the hue Lord Delaware, on which there is an appropriate inscription commemorative of the event, aud of the tree which bad formerly stood on tbe spot.
Alter having been a royal hunting ground for centuries, the New Forest declined iuto the character of a district of cro^n lands, from which a small revenue is still derived. Notwithstanding the once rigorous forest laws, aud the continuance of an establishment of rangers and keepers, the New Forest has been prodigiously impaired in respect of its wood, and encroached upon by settlers. It would appear to have been a sort of No man's-land, where every audacious intruder might take his prey, not only uf venison and
timber, but squat himself down with bis hut, and there make good his territorial right. In the present day, the forest exhibits long open walks and spacious glades; hers a beautiful secluded park surrounded by tufted gnarled oaks, there a heathy spot, enjoying the beams of the sun, and showing the ground covered with wild and delicious strawberries, and other small lowly fruits, most refreshing to the traveller. In some places there have been inclusures for cultivation, and throughout the domain there are now several excellent highways, leading to and from tbe different towns and villages in the vicinity. The forest still possesses many noble deer, notwithstanding the excess of poaching which has prevailed. The accouut given by Gilpin and his illustrator, of the system of encroaching and poaching, presents a curious view of the state of affairs in the forest. "There are multitudes of trespassers on every side, who build their little huts, and enclose their little gardens aud patches of ground, without leave or ceremony of any kind. The underkeepers, who have constant orders to destroy all these enclosures, now and then assert the rights of the forest by throwing down a fence; but it requires a legal process to throw down a house of which possession has beeu taken. The trespasser therefore here, as on other wastes, is careful to rear his cottage, and get into it as quickly as possible. I have kuoxvn all the materials of one of these habitations brought together —the house built—covered in—the goods removed— a lire kindled—and the family in possession, during the course of a moonlight night. Sometimes, indeed, where the trespass is inconsiderable, the possessor has beeu allowed to pay a fine for his laud in the court of Lyndhurst. But these trespasses are generally in the outskirts of the forest, or in the neighbourhood of some little hamlet. They are never suffered in the interior parts, where no lands are alienated from the crown, except in regular grants.
We have been informed (hat ins mces have occurred of small wooden houses having been secretly constructed in Southampton, and then actually transported upon wheels during the night to some spot in the New Forest, where they were set down, occupied, and afterwards added to by degrees, the ground around them being taken in from time to time as opportunity offered; nay, we have even been assured that some of the most splendid residences in the forest have had no other origin.
The many advantages which the borderers on forests enjoy, such as rearing cattle and hogs, obtaining fuel at an easy rate, and procuring little patches of land for the trouble of enclosing it, would add much, one should imagine, to the comfort of their lives. But in fact it is otherwise. These advantages procure them not half the enjoyments of common day-labourers. In geueral, they are an indolent race, poor aud wretched iu the extreme. Instead of having the regular returns of a week's labour to subsist on, too many of them depend on the precarious supply of forest pilfer. Their ostensible business is commonly to cut furze, and carry it to the neighbouring brick kilns; for which purpose they keep a team of two or three forest horses; while their collateral support is deer-stealing, poaching, or purloining timber. In this last occupation th£y are said to have been Mi expert, that in a night's lime they would have cut down, carried off, and lodged safely in the hands of some receiver, one of the largest oaks of the forest. But tbe depredations which have been made in timber, along all tbe skills of the forest, have rendered this species of theft at present but an unprofitable employment. In poaching aud deer.siealiug they often find their best account; in all the arts of which many of them are well practised. From their earliest youth they learn to set the trap and the gin for hares and pheasants; to ensnare deer by hanging hooks, bailed with apples, frum the boughs of trees ; and (as they become bolder proficients) to watch the herd with fire-arms, and single out a fat buck as he passes the place of their concealment."
The whole of the roads through the New Forest are delightful, and the rides and drives they yield are all sufficiently charming in themselves. But if one would
Find tongues in trees, bocks In the running brooks,
he must abjure the common every-day path, and drive
into the depths of the forest. The lover of beautiful woodland scenery will be delighted with that division of the forest which is confined by the Beaulieu river and the bay of Southampton. "It is uow many years since we first visited it (says Sir Thomas); but we have still a fresh recollection of toe delights of that day, when, having left Yarmouth in tbe laJe of W ight early in tbe morning, we were landed somewhere near the mouth of tbe Lymington river, whence, without a guide or companion of any kind, we set out to find our way instinctively, as it were, through the labyrinths uf the forest towards Beaulieu and the Southampton river. Limbs which had been trained upon the Scottish mountains gave but little consideration to tbe fatigue occasioned by those continued deviations from the direct line which fancy prompted, or ignorance of the localities betrayed us into; our route, therefore, was of the most careless description, and we gave ourselves entirely up to the luxurious enjoyment of these solitudes amongst which we wandered. Sometimes we seated ourselves under the shade of a wide spreading oak to listen in vaiu for sounds indicating life, and pondering ou the huge stems u Inch every where
upreared themselves around us, aud on the many and the mighty events which had followed one another in succession since they hud first developed themselves from the tiny acorns whence they had sprung; and whilst thus indolently disposed, some of the leathercoated citizens of these wilds, full of the pasture, would sweep past us, scarcely deigning to throw a look of inquiry towards us. Again we would arise to wander whither fancy led us, striving to penetrate amid the mysteries of the forest, and becoming more and more perplexed at every step by the depth of its shades; and anon, an increase of light before us would gradually disclose an embayed portion of the sea, surrounded by magnificent oaks in all their splendour of head, and animated by the cheering operations of shipbuilding. In short, the variety and beauty of these forest scenes were so fascinating, that we forgot time, space, and position, and were nearly paying the forfeit of our pleasure by spending the night beneath the shelter of some of the tangled thickets of these sylvan wildernesses."
THE BRAIN—ITS CONDITION IN EARLY LIFE.
[Being Extract Second from the Work of Dr Brigham.] Since at first no organ is fully developed and prepared for the powerful execution of its appropriate function, let us inquire at what time of life nature has prepared the brain for the performance of the important office of manifesting the mind.
Let us begin with the infant, and ascertain what is the condition of ita brain in early life.
The brain of a new-born infant weighs about ten ounces; that of an adult, generally, three pounds ami a bait', apothecaries' weight, frequently a little less. But if the mind of an adult has been long devoted te thought, if he has been engaged in constant study, bin brain is usually increased, beyond this weight. Tbe brain of Byron, for instance, it said to have weighed four pounds aud a half; and that of the illustrious C'uvier, four pounds thirteen ounces and a half. Tbe size of this organ increases from the time of birth till manhood, remains stationary from this period until old age, and then diminishes in bulk and weight. The relative aize of its different portions constantly varies during several of the first years of life, and it is not until about the seventh year that all its parts are formed. During childhood it ia very soft, and even almost liquid uuder the finger, and its different parts cannot be clearly distinguished. Still at this time it is supplied with more blood, in proportion to its size, thau at any subsequent period. It then grows most rapidly, aud more rapidly than any other organ: its weight is nearly doubled at the end of the first sis months; and hence the nervous system, being connected with the brain, is early developed, and becomes the predominating system iu youth. At this period of life, however, which is devoted to tbe iu. crease uf the body, it is necessary that the nervous system should predominate; for this system is the source of all vital movement, aud presides over, and gives energy to those actions which tend to the growth uf the organisation. Besides, ' Infancy,' says Bichat, 'is the age of sensation. At every thing is new to tbe infAiit, every thing attracts its eyes, ears, nostrils, die. That which to us is an object of indifference, is to it a source of pleasure. It was then necessary that the nervous cerebral system should be adapted by its early developement to the degree of action which it is then to have.'
But this great and early developement, though necessary for the above purposes, very much increases the liability to disease: it gives a tendency to convulsions, and to inflammation and dropsy of the brain, and to other diseases of the nervous system, which are most common aud fatal ia childhood.
It is therefore deeply important that the natural action of the nervous system should not be much increased, either by too much exercise of the mind, or by too strong excitement of the feelings, lest at the same time the liability of children to nervous diseases be increased, aud such a predominance given to tl.it system as to make it always easily excited, and disposed to sympathise with disorder in any part of the body; thus generating a predisposition to hypochondriasis and numerous afflicting nervous affections.
Mental excitement increases the Hew of blood to the head, aud augments the size and power of the brain, just as exercise of the limbs enlarges and strengthens tbe muscles of tbe limbs exercised. Tbe wonderful powers of mind which an infant or child sometimes manifests, and by which be surpasses ordinary children, do not arise from better capacity in the mind itself of the child, but, in fact, from a greater enlargement than usual of some portion or the whole of the brain, by which the mind is sooner enabled to manifest its powers. This enlargement takes place whether the mental precocity arises from too early and frequeut exercise of the mind, or from disease, and it must arise iu one of these two ways. But, iu my opinion, mental precocity is generally a symptom of disease; aud hence those who exhibit it very frequently die young. This fact ought to be specially remembered by parents, soma of whom regard precocity, unless accompanied by visible disease, as a most gratifying indication; and, on accouut of it, task the memory aud intellect of the child. Sometimes, however, it is accompanied by visible deformity of the head, and then the fears of parents are greatly asrsssw
ened. Take, for instance, the disease known by tbe name of rickets. Every person understands that this is a disease of childhood, and, according to the best medical authorities, it arises from the irritation or inflammation of some organ, and frequently of the brain. Its most characteristic symptoms when it affects the brain, are an enlargement of tbe head, and premature developement of the intellectual faculties. On examining the heads of those who have died of this disease, the brain is found very voluminous, but ordinarily healthy. Meckel observes, that its mass is increased in rickets; an effect gradually produced, without disorganisation of the brain by increased action in its bloodvessels, and the consequent transmission to it of more blood than usual. Being thus augmented in size, increased mental power is the consequence of this augmentation. 'One of the most remarkable phenomena in the second stage of rickets,* says M. Monfalcon, ' is the precocious developement, and the energy of the intellectual faculties. Kickety children have minds active and penetrating; their wit is astonishing; they are susceptible of lively passions, and have perspicacity which does not belong to their age. Their brains enlarge in the same manner as the cranium dues.' lie adds, 'this wonderful imagination, this judgment, this premature mental power which rickets occasion, has but a short duration. The intellectual faculties are soon exhausted by the precocity and energy of this developement.'
I do not say or believe that cautious tasking of the minds uf young children will frequently cause this disease, but I believe there is great danger that it will produce the same unnatural growth of the brain, and this will give rise to an exhibition of superior mental power, and be followed, as in the case of rickets, by permanent weakness, or loss of mental energy. That an increase of mental power results from other diseases besides rickets, which stimulate the brain, is evident in many instances; as in levers that affect the head, in inflammation of the brain, and insanity.
The memory sometimes receives a wonderful addition of power from an increased flow of blood to the head, caused bv some slight irritation, or stimulation of the brain. Dr Ahercrombie relates the case of a boy who was trepanned for a fracture of the skull at the age of four. He was at the time in complete stupor, aud after his recovery retained no recollection of the operation. At the age of fifteen, during the delirium of a fever, he gave a correct description of the operation, and the persons that were present at it, with their dress and other minute particulars. It is added, that he had never been heard to allude to it before, and no means are known by which he could have acquired • knowledge of the circumstances he mentioned. I have myself seen repeated instances of the increase of the power of memory during delirium, paroxysms of fever, and other affections which determined more blood than usual to the head.
Intoxication sometimes increases the energy of the Intellectual faculties, and revives the memory. Mr Combe mentions the case of a porter, who, in a state of intoxication, left a parcel at a wrong bouse, aud, when sober, could not recollect what he had done with it. But the next time he became stimulated with liquor, he recollected where he had left it. From such facte we learn that the varying states of the organisation have a powerful influence upon the intellectual and moral faculties; and that to affect the mind beneficially, and to increase and perpetuate its energy, it is necessary to give constant attention to the agents that act upon the body, and watch that they do not injure the mind by too much excitement of the physical system, nor prevent the proper developement of its powers, by too little; for wine, and all other unnatural stimuli, though they may for a short time quicken and give energy to the intellect, ultimately depress and enfeeble it; and on the other hand, longcontinued low diet, and a want of sufficient nutriment for tbe body, debilitates the mind.
I proceed to mention additional cases, to prove that mental power Is increased by the action of the brain. During an attack of delirium, many people have learned to read and write with great rapidity, but have been unable to do either after their reason returned, and increased determination of blood to the brain had ceased. Another attack of insanity, however, revived their memory, and their ability to read and write. But tbe most remarkable and instructive case within my knowledge, one that serves to show the influence of the organisation and action of the brain on the mental and moral character, and which appears to me very deserving of the consideration of the metaphysician, is related in the American Journal of Medical Sciences, for 1829, by Professor Horner, of the Univernity of Pennsylvania.
Master William M., the fourth child of his parents, was born in Philadelphia on the 4th of June 1820. At birth his head was of ordinary size, but very soon after an attack of dropsy of the brain, it began to grow Inordinately. After he began to walk, its size was so great that he attracted much atteution; and he was apt to fall, especially forwards, from readily losing his equilibrium. His health was generally good.
Dec 12, 1828, he fell against a door, and bruised bis forehead; in an hour afterwards he vomited, became rery sick, and died the next evening. During his short sickness he had no headache, and complained Only of his stomach.
On examining his head the day after his death, it was found to be considerably larger than that of a full
grown person, measuring twenty-eight inches in cir.
The following interesting account of this child's
Of a grave and quiet temperament, he preferred the society of his seniors, and took little interest in the common pastimes of childhood. Only sedate children were agreeable to him. Often advising others, he presented in his own conduct a fine exemplification of his principles, being distinguished among the children of the family and the school for love of truth and general sincerity of character. At length, even while in full health and rigour, he spoke of death as a thing to be desired; and when dying, expressed pleasure at the approaching crisis.
The following, in my opinion, is the true explanation of the surprising mental powers exhibited by this boy :—Disease, or some other cause, irritated his brain; this irritation attracted more than an ordinary quantity of blood to the head, and thus excited, and unnaturally or prematurely developed, certain portions of the brain; and just in proportion as these were developed, his mental powers were increased.
I have repeatedly seen cases very similar to the
It is thus that a child is made an intellectual pro-
The activity of most of the organs of the body can
be very greatly increased; they can be made to perform their functions for a while with unusual facility and power. Every employment in which men engage brings into relatively greater action particular parts of the system; some organs are constantly and actively exercised, while others are condemned to inactivity. To make, therefore, one organ superior to another in power, it is necessary not only to exercise it frequently, but to render other organs inactive, so as not to draw away from it that vital energy which it requires iu order to be made perfect.
The important truth resulting from these facts, that the more any part of the human system is exercised, the more it is enlarged, and its powers increased, applies equally to all organs of the body; it applies to the brain as well as the muscles. I would have the parent, therefore, understand that his child may be made to excel in almost anything; that by increasing the power of certain organs through exercise, he can be made a prodigy of early mental or muscular activity. But I would have him at the same time understand the conditions upon which this can be effected, and its consequences. I would have him fully aware that in each case, unusual activity and power is produced by extraordinary developement of an organ; and especially that in early life no one organ of the body can be disproportionately exercised, without the risk of most injurious consequences. Either the overexcited and over-tasked organ itself will be injured, for life, or the derelopement of other and essential parts of the system will be arrested for ever.
A TALE OF THE SIEGE OF NAMUR. On the morning of the 30th August 1695, just as the sun began to tinge the dark and blond-stained battlements of Namur, a detaohment of Mackay's Scottish regiment made their rounds, relieving the last nightsentinels, and placing those of the morning. As soon as the party returned to their quarters, and relaxed from the formalities of military discipline, their leader, a tall muscular man, of about middle age, with a keen eye and manly features, though swarthy and embrowned with toil, and wearing an expression but little akin to the gentle or the amiable, moved to an angle of the bastion, and, leaning on his spontoon, fixed an anxious gaze on the rising sun.
While he remained in this position, he was approached by another officer, who, slapping him roughly on the shoulder, accosted him in these words—" What, Monteith f are you in a musing mood? Pray, let me have the benefit of your morning meditations." "Sir 1" said Monteith, turning hastily round; "Oh! 'tis you, Keppel. What think you of this morning?" "Why, that it will be a glorious day for some; and for you and me, I hope, among others. Do you know that the Elector of Bavaria purposes a general assault to-day?" "I might guess as much, from the preparations going on. Well, would it were to-morrow 1" "Sure you are not afraid, Monteith?" "Afraid 1 It is not worth while to quarrel at present; but methinks you, Keppel, might have spared that word. There are not many men who might utter it and live." "Nay, I meant no offence: yet permit me to say, that your words and manner are strangely at variance with your usual bearing on a battle-morn."
"Perhaps so," replied Monteith; "and, but that your English prejudices will refuse assent, it might be accounted for. That sun will rise to-morrow with equal power and splendour, gilding this earth's murky vapours, but I shall not behold his glory." "Now, do tell me some soothful narrative of a second-sighted seer," said Keppel; "I promise to do my best to believe it. At any rate, I will not laugh outright, I assure you." "I fear not that. It is no matter to excite mirth ; and, in truth, I feel at present strangely inclined to he communicative. Besides, I have a request to make; and I may as well do something to induce you to grant it." "That I readily will, if is my power," replied Keppel. "So, proceed with your story, if you please." "Listen attentively, then, and be at once my first and my last confidant.
"Shortly after the battle of Bothwell Bridge, I joined the troop commanded by Irvine of Bonshaw; and gloriously did we scour the country, hunting the rebel Covenanters, and acting our pleasure upon man, woman, and child, person and property. I was then but young, and, for a time, rather witnessed than acted in the wild and exciting commission which we so amply discharged. But use is all in all. Ere half a dozen years had sped their round, I was one of the prettiest men in the troop at every thing. It was in the autumn of 1684, as I too well remember, that we were engaged in beating up the haunts of the Covenanters on the skirts of Galloway and Ayrshire. A deep mist, which covered the moors thick as a shroud —friendly at times to the Whigs, but in the present instance their foe—concealed our approach, till we were close upon a numerous conventicle. We hailed, and bade them stand; but, trusting to their mosses and glens, they scattered and fled. We pursued in various directions, pressing hard upon the fugitives. In spite of several morasses which I had to skirt, and difficult glens to thread, being well mounted, I gained rapidly on a young mountaineer, who, finding escape by flight impossible, bent his course to a house at a short distance, as hoping for shelter there, like a hare to her form. I shouted to him to stand; he ran on. Again I hailed him, but he heeded not; when,
dreading to lose all trace of him should he gain the house, I fired. The bullet took effect. He fell, and his heart's blood gushed on his father's threshold. Just at that instant, an aged woman, alarmed by the gallop of my horse, and the report of the pistol, rushed to the door, and, stumbling, fell upon the body of her dying Sod. She raised his drooping head upon her knee, kissed his bloody brow, and screamed aloud, 'Oh, God of the widow and the fatherless, have mercy on me!' One ghastly, convulsive shudder shook all her nerves, and the next moment they were calm as the steel of my sword; then raising her pale and shrivelled countenance, every feature of which was fixed in the calm unearthly earnestness of utter despair, or perfect resignation, she addressed me, every word falling distinct and piercing on my ear like dropping musketry—' And hast thou this day made me a widowed, childless mother? Hast thou shed the precious blood of this young servant of Jehovah? And canst thou hope that thy lot will be one of unmingled happiness? Go! red-handed persecutor! Follow thine evil way! But hear one message of truth from a feeble and unworthy tongue. Remorse, like a bloodhound, shall dog thy steps; and the serpent of an evil conscience shall coil around thy heart. From this hour thou shalt never know peace. Thou shalt seek death, and long to meet it as a friend; but it shall flee thee: and when thou shalt begin to love life, and dread death, then shall thine enemy come upon thee; and thou shalt not escape. Hence to thy bloody comrades, thou second Cain !—thou accursed and banished from the face of Heaven and of mercyI' 'Old wretch !' I exclaimed, 'it would take little to make me send thee to join thy psalm-singing offspring!' 'Well do I know that thou wouldst, if thou wert permitted,' replied she. 'But go thy way, and bethink thee how thou wilt answer to thy Creator for this morning's work!' And, ceasing to regard me, she stooped her head over the dead body of her son. I could endure no more, but wheeled round, and galloped off to join my companions.
From that hour I felt myself a doomed and miserable man. In vain did I attempt to banish from my mind the deed I had done, and the words I had heard. In the midst of mirth and revelry, the dying groan of the youth, and the words of doom spoken by his mother, rung for ever in my ears, converting the festal board to a scene of carnage and horror, till the very wine-cup seemed to foam over with hot, bubbling gore. Once I tried—laugh, if you will—I tried to pray; but the clotted locks of the dying man, and the earnest gaze of the soul-stricken mother, came betwixt me and Heaven; my lip faltered, my breath stopped, my very soul stood still; for I knew that my victims were in Paradise, and how could I think of happiness—/, their murderer—in one common home with them? Despair took possession of my whole being. I rushed voluntarily to the centre of every deadliest peril, in hopes to find an end to my misery. Yourself can bear me witness that I have ever been the first to meet, the last to retire from, danger. Often, when I heard the battle-signal given, and when I passed the trench, or stormed the breach, in front of my troop, it was less to gain applause and promotion, than to provoke the encounter of death. 'Twas all in vain. I was doomed not to die, while I longed for death. And now"
"Well, by your own account, you run no manner of risk, and at the same time are proceeding on a rapid career of military success," said Keppel; "and, for my life, I cannot see why that should afflict you, supposing it all perfectly true."
"Because you have not yet heard the whole. But listen a few minutes longer. During last winter, our division, as you know, was quartered in Brussels, and was very kindly entertained by the wealthy and goodnatured Flemings. Utterly tired of the heartless dissipation of life in a camp, I endeavoured to make myself agreeable to my landlord, that I might obtain a more intimate admission into his family circle. To this I was the more incited, that I expected some plea sure in the society of his daughter. In all I succeeded to my wish. I became quite a favourite with the old man, and procured ready access to the company of his child. But I was sufficiently piqued to find, that, in spite of all my gallantry, I could not learn whether I had made any impression upon the heart of the laughing Fanchon. What peace could not accomplish, war and sorrow did. We were called out of winterquarters, to commence what was anticipated to be a bloody campaign. I obtained an interview to take a long and doubtful farewell. In my arms the weeping girl owned her love, and pledged her hand, should I survive to return once more to Brussels. Keppel, I am a doomed man; and my doom is about to be accomplished! Formerly I wished to die, but death fled me. Now I wish to live, and death will come upon me! I know I shall never more see Brussels, nor my lovely little Fleming. Wilt thou carry her my last farewell, and tell her to forget a man who was unworthy of her love—whose destiny drove him to love, and be beloved, that he might experience the worst of human wretchedness? You'll do this for me, Keppel?"
"If I myself survive, I will. But this is some delusion—some strong dream. I trust it will not unnerve your arm in the moment of the storm."
"No! I may die—mtMfdie; but it shall be in front of my troop, or in the middle of the breach. Yet how I long to escape this doom! I have won enough
of glory; I despise pillage and wealth; but I feel my very heartstrings shrink from the now terrible idea of final dissolution. Oh! that the fatal hnur were past, or that I had still my former eagerness to die I Keppel, if I dared, I would to-day own myself a coward!"
"Come with me," said Keppel, "to my quarters. The night air has made you aguish. The cold fit will yield to a cup of as generous Rhine-wine as ever was drunk on the banks of the Sambre." Monteith consented, and the two moved off to partake of the stimulating and substantial comforts of a soldier's breakfast in the Netherlands.
It was between one and two in the afternoon. An unusual stillness reigned in the lines of the besiegers. The garrison remained equally silent, as watching in deep suspense on what point the storm pcrtended by this terrible calm would burst. A single piece of artillery was discharged. Instantly a body of grenadiers rushed from the entrenchments, struggled over masses of ruins, and mounted the breach. The shock was dreadful. Man strove with man, and blow succeeded to blow with fierce and breathless energy. The English reached the summit, but were almost immediately beaten back, leaving numbers of their bravest grovelling among the blackened fragments. Their leader, Lord Cutts, had himself received a dangerous wound in the head; but disregarding it, he selected two hundred men from Mack ay's regiment, and putting them under the command of Lieutenants Cockle and Monteith, sent them to restore the fortunes of the assault. Their charge was irresistible. Led on by Monteith, who displayed a wild and frantic desperation rather than bravery, they broke through all impediments, drove the French from the covered way, seized on one of the batteries, and turned the cannon against the enemy. To enable them to maintain this advantage, they were reinforced by parties from other divisions. Keppel, advancing in one of those parties, discovered the mangled form of his friend Monteith, lying on heaps of the enemy on the very summit of the captured battery. He attempted to raise the seemingly lifeless body. Monteith opened his eyes—" Save me I" he cried; "save me! I will not die! I dare not—I must not die!"
It were too horrid to specify the ghastly nature of the mortal wounds which had torn and disfigured his frame. To live was impossible. Yet Keppel strove to render him some assistance, were it but to soothe his parting spirit. Again he opened his glazing eyes —" I will resist thee to the last!" he cried, in a raving delirium. "I killed him but in the discharge of my duty. What worse was I than others? Poor consolation now! The doom—the doom 1 I cannot —dare not—must not—will not die!" And while the vain words were gurgling in his throat, his head sunk back on the body of a slaughtered foe, and his unwill. ing spirit forsook his shattered carcass.—Edinburgh Literary Journal.
THE CLYDE, LOCH LOMOND, AND 1NVERART. In a former article the tourist was left at the head of Loch Lomond, to which he had been carried from the Trosachs and Loch Katrine. The point at which tourists thus arrive at Loch Lomond cannot, to speak correctly, be called the head of the lake; it is at a place on the east side, pretty far up, called the mill of Inversnaid. As a steam-boat touches at various points on the shore of the lake, the tourist can suit his taste for exploring the Highland scenery around before going on board. There are, however, two ways of proceeding, in respect of the scenery in this quarter, worthy of being pointed out.
If you have come from Loch Katrine, you should endeavour not to leave the district without visiting the vale of Olencroe and Inverary, and thence proceed by the Clyde to Glasgow. If you make Glasgow your starting place, you have only to reverse the line of tour, beginning with Loch Lomond, Glencroe, and Inverary; and ending with Loch Katrine, the Trosachs, Stirling, and Edinburgh. There are so many steam-boats on the Clyde, and they touch at so many places, both on the river and its lochs or off-shoots, that a desire to see some of the finest scenery in the romantic counties of Argyle, Dumbarton, and Stirling, cannot fail to be gratified. Glasgow is an admirable place to start from; every thing being so well arranged for the tourist's convenience, wherever he may be going. The journey from Glasgow to Inverary, by Loch Lomond, returning the same day, though extending over both sea and land, may be performed by paying a certain sum, a very small one—perhaps not more than a few shillings —at starting. The Clyde betwixt Glasgow and Dumbarton affords a most delightful morning sail. The succession of beautiful and majestic views presented to the eye as the river gradually changes its character to an estuary or firth, is such as to please and astonish all travellers. The number of vessels constantly moving—vessels of all sizes, and propelled by every means,
oars, sails, and steam—is not the least interesting part of the scene. Amidst the numerous handsome seats which peep out upon both sides of the river, a splendid and extensive new house, belonging to Lord Blantyre, situated on the south bank, at the distance of about eight miles below Glasgow, is worthy of particular notice. On the right side of the river, it little farther on, the little village of Kilpatrick is worthy of remark as the supposed birthplace of St Patrick, the tutelar saint of Ireland. Still farther on, a little rocky promontory juts into the river, surmounted by a pile of ruins, which are almost completely surrounded with ivy. This is Dunglass Castle, remarkable as the site of the fort which terminated the Roman wall in this direction.
Dumbarton Castle, which comes into view on the north bank of the river, is an object of the most singular appearance that can well be conceived; a rock shooting up to the height of five hundred and sixty feet, sheer out of the alluvial plain where the small river Leven joins the Clyde; measuring a mile in circumference; terminating in two sharp points, or rocky knolls, one higher than the other; and sprinkled over with houses and batteries. It is believed to have been the principal stronghold or capital of the kingdom of Strathclyde, one of the small principalities into which Scotland, as well as England, was divided immediately after the ret:rement of the Romans from Britain. The name Dun or Dum.barton is a corruption of its original title, Dun Britton—the hill of the Britons. It is believed to be the Balclntha of Ossian.
The town of Dumbarton lies behind the castle: passengers are here landed from the steam-boat. After breakfasting at Dumbarton, a coach starts with them for the loch, the road proceed ing along the banks of the Leven. At Balloch, at the foot of the loch, a steamer receives and conveys them round to different points on both sides. The course of the Leven, though no more than six miles, is exquisitely beautiful, and has an interest in the eyes of travellers, over and above its real merits, on account of the admirable little poem by which Smollett has consecrated it. That illustrious person was born at the farm-house of Dalquhurn. near the modern manufacturing village of Renton; and a monument has been erected to his memory upon the left of the road, a little farther north, by his cousin, the late James Smollett, Esq.
About half-way between Dumbarton and the lower end of Loch Lomond is the village just mentioned, chiefly occupied by persons engaged in bleaching, which branch of manufacture flourishes to a greater extent in this district than any where else in Scotland, on account of the limpid purity of the Leven. At the fifth milestone, the traveller finds the house of Cameron, the seat of Alexander Smollett, Err, where the family of Matthew Bramble are described as residing, in the novel of Humphrey Clinker.
Immediately thereafter, throngh a fine vista, appears the polished expanse of Loch Lomond, its large islands, and the soft hills in the distance, a view that never fails to arrest the attention of the traveller. The objects that crowd into this scene are so finely diversified in form, in situation, and in colour, aa to compose a picture at once beautiful and impressive.
Loch Lomond extends nearly thirty miles in length. At its northern extremity it is narrow, spreading out, towards its southern part, to a breadth of about six miles. The grand feature in the landscape in Ben Lomond, which rises on its eastern side to a height of 3240 feet above the level of the lake. Loch Lomond abounds in beautiful woody islands, and is the pride of the Scottish lakes; however, having been formerly described in the Journal, we do not here require to particularise its beauties. Luss is a delightful little village, on a promontory on the west side of the lake, and is much resorted to in summer, on account of its being a convenient situation for a tourist who wishes to spend a few days in search of the picturesque. Those who wish to ascend Ben Lomond will land at Rowardennan, on the east side. This place can also be reached by a ferry from Inveruglas on the west side, Inveruglas being situated little more than two miles beyond Luss. At the inn at Rowardennan a guide can be obtained for the ascent of Ben Lomond. The distance from the inn to the top of the mountain is six miles of a continued ascent, which iu general requires three hours. The view from the summit in clear weather extends across the country from sea to sea, and comprehends au immense stretch of Highland scenery.
The point on the shores of the lake at which tourists land to proceed westward to Inverary, is Tarbet, which lies a few miles beyond Inveruglas. Those who are not hurried might effect a most agreeable pedestrian excursion along the west side of the lake, as there is a road along its whole length. From Tarbet a coach conveys the tourist over an isthmus to the head of Loch Long, which is an arm of the sea, or Firth of Clyde, shooting up Into the country parallel with Loch Lomond. Loch Long is a beautiful sheet of water, and its head is distinguished by two objects, both of considerable, though unequal interest; a good inn, which was originally the mansion-bouse of the chief of Macfarlane (the former feudal superior of this district), and a grotesquely grand peak, called Ben Artur, or the Cobbler, because it resembles a shoemaker at work. Having turned the head of the lake, the road proceeds through an opening towards the west, and enters the vale of Glencroe. In lonely magnificence, and all the attributes of Highland valley scenery, Glencroe can only be considered inferior