THE PENNY MAGAZINE

[View of Constantinople from Galata.]

This magnificent city, which, won from the degenerate Greeks of the lower empire, has been for four centuries the capital of the Turkish empire, is situated in 41° 1′ 27″ north latitude, and in 26° 35′ of east longitude.

The ground it occupies is marked out by nature as the site of a great city. A gently declining promontory, secured by narrow seas, at the east of Europe, stretches out to meet the continent of Asia, from which its extreme point is separated by so narrow a strait that in a quarter of an hour a boat can row from one continent to the other. This strait or channel, which is called the Bosphorus, running about fifteen miles from the Black Sea, between the beautiful shores of Europe and Asia, looks like a stately river, until it sweeps by the angle of Constantinople and enters the sea of Marmora. But just before it is lost in that sea, it makes a deep elbow to the right, flowing between the triangle of Constantinople Proper, and its suburbs of Galata and Pera, and forming the port which is called the Golden Horn. This is the most convenient as well as the most beautiful harbour in the world.

A city was built here by a colony of Lacedemonians as early as the year 660 before Christ, or about a century after the foundation of Rome; but this city only occupied the apex of the triangle, or precisely that space now within the enclosures of the Seraglio. It was called Byzantium. The present immense city, called Constantinopolis, or the city of Constantine, after its founder, was built about the year 330 of our era, by the Roman Emperor Constantine, who thought it the best place for the capital of the world.

The triangle which the city now entirely occupies is thus washed on one of its sides (the northern) by the deep waters of the port, and on the other (the south-eastern) by the sea of Marmora. The base of the triangle, or the ground immediately beyond the walls which attaches it to the European continent, is an open elevated flat, with some trifling inequalities of surface. The area of the triangle is occupied by gentle hills, which are highest towards the land side, and gradually decline to the Seraglio point, shelving off on either side to the sea of Marmora and the port. As Rome was built on seven hills, so the Roman founders of Constantinople called these “the seven hills,” though, in fact, if the principal chain only were counted there would be less, and if the minor hills or spurs were taken into the account, there would be more, than seven. On these hills the city stands, presenting on each of the three sides of the triangle the aspect of a stately amphitheatre. The ridge of the first hill, departing from the acute point of the triangle, is occupied by the Seraglio, or vast palace of the Sultan, behind which, a little on the reverse of the hill, the dome of Santa Sophia shows itself. The second hill is crowned by the mosque of the Osmanieh, whose dome is strikingly bold and lofty. The still grander mosque of Soliman the Magnificent towers on the third hill; whilst an ancient aqueduct, whose bold arches have the happiest effect, unites the summits of the third and fourth hills. On the very highest point of the chain there is a lofty tower, built within these few years by the present Sultan, in which a guard is constantly placed to watch the breaking out of fires, which are very frequent and destructive in a city where all the private habitations are built chiefly of wood. Few things are more calculated to make an impression on the mind of the stranger than when an accident of this sort occurs at the dead of night, and the immense drum is beaten at the top of the tower, and the voice of the guard is heard shouting, ‘Vangar’ (fire).

Though there is one principal street, which, with but 194few interruptions, traverses the city from the Seraglio to the inland walls, the houses of Constantinople are not generally massed together, but interspersed with open spaces, gardens, trees, ancient ruins, and isolated mosques,—the tall, slim, arrowy minarets or towers of which, all kept purely white, and tipped with a gilded crescent, contribute greatly to the beauty of the views.

The situation of Constantinople upon hills is not only the cause of its beauty, but of its salubrity and comparative cleanliness. It catches all the pleasant breezes from the Bosphorus, the Marmora, and the adjoining plains of Thrace; and the dirt that might accumulate naturally descends the hills’ sides to the port or the open sea, in both of which it is carried off by a strong current. To this advantage must be added the immense number of fountains and the quantity of flowing water which is always carrying off parts of the dirt; and the heavy rains which, when they fall, so wash the sides of the hills, that nothing can well be cleaner than the greater part of Constantinople at those seasons. Indeed, at any time, the lower edge of the city that touches the port, and the opposite suburb of Galata (the Wapping of the Turkish capital), may be called filthy places, but the term cannot be correctly applied to Constantinople as a whole.

Some ill-natured travellers have said that the only scavengers here are the unowned dogs which roam about in countless thousands; but we believe in all times there were a set of Turks employed to clean the streets, and the present sultan has certainly a regularly organized corps for that service.

Allowing for the empty spaces, which collectively would form a portion by no means inconsiderable, Constantinople occupies the whole of the natural triangle, whose outline is fringed by old walls flanked by towers. These walls and towers on the side of the sea of Marmora and the port, where in old times they were not required to be so strong, are now in a very ruinous state and, in some parts, on the Golden Horn, have entirely disappeared. But on the land side, where the defences of art were more called for, Constantinople presents a treble line of most formidable ancient walls which might easily be repaired; and which, in their more dilapidated parts, offer such magnificent and picturesque specimens of mural ruins as no other city can boast of. The length of this latter line of wall, from the head of the port to the Seven Towers on the sea of Marmora, is above four English miles. The form of the triangle, as may be seen by our little plan, is somewhat irregular, having the side from the Seven Towers to the Seraglio considerably the longest. According to the best calculations the population contained within these walls is about 500,000. If we add to this number, as is usually done, the population of the suburbs of Pera and Galata, of Scutari, which, though in Asia, is so near as to be considered a suburb, and of the numerous villages which closely succeed each other on both sides of the channel of the Bosphorus for several miles, we may arrive perhaps at the number of from 700,000 to 800,000 souls, comprising Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Jews, and Franks.

On whichever side you approach Constantinople,—whether ascending by the Dardanelles and the sea of Marmora, or descending from the Black Sea by the Bosphorus,—whether you arrive by crossing the plains of Thrace, or come in sight from the opposite hills of Asia,—she presents herself indeed like “the Queen of Cities.” The effect of the first view is almost magical.

The preceding sketch will give some idea of the beautiful outline of part of Constantinople. It is taken from the hill side, above Galata. Near this point was an old Genoese tower, burned down within these three years, from which the view of the city was of surpassing beauty.

[MAP OF Constantinople, AND ITS VICINITY.]

These nouns are formed from verbs, and generally by the simple addition of the syllable ing. They denote the general act of doing something, and often retain the same place in the sentence with respect to the word following them, that the verb itself does: thus, when we say, “the building of a house,” we express in a slightly modified manner the idea of “to build a house.”

Some nouns in ing express a collection of things, as—

This termination has been introduced into our language from the Latin, and in some instances differs in meaning very little, or not at all, from that in ing. Thus we could say, calculating, educating, as well as calculation, education. Words like nation, station, &c. are pure Latin words, differing from the nominative case of those in the language from which they are derived, only in having an n at the end of the word.

These words express the abstract notion, as it is called, of the word from which they are formed; that is, they express in the most general way possible the state or condition of being a man, a priest, &c. They are not very numerous, nor, indeed, are they much used, though they are well adapted to convey that general notion which we have assigned to them.

All languages contain certain classes of nouns which are called diminutives, from their being used to express “things of a less kind or degree.”

In all these examples a notion of some smallness in the object mentioned, is clearly recognized by common usage. A duck-ling is a little duck; and a wit-ling is a man of little wit.

It may here be necessary to make a remark, in order to caution those who are new at this kind of classification from putting words in the same class merely because they happen to terminate with certain letters that are the same. Thus it would be absurd to class under the head of diminutives such words as, doubling, tippling, troubling, merely because they appear to terminate in ling; they clearly belong to the words in ing, and are formed from the words double, tipple, trouble.

This is a tolerably large class of words, which may be considered as formed from adjectives by the addition of th, and in some cases by also changing the sound of the vowel, as, strong, strength; deep, depth. The meaning of these nouns requires no explanation. But though they belong to the old and genuine forms of our language, we cannot say much in their favour as far as the ear is concerned. Foreigners occasionally, as well as some of our own countrymen, find a difficulty in pronouncing strength, a word containing eight letters, with only one vowel to keep the consonants from quarrelling. It is sometimes incorrectly pronounced strenth.

These words in th may be formed from verbs also, as birth, from the verb to bear; but some, as worth, have no corresponding word in our own language from which they may be derived, though in the case of this word, worth, there is in the Latin language a word (vir), and in the Anglo-Saxon a word (were), which are the parents of our word worth. From the word ear (to plough), we have the word earth, signifying ploughed land, and still correctly pronounced in many parts of England as a word of two syllables, e-arth. It is written e-orth in the Anglo-Saxon books, which is exactly the pronunciation that the word still has in some parts of Lancashire.

These words are not easy to explain without entering into considerations foreign to the kind of inquiry that we have thought proper to adopt; nor is it quite certain that all the words we have given strictly belong to the same class, though they happen to terminate with the same letters. We may, however, observe that there is the same relationship between fly or flee, and flight, that there is between see and sight, tie and tight. The reason why these and other similar words contain a g, is, because the words from which they are formed originally contained a g, or at least some letter akin to g. Thus, in German there is a word flug, meaning flight, from which is formed another word flucht, which is nearer in form to our own word flight.

Fear.—Charles Gustavus (the successor of Christina of Sweden) was besieging Prague, when a boor of most extraordinary visage desired admittance to his tent, and, being allowed entrance, offered, by way of amusing the king, to devour a whole hog, weighing two hundred weight, in his presence. The old General Konigsmarc, who stood by the king’s side, and who, soldier as he was, had not got rid of the prejudices of his childhood, hinted to his royal master that the peasant ought to be burnt as a sorcerer. “Sir,” said the fellow, irritated at the remark, “if your majesty will but make that old gentleman take off his sword and his spurs I will eat him before your face, before I begin the pig.” General Konigsmarc (who at the head of a body of Swedes had performed wonders against the Austrians, and who was looked upon as one of the bravest men of the age) could not stand this proposal, especially as it was accompanied by a most hideous and preternatural expansion of the frightful peasant’s jaws. Without uttering a word the veteran suddenly turned round, ran out of the court, and thought not himself safe until he had arrived at his quarters.

[Driving Wild Cattle in the Maremma.]

That part of Italy which borders the Mediterranean, from the mountains of Genoa to the extremity of Calabria, a length of about seven hundred miles, consists, except in a few places, such as Naples, where hills intervene, of a broad stripe of flat country extending from the sea-shore to the lower ridges of the Apennine mountains. This region is called the Maremma. It is particularly unhealthy during the summer months, from June to October, when all the inhabitants who are able remove to the hills, and the few who are obliged to remain are exposed to the malaria fever, an intermittent ague, which emaciates the body, exhausts the vital strength, and, if not checked in time, proves fatal to the patient. The farms in the greater part of this immense tract, and more particularly in the Roman and Tuscan divisions of it, are very large, often extending to several thousand acres. They are held by wealthy tenants, who live in the towns and keep agents and domestics who reside on the spot, at least till harvest time. By far the greater part of the land, although arable, is left for pasture, about one-fourth or one-sixth being brought into cultivation by annual rotation. No villages or cottages are to be seen; but here and there, at long intervals, a dingy, dismal looking casale or farm-house, a speck in the midst of the desert. As there is no fixed population in these plains, labourers are engaged from the interior, and chiefly from the highlands of the Apennines, where a scanty soil, though under a healthy climate, does not furnish sufficient occupation for the native peasantry. They generally come down from the mountains in October, in bands of about one hundred each, under the guidance of a leader, a sort of jobber, who stipulates for their services and pay with the agent of the farm. It is calculated that about twenty thousand come down in this manner every year in the Campagna or plains of Rome alone. Many of them remain till May, employed in the different works of the farm. They are engaged mostly by the season, and receive at the rate of from ten to fifteen pence a day. Their chief nourishment consists of polenta, or Indian corn flour, boiled, with water and salt, into a sort of pudding, with the occasional addition of skimmed milk or grated cheese. They sleep on the bare ground, either in the casale, or under shelter of temporary huts made with canes (arundo tenax), which grow luxuriantly in these regions.

At harvest time, about the latter end of June, a new reinforcement of labourers from the mountains is required. This is the most critical period in the year for those poor men who come by thousands from the pure and wholesome atmosphere of their native districts to inhale the pestilential air of the lowlands, working by day under a burning sun, and sleeping at night in the open air, exposed to the heavy dews and to the bite of gnats and other insects. The harvest men are engaged for eleven or twelve days, sometimes a fortnight, and they are paid at the rate of about two francs, or 1s. 10d. a day. They are also better fed at this time, and have a plentiful allowance of wine and water. The corn must be cut, threshed, winnowed, and carried into the granary by the middle of July, after which no one dares to remain in the fields. Mr. Chateauvieux, who visited one of these immense farms during the harvest season, gives the following description of the scene:—

“The fattore or steward ordered horses for us to visit the farm, and while they were getting ready I examined the casale, or farm-house, a noble but gloomy structure. It consisted of a spacious kitchen and two large apartments adjoining, at the end of which were three other rooms of similar dimensions; all totally destitute of furniture, not even having windows. These formed the ground floor of the centre building. Above them were six other rooms of the same size used as granaries, one only being furnished for the use of the superintendants. The wings were formed by capacious arched stables, at once airy and cool; and above them were lofts for hay. This part of the establishment is almost superfluous, being merely used to put up the cattle employed in the work of the farm during the resting time in the middle of the day; at all others they are turned out to graze in the open air. There was not the least appearance of care or neatness about the whole farm. Neither trees, gardens, nor vegetables were to be seen. To my observations about this negligence the people replied that the cattle would trample down and destroy whatever might be planted or sown, and that it was therefore more convenient to purchase their vegetables in the neighbouring towns, which are surrounded with vineyards, orchards, and gardens. The expense of carriage is nothing on these large grazing farms, where there are always cattle in abundance. They put a loaf and a bundle of hay into the cart, and thus equipped will perform a journey of sixty miles without any expense. This abundance of animals constitutes the only luxury of these farms. Neither steward, superintendants, nor even the herdsmen, ever think of going on foot. They are always on horseback, galloping at full speed over the plains, with a gun or a pungolo or spear in their hands, and horses are always kept ready saddled in the stables, each person employed on the farm having two assigned for 197his use. As soon as we were mounted, the steward conducted us to the part of the farm where the harvest had commenced. Broad stripes, of a golden yellow, extended at a distance over the undulated surface of the soil towards the sea; and we at length came in sight of a sort of army in battle array, with the commanders on horseback having lances in their hands, fixed to their stations. We passed several carts drawn by oxen, which were loaded with bread intended for the consumption of the men. We beheld before us a long line of a thousand reapers round a vast tract of corn which was silently falling under their sickles, while twelve superintendants on horseback surveyed and animated them from behind. They raised a loud shout at our approach, which resounded through the solitude, and was intended as a salute to the master of the farm. Soon after, the carts which we had passed drew up under the shade of some oaks, which were providentially still remaining in the middle of the plain. At a signal given, the reapers quitted their work, and the whole troop defiled before us. There were about as many men as women, all natives of the Abruzzi. The former were good figures, but the women were frightful. They were bathed in sweat, for the heat was terrible. Though it was only a few days since they left the mountains, the malaria was beginning to affect them. Two only had as yet been attacked by the fever, but I was told that the number would increase daily, and that by the end of the harvest, scarce half the troop would be left. ‘What becomes of these poor wretches?’ inquired I. ‘We give them a piece of bread, and send them away.’ ‘But where do they go?’ ‘They return towards the mountains: some of them die on the road, and the others reach home exhausted with illness and fatigue to recommence the same attempt next year.’ The repast of this day was a festival; for the master, in order to make his visit the more welcome, had purchased at Genzano two cart-loads of water-melons, which were distributed to the reapers with the bread, which in general forms their only food. The eyes of the poor people were eagerly fixed on these fine fruits, and I cannot describe the joy which appeared in their countenances when the large knives displayed the red pulp and refreshing juice of the melons, and spread around a delicious perfume. They make three meals a day, which divides their labours into two periods, and they are allowed two hours sleep in the middle of the day. Their slumbers at that time are unattended with danger; but the earth still serves as their bed after the cold dews of the evening haze descended upon it, and they pass the night on the moist turf in the midst of sulphureous exhalations. Their employers say that they would lose too much time were they to return every evening to sleep at the casale, which in these extensive farms is often at a great distance.”

Thus for about one pound sterling, to which the wages of a reaper during the harvest fortnight amount, thousands of these poor men walk fifty or sixty miles and back again, to work in the pestilential flats of the Maremma, with the prospect of catching the fever, and either dying away from home, or returning sickly and debilitated for the rest of the year. Such is, and has been for ages past, the condition of labourers in some of the most celebrated regions of Italy. In the time of the ancient Romans the country was cultivated chiefly by slaves, who were considered no better than cattle, and over whose persons the owners had unlimited power, beating them, mutilating them, or putting them to death at their will. Christianity effected a great change: the slaves became, first of all, serfs attached to the soil, and bound to perform a certain measure of work for their masters, but their persons were placed under the protection of the laws. By degrees the serfs became emancipated over the greatest part of Europe, and although most of them continued poor, they were enabled to dispose of their own labour and carry it to the best market. This is as much as human justice and benevolence have been able to effect as yet for the labourers of Europe in the course of eighteen centuries. Any further improvement in their condition must be the result of a slow progress in the general condition of society, to be accelerated by the diffusion of sound knowledge.

The only stationary population in the Maremma consists of the cow and buffalo keepers, and forest rangers. The former are always mounted and armed with a lance, with which they keep in respect the wild cows and fierce bulls, which are let to roam about these solitudes. These keepers lead a life of freedom and independence, like that of the Arabs in the desert; they are paid by yearly wages, besides which they generally rear up cattle of their own, which are allowed to feed with the rest. They retire in the summer months to the shady forests which line the sea-shore, and where the air is not so unwholesome as in the open plains. There, also, criminals escaped from the pursuits of justice take shelter, and are sometimes employed as wood rangers or buffalo drivers by the people of the neighbouring farms. The following cut, as well as that at the head of this article, represents the mode of driving cattle to the towns.

Among the restorers of art in the fifteenth century, perhaps the greatest name, whether in regard to the extent or the versatility of his powers, is that of Leonardo da Vinci. Other artists, his contemporaries or immediate predecessors, had done much towards the resuscitation, or rather the introduction, of a just taste, each according to the particular bent of his genius. But Leonardo, with an intuitive comprehension, seems to have seized on every principle of excellence, and although those principles were carried by his successors, at least by M. Angelo, Raffaelle, and Titian, to higher degrees of perfection, yet it is not too much to assert that in his works we discover, not the germs merely, but in visible development, the severe dignity of the Florentine, the dramatic pathos of the Roman, and the captivating splendour of the Venetian schools. The works of Leonardo are scarce. The celebrated picture of the Last Supper, at Milan, has crumbled from the walls; it is well known, however, by engravings. The picture of Christ disputing with the Doctors, in the National Gallery, is in all that relates to internal evidence, of unquestionable originality; although, from the difficulty of having the history of so early a picture, doubts of its genuineness have been sometimes expressed. 198Of its value as a great work of art there can be no doubt. It is evident, that in this brilliant and elaborate performance Leonardo has tasked his powers to the utmost. From the depth of colour and chiaroscuro, the figures stand out in the boldest relief; but in order to concentrate the interest on the person of the Saviour, the subordinate figures are kept somewhat smaller than the laws of perspective allow: an artifice not perfectly justifiable, but, in this instance, fully effective. The person of Christ is considerably older than is consonant with scriptural authority, and the countenance has an air of almost feminine mildness and amiability: indeed, it is evident that the radical lines of the physiognomy were constructed on that abstract idea of beauty which the artist had established in his own mind. Hence it is that this head of the Saviour is, perhaps, somewhat deficient in masculine energy. The expression, however, is beautiful and characteristic; and announces a being who, conscious of uttering inspired truths, encounters the authority of human wisdom without fear, and triumphs without arrogance. The noble and sedate character of this picture is nowhere disturbed by strong contrasts or violent expression. The astonishment which the Doctors may be supposed to have evinced, has subsided; and with the exception of the eager and determined theologian on the right, they appear to listen with absorbed and deferential attention to the arguments and eloquence of their divine antagonist. The drapery of the Saviour is disposed with great grace and dignity, and the hands are painted with peculiar beauty.

There are four pictures by Corregio in the National Gallery, and although neither of them can be said to exhibit the excellence of that great master in its fullest extent, they are yet fine and beautiful specimens of his various and extraordinary powers. The two groups of children’s heads which hang on the staircase are painted precisely on the same principle with the groups of angels in the Cupola at Parma,—a style which in breadth and grandeur has never been equalled, except by Michael Angelo in the Sistine Chapel. The two small pictures exhibit the extremes of Corregio’s style: that of Christ praying in the Garden, leaning to the last degree of depth and concentration; the other, that of The Holy Family, being made up of semi-tones, and scarcely exceeding, either in its lights or shadows, the medium of half-tint. The colouring, too, is negative, never approaching to a primitive hue; but the execution is exquisitely pure and delicate. If in this work Corregio is at all inferior to himself in his usual power of expression, the deficiency is amply compensated in the picture of Christ praying in the Garden, which may be cited as one, among the few works of art, in which every part of the picture is made a vehicle of the presiding sentiment. The whole scene is enveloped in gloom and solemnity. No genial hues enliven the colouring, a part even of the principal light formed by the mantle of Christ being composed of pale blue, an arrangement rarely admitted by Corregio or any other great colourist: the only tint approaching to warmth is that of the drapery of the Angel, a subdued red, which, for the purpose of harmony, is faintly repeated on the groups in the middle distance. The first pale grey of dawn appears breaking over the horizon; but the general effect of the picture is that of intense gloom, in the midst of which we discern the sleeping Disciples, and farther off the Jews approaching to seize on Christ. The figure of the Redeemer himself, isolated, amidst darkness and danger, while his friends slumber and his enemies pursue him, is a sublime and touching impersonation of suffering virtue appealing to God from human persecution, but bowing with implicit resignation to the Almighty will. In this picture, Corregio exhibits what we so often wish for in Rembrandt, principals worthy of the beautiful accessories by which they are surrounded.

Mr. Mariner, in his account of the Tonga Islands, has given us a most curious and interesting description of the surprise and perplexity with which the powers of this invention were contemplated, for the first time, by some of the natives of the Tonga Islands. Mr. Mariner, shortly after the commencement of his captivity amongst these savages, had, in the hope of thereby obtaining his liberty, written a letter, with a solution of gunpowder, on a piece of paper which he obtained from one of the natives; and he confided it to the care of a chief, with directions that it should be given to the captain of any ship which might appear on the coast. Finnow, the king, however, having heard of this transaction, his suspicions were excited, and he immediately sent to the chief for the letter, and obtained it. “When it was put into his hands,” the narrative proceeds, “he looked at it on all sides; but not being able to make anything of it, he gave it to Jeremiah Higgins, who was at hand, and ordered him to say what it meant. Mr. Mariner was not present. Higgins took the letter, and translating part of it into the Tonga language, judiciously represented it to be merely a request to any English captain that might arrive to interfere with Finnow for the liberty of Mr. Mariner and his countrymen; stating that they had been kindly treated by the natives, but nevertheless wished to return, if possible, to their native country.… This mode of communicating sentiments was an inexplicable puzzle to Finnow; he took the letter again and examined it, but it afforded him no information. He considered the matter a little within himself; but his thoughts reflected no light upon the subject. At length he sent for Mr. Mariner, and desired him to write down something; the latter asked what he would choose to have written? He replied, Put down me. He accordingly wrote ‘Fee-now’ (spelling it according to the strict English orthography); the chief then sent for another Englishman, who had not been present, and commanding Mr. Mariner to turn his back and look another way, he gave the man the paper, and desired him to read what that was: he accordingly pronounced aloud the name of the king, upon which Finnow snatched the paper from his hand, and, with astonishment, looked at it, turned it round, and examined it in all directions. At length he exclaimed, ‘This is neither like myself nor anybody else! Where are my legs? How do you know it to be I?’ And then, without stopping for any attempt at explanation, he impatiently ordered Mr. Mariner to write something else, and thus employed him for three or four hours in putting down the names of different persons, places, and things, and making the other man read them. This afforded extraordinary diversion to Finnow, and to all the men and women present, particularly as he now and then whispered a little love anecdote, which was strictly written down, and audibly read by the other, not a little to the confusion of one or other of the ladies present; but it was all taken in good humour, for curiosity and astonishment were the prevailing passions. How their names and circumstances could be communicated, through so mysterious a channel, was altogether past their comprehension. Finnow at length thought he had got a notion of it, and explained to those about him it was very possible to put down a mark or sign of something that had been seen, both by the writer and reader, and which should be mutually understood by them; but Mr. Mariner immediately informed him, that he could write down anything that he had never seen: the king directly whispered to him to put Toogoo Ahoo, the king of Tonga, whom he and Toobo Nuha had assassinated many years before Mr. Mariner’s arrival. This was accordingly done, and the other read it; when Finnow was yet more astonished, and declared it to be the most wonderful thing he had ever heard of. He then desired him to write ‘Tarky,’ the chief of the garrison of Bea, whom Mr. Mariner and his companions had not yet seen; this chief was blind in one eye. When ‘Tarky’ was read, Finnow inquired whether he was blind or not? This was putting writing to an unfair test! And Mr. Mariner told him that he had only written down the sign standing for the sound of his name, and not for the description of his person. He was then ordered, in a whisper, to write, ‘Tarky, blind in his left eye,’ which was done, and read by the other man, to the increased astonishment of every body. Mr. Mariner then told him, that in several parts of the world messages were sent to great distances, through the same medium; and being folded and fastened up, the bearer could know nothing of the contents; 199and that the histories of whole nations were thus handed down to posterity, without spoiling by being kept, as he chose to express himself. Finnow acknowledged this to be a most noble invention; but added, that it would not do at all for the Tonga Islands; that there would be nothing but disturbances and conspiracies, and he should not be sure of his life perhaps another month.”

The great teeth of such quadrupeds as the Hippopotamus require proportioned jaws, and, consequently, the bones of the head are of great strength and weight. Thence arises a necessity for the head being supported by a particular ligamentous apparatus, which in the bull is vulgarly called the paxwax (the ligamentum muchæ). This ligament extends from the prominent spines of the vertebrae betwixt the shoulders, to the occiput or back of the head, so as to suspend the head, and of course without muscular exertion or waste of vital energy. This ligament, however, differs from the common ligaments which knit the bones together, in being elastic; without which property it would check the motions of the head. On this subject of the wonderful provisions evinced in the bones of the head and neck of the larger animals, we were much interested in what was lately delivered by Sir C. Bell, the anatomical Professor in the Royal College of Surgeons. On exhibiting the skull of the elephant, and leading his audience to remark the weight of the grinding teeth, the length of the tusks, and the size and strength of the jaws, he observed it was impossible that such an enormous engine of mastication could be suspended at the end of a long neck. Jockies, he said, attended very particularly to a light head and a short neck in a horse; a heavy head and a long neck brought too great a weight to bear upon the fore-feet. If such slight differences in the shape were observed to produce defects in the horse, the consequent imperfection would be incalculably greater in the elephant. But in this animal, nature, instead of projecting the head on such a neck as would enable the mouth to reach the ground, diminishes the depth of the vertebrae of the neck in a very remarkable manner, so as in fact to fix the head to the body without the intervention of a neck. But how was the animal to feed? since the want of a neck and the projection of the tusks made grazing in the usual way impossible. This implied the necessity of a trunk, which is equivalent to a hand, and enables the animal to feed itself without projecting the head to the ground. By these and similar illustrations, the Professor proved design in the structure of the skeleton; and contrasted the heads of the horse, the elephant, and the giraffe.

The reigns of Philip and Mary and James I. were not sufficiently removed from the darkness of the middle ages to render enactments like the following ridiculous, even in the mouths of the legislature:—

“All persons who shall practise invocation or conjuration of wicked spirits, any witchcraft, enchantment, charm, or sorcery, whereby any person shall happen to be killed or destroyed, shall, with their aiders and abettors, he accounted felons, without benefit of clergy; and all persons practising any witchcraft, &c., whereby any person shall happen to be wasted, consumed, or lamed in his or her body or members, or whereby any goods or chattels shall be destroyed, wasted, or impaired, shall, with their counsellors and aiders, suffer for the first offence one year’s imprisonment and the pillory, and for the second the punishment of felony without clergy.”

The like penalties are annexed to declaring by sorcery where any hidden or stolen treasure or goods may be found.

Again, “if any person shall consult, covenant with, entertain, employ, feed, or reward any evil or wicked spirit, or take up any dead man, woman, or child out of his, her, or their grave; or the skin, bone, or any other part of any dead person to be employed in any manner of witchcraft, sorcery, charm, or enchantment^[1],” &c., he shall suffer death as a felon, without benefit of clergy.

Let us thank God, who has put the means of civilization in our way, that (in the words of Sir Walter Scott) “the grosser faults of our ancestors are now out of date; and that whatever follies the present race may be guilty of, the sense of humanity is too universally spread to permit them to think of tormenting wretches till they confess what is impossible, and then burning them for their pains.”

Heraldry.—A sanguine Frenchman had so high an opinion of the pleasures to be enjoyed in the study of heraldry, that he used to lament, as we are informed by Menage, the hard case of our forefather Adam, who could not possibly amuse himself by investigating that science, nor that of genealogy.

A Threat explained.—“Your unchristian virulence against me,” said a Huguenot who had been persecuted for preaching, “shall cost hundreds of people their lives.” This menace brought the author into trouble; he was cited to a court of justice, and was charged with harbouring the most bloody designs against his fellow-subjects. “I am innocent,” said he, “of all you lay to my account. My only meaning was, that I intended (since I could not act as a minister) to practise as a physician.”—If the Huguenot had practised without the requisite knowledge he would have kept his promise.

Pride.—A Spaniard, rising from a fall, whereby his nose had suffered considerably, exclaimed, “Voto a tal, esto escaminar por la tierra!” “This comes of walking upon earth!”

Advertisements.—We are sometimes astonished at the impudent assertions of quacks in their public announcements at the present day. Their predecessors, however, went somewhat further, as the two following advertisements taken from the original edition of the Spectator will show:—“An admirable confect which assuredly cures stuttering and stammering in children or grown persons, though never so bad, causing them to speak distinct and free without any trouble or difficulty; it remedies all manner of impediments in the speech, or disorders of the voice of any kind, proceeding from what cause soever, rendering those persons capable of speaking easily and free, and with a clear voice, who before were not able to utter a sentence without hesitation. Its stupendous effects in so quickly and infallibly curing stuttering and stammering, and all disorders of the voice and difficulty in delivery of the speech, are really wonderful. Price 2s. 6d. a pot, with directions. Sold only at Mr. Osborn’s Toy-shop, at the Rose and Crown, under St. Dunstan’s church, Fleet-street.”

“Loss of memory, or forgetfulness, certainly cured, by a grateful electuary, peculiarly adapted for that end; it strikes at the primary source, which few apprehend, of forgetfulness, makes the head clear and easy, the spirits free, active, and undisturbed; corroborates and revives all the noble faculties of the soul, such as thought, judgment, apprehension, reason, and memory, which last in particular it so strengthens as to render that faculty exceeding quick, and good beyond imagination; thereby enabling those whose memory was before almost totally lost to remember the minutest circumstance of their affairs, &c. to a wonder. Price 2s. 6d. a pot. Sold only at Mr. Payne’s, at the Angel and Crown, in St. Paul’s Church-yard, with directions.”

Doubtful Improvement.—A set of parish officers applied to Snetzler (a celebrated organ builder) to examine their organ and to make improvements on it—“Gentlemen,” said the honest Swiss, “your organ be wort von hondred pound, just now—well—I will spend von hondred pound upon it, and it shall then be wort fifty.”

[Grotesque representation of a Portrait Painter’s Studio.]

During the progress of the excavations at Pompeii, a painting was found in the Casa Carolina, which scarcely held together to be copied, and fell in pieces upon the first rain. It is of grotesque character, and represents a pigmy painter whose only covering is a tunic. He is at work upon the portrait of another pigmy, clothed in a manner to indicate a person of distinction. The artist is seated opposite to his sitter, at an awful distance from the picture, which is placed upon an easel, similar in construction to ours. By the side of the artist stands his palette, which is a little table with four feet, and by it is a pot to wash his pencils in. He therefore was working with gum, or some sort of water-colours: but he did not confine himself to this branch of the art, for to the right we see his colour-grinder, who prepares in a vessel placed on some hot coals, colours mixed with wax and oil. Two amateurs enter the studio, and appear to be conversing with respect to the picture. On the noise occasioned by their entrance, a scholar seated in the distance turns round to look at them. It is difficult to explain the presence of the bird in the painting-room. The picture is not complete: a second bird, and on the opposite side a child playing with a dog, had perished before Mazois (an artist who has preserved some of the most valuable remains at Pompeii) copied it. This picture is very curious, as it shows how few things, in the mechanical practice of painting, have been changed during 2000 years.

There is another picture preserved at Pompeii, representing a female employed in making a copy of the bearded Bacchus. She is dressed in a light green tunic, without sleeves, over which she wears a dark red mantle. Beside her is a small box, such as we are told by Varro painters used, divided into compartments, into which she dips her brush. She mixes her tints on the palette, which she holds in her left hand.

[Painting of a Female Artist.]

Union for Ill.—When the Prince of Conde and Cardinal de Retz, two leaders of opposite factions in France, were viewing the curious garden of a hermit who was famous as a florist, they amused themselves by keeping him attentive to their discourse while they trod to pieces his best flowers on each side of the path. He soon discovered their plan, and, shaking his grey locks, “Alas!” said he, “how much were it to be wished that you could agree in plans to relieve your distressed country with the same readiness which you show in joining to persecute a helpless solitary.”

Command of Temper.—Lopez d’Acunha, a gallant Spaniard, who lived in 1578, recorded in the Apophthegms of Juan Ruffo, seems to have had the affections of his mind under rare command. He was called out from his tent by a sudden alarm. His servants armed him in great haste, and although he told them that his helmet pained him exceedingly, they insisted that it could not be fitted better. The brave Lopez had not leisure to contest the point: he rushed to the combat, fought with success, and at his return, unlacing his casque, and throwing it down on the ground together with his bloody ear, “There,” said he mildly to his awkward valets, “was I not right when I told you how much you hurt me in putting on my helmet?”