THE PENNY MAGAZINE

We have already translated an account of the mode of killing the hippopotamus, from Dr. Rüppell’s Travels; to which we shall now add, from the same writer, a description of the somewhat similar way in which the crocodile is caught by the natives of Dongola.

“The most favourable season for catching the crocodile is the winter, when the animal usually sleeps on sandbanks to enjoy the sun; or, during the spring, after pairing-time, when the female regularly watches the sand-islands where she has buried her eggs. The native spies out the place, and on the south side of it (that is, to the leeward) he makes a hole in the sand by throwing up the earth on the side on which he expects the crocodile. There he hides himself, and if the crocodile does not observe him, it comes to the usual place and soon falls asleep in the sun. Then the huntsman darts his harpoon with all his might at the beast. To succeed, the iron end ought to penetrate at least to the depth of four inches, in order that the barb may hold fast. The wounded crocodile flies to the water, and the huntsman to his canoe, with which a companion hastens to his assistance. A piece of wood fastened to the harpoon by a long cord swims on the water, and shows the direction in which the crocodile is moving. The huntsmen, by pulling at this rope, draw the beast to the surface of the water, where it is soon pierced by a second harpoon.

“The dexterity consists in giving to the spear sufficient strength to pierce through the coat of mail which protects the crocodile, who does not remain inactive after he is wounded, but gives violent blows with his tail, and tries to bite asunder the harpoon rope. To prevent this, the rope is made of thirty different thin lines, placed side by side, and tied together at intervals of every two feet, so that the thin lines get entangled and fastened in the hollows of the animal’s teeth. Very frequently the harpoons, through the pulling, break out of the crocodile’s body, and it escapes. If I had not seen the fact with my own eyes, I could hardly have believed that two men could draw out of the water a crocodile fourteen feet long, fasten his muzzle, tie his legs over his back, and finally kill the beast by plunging a sharp weapon into his neck, and dividing the spinal nerve. The iron part of the harpoon which is used by the huntsmen is a span long; towards the point it is formed like a penknife, being sharp at one end and on one side. There is a strong barb immediately following the edge, and at the other end is a projecting piece to which the rope is fastened. This iron is put on a wooden shaft eight feet long.

“The flesh and fat of the crocodile are eaten by the Berbers, among whom they pass for a dainty bit. Both parts, however, have a kind of musk smell so strong, that I could never eat crocodile’s flesh without vomiting afterwards. The four musk glands of the crocodile are a great part of the profit which results from the capture, as the Berbers will give as much as two dollars in specie for the four glands, which they use as a perfumed unguent for the hair.”

When Herodotus was in Egypt about 450 years before the Christian era, the following was the way in which this formidable reptile was taken prisoner:—

“There are many ways of catching crocodiles in Egypt, but the following seems to me best worth relating. The huntsman puts the chine of a pig as a bait on a hook, and lets it down into the river. In the mean time he takes his station on the bank, holding a young pig, which he beats in order to make it squeal out. The crocodile, on hearing this, makes towards the sound, but meeting with the bait on his way he swallows it down. Then the men begin to pull, and after he is fairly hauled out on dry land, the first thing the huntsman does is to plaster the crocodile’s eyes up with mud. If he can succeed in doing this, there is no difficulty in managing the beast; otherwise it is a very troublesome affair^[1].”

The different treatment which this monster received in different parts of ancient Egypt is curious, and not very easily accounted for. In the southern parts, near the cataracts, the crocodile was an article of food, but probably only with a particular caste, as in Dongola at the present day. In other parts, as at Thebes and near the great Lake Moeris (now Keroun), it was fashionable to have a pet crocodile, who was fed daintily and treated with great respect. “They put,” says Herodotus, “pendents of glass and gold in their ears, and 90rings round their fore-legs: they also give them a regular allowance of bread and meat, and take all possible care of them while alive. When they die, the Egyptians embalm them and put them in sacred sepulchres.” Fortunately for the credit of Herodotus, a mummy of a crocodile has been found with his ears pierced for pendents, which fact is particularly mentioned by M. Geoffroy St. Hilaire^[2].

Strabo tells an odd story of a crocodile which he saw when he visited Egypt, somewhat more than 400 years after the visit of Herodotus. “In this district they honour the crocodile very much, and they have a sacred one which lives by itself in the lake, and is quite tame to the priests. He is called Suchus, and is fed with bread, and meat, and wine, which he gets from strangers who come to see him. Our host, who was a person of importance in the place, accompanied us to the lake, taking with him from table a small cake, some roasted meat, and a little cup full of some sweet liquor. We found the crocodile lying on the margin of the lake. The priests went up to him, and while some opened his mouth, another crammed into it, first the cake, then the meat, and, last of all, poured the drink down his throat. The crocodile, after this treat, jumped into the lake, and swam over to the other side^[3].” In the Townley Gallery of the British Museum (Room VI. No. 88) there is a piece of sculpture representing a man mounted on the back of a crocodile, in a singular attitude, which will be best understood by a visit to the Museum.

(10.) The sum expended for the maintenance of the poor of England in the year ending March 25th, 1830, was 6,553,443l. For Wales, the sum for that year was 275,598l. Although the population since 1750 has only about doubled itself, the poor rates have increased, since that year, more than tenfold. For the ten manufacturing and mining counties, mentioned in paragraph 2, (viz., Lancaster to Salop,) the increase has been from 107,927l. in 1750 to 1,337,011l. in 1830; for the thirteen counties in paragraph 3, (Surrey to Hertford, including the Metropolitan,) from 294,070l. to 2,666,199l.; and for the nineteen agricultural counties, in paragraph 4, from 277,865l. to 2,550,330l. The sum expended for the poor of Middlesex in 1830, was 675,285l.; next to this comes Kent, 358,461l., though only the sixth county in the order of population; then, Norfolk, 299,211l., though only the ninth county in population; then, Lancaster, the third in population, 297,674l.; then, Essex, the fourteenth in population, and containing about one-fourth of the people in Lancashire, 282,133l.; then, the West Riding of Yorkshire, with a population of 976,400, 281,158l. The ratio of the poor rates of the ten manufacturing counties to their population is about as one to three; that of the thirteen metropolitan and other counties, about one-half; and that of the nineteen agricultural counties, as about two to three. The chief burthen of pauperism, therefore, falls upon the agricultural districts.

(11.) The committals for crime in the ten manufacturing districts were in 1805, 1,198, and in 1829, 6,430; in the thirteen metropolitan and other districts, they were in 1805, 2,317, and in 1829, 7,844; and in the nineteen agricultural counties, they were in 1805, 1,012, and in 1829, 4,158. In all Wales the committals decreased from 78 in 1805, to 24 in 1829. The number of persons committed for trial at Assizes and Sessions in England and Wales in 1830, was 18,107, of whom 12,805 were convicted, 3,470 acquitted, and 1,832 had no bills found against them and were not prosecuted. Of the convicted, 1397 were sentenced to death, and 46 executed. As a general result, the committals in England are thus in the proportion of one to 740 inhabitants; and in Wales, of one to 2,320. In London and Middlesex the proportion is higher than in any other county, being one committal to every 400 inhabitants; in Surrey the proportion is one to 680; in Kent, one to 730; in Sussex, one to 750; in Essex, one to 650; in Hertfordshire, one to 520; in Bedfordshire, one to 710. In the manufacturing districts the proportion is in Lancashire one to 650; in Warwickshire, one to 480; in Gloucestershire (including Bristol), one to 540; in Nottingham, one to 750; in Cheshire, one to 630. In the more remote counties the proportion is small, that of Northumberland being only one to 2,700; of Durham, one to 2,460; and of Cornwall, one to 1,600. It should be remarked, that of late, other causes than the advance of crime have tended to fill the prisons, such as the Malicious Trespass Act, and the law for paying prosecutors their expenses in cases of misdemeanour; and it is most satisfactory to observe that the darker crimes have, of late years, been less apparent than of old.

(12.) The number of depositors in Savings’ Banks in England in 1830 (including 5,904 Friendly and Charitable Societies) was 373,716, and in Wales 10,404. The total amount thus invested was, in England, 13,080,255l., and, in Wales, 340,721l. The proportion of the depositors to the total population, is therefore about 34 in every 1000, or one in 30. The average of the ten counties, in paragraph 2, is 25 depositors to every 1000; of the thirteen counties, in paragraph 3, it is 33 depositors to every 1000; and of the nineteen counties, in paragraph 4, it is 27 to every 1000. In Devonshire the proportion of depositors is the highest, being 55 to 1000; in Middlesex and Berkshire it is 50 to 1000; in Lancashire and Warwickshire, 20 to 1000; in Kent, Sussex, and Dorset, 36 to 1000; and in Monmouth, Westmoreland, and Buckingham about 12 to 1000 of the population. The average amount of each deposit is about 34l., and there has of late been a considerable increase in the number of depositors of sums under 20l., who amount now to 192,881. By some this fact is regarded as a proof of the growth of prudential habits among the mass of the working classes. It would be more exact to say so, of a small portion of the working classes, the fact being that 29 out of 30 of our population do not contribute to Savings’ Banks at all. There are some debatable questions in regard to the effect produced by the appropriation of the funds of the Savings’ Banks by the Commissioners for the reduction of the National Debt, but such questions cannot at all affect the manifest advantage to be attained by every working man in saving his money at interest, in preference to squandering it.

(13.) It has been already seen in paragraph 3, that the rate of increase of the population of Middlesex (including the city of London) since 1700 has been 117 per cent., being 37 per cent. less than the average of the rest of England. The following is a statement of the present population of the Metropolis commonly called London, as compared with 1801:—

91Those who desire fuller information in regard to London and its environs should consult Mr. Marshall’s ‘Topographical and Statistical Details of the Metropolis;’ a small and cheap work, which contains a great deal of valuable information. Mr. Marshall has also recently published a more elaborate work, in quarto, entitled, ‘Statistics, Mortality, &c. &c. of the Metropolis.’ To both these publications we are indebted for some of the materials of the statements in these ‘Statistical Notes.’

The following curious anecdote is taken from Archdeacon Coxe’s Historical Tour in Monmouthshire, vol. i., p. 101-2:—“The frame of the wooden bridge over the Usk, at Caerleon, is not unlike the carpentry of Cæsar’s bridge over the Rhine, as described by him in his Commentaries. The floor, supported by ten lofty piers, is level, and divided by posts and rails into rooms or beds of boards, each twelve feet in length; the apparently loose and disjointed state of the planks, and the clattering noise which they make under the pressure of a heavy weight, have not unfrequently occasioned alarm to those who are unused to them. Some travellers, from a superficial view of the structure, have asserted that the planks are placed loose, to admit the tide through their interstices when it rises above the bridge, and which would, if they were fixed, force them from the frame, and carry them away. But, in fact, the tide has never been known to rise above the bridge, nor was the flooring constructed to obviate this inconvenience. Formerly the planks were fastened to each extremity by iron nails; but the wood being liable to split, and the nails frequently forced up by the elastic agitation of the beams under the pressure of heavy carriages, the planks were secured from rising by horizontal rails, fastened to the posts, and prevented from slipping side-ways by a peg at each end within the rail.

“The height of the water, at extraordinary tides, exceeds thirty feet; but though it has never risen above the floor, yet the united body of a high tide, and the floods to which the Usk is subject, have been known to carry away parts of the bridge. An accident of this kind, which happened on the 29th of October, 1772, occasioned a singular event, to which I should not have given credit, had it not been authenticated by the most respectable testimony.

“As Mrs. Williams, wife of Mr. Edward Williams, brazier, was returning from the village on the other side of the bridge to the town of Caerleon, at eleven o’clock at night, with a candle and lantern, the violence of the current forced away four piers and a considerable part of the bridge. On a fragment of this mass, consisting of an entire room, with the beams, posts, and flooring, she was hurried down the river; but preserved sufficient presence of mind to support herself by the railing. After having been carried down about a mile and a half the candle was extinguished: on passing some houses at St. Julian’s, near the river-side, she screamed for help, and was heard by several persons, who started out of their beds to assist her; but the violence of the stream had already hurried her beyond their reach. During this time she felt but little apprehension, as she entertained hopes of being delivered by the boatmen at Newport; her expectations were increased by the numerous lights which she discerned in the houses, and she accordingly redoubled her cries for assistance, though without effect. On arriving at Newport, which is more than three miles from Caerleon, the fragment on which she stood being broken to pieces against a pier of the bridge, she fortunately bestrode a beam, and, after being detained for some minutes by the eddies at the bridge, was rapidly hurried along towards the sea. In this perilous situation she at length gave up all hope of deliverance, and resigned herself to her approaching fate.

“About a mile from Newport she discerned a glimmering light, in a barge which was moored near the shore, and, redoubling her cries, was heard by the master of the vessel. After hailing her, and learning her situation, he cried out, ‘Keep up your spirits, and you will be soon out of danger;’ then leaping into the boat with one of his men, rowed towards the place from whence the screams proceeded; but some time elapsed before he overtook her, at a considerable distance from the anchorage of the barge. The night was so dark that they could not discern each other, and the surf swelling violently, the master repeated his exhortations, charged her to be calm, and not attempt to quit her station. Fortunately, a sudden dispersion of the clouds enabled him to lash the beam fore and aft to the boat. At this moment, however, her presence of mind forsook her, and eagerly attempting to throw herself forward, she was checked by the oaths of the seamen, who were at length enabled to heave her into the boat, but could not disengage themselves from the beam till they almost reached the mouth of the Usk. This being effected, not without great difficulty, they rowed to the shore, and embayed themselves till the first dawn of the morning, when they conveyed her in the boat to Newport.”

Mr. Coxe gives the names of several respectable persons residing in the neighbourhood, who expressly confirmed to his satisfaction the truth of this narrative: he especially refers to a clergyman, to whom Mrs. Williams often repeated the story, and confirmed it on her death-bed with the most solemn asseverations.

Disturbed Times unfavourable to Lawyers.—In Stow’s Chronicles, p. 631, the following lively picture is drawn of the state of the courts of law during the performance of the tragedies of religious persecution and tyranny under Queen Mary in 1557:—“This yeere, in Michaelmas terme, men might have seen in Westminster Hall, at the King’s Bench bar, not two men of law before the justices. There was one named Fostar, who looked about, and had nothing to do; the judges likewise looking about them. In the Common Pleas no more serjeants but one, which was Serjeant Benlowes, who looked about him: there was elbow-room enough; which made the lawyers to complain of their injuries in that terme.”

As the Italian poet, Tasso, whose misfortunes were as great as his genius, was on one of his journeys between Rome and Naples, he fell into the hands of banditti, who immediately proceeded to plunder him and his fellow-travellers. But no sooner did the captain of the band, the celebrated Marco Sciarra, of Abruzzi, hear the poet pronounce his name, than, with tokens of admiration and respect, he set him at liberty; nor would he even permit his followers to plunder Tasso’s companions. A prince of royal or imperial birth confined the poet in a mad-house for more than seven years; the great and wealthy left him to a precarious life, which was often a life of absolute want; the servile men of letters of the day loaded him with abusive and most unjust criticism; but a mountain robber, by the road’s side, controlled in his favour the very instinct of his gang, and kissed the hand of the author of the ‘Gerusalemme!’

Parini, a native of Milan, was not only one of the first poets of modern Italy, but a dignified, philanthropic, and most amiable man. When the government of his country was changed, and a republic first instituted under the protection of the French arms, Milan became the scene of very natural excitement, and occasionally of violence. The people had been too long deprived of liberty to be able to bear their new condition with moderation. Things even went so far that a young and beautiful girl was seen to ascend the republican tribune, and to promise her virgin-love to the man who should bring in the head of that foe to liberty—the poor old Pope; and the father of this virago was seen to embrace her with transport and tears excited by this heroic virtue! It was at this time that some violent demagogue tried to force Parini, one night at the theatre, to join the mob in crying “death to the aristocrats!” “Long live the Republic,” exclaimed the poet. “Life to the Republic, but death to no one!” In an instant tranquillity was restored.

A Savoyard got his livelihood by exhibiting a monkey and a bear. He gained so much applause from his tricks with the monkey, that he was encouraged to practise some of them upon the bear: he was dreadfully lacerated, and on being rescued, with great difficulty, from the gripe of Bruin, he exclaimed: “What a fool was I, not to distinguish between a monkey and a bear! A bear, my friends, is a very grave kind of personage, and, as you plainly see, does not understand a joke.”

Evelyn truly remarked, that all is vanity which is not honest, and there is no solid wisdom but in real piety.

An obelisk is a single block of stone with four faces, which are not quite perpendicular, but inclined a little, each towards the opposite face, so that the width of each side gradually diminishes to the top of the shaft, which is crowned with a pyramid. There are two small obelisks of basalt in the British Museum, numbered 70 and 5. They are entire from the base upwards, but the upper part, together with the little pyramid at the top, is broken off. Both of them were brought from Grand Cairo in Egypt, where they were first taken possession of by the French, but they afterwards came into the hands of the English when the French army capitulated at Alexandria in 1801, and quitted the country.

The one numbered 70 was used as the door-sill of a mosque in the castle of Cairo, where that excellent traveller, Niebuhr, saw it in 1762, and copied part of the figures. By comparing his drawing with the north side of this obelisk (as it now stands), we readily discover it to be the same. This obelisk, besides losing its top and part of the shaft, has been broken into two unequal pieces, which are now united. The lower part, however, is quite complete, which is evident from there being a smooth unsculptured surface on all the four sides, to the height of about 10¼ inches above the base. In all the obelisks that have been accurately measured, at least in all of which we have been able to procure a complete account, the width of the adjacent sides is different. For example, in this Museum obelisk, as it now stands, the north and south sides are of the same dimensions, being about 1 foot 4⅞ inches wide, while the east and west sides are each about 1 foot 5½ inches: the height of this fragment is about 8 feet 1¾ inch, measured along one of the faces.

These two obelisks have a great number of figures cut on each face, representing either natural objects, such as birds and serpents, or various other things which it is not in all cases easy to identify. They are cut deep into the stone, and, in some instances, a considerable elevation or relief is given to the parts contained within the deep incision, for the purpose of showing the round and prominent parts of the figure. On all Egyptian monuments of an early age, animals are cut with great accuracy of outline and spirit, especially birds, of which this obelisk offers some excellent specimens in the goose, the ibis, known by his long beak and legs, and another bird in walking attitude, near the base of the south side. The execution of this last is above all praise.

It is now ascertained that the figures enclosed in oblong rings contain the titles and names of kings. These are the same on the two obelisks, and they happen also to be the same as those on the great sarcophagus, No. 6.

There have been many disputes among the learned as to the origin and meaning of obelisks, into which we shall not enter here. We know that they were generally placed in pairs at the entrances of the great Egyptian temples and palaces; and there are still two standing, in their original position, before the gateway of a large edifice at Thebes. When the Romans got possession of Egypt, Augustus removed two of the largest obelisks from Heliopolis (the city of the sun) to Rome, where they still exist, and attest the fact of their removal at that period, by a Latin inscription on the pedestal. During the troubles of the city and the disastrous period of the decline of the Roman Empire, these and other obelisks were thrown down and broken; but they have since been set on pedestals by the enterprising spirit of some of the popes. Sixtus V., in 1586, set the first example, in which he was followed by several of his successors; and Pius VI. restored other obelisks in the years 1786, 1789, and 1792. Two have been raised since the last-mentioned date.

The largest obelisk now at Rome, and perhaps the largest in the world, is that which stands in front of the Lateran church. It was originally erected by the Emperor Constantius^[4], in the Circus Maximus, by means of a most cumbrous machinery of wood-work and ropes, after having been brought from Egypt in a ship built expressly for the purpose, and manned with three hundred rowers. Pope Sixtus V. set it up in its present place in 1588, after it had lain on the ground broken in three pieces for several centuries. Though the shaft has sustained some damage at the base, it is still 105 feet long; the width of the two larger sides at the base is 9 feet 8⅗ inches, and of the smaller 9 feet. It now stands on a kind of pedestal, quite unsuited to the simple character of the genuine Egyptian supports. The whole height at present, with its pedestal and ornaments on the top, is about 150 English feet, and the weight of the obelisk itself may probably be about 440 tons. The material is the red granite of Syene, resembling that of the altar, No. 2, in the British Museum.

It is not so much the actual magnitude of an obelisk which excites our wonder, for the London monument is 50 feet higher than the tallest of the Roman obelisks—but the simplicity of the obelisk form, which is not disfigured by any irregularity, its gradual diminution towards the summit, which takes away all appearance of heaviness, the beautiful sculptures with which most of them are covered, and the unity of the huge mass cut from the quarries of Syene, conveyed so many hundred miles, and then set firmly on its pedestal—all these combined fill us with admiration at the boldness and taste of the designer, and the unwearied patience and skill of the sculptor.

93The following account of the mode in which an obelisk was carried down the Nile, is preserved in Pliny’s Natural History^[5], a book containing a mass of information in a very crude, and often almost unintelligible shape.

“A canal was dug from the river to the place where the obelisk lay, and two boats were placed side-by-side, filled with pieces of stone of the same material as the obelisk. These pieces were in the shape of a brick, and a foot in length (or cubical pieces, each side measuring one foot), so that the proportion between the quantity of matter in the obelisk and that held by the boats could be determined. The boats were loaded to twice the weight of the obelisk, in order that they might go under it, its two ends resting on the two sides of the canal. Then, as the pieces of stone were taken out, the boats of course rose, and at last supported the obelisk and carried it off.”

This obelisk, according to the same authority, was eighty cubits high, or about 120 English feet^[6], and was erected at Alexandria by Ptolemæus Philadelphus, the second Greek king of Egypt.

The obelisk in St. George’s Fields, London, will give some idea of the figure of one of these stupendous masses, though it is deficient in accurate proportions, insignificant in size, and placed on an ugly pedestal. The obelisk at Alexandria, commonly called Cleopatra’s Needle, stands first of all on a block of stone, which is in height about one-ninth of the whole height of the obelisk itself; and this block again rests on three rectangular plinths, placed one above another, the base of the lowest being larger than that of the stone above it, and this larger than the third; so that the three plinths form three steps on each of the four sides of the obelisk.

The following are the dimensions of Cleopatra’s Needle, as given by the French:—

This is not quite the whole height of the obelisk, as the French measures do not seem to include about 3 ft. ¼ in. of one side, of which they have given the dimensions.

It has been stated in the House of Commons (April 15th, 1832) that this obelisk is 64 feet long, which is exactly the height of the shaft according to the French measurement, and that it weighs 284 tons. We are not able to learn whether it is this obelisk that is to be brought to England, or another at Thebes, which is in a much better state of preservation. The Alexandrine obelisk is so much damaged by the atmosphere of the sea, particularly on the south side, that it is hardly worth bringing. Our climate would, perhaps, be still more unfavourable to its preservation.

It has been suggested to us that this Theban obelisk, if it be brought to England, should be set up in some advantageous position in the metropolis, where it might not only form a great ornament, but serve the useful purpose of a centre to measure roads from—a thing, the want of which is generally known and felt.

Ming Tsong, an emperor of China, celebrated for his wisdom and prudence, was accustomed to say, “A state is to be governed with the care and constant attention that is required of a person managing a horse: I have often,” said he, “travelled on horseback over very rough and mountainous countries, and never got any hurt, always taking care to keep a steady rein; but in the smoothest plains, thinking the same precautions useless, and letting loose the reins, my horse has stumbled and put me in danger:—thus is it with government, for when it is in the most flourishing condition, the prince ought never to abate anything of his usual vigilance^[7].”—And thus also, extending the application of this familiar but striking illustration to all mankind, we would say, is it with the private affairs of men of all stations, from the great lord to the labouring husbandman, from the wealthy merchant to the poor mechanic; and let every one keep a steady rein when all seems fair and even with him. He is pretty sure to do so, in the presence of danger and difficulty, when his faculties and energies are all kept awake, and generally strengthened in proportion to the difficulty to be overcome. Indeed let any man take a review of his past life, and he will find almost invariably that where he has most failed will be when he allowed himself to be lulled into security, when he suspected no crosses and was prepared with no caution, when in easy confidence he had dropped the reins on the neck of his horse who seemed to tread on a smooth sward or a Macadamized road—but tripped and fell! To take another illustration, it is the same with “ships that go down to the great deep.” It is not generally while the storm is raging, tremendous though that storm may be,—it is not while sailing along the perilous shore, or tracking her way through labyrinths of unknown islands, or the ice-mazes of the polar regions, that the ship is most liable to wreck or founder. No! the catalogue of shipwrecks and maritime calamities is swelled, for the most part, by such as were carelessly scudding over summer seas, with all sails set and all hands on board, joyful and confident;—by such as were sailing through channels and straits so familiar to them that the lead was left idle at the mainchains, and no precaution deemed necessary; by such as from the furthermost regions of the earth were within sight of their own country; by such, even, as the Royal George, were tranquilly anchored in their own ports, with all the crew given up to the enjoyment of that festivity or repose which nothing seemed likely to trouble.

June 5.—The anniversary of the birth of Adam Smith, the celebrated author of the ‘Wealth of Nations.’ He was born in 1723, at Kirkaldy, in the county of Fife, in Scotland, where his father, who died, however, a few months before he came into the world, was comptroller 94of the customs. He was of delicate health from his infancy: and in consequence, although he was put to school in his native town, he mixed but little in the out-of-door sports and exercises of his more robust companions; but during the hours he was not in school occupied himself for the most part with his books at home. In 1737 he was sent by his mother to the university of Glasgow, and three years after from thence to Baliol College, Oxford, on one of several exhibitions, or yearly allowances, to which Glasgow students are entitled while pursuing their studies at that college. The intention of Smith’s relations was that he should enter into orders, with the view of becoming a clergyman in the Scotch episcopal church. After remaining at Oxford, however, for above eight years, he gave up all thoughts of this distinction, and, returning to Scotland, introduced himself to public notice by delivering a course of lectures on rhetoric and the belles lettres in Edinburgh. The ability with which he acquitted himself in this attempt brought him the notice and the friendship of Lord Kames, and several other distinguished literary men who then resided in the Scottish capital; and in 1751 he was, through their influence and his own reputation, elected to the professorship of logic in the university of Glasgow, which he exchanged the year following for the chair of moral philosophy. He held this situation for about twelve years, during which time the eloquence and originality of his lectures rendered him the chief ornament of the seminary, and attracted crowds of students to his class from all quarters. His mode of lecturing was not to write out what he intended to say; but, after making himself completely master of his subject, to trust to the moment for expression; and in this way, we are told, he never failed to keep up the eager attention of his audience to the discussion of even the most difficult and abstract parts of his subject. In 1759 he gave to the world his first publication, the ‘Theory of Moral Sentiments.’ It was an exposition of the leading metaphysical views which he had been in the habit of addressing to his class, the design being to show that all our feelings and judgments with regard to the morality of different actions arise from, and are regulated by, the principle of sympathy, which accordingly he makes the fundamental characteristic of our mental constitution, and that without which we could not exist as social beings. This work, when it first appeared, was more applauded for its ingenuity and the subtlety of thought and beauty of expression by which many parts of it were marked, than for the conclusiveness of its reasonings; but still it brought to its author a large accession of admiration and fame. In 1763 Smith was induced to resign his professorship for the purpose of accompanying the Duke of Buccleuch on a tour to France and other parts of the Continent. He was absent from England about three years, the greater part of which was spent in Paris, where he made the acquaintance of all the distinguished literary men of that capital. After his return home, in 1766, he retired to his native town of Kirkaldy, and taking up his abode in the house of his mother, spent the next ten years in seclusion and hard study. The result was the publication, in the year 1776, of his ‘Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations,’ a work which may almost be said to have done for political economy what Sir Isaac Newton’s Principia did for physical science—laid for it, namely, that new foundation upon which all that has since been done has been reared. But of this great work we shall present our readers with a more detailed account in an early number, under the head of the ‘Library.’ They still, we believe, show at Kirkaldy the room in Smith’s house in which the ‘Wealth of Nations’ was written, with the impression left upon the wall by the head of the philosopher as he used to lean back in his chair, buried in profound thought. Though but a simple memorial, it is one of which his townsmen may well be proud. In 1778, through the interest of the Duke of Buccleuch, Smith was appointed to the lucrative office of commissioner of the customs, in consequence of which he removed with his mother to Edinburgh, and here he spent the remainder of his life in comfort and affluence. He died on the 8th of July, 1790, in the sixty-eighth year of his age.

June 6.—This is the birth-day of Peter Corneille, the greatest of the French dramatists, who was born at Rouen in 1606. He was educated for the bar. A love adventure which befel him after he had practised for some years as an advocate in his native city first turned his thoughts to dramatic composition, and furnished him with the subject of his comedy entitled Mélite. The success of this piece, when it was exhibited at Paris, was so great that Corneille determined for the future to devote himself to writing for the stage. Several of his next efforts were also comedies; but in 1636 he produced his tragedy of Medea, and, soon after, that of the Cid, compositions in which his genius first displayed itself in its natural region and in its true grandeur. The ‘Cid’ was followed by a succession of other tragedies—among which those entitled Horace and Cinna are especially celebrated, and remain to this day unrivalled in the dramatic literature of his country. Corneille’s reward during his life-time, however, consisted of little else than his glory; for it is related that after the death of Colbert, a pension which that minister had bestowed upon him was withdrawn, though he was then poor, old, sickly, and dying, and it was only on the intercession of Boileau, who generously offered to resign his own pension on condition of Corneille’s being restored to him, that the king, Louis XIV., was moved to make him a present of 200 louis d’ors. Corneille, after he dedicated himself to the drama, exhibited a remarkable example of devotion to the path which he had chosen—studying, we are told, scarcely anything except what bore, or might be made to bear upon his favourite pursuit. This great man died on the 1st of October, 1684.

June 8.—The birth-day of John Dominic Cassini, a very celebrated astronomer, and the progenitor of a son and a grandson of nearly equal eminence in the same department of science. His family was noble, and he was born in Piedmont in the year 1635. The accidental perusal, while he was yet very young, of a work on astronomy, first inspired Cassini with a taste for that study; and so extraordinary was the progress he made that, in 1650, being then only about fifteen, he was, on the invitation of the Senate of Bologna, appointed to the professorship of mathematics in that university. Two years after this he observed with remarkable care, a comet which appeared and confirmed the opinion which Tycho Brahe had published long before respecting the nature of these bodies, proving, in opposition to the ancient doctrine, that they were not mere meteors. He also this same year resolved an astronomical problem which had baffled the ingenuity of the greatest of his predecessors and contemporaries, and which even Kepler had given up in despair. This brilliant success at so early an age was followed in the case of Cassini by a corresponding eminence in his maturer years. In 1669 he left Bologna for Paris on the earnest invitation of Louis XIV., and was immediately made a member of the Academy and Astronomer Royal. On the completion of the Royal Observatory, in 1671, he was appointed to preside over it. The rest of his life was spent, as the preceding part of it had been, in the service of his favourite science. Even the loss of his sight, some years before his death, although it terminated his actual observation of the heavenly bodies, failed to withdraw his mind from its wonted field of speculation. He died in 1712, at the age of seventy-seven, leaving many able works on astronomical and mathematical subjects.

No term is more familiar to every body than the term air. But if an uninstructed person were asked what the air was, his first answer would probably be, that it was nothing at all. This hand, he might say, which is now plunged in water, on being drawn out of the water is said to be lifted into the air—which means merely that there is nothing, or only vacancy, around it. In other words, he might say, the air is just the name that is given to the empty space, which is immediately over the surface of the earth.

A little reflection, however, or a question or two more, would probably raise some doubts as to the correctness of this philosophy. If the air be nothing, it might be asked, what is the wind? Or what is it, even when there is no wind, which makes very light substances wave or flutter on being swiftly drawn through the air, or, when they are merely dropped from the hand, detains them on their way to the ground? Or, to take another illustration from the commonest experience, who is there that has not seen a bladder distended or swollen with air? If the air be nothing, how comes a portion of it to present such palpable resistance to pressure, when thus confined?

The truth is, the air in which we walk is as much a real and substantial part of our world as the earth on which we walk. Empty space would no more do for our bodies to live in, than it would for our feet to tread upon. The atmosphere, that is, the case of air in which the solid globe is enveloped, is composed of matter as well as that solid globe itself. As the one is matter in a solid, so the other is matter in a fluid state. It is merely a thinner fluid than the water, which also rests upon and encompasses a great part of the earth; but as fishes exist and can only exist in their ocean of water, so do we exist and can only exist in our ocean of air.

The weather is another term with which every body is familiar. But the weather is merely the state or condition of the air. Heat and cold, moisture and drought, wind and calm, all make themselves felt by us principally in and through this element. The study of the weather is but the study of the variations of the air.

Man is so dependent upon the weather, not only for his comfort but even for his subsistence, that to be able to ascertain its coming changes has naturally always been to him an object of extreme solicitude. When we are very desirous to attain any end, we are easily deluded by whomsoever or whatsoever promises to help us in reaching it. The weather is one of the subjects upon which the credulity of mankind, thus excited, has in every age been taken plentiful advantage of; and, indeed, it seems to be the one of all others over which superstition and imposture have succeeded in establishing the widest and firmest dominion. We have outlived most of the other fond beliefs of more ignorant times; the love of money, though as strong and as universal a passion as ever, blinds nobody now to waste his time in the attempt to discover a solvent for turning all metals into gold; the desire of long life no longer keeps our medical chemists busy in experimenting how to extract or compound an elixir of immortality; these hopes have passed away from the imaginations both of men of science and of the multitude. Even the predictions which astrology pretends to draw from the positions and movements of the stars as to the fates of individuals and kingdoms, although they have still their readers, have lost much of the old faith which used to reverence them almost as direct intimations from heaven. But the prognostications of the same vain science which are published every year on the subject of the weather continue to be not only bought but believed in, almost as much as they were in the darkest ages, by hundreds of thousands, even in our own comparatively enlightened England. ‘Moore’s Almanac’ still sells a quarter of a million of copies. If this were the proper place it might not, perhaps, be difficult to point out the causes which have kept this particular superstition alive so long after so many others have perished, and been nearly forgotten; but it will be more to the present purpose to state in a few words the grounds on which it may be confidently pronounced to be to the full as visionary and absurd as any of those which it has survived.

The weather, as we have remarked, is but another name for the state of the air, as to heat or cold, dryness or humidity, rest or motion, and perhaps one or two other similar particulars. The causes, therefore, which influence the condition of the air in these respects are those that occasion the variations of the weather; and these variations cannot be foretold unless we could calculate and measure the exact force of all those influencing causes. There is plainly no other way of arriving at the knowledge in question. To pretend to divine it, as the almanac-makers affect to do, from the movements of one or two particular stars, is as idle as it would be to attempt to discover what wind should blow on a certain day in December by the motion of a bit of straw or paper thrown up into the air in the preceding January. Even if it were proved, which it by no means either is or is likely to be, that the positions of the heavenly bodies in question really exerted any effect whatever upon our atmosphere, and if the amount of that effect could be calculated, the ascertainment of it would be of no use, unless we could also ascertain the force of all the other operating influences. Without this we are, at the best, merely in the condition of the man who should attempt to describe the whole of a large building from the inspection of one of the bricks brought from its ruins. Were our almanac prophets, therefore, even to take the trouble of going through any calculation to get at the information with which they favour us, it would not be the more valuable or trustworthy on that account. But it is almost needless to remark, that they do not proceed through their work of solemn quackery and fraud with so much form and ceremony. The “dull, though mild,” “fair and frosty,” “mild for the season,” “frosty and more fair,” “rain, perhaps hail,” “windy, perhaps rain,” and other phrases of their cheating trade, which they scribble at intervals, along the calendar, are come at by an easier process than even the simplest or shortest calculation—being in fact, with the exception of course that some regard is had to the general character of the different seasons, put down merely at random. There is not an individual among all those by whom the oracle is consulted, who might not in half an hour manufacture quite as good a calendar of the weather for himself.

Even the most accomplished science, in truth, has as yet made comparatively but very little way into this most difficult subject. The principal properties of the air, both chemical and mechanical, have indeed been ascertained. The apparently simple element has been separated into its two component ingredients of nitrogen and oxygen. Its weight has been taken. Its elasticity, or capability of compression and expansion, has been measured. Instruments have been invented for detecting the quantity of heat, or of moisture, or of electricity, with which it may at any particular moment be charged. But the knowledge of all these different circumstances and properties enables us to do but little in predicting the coming changes of the weather. The property of the air, from the observations of which intimations of this kind have hitherto been chiefly derived, is its weight; and even this can only tell us at most, what the weather is to be for a few hours forward, and does not always speak to us to that extent either very certainly or very precisely.

[Nightingale.]

[Male and Female Glow-worms. Male winged, Female wingless.]

State of Europe in the Dark Ages.—In less than a century after the barbarous nations settled in their new conquests, almost all the effects of knowledge and civility, which the Romans had spread through Europe, disappeared. Not only the arts of elegance, which minister to luxury, and are supported by it, but many of the useful arts, without which life can scarcely be considered as comfortable, were neglected or lost. Literature, science, and taste, were words little in use during the ages which we are contemplating; or, if they occur at any time, eminence in them is ascribed to persons and productions so contemptible, that it appears their true import was little understood. Persons of the highest rank, and in the most eminent stations, could not read or write. Many of the clergy did not understand the breviary which they were obliged daily to recite; some of them could scarcely read it. The memory of past transactions was, in a great degree, lost, or preserved in annals filled with trifling events or legendary tales.—Dr. Robertson’s Introduction to the History of Charles V.

Remarkable Detection of Fraud.—A few years ago an important suit, in one of the legal courts of Tuscany, depended on ascertaining whether a certain word had been erased by some chemical process from a deed then before the court. The party who insisted that an erasure had been made, availed themselves of the knowledge of M. Gazzeri, who, concluding that those who committed the fraud would be satisfied by the disappearance of the colouring matter of the ink, suspected (either from some colourless matter remaining in the letters, or perhaps from the agency of the solvent having weakened the fabric of the paper itself beneath the supposed letters) that the effect of the slow application of heat would be to render some difference of texture or of applied substance evident, by some variety in the shade of colour which heat in such circumstances might be expected to produce. Permission having been given to try the experiment, on the application of heat the important word re-appeared, to the great satisfaction of the court.—Babbage, on the Decline of Science.

London Mile-stones.—The various roads from London are now measured from ten or eleven different places, two, three, and even four miles distance from each other. The catalogue is curious. Hyde Park Corner and Whitechapel Church; the Surrey side of London Bridge and Westminster Bridge; Shoreditch Church; Tyburn Turnpike; Holborn Bars (long since removed); the place where St. Giles’s Pound formerly stood; the place where Hicks’s Hall once stood; the Standard, in Cornhill, of which no other tradition remains, its exact site being unknown; and the Stones’-end, in the Borough, which moves with the extension of the pavement. Thus the actual distance of any place cannot be known without minute inquiry and local knowledge of London. “The easy remedy,” says Mr. Rickman, from whose admirable ‘Statement of Progress in the Population Inquiry for 1831,’ this is taken, “consists in adopting the mileage of the Post-office, when it shall have been re-measured from the new site of that office, the frontage of which grand centre of communication could not be more appropriately adorned than by an obelisk which would become a London Stone, in imitation of that which stood in the Forum of ancient Rome. The vicinity of St. Paul’s, the most conspicuous object in London, recommends the new Post-office especially for this purpose; and turnpike-road trustees would not refuse to accommodate to it their mile-stones, under the direction of the road-surveyor of the Post-office.”

Nelson, when young, was piqued at not being noticed in a certain paragraph of the newspapers, which detailed an action wherein he had assisted. “But, never mind,” said he, “I will one day have a Gazette of my own.”